We make a really good team, though not everyone sees
We got this crazy chemistry between us.
- For Him, Troye Sivan ft. Allday
....................................................................................................
The Owlery was always one of the first places to start collecting ice as Winter started closing in, probably due to how high and exposed it was. The stairs were a death trap, and the climb up took twice as long as it ordinarily would.
Allison shook flecks of not-quite-snow from her hair when she finally reached the summit of the tower, stepping into an ocean of feathers that rippled across the floor with the wind, relaxing at the familiar owl-noises of clicking beaks and soft hoots from the few birds still awake.
Artemis had been her aunt Katherine's gift to her when she had received her acceptance to Beauxbatons. The letter appeared in their grate with a flicker of green flame, nestled in the ashes of floo fire and addressed to Allison Marie Argent in a calligraphic hand.
Katherine had demanded to be the one to take Allison shopping for her school supplies, and they had spent the day sprawling through the hidden magic shops and muggle boutiques of Paris, returning home with arms weighted down by bags full of textbooks and parchment and beautiful clothes, as well as oddities like colour changing ink and shimmering quills, a journal that bit anyone who tried to read it without permission, a chess set inlaid with mother of pearl, and Allison's favourite acquisition, a tawny owlet perched on her shoulder.
She was much bigger now, asleep in one of the darkest parts of the room. Hogwarts of course made sure the owls were given a sheltered and warm place to sleep, but the tower was stone, and Artemis still wasn't used to Scotland's weather. She felt the cold more than the other birds, which made her incredibly easy to find. She was always tucked away in a corner away from the wind, feathers fluffed up so much that she could almost pass for a Puffskein.
"Mon amour," Allison cooed at the sleeping owl, running a finger over the heart shaped outline of her face. "Wake up, my love."
Artemis did not take kindly to being woken up, nipping irritably at Allison's fingers until she produced a handful of treats from her pocket.
Lydia usually joined her on her trips to the Owlery, especially in the morning, when most of the owls were already asleep. But she had been with Kira, and Allison had decided that some time alone with her thoughts wouldn't hurt.
Moments kept replaying in her head - the cut of Malia's eyes towards them from her new place with the boys at mealtimes; Stiles leaning in towards Lydia, watching her expertly concoct a potion that made Slughorn light up with pride; Isaac smiling into a kiss or laughing at something one of his friends had said; Artemis flying newspapers in for her every morning, each headline more horrific than the next - everything was changing so fast, it was near impossible to keep up. She could never fully catch her breath.
Isaac had been her sole companion for the past week - Kira and Malia too caught up in their silent war, and Lydia too caught up in her war with herself - but neither of them minded.
They spent hours in the library immersed in history books and bestiaries, playing chess and cards and sometimes sneaking off to the dark corners full of dusty muggle religious texts that no one had read for centuries to hide from prying eyes.
Isaac was naturally talented at a lot of things - Defense Against the Dark Arts, keeping Scott in check, knowing which Every Flavour Beans to avoid - but kissing hadn't been one of them. Probably a combination of nerves and inexperience, but Allison was nothing if not a willing teacher.
At first he was awkward, and never knew where to put his hands, but the flush on his cheeks and the way he would stutter her name made practicing all the more worthwhile.
Allison was surprised by how much she liked Isaac Lahey, the sullen boy covered in silver scars, always hidden at the back of the classroom. But she did. She liked how his hair curled around her fingers and she liked listening to him read to her and she liked that he wasn't a sore loser when she beat him at chess.
Artemis nibbled at her fingers, a silent request for more treats. Allison planted a kiss on the caramel coloured feathers at the top of her head, and turned for the door. "I'll bring you more tonight," she promised at her owl's reproachful look. "I 'ave a letter for you to take home."
Artemis glared in answer, before promptly falling asleep again.
She almost crashed into two girls coming through the stone archway, one in the black and yellow of Hufflepuff, the other in the silver and green of Slytherin.
"Allison?" The Hufflepuff was significantly shorter than her, but she had a big voice. "It's Allison, right?"
"I-yes..." She frowned down at the shorter girl, taking in all just-over-five-feet of her. She looked familiar, though where Allison had seen those enormous brown eyes before, she couldn't remember. The girl could pass for an owl herself.
"Excuse-moi-" She stopped immediately, knowing she had flushed pink from the accidental slip. She often forgot to speak English when she was startled or nervous, and the combination of the tiny thunderstorm of a brunette and the sulky blonde Slytherin behind her had Allison feeling both. But the brunette's smile was warm and the Slytherin girl hadn't spoken a word yet, so Allison amended, overly polite and cautious:
"Sorry, I meant, if you don't mind me asking, who are you?"
"Oh!" The Hufflepuff laughed, readjusting her gloves. "Cora. Sorry, should've said. We take Divination and Herbology together." She offered a gloved hand. Allison shook it, finding that everything about this girl was warm, not just her smile. If anyone could reaffirm the stereotype of overly cheerful Hufflepuffs, it was her.
"Of course. I should 'ave remembered. You are ze Cora zat plays Seeker for 'ufflepuff, right?"
"Right!" The girl - Cora - brightened impossibly further. "Oh and this-" she grabbed the Slytherin girl's hand, dragging her forward. Despite her cold expression toward Allison, she merely seemed bemused by Cora, a glimmer of a smile dancing on her lips before it was gone again. "-this is Erica. She hates Quidditch with a passion."
"And yet I still come to see you play," the blonde murmured, her voice gravelly and low, the kind of sexy purr that usually only belonged to Russian supermodels. She turned her attention to Allison. "Erica Reyes," she said, her full mouth curving into a catlike snarl of a smile.
Her correction of Cora's introduction left no room for interpretation. This girl took pride in her last name, her family name. All Slytherins were either pure or half bloods, and Erica was definitely pureblood, from the arrogant tilt of her chin to the heirloom family ring glittering on her hand when she reached up to push a lock of hair away from her eyes. Wolf eyes, black as a winter storm.
Allison instinctively shifted into the same stance, years of training on posture and aura finally becoming useful in the shadow of doubt that passed over Erica's face. "Allison Argent," she responded coolly, her smile directly from Katherine's arsenal of knife edged looks. Mother would be so proud, Allison thought bitterly.
"You're from Beauxbatons, aren't you?" Erica asked, seemingly recovered. Cora shifted uncomfortably beside her, sensing the tension. Allison wondered how someone like Cora had could possibly have found anything likeable in someone like Erica.
"I am," Allison's smile softened slightly, mostly for Cora's benefit.
"Why did you move?" The brunette inquired, subtly shifting to stand just in front of her friend. It worked, Allison had to give her that; she broke eye contact with Erica to answer her.
"I felt zat... someone like me belonged 'ere. Like per'aps I could do some good."
"Oh..." Cora frowned. "What kind of good?"
Erica watched the exchange sharply, eyes narrowed to slits. Surely she knew. How could she not have heard about Allison Argent: Blood Traitor, being pure blood herself?
"I'm still trying to figure zat out," Allison said, feeling the sharp jab of hopelessness that came with remembering how entirely useless she was at Hogwarts. Only a year and a half until she was out. Give or take. "But I'm glad I moved. I had no close friends at Beauxbatons, and I do 'ere."
It was only partly true. She had friends at Beauxbatons, many friends, best friends. But no forever friends, no one who was to her what Lydia was. Still, she sometimes ached for the sunny French courtyards, the students floating around in their pale blue uniforms. Drinking the water of the Flamel Fountain, because it was supposed to increase beauty, or so the stories said. Practicing Archery and Astronomy with the centaur twins that had been separated from their herd as foals and grown up in the gardens. Lessons in dance and music as well as the typical Charms and Potions classes. Beauxbatons had been wonderful, but it didn't compare to how Allison felt at Hogwarts.
"How charming," Erica drawled.
Cora gave her a look, and she shrank ever so slightly, flicking a lock of gold hair over her shoulder as she reassumed her silent judgment, lips falling into a pout that her eyes made up for in their ferocity. Allison didn't think she was supposed to see the brush of Cora's fingertips against Erica's, but they didn't move their hands away when they saw her looking.
"Friends," Cora said in an odd tone. "You're friends with Malia Tate, right?"
"Yes... why?"
"Oh nothing bad," Cora assured her, seeing how defensive Allison had become. "It's just that she managed to snog Danny - you know, the Gryffindor keeper? - in front of every teacher in school and get away with it. Actually kind of impressive."
"Very," Erica amended, surprisingly sincere. "Although I suppose she can't take all the credit. The teachers were a bit busy with that impromptu ice skating session those boys conjured up." Her voice was instantly dripping with scorn. "Aren't you dating one of them, Argent? The smudgy looking one. Lahey."
"It's Allison," she corrected, her tone sharp enough to cut. "And yes, I am. Though I fail to see 'ow it ees any of your busineess."
"It's not," Cora said reassuringly. "It's just nice to see him happy. He always looked so... sad."
"Mmm. You always did have sympathy for the sad ones," Erica said, and Allison knew that the words weren't meant for her. They were a secret, one that only Cora knew.
"Yeah, well. I'd call it empathy."
"So... you think he's like you?"
Cora looked at Erica. "I think he has a girlfriend," she said evenly.
Erica said something under her breath, so quietly that Allison only just caught the words "been in Slytherin". Louder, but still only talking to Cora, she smirked and said, "Well then, maybe he's more like me than you. I mean... well, we all need to keep up appearances."
"Mmm." A sardonic smile, a flash of fury in melted chocolate. "If by that you mean..." She seemed to remember Allison, stopping herself from continuing before changing track. "Amazingly enough, I have no interest in hearing about your charming boyfriend." Cora spat the word out like it was rancid.
She said something that was immediately lost to the freezing wind, ignoring Allison for a moment, her impossibly huge eyes blazing as she looked up at Erica. Allison was quietly awed that the blonde managed to not burst into flames.
"I didn't mean-"
"I know what you meant," Cora snapped at her. "Lies are prettier than the truth. I understand."
"Cora," Erica started, Allison reduced to furniture as their voices lowered to whispers and they drew closer to each other, a crackling lightning storm between them.
"I'll see you two later," Allison supplied awkwardly, wondering how someone as sweet as Cora could produce such venomous words. She was half way down the stairs when she heard Erica start yelling, her words spilling into the cold air like the sky had been sliced open by Cora's eyes and twisted snippets of phrases were falling like rain onto Hogwarts.
"MY FAMILY"
"JACKSON KNOWS"
"I HATE IT TOO"
"SHUT UP CORA"
"YOU DON'T FUCKING KNOW"
"IT'S DIFFERENT FOR YOU"
"IF THEY KNEW"
Then it stopped, the end of a tornado, and the word "love" was carried to Allison on a breath of wind.
.
.
.
Lydia and Malia had missed the morning classes. It had been hours since Stiles had pressed a final kiss to the back of Lydia's hand, and if not for the map telling him that she was still in the broom closet with Malia, he might have worried a bit more. As it was, he grew agitated with not knowing what was happening.
He had sat through Potions without her next to him, without her fingers occasionally brushing his own as she reached for ingredients, without their shoulders touching, without her hair falling onto her book in fiery swirls, without watching her furious concentration and the adorable face she made while measuring. It had been hell. But he had done it.
What worried him was that his friends didn't seem much better off. Isaac was wilting in the wake of the impending full moon, Danny was a bundle of nerves, constantly tapping or bouncing a knee anxiously, like he was struggling to keep a hold on his own thoughts, and Scott had fallen into an odd sort of stupor since the prank that morning, barely a shadow of himself; a smoking candle wick where there had once been a flame.
He kept shooting Stiles suspicious looks in between instructions and notes, returning to his almost silent conversation with Isaac after each glance up. Stiles couldn't understand why. Perhaps it was the approach of the full moon putting him on edge. It was a big job, keeping a werewolf under control. The days before and after the Change were never enjoyable, though Scott wasn't usually so prickly about it. Something else, then.
Kira had noticed too, the worried look in her eyes when she watched from her place beside Allison letting Stiles know that she didn't know what was wrong with Scott either.
Lunch was a quiet affair. Allison stayed with Kira at their usual spot down the table instead of sitting and talking to Isaac for the first ten minutes like she usually did. He seemed to barely notice, the strain of his body preparing for the Change distracting him from any unspoken conflict there may have been in the group. Maybe he wouldn't have noticed anyway. Isaac liked to see the best in people.
Stiles wasn't left wondering for long. On their way to Defence Against the Dark Arts, Scott pulled him aside, eyebrows knit together and a slight tremble in his hands.
"Pads what's wrong-"
"What are you not telling me?" Scott demanded, looking fragile and powerful at once. "And don't try to fucking lie to me, alright. Something's different. I'm not blind."
Stiles blinked. Lydia's smile flashed through his head. "What are you talking about?"
Scott's scoff of disbelief echoed around the side corridor he had pulled them into. He started pacing, a habit Stiles knew he hated because he had inherited it from his father, and tugging at his hair, kept deliberately long because the scruffiness of it had tormented his mother, an advocate for the refinement of wizarding upper class.
"Prongs, I trust you. With my life. You know that." His words were clipped, factual. He was a blur of perpetual movement; a hurricane in a glass bottle. "So why don't you trust me?"
"What?" Stiles tracked Scott's frenetic steps, his thoughts warring and scrabbling at each other. "I do, of course I do-"
"Is it something to do with the girls?" Scott asked, his pacing growing faster as he worked himself into a frenzied state. Seeing the Stiles' flustered movement of protest, he pressed, "Is this about Kira? Because I know I've been with her a lot lately but so has Moony with Allison and-"
"It's not anything like that! I like Kira, I'm glad that you have someone who cares about you. Now can you slow the fuck down?"
"Just fucking tell me!" Scott's voice raised to the authoritative projection of battle orders being given, and he was a prince, trained to lead. But he had rejected his throne the night he had shown up on the Stilinski's doorstep with a half filled messenger bag, dripping rain onto the oak floorboards. "I can't- I keep thinking that it's me, it must be me or something I did and I know, okay? I know you're going to tell me it's not, but you have to... because I've lost everyone, Prongs. You get that? I can't..."
"Stop." Stiles wasn't a prince. But he still carried a certainty that Scott didn't. He stepped in front of his best friend, stopping his pacing by force rather than suggestion. Scott's eyes were endless and guarded when he caught them with his own. "Look, I'm with you. And I would tell you if something was wrong with us."
He sensed Scott's shoulders drop, the slightest bit. A chip of tension fell off him, the beginning of a full scale collapse. "I... you're right. Something's different. And fuck, I've wanted to tell you. And I will. Just not right now. It's not for me to tell."
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Scott's voice would have been a snarl if he hadn't already softened at Stiles' reassurance. "We don't keep secrets from each other."
"We don't keep our secrets from each other," Stiles corrected. "Not other people's. This one isn't mine. And it won't be for much longer anyway, if I'm not wrong." Scott flared again, ready to bite out at him. Stiles stopped him with a hand braced on his shoulder. "Just... trust me. You said you did."
Scott stared at him for a long moment, a flash of white visible from between parted lips as he drew heavy breaths. "You said the same thing," he said quietly, once his breathing had slowed and his blood had cooled. He pushed Stiles' hand off his shoulder and stalked away, not bothering to look back.
Stiles watched him leave, feeling the same rush in his stomach he had felt when he had fallen out of a tree as a kid. A swooping, weightless sensation, followed by a crash that resulted in a broken wrist. The crash hadn't come yet. He was stuck in zero gravity, waiting for it.
Derek was the only teacher in school who didn't leave his classroom door open for students to file in as they arrived. Predominantly because he claimed that he didn't want them tampering with whatever exhibit he had set up, but also because he lived for suspense, and they all knew it.
The doors were still closed when Stiles arrived, Scott standing off to the side with Isaac and Danny, cold light filtering through the stained glass window beside them turning their skin shades of blue, red, purple and green.
Scott seemed to be invested both in ignoring Stiles' arrival and examining the curl that had appeared directly in the middle of Isaac's forehead. He had skewered it with a quill, and Isaac, drained as he was, smiled tiredly at his friends, letting the quill sit in his hair while Scott rummaged in his bag for another.
Stiles knew better than to push him. Scott loved him like a brother, but he ran on a short fuse and even Stiles wasn't exempt from this display of contained anger. So he stayed by himself, still weightless, leaning against the wall. The solidity of it, the familiar sensation of cold bricks pressed into his back kept him from floating away.
Somewhere, in between Scott's tumultuous, stormy eyes, Isaac's barely masked pain, and Danny's secretive, thoughtful expression, Stiles' thoughts came back to the two girls, how he had left them alone together, tears turning their eyes to diamonds in the wintry dark of the unlit cupboard. How long they had been in there, unmoving, the markings of their feet staying side by side on the map as the hours had passed.
He was still trying to decide whether leaving had been a mistake or not when they appeared at the end of the corridor, hands linked by their pinky fingers in a silent promise.
Both had eyes smoked out with smudged makeup and cheeks pink from crying, but only one lit up when she caught sight of him, giving the other a cursory glance, waiting, careful, for the sweet half smile that allowed her to unlock their hands and hurtle toward Stiles like a firework into oblivion.
It felt like every time he had ever been hit by a Bludger, like every blind drunk night with his friends, like every wish he had ever made. That was how it felt to have her jump, all five-something feet of her, into his arms, to have her wrap her legs around his waist, to have Lydia Martin kiss him like the world was being blown to pieces around them, and they were indestructible.
It shouldn't have been so easy to hold her up, to kiss her back without worrying about dropping her. But she could hold herself up, keep herself there. Like she needed to. Like letting go would hurt too much to think about. He couldn't say that he didn't feel the same way.
He probably stumbled a few steps, drunk on Lydia, intoxicated by her hands in his hair and her tongue doing things that set off nuclear bombs all the way down his spine.
Distantly, somewhere beyond the bubble they were in, a door opened loudly, but not loud enough to drown out her soft gasps against him. Distantly, someone sighed dramatically, but it was less noticeable than a gust of wind. Distantly, someone said: "I do not get paid enough for this shit."
Then someone was prodding him on the shoulder with their wand. Lydia finally pulled away at his hum of confusion, and promptly combusted at the sight of Derek standing beside them, looking benign and wearily amused. Stiles had never heard her swear as artistically as she did in that moment, nor had he ever seen her blush that shade of cherry red; she was more vibrant than her hair.
Stiles had no control over anything - not Lydia sliding down his body to the ground and resuming her usual place of barely reaching his chin, not the tsunami of whispers that flooded the corridor full of students, not the enormity of the grin that fought its way onto his face.
Their friends stood in a misshapen semicircle around them, each in varying states of shock and glee. Malia's expression was somewhere between satisfaction and sadness, Danny's mouth was hanging open in a perfect O, Allison was grinning with all the brilliant light of the sun, Kira was looking at Malia, Scott was... missing. Stiles glanced around the group, barely in time to see Isaac slip around the corner, clearly following someone.
What are you not telling me? Stiles felt instantly sick. His grin dissolved, leaving a foul taste in his mouth.
"Having fun?" Derek asked dryly.
Lydia was small enough that hiding behind Stiles would have been incredibly easy, but instead she stepped in front of him, looking Derek in the eye with as much dignity as it was possible for her to have given the circumstances. "It's my fault, Professor," she said firmly. Stiles gaped; Derek's eyes twinkled at the formality of her using his official title. They both knew it was bullshit. "I wasn't... thinking. It wasn't Stiles' idea."
A long moment passed. Lydia and Derek kept their eyes locked; neither would break. The corridor was silent.
Eventually, Derek laughed.
"Hardly seemed like Mr Stilinski was complaining, but sure. Sounds plausible enough." He rolled his eyes, stepping out of the doorway and gesturing them inside. "You know, I would give you both detention, but... paperwork. Quite frankly, I'm not in the mood." As they filed in, he added, "Besides, you lot are tame compared to Beauxbatons."
A ripple of reaction went through the class, but Allison was the only one to voice it.
"Beauxbatons, sir?"
"Mmm. Bunch of horny twats," Derek said agreeably, striding to the front of the room to a covered rectangular object - either a box or a cage.
The class laughed, and Allison pressed: "Deedn't you go to Durmstrang, sir?"
"Yep."
He didn't elaborate. Allison groaned in annoyed confusion, placing her chin in her hands with a contemplative frown.
Derek spent a few minutes rearranging jars and quills on his desk, and when he called on Allison, it was with repressed smugness in his tone. "Mademoiselle Argent, why don't you tell the class about Beauxbatons' policy on students transferring schools?"
Something clicked into place behind Allison's eyes. "If you belive zat you belong somewhere else, you approach ze committee about transferring. If zey theenk you are genuine about eet, zey make ze arrangements. Ze founders of Beauxbatons believed een voluntary attendance to ze Academy. Zey deed not want people who deed not weesh to be zere."
"Full marks, and merci, Allison." He awarded her a smile.
"I spent the last two years of school at Durmstrang," he said, turning his back to the class to write on the blackboard. "The rest I spent at Beauxbatons."
"Why?" Danny asked, uncharacteristically bold. "I mean, why did you want to transfer that badly?"
"I would think that would have been obvious," Derek said. He turned to Danny, tugging his collar down to display a shiny pink burn scar. "Dragons." He turned back to the board. "The best dragon trainers teach in Romania. Durmstrang was the easier ticket in."
"Zere 'have been French dragon trainers, surely. Spanish and German and-"
"Of course there have been," Derek cut off Allison's statement, waving a hand to dismiss the rebuttal. "But the ratio of Beauxbatons to Durmstrang graduates making it as trainers is five to fifty. At Hogwarts, it's more like two to fifty. And I'm not a gambler. I knew what I wanted, so I did everything I could to get it. Considered Ilvermorny and Castelobruxo too, but America and Brazil... not exactly dragon training hotbeds. So it was Durmstrang."
"So they accepted you? Just like that?" Danny pressed.
"Merlin no. It was a heinous process. Took the better part of my fifth year. But when I got there, yes. They accepted me like I had been there from day one. I was the first Spanish Quidditch Captain they ever had. First and probably last, actually."
The thought of Derek in a role that mirrored the one Stiles was in now threw him. Derek was young, sure, but he was worldly. Knowledgeable. Not the type of person that Stiles could easily picture coaching a school Quidditch team or eating meals with his classmates or sneaking out of his dorm to raise hell at night. He was Other, unknown and locked up with no key.
"Now..." Derek lounged over to the covered shape at the front of the room. "Who can tell me what-" he whipped the sheet off, revealing a cage containing what appeared to be a large grey rock "-this is?"
Lydia's hand shot up, because of course she knew. She could trick the devil himself with a mind like hers. Something in Stiles' chest twisted, and he took her other hand in his without caring who saw. They had already seen the whole show anyway.
She looked at him then, her lips pink and curved into a soft smile that shook the universe; every last star. He was a black hole and a supernova and a red giant and a white dwarf all in one and he was bursting and folding in on himself a thousand times over, being made and unmade a million times a second, because she was real and she was there and she had kissed him, him, in front of everyone, because she could and they could and she had wanted everyone to know that they were each other's. She was his and her own and everything about her made him feel like his ribs were splintering into crystal shards.
He spent so much time trying to figure out if she felt the same way, and part of him hoped that she didn't. Because it hurt. Loving her hurt.
.
.
.
Isaac had never seen him cry. He had made sure of that. Danny hadn't either. No one had. Except Stiles, the night he caught the Knight Bus to the Stilinski's sprawling manor, a bruise blooming on his cheekbone and his bag containing nothing but a few photographs of his friends and the jumper Danny had bought him for his fifteenth birthday, with a shaggy black puppy knitted onto the front. They had all laughed until their lungs were empty and aching when he had unwrapped it, and he never told them that during the worst times, when he had no choice but to go home at the end of the year, he would wear it to sleep, a reminder of his real family in the house he couldn't bring himself to call home.
He had been barely sixteen. Barely. And Stiles had refused to leave his side, seeming to know that asking questions would only bring it back, all of it. So Claudia had asked their elf to prepare something that required pasta and a lot of cream, and Scott hardly noticed that he couldn't taste it. He borrowed Stiles' clothes, worn soft from use, found his way to their enormous bathroom, and didn't leave until his skin was scrubbed raw. Even then he wasn't rid of them. But it was a start.
That night, he opened his mouth and didn't close it until the sun was rising. He told Stiles everything. And he had taken it, listened, his eyes probably full of sympathy and pain but Scott couldn't bring himself to look. He stared at the ceiling and watched the night colours turn to dawn, and when it was over, Stiles took his hand and held it until they both fell asleep. They didn't wake until the sun was rising again.
He ripped himself from the memory by punching a wall.
It was brick, centuries old, and the small bones in his hand fissured and broke against it. He couldn't scream, just hissed out all of the air in his lungs and tried his best to bear the pain, to ride it out until it was manageable. It didn't get easier. His hand had been dipped in acid, in lava. He didn't have enough air to make a sound.
"Padfoot you fucking idiot," Isaac growled, sounding more like a wolf than he would have liked, if he had noticed. He didn't.
He pointed his wand at Scott's broken hand, murmured a spell too low for him to hear, and watched intently as the pain numbed to a dull burn that matched his eyes. Blue and furious, but steady, and paled by the oncoming Change. Looking at him like he wanted to punch him or hug him and he couldn't decide which so he had taken his pain instead.
"I'm sorry," Scott whispered.
"I know."
Isaac hugged him then, careful not to knock his broken hand. Before Hogwarts, hugs had been entirely foreign to Scott. Isaac had been the same, but it had been his choice. Years of schooling himself to keep people at an arm's length. Then in early third year, they had found out where he disappeared to once a month. And they had loved him all the same. They had. They did.
Stiles and Danny came from respectable homes where their mothers wore pearl necklaces and their fathers smelled of expensive cologne. They weren't like Scott and Isaac, strangers to acceptance and normality. They all had to teach each other.
Isaac hadn't really been Isaac until after they found out. Before that, he was a ghost, existing only in technicality. They hadn't known of his passion for chocolate and spy novels, or that he never seemed to be completely warm, no matter how many jumpers he wore.
He was familiar now, the assembly of their arms practiced and comfortable. Isaac always smelled like chocolate and soap, and he had half a foot on Scott, tall and built like a Chaser even though he refused to play.
When Scott spoke, his voice was small, and he had to tilt his head so that he wasn't speaking to Isaac's shoulder. "I just don't know how he could... I've told him everything. Everything. And he just-"
"He wouldn't have meant anything by it," Isaac said. "I don't know what happened, but Prongs would never keep something to himself to be spiteful. It must've been important." He let go first, looking down to meet Scott's eyes. "Look, Pads, I know you're angry. You two tell each other everything. I get that. But you don't know the full story, and he wouldn't do that to you on purpose. He's your best friend."
Something in that hit a sour note, and Scott began to correct him, "You're-"
"I know what I am. I'm not looking for reassurance. You and I both know that if Prongs and I were dying, you'd save him first. And you'd do everything in your power to save me too, but it will always be him first. That's fine. Really. Anyway, that's not the point. You need to cool down and think. It's Lydia. He'd do anything for her, even keep secrets from you. From all of us."
"A crush isn't the same thing as being willing to die for someone." His voice was hollow, and he wanted to punch the wall again. "He doesn't love her. Not like he loves us. He can't."
"Maybe it's not like how he loves us," Isaac suggested gently. "Maybe it's different."
"Different?" Scott repeated, thinking of Kira, and how being with her didn't feel different, just warm and fun. Maybe he would love her differently too. "Different how?"
"Just different." Isaac grinned at him, summoning sunlight out of nowhere. "Come on, idiot, let's get you to Madam Pomfrey before you break your other hand."
Scott snorted a laugh and allowed himself to be led, his anger still very much present, but lukewarm. That was just Isaac, being around Isaac. He made the parts of Scott that belonged to Grimmauld Place smaller, quieter. He was grateful for that.
The Hospital Wing was deserted, and Scott received a thorough dressing down by a flustered Madam Pomfrey before she healed his hand, ordering him to take the next two classes to rest and make sure the spell had not had any side effects.
The next two classes were double Divination, and Scott smirked persistently up at Isaac the entire way to Gryffindor Tower.
"Here," Isaac tossed him a bar of Honeydukes chocolate when he had finally settled into bed, his smile still beatific to the point of being goading. "You don't fucking deserve it, you right pompous twat, but I'm a particularly self-sacrificing and lovely person, so it's your lucky day."
"Moony, you're wonderful," Scott declared dreamily around a mouthful of chocolate. "A stellar example of what a friend should be. Now do enjoy your lumps of tea leaves for me, won't you?"
Isaac threw a shoe at him. Scott was cackling with laughter when Isaac turned to leave, ducking his head to hide a smile.
"Moony?" Scott called. Isaac stopped in the doorway.
"What?"
"If it were me and Prongs dying, which of us would you save first?"
There was a very long pause. Neither of them breathed.
"Hurry up and heal, Padfoot," Isaac said finally. "You're going to need your strength tonight."
..............................................................................
1.) I really hate this chapter but we'll ignore that because it's been months and I wanted to put something up and the Gay will make up for lacklustre writing. Good.
2.) Writing Allison's life in France was actually so much fun oh boy oh boy. (Artemis is the goddess of the hunt btw.) (I need to stop giving Allison creatures to take care of.)
3.) Honestly this chapter feels like a filler even though stuff happened but whatever. Next one should be better but fuck knows when that'll be. Just call this one The Chapter Where Zali Overindulges in Backstory and Gay for Pretty Much Everyone.
4.) Daily reminder that Sirius Black deserved better.
5.) Derek being fluent in Spanish kinda led to the Beauxbatons thingy but I mean let me live. Plus I've been dying to toy around with the magical schools.
6.) Erica and Cora were in love before Erica died in canon you can fight me.
7.) The thing in the cage was a Pogrebin, by the way. Google is your friend.
8.) As much as I love that people value my opinion and all that jazz, reminder that I actually don't read Stydia fics. Like at all. Well I mean I read Magan's stuff but that's because I love her but yeah asking me to read your stuff is a Not Great idea because a.) I have literally no idea how to give constructive criticism without sounding like an asshole, b.) I will give you the same advice literally every time because folks my writing technique goes something like: Write a sentence, stare at it until you hate it, lather rinse repeat. I'm useless.
9.) This chapter had been finished for two days but I had no song to title it yikes yikes.
10.) As adorable as all the young love bullshit is I keep flashing back to Derek in I think S2 with the "you're not in love Scott, you're sixteen years old now chill with the melodrama you fucking young people are giving me a migrane" line.
11.) This was the first ever wattpad thing I haven't written on my phone and it has been terrifying but I actually quite like it?? I think laptop from now on it's faster and less prone to crashes.
12.) A small playlist of songs that almost made the cut for this chapter's title:
Teenage Heartbreak – We Are Trees
Don't Hurt Yourself – Beyoncé
Heartbeat – Childish Gambino
Drop The Game – Flume
The Mighty Fall – Fall Out Boy
Wolves Without Teeth – Of Monsters and Men
Fools – Troye Sivan
Up In Flames – Ruelle
Because I'm generic as shit. I'm gonna shut up now, hopefully this wasn't too much of a letdown considering the wait for it. Smash IS in the works I'm just unmotivated.
Don't be a dickbag to fic writers okay I'm always watching and I WILL tear you a new asshole if you disrespect the people who put in hours of work for FREE so you can access zillions of interpretations of your favourite media for FREE.
I'm stressing man I don't wanna sign off bc then I gotta publish it and I fckn hate it. Anyway. Bye folks.
- Zali xx
(P.S. Allison thinks in French because ya girl took three years of it and still can't speak more than two words of it in succession. Shoutout to the Frenchies for helping me with translations.)