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There was a great deal of hushed, excited whisperingamong the Slytherin first years on the morning of their first History and Culture lesson.
Lady Citala Black flashed a smile at her best friend, Regan Greengrass, as she sank down beside her, blinking sleepily.
“Cheer up, Regan, we’ve History and Culture first thing.”
A flash of interest sparked in the other girl’s eyes.
“You mean we might actually get addressed by our proper titles today?”
“If what Percy’s told me is right, yes.”
“Finally!”
The words were whispered, but they rang with a note of ferocity that Citala could only echo by the gleam in her eyes.
The rigid patterns of etiquette that governed Wizarding Britain had long been a bone of contention between those who were entitled to higher status and those who were not, particularly when it came to how to educate the next generation. For centuries, Hogwarts had been a bastion of tradition. As the only boarding school in the country, and with a Black and an Evans among its earliest students and Prefects, it had always been seen as the school of the Sacred 28, the one that groomed the future members of the Wizengamot. As such, protocol and etiquette had been vitally important to how it was run.
Until Dumbledore had been named Headmaster in the late 1960s. He was the first Headmaster or -Mistress not to be a Member of the 28. He’d been granted the honour because of his defeat of Grindelwald. Everyone had believed that the vanquisher of a Dark Lord was a suitable moulder of young minds.
And in many ways, he was. But the Dumbledores, though an old family, had never been a prominent one, and within a few short years of being appointed Headmaster, Dumbledore had started repealing the rules that insisted on everyone being addressed properly, claiming that the use of titles fostered inequality and bred resentment between the students.
Thirty years down the line, the only member of staff who resisted Dumbledore’s machinations was the History and Culture Professor, Lady Greengrass. This automatically made her a favourite teacher among those students who were Members of the 28 and had been taught to have pride in their lineage.
The scraping of her spoon against china brought Citala out of her musings. Shaking her head slightly as she realised she'd finished without noticing, she pushed her bowl away and rose, offering her hand to Regan.
“Coming, Lady Greengrass?” she asked, smirking down at her best friend, as, unusually, she paid her the respect she was due and addressed her formally.
Knowing exactly why Citala was doing so, especially with the way her voice was pitched to carry to the high table and the Gryffindor table across the way, Regan nodded.
“It would be my pleasure, Lady Citala.”
She laid her hand in Citala’s, rose, and fell into step beside her, gliding from the Great Hall as though they owned it, which, given their status, they very nearly did.
Regan’s aunt, Cressida Greengrass, was already in the classroom when they entered.
Regan flashed her aunt a beaming smile, “Aunt Cressie!”
“That’s Lady Greengrass to you in here and you know it,” Cressida replied, “Respect goes both ways, remember.”
She was smiling, however, and her retort held none of the acid it normally did as she chided her niece, so the girls knew they’d got away with their cheek, just this once.
Cressida nodded to Citala, “Lady Citala,” she greeted, her voice toned perfectly for an elder in age and senior in profession greeting a child who legally out-ranked her in family, “Take a seat. I shall leave the room and come back in when everyone’s here. I like to use my entrance to gauge who’s been raised in the old ways and who hasn’t.”
It wasn’t really a question or a seeking of permission, but Citala nodded anyway, satisfying them both. She went to a seat in the middle of the room, Regan on her heels. She slid her satchel on to the seat to her left, knowing that Susan Bones, her other close childhood friend, would soon enter and want to join them. Not being a practical class, History and Culture was the one class all four Houses shared all the way up to O.W.L.
Before long, the rest of the class trickled in. Citala amused herself by watching the other students enter and trying to gauge whether they would have been raised in the old ways or not. Some, like her cousin Draco, were easy. He dipped his head in a half-bow to her as he took his seat, so he clearly had. Or that bushy-haired Gryffindor who narrowed her eyes at him as he did. She clearly hadn’t. Others, however, weren’t quite as clear. Henry Potter, for instance. His grandmother had been a Black before she eloped and had always wanted to regain her status, but his father hadn’t cared nearly as much for status, and had married a half-blood, Stephanie Bell, so he could have been raised either way, depending on how much of a matriarch Dorea Potter still was.
On the stroke of the bell, Lady Greengrass entered again. Immediately, the Slytherin students sprang to their feet, dipping their heads in the appropriate bows or sketching curtsies of the appropriate height – marginal for Citala and Regan, for example, but rather deeper for Pansy Parkinson, who was only her father’s second daughter. Citala also noticed the Longbottom heir bowing deeply, which surprised her. She hadn’t thought the Longbottoms would have cared much for protocol. Then again, Dowager Lady Longbottom was known to be something of a stickler for how things had been in her youth. Perhaps that had something to do with her grandson’s perfect manners.
Barring the Sacred Twenty-Eight students, however, no one outside of Slytherin House treated Lady Greengrass with the respect she deserved. Citala smirked. Lady Greengrass wouldn’t let that stand for long.
“It is customary, in polite society, to stand and make an obeisance when your superior enters the room.”
Lady Greengrass’s voice was soft, but it was icy cold. Her eyes ran the gamut of the room, lingering on the bushy-haired Gryffindor who had involuntarily grimaced at her words.
“I shall let it go this time, but make no mistake, anyone who does not rise to greet me properly in future will lose house points. Now, let us begin with the roll-call.” Lady Greengrass waved her wand and a long scroll floated off the desk to hover in front of her.
“Lady Abbot?”
“Here, Lady Greengrass.”
“Lady Citala?”
“Here, Lady Greengrass.”
“Lady Bones?”
“Here, Lady Greengrass.”
And so it went on, each student being called. Knowing she had done her part, Citala simply sat back and watched, taking careful note of each student’s reaction to how they were addressed. Suddenly, a name caught her attention:
“Miss Hermione?” Ah, that explained why the bushy-haired Gryffindor had been surprised by Draco’s bowing to Citala earlier. She was a Muggleborn. Only Muggleborns were addressed with such casualness, without even their surnames being used, as for example, would be the case with Master Potter or Master Weasley. It was a slight against those who, simply by existing, risked the breaking of the Statute of Secrecy. And judging by the scowl on the Gryffindor’s face, she knew enough to understand that.
“Present,” she muttered gracelessly.
Lady Greengrass’s eyebrows went up.
“The correct answer, Miss Hermione, is ‘Here, Lady Greengrass'.”
Hermione went red. Her jaw worked. Lady Greengrass paused, knowing from long experience with schoolchildren that an explosion was coming.
“But it’s not fair!”
“What isn’t fair, Miss Hermione?”
“That! Why should I be ‘Miss Hermione’, when she’s Lady Abbot and she’s Lady Citala!” Hermione waved angrily towards Hannah Abbot and Citala, “You’re making me feel like I’m in some kind of Edwardian nursery, rather than a classroom! We should all be addressed the same way!”
“Are you familiar with Burke’s Peerage, Miss Hermione?” Lady Greengrass cut across her tirade, voice firm.
Hermione glowered at being interrupted, but nodded mulishly.
“Very well. Then you’ll know that there are certain ranks within society that are allowed to bear titles by courtesy. So it is with the Wizarding World. The oldest families get the highest ranks. Lady Citala, for example, is the eldest daughter of the highest-ranking family in England. Her father’s rank is equal to that of a Muggle Duke, so like a Duke’s daughter, she is styled Lady Citala. Lady Abbot’s father, meanwhile, is equal to that of a Muggle Viscount, so she and her brother are styled Lord and Lady Abbot by courtesy.”
“But…None of the other teachers use those titles!” Hermione exclaimed, her cheeks flaming and her eyes sparking with indignation, “We’re all Mr and Miss to them!”
“How my esteemed colleagues address you all is entirely up to them. But I am determined to teach you to function in polite society, as well as your history. As such, in this classroom, at least, you will all be addressed as you would be were you outside of Hogwarts’ blessed walls. Do I make myself clear, Miss Hermione?”
“But…”
Lady Greengrass didn't even allow the girl to finish this time. She froze her with a glare before the second word could leave her mouth.
“Miss Hermione. You have taken up quite enough of my time already this morning. I have a roll-call to take and a lesson to teach. If you have further questions, you may speak to me afterwards. Indeed, speak to me afterwards anyway, as I need to ensure you know how to curtsy so you can greet me properly in future. That goes for all the girls who did not, by the way. Boys, I expect a bow is easy enough to copy in future. Now, where were we?”
Lady Greengrass paused, inhaling slowly through her nostrils. She did it so slightly that no one who didn’t know her, or the behaviour traits of the Sacred 28, would have seen it, but to Regan and Citala, her ire was as obvious as though she had been screaming in rage.
Despite themselves, however, they couldn’t help but smirk. They may not yet have had a lesson with Hermione, but the bushy-haired Gryffindor’s reputation as someone who thought herself above others because she had an excellent memory and had practically memorised the textbooks before the year began had preceded her, even just three days into term. It had been a pleasant surprise to see Lady Greengrass tear her to shreds like that.
Lady Greengrass glanced over at them and they very quickly looked away, busying themselves with pulling their textbooks out of their bags. Lady Greengrass’s eyes lingered on them for a moment, and they were both sure her gaze was full of veiled amusement, but before long, she had moved on and returned to calling the roll.
“Master Goldstein.”
“Here, Lady Greengrass.”
“Lady Greengrass.”
“Here, Lady Greengrass.”
[....]