Regan Felicity Ophelia Andromeda Tonks-Lupin
Daughter of Nymphadora Tonks and Remus John Lupin. A Gryffindor. In her Seventh Year at Hogwarts.
Most definitely not Head Girl Material.
Also, best friend of Jacqueline Gabrielle Weasley.
Daughter of Fleur Delacour and Bill Weasley. A Gryffindor. In her Seventh Year at Hogwarts.
Head Girl.
Regan was aware of the titles and the labels, even used to them by now. At first, they bothered her. Now, she only pretends they don't. But still, she was used to them. She imagined everyone was.
Because people had to know how hard it was to be best friends with Jacqueline Weasley. The comparisons were usually enough to kill her. And how could they not?
Jacqueline was the smart, popular, and drop-dead gorgeous one. Seriously. A seventy-six year old had keeled over at the sight of her in Diagon Alley once. They pretended it was a coincidence, but Regan knew better.
And every time Regan brought Jacqueline's appearance up, Jack blamed her heritage. That's what she called her you know: Jack. Even a boy's name still didn't mar her good looks. Pity. Because Garth Phillips in Hufflepuff was a dog, but any girl named Garth deserved droopy ears in Regan's humblest opinion.
Veela. That's what Jack was. At least 1/8th or 1/16th or whatever ridiculous amount she claimed it to be. It still mattered. Jack had curly blonde hair to her waist, electric blue eyes, and the cheekbones of a goddess. That's what Molly Weasley would say when describing her grand-daughter to some unfortunate who hadn't already had the luck to meet her.
Mostly, Regan just described her as 'Unfair'.
Because Regan had stick-straight brown hair to her shoulders. Yeah. Brown.
And no matter what she and Jack tried: potions, spells, creams, it still wouldn't hold any volume or curl. Nothing. Just sat there, like a plank glued to her head. And Merlin, Regan had freckles. But mostly she didn't feel bad about that because nearly all Gryffindors had freckles. All the Weasleys. Except for Jack.
The only feature Regan particularily liked about her face were her eyes. They were amber-coloured, nearly yellow. Quite wolfish, really. Something she inheritited from her father.
So while Jack was the picture of perfection, Regan had the worst title ever.
Seriously.
She was funny. Can you believe it? Of course, if you're described as smart, popular, pretty, AND funny - that's when it's a good thing.
But when people can't think of one nice thing to say about you, they usually say you're a pretty good laugh.
Which means they make fun of you most of the time.
But that was okay, because Jack was still her best friend. That must mean she was maybe good for something.
Like comparisons.
Jacqueline Gabrielle Weasley.
Daughter of Fleur Delacour and Bill Weasley. A Gryffindor. In her Seventh Year at Hogwarts.
Part Veela.
Also, best friend of Regan Felicity Ophelia Andromeda Tonks-Lupin.
Daughter of Nymphadora Tonks and Remus John Lupin.
The girl with the ridiculously long name.
Jacqueline knew that some people felt bad for Regan, because she was the best friend of the Jacqueline Weasley.
And all Jacqueline wanted to know was, when did her name warrant the use of 'the' in front of it?
Because if someone wanted to feel bad for someone, it really should be for her.
Because, all right, she knew that maybe a few people wanted to be friends with herself, and had no use for Regan, and perhaps a few boys might've broken Regan's heart in attempt to get closer to herself, but Regan just didn't know how much it hurt.
How much it hurt when Regan refused to tell her the name of the boy she liked, in fear that Jacqueline might try to talk to him for her, and accidently use her Veela charm on him. Or how much it hurt when Regan spent her time with her other plentiful friends. Because all Jacqueline had was Regan, because she was the only one who didn't try to use her.
No one knew what kind of rebellious thrill she experienced when Regan referred to her as 'Jack'. It was silly, how much a name could mean to her. Especially a boy's name, but it did. Always. Because that one name made her feel more human. More relatable. It was nice.
Except no one ever called her that. Except for Regan. No matter how much she hinted to the others. They just didn't catch on.
Because all Jacqueline was to them was a step on the ladder to Social Success. Part Veela. Part French. But nothing Whole. Just Part.
Once, while over at Regan's house one day, Jack had soiled all over her clothings in a Quidditch game they played in the backyard. And, oh yes, fun fact: Jack couldn't play Quidditch to save her life. But yes, she had soiled all her clothing; so Regan lent her some of her's. Everyone had laughed. They laughed when Jack stepped into the full kitchen, when the Weasleys and the Potters and the Lupins had spotted her in a rock t-shirt and torn jeans, with mismatched socks and her curled hair in a ponytail.
"Jacqueline," they had said (not Jack, as you might've noticed). "Those grass stains don't exactly match your manicure."
"That dirt smudge doesn't exactly match your pearl earrings."
And the best for last.
"Those socks don't match."
And they had continued to laugh until someone had spilled some pumpkin juice. Even Regan had broken into a fit of giggles.
And Jacqueline had stormed from the room.
"Drama Queen," they had said.
And perhaps she was. Maybe just a little too self-absorbed. Maybe just a little too vain.
So what was she good for?
Comparisons.