Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Since he was young, Lance was told “There’s no greater gift than to be a wizard” by his aunts and uncles, even his abuelito, who reaped the benefits of magic at their fingertips— or uh, wand tips. And when his mother would scowl their way over the edge of a fresh hamper of laundry, those relatives would send her a smile and sheepishly add “Or to be a part of their world.”

“In-laws...” Lance’s mom had muttered with a roll of her eyes.

Lance grabbed a fistful of fabric from the basket and shoved on a warm brown sweater, too eager to care it was twice his size. “But we would fall apart without you, Mama.” It’s what his dad always said before giving the woman a humble kiss to her cheek.

His mom smoothed over the stubborn strands of Lance’s ruffled hair; it always stuck out like clumsy little feathers. He felt the curve of her dimpled cheek against his own kiss once she lowered herself onto the rocking chair. Undoubtedly, he knew that response was the truth.

But man did Lance want a taste of what his relatives had, to have others huddled near and watch in awe as he conducted spells with the grace of a musician. Because he’s got something to prove as the youngest of the bunch, and all his life he’s been stumbling while everyone is just one step ahead.

Sometimes, he’d peer into the mirror so closely that his nose would smoosh against the surface, and with fiery determination, he swore he had the eyes of a wizard.

“Go ahead, Lancito,” his mom said, and gave his back a gentle nudge after tucking in the sweater’s tag.

Perhaps if he learns now, he could be the best— a hero.

A hero, you say?

Lance feels himself blush, but he nods anyway and the hat chuckles around the walls of his conscience as it rocks with the weight of his head.

You’ve got ambition, Lance McClain.

Th-that’s a compliment, right?

You’ll just have to find out.

Lance swallows.

“SLYTHERIN!”

On a Friday night, with the soles of his worn tennis shoes bounding down wet splotches across the pavement of a low lit alley, Keith could say he had his first taste at freedom. The autumn winds tousled his hair into a nappy mess far past redemption as he dashed closer and closer to the promising street corner planted at the end of his sight. His nose was raw from the splintering cold, jean cuffs soggy around his ankles, and the thrill that flared alight in his lungs was an indecipherable feeling of either sheer terror or overwhelming euphoria.

“Honey! Did you fetch the mail yet?” he heard her voice call in the distance over the pumping in his eardrums. He used to count down the days until he could finally snap once that sweet veil turned sour again, for the umpteenth time.

Until he realized he could abandon it altogether. Flee at the drop of a hat and —in his case— run like hell while his foster parents dusted the shelves of their picture perfect home.

“Honey!” he heard again, and his heart was practically yanking him onward as he didn’t dare to look back. He’ll count every street lamp inching into his widening view ahead before ever daring to look back.

One, two, three-four

“Dammit, Zack, get out here! The kid got away!”

five, six-seven

He needed help. For once he’d give into the dread that bubbled up his chest and turned frothy and thick at the base of his throat, so hard to even breath before he could think.

Something, something. God, just spare him one more incident that could save his ass from the clutches of a doomed fate.

eight, nine, ten

Keith heard a gravelly shout far too similar to the roar of a monster.

He frantically stumbled out between the necks of those looming buildings at the same time a blurred shape made an unholy shriek as tires slid to a stop.

There was no time to question it, he decided as his body swayed from the weight of his heavy panting and the doors of what seems to be a bus flung open.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus! Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just—“

Keith hurled himself inside and promptly interrupted the strange, orange mustached man’s monologue with a “Just go!”

Keith swore to himself that no world isn’t worth braving through when it’s unlike what he’d escaped from. He’d take any blows, make the most of these spontaneous incidents that drive him to wits end because it was terrifying that all this “magic” and “wizards” jargon is actually real.

He can face it, whatever it takes.

The sorting hat chuckles lowly. Keith can feel it slink around the edges of his mind now like a sly, amused panther.

I don’t get paid enough for the deja-vu this is putting me through, the hat says. Actually, I don’t get paid at all...

Uh...

You’re quite the character somehow attending Hogwarts among other schools.

I don’t think I was given any other options, he thinks, slightly annoyed.

Alright, alright. Well, seems I’d know where you belong even if the answer weren’t already right between my eyes— or rather, creases.

Keith sighs, and his heel impatiently bonks against the creaky stool’s leg.

Enjoy your stay while it lasts, young man, the hat says nonchalantly.

Wha-?

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Chapter Text

“BOOOO!”

Lance remembers the moment he received his letter to Hogwarts. How his knee slammed the table from a full body jolt at the sight of an unmistakable, crimson wax seal on the lip of a crisp envelope. He didn’t have to flip it over to see the swirling calligraphy across its front, his name undoubtedly looking three kinds of beautiful when it meant the start of a life surely destined for him as it was the rest of his siblings.

It didn’t make his knee bruise any less, even under the soft fabric of his pajama pants. But although it ached all throughout his mother’s scolding for her sudden shock at the resounding ‘bang!’, and clattering of the dishes set across the table for his birthday breakfast, his smile didn’t waver. In fact, he couldn’t help it from growing even more.

So he was right, and god did it feel freakin’ amazing. Despite Hogwarts being thousands of miles away from his parents, he had full trust in this place eventually becoming the kind of second home everyone else praised it to be.

Because ever since the war about fifteen (sixteen?) years ago, enrollment letters from Hogwarts had begun a remarkable phenomenon of accepting beyond those living within its region. They pick those around the world most fit to be an exceptional outlier, and fulfill a fate that was meant for them.

With how infatuated Lance has become with the idea of being among that bunch, he knows he’d somehow shove himself into Hogwarts even without a letter, like frantically tugging on a snug pair of pants early in the morning while his family was already running late for church. (Yes, church, because his parents holds true to their faith even with such a bizarre family they’ve created.)

So one might imagine Lance’s confusion when, even beyond the most wild scenarios he had fret over on the train ride, he was met with a wave of... of—

“Slytherin sucks!” he hears from somewhere among the dining tables that students crowd alongside and bustle around in impatience.

Lance feels heat creeping up his neck. His stomach drops and heart shoots high up his narrow throat from an immediate sense of wild panic, and the line connecting the two pulls taut and quivers like a rubber band about to snap.

“Is that—“ he finds himself foolishly saying, but the hat is snatched off his head before he could get a response, even merely think of a question, and there’s a gentle pat to his back.

“Go on,” the lady says. He’s already forgotten her name, and his stiff neck won’t allow him to even catch a look to refresh the memory somehow. “Your house’s table is on the left over there.” A hand points in that direction, where some students are sneering across the hall and others up front wear delightful smiles and pump their fists up with pride.

It’s terribly overwhelming, but he tries to keep his eyes aligned with the party that calls to him with open arms, and finally lifts himself from the stool.

“Heh, it’s Hogwarts' next villain— AGHH!”

There’s a loud crackle and a spark, and suddenly Lance sees a flurry of feathers burst into the air over the heads of a group of Gryffindor students. Between the bustling heads, he catches sight of something long and yellow protruding from the face of a baffled young man: a beak.

“BRAWKK!”

Others abandon their bullying jeers in favor of peering toward the sound. They cackle and nudge one another and point fingers and soon enough, Lance feels a telltale sense of cunning satisfaction at the half-hexed mess. He seats himself at the end of the bench, where fellow Slytherins had readily scooted along for their new addition.

“Serves him right,” one of them mutters. “He already sounded like a chicken, to be honest.”

“BRAWWK!”

Lance can’t help but laugh.

The person whips their head back his way with startled eyes, like they hadn’t even noticed his arrival. But it soon turns to a face more tame, and Lance watches as they card a curtain of floppy brown hair away from their eyes before holding out a hand.

“Welcome to the gang, kid.” They smile, and Lance hesitantly clasps onto their hand with absolutely no mind for what he should respond with.

But it doesn’t seem like he needs a response, because the moment ends as a loud voice overcomes the hall once again.

“There will be no house-shaming here at Hogwarts any longer,” the lady says, her wand tip against her throat to amplify the sound. “I advise you all to be wary of any further retaliations, as your point scores will be in jeopardy soon.”

The Gryffindor boy ducks his head down and away from the side eyes others are casting, yet his beak takes both hands to be concealed.

“Now, onto the next student... Keith Kogane!”

Another first year trudges across the platform. His dark hair shags low enough to obscure his hunched profile, and Lance finds it to be much less charming than the flouncy kind of bangs that his classmate in front of him sports. The boy doesn’t even look like he wants to be here, not even a slight skip in his step before lowering himself as if that stool was just an ordinary seat. Which, well, it is, but that’s not the point.

The point is that is that despite all these fortunate odds, this totally-too-cool-for-this kid can somehow look all miffed and antsy. His eyes are cast downward, and his round cheeks soften into a look far less excitable than Lance had been.

The boy clenches each side of the stool, bonks his foot against the leg, and visibly breathes out.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Lance hadn’t even noticed the resounding silence of the Great Hall, so hollow he could’ve heard a wand drop from the other end, until the quiet atmosphere completely flipped on its head and nearly everyone erupted into roaring cheers and boisterous whoops.

He would’ve startled in his seat had the chaos reached right beside his ears, but instead, the Slytherin table claps in collective blandness if they aren’t otherwise preoccupied gossiping to one another again. There’s tension, he can sense it, from their stiff wrists and wordless eye rolls, all the way to Daily Prophet articles he’d come across that told the tales of Slytherin’s ongoing reputation.

Although it’s not a tale, after all, Lance thinks as he watches this boy, Keith, in shared bitterness at the embarrassing reality of an applause he could’ve had himself. If the reaction Keith got was a raging fire, then Lance’s would’ve just been a match struck in empty and ungrateful darkness.

He glares down at the tabletop.

You’ll just have to find out, the sorting hat’s words return to his wandering mind.

And yet—

“It’s Hogwarts next villain!”

Seems like he’s already starting to.