Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mike is afraid. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt more afraid - including when Nancy first left for school, or when Holly’s accidental magic had burst the orange he was eating, or that time the boggart under the stairs turned into a Peruvian Vipertooth - which he had just finished reading an interesting but frightening book about at the time. Mike is so afraid this time because he is alone.

When Nancy had left for school, he had crawled into bed with his Mum and Dad and drifted asleep tucked within his Mum’s arms, clutching onto his Dad’s hand, and the cool metal of his wedding ring, like a lifeline. When Holly had exploded his orange, he had burst into tears and his Mum had held onto him tightly with soothing whispers, smelling like pumpkin juice, his Dad fetching him a new orange from the bowl, peeling it with hands wrinkled with age and scarred from years of hard work at the Improper Use of Magic Office. When he had come face to face with a Peruvian Vipertooth while scrounging for dropped knuts beneath the stairs, twelve-year-old Nancy had come running, stepping boldly in front of him with her wand brandished fiercely, to banish the boggart-turned-dragon into a cartoonish toy in a cage, earning a sniffling giggle from Mike, a scolding from their half-proud mother, a subtle high-five from their father and a letter from the Ministry that their Dad quickly smoothed over. 

But this time no one is here. He can’t rely on his parents because he had just left them on the platform after a number of teary goodbyes. Holly had run after the train until she couldn’t possibly run anymore, beaming at him through tears and sending an over-enthusiastic wave. Mike had waved back just as madly, head and half an arm poking out of the window. His Dad had told him not to get in trouble with his own department in the first week of term, half-joking, but his Mum’s parting words had been lost to the bustle of the platform and the toot toot! of the Hogwarts express as it hitched into gear and was away. Mike had thought he could rely on Nancy, but as soon as their parents were out of sight she had left him. Gone are the faraway days of last year when she would take on a boggart for her little brother - instead, Nancy Wheeler, third year Slytherin, is popular and cool. And popular and cool people don’t hang out with their shitty little brother, Mike, that’s so lame . Instead, she’ll spend the train ride with her best friend Barbara, her something-like-boyfriend-but-not-boyfriend Steve Harrington and other people she had hung out with over the summer that Mike can’t name but knows he doesn’t like very much. Glaring at his sister’s retreating back as she slides open the door to a compartment and greets the people inside with a big, not-at-all-like-Nancy grin, Mike resolves to forget about her. 

“Who needs older sisters, anyway?” he grumbles beneath his breath, scuffing his newly bought school shoes against the wooden floor of the carriage moodily. The train corridor is steadily emptying, people finding compartments or travelling to the next carriage, and within moments, Mike’s aloneness is startlingly, glaringly clear. He feels his lip wobble dangerously and inhales a great sniff, striding up the corridor and determining that he will find a compartment and he will be fine. If he has to endure complete isolation for just a little while, he can bear that. He’ll strike up conversation with the people beside him once he’s sorted into his house, or worst case scenario, he’ll wait until he’s allotted his dorm mates, and make friends with them, maybe he can even -

Mike screeches to a halt, drawing back a half-step to peer into the compartment he had just passed. At first glance he had thought it was empty and it was only upon taking a second look just as he was about to pass by that he realised it wasn’t. Not quite. 

Inside there’s a boy. His hair is dark brown and curling around his ears. He’s sitting tucked as much into the far corner as he can get, huddled right by the window. He’s watching the scenery flickering by through the glass, legs swinging merrily beneath him as if he sits not on a worn leather train seat but on a muggle swingset like the one around the corner from Mike’s house. He’s alone, is Mike’s first conscious thought. He’s alone like me. Feeling somehow brave yet still so afraid at the same time, Mike takes a deep shaking breath and clutches onto the handle of the sliding glass door, pulling with all his might. The boy looks up, eyes going wide and locking onto Mike’s with a mixture of hope and fear. He’s afraid like me too. His legs draw slowly to a stop.

“Hi,” Mike says abruptly - abrupt because he had not known he was going to say it until the moment he did. He feels so brave. He feels so scared. “I’m - my name is Mike.”

The boy says nothing, eyes still round, still trained upon Mike.

“Do you want to be my friend?” Mike says in a strange, breathy voice, not sure where that had even come from - honestly , who asks like that? That’s not how friendships work! Mike is on the verge of profusely apologising, leaving the boy to his compartment and convincing Nancy to use a spell on him that will banish him into oblivion - but the boy’s round eyes light up.

“Yes!” he says eagerly, head nodding along sharply to confirm his answer. “Yes! I’d - sure, I’ll be your friend. I’m Will.” Will gestures vaguely to the seat across from him, a happy flush gracing his bunched cheeks. “You can sit down, if you want.”

“Thanks.” Mike does. He feels buttery warmth trickling from his shoulders down to the tips of his toes, like his Mum has just cast a drying spell on him after a rainy day. He knows moments ago he had been alone and afraid, and Will had been alone and afraid too, but it’s as if they’re numerals in Nancy’s new Arithmancy textbook - as if they’ve cancelled out each other’s fear, cancelled out the loneliness just by sitting across from each other in a small train compartment and agreeing to be friends. Will grins at Mike, smile etched onto his face with the same warmth Mike feels. 

“Do you want a chocolate frog?” Mike asks, digging about for the sweet he had suddenly remembered was still in his pocket. It’s probably half-melted by now. “My Mum gave me one for me and one for my sister, Nancy, but she left me for her cool third-year friends, so you can have hers instead.”

Will takes it with a gracious smile and a quiet ‘thank you’. He clutches it in his hand, the steadily melting chocolate dripping across his fingers, as he peers thoughtfully at the card it had come with. Mike sucks on his own frog happily, beginning to swing his legs like Will had before he came in. It’s quite fun, actually. Mike pulls his chocolate frog out with a slurping pop! , nudging his still swaying foot into Will’s. 

“Who’ve you got?”

“Daisy Dodderidge,” Will recites, brow furrowed musingly. “First landlady of the Leaky Cauldron. Says she was generous and welcoming.”

“Well there you go, that suits you.” Mike nods at him. “You generously welcomed me into your compartment.”

Will laughs. “I guess so. My brother Jonathan, he’s in third year too, and he collects these, but I don’t think he’s got this one, at least I haven’t seen it before, so I’ll have to give it to him.” He tucks the diamond-shaped card into the pocket of the Hogwarts robes he’s already wearing. They’re a little greyed, with frayed edges, and Mike suspects they must have belonged to Jonathan first. “Who did you get?”

“Oh.” Mike had completely forgotten about his own card in favour of talking to Will. He grasps his chocolate frog card from the train seat beside him, sticking the misshapen remains of his sucked-on sweet into his mouth. “Miwabuwwa Pwunker,” he says thickly through chocolate.

“ What?!” Will giggles, pitching forward in amusement so his faded robe dangles down and brushes against his knees. Mike laughs too, pulling his frog out again.

“Mirabella Plunkett,” he repeats. “Famously fell in love with a merman and when her family wouldn’t approve she turned herself into a fish.”

“Checks out for you,” Will manages to choke out, before dissolving into wheezing laughter.

“Wha-?” Mike snorts. “How does that check out for me?”

“I don’t know,” Will laughs, shrugging weakly through shoulders shaking with mirth. “It just does.”

This is when Mike too erupts into howling laughter. Later, he hurls the card across the compartment, claiming he’ll toss it into the fireplace as soon as they get to school. This pitches Will into another fit of giggles. 

Mike already likes talking to Will, already likes making him laugh, making that happy flush paint his cheeks, already thinks he’s made a good choice in asking to be his friend. 

There is a knock on the door. Mike and Will quiet and turn as it is slid gently open. Two boys stand there.

“Hi,” the one in front says. “I’m Lucas, and this is Dustin. Could we sit here?”

•

Jane’s shoulder is hurting. It had hurt earlier when Papa had woken her up and gripped it tight enough to bruise. It had hurt when he had shoved her towards the entrance to King’s Cross Station, calling after her that she and her demonic sorcery wouldn’t be welcomed back home. It had ached as she wandered through the station and managed to find her way to the train which would take her to demonic sorcery school. Now, it hurts because she has jammed herself into the smallest space she can find - the small luggage section at the rear end of the carriage. Her knees are pushed against her chin by the pile of trunks she sits on - which are making her tailbone stiff - and she has to turn slightly sideways so that her shoulders will fit. Jane has wiggled into a spot which lets her see down the corridor, but remain hidden from sight. She chose this exact spot very purposefully for this reason - she wanted to remain hidden, she must. For if she doesn’t, people will see her crying, and Papa had always told her that no one must see her crying. Normally, she is able to stop herself from crying because she knows how much Papa disapproves. But, try as she might, today, Jane simply cannot stop. 

She has tried all her usual tricks - holding her breath, thinking of kittens, closing her eyes and imagining she is somebody else in a different life and a different time. Yet none of them seem to be working. Jane tries again - closes her eyes, holds her breath, and imagines herself in a lovely purple gown, with satin ribbons in her waist-length brown hair, drinking tea and making polite conversation, surrounded by meowing kittens - a sob bursts from her lips. Her eyes wrench open, trickling more tears out onto her already stained cheeks, and she smears at them helplessly with one hand, more sobs pouring out. Jane knows she has no hope of ceasing her tears, because she has lost her two favourite things today - her waist-length brown hair and her copy of Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.

Papa hadn’t taken Jane out in public very often for the past few years. Ever since her demonic sorcery began making appearances by shattering light bulbs or crushing Coca-Cola cans - things that were absolutely not intentional even if Papa wouldn’t believe her when she said so - he only took her out of the house when absolutely necessary. He didn’t take her for haircuts anymore, and while at first she had mourned the loss of this exciting outing where the nice lady would scrub at her scalp, snip at her hair neatly and then style it worthy for a princess, she had eventually become proud of how long her hair was getting. She had vaguely remembered the nice lady mentioning healthy ends, so when she noticed the bottom of her hair getting particularly dry, Jane would sneak to the kitchen while Papa was asleep and just cut the ends off. Otherwise, she simply let it grow. She had taught herself to braid in a number of ways she saw on TV or read in school library books - when Papa still let her go to school, anyway - and she liked letting it dangle low enough to tickle her hips. She felt like a proper lady, one who could twist her hair into a fancy do and get spun around a ballroom for hours on end. That was, until this morning, when she had at first refused to go to demonic sorcery school, and Papa had sat her down and shaved it off. He had said it was a punishment for her defiance, and to make sure no one would associate her demonic sorcery with him anymore, since she would no longer look like the daughter that most of their neighbourhood had forgotten about by now. More tears spring from Jane’s eyes at the thought. She hasn’t reached up to feel how short her hair is yet, for she knows it will only make her cry even more, but she can feel the lack of it against her back, can feel the emptiness of her shoulders, the heavy weight that has gone from her head. No proper, elegant, ballroom-spin-worthy lady would have hair like that.

The most proper lady Jane knows is Elinor Dashwood, heroine of Sense and Sensibility. When Jane had turned nine, she had learnt not to expect proper gifts anymore, since Papa never wanted to risk her growing too excited and setting off any demonic sorcery, so all she had asked for for her birthday was something to read. Without school feeding her content anymore and with Papa restricting her TV time so much, she had grown so desperate for something to do that she had asked for any books he had. On the morning of her ninth birthday, she had awoken to find a small pile of books sitting on her desk. One was a grown up book with a title so long she didn’t even bother to recite it, and such difficult words like ‘philosophical’ and ‘epistemology’ and ‘multiculturalism’ that she abandoned it after two pages. The second in the stack was a tiny children’s book about oranges that had taken her about thirty seconds to read. While Jane was self aware enough to realise that nine did indeed fit into the category of a child, she suspected that this book was for babies, or maybe children who were two or three. She set it aside too. The third and final book in the stack was Austen’s Sense and Sensibility . It had big and difficult words too, but if she was cautious in her timing and her wording, she could ask Papa what they meant and he would answer. And the big and difficult words were strung together in a story, which made them much easier to read and understand. It took Jane almost until her tenth birthday to finish Sense and Sensibility , and as soon as she did so, she opened it back up and began again. It quickly became her favourite book - though she admittedly didn’t have many to choose from - and from that point onward she aspired to be just like Elinor. She liked Marianne, Elinor’s sister and the other heroine, too, but Elinor was so proper and elegant. She was sensible, as the title suggested, and always remained calm and dignified even though inside she was upset. Jane was upset inside almost all the time, but Elinor’s patience and dignity meant that in the end she got her happily ever after, so maybe Jane could do the same. Maybe not by marrying someone like Elinor did - as amiable as Edward was - but she wouldn’t mind having a sister like Marianne or a friend like Colonel Brandon. So she mirrored Elinor’s temperament - a word, amongst many others, she picked up from her perpetual rereading of Sense and Sensibility - and always made an effort to keep her unhappiness inside. It made her demonic sorcery episodes much less frequent, and Papa didn’t have to punish her quite so much as before. It was only this morning when she had screamed that she didn’t want to go to demonic sorcery school, breaking her strong Elinor calm and dignity, that he had punished her as harshly as he used to. Seeing her resignedly waiting for him to take her to the station after much shouting and the shaving of her hair, holding nothing but Sense and Sensibility in her hand, for that was all that was important to her anymore, he had snatched it from her grasp. Jane had pleaded with him, trying to hold back tears she knew would only make him angrier. He had ripped it up right in front of her. Jane had dropped, weeping, to the ground at his feet, clawing helplessly at the scraps which remained of her most prized possession, her favourite book, her only link to Marianne and Elinor and the life of a lady who danced and drank tea and spoke with big difficult proper words. She had managed to salvage one whole page before Papa had seized her roughly by her already sore shoulder and pulled her toward the car and her miserable existence. 

Tears still streaming, Jane gingerly lifts the page clutched in her hand into the light so that she might read it. She hadn’t dared read it in the car, for fear that Papa would snatch it from her and she would lose Elinor forever. But now, in the dark, isolated privacy of the luggage compartment, she can see which page she still has. Trying to still her trembling hand, Jane peers at the top right corner. 255, it reads. ‘Time and habit will teach him,’ the page says. Jane continues to read down it, every word as familiar as breathing. ‘...to forget that he ever thought of another…’

She reads the whole page, and the words on the other side. By some miracle, the page she had saved details Elinor revealing to Marianne that she knew Edward was engaged to someone else, but has been controlling herself anyway because it is the right thing to do. Jane’s breath hitches and she sniffs, fingers crinkling the corner of the page slightly as she squeezes in determination. She will still be Elinor. Papa could not take that away from her. 

There is a harsh bubbling scraping sound as a compartment door is slammed open. Jane jolts in place, reeling her knees in closer to her chest and interlocking her wrists behind them.

“Piss off, Maxine.” Someone is shoved out of the compartment, to sounds of cruel laughter, and goes sprawling on the carpeted floor. Jane blinks at them, only seeing a flash of dark clothes and fiery hair. The person, who Jane thinks is probably a girl, scowls fiercely at whoever had pushed her as the glass door wallops shut. She pushes herself up to stand, raising her middle finger to the glass, before storming off with a huff and a mutter about stupid brothers . Unfortunately, her cross footsteps are headed straight for Jane’s hiding place. Jane shrinks back, hoping against all odds the angry red-headed girl doesn’t see her - but her steps stutter as she passes.

“What the - ?” the girl whispers, craning to try and see Jane in the semi-darkness. “Are you alright there?”

Jane nods, wiping at her cheeks with the hand not cradling page 255 of Sense and Sensibility . The girl raises a red eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” she says slowly, as if she’s speaking to a stupid child. Jane feels angry. She is not stupid. She read Sense and Sensibility before she learned how to tie her own shoes. And she’s not a child. She’s an elegant, dignified lady like Elinor. This girl is just like Papa.

“Go away,” Jane says, scrunching her nose and glaring at the girl. For once wanting to use her demonic sorcery on somebody, she flicks her chin sharply, and one of the trunks piled in her corner flings out.

“Woah!” the girl shrieks, dodging sideways so the trunk doesn’t hit her knees. “Shit! No need to attack with your magic, god!”

“Go away!” Jane repeats fiercely, blinking back angry tears. She wants to keep the upset inside like Elinor, but there is so much upset pouring out of her that maybe it’s too big and too difficult to fit inside of her, like a word from that grown up book she got when she was 9.

“I’m going!” the girl snaps, and she does. 

Jane tucks herself back into her corner, pressing page 255 against her chest which burns along with her shoulder. For the rest of the train ride, the only people who pass her are a pretty blonde girl whose hair, pinned half-up half-down to trail in waves down her shoulders, makes her cry again, and a small girl with big bug-eyed glasses. As the train draws to a stop, Jane realises that people will be collecting their luggage soon, and scrambles quickly from her corner. She follows the crowd out of the doors, along the station and into carriages pulled by what seems like nothing - all the while keeping page 255 protectively against her front. Beside her on the carriage seat is a girl giving her funny looks. Across from Jane and the girl sit a taller girl and boy - probably one or two years older than Jane. The girl has golden brown hair which stops below her ears and is reading something called The Quibbler, several silver rings layered on her fingers . The boy has long curly black hair and is reading a thicker book called The Two Towers . They don’t speak to each other or Jane, but there is a closeness between them as if they can be friends without even a word. Jane remembers passing them in a compartment as she sought a hiding spot and they were even silent then. She is pulled from her thoughts as the carriage draws to a stop and they get out. She follows the crowd through huge wooden doors with brass fastenings onto grey stone floors that clap with all the footsteps. She gapes up at the ceiling, so far above them, and at the walls, every surface covered with paintings that move. She is about to follow the crowd - who all seem to be wearing long black clothes - through another set of wooden doors-

“Hey! Hey you! Angry girl!”

Jane turns. The redheaded girl from earlier is watching her expectantly, head poking out of a much smaller door in an adjacent room.

“You’re a first year aren’t you?”

Jane stares at her blankly. 

The girl sighs, eyes narrow and calculating. “You’re eleven, right?”

Jane nods slowly. The girl gestures her over sharply. 

“First years have to wait here to get sorted.”

Trusting that she knows what she’s talking about, Jane follows the redheaded girl into a small room where a group of other people their age are gathered. Everyone here, including the redheaded girl, is wearing the long black clothes too, and Jane crosses her arms over her own purple t-shirt and jeans, feeling self-conscious - how did they all know to wear black? Her arrival earns many odd looks, quiet snickers and teasing whispers. She sees people’s eyes run up to her buzzed hair and runs a hand over it. Fresh tears fill her eyes at the prickly fuzz she finds there, and she turns away from the collective judgement of her peers to the redheaded girl who is still watching her cautiously.

“First years are meant to come over on the lake,” she says quietly. “In the boats. Why weren’t you there? And why aren’t you in robes?”

Jane shrugs, bewildered at the strange words the girl speaks. The redheaded girl sighs, rolls her eyes, and turns to speak to a boy with curly brown hair and no front teeth.

Jane doesn’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t want to be at demonic sorcery school. She wishes she had never gotten that letter and Papa had never sent her away. She wishes her shoulder didn’t hurt so much. She wishes Papa didn’t shave her hair or rip up her book. She wishes she was Elinor, far away from all of this hurt.

“Excuse me,” says a small voice, and someone taps gently on her shoulder. Jane turns, blinking away her renewed tears, pushing the upset back inside like Elinor would. There is a brunette boy there, in the long black like everyone else, and he smiles softly at Jane. “Hello. I’m Will. I was just wondering if you were alright? It looks like you’ve forgotten your robes. You don’t have to worry, though, I’m sure plenty of people do that.”

Jane just stares. She doesn’t want to speak only to say the wrong thing, or risk opening her mouth and simply bursting into tears. The brunette boy seems to understand, and he squeezes her shoulder.

“It’s alright if you’re shy. I’m a bit shy too. But you can be friends with us.” He turns to a boy lurking silently behind him. “This is my friend Mike. We met on the train, he thinks he’ll be in Gryffindor like his Mum or Slytherin like his sister.” Mike smiles slightly at Jane. She smiles softly back.

“This is Lucas.” Will pulls a boy with chocolate brown skin and sharp cheekbones in by the shoulder. “He thinks he’ll probably be in Ravenclaw, since both his parents went there.” Will gestures to the curly haired, no-teethed boy beside the redhead girl. “That’s Dustin, who thinks he could be in Ravenclaw or maybe Gryffindor. Like I said, I’m Will, and I think I’ll be in Hufflepuff like my brother and my mum. And, er, this is…?”

“I’m Max,” the red-headed girl says proudly. “We met on the train. I was just talking to Dustin here about what the houses are. I’m Muggleborn, so I don’t really know much about this stuff, but I guess I could be Gryffindor. I’ve heard they’re stubborn, so.”

Their little circle laughs, and Jane even feels a chuckle bubble out of her mouth. She doesn’t feel like crying anymore. She doesn’t even feel like Elinor, keeping the upset inside. She actually feels sort of genuinely happy, for the first time in a long time, almost longer than she can remember.

“What about you?” Will says warmly, nudging Jane’s shoulder lightly. “What’s your name? What house do you think you’ll be?”

“My name is…” Jane hesitates. She can almost hear it in her head - herself saying her name is Jane, the word sour on her tongue like Papa had always said it, and all these people, these possible new friends, calling her the same name Papa had used when he shouted, when he punished, when he shaved her head and ripped up her Elinor and said it was for her own good. Maybe she doesn’t have to be that. 

“Elinor,” she hears herself say. “I’m Elinor. Elinor Dashwood.”

“And your house?” Dustin prompts after a moment of quiet. Jane watches him blankly. “Your Hogwarts House?”

“What is that?” Jane asks politely. They all stare at her. Lucas and Dustin exchange an odd glance. Max scrunches her face up. Mike looks at his feet awkwardly. Will sighs and takes her hand, pulling her away from the others. 

“Let me explain,” he begins kindly. “This place is called Hogwarts. Here we’re sorted into four different houses…”

•

Will is sorted into Hufflepuff just like he thought he would be. He gets an obnoxiously loud cheer from Jonathan which makes his ears feel hot. He slots in beside Jonathan at the Hufflepuff table, getting a clap on the shoulder from his brother, a strange nonsensical phrase of encouragement from Jonathan’s friend Argyle, and a smile from a blonde Hufflepuff girl around Jonathan’s age. 

The next called up to the Sorting Hat from their little group is Dustin, and the hat barely graces the top of his head before it shouts ‘RAVENCLAW!’. He skips happily over to sit amongst the sea of blue, charm rippling the same sapphire hue along the top of his robes. Will looks down at his own and sees they have been dyed canary yellow on the collar and inside the sleeves like his brother’s beside him, as his Mum had explained they automatically do when one’s house is decided.

‘Ives, Jane’ is called and, to Will’s confusion, his new friend Elinor goes up to the stand. Confused murmurs ripple around the room at her lack of robes and Will sees Mike, Lucas and Max, huddled together amongst the crowd of unsorted first years, exchange puzzled looks. Elinor/Jane is sorted into Hufflepuff and she walks calmly to sit beside Will, tucking her legs up beneath her and keeping her eyes on her empty plate.

“Is Hufflepuff good?” she whispers out of the corner of her mouth as the sorting continues.

“It means you’re loyal, patient, kind, hard-working and determined,” Will recites, having practically memorised the house qualities as he theorised his own house and crossed every possible digit that it would be Hufflepuff. Elinor/Jane sinks slightly in relief, offering him a small smile.

“Jane,” Will begins cautiously. She stiffens beside him on the bench, eyes going glassy and wide. “Why did you tell us your name is Elinor?”

She releases a rattling breath, squeezing her eyes shut. “My Papa calls me Jane. I did not want my… friends to be like my Papa.”

“Okay,” Will says simply. She jerks her head to him, looking shocked at his easy acceptance. Which is fair, but Will understands wanting to escape from someone, especially your Dad. He had wanted to escape for so long until his Mum had kicked his Dad out. Will smiles. Elinor lets out a quiet laugh and seems to instinctively lean to rest her head against his shoulder momentarily, squeezing his hand, before straightening and turning back to the sorting.

Max is sorted into Gryffindor, to no surprise, and Lucas is also correct in his placement in Ravenclaw. The faded hat sits on Mike’s head for long enough that whispers of a hatstall begin trailing up the tables, before it finally barks out ‘RAVENCLAW!’. Mike gapes as the hat is removed from his head, and he stumbles to sit beside Lucas and Dustin at the blue table, earning laughter from the students and some extra loud claps from a curly-haired Slytherin girl who must be his sister. Will laughs too as Mike catches his eye across the hall. It makes sense, since Mike had seemed quite smart and like he valued knowledge. Will gives his friend a knowing look, and Mike simply pulls a face in response. 

After a delicious dinner that Elinor eats with particular fervour, Will follows the Hufflepuff Prefect toward the dungeons, linking arms with Elinor so they don’t get separated. He manages to catch Mike at the door.

“Elinor doesn’t like the name her Dad gave her, so we’re gonna call her Elinor, okay?” Will knows his tone leaves no room for argument. Mike nods easily.

“Alright. See you, then, Elinor. Or El.” And he scrambles up the stairs after Dustin, Lucas, Max, and the rest of the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors before he can get left behind.

“El,” Elinor muses as they walk. “I like that. I am not Jane, or Elinor, but El.”

“Okay, El,” Will smiles at her. “Are you ready to learn some magic?”

El’s face, which had been stretching into an enthusiastic smile, immediately drops.

“Papa says I must not use my demonic sorcery, I must control it,” she says seriously.

Will furrows his brow and tilts his head slightly as they walk further into the castle. “But you have to go to class and use your wand, and - ” At her blank look, he clarifies. “You do have a wand, right?”

El shakes her head. “I only have page two fifty five. Papa did not give me anything else.”

Will feels so confused. No robes, no wand, no knowledge of magic at all. What is happening with El?

But then they are arriving at the Hufflepuff Common Room, and the Prefect is teaching them to memorise the secret knock to get in, and Will forgets all about El’s strangeness to admire his new home. It is only as the Prefect tells them to get some sleep that he realises she will need supplies.

Will gives El a tentative hug goodnight, promising he’ll talk to Jonathan in the morning and they’ll sort everything out that she needs then. At first she stiffens, but eventually she relaxes in his arms, releasing a melting sigh as if she has never been held in such a loving way before. Will watches her retreat up the Hufflepuff girls’ stairs before bounding up his own. He carefully retrieves his Daisy Dodderidge chocolate frog card from the pocket of his - now yellow-trimmed - robe. Will doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t want to give it to Jonathan for his collection, even if his brother doesn’t have that one yet. He folds it into the spare blanket his Mum had packed and tucks it into the bottom corner of his trunk. Mike had said Daisy suited him because she was welcoming and generous. Will would welcome Mike any day, every day, for the rest of his life (at 11-years-old he has no idea how true this is).

•

Mike, for all his bravado, doesn’t throw Mirabella Plunkett into the Ravenclaw Common Room fire as soon as he gets there. After ascending the boys’ staircase, cleaning his teeth, and changing into his pyjamas, he places her under his pillow when Lucas and Dustin aren’t looking. His cheeks feel hot in the cool night air of Ravenclaw Tower. He thinks maybe he understands why Mirabella checks out for him, as Will had laughingly said. He thinks maybe he understands how a person could love someone so much they would sacrifice everything just to be with them. After today, after the warmth Will had brought that hasn’t waned since, Mike would sacrifice whatever it took to be with Will (at 11-years-old he has no idea how true this is).

Chapter Text

The door creaks open and a familiar shuffling limp sounds up the Wing. Hopper sighs, not even needing to turn from the bandages he’s rolling to know who’s approaching. 

“Put him on his usual bed,” he says wearily, rolling all the remaining bandages in one go with a twirl of his wand and closing the supply cabinet door.

“Aye aye, captain,” a far too cheerful and relatively unfamiliar voice says perkily. 

“Shut up Heather,” a less enthusiastic - yet much more familiar - one grumbles. 

Hopper turns. He had held out a small amount of hope, but, as usual, Billy Hargrove is his first patient of the year. He hasn’t had a patient on the first day of term since the Great Peanut Incident of 2007 - a situation so named for the mistakenly swapped peanut sauce for apple sauce and the ironically simultaneous multitude of anaphylactic first years - but someone typically gets injured or falls sick within the first week or so. For the past seven years, like clockwork, Billy Hargrove has waltzed into Hopper’s Hospital Wing in varying degrees of injury within that week, always managing to secure the top spot. The boy apparently happens to crash his broom in the first week of term every year since his first. It’s similarly incriminating that the bruises he has to heal with the moondew salve are often conveniently located in unlikely broom crashing injury places - like the eyes, the lip and the back of the head all at once . Yeah. Hopper mightn’t be Merlin himself, but he’s not that stupid.

Carol Perkins, one of Billy’s regular post-definitely-unintentional-broom-crash escorts, and a vaguely unfamiliar brunette apparently named Heather lower Billy down onto his usual bed from where he balances between them, an arm over each of their shoulders.

“Thanks ladies,” Billy sends them his practised dazzling grin. Carol melts, stifling a secretive smirk as girls often do, but Heather remains completely unbothered, scoffing and shoving lightly at Billy’s shoulder with a muttered scolding that he should be more careful - Hopper thinks he’s going to like her. Carol makes herself at home on the table at the end of Billy’s bed - her usual spot - while Heather tells Billy to budge up and squashes onto the bed beside him. Hopper approaches Billy, leaning sourly against the footboard of his hospital bed. 

“What happened?” He can’t even push the slightest curiosity into his voice. Billy smirks, cocking his head to the side, well, cockily. Like the absolute cock the kid is.

“Heather and I were just doing a few laps of the Quidditch Pitch over breakfast, and I lost control of my broom. Crashed into the stands.” The explanation sounds rehearsed. Because it literally is. Billy rehearses it every year right to Hopper’s face.

“Course you did,” Hopper mutters darkly, earning a snort from Carol and a quirk of Billy’s eyebrows. Heather’s shoot up to her hairline, and she glances between Carol, Billy and Hopper like she might’ve missed the joke. To be fair, she’s never been here for this before. “But it ain’t breakfast, kid.”

“Took us that long to get him here,” Carol offers in explanation, picking at her nails. He’s sure she wasn’t exactly rushing, milking any time out of class that she can.

“Where’s Tommy?” Hopper asks, almost genuinely curious, as he retrieves the moondew bruise salve from the cabinet he had just been reorganising while lying in wait for the inevitability of Billy’s visit. Almost.

“Said he’d rather sit out this year.” Carol pops her gum loudly. “S’not like he’s missing anything he hasn’t seen before.”

“It’s a shame I always crash my broom at the start of term,” Billy tsks, shaking his head in barely believable woe. “Guess I just need a grace period before I get used to flying again each year.”

“Funny how you can plan it out like that,” Hopper deadpans. Heather - who he abruptly realises is Holloway from the Slytherin Quidditch team who he regularly treats for skinned knees and minor concussions - laughs along with the others this time too, seeming to finally catch onto the joke. Hopper allows this, he knows making light of it must be a reprieve for Billy, means just for a little while he doesn’t have to consider the truth of how he got most of those bruises. But there’s only so much relief such candour can bring. Each year when Billy pulls this broom -crashing act, Hopper draws up a welfare report and checks it into the Head of Slytherin House. But Phil Callahan’s got his head so far up his arse it’s a wonder he can even hear Hopper when he tries a conversation with him, so that route usually gets him nowhere. Hopper sometimes tries going to the Headmaster directly, but Powell tells him the truth - there’s really not much they can do. Billy lives with his mother most of the year, he only elects to spend time with his father right before school goes back, and they can’t exactly take away his agency. Hopper knows this. He knows not every situation can end up as favourable as El’s had. He just wishes there was something more he could do than make the kid laugh and charm away bruises that’ll be back in the same spot in twelve months time.

Hopper is pulled from his thoughts by a growing commotion outside the Hospital doors. He ignores it as he untwists the lid of salve that may as well have a label on it saying FOR USE ON BILLY HARGROVE by now. The sound grows, and Hopper can identify several familiar voices within a cacophony of laughter, wheezing, and harried footsteps. He sighs, pressing a fist to his temple.

“Sweet Morgana above.”

Billy sniggers. “Right on time.”

The door slams open much quicker than it had when Billy and his posse had entered, bringing with it Hopper’s usual second patient - the harbinger of chaos herself - his daughter.

“Hi Dad!” Elinor-Jane Hopper says brightly, hobbling up the ward with each arm wrapped around Will Byers and Mike Wheeler’s shoulders. Will, with a sprinkle of soot and specks of green dusting his hair, is laughingly telling Mike he’s supporting El wrong, and Mike, whose face is painted completely black with soot, is defending himself hotly. El has soot streaking the right side of her face, the corresponding eye glowing purple and the right half of her hair - painstakingly divided at her scalp - almost blindingly white. Her entire right side seems to be out of sorts, as her leg is warped and barely able to support her weight, and the colours of her clothes are completely mismatched. Oddly, Max Mayfield’s entire left side seems to be doing a similar thing, with half her hair a lurid ebony, her left eye glaringly red, and soot smudged over the misshapen left side of her body. She is cackling from her place in Lucas Sinclair’s arms where he carries her up the ward bridal style. He is swinging her about grandly while humming a waltzing tune, earning shrieks of laughter from the girl in his arms, and a fierce magically-backed scolding from Dustin Henderson, bringing up the rear and shouting to anyone who’s listening that they should really get the girls treated as soon as possible.

“If you would just consider the possible long term effects - ” Dustin is saying passionately, weaving exasperatedly around Lucas’ dancing form and the clustered arguing trio - for El has somehow joined in the criticism of Mike’s support now too.

“ - bah, dah, dah, DAH!” Lucas twirls particularly violently, stumbling to avoid tripping onto a passing bed.

Max shrieks, clutching onto the collar of his robe and bursting into giggles a moment later. “ Lucas! Stop, you’re gonna - ahhaha - !”

“ - not to put weight on her leg - ” Will attempts to demonstrate what he means using the arm not holding up El. El laughs as she pitches sideways.

“That’s what I’m doing!” Mike squawks indignantly, voice cracking as he yanks El back towards him.

“Ouch, Mike!” El smacks him, leaning further into Will.

“ - even considering the implications of a higher concentration of - ”

“Badoopadabadahhh - ”

“No, put your hand there - ”

“AH! Lucas! Sto-o-op!”

“ - just get her to the bed - !”

“ - lift me like Lucas - ”

“Hi honey,” Hopper says loudly, instantly cutting through their overlapping chatter. The kids all fall silent, staring at Hopper guiltily. He rakes his eyes over the chaotic, struck-silent, soot-stained crowd.

“Busy morning?” he asks wryly. Mike, Will and Max, who he suspects are most anxious to make a good impression on him, all sink in relief, while Lucas and Dustin join El in letting out chuckling breaths.

“You know me,” El beams, trudging the last of the way to him with the now silent Will and Mike. And the thing is, Hopper does . Which is why he is exasperated, but not at all surprised, that his daughter has graced him with her presence today, bringing her entire party of friends with her. She rises up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek as she reaches him, and Hopper absently plants one on the top of her head almost on instinct. Will and Mike guide her to wince onto the lilac sheets of her allocated bed directly across from Billy’s. 

The very first day that Hopper had met her, the second day of term her first year, Bob Newby, head of Hufflepuff, had brought El in for a healing inspection after she turned up for the school year with a buzzed head, no luggage, no supplies and no knowledge of magic beyond the repeated phrase ‘demonic sorcery’ . Hopper had found no physical injuries other than a sprained shoulder which he healed up in moments. As he worked to ease her pain, El had chattered about the room she was in, how she had never seen such a pristine room in real life, that it was a size that rather suited a ball, how she would love to dance in here - one would have to move the beds of course but she could probably manage that with her demonic sorcery. In fact, she quite liked this room, her only quarrel with it was the lack of colour. There was far too much white in here, something should be colourful - perhaps not the floor or the walls or the roof but the sheets - couldn’t the sheets be colourful at least? Pink and purple were her favourite colours, but most girls like pink and purple shouldn’t feel left out, so maybe purple? 

Hopper had fallen a little bit in love with her that very day, and had charmed the sheets lilac once she left the room. He hadn’t known then that he would adopt her two and a half years later, or that now, by her fifth year, she would beam and call him Dad at every opportunity, especially when she came in to put her lilac sheets to use. No student but El used the bed with the purple sheets, but it didn’t exactly go to waste, since she was in here frequently enough.

Hopper hands Billy the bruise salve. “Figured out how to use this by now?” dipshit, he adds mentally, wishing not for the first time that he could swear at students just so he could use language harsh enough to effectively yank Billy Hargrove’s head from his ass before it became a permanent fixture.

“I think I could probably deduce it,” Billy smirks, rolling his eyes as he dips two fingers into the grey paste and begins applying it to a bruise on his chin.

“Whatever, Sherlock,” Hopper grunts, turning his attention to his daughter. Heather laughs loudly, jostling to help Billy with the bruises he can’t see or reach. Lucas lays Max gently on the bed beside El’s, both of them still snickering to one another. Dustin is hovering between the beds of his two friends like a worried mother. Will and Mike, still cheerily bickering, perch at the foot of El’s bed. Hopper approaches her and sits by her side, gently grasping her chin and turning her face this way and that to inspect her symptoms. 

“What happened this time?” He examines the violet sheen of her right iris and the pearly hue of her right half of hair all the way to her roots. 

“I misread the instructions,” El says almost proudly. “We were brewing doxycide. It said to add a glug of cowbane essence and a dash of tormentil tincture but I mixed it up and instead added a dash of cowbane and quite a bit of tormentil.”

“The concentrated tormentil reacted with the streeler shells and exploded,” Dustin says matter-of-factly. “And streeler shells are commonly used in - ”

“Hair-dyeing potions,” Hopper finishes wearily. He’s quite familiar with the ingredients of such potions, having had many a student come careening in here with a wrongly brewed concoction and not quite the hairdo they had been aiming for. “So when it exploded and hit El and Max the hair-dyeing effect made them - ” He gestures vaguely toward his disarrayed daughter. She smiles broadly. “ - like this.”

“And,” Max begins gleefully as Dustin nods curtly as if to validate Hopper’s words - like he’s the resident authority. “‘Cause we shared a bench with Will and Mike, the vapour from the explosion blew up right in Mike’s face.” Mike flips her off and she just laughs.

Hopper narrows his eyes as something occurs to him. “How are you even all in the same class?” 

“I snuck in to see if Clarke’d notice,” Max shrugs. “He didn’t.”

Sweet fucking Merlin these kids are gonna be the death of him . Hopper can’t even dignify a reply to that. Max snickers.

“Did any get on either of you?” Hopper directs his question to the two boys as he stands. He makes for the potions shelf by his office door and begins retrieving the necessary antidotes - Blemish Blitzer, two oculus potions and two correctly brewed hair-dyeing potions. He summons a streeler shell from the meticulously colour coded - courtesy of his bored daughter over the summer - ingredient stock.

“I think some landed in my hair.” Will grasps at brunette strands curiously. 

“I just got the gas,” Mike says simply, shrugging and gesturing to his blackened face. Max makes a comment beneath her breath that Hopper doesn’t hear but can guess the gist of when Mike scowls heavily and pegs a piece of lint from his pocket in her direction. Max shrieks and dives sideways despite the lint not even making it past El. Hopper doesn’t even roll his eyes - he’s used to their antics by now. He can probably credit most of his sparse grey hairs to said antics. Merlin knows he gained a few the last week of this summer just gone, when the combined forces of Lucas and El - who had both elected to accompany their parents a week early to supposedly ‘help’ them prepare for their students - had terrorised the faculty by exploring every possible secret passage, experimenting to see how far apart they could get yet still hear each other shouting at opposite ends of the castle, and other shit Hopper would prefer to just forget. 

“Right,” Hopper places the Blemish Blitzer on the table between Max and El’s beds. The kids all turn to him expectantly. “Whoever’s got soot on them, since it’s magically sourced you’ll need to use that to get it off. Which one of you got the most potion land on them?”

Every hand points to El, whose own is raised with a sheepish smile.

“Like I even need to ask,” Hopper mutters, shaking his head. This earns a ripple of laughter through the room. “Alright, Lucas, you help Max with the Blemish Blitzer, Will, you help El and Dustin can help Mike. I’ve just gotta adjust this oculus potion so it’ll fix your eye colour.”

Hopper returns to his workbench and begins preparing the various antidotes. The kids get to work, passing the tub of cream around between them and slowly banishing the soot from their faces. They talk quietly between each pair as they do so.

“You know,” Lucas says contemplatively as he gently dabs at Max’s ash-marred cheek with a dollop of the blitzer. “I think this look suits you. You should just leave it like this.”

“Wow, thanks,” she responds flatly. “I’m sure it’ll beguile all the girls.”

A smirk pulls at one side of Lucas’ mouth. “Beguile?” 

“Just shut up and get this shit off my face.”

Hopper grinds one streeler shell into a small bowl with a simple crushing spell. He sifts through it gently to ensure there are no chunks and possible reprises of the earlier explosion.

“Ow!” Mike jerks away from Dustin, who sighs exasperatedly.

“I have to get it off.”

“You don’t have to get it off so roughly!”

“Well if you’d quit moving maybe I could!”

There is a brief moment of quiet as Mike complies.

“This stuff smells.”

Dustin doesn’t even deign to respond. Mike sneezes loudly.

Hopper stirs the mulled streeler shell into one of the oculus potions, satisfied when the brew shimmers silver. He stoppers the bottle and swishes it slightly, ensuring it’s completely blended. 

“What have we talked about?” Will says patiently as he wipes at El’s face. She rolls her eyes - that kid’s been spending too much time with Max and Mike.

“Read the instructions carefully, I know.”

“That avoids stuff like this ,” Will gestures to her shock of chalky white hair. 

“Yes, thank you , Will,” El says wryly. He narrows his eyes at her and she simply pokes her tongue out in reply.

Hopper taps his wand against one of the hair-dyeing potions, concentrating on El’s natural chestnut brown colour. The liquid inside ripples and turns brown. He taps the other while visualising Max’s signature copper shade and watches as it shimmers to match it. He retrieves Max’s dye and the modified oculus. 

“Alright,” he calls over their low chatter, strolling toward Max’s bed. The group raise their eyes to him, sponging away the last of the soot. El and Max are starting to look much more like themselves. Mike doesn’t look much different to be honest - although, Hopper isn’t exactly the most unbiased judge. He’s had a bit of a grudge against the kid since he dated El - sue him, she’s his only daughter - but he thinks he at least hides it well.

Hopper spares a glance to the trio at Billy’s bed as he passes - Billy is wincing as Heather dabs at a darkening bruise on the back of his shoulder. She apologises through a sympathetic wince of her own. Carol is amusing herself by idly levitating a quill she must have found beneath one of the beds.

“Those for me?” Max asks, pulling Hopper’s attention back to her. Her eyes - one powder blue, one vivid scarlet - are trained on the potions in his hands. Instead of answering, he hands them to her. She downs both quickly, making an ‘ah’ sound and shuddering slightly once they’re swallowed. Her hair steadily fades to its natural shade, and, between one blink and the next, her eyes match blue once more.

“How do you feel?” Hopper asks. She scrunches her nose.

“My left side still feels a little… wonky, I guess.”

Hopper runs his wand over her left side, casting a nonverbal generic reversion spell. Something he can’t put a finger on shifts in her posture and she sighs in relief. 

“That’s great. Thanks Hop.”

“S’alright,” he nods. “Just read the instructions more carefully next time, alright kid?”

She grins. “Not me you have to tell.”

“Trust me, I know.”

Max laughs loudly. Hopper summons El’s hair dyeing potion from his workbench and turns to her - when the bell clangs out, magically echoing through the corridors and into this room. Max immediately hops up, knowing the drill from the sheer amount of times she’s accompanied El here. Lucas, Dustin and Mike still hesitate, clearly wanting to draw out their absence from class as long as possible. Will lingers too, and Hopper belatedly remembers the specks of green in his hair. He’ll have to treat him too.

Hopper hands El the hair-dyeing potion and she begins drinking it - in sips, as she always prefers to. Hopper ducks into his office, fetching the pile of absentee slips that sit on desk, and grabbing the quill El had bought him last Christmas - a gaudy purple, fluffy monstrosity that’s actually growing on him and he’s affectionately nicknamed Bartholomew. 

“Nice quill, Hop,” Billy calls slyly.

“Nice face, Hargrove,” Hopper fires back, not even glancing up at him. Carol snorts, Heather cackles against Billy’s side and El smothers her laugh into her hand. 

Every time he does absentee slips for the kids, Hopper randomly selects one of the group to lean on the back of to write on in absence of a table. Today he picks Will, who bends slightly over without complaint, and it has the usual desired effect - it makes El giggle. 

“What have you all got now?” Hopper asks, beginning to fill out the name and house sections. He starts with Max automatically. 

“D.A.D.A.,” almost all of them answer in unison.

“Potions,” Max says. Hopper looks at her and just sighs. “I don’t feel like going twice though so I might just tag along with these guys to D.A.D.A. for today. That was what I skipped, anyway.”

“I…” Hopper sighs, going back to writing on her absentee slip. “I didn’t hear that.” He holds out Max’s completed slip. She takes it, laughing. Hopper completes Dustin’s and hands it over too.

“You know,” Max taps her parchment slip against her knuckle thoughtfully. “You probably don’t even needa write us up. It’s just Benny.”

“Professor Hammond,” Hopper corrects absently, scribbling away at Mike’s parchment. Bartholomew bobs with his handwriting and tickles against his cheek. Max acts as if she hasn’t heard him.

“He loves us.”

“He loves El,” Mike corrects, leaning against El’s footboard as he waits. Hopper gives him his absentee slip.

“Don’t we all,” Dustin says airily, beaming. He leans down to press an exaggerated kiss to El’s cheek, smacking his lips together loudly. Hopper resists the urge to glare - assisted by the fact that Dustin’s theatrics have earnt further delighted laughter from his daughter. Hopper presents Lucas with his slip. “Carol and Heather, you too.”

“Damnit,” Carol sighs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. I’ve got herbology.”

“So have I,” Heather calls, swinging her legs over the edge of Billy’s bed. She ruffles his hair affectionately. “Try to watch where you’re going. Or at least cast an emergency braking charm on your Nimbus. Like first years need. Or children.”

“You’re such a flirt, Holloway,” Billy says smugly. “Catch you in the showers?”

“In your dreams,” she retaliates sharply, strutting up the ward and taking her slip from Hopper’s outstretched hand as she passes him. “See you on the pitch, Mayfield.”

“Training hasn’t even started yet,” Max retorts to Heather’s retreating back, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Don’t worry,” Heather turns back just before she leaves. “I’m sure you’ll get back into shape soon enough.” She winks warmly and pulls the door shut. Yeah - Hopper likes her.

Max sighs, sounding somewhere between amused, frustrated and grudgingly impressed. Hopper passes Carol her filled-in absentee form. 

“Straight to class,” he warns.

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves at him lazily over her shoulder. “Till next time.”

“Will, you stay, rest of you, off to class. And,” he gestures to the time slot of the blank absentee slip in his hand. “I’ve given you ten minutes. Use the bathroom, get a drink, whatever. Don’t take any longer, alright?”

They all nod.

“Yes Dad,” Max says in a sing-song voice, fluttering her eyelashes dramatically.

“Get out of my hospital wing.” 

They all march out. Some are laughing, some are marvelling over the events of the hour, some (Max) are unsubtly verbalising their much longer than ten-minute plans for the journey to class. They all call out various goodbyes to El as they depart, and then the ward is blissfully silent. Hopper sets the parchment slips and Bartholomew on his workbench as Will straightens his back. Hopper taps his wand on Will’s head to vanish the intermittent clumps of soot and then again, using the colovaria charm to dispel the green specks within his brown hair. 

“Thanks,” Will says, polite as ever.

“You wanna write up you and El’s slips while I fix her up?”

Will nods and turns to Hopper’s work bench. He picks up Bartholomew and begins neatly tracing out the required details. Hopper runs his wand over El’s right side with the basic reversion charm he had used on Max earlier. She instantly looks more comfortable, and with her hair restored to its natural shade she almost looks like his girl again. Hopper sidles up next to Will at his workbench - who shuffles sideways to make room, used to this tag-team routine by now after all his visits with El over the years - and begins mulling the second streeler shell. 

“Hey little demon,” Billy calls across the room. Hopper’s head snaps up to him - how does the prick think he’s got any fucking right to call El that after all she’s been through? Hopper furiously opens his mouth -

“Hello Billy,” El responds merrily. “Crash your broom again?”

Billy shifts in place on his bed, wincing slightly. “Ah, you know me, Mini-Hop. Every year, without fail, I manage it. Something explode on you this time?”

“Misread the instructions again,” El explains, leaning back against her purple pillows. Hopper tips the powdered streeler shell into the oculus bottle.

“Ah, you’ll get there,” Billy reassures her, half-joking. “Who needs potions anyway?”

“Don’t encourage her,” Hopper says immediately, just as El bursts out ‘That’s what I said!’. Billy barks out a laugh, and Will’s shoulders shake with mirth beside him. Hopper just shakes his head. He points an accusing finger at his daughter. “If you purposely fail your potions O.W.L., young lady - ”

“I won’t!” El defends, raising her hands in surrender. “I’ll still try .”

“Nah, don’t flunk potions,” Billy says rationally. Hopper is strangely impressed for a split-second - “Flunk transfiguration instead, it’s worse.”

He should’ve known. Will and El both laugh heartily, and Hopper simply scowls at the smug Billy. After ensuring the shell is stirred properly into the oculus potion, Hopper swishes it around once and hands it to his daughter, sitting beside her and nudging his knee against hers. She begins sipping it slowly and her right eye gradually softens to its natural shade.

“Feel alright?” Hopper brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

She beams at him. “Feel great!”

Hopper can’t help but smile. He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Great. You two head off to class. And be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” El responds brightly, taking her completed parchment form from Will. She links her arm through his and tugs him past the empty beds towards the door. “Bye Dad. Bye Billy.”

“Bye,” Hopper calls after her.

“See ya, little demon.” 

Hopper twitches slightly as she exits the room. Personally, he detests the nickname. But he’s trying so hard not to restrict El’s agency anymore than it’s already been diminished over the course of her short life. So if she doesn’t mind it, then Hopper supposes that he doesn’t either.

He retrieves a flat dish, a cloth and a bottle of essence of dittany. He tips a generous amount of dittany into the dish and dips the cloth into the tan liquid as he approaches Billy’s bed. Billy has already shucked his robes and is in the process of unbuttoning his shirt, familiar with the routine. Hopper perches beside him on the bed, wrings out the cloth so it’s only damp, and begins dabbing at the various scrapes Billy has obtained. There is silence for several long moments.

“I’m not gonna give you the spiel this time,” Hopper begins gruffly. Billy’s shoulders sink from where they’ve been tense with anticipation - he’s been waiting for Hopper to speak his usual words. “I’m not gonna prattle on about the resources the school has, or the fact that I’m here if you need me. ‘Cause you know that shit, I’ve told you a million times.” Billy winces and inhales through his teeth as Hopper applies dittany to a particularly deep cut on his collarbone. “Sorry. But what I am gonna tell you, kid, is to pull your head out this year. Don’t pick fights. Don’t antagonise your teachers. Don’t take your own shit out on other people. I know you’ve probably heard this too much but this year’s important. And I don’t mean like they all mean it, that your N.E.W.Ts and shit are the be all and end all. Because they are important, but only if that’s the path you choose. What’s important about this year is that it’s your last chance with a safety net, your last time with a shield charm in place. So you need to learn to balance agency with discipline, risk with caution. And you gotta have a little fun, too, before you have to go out into the world and worry about taxes and paying rent and all that stuff. You can’t have fun if you’re stuck in detention every weekend. So try and pick it up this year, for your own sake. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Billy says stiffly. “Whatever.”

Hopper sighs as he places the damp cloth back in the dish of dittany. He picks up his wand and begins pressing it against each lingering cut. The ones that remain, even the deepest, begin to slowly close. The magic may erase the scars, but Hopper knows this kid’ll carry the mark of each blow forever.

“All done.” Hopper stands, and Billy tugs his shirt back on. “Any pain?”

“Nope.” He does up his buttons hurriedly, clearly desperate to get out of here before Hopper can do something frightening - like care for him, Merlin forbid. “Good as new.”

“Good to hear.” Hopper discards the dish of dittany and soaked cloth on his work bench. He reaches for Bartholomew and one of the absentee parchment slips. “Lemme write you up.”

“Don’t bother,” Billy pushes an arm through the sleeve of his robes, then the other, then shrugs the body of them over his shoulders. He picks up his wand and Slytherin tie from the bedside table. “I’ve got a free.”

“Alright.”

Billy strides up the ward, tying his tie as he goes. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Think you can last a week out of here, kid?” Hopper calls after him. Billy laughs as he approaches the corridor.

“Don’t like your chances,” he grins, letting the door fall shut with a theatrical flourish of his hand and a resounding thud. 

Hopper sighs - he doesn’t like his chances either.

Chapter Text

The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom is pleasantly quiet. Professor Benny Hammond, one of the collective favourites of the students, is usually pretty chill on the first day, but apparently that all changes once you reach O.W.L year. Where the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw DADA class would usually be chattering boisterously, comparing summer experiences and answering the Professor’s revision questions to be rewarded with chocolate frogs, this year they all sit and quietly take notes while Hammond lectures them about the reductor curse. Upon arriving ten minutes late, as per Hopper’s absent slips, Will and his friends had come bursting in boisterously with grinning faces, expecting a rambunctious classroom full of leaping chocolate frogs and revision question answers shouted across desks. They were awkwardly met with studious silence. Now, the room is filled only with white chalk scraping faintly against the blackboard, quills scratching notes onto parchment, and Hammond’s warm voice adding intermittent elaborations to the points being written onto the board.

Will knows this curse well. Ever since he accidentally wandered into Knockturn Alley when he was seven - becoming lost for several hours before dislocating his hip - his Mum has been hypervigilant of his safety. She’s already taught him almost every self-defence spell under the sun, plus a few unnecessarily offensive extras - like Reducto. So he doesn’t mind missing out, really, since he knows this information - plus Dustin is sure to take copious notes he can copy out later if he needs to. Will’s spending his time much more enjoyably - by chatting with his friends.

Towards the end of last year, Dustin had been in the library researching another one of his random philosophical inquiries that come to him mid-shower, at three in the morning, or when he should really be doing his charms homework. Will doesn’t even remember what he had been investigating, but Dustin had come across the protean charm in an obscure book on communication. He had been struck with an idea that he labelled as genius - which was admittedly pretty brilliant - and after painstakingly teaching himself the N.E.W.T level spell, Dustin had enchanted six pieces of parchment to mimic any markings written on one across all six. They hadn’t had much chance to use the parchment last year, since Dustin had only perfected it right around exam season, but now, Hammond’s uncharacteristic first-day attentiveness makes for the perfect opportunity. They’re spending the class period in comical conversation, while Hammond can see nothing but students scratching their quills on parchment - as far as he’s aware, they’re dutifully taking notes just as everyone else is. The truth is far more chaotic.

ur full of absolute shit lucas appears on Will’s parchment one word at a time, in Max’s looping handwriting. Several other writings begin appearing in response. Will bites down on a smile, lifting his quill and choosing to just observe the chaos. 

Exactly. Mike scratches out neatly from beside Will, blotting the period with more force than necessary. 

FUCK YOU MAX Lucas responds immediately, letters sharp and blocky. He always writes in all capital letters when they do this, for some weird, Lucas-sensical reasoning. 

Language !! El’s writing appears in vivid purple ink - the only thing she uses since Jonathan bought her a well of it in third year -, swirling and untidy.

u cant seriously think all eggs taste the same fuckwit Max continues. Will stifles a snicker - she’s always been particularly aggressive towards Lucas. It cracks him up. thats the point of making them differently so they taste different dumbass

YOUR ONLY ARGUMENT IS CALLING ME STUPID FIND A REAL DEFENCE AGAINST MY LOGIC MAXINE

Ew why did you call her Maxine !! 

Mike’s neat writing begins to appear beneath El’s. Lucas, you’ve never been more wrong; even when you were convinced Cinderella was a type of cheese.

Beside El’s words, a crude drawing of a middle finger appears, no doubt Max’s work as a rebuttal to Lucas full-naming her. Will bites down on his lip to keep from bursting into laughter, steadfastly avoiding Mike’s gaze as he hears his deskmate attempt to drown his chuckle with a quiet cough. Hammond makes a comment about the etymology behind the reductor curse and Will pretends to look thoughtful as he circles Max’s drawing, the symbol they have agreed upon as emphasis or laughter.

hows that for a defence lucashire theodore sinclair

Will shoves his fist against his mouth, circling lucashire theodore sinclair alongside several other simultaneously appearing circlings and choking back laughter.

AT LEAST SUGGEST A TYPE OF EGGS WHICH IS FAVOURABLE MAXINEMUS ROSEMARY MAYFIELD

u dare to challenge me sir

I like scrambled eggs!! El chimes into the medieval-esque debate. Especially how Hopper makes them! He adds a bit of cheese and cayenne pepper and they are so yum!!!

Will finally puts his quill to the page, writing beneath his sister’s messy scrawl. i like eggs benedict, they’re my fav

Will, Mike immediately responds beneath him, that barely even counts. It’s not a cooking style, it’s an eating style.

Will steps on his foot for the contradiction. Mike inhales sharply and Will swallows down laughter, feeling his best friend’s glare burning into his cheek. In retaliation, Mike swipes his quill across Will’s wrist, leaving a wonky line across the base of his thumb. Will narrows his eyes, earning a challenging eyebrow jerk and an innocent smile. 

Dustin’s cramped handwriting finally appears on the parchment, his presence a rarity since he seldom pauses his extensive note-taking. You are all irrevocably insane, poached eggs are inherently superior.

Kill yourself, boiled eggs. Mike instantly writes out, earning odd noises from all their friends as they attempt to hide their laughter. Will actually has to bite down on his thumb, tears springing to his eyes from both amusement and pain.

Dustin !!!!!!! How goes your notes, good sir? !!

El!!! They are inordinately long and ideally universally comprehensive, fair lady.

OF COURSE MIKE CAN’T GET MAD AT EL OR WILL BUT TELLS DUSTIN TO KILL HIMSELF.

vv real lucashire theodore hannibal charles sinclair

not hannibal… Will writes, and sneaks a glance at Max. She is already smirking at him from the adjacent desk, undoubtedly knowing he alone would understand her reference, as she had forced him through the trauma of The Silence of the Lambs at a sleepover in fourth year - one which resulted in them fearfully sharing a bed and staying up most of the night watching The Muppet Show to stave off nightmares.

VERY WELL MAXINEMUS ROSEMARY ELIZABETH THELMA LOUISE MAYFIELD, WHAT IS YOUR EGG CONSUMPTION OF CHOICE

There is a long expectant moment where no new writing appears on the parchment as they all wait for Max’s answer. Will looks at her, sensing Mike do the same beside him - he whacks his heel against Mike’s shin for good measure, earning a muted groan and a shove to the small of his back. She taps her quill to her chin thoughtfully, before her eyes light up and she begins to write. They all scramble to read her answer as it slowly appears in her looping writing beneath Lucas’ words.

raw.

What !!!!!

Shut the fuck up. 

That’s just blatantly deceitful and grossly iniquitous, Max.

BAD NEWS GUYS DUSTIN SWALLOWED A THESAURUS AGAIN

lollllllllll

SHOULD I GIVE YOU MOUTH TO MOUTH DUSTY WUSTY WINK WINK

I am vomiting in my mouth right now.

Thanks for the repugnant offer, Lucas, but I’ll indomitably pass.

nah jk obvs the correct answer is fried. no more questions thx

KINDA REAL TBH

Mike scoffs beneath his breath beside Will, leaning to scratch out a single word. Simp.

FOR MY BEST FRIENDS YES ANY DAY. FOR YOUR INFO THAT DOESN’T INCLUDE YOU MICHAELANGELO. 

Scrambled !!!!

scrambled eggs with maple syrup does slap Will pens out. El enthusiastically traces a cloud around his response a moment later.

That’s true, actually; Mike concedes beneath them, maybe I agree with El and Will.

SIMP

i think we’re all lowkey simps for each other. Will smiles to himself as he writes this out and earns several circles. El’s is so enthusiastic she accidentally crosses out half of Will’s sentence.

“Mr Byers.” 

Will freezes and looks up, feeling Mike tense beside him. Professor Hammond is watching him expectantly from the front of the room, one eyebrow raised. The eyes of the class swivel toward him and Will shrinks back slightly, his pulse instinctively quickening. He feels Mike’s knee knock against his in reassurance and exhales heavily at the solace it brings.

“Yes, sir?”

Hammond sighs, leaning against his desk. His shrewd gaze clearly suspects Will’s amusement doesn’t stem from the etymology of the reductor curse - or whatever they might have moved onto while Will was distracted. Will holds his breath. “Could you demonstrate the reductor curse for me please?”

Will resists the urge to let out a relieved laugh. He could do that in his sleep. He grasps his wand from where it rests on his desk and raises it toward Mike’s empty inkwell. “Reducto!”

The inkwell - which in hindsight might not have been the best thing to violently destroy - shatters, glass spraying over those within the vicinity, but mostly him and Mike. The girl at the desk in front of them lets out a shriek, ducking sideways. El stifles a giggle from beside him. 

Hammond gives him an exasperated look. “Thank you, Mr Byers. Please mend that.”

“Reparo,” Will grins as he waves his wand. Mike cries out quietly as a piece of glass tugs on his hair and Will bites down on a snicker. Mike scowls at him, nudging his knee more forcefully. It sends a giddy, fizzling warmth through Will, which he instantly attempts to extinguish. He’s wholly unsuccessful, having to bite down on a giddy smile as he returns his eyes to his desk. Mike is relentless, pressing his thigh against Will’s in an unspoken, butterfly-inducing challenge. Will longs to shove their quills and parchment aside and jump Mike, classmates and Professor and heteronormativity be damned. Instead, he presses his quill a little harder against his parchment and presses his thigh back.

When the bell rings to signal the end of the lesson and they all begin stuffing their belongings into their bags or piling them in their arms, El makes a comment about wanting to ask Hammond about his summer. She says they don’t have to wait but of course they do. The five of them lean against the wall outside Hammond’s classroom door, chattering mindlessly. Lucas and Max seem to still be bickering about eggs, while Dustin is murmuring to himself as he digs through his bag for something. As the last of the students round the corner out of sight and the corridor quiets, Mike nudges Will’s foot with his own. Will can’t help the smile that erupts on his face.

“ What , Mike?”

“What?” Mike asks faux-innocently, eyes on Will’s hairline. He never could look Will in the eye when he lied. Will bites down on his growing grin.

“Why’d you step on my foot, dumbass?”

“Someone stepped on your foot?” Mike gasps, gaze somehow having drifted down to Will’s ear. He shrugs vaguely. “Man, I dunno, I didn’t see anyone.”

Will elbows him in the stomach lightly. “You’re such a dork.”

Mike just beams at him, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside Will. Will mimics him, so they’re directly facing each other. But I’m your dork , Will wishes Mike would say. He wishes Mike was his. Something in Mike’s gaze distinctly softens and Will raises a quizzical eyebrow. 

“I missed you,” Mike smiles warmly, mouth hitching up to one side in that way that makes Will’s knees weak. Kiss me about it, Will wants to say. All he says aloud is:

“I missed you too.” He squeezes his hand tighter around the spine of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, offering Mike a weak smile - that’s really all he can muster through the overwhelming urge to drop his books and slam Mike against the wall of the corridor.

El emerges moments later, calling out a cheerful goodbye to Hammond and looping her arms through Will and Max’s. She tugs them forward, babbling away merrily, and Will goes along with a slight stumble, exchanging a smile with Max at their best friend’s antics. Lucas and Dustin walk beside them, in another of their mindless Lucas-and-Dustin arguments that Will doesn’t even want to know the subject of. Mike scrambles along to catch up with the group, and his hand settles on Will’s lower back softly. Sweet fucking Merlin and Morgana Will might actually faint. 

A wave of sound washes over them as they enter the great hall, and Mike - heartbreakingly, thankfully, ever-so-gently-and-nonchalantly - removes his hand from Will’s back as El guides them to sit at the Hufflepuff table today. They settle in, El, Will and Mike across from Dustin, Max and Lucas - as always. 

Nancy and Jonathan are several seats up, and Will notes with a smile that she’s fixing his tie while he half-heartedly tells her she doesn’t need to. Argyle and his new girlfriend - Edith? - are silently staring into one another’s eyes, unnerving Will slightly. Nancy gives up on Jonathan’s askew tie, presses a kiss to his cheek and steps over the bench, making for the Slytherin table. Jonathan watches her go with a lovestruck look on his face. Will doesn’t understand why their groups of friends don’t just combine . He’s met Barb plenty of times when staying at Mike’s, and he’s sure she’d get along with Jonathan and Argyle just fine, and from what Mike’s said about Stacey and Ally they seem alright too. But Mike also said Nancy has this weird thing about her reputation as Head Girl. She’s not as bad as she used to be - she’s not friends with assholes anymore or dating Steve ‘the douche’ Harrington - Mike’s words, not Will’s - but she’s still got this underlying fear of not fitting in. Getting Head Girl has made her hyper aware of what everyone thinks of her, and Will can see it does sometimes grate on Jonathan’s feelings.

“Dustin,” Max bats her eyelashes at him, drawing out each syllable. “You know how you love me so much and I’m one of your best friends and we’ve known each other for so long now?”

Dustin sighs into his peanut butter sandwich. “ Yes, you can have my notes, just please stop, it’s so creepy.”

“Am I that undesirable?” Max chomps loudly on a piece of raw carrot she seems to have just nicked from Lucas’ salad, if his playful scowl is anything to go by.

“No, it’s creepy because the only girl actually flirting with me on a regular basis is my best friend who’s a lesbian.”

The party all laugh, most especially Max, who snorts violently, inhaling her carrot and dissolving into a coughing fit. Lucas pats her back through concerned laughter. 

There is a familiar dinging sound and copies of T he Sleeping Dragon appear intermittently along the house tables. Will glances at his wristwatch that matches Mike’s - 11:15 on a Friday. Nancy’s right on time, as usual. The buzz of conversation throughout the hall increases as students immediately begin investigating the first school newspaper of the new year. Will reaches for the paper between him and Dustin and unfolds it, placing it in front of El so she and Mike can read it too. Dustin seems as uninterested as ever, continuing his lunch with a bored expression, while Max and Lucas hunch together to examine the front page themselves. Will looks down. The swirling title The Sleeping Dragon is printed proudly at the top in gold lettering enchanted to shimmer. The bottom left corner reads Friday, September 2nd. The page is divided into neat boxes with various attention-grabbing headlines and bylines reciting the page number for the corresponding article. Will skims down it for anything interesting. 

Professor Binns plans to retire after 460 years teaching! Read all about it on page 16.

Frog choir auditions to be held in the Great Hall at 6pm Tuesday September 6th. See requirements on page 19.

Tension Head-Ache? Will the previous relationship between new Head Boy Steve Harrington and Head Girl Nancy Wheeler provide a tumultuous year for prefects? Read more on page 3!

New advancements in the alchemy club! Turn to page 11!

Quidditch tryouts to be held on Saturday September 3rd at 10am for all houses ! Read more about it on page 8!

“Tryouts for all houses?” Will reads aloud incredulously. Dustin’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

“We just saw that,” Lucas nods, eyes wide. Max is preoccupied flipping furiously through the pages. 

“Here,” she finally finds it, eyes hastily scanning the page. “‘Due to the conflicts which arose last year when dividing the Quidditch pitch evenly amongst the four House teams, Headmaster Powell and flying instructor Mister Bowman have decided that prospective players from all four houses will try out together under the supervision of their Captains and Mister Bowman. Similarly, all potential team members, regardless of any pre-existing affiliation with their house team, must try out to secure a position.’ This is bullshit! I’ve been on the team since second year! Steve must be furious!”

“Speak of the devil,” Mike nods behind Max, and their group all turns to see Steve Harrington striding toward them, The Sleeping Dragon clutched in his fist. 

“Seen this shit?” he demands, throwing it down in front of Dustin, who wipes some peanut butter off it and leans to look at the front page curiously. “We’ve gotta do tryouts with every team! Takes away any advantage we might have had of preserving our players’ skills until game time!”

“And it means I have to focus on trying out with my shitty step-brother leering at me from the damn sideline,” Max scowls, stabbing her fork into her pie with more force than is probably necessary. Lucas pats her forearm reassuringly and her glare softens, she sends him a half-hearted smile. Steve lays a hand on her shoulder.

“You know you’re better than every player on the team, Max, including me. You’ve got nothing to worry about. And Hargrove might be an asshole, but he’s an asshole who won’t know what hit him when we snatch the cup right from underneath his smug little nose - ”

“Harrington, you sweet talker,” someone croons. Max stiffens and Lucas seems to instinctively move a protective inch closer. 

“Didn’t know you felt that way,” Billy continues wryly, directly behind Will. El’s smile doesn’t falter and she turns in her seat to beam up at him.

“Hey Billy!” she says brightly, unaware - or maybe uncaring - of the tension Billy has brought with him. “Catch The Sleepy Dragon this morning?”

“Sure did, Mini-Hop. Your babysitter better watch out, huh, we might take away his only advantage - the element of surprise.”

“Go sit on your wand, Hargrove,” Steve says sourly. Billy just laughs, but walks away all the same. Max deflates in relief. Despite whatever odd friendship Billy and El seem to have struck up, Max and Billy still refuse to acknowledge each other’s presence aside from the occasional snarled insult. Lucas threads his hand through Max’s.

“I’m gonna try out this year,” he declares. Max’s head snaps up to him, whatever troubling thoughts of Billy having been on her mind seemingly instantly vanishing.

“Really?” She looks ecstatic. Lucas nods. She squeals and awkwardly hugs him, their hands still intertwined between them. As she pulls away she shoves his shoulder with her free hand. “We’re so gonna kick Ravenclaw’s ass, Sinclair.”

“It’s on, Mayfield,” he says challengingly, chin jutting out. “Better brush up your game before tryouts, ‘cause I’m going straight for chaser.”

“Oh, what a shame, guess you’ve got no chance of making the team, then, ‘cause I’m not letting a single quaffle through! And,” she snatches another carrot from his salad - earning a disgruntled squawk - dips it into the meat sauce of her pie and plops it back onto Lucas’ plate, sauce down so it sticks up at an odd angle. “There. Ha. How you like them apples?”

“Oh. Wow. For me? You shouldn’t have. Max, that’s so thoughtful.”

Steve mutters something about going to talk to Ally about this as Max and Lucas continue to bicker. Will can see Jennifer Hayes and Brenda Taylor - members of last year’s Hufflepuff team - talking with furrowed brows up the table. Across the hall at the Slytherin table, Heather Holloway is gesticulating furiously as she rants at a stone-faced Billy Hargrove. The rest of the hall seems to be in a similar state of incredulous shock, judging from the increase in chatter and sheer volume of people jumping between house tables to discuss the news with their potions partner or such-and-such-from-Ravenclaw.

“I think I’m gonna try out for the frog choir this year,” Dustin says thoughtfully. Lucas and Max immediately silent, and every eye shoots to Dustin. Will snorts into his pumpkin juice. “Well that was a reaction.”

“Frog choir?” Max asks incredulously, wearing her signature Max Mayfield shit-eating grin. “Seriously.”

“Seriously!” Dustin exclaims. “I wanna try something new! What, Lucas can try out for quidditch but I can’t audition for the frog choir?”

“Dude, it’s the frog choir ,” Mike says scathingly. “You’re joking right?”

“Where even is the appeal of frog choir?” Lucas pulls a face. 

“Philistines,” Dustin says sniffily, shoving Steve’s abandoned newspaper off his plate and continuing to eat his sandwich dully. Will laughs.

“I like frogs, they’re cute,” El says definitively, as if this settles the matter.

Dustin thrusts his hands toward her theatrically. “Thank you! And chicks dig singers.”

At this El pulls a sour face, vehemently shaking her head. If Will were out to his friends, he would agree with her. Guys who can sing are attractive, less so when they do it with a croaking frog in their hand.

“No they don’t,” Max scoffs. Dustin flips her off, not even glancing in her direction.

“Shut up. You’re gay.”

“You’re gay,” she retorts juvenilely, scooping a mouthful of pie into her mouth. “Girls might like guys who can sing, but not ones who sing with frogs.”

It’s like she plucked the thought straight from Will’s head. He laughs softly to himself, earning a questioning glance from El. He shakes his head, sending her a tell you later look. She looks satisfied and returns to the conversation. He won’t, really, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Ooh, ooh, Dustin!” Lucas puts on a high-pitched voice, clutching at his chest melodramatically. “Dustin, your frog harmonised with mine! Let’s have double dates with our frogs and be together forever and ever!”

“That’s literally not even funny,” Dustin deadpans. “And they actually hold toads.”

“Why’s it called the frog choir then?” Mike scrunches his nose. “That’s stupid.”

“I don’t know!” Dustin explodes, earning a few turned heads along the table. “Why are you called Mike Wheeler and not annoying pain in my ass?! You’re stupid!”

El giggles against Will, who tries valiantly to clamp down his laughter, but lets a chuckle slip. MIke stares at him open-mouthed as if this is the highest betrayal, despite the blatant hysterics Max and Lucas are in directly across from him. They steadily sober as they continue with their lunch and El reads through the entire newspaper - as she loves to do, for fear of missing anything special. Mike and Will maintain their silent stare off, until Mike’s gaze skates to something above Will’s hairline and his glare shifts to something more neutral. He points to something vaguely above Will’s eyebrow.

“You’ve got glass in your hair. How does that even work if you repaired - ?”

“Well can you get it?” Will laughingly interrupts what is sure to be a long impassioned speech about the logistics of Will’s repairing spell. Mike exhales through his nose, lips twitching, but obliges, reaching forward slowly toward Will’s hair. Will holds extremely still. A shiver runs down his spine as Mike’s wrist just kisses against his forehead. He resists the urge to lean into Mike’s touch. Will is so selfish - selfish for asking Mike to get the glass just for the chance that they might touch, selfish for wanting them to touch, selfish for always wanting too much of what he shouldn’t. Mike’s fingernail brushes against his scalp. Will can’t breathe. Mike’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he gently pulls at the shard.  His tongue pokes out slightly, presumably unconsciously. Will’s eyes are drawn to it. Mike’s lips are right there. Will feels a swooping urge to move forward. He feels dizzy. He feels so hot. His cheeks are burning, he must be as red as Max’s hair - and Mike finally moves away. He holds up the glass triumphantly, discarding it on his empty plate. Will lets out a quiet sigh of relief through his teeth. He silently urges his face to cool down for Hufflepuff’s sake , averting his gaze from Mike and his brown eyes and his stupid kissable mouth - and coming eye to eye with Max Mayfield’s knowing look. Her eyebrows are subtly raised and she just watches him. Shit. He couldn’t even make it two days without one of his friends figuring him out. Granted, as a lesbian, she would be the ideal choice to uncover his secret, but two days doesn’t exactly bode well for his ability to keep this from the rest of his friends - especially Mike. Clearing his throat and steadfastly avoiding Max’s stare too, Will turns to Dustin, who is arranging the crusts of his sandwich into a crude intimation of a quidditch pitch.

“Dustin,” Will begins warily. Dustin acknowledges him with a preoccupied hum. “Could I have your notes from D.A.D.A?”

“Yeah me too,” Mike echoes. Dustin lifts his gaze to Mike excruciatingly slowly, expression carefully blank.

“Me three please?” El asks politely. Dustin says nothing, just turns to Lucas, who simply sends him a toothy apologetic smile. Dustin’s eye twitches.

“Oh no,” Max murmurs in a theatrical voice. Will bites his lip.

“It’s starting,” Lucas says out of the corner of his mouth. El muffles her giggle behind her fist. Mike sighs wearily.

And Dustin erupts. “How many times have I told you guys you can’t just rely on my notes?! What if I’m sick?! What if I decide I don’t wanna take notes for a change?! Ever think of that, dipshits?! You do know it’s our O.W.L year right?! You better not all come crying to me for all my notes when exams roll around and you realise you don’t know half our fucking content - !”

“Shit,” Max says suddenly, eyes wide and face alarmed. “Dustin, you’ve got something - ” She gestures to her own face imprecisely.

“Oh, I’m not falling for that one, asshole - I should be credited by you all for how many times you’ve copied my notes and subsequently passed your goddamn - ”

“Dustin, I’m serious,” Max interrupts again, tone urgent. “You’ve seriously got something, I don’t even know how you would fix that!”

“You’re not funny!” 

“I’m not being funny!” Max cries. Dustin blinks at her, brow furrowing as he seems to finally begin to believe her.

“Okay, what, what have I got - where - ?”

“It’s…” Max pauses, shaking her head slightly in disbelieving astonishment. “It’s your wand, it’s… it’s managed to get all the way up your ass - ”

Their group all burst into raucous laughter. El is giggling into Will’s shoulder, Lucas is doubled over wheezing and smacking laughingly at a grinning Max, Will himself is cackling against his sister. Max begins repeatedly nudging Dustin, who eventually lets a reluctant chuckle slip, and then suddenly they are all jeering, all chiming in, teasing him about D.A.D.A notes and an extensive vocabulary and frog choir auditions and his wand all the way up his ass.

All the while, Mike is leaning heavily into Will’s space, his crisp genuine laugh ringing in Will’s ears and the royal blue trim of his robe creasing against Will’s own sunshine yellow. Will feels warm all over as their shoulders and forearms brush. Mike’s cheeks are flushed a happy, pretty pink, pulling out his sparse freckles. Will feels completely content.

Chapter Text

“I’m telling you, somebody is going to die.”

“Nobody’s going to die, Steve.”

“Listen, if you don’t put a stop to this, I will.”

Hopper sighs, setting his fluffy purple quill - which Steve isn’t even going to question at this point - down on his desk and pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. He mumbles something beneath his breath that isn’t audible enough for Steve to decipher completely, but it’s not exactly complimentary towards him, that much is clear. Hopper turns in his chair, lifting his gaze to Steve and looking wholly unimpressed.

“I told you, kid,” he says sternly. “I can’t do any more to change it than you can. You saw what happened last year. Ravenclaw and Slytherin accidentally double-booked the pitch for tryouts, both refused to leave and both Captains ended up in here with broken noses. They’re not risking that shit this year, so you can all try out at the same time and no one has an advantage.”

“So the solution to your teams clashing heads when on the pitch together is to put all the teams on the pitch together at the same time?” Steve scoffs. “Yeah, that’ll work. I’m telling you, there’ll be bloodshed.”

“Well, I guess you won’t know until it happens, will you?” Hopper says absently, having turned back to his report. 

“You’re not being very helpful,” Steve says irritably, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring lightly in Hopper’s direction.

“Then it’s working. I told you, I don’t have a say in this, your headmaster and your flying instructor made the decision between themselves. There’s nothing I can do. Now get out of my office, I’ve got shit to do.”

“You’re supposed to be my Head of House!” Steve exclaims. “I’m supposed to be able to come to you for help with this shit!”

Hopper sighs in visceral exasperation. “Yes, and you’ve come, and ranted, and whined, and yet… I still can’t change shit. So grow up, get to your tryouts and just be the bigger person about this, would you?”

Steve stays exactly where he is, leaning against the doorway to Hopper’s office and staring him down. Tryouts don’t start for half an hour. 

“You seriously think putting Carver and Hargrove back on the pitch at the same time won’t end the same as last year?” he presses. “And I’m self-aware enough to know I’ve also got a temper - ” Hopper snorts at this. “ - even Brenda Taylor gets pretty goddamn passionate about quidditch, and that’s not even mentioning all the other players, and all the new prospective tryouts, and - ”

“Steve.”

“Yes?”

“Get out of this hospital wing before I give you a reason to stay.”

Steve sighs, but finally obliges, pushing off from the doorway and heading for the door. “You’re the worst, Hop.”

“Have fun!” Hopper calls wryly. Steve ignores him, slamming the door shut a little harder than he really needs to. He glances at his watch. Still twenty five minutes until tryouts. But as Captain, he really should be there as soon as possible. Even if only to make sure that asshole Hargrove doesn’t do something fucking stupid before he arrives - like rig the tryouts or scare off all of Steve’s potential players. Steve wouldn’t put it past that son of a bitch to play as dirty as possible. With a pang, Steve realises that Max is probably there, waiting for tryouts to begin, having to face her stupid stepbrother without Steve having her back. He hastens his pace through the corridor at the thought.

Steve’s passion for quidditch had earned him Captain at an unusually young age. He had been on the team since he first tried out in second year, and after Jones, a steadfast seventh year Keeper, graduated, Steve entered his fourth year with the title of Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. He hadn’t been the eldest on the team - probably not the most talented either. But when Hopper and Powell had granted him the position, they had explained that his enthusiasm for the game and his unwavering sportsmanship and support of his teammates had earned him the title - it had taken an explosive breakup with Nancy, a good row with Tommy and Carol, and a lot of quality time with Dustin Henderson for Steve to finally learn how to apply this sportsmanship and supportiveness in situations off the pitch. So Steve had thrown his everything into the game from that very first day. The older students on the team heavily resented him - not only because they had been supposedly robbed of their chance at Captain, but because Steve broke the unspoken rule established by Jones. He stopped choosing his team based on their gender and started selecting them for their skill. As determined and likeable as Jones had been, he did tend to favour male Quidditch players over the female ones, and Steve, while still an absolute douche at this age, had enough integrity to completely dismiss that. He had been with Nancy at the time - he knew firsthand how much stronger than men women were. So when Carol Perkins, his then best friend, had tried out for the first time - because she’d never had the guts to while Jones was Captain - and outflown every other chaser on the pitch, he hadn’t even hesitated to put her on the team. And when a then shy redheaded second year named Max Mayfield had tried out for keeper and stopped more shots than anyone else, he had immediately replaced the sixth year bloke who was already there. The next year, when Nancy’s friend Ally Zhao gave tryouts a go and demonstrated chasing moves even Steve had never heard of, she was the first on the roster. Over the years he had built a team that was an unstoppable force, and had earned the grudging respect of those older than him, thanks to the Quidditch Cup they had won in his fourth and fifth years. Now, it’s his last year here, his last chance to win the cup - to take it back from that smug bitch Hargrove - and by Merlin is he gonna make it count.

Steve rounds the last corner and strides through the entrance hall to the double doors to the grounds. He marches across the lawn toward the pitch, running over his team in his head for the millionth time that day. Assuming he doesn’t see anyone better than his pre-existing team - which is highly doubtful - Steve will have himself, Carol and Ally in chaser, Max in keeper and Vickie in beater. Now that Bright and Peters have graduated, their spots of seeker and beater are vacant. The school is demanding he tryout all spots besides his own, but Steve knows the ladies of his team aren’t going to be beaten any time soon. He arrives at the pitch and jogs through the Gryffindor section of the change rooms until he emerges on the other side. He walks quickly to join the crowd by the nearest goalposts, glancing at his watch. Fifteen minutes until tryouts are scheduled to start. He’s made good time.

“Nice of you to join us, Harrington,” a familiar irritating voice drawls. Steve takes a deep breath to restrain himself from lashing out immediately. He turns to give Hargrove, dressed in his emerald quidditch sweater and leaning lazily against his upright broom, a cool look.

“S’fifteen minutes ‘til tryouts even start, Hargrove, get off my ass.”

Hargrove just smirks, cocking his head to the side teasingly. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll all get used to you coming last.”

“Bet you’ve said that before,” Steve says savagely. A challenging gleam enters Hargrove’s eyes.

“Alright ladies,” Brenda Taylor cuts in wearily. “That’s enough. We’re here to play, so cut the shit.” Steve turns away from Hargrove, swallowing down his heated annoyance - that prick always manages to get under his skin. Steve turns his attention to Brenda, and to Jason Carver beside her. 

“Now,” Brenda starts again, voice pompous. Here she goes, taking charge. Steve had gone with her to the Three Broomsticks once, and she had mentioned nothing but quidditch. The woman eats, sleeps and breathes the game - Steve would be surprised if there was room for anything else inside her brain. She certainly hasn’t done much to discount the idea. “I know Powell said tryouts aren’t meant to start yet, but we may as well start getting organised while we wait for Mr Bowman to get here. I’m gonna talk to my prospectives and sort them into their positions. I suggest you guys do the same.” She turns away with a bounce of her curly blonde hair.

Steve resists the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. Lucky Brenda’s here or he’d have no clue what to do - it’s not like he’s been doing this for years or anything. He snorts to himself, shaking his head in exasperation as he makes his way to the gathering of scarlet and gold-clad students. There aren’t many kids trying out for the team - probably since they know he’s happy with who he’s got - but there are still a few, dressed in various combinations of Gryffindor-marked uniforms and comfortable clothing ideal for flying, babbling loudly to one another. Steve nods to Vickie, who smiles in response, currently chatting with Carol and Ally. All are dressed in their quidditch sweaters, their names and quidditch numbers printed on the back. Max, drawing to Steve’s side, is wearing hers too. She huddles close enough to him for their shoulders to brush, looking troubled.

“Hey, you alright?” Steve says quietly. Max doesn’t answer. It doesn’t even seem like she’s heard him. Her eyes are glued to something over Steve’s shoulder and he doesn’t even need to turn to know what’s distracting her. He turns anyway, unsurprisingly finding Billy Hargrove at the end of her gaze, lecturing to the Slytherins trying out about something Steve can’t hear. Max releases a shuddering breath beside him and Steve steps around in front of her, blocking Hargrove from view. Her wide, terrified eyes finally slide up to meet his.

“Max,” he rests his hands on her shoulders, rising and falling with her anxious breaths. She gazes up at him wordlessly. “You can do this. You’ve done it before. You’re the best flyer on my team, and you will be making my team, again, Max, I don’t care what Powell says. I don’t care if today is the worst you’ve ever flown, you deserve this spot. It’s guaranteed. No matter what happens. Alright?” This does seem to relax her somewhat.

“Alright,” Max says breathily. She visibly steels herself, gaze flickering between Steve’s eyes and Hargrove’s form over his shoulder. “Alright, I can do this. I’m gonna make the team.”

“Yes,” Steve affirms. “You are, whatever happens. So you know what? Forget about the team. Forget about tryouts, forget about the cup, forget about your brother. Just get up there and show them what you can do. Show him what you can do, even when he’s watching. Show him he doesn’t scare you. Show him you’re better than he is.”

Max nods slightly, jaw clenched and eyes hard. It’s the determined look she gets when they’re one goal away from a win, when they need a miracle to stay in it, when she’s decided she’s not gonna give up. She looks into Steve’s eyes and grins. He claps her on the back and pushes her away playfully. She stumbles, chuckling, before making her way to join Vickie and the others. 

Steve’s had a soft spot for Max since the day she tried out. And ever since his strange yet somehow perfect friendship with Dustin had spawned last year, he’s begun spending more and more time with the kid, and growing more and more attached to her. He privately thinks she deserves a brother way better than Hargrove - someone who cares about her, someone who supports her, someone who lifts her up and pushes her to be the best she can. Not someone who takes out their own shit on her and punishes her for being herself. Maybe that’s why Hargrove manages to irritate Steve so much - not only is he an unapologetic asshole, but he’s an unapologetic asshole who lives to upset the people Steve cares about. Steve fucking hates him.

“Alright!” Steve bellows over the loud buzz of chatter. The prospective Gryffindor players immediately fall silent, watching him expectantly. “Gryffindors, welcome to tryouts. I’m sure by now you’ve all read yesterday’s Sleeping Dragon and know the drill. Seekers from all teams will be trying out together, followed by chasers, keepers, and then beaters. As you know, a spot on the team last year does not guarantee you a spot this year.” Steve sees Vickie’s lips twitching - she knows him well enough to know how much he favours his existing lineup, and how bullshit it is that he would ever change them up. He narrows his eyes at her subtly enough that hopefully no one else notices the shift.

“Okay, so, prospective keepers, please line up over here with Mayfield, chasers with Zhao, beaters with James and seekers with me.” 

The crowd messily assembles themselves into the groups he’s asked for. There are two second years Steve’s never seen before trying out for keeper and a few third and fourth years he’s used to rejecting huddled around Ally and Carol as chasers. A couple kids he vaguely recognises are by Vickie for beater and only two kids, looking like they’re probably in fourth or fifth year, are beside Steve aiming for seeker. Not bad.

“Mister Bowman!”

Steve whips around at Brenda’s shout. Carver and Brenda are already making a beeline for the approaching figure, Hargrove ambling along at a frustratingly slower pace behind them. Steve hurries to join them, jogging across the pitch. 

Brenda seems to be the only student at the school who calls Alexei Bowman, the Hogwarts flying instructor, by his last name. He’s instructed the students - including Brenda, multiple times - to call him Alexei to avoid any confusion between him and his husband - the divination teacher, Professor Murray Bowman. Steve has noticed this weird-ass trend of the staff being married to each other and hopes no more of them fall in love and take each other’s names because it’s confusing enough with two Professor Bowmans and two Professor Sinclairs.

The four Captains manage to reach Alexei at the same time, frustrated complaints overlapping;

“Mister Bowman we can’t possibly - ”

“ - lose any advantage - ”

“ - insight into the skill - ”

“ - conflict between two teams - ”

“ - doesn’t make any sense to - ”

“ - jeopardise our chances - ”

“ - frankly unfair, Alexei - ”

“Hang on a moment now,” Alexei holds up a hand, blinking rapidly and looking taken aback at all the shouting. “I know you’re not very happy about this arrangement. I’ve heard from all your Heads of Houses. But the decision’s been made.” 

Brenda slumps in defeat, and Carver sighs, running a discontented hand through his hair. Hargrove’s jaw clenches. Deep down, Steve knew this - he had known it earlier while ranting to Hopper. It still hadn’t managed to snuff that last bit of hope that they would change it. Now it has. Shit.

“I understand your frustration,” Alexei says evenly, evidently noticing their collectively disappointed reactions. “But I won’t be changing my mind. Tryouts begin in five minutes.” And he takes a sip from his drink. Steve only then notices it’s in his hand, and subsequently realises it’s a cherry slurpee from 7/11. 

Steve blinks in astonishment. He points at the slurpee. “Where did you get that?”

“I have my ways,” Alexei smiles mysteriously, taking another sip through the bright green straw. “Go prepare your players.”

Steve sighs angrily and spins on his heel, making for the huddle of Gryffindors. Someone nudges him fiercely from behind. He stumbles and turns, scowling, to find a smirking Hargrove.

“What’s wrong Harrington?” he teases. “Worried about your chances?”

“Yeah right,” Steve replies coldly. “Your ass is grass, Hargrove.”

Hargrove laughs, patting Steve condescendingly on the shoulder. “We’ll see about that.”

He winks and strolls away. Merlin, how Steve would love to wipe that smug grin off his face with a bludger straight to the nose. 

The two of them had never exactly been friends, but they had gotten along, they had existed beside one another. But since Nancy dumped him and Steve pulled his head out of his ass enough to then dump Carol, Tommy H and the rest of his trashy friend group - Hargrove included - there’s been this weird tension between them. Hargrove went from tolerating him with the occasional competitive remark to relentlessly hounding him and making Steve’s life shit. Steve went from not particularly caring about Hargrove to having to constantly be aware of the prick’s presence. Steve hates him with a fiery passion - because Hargrove never gives him space to breathe.

He shakes off this anger, scanning the stands and resolving to focus on his team for the rest of tryouts. The lower half have filled up considerably, students from all four houses gathering to witness the tryouts. Nancy’s soft pink sweater draws his eye between Barbara and Jonathan and she sends him a small wave. He smiles and returns it awkwardly before quickly averting his gaze. He’s still not sure how exactly to make the transition from awkward exes who don’t speak to Head Boy and Girl who work together every day and actually live together. He’s attempting to compartmentalise the fact that on Tuesday they’ll not only have the first prefect meeting to run together, but also be moving into the Heads’ quarters. Where they’ll literally have no escape from each other’s company. Yikes.

Such thoughts are quickly dismissed as he catches sight of Dustin in the stands, accompanied by Mike - who still holds a vehement dislike for Steve - Will and El. They’re trying to start a wave, but it isn’t working past their small group. Steve chuckles to himself. 

He arrives back at Max’s side, who sends him a grim smile, obviously guessing how well the conversation with Alexei went. He raises his eyebrows at her in response, not really able to muster the energy for anything else.

“Alright, seekers!” he calls, and the two fourth or fifth years straighten. “You’re up first. Come give me your names.”

Steve’s options for seeker are third year Jessica Forrester and fifth year Greg Mckorkle. From their stockier builds, he’s not exactly enthusiastic about either of them - most seekers were skinny, agile - but he jots their names on his roster, ushering them towards the other prospective seekers gathered by Alexei. Alexei begins talking them through how tryouts are going to work, intermittently drinking from his slurpee.

“Is that…?” Max squints over at Alexei.

“A 7/11 cherry slurpee,” Steve says flatly. “Yep.”

“How did he even get that here?” Max laughs beneath her breath at Steve’s exasperated look. “Right. You don’t know.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Steve sniffs, turning to watch as the snitch is released and the first tryout takes their turn. Several Slytherins tryout, and if Steve had to guess, he’d say Hargrove will go with Riley O’Connell, since he catches the snitch the fastest and demonstrates a pretty smooth dive - his roll isn’t excellent though. Steve takes note on the blank parchment attached to his clipboard to use that to his advantage. He may have complained about losing his own team’s advantage of hidden strengths and weaknesses, but it doesn’t mean he won’t still exploit the situation that’s been handed to him. 

Ravenclaw don’t have any prospective seekers, since Carver takes the position himself, and there are only a couple second year Hufflepuffs willing to even try going up against Chrissy Cunningham, Hufflepuff seeker since second year who’s caught the snitch almost every game she’s played. She and Carver are Hogwarts’ very own sweethearts - Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff seekers who’ve been publicly together since third year. Carver frequently uses his quidditch victories to soliloquise over his girlfriend, whether she’s in the stands or up there with him, and these vomit-inducing occasions are only another reason Steve wants to win the cup so badly this year. 

Forrester flies well and catches the snitch moderately fast. Steve is almost tempted to pick her, since she’s a good player, and he prefers having women on his team because they’re less likely to butt heads about stupid things or be douches in the change rooms. But he can’t deny that Mckorkle is the better seeker. His movements are sharper and his eye is good - he catches the snitch faster than anyone except Chrissy. Steve flips to the last page of his clipboard - where the final roster is paperclipped. He scribbles Mckorkle’s name in the space for seeker. 

Next comes the chaser and keeper tryouts - at the same time, as usual. Hargrove’s two best chasers - because obviously he himself fills one slot - are undoubtedly Candace Weathers, who had joined the team last year, and a second year named Xavier Gray. Weathers has always been a better shot than flyer, and Gray has a slight tell when he’s feinting which hoop he’ll aim for - both things Steve can use, and jots down. Only Beth Wildfire, in sixth, tries out for Slytherin keeper. She’s been on the team for two years now and Steve already knows her imperfections - she tenses right before she’s about to speed to the side.

Hufflepuff had lost all three of their chasers to graduation, but the most promising replacements are three newcomers named Esther Lowell, Lauren Mackaby and Elena Cortez. Steve subtly notes their assets and shortcomings on his parchment. Jennifer Hayes, in fifth, has been the Hufflepuff keeper for two years now, and her stellar tryout will surely reclaim her position. She often misses shots to her left hoop.

Carver’s thickheaded buddies Brooks, Adams and McKinney will no doubt reclaim their chaser and keeper positions, but a pleasant surprise comes in the form of Lucas Sinclair - Dustin and Max’s friend who Steve may or may not also feel slightly protective over - outflying almost every other entrant. Dustin and their other friends heartily cheer him on as he flies, doing the same for Max once it’s her turn.

Max is excellent as ever. The only shot she lets in is one of Lucas’, and Steve suspects that might have been on purpose, to heighten the chance for her friend to earn a spot on the team. Lucas hardly needs her help, since his flying is speedy and his aim is true. Steve almost wishes he was in Gryffindor. But Ally and (as much as he hates to admit it) Carol certainly make up for it. They both fly and score as well as ever, and the reinstatement of their positions is obvious.

As the chasers and keepers touch back down to the ground and the beaters get ready for their tryout, Steve, concentrating on filling in Max, Ally and Carol’s names on the final roster, is taken by surprise when a sudden weight crashes against his back. Arms wrap around him and he spins, met with a sweaty, beaming Max.

“Did you see that?” she puffs out, eyes bright. “I only missed one shot!”

“You were great!” Steve cries, ruffling her hair as she pulls away. Max glows in the glory of her performance, glows in the knowledge that she’s well and truly cemented her spot on the team. Steve steals a glance at Hargrove, whose gaze is sour and jaw is clenched, and feels a sense of triumph. Max had been so anxious to perform with him watching, so scared to give him another excuse to treat her like shit, and she had still managed to outperform every keeper on the pitch. Suck on that, Hargrove, Steve thinks spitefully.

“Okay,” Max says breathlessly. “Lucas and I are gonna go see the others in the stands.”

“Alright, Mayfield.” Steve goes to ruffle her hair again, grinning when she dodges out of his way with a breathy laugh. She jogs over to where an equally sweaty but equally elated Lucas is waiting by the entrance to the stands and slings an affectionate arm over his shoulder. They make their way to join the others, just as the first beater rises on their broom.

The Hufflepuff beater position not filled by Brenda should undoubtedly go to third year Kyle Samson-Willis, someone Steve’s never heard of but resolves to keep on his radar. The kid’s got good aim and a strong hit. It’ll be hard to find his weakness.

One Ravenclaw beater slot will no doubt be taken by another of Carver’s dickhead friends, Andy Thomas. The other will probably be a fourth year girl Isla Osei - who Steve privately applauds and wishes luck to for being the only girl making it onto the Ravenclaw team.

Heather earns her previous place as beater, to no surprise and Steve’s own delight. His friend deserves the spot, she’s the best beater in the school. Sixth year Oscar Valdez is probably the next best entrant, so Steve wouldn’t be surprised if Hargrove picked him. Valdez has a powerful arm but his aim is lacking. Steve writes this down. 

Vickie unsurprisingly regains her slot, joined by Mike Lewenski, last year’s reserve. He had always been a meathead who had no chance of coming off the bench, but he’s obviously worked hard over the summer. Steve adds both their names to complete his final roster. He’s happy with that lineup. He’ll post that on the common room noticeboard Monday morning. 

Alexei wraps up tryouts - still sipping his cryptically-sourced cherry slurpee - and each Captain announces to the stands - where most players have migrated to by now - when their team will be posted. Said stands begin to steadily clear as students meander their way back to the castle. Steve remains behind, hovering by the stairs as Chrissy makes her way down from where she had been sitting chatting to some other seventh year Hufflepuff girls. She spots Steve and smiles, excusing herself from conversation and walking faster down the steps. She just reaches Steve’s side and opens her mouth to speak - when she is swiftly swept off her feet by Carver before she can. She squawks, letting out a false laugh as Carver spins her around, kissing her cheek as he places her back on her feet. Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

The other Ravenclaw boys gather around. Carver, instantly disregarding the now windswept Chrissy, turns and begins solemnly planning for the quidditch season. Steve grasps Chrissy’s arm and subtly moves the two of them far enough away from Carver and his band of douches that the strong smell of sweat and ego isn’t as overpowering. Chrissy sends him a thankful look. Steve doesn’t even know why she’s still with the guy - she clearly can’t stand him. Vickie and Heather, shouldering their brooms and looking exhausted, approach Steve and Chrissy, chatting amicably about each other’s form during the tryout.

“ - that last one, you had a really powerful hit, Vic,” Heather is saying, leaning beside Chrissy against the canvas of the stands. “And your aim was so good.”

“When you got that one from Carver,” Vickie responds eagerly as she sidles up to Steve and leans wearily into his side. “It was coming and I thought ‘oh shit, she’s not gonna get this one’, but then you did, you came out of nowhere and you totally cracked it, Heather, it was awesome. And Chris, you were so good, babe, better than ever.”

“Thanks Vic,” Chrissy says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She hates getting compliments. They know this, which is why they try to include her in the obligatory compliment sessions, but not extensively. Maybe if Carver paid more attention to his girlfriend than his hair, he would know how much she hates it when he dedicates his public spectacles to her. 

“How’d you go, Steve?” Heather inquires, pushing her sweat-sticky hair back from her face. “Decided on a lineup yet?”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles. “It was relatively easy, since I already had most of my team.”

Vickie huffs out a laugh, elbowing him sharply in the stomach. “You big softie, you.”

Chrissy yawns, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. “I am ready for a shower and a hot cocoa. Kitchens tonight?”

“Ooh, good call, Chrissy,” Vickie says brightly as Steve nods fervidly and Heather lets out a longing groan at the suggestion of hot cocoa.

“I haven’t had a well made hot cocoa since June,” she whines, thrusting her hands out in front of her pathetically. The rest of them laugh, slowly making their way back up to the castle. Steve spots Hargrove walking by himself, dawdling behind the intertwined Carol and Tommy. He turns away, swallowing down the instinctive urge to call him over to walk with them. He doesn’t know why the thought had even crossed his mind - he doesn’t care about Billy Hargrove, he doesn’t care about him one bit.