Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody."

- J.D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye

It happened over the summer.

Blades of grass whipping against their legs, white muslin cloth flying back against the wind, the roaring of Sweetwater River as it thunders through the forest.

Blazing hair the colour of fire against a backdrop of blue and green.

That summer, Jason Blossom was declared dead, his body lost to the pull of the water, his sister drowning in her sorrows.

He works twelve-hour shifts at the Chock'lit Shop, wears the cheese-yellow uniform with a perennially unhappy grimace, and lets the white apron crumple at his waist out of passive-aggressive spite.

Jughead Jones, on principle, isn't a big smiler. He has a deadbeat dad who spends his days consuming more alcohol than either of them can afford, Headmaster Weatherbee's demanding him to stay on lockdown in the sleepy no-maj town of Riverdale for the summer vacation, and he has to smile 24/7 to get paid minimum wage at a job as hopeless as his dad.

And his name is Jughead, to boot.

Or, Forsythe.

Pendleton.

Jones.

The Third.

On the bright side, Pop Tate gives him free hamburgers during his (many) lunch breaks - they're the only things keeping him sane in this dark, dark world he calls his home.

In reality, however, it's not dark. Riverdale is wholesome, at the very least, like Betty Crocker's house imprinted itself across the entire town. There's green parks with duck ponds and white picket fences with blooming red rosebushes lining every street. No, really. Jughead wishes he's joking.

He's surrounded by people who talk, dress and act like they're in a '50s sitcom. He's fifteen, and he hasn't met one person besides maybe Archie who can relate to him on a nice, toned-down wavelength. It helps that they go to 'school' together, too.

With Betty Cooper, who he suddenly realises is sitting in a corner booth with the heels of her palms massaging her temples and her features scrunched up into a frown. The rest of the diner is empty, and Pop is busy wiping at invisible particles on the juke box, so he sets his tea towel down and walks over.

"Hey," he mumbles, teeth barely separating when he enunciates his greeting. She jolts up, evidently surprised, then gives him a forced grin before motioning to the empty seat.

"Hey, Juggie." Jughead takes a seat, a little thrown off at the lack of chattering exuberance he's come to associate with the youngest Cooper.

"Bad day?"

She gives him a look, a cross between shock and indignation, though he isn't sure what to think of it just yet. Is it something on his face?

"You mean you don't know?"

Betty stresses like the last word like she's expecting him to be the first one to know. And in many cases, he is. He's the town sleuth. But he's also been stuck inside a diner since nine in the morning so in all fairness-

"It's Jason," Betty continues when his expression remains blank.

"He's dead."

Chapter Text

i was surrounded by phonies

"The only thing that would be different would be you."

- J.D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye

"Dead," Jughead echoes her, somewhat dumbfounded.

Betty blinks, purses her lips, and looks to the side. The strawberry milkshake he doesn't recall bringing out is flat, the cherry on top beginning to sink down to the bottom. He's worked at Pop's long enough to know how what milkshakes look like when they're left out for a long time, sadly, so it's safe for him to assume that she's been here for at least an hour.

What surprises him more is that it's ten at night. He knows as a fact that Alice Cooper enforces a strict deadline at eight, unless Betty's doing wholesome things like organising charity fundraisers or studying for their upcoming EAGLEs. In fact, her dishevelled appearance is starting to disconcert him because the humans of Casa Cooper, on principle, do not overtly display physical imperfections.

Except Betty absolutely is.

"Cheryl-" Her voice breaks off as soon as she starts talking. He is patient - an acquired talent he'd obtained after becoming a waiter - and glances away when she blinks back tears. "Dilton found Cheryl a few hours ago at Sweetwater River. She was soaking wet, shivering on the rocks, and when the police arrived, she told them she'd gone rowing with Jason in the morning," Betty sighs. "The official story is that her glove fell into the water, and when Jason jumped in to retrieve it..."

"He drowned," Jughead finishes off. Betty nods in confirmation. His forehead creases. Jason's death-story seems as credible as pigs flying. He doesn't know Jason personally, because the Blossom twin-brother is a No-maj and spends next to no time in the magical community. But he's heard Cheryl boasting about 'Jay-Jay' in Ilvermorny corridors and can't help but wonder how the captain of Riverdale High's water polo team managed to drown in a river that was at low-tide a few hours ago.

And why didn't Cheryl use her magic to save her brother?

He holds his tongue when Betty exhales and sinks her head back into her hands, saving his speculations for another time.

"That's...unfortunate."

Jughead watches her ponytail disappear from his view as her head pops up again. "But you know what's really awful? His body."

His eyebrows shoot up. "What do you mean?"

"They've been combing the River ever since Dilton's Scouts found Cheryl, but Jason's body is missing," her tone rises, hands wildly gesturing around as she speaks, "It's like he completely vanished."

"No one just vanishes when they die," Jughead says critically. "If he really drowned in the Sweetwater River, then his body should have shown up by now. What reason could there possibly be-"

"Jug!" Pop's voice suddenly rings through the diner, cutting him off. "You mind taking the order?"

He swivels around, sees a woman in a thick fur coat making her way to the counter, and sends Betty an apologetic grimace. She smiles briefly in reply and waves him off, grabbing the milkshake with her other hand. "Sorry Betty," he sits up and makes his way to the customer, not bothering to and not seeing the point of fixing the crumpled state of his uniform when his shift ends in an hour. One hour left and he's free from work for another school term.

That thought alone cheers him up enough to speak to the woman with a forced smile and a robotic greeting. "Welcome to Pop's, what'll it be?"

"A gin and tonic," she replies without missing a beat, voice high-strung and high-pitched. "Or whatever it is you hobos drink to forget about your Loser-dom."

His face loses its faux-enthusiasm (which, he admits, was limited to begin with) when he realises that the Devil-incarnate itself is standing before him, flame-red hair slung limp over her shoulders.

"Always a pleasure," he replies dryly. "We have," he makes a clicking sound with his tongue, pretending to search the liquor cabinet, "Vodka for Alcoholic Teens, Whiskey for Ginger Trust-fund Babies, and my personal favourite: Blossom Heiress breaks the Law," Jughead pulls out a bottle of rum, then shakes his head somberly, "But no gin and tonic."

"No," she agrees, pearly-white teeth glistening from behind her lips, "But my brother just died, so I think I can get a free pass for today."

"Sorry for your loss, but no can do." Jughead, by all accounts, feels more sympathy for the rocks that get crushed under Cheryl Blossoms's heels than Cheryl herself. Hell, he doesn't even beat around the bush and do favours for Archie, whom he's known since birth, much less bend the law for Cheryl Blossom - dead brother or not.

But, apparently, Betty Cooper does. She practically comes running up to them, eyes twinkling like she's about to uncover a goldmine. "Jughead," she gives him a pointed look, "It's on me."

He clenches his jaw, makes sure the smirking Cheryl sees his stink-eye and takes Betty's proffered twenty-dollar note. Granted, he's underage too - turning sixteen this year - so he shouldn't even be allowed or be able to serve alcohol, but here he is. Serving it. "Thank you," he hears her whisper when he places the shot glasses on the counter.

Jughead shrugs, then slowly makes his way to the only booth that hasn't been cleaned yet, seizes Betty's half-finished smoothie with his left hand, and wipes the table down with a wet cloth. Hopefully, it's his last chore for the day. Hermione Lodge is replacing him in an hour when her graveyard shift starts, so he doesn't even need to lock up the diner or stack the chairs tonight.

As long as nothing too melodramatic happens for another forty minutes, he's well and truly done with work for the vacation. Done with the stupid travel-ban that Headmaster Weatherbee placed on him.

Granted, Jughead rarely travels during the summer vacations because he promised Jellybean he'd watch over FP (senior) for her. He does the bare minimum, has been doing so since FP started combining alcohol with Serpent business, but he tells JB that they're okay - that dad is working with Fred Andrews in construction, that he isn't using his magic to do bad things anymore. Lies, all lies.

Nothing good ever comes out of associating with the Serpents, especially not when it's in your blood. So he lies to avoid breaking Jellybean's heart. He tells her sugarcoated fairytales for her to think that her dad is a good man when he's really, really not. And in return for his lies, he sleeps on the streets at night, crashes in alleyways and showers in Riverdale High's bathrooms.

That's all going to change tomorrow, when he congregates at Archie's place to floo to New York. No more drunk father, deadbeat dad, lying Serpent, for another year - or at least until the next holiday.

And best of all, he thinks when he sees Betty consoling a sobbing Cheryl Blossom: no more dead men.

Chapter Text

(Chapter 3 - plot:

Floo to Grand Central Terminal by noon, train to Ilvermorny Village (base of mountain) then carriage to school at summit
Establish plot line: Archie wants J in quidditch, Betty struggles with transfiguration, J wants to cast charms better 
Establish Betty-Archie-Jughead-Veronica dynamic
Feast + weatherbee-Jughead dynamic
Subjects for the year 
Establish Betty-Jughead dynamic - plant the seed)

Betty wakes to the sound of her alarm blaring with the early morning sun. It filters through her curtains and onto the large, chestnut trunk beneath her window. Groaning, she hits snooze, rolls over and sandwiches her ears between her pillows, willing herself to sink back to sleep when Alice comes charging through her bedroom door with a flourish. 

“Betty,” she yanks the curtains open, allowing the sunlight to storm into her room with a vengeance. Betty opens one eye to glare at it, and Alice starts to kick her trunk inch-by-inch until it reaches her doorframe. “Your father will bring this trunk downstairs before you go. Breakfast is on the counter and make sure you lock Caramel’s cage this time. I swear to God, I will not be flooing her into school a second time.” Caramel, having woken up from the noise, meows from the foot of her bed innocently. 

“Infernal cat,” Alice finishes, affectionately, and then throws the covers off of Betty. She hisses, curling her legs towards her chest. “Downstairs. Five minutes.” 
 
And that is Betty’s life, in a nutshell. 

She eventually makes it down to the dining room, sporting her usual baby blue sweater and denim jeans, her hair comfortably secured in a high ponytail, and makes sure to shoo Caramel into her cage before locking it. Caramel gives her a soft meow and in a feat of surprising obedience, curls around and rests her head onto her paws. Not that Caramel has ever been heinously difficult, but Betty has grown accustomed to spending afternoons searching for Caramel - in the bedrooms, the garage, the garden, Archie’s house, even on occasion a few blocks away doing God knows what - and then some when it became time to head off to Ilvermorny. The things Betty does for this cat, honestly. 

Satisfied, Betty spoons a handful of oats into a cereal bowl and adds in some fruits, and by the time she’s settling down on the table with a glass of juice, she can hear the sound of her father ka-thunking her trunk down the stairs and placing it next to Caramel’s cage. “Morning daddy,” she greets. 

He smiles, giving her a quick peck on the forehead. “Morning sweetie. So, first day back. Are you ready for HAREs year?” 

Betty grimaces. HAREs, or Horrifically Advanced Required Examinations, didn’t technically happen until her last year but she’d heard rumours from upperclassmen that the preparation sixth year was just as deadly, mostly attributing to the lack of finality than anything else. All the same, Betty assumed it would be dreadful, given she’d (fingers crossed) be taking eight subjects this year on top of Quidditch. She shoves a spoonful of oats into her mouth, eliciting the disapproving tut-tut of her mother, and gulps it down. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replies, not even hiding the uncertainty behind her tone. Hal claps her gently on the back and just says, 

“Spoken like a future MACUSA President.” 

Like she hadn’t been visibly panicked at the thought of entering HAREs year. Like it’s the most reassuring non-pressurising way to calm down your daughter. He’s been dreaming of the role as a budding Ilvermorny student, and then passed that expectation over to Betty the second she revealed her magical prowess and Polly didn’t. Betty can’t say she’s at all surprised by his words when he spends half his time working in MACUSA politics and the other half planning newspaper stories with her mother, the New York Ghost editor. The conflict of interest is real. 

Betty suddenly feels her appetite leaving her and shovels the last of her breakfast into her mouth before jumping off the barstool. “Well, I’m off to Archie’s,” she walks over to her parents and politely kisses their cheeks. They nod in approval. “Don’t miss me too much.” 

She opens her trunk for the last time and checks for her books, her robes, and her broom, all safely wrapped and tucked into the trunk. Betty nods and closes the latches before pulling it up by the handle and reaching for Caramel with her other hand. Her parents open the front door, (firmly, pointedly) wishing her good luck and in a few more blessed seconds she’s out of casa Cooper and knocking on Archie’s door. 

Fred and Mary Andrews are the calm counterparts of Alice and Hal Cooper. They run a construction company and apparently, apparently, Mary starred in a few movies back in her hey-day that still sends in royalty checks to this day. No No-Maj in Riverdale knows which specific movies, though there are rumours floating around which Mary has neither denied nor affirmed. Betty finds them delightful, having torn through several of them herself.  

“Hey kiddo,” Mary greets her with a hug as she steps into the living room and deposits her belongings next to the fireplace. She spots Jughead’s ashen-black trunk immediately. “Archie and Jughead are at the back, packing his things,” she rolls her eyes and points in the direction of Archie’s makeshift ‘man cave’, which is really their garage with a piece of paper on the door screaming ‘MANDREWS CAVE’, outfitted with Archie’s guitars, Fred’s old couch and a mini fridge for Jughead to eat out of whenever he finds himself there. Which is a lot. “I’d be careful stepping in - it’s a mess.”

Betty thanks her for the warning and manages to push open the door with considerable and surprising effort. It usually isn’t such a heavy door, and suddenly she finds the culprit yelping and running out of the way. It’s Hot Dog, who runs over to where Jughead is sitting on the couch and whines before turning around and spotting Betty. She’s immediately faced with the onslaught of Hot Dog’s massive paws as he jumps up to lick her face. Betty laughs, trying not to let his tongue catch her mouth. “Hot Dog! You’re not a pup anymore-okay! I missed you too bud!” He seems to relent and lands back on the ground, panting happily. 

Jughead, with his hands enclosed over a rather large hamburger, deigns to wave a hand at the tissue box seated on their coffee table, which is really two milk crates Archie took home on his last day of summer milk deliveries a few years back and taped together as a table for ~musician angst~. She grabs one, then two, and wipes off Hot Dog’s saliva. “I adore him, I really do.” 

“You’re just about the only one,” Jughead replies sardonically, having already inhaled half his burger. Hot Dog, ever the magical dog, whines at his words. Jughead rolls his eyes but smiles and ruffles his head nonetheless. “Who’s a good boy?” 

“That makes so much sense,” Archie pipes up from his guitar, strumming it like he doesn’t have to go in ten minutes. 

“Arch, as much as I’d love to stick around for your music,” she really doesn’t, “I think we need to get to Grand Central without missing-the-train-and-piggy-backing-Jughead-on-your-broom-again this year. I’m pretty sure mom’s going to pop another vein if she has to floo over our things again.” 

“Oh, pshaw,” Jughead stands up from the couch, dusting crumbs off his jeans, “I’ll have you know I can fly on a broom just fine now, thanks.” 

“And we’re proud of you, Jug,” Betty says, remembering the entirety of fifth year when Archie taught Jughead to fly again. Granted, Betty suspects it’s because Archie wants Jughead to join a Quidditch team so they can talk about a fantastical mutual love of the sport, rather than a well-meaning gesture of friendship. 

“Yeah, my broken bones and I are suuuuper proud of you.” 

“One time,” Jughead wags a finger at Archie, “I crashed into you one time and Dr Curdle Jr healed it in like, five minutes.” 

“Yea, but still!” 

“Guys, please,” she holds up two hands in a placating gesture, “We do need to go.” 

Archie gently sets down his guitar and throws the last of his books into his trunk. “Fine. But only because Jughead might fly into me again.” 

Jughead scoffs, walking out of the garage with Hot Dog in tow and throws a choice curse word at him.  

Archie lugs his trunk behind him and lets the door slam shut. “Whoa! That mouth learnt a thing or two at Pop’s. What do you have to say for yourself, Forsythe?” 

Jughead scowls at his name. 

“How was the summer at Pop’s, Jug?” Betty asks him sweetly. Behind them, Archie guffaws at being ignored.

Recovered, Jughead rubs his chin thoughtfully, a twinkle in his eyes, “Half-decent. The free food was a huge bonus.” 

“Pop has a soft spot for you. I swear his smile lights up the room whenever you’re in it,” she teasingly bops his nose with her finger, which causes him to scrunch his face together, “I got a few good discounts out of it this summer too.” 

“Wow, glad you could benefit from the fruits of my labour.” 

“Gracias,” she bows slightly. He chuckles and opens the door back into the Andrews house, letting Betty step through first. She spins around in time to see Archie glowering at Jughead as he heaves his trunk through the door. 

“Milady Andrews.” 

Archie makes a rude hand gesture at Jughead. Behind her, Mary gasps. 

“Archibald!” 

“I really hate Floo travel.” 

Betty looks over at Archie, the last of them to step through the Floo. She figures he stayed behind for a few more minutes to say his goodbyes privately, and she images it would have a been a warm, loving one in stark contrast to the one she gave her parents. He looks a little pale and his fiery red hair seems to stand out a bit more than usual. 

She and Jughead rub a few comforting circles on his back. Travelling by the Floo Network, while convenient, feels like having all the air sucked out of you and then back in with every trip. She’s lucky enough to have grown up using it constantly with her parents, but for newer magical families like the Andrews, who are overwhelmingly No-Maj in number, it’s the most uncomfortable way to travel. She can’t imagine how Archie would fare with a Portkey. 

They make their way through the spectacular arches of Grand Central Terminal, chattering along while reigning in Hot Dog who’s bouncing around on his leash, despite seeing the sights countless times over the years. The entry way to their designated Platform 45 is hidden behind a brick wall, which they pass through easily before lugging their trunks down the stairs and onto the platform. She’s greeted by a sight she relishes after every vacation: a steam engine train, untouched by time and maintained by magic. A vibrant royal blue structure with gold accents and students flittering back and forth to greet their friends and bid their families farewell. Betty smiles nostalgically when she spots the younger students already donning their blue and cranberry robes, sans Gordian Knot clasp. 

Jughead is yanking at her sweater sleeve, shaking her out of her thoughts, and she hastily hands her trunk and Caramel’s cage over to the bemused luggage collector and mutters her thanks. They’re all in different houses, and in theory should all be sitting in separate carriages based on their year levels. Archie, ever the social butterfly, waves goodbye when Reggie comes over, bear hugs and all, and whisks him away to the Wampus carriage. 

As always, Betty invites Jughead over to the Thunderbirds and they eventually manage to finagle their way into an empty compartment, arms laden with a mountain of food from the Ilvermorny Express cart, and flop into adjacent seats. Between living in a largely No-Maj town without a wealth of wizarding treats, and Alice Cooper’s distaste of food containing the general concept of sugar, neither of them have had the chance to indulge in months. Jughead immediately digs into several pastries while Betty indelicately rips open a Chocolate Frog and grins. 

“Mary Andrews,” she shows the card to Jughead, who plucks it out of her hand and marvels at it while Betty chews at the frog. 

“So the rumours are true,” he holds the card up to the sky, then moves it around as if willing it to change, “Archie wasn’t lying about his celebrity mom.”  

“Oh, you,” she playfully swats his arm and he clutches the spot in faux-horror. 

“Betty Cooper, how you wound me.” 

“Come at me, I have more.” 

“Oof, fire.” He rips open a Bertie Bott’s packet and flings a particularly browned one into his mouth without looking. She stares at him expectantly. Jughead makes a face of overwhelming disgust. “I don’t even want to talk about this one.” 

Betty giggles, grabs another one from the packet, eyes closed, and pops it into her mouth without hesitation. She lets it roll on her tongue for a millisecond and chews it, triggering an explosion of peppermint in her mouth. Betty makes a face, coughs, and opens her eyes to see Jughead staring at her intently. It almost takes her aback, how she’s never noticed how blue his eyes can be when the midday sun hits them at a particular angle, and then she feels the sensation travelling up to her nostrils and setting them aflame. “Oh God. Toothpaste.” 

He rolls his eyes, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Please.” He breathes in her direction with emphasis. Betty sputters and glares, waving a hand in the air to diffuse the scent. “Poop.” 

“We really need to stop doing this every train ride.” 

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” 

“We could always Shrieking Sherbet it. Really shock the daylights out of half the carriage.” 

Jughead pauses mid-chewing, a half-eaten cauldron cake having made its way towards his mouth, and considers her words. “Tempting. What are the chances that Weston Wallis wouldn’t mind a first-day shrieking parade at dinner later?” 

Betty grins. “Slim to none.” 

“This is totally hypothetical of course.” 

“Of course. Purely an exercise of thought.” 

“Exactly.” He stuffs the rest of his cake into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Although-“ 

Bang! The door to their compartment loudly rattles open, startling nearby students. They look up, surprised, seeing the scarlet form of Cheryl Blossom holding it open with a perfectly manicured red nail. If Betty didn’t spend so much time with Cheryl, at home and at school, she wagers that no one could have come close to knowing how Jason’s disappearance-slash-death affected the Blossom heiress. There’s a haunted undertone to her gaze and countenance, a slightly tense grip on the doorframe and a hardness to her red lips that usually break out into a smile around the right people. She almost marvels at how quickly Cheryl’s eyes lose their puffiness after she cries, having comforted her sobbing at Pop’s only the night before. 

Cheryl’s eyes rove over the large pile of food littering the compartment with disgust, flicker impassively at Jughead, and then finally land on Betty. Her expression instantly brightens. “Cousin Betty, pleased to see you’ve made it onto the Ilvermorny Express. Might I interest you in a stroll to the Lodge compartment? I believe the refreshments may be much more to your…liking.” She eyes the food pile again, clearly unimpressed. “The hobo can come too.” 

“I would be delighted, Ms Blossom,” Jughead says sarcastically, but his tone betrays no real offence. She figures it may be out of pity that he doesn’t start a new revolt against Cheryl this particular day, or that Veronica Lodge is famous for supplying what Jughead calls “good food” (when in reality he eats anything and calls it good food anyway) and just wants to come along for the perks. 

“As you should be,” Cheryl replies tersely, her expression lightening marginally, “Betty?” Her face still fixed on Betty’s for a response. 

“Yeah, Cheryl, absolutely. We’ll clean up in here first, if that’s alright?” 

Cheryl nods, happy, leaving them to click-clack her heels away until they hear her walking into a particularly loud compartment down the hall. Jughead lets out a breath that has Betty smiling at him gratefully. She knows his preferred company never encompasses Cheryl or Veronica…or anyone other than her and Archie for that matter, and he prefers even less to have to talk to Other People for more than ten minutes flat. 

“Thank you, Jug, really.” 

Jughead shoves the last cauldron cake into his mouth, grumbling. He gives her another look, sensing the concern radiating off Betty in waves. “I don’t mind, Betts. They’re both your cousins, and I get that you’re both the only ones who can understand each other right now. Contrary to popular belief, I am capable of having empathy for demons-Cheryl. Cheryl.” 

“And for a second there you almost had me.” 

He chuckles, scooping as many unopened boxes into his book bag as possible. Chucking the last one in, Jughead straightens his back, hauls the bag over his shoulder and uses one hand to lean on the strap. He draws his focus to her, and Betty finds herself fixated on the blue of his irises again. “How are you, though, Betty?” 

She sighs. It feels impossible. A double-edged sword looming over her. Her only interactions with Jason involved meet the family dinners with Polly, before they discovered they were  actually distant cousins (ick). By all accounts, Jason was Cheryl’s non-magic twin who attended Riverdale High and dated her sister for a couple of years. They seemed happy together, despite the family history. Betty doesn’t know Jason that well and is barely related to him, and by extension she supposes she doesn’t truly care. Her concern only seems to extend to Polly, who’s devastated, and Cheryl, who’s one of her closest friends, and the shocking notion that anyone can die at any time. It hits close to home and that’s all that shocks her. She feels terrible for thinking it. 

“Polly’s been crying all night. She’s inconsolable but at least mom and dad are taking care of her. I’m worried about Polly, and I’m worried about Cheryl.” Betty presses her lips together, brows furrowing at Jughead’s patient expression. She feels a twinge of pain in her hands and immediately releases the pressure of her fingers curling into her palms, willing them to not be scarred by her fingernails again. “And I’m good, I think. I haven’t really processed it yet.” 

He nods, with what she hopes is satisfaction with her response. “Well, if you need,” he releases his bag strap so his palms are facing towards her, arms stretched at his sides, “I’m here.” 

Betty smiles. “I’ll come with food if I do need.”

“It’s on the house,” he gives her a tiny smirk, “I can’t charge you food for my terrible therapy.” 

“Come on,” she stands up, dusting crumbs off her jeans. “Surely you have a price.”

As it turns out, Jughead Jones does have a price. It’s one cheeseburger.

He practically inhales the first burger that has the misfortune of being in his line of sight as soon as he steps into the Lodge carriage.

Well, not The Lodge carriage. None of the students actually own carriages on the Express, but Veronica practically ripped into the last group of fourth years who had the gall to challenge her claim so, yes. That’s that. 

And Jughead can honestly say that she’s done more for this carriage than any crusty group of fourth-years ever can, so fair game. She’s somehow charmed it to be bigger, extended the seats and added a large centre table, despite the multitudes of spells preventing students from doing exactly that. And Veronica never gets caught either, since she reverses the charms as soon as they get to the platform and manages to slip under all the professors’ noses (or, given the eye-rolls they give her every time she skips past faux-innocently, not as under their noses as originally thought) every year. It pays to be Veronica Lodge, he guesses. 

Betty, social butterfly that she is, is immediately flanked by Veronica and Kevin and their sound barrier defying squeals of greeting. He spots Archie with Reggie in the corner, no doubt regaling each other with Quidditch strategies.

[Unfinished segment]

“Tabitha Tate?” Cheryl screeches indignantly, “Over you?” 

Veronica, her arms crossed over her chest with a single manicured finger tapping against her opposing forearm, fumes. “You’re joking. You’re absolutely joking.” 

“Idiot,” Kevin holds her comfortingly, “He’s an idiot.” 

“Guys, I just-“ Betty rubs her hands over her eyes, exhausted from the day’s events. The anticipation, the false excitement, the hallway conversation, and the cafe kiss. 

“Cousin,” Cheryl says, daggers in her eyes as she leans in.

[Unfinished segment]

[Cue link to background planning here]