Archive of Our Own ^beta

FIRST YEAR

September of First Year, Watford School of Magicks

BAZ

Simon Snow is sitting on his bed.

The chosen one. The greatest mage. My roommate.

Crying.

I don’t know why-what does he have to cry about? He doesn’t have any family he’s leaving behind. 

I push away the stab of disappointment and guilt in my stomach. Daphne is pregnant, we just found out, and at this rate I won’t be home in time for the baby.

But Snow doesn’t have any of that. I know where he came from, overheard him telling Bunce about the homes he’s lived in. 

He jumps when he sees me, standing in the doorway and staring. I don’t blame him. He was distracted, and I’m unnaturally silent.

Vampire quiet. I don’t know if they’re all like that or if it’s just me. My father walks the same, so it might be genetic.

I sneer at him. Snow’s face is tear-stained, and there’s wet patches on his shirt and his pillow. 

I almost regret what I have to do. But I do have to.

“What have you to cry about, Snow? Your family?” It’s a low blow, and I know it. But, well, needs must.

His face screws up harder and he pushes his face into his pillow. His shoulders are shaking, and for a moment, a second, I wish I didn’t have to be his enemy. That I could sit next to him, rub his back, tell him it would be fine. But I can’t, and I don’t want to think about it.

I sit on my bed and pull out my Elocution textbook. We don’t have homework, it’s only the second day, but I want to get ahead. Top of the class.

It gets harder to ignore Snow as he cries. Ten minutes pass, then twenty, and his face is still buried in that pillow-I shudder to think the state it’s in by now. I sigh, reaching into my bedside drawer as I stand.

I throw the bag of Salt and Vinegar Walkers at Snow as I walk past him. He looks at me, startled, with his face covered in snot and tears and his pillow in a similar state. 

“Here. Stuff your face and maybe you’ll feel okay enough that I don’t have to listen to you. And for magics’ sake, Snow, wash that damn pillow before you sleep on it.” I say, softening the edges of my voice just enough to take him off guard. He’s still wary- good -but he mumbles something at me and tears the bag open.

I leave. I’ll see if Dev wants to go to the library and maybe talk his roommate into coming, too.

June of First Year, Watford School of Magicks

SIMON

Baz Isn’t in the room. I made sure he wouldn’t be, because I knew this would happen.

I’ve just got back from the Mage’s. He won’t let me stay over the summer.

I knew he wouldn’t. But I thought, maybe. Maybe I’d proved myself. Maybe I could convince him to let me stay, to train and stuff. Safer here than at the homes, at least. 

No. He didn’t even look at me when he said it, eyes on some papers on his desk. 

I clutch my little red ball tighter to my chest. My eyes are burning, but I can’t cry yet. I have to pack first.

I run my free hand through my hair. It’ll be gone soon-the ladies at the homes sheer it all off every summer. Not like Baz-his hair is long, longer than anyone I’ve ever seen. He usually braids it and it hangs heavily down his back.

I’m still taller, though. I comfort myself with that thought and stand. Pulling myself off of my bed feels like the hardest thing ever, and I want to collapse back into it and stay there until September.

Deep breaths, I remind myself as I drag the worn out suitcase I got second hand from under my bed. I’d shoved it there at the beginning of the year so I wouldn’t have to see it. 

I set my ball carefully on my nightstand. I step back, and when I look back at it, a wave of something crashes over me.

I don’t want to leave. I never want to leave.

I slide to my knees, then wrap my arms around them. I’m sat against Baz’s bed, but he won’t be back for a while.

I bury my face in my arms and cry.

I don’t know how much time passes-it feels like hours, but it could have been minutes.

 The door creaks open

BAZ

It’s the last day of our first year, and Simon Snow is crying. Again. (And I didn’t even do anything this time.)

I feel more awkward about it now. We didn’t really know each other the first time, and though I know he’s cried more-he doesn't know how to hide tear tracks-but we never said anything about it.

And now we’re enemies. Rivals. Something like that.

And I don’t want to intrude, strange as it is. I know how horrible it feels to be caught crying and asked to talk about it when you don’t want to.

I stick to the tactic I used on the first time I found him like this and step around him to pull a bag of crisps from my bedside. I haven’t packed yet, so my drawer is still full, and I can use that.

He’s sat leaning against my bed, so I have to sort of step past and lean over him to get to the drawer, but I don’t say anything. When I hold it out to him, Snow eyes me warily and takes it, but doesn’t eat. Instead, he sets them aside, more carefully than I’ve seen him handle his wand.

He looks at me, and his face is vulnerable in a way I don’t usually see. Open, in a way. 

I don’t know if I want to see it. I look at the mole on his cheek, the one that makes my stomach feel weird and fluttery. There’s tear stains smeared across his cheeks.

(I wonder if they’d taste sweet from all the scones and sugar he eats.)(It’s a stupid thought. Tears taste like tears.)

He’s still watching me, and I don’t know what to do. Daphne had the baby, a girl they named Mordelia-which is a cool name, but poor kid to be stuck with it-in mid November, so I saw her  over Christmas break. When she cried I just held her and rocked a bit. Sometimes I had to sing to her to make her calm.

I can’t do that for Snow. (I want to, though. I don’t know why.)(It’s probably just because this is awkward.)

I offer my hand, hesitantly. He takes it and stands, turning away. We’re still standing between our beds, and there’s not much room for me to move away with him in front of me. Snow drops my hand-why was he still holding it? Why was I still holding his?

I don’t know what I was planning to do. My nightstand drawer didn’t close all the way, so I push it all the way in with a click that sounds far too loud in the silence of the room.

His face is blank. No emotion. I don’t like it. He always looks so alive, so full of emotion and heat.

SIMON

Baz is just standing there staring at me. I wipe my eyes with my sleeves. (I don’t know why I’m not upset he found me like this.)(Maybe because he’s seen me cry before, or because Baz seems so perfect it’s hard to imagine him crying.)

I’m glad he gave me those crisps, though. Now I’ll have something to eat on the way back to the home. I should cry more often if it makes him give me stuff.

I’m still looking at him, and he’s still staring back. He doesn’t seem to know what to do. I’ve never seen him like this before.

I don’t know if we’ve ever been this close without fighting. Or sleeping. He looks away for a moment, like he doesn’t want to meet my eyes, and his ears are pointed where his hair parts over them.

I wonder if that’s a magic thing or just a Baz thing. Penny and Agatha don’t have pointed ears. (I don’t either, but I don’t really count, do I?)

Then he does meet my eyes, and his are a kind of grey I’ve never seen on anyone else.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, and his voice sounds too neutral. Like he’s forcing all the emotion out of it.

I wanted to be friends with my roommate. I think I’ve given up on that, but even if I hadn’t, this isn’t how I want to make friends with Baz.

I smile a little and Baz flinches. I don’t think he expected that. 

“No,” I say, and my voice is rough from crying. “Not really. Mage is putting me in a home again.” I amend when his eyes start to close off. “I don’t want to go.”

“Ah.” He says, and he doesn’t understand but he looks like he’s trying to. I’ve never known Baz to let something he doesn’t understand go. He knows everything, like Penny.

“Well,” he says awkwardly-this whole thing is awkward, really-”Can’t help with that. See you in the fall, Snow.”

He stops at the door, and without turning around, says “You slew a fucking dragon, Snow. You can make it a summer without stuffing your face every day.”

And he leaves, grabbing the shiny suitcase on his bed as he goes.

I don’t smile, but I feel a little better as I finish packing and grab my ball of the nightstand.

SECOND YEAR

November of Second Year, Watford School of Magicks

BAZ

I’m having a crisis.

Or not a crisis, maybe, but definitely a problem. 

Daphne sent a photo of Mordelia in her latest letter. She’s adorable, loud, and just barely turned one.

(Daphne likes sending letters the old fashioned way, even though we both have mobiles. She says she likes the charm of it, and that she can enclose little things like this.) 

And I want to pin the photo to the wall. I don’t have a frame, so that would be closest. (It’s not like I’d be the only one with photos up. Snow has one of him and Bunce and Wellbelove all buddy-buddy, and he’ll hang up a couple of his drawings once in a while.)(They’re actually good, which is surprising. Snow is surprising. I should be used to it by now.)

I don’t even know why. She’s a baby, she looks like every other baby I’ve ever seen, with dark wisps of hair and tiny little hands.

I’m proud of her, which is strange, because she doesn’t even do anything. Just lay there and cry most of the time. 

Snow is with Bunce somewhere. I decide to hang up the photo, and fuck what Snow says.

SIMON

Baz hung up a photo.

It’s a baby, small and pink and squishy-looking. Wisp of dark hair and a tiny nose, wrapped in a pink and white blanket. When I lift the bottom, carefully, the back says “Happy Birthday Mordelia! 15/11/09” in a curling script that doesn’t look like Baz’s.

He’s at his desk, and when I turn he’s watching me. “Don’t ruin it,” he says, like I would. “I don’t have another.”

“Who is it?” I ask. I’m curious, and Baz must sense I’m being genuine. 

“My sister. Mordy. Just turned one,” he answers, and there’s something in his voice. Pride, maybe.

“Didn’t know you had a sister,” I tell him and he rolls his eyes.

“Of course you didn’t, Snow. I didn’t exactly shout it from the rooftops, did I? Not a surprise though, is it-you don’t know much.” He’s being snarky and prickly. I think he’s trying to make up for showing an emotion other than disgust and anger. And plotting.

I don’t respond. I grab my textbooks and my bag and head to the library. Penny is waiting, I just came back to get my things.

Besides, it’s better to leave Baz in a good (ish) mood than try to poke any further. Maybe he won’t fight about the window tonight.

My laptop is spelled shut when I realize I forgot it and go back.

Well. Maybe not, then.

February of Second Year, Watford School of Magicks

BAZ

It’s my birthday today.

I’m thirteen now. A teenager, technically. 

Daphne sent a letter telling me she and Father convinced the staff to let me come home for the weekend. It’s a Tuesday, and they’re picking me up Friday afternoon when I get out of class.

Fiona is, actually. Daphne has to watch the baby and Father has a meeting with the Families.

I want to see Mordy. I haven’t since Christmas break. Two months isn’t a long time, and yet. 

I wonder how Snow will react when I’m not here. I like to think he’ll be confused, angry, unable to stop thinking about me.

I had a realization a couple weeks ago and I don’t want to deal with it. At all.

I fancy Simon Snow. And he hates me.

I knew I don’t like girls already. I feel about as much when I look at a Wellbelove, the prettiest girl in the year, as I do when I look at a piece of toast. So that wasn’t a surprise.

But really. I had the pick Snow, didn’t I? I just love making things difficult for myself.

Anyway. I have homework to do, and I have to reply to Daphne’s letter. She’s sent another photo of Mordy, and this one has her and Father in it as well.

I’m sticking it carefully next to the two I have already-I brought one back after break, it’s Mordy and I sitting in a pile of wrapping paper-just as Snow barrels into the room.

Oh, right. I spelled his laptop shut again. (I’ve been following the reasoning that if I make him angry enough, I’ll stop finding him attractive and these stupid feelings will go away.)(Not worked yet, but I have hope.)

“What, Snow?” I say without looking at him. I don’t want to.

He grabs my shoulder and turns me forcefully. I stumble a bit. 

His face is red and blotchy, and curly blue hairs are stuck to the shoulder of his blazer. Bunce. I sneer and brush them off. He scowls, but doesn't flinch away.

“What?” I say again, because Snow is a numpty and doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything.

He gestures towards his mouth. Ah, right. I spelled him mute earlier- cat’s got your tongue -and Bunce must not be strong enough to break it.

I’ve been practicing with how enunciation changes it. My guess is the emphasis I put on got is what did it. I make a mental note to write that down.

He waves his arms again and I sigh. I have to unspell him, then. I slip past him while he rants silently. 

My wand is on my desk. I unspell Snow and he sighs, then coughs. I consider it, then spell his laptop shut while he’s distracted.

There. That’s my daily quota of annoying Simon Snow filled. I ignore his sputtering and sit down on my bed to read. (Fiona sends me her books when she’s done. A lot are political, but she’s been on a history non-fiction kick lately so I keep getting books about ancient Roman burial practices.) (It’s actually pretty interesting.)

Snow stomps over to his desk and settles in. His intention is probably homework, but he pulls out a blank piece of paper and starts drawing instead. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed. He didn’t draw at all first year, but he’s been doing it almost everyday since September. He’s better than I am, not that I would ever admit it.

We’ve been sitting in silence for about half an hour when he starts actually doing homework. I don’t look up, but he’s rustling papers around more than he has been.

“Baz?” he asks, and his voice doesn’t have the growling edge I’ve come to expect.

He’s holding my letter. The letter from Daphne. The one that says, in large lettering and purple pen across the top, Happy Birthday Basil!! 

“It’s your birthday?” He sounds confused, and he’s stuttering less than normal. (I don’t point that out. I don’t tease Snow about his stutter-he gets enough shit from the teachers, and I have some morals)

“Obviously,” I drawl, doing my best to sound board. I sneer when he only blinks. “I do have one, you know.”

He blinks again. (Crowley, why this idiot? ) He looks at the letter, then at me again.

“I just...just never thought about it, I ‘spose,” he says. “Figured it was over summer, like mine.”

Snow’s birthday is in the summer. I didn’t know that.

“Figured wrong, Snow. And it’s rude to look at other people’s mail.” Didn’t the nuns teach you that, Snow? or You must know some manners, at least, I want to add, but don’t. I can’t say more. This is the least confrontational conversation we’ve had in weeks, and I don’t want to ruin it. I look at my book, but I’m not reading it.

“Oh. Sorry,” he says, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He pauses, then adds, “Happy birthday. Prick.”

I didn’t expect that. Snow just keeps surprising me today.

I don’t thank him, but I do level him with a glare. I think about unspelling his laptop, but decide against it. Can’t let him get too comfortable.

He settles back into his homework, and I into my book, and we don’t talk.

I remember now why I like him. I hate this.

THIRD YEAR

March of Third Year, Watford School of Magicks

SIMON

Penny and I are in the library trying to research the Gates. Agatha is sitting a bit away from us, talking furiously but quietly into her phone.

We found the First gate earlier today, except it was on fire, and we can’t spell it out. Or open. Penny thinks that it’ll open when we stop the fire, but so far Make a wish, Blow the candle out, and Fire Hydrant haven’t worked. Neither have any fireproofing spells-I still got burnt after Penny cast Flame On and You’re on fire! on me.

I run my thumb over my burned fingertips-they haven’t responded to healing spells, not even the nurse’s-as I watch Penny fine-tooth comb all of the Magical History and Mythology books in the library for the Gates.

We’re running out of time. The Mage needs a book, a wand, and a sword that are hidden behind the Gates, and he needs them soon. We’ve gotten wind that the Humdrum is sending something more dangerous than ever-more than the dragon, even.

I don’t want to see something more dangerous than a dragon. That doesn’t sound like a good time for anybody.

I decide I’m doing no good just sitting here. I can’t help Penny-I’d end up flipping through every book in the library, probably all for different words, and I don’t have Agatha’s connections.

I tap Penny’s shoulder and tell her I’m getting us lunch. She nods absently. I wave at Agatha and gesture at the door. She waves me on, still talking into her phone.

I stop at our room first. Baz is there, laying on his bed with a book. He sits up when I enter and sets it aside.

“Did you ever think, Snow,” he drawls, “to ask the person whose family created the damn gates?”

I freeze. I didn’t know that.

“You...what? You would help?” I ask, and I hate this stutter. Baz doesn’t comment on it, never does, but he rolls his eyes and sneers like I’m an idiot.

“Yes, Snow. My great-great-great-something grandmother Grimm created the Gates in case we ever needed to flee. Or hide something.”

“You have them. The book, the sword, the wand. I need those. The Mage does.”

“And why would I give them to you? Make no mistake, they’re no heirlooms of my family, but I’m not keen on just handing it to my enemies’ either.”

“They’re not yours?” I ask, and I’m confused. He should give them to me then. I tell him so.

“No.” he says plainly. I huff.

“The Humdrum is sending something. More dangerous than a dragon.” I tell him, and I hope it will work.

“Oh, really,” he drawls. “In that case...no.”

I almost scream.

BAZ

I’m enjoying this too much.

“Hmm. Well,” I say slowly, and Snow’s eyes catch on me. They’re blue, and bright. I almost lose my breath with the intensity of it.

“What?” He demands when I don’t continue. Growls. My stomach is shivering in my throat.

“I’ll make a deal with you. Keep the window closed for the rest of the year and give me your spare blanket, and I’ll help you with the Gates.”

It’s a steep price, but I think he’ll go for it. He seems desperate enough. I can practically see the steam rising from his ears.

“Fine.” he growls. “Help us and fine. Deal.” 

“Very well,” I say, and pretend my heart isn’t beating at an almost normal pace. Considering how it usually is, this is racing. Beating out of my chest, almost. “Hand me my wand. I want to make sure you keep up your end.”

He growls again but does it. The spell I have in mind doesn’t require physical contact, thankfully. I don’t think I could handle that right now.

“The price is right,” I intone, and the magic seeps into us. It’s fairly harmless, but if either of us don’t keep our end it will emblazon DEAL BREAKER on every free inch of skin and every shirt put on will have I BREAK MY PROMISES on the back until the other forgives you and spells it away.

Snow shivers. He leaves the room and I follow.

SIMON

Well. Baz did what I asked-we found and unlocked the gates, and retrieved the stuff for the Mage. I have a new sword now. And a promise I have to keep.

I barely remember how he did it. Something with blood and magic that left us ten minutes to get in and out. We almost didn’t make it in time.

I need a shower before I think anymore. At least my burns are healed, now.

BAZ

I’m almost shaking. It’s not cold-the sun’s long down, but I closed the window already.

I’m waiting for Snow to get out of the shower so I can have one. Best thing about a magic school-the hot water never runs out.

I’m going to sleep under a blanket that still smells like Simon Snow tonight. Cinnamon and smoke and cheap school soap. It sounds like a nursery rhyme. It makes my slow heart beat a normal pace and my stomach drop into my shoes.

I don’t know if I can actually do this. I will, though, because I have a crush on Simon Snow, The Greatest Mage, The Chosen One, my rival, my roommate.

(Even thinking it feels weird. I've been using "crush" instead of fancy because Snow is the kind of person that language fits. Rough and brash, something so refined and common as fancying.)

I don’t worry about Snow, since he has a sheet and another blanket and a normal body temperature at least five degrees warmer than average. (We match. I’m about the same, though opposite.)

By the time Snow is out, I’m lounging on my bed with a book and my night clothes folded neatly at my feet. I pick them up and wander into the bathroom, making an effort to appear as though I’m not in a hurry.

When I come out, Simon’s blanket is thrown haphazardly across my bed and he’s already asleep in his.

I lay down and wrap myself in it. As I inhale, I make a mental note to look up preservation spells tomorrow.

It’s creepy. I don’t care. Fits with the whole ‘pathetic-yet-gorgeous-and-intelligent-vampire’ theme I’ve got.

 I sleep better that night than I have all year.

June of Third Year, Watford School of Magicks

BAZ

It’s hot out today. Not too hot, the weather spells ensure it, but warm enough it seeps into my bones and makes me feel almost human. Weirdly windy for a summer day, too. 

Dev and Niall and I are sat on a blanket on the Lawn. It’s the end of year picnic, so we aren't the only ones-dozens of groups are clustered around us, first year all the way through eighth.

I’m laying on my back, soaking up sun, and Dev and Niall are playing Garbage in between bites of sandwiches and crisps.

“No,” Niall protests, “c’mon, Dev. Jack means end turn, remember?”

Niall shoves him and ends his turn. Stupid game, Garbage-Niall picked it up visiting family in America.

I don’t ever want to go to America if this is the kind of games they have. I sit up.

“Well, gents,” I say and they look at me. “Off to the kitchens. You want anything else?”

“Drinks?” Dev asks, hopefully. We forgot to bring them out with us. All Niall’s fault, honestly. He distracted us with a debate over the best types of picnic food. (I say crisps and sandwiches. Dev says mince pies and ice cream. Niall says cake and fruit, because he’s uncultured and half American.)(They’re sitting just a bit too close to be friendly. Dev had cornered me a few weeks ago and, after swearing me to secrecy, confided that he has a crush on Niall. Which is completely fine, of course-I’m not in a place to judge-except Niall had done the same yesterday, telling me he fancies Dev.)(It’s almost torture, watching them and knowing and at the same time knowing I can’t do anything.)

“Right,” I tell him, and he whoops. “Toss me my hat.”

Dev throws it at me. Wind picks it up and sweeps it away. I curse and jog after it, throwing an exasperated look over my shoulder. I swear Mordy acts more responsible than them and she’s only two. (His bar mitzvah is soon-you’d think he’d be a little less childish, but no .)

When I turn and catch sight of my hat, I curse again. Snow caught it, and he’s staring at me as I jog closer.

“All alone today, Snow? Should have guessed it’d happen eventually,” I sneer, because being nice to Snow after he ruined my plan- plot -with the flibbertigibbets is unthinkable. He didn’t even cry a little bit, and it’s really easy to make Snow cry. (I bet he picked it up from the goat herder. She cries every time I see her.)

“Penny had to return her library books and Agatha went home early.” He sounds wary, but not confrontational. “Here.”

I take my hat back and put it on. I hate these stupid things.

I don’t know what to do. Snow looks like he wants to say something, and I kind of want to talk to him. I won’t be able to for three months.

I have to give back his blanket. It still smells like him, the preservation spells made sure of it. I’ll have to take those off and wash it so he’s not suspicious.

He opens his mouth.

SIMON

I don’t know what I’m going to say, only that Baz is standing there and I don’t want him to yell again. Even though he set a horde of flibbertigibbets on me.

“Any plans for summer?” I ask, and wince. I didn’t mean to stutter so much, or sound so uncertain. Penny’s voice whispers in my head- if you see Basil, please be civil, Simon. It’s the last day of school, for magics’ sake.

He seems just as off-put and I am though. “Not much,” he says, “just the usual. Mordelia and the club and plotting your demise.”

I snort. “Not very good at that. Still here, Baz.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose you are. What are you planning, Snow? Hunting down goblins and hanging out with your chavvy Normal buddies?”

He wants me to get mad. I don’t let myself. I wish I had something to squeeze, though. I crack my thumb instead.

“Nah. Another home, same as always.” I crack my other thumb and eye him.

“Hmm. Have fun with that, Snow. Now, my idiot cousin and our equally stupid friend are dying of thirst, so this is where I leave you. Do try and make it through the summer, Snow-I would miss tormenting you dreadfully.” 

He walks away, crossing paths with Penny as she comes toward me with two bottled sodas and a napkin. She must've stopped at the dining hall, then. That's probably why she took so long. She brought me a scone-I recognize the shape, and Penny doesn’t like them. They talk for a minute, and I think Penny just told him to go fuck himself. Baz’s short, sharp laugh rings briefly before Penny continues picking her way through the groups scattered around.

I don’t think I’ll miss him over summer, not like I’ll miss Penny or Agatha or magic in general, but it might not be so bad to see him again come fall.

FOURTH YEAR

September of Fourth Year, Watford School of Magicks

SIMON

Baz came back with his long hair cut to his shoulders and he keeps avoiding me.

Not that I think the two are related. I’m fairly sure they aren’t, actually, because why would a haircut make Baz avoid me?

But he is. He stays out of our room when I’m in it-I know because once he walked in, saw me, then turned around and left.

So. I have a reason this time. Not for why, but I at least have proof he is.

But I have a plan. Next time he comes into our room after class, I’m going to follow him and see where he goes.

I wish I could go invisible. With like a cape or something. I think I’ve heard Penny talk about it before, and there are spells- Now you see me, now you don’t and Hide and Seek -but I’d end up invisible for weeks if I tried. I decide not to risk it. Plus, Hide and Seek only works if he wants to find me.

I wait for Baz to come back that night, and I follow him from a distance when he leaves.

BAZ

I’m an idiot.

Simon Snow followed me down here, to the Catacombs, to my mother’s tomb, and I didn’t even realize.

I was distracted. I’ve been getting strange cravings lately, and though I really hope it’s not my vampirism, I am fairly certain it is.

I have to find some way to deal with it. Later. I’m too tired right now.

I’m sitting against the wall next to my mother’s tomb and my crush-slash-enemy is standing behind a nearby pillar, pretending he’s sneaky.

I turn my head, still leaning back. I’ll have to wash these clothes again tonight.

My head feels strangely light. I miss my long hair. I miss the weight of my braid down my back.

It reminds me too much of my mother and I can’t do that right now. Maybe I’ll grow it back out, if I live that long.

“Snow,” I call, and he jumps and trips over his own feet. Snow is growing fast-he has an inch on me at least, but I’m not worried. All of my family is tall, and I’ll grow. “Might as well come sit, then.”

He stumbles towards me and I hate that it makes my stomach flip and my heart beat at an almost normal pace. This ungraceful bumbling idiot, really?

And then he sits down next to me, and the warmth of him burns through me. I think, oh, this ungraceful bumbling idiot.

He sighs and leans his head against the wall, eyes closed. I watch him, now that I can without him seeing.

We don’t talk for close to twenty minutes. It’s extremely strange, this mini-truce we seem to have fallen into.

Then Snow yawns, and I think maybe we’re just tired.

He blinks his ordinary blue eyes open and turns towards me. “So. What’re you actually doing here? Don’t seem like your usual haunt.” He chuckles at his joke, and I roll my eyes.

“My mother,” I say quietly. I’ve decided to try out being honest with him, for once. “This is her tomb.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember her?”

“A bit.” I don’t say anything else. I want to tell him, but I don’t want him to know. If I could tell him and have him immediately forget, I would do it in a second. Unfortunately, memory spells are both extremely difficult and highly regulated.

“I don’t remember mine. I was only a few days old when I was surrendered.”

I hum. I'm going to just go for it-I can always Cat got your tongue him if he tries to bring it up again.

“Her name was Natasha.” I pause to gesture at the plaque with her name and all of the normal gravestone information. “She was warm. Kind. I remember sitting on her lap while she did paperwork. She used to get me from the Watford nursery and let me play in her office.”

I pause. I don’t know how to continue. I’ve spent so much time trying not to think about this it’s painful remembering.

He says, “I didn’t know Watford has a nursery.”

“It doesn’t. Not anymore. It walled itself off and disappeared after she died.” I wait. I wonder if Snow was ever allowed to comfort crying babies in a nursery. Probably not-home kids are arranged by stricter age groups than we followed, I think.

“I. I don’t...I never. I don’t talk about this. About the homes.” His stutter is more pronounced than usual and his voice is hushed. (I don’t point out he hasn’t said anything other than being surrendered. I think, maybe, he wants to tell me about the homes.)(Isn’t that an odd thought. Simon Snow, telling me about his summers in care homes after I tell him about my mother.)

“I don’t either. Ever.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

More silence, but this time it’s not as awkward. When we’re like this I can almost pretend we’re not mortal enemies destined to kill each other.

I don’t want to kill him.

“Why’d you cut your hair?”

Well. I wasn’t expecting that, though maybe I should have.

SIMON

He doesn’t answer right away.

I don’t know if he’ll answer at all. I don’t know why I asked. But we’re here, and it feels almost like we’re friends. Like I won’t have to kill him someday.

“It reminded me of my mother too much. She kept her hair long, almost to her knees. I remember her braids-they were like ropes, Snow.” His voice is hushed and sad. I can understand that.

I wonder how my mother kept her hair. I wonder if it was brown like mine, or if I got my father’s.

I don’t reply. I don’t know what I would say, and my throat is dry anyway.

Baz keeps talking, though. “She had rough hands. Fire worker’s hands. All the Pitches do. And she always kept sweets and books for me in a drawer of her desk. She would do paperwork, and I would play on the floor, and at lunch we’d walk to Ebb’s and feed the goats. I…” His voice catches and his arm jerks, like he wants to wipe tears from his eyes. There aren't any there, though, and he slumps a bit instead. Our shoulders press together. I don't move away. (He's so cold.)

“Alright,” I say, and he blinks hard and sighs.

“I just miss her, is all.”

“Yeah.”

Is this what friendships with Baz would be like? Silence and talking about dead mothers? I don’t know.

I think I want to. Be his friend, I mean.

 I don’t think he’d let me be, though.

“Topic change, then. How’s your sister?” I don’t know how to make conversation with Baz, but she seems like a safe topic. Baz still has a couple photos of her and his stepmum and dad pinned to the wall.

“Mordy?” He’s surprised. I smile. “She’s fine. Turning three soon, so hopefully we’ll be out of the terrible twos. For such a small thing, she can be extremely loud.”

I laugh. I never thought Baz would be the loving older brother type. We both pause, shorter this time.

“Daphne’s pregnant again,” he says, and he sounds oddly pleased about it. “Twin girls. She’s due in January.”

“Oh,” I say. I’ve been saying it a lot, but that's understandable when Baz keeps turning my perception of him upside down.

We stay there for at least another hour. I can feel the hostility between us melt the more we talk.  Maybe because it’s September, and we haven't had the time to rebuild our mutual hatred. 

I can’t tell him about my family. I tell him about the homes instead, how I had to shave my hair every summer and the badly-planned game days the ladies try to organize.

Eventually, we move on to more current topics. It turns out the kid who got stuck in the dumbwaiter is Baz’s cousin, and I laugh so hard I cry when Baz tells me he and Dev convinced Marcus-dumbwaiter kid-that it went to the kitchens, despite being half a school away. 

It was more than a bit of an arse move, but it’s also really funny the way Baz tells it. He even does impressions, which I find out is because of Mordelia when I ask. (He reads her bedtime stories over the summer. It’s sweet, and very weird.)

I ask him about the rest of his family, while we’re on the subject, and I find out a lot. Turns out I couldn’t recognize Marcus as his cousin because his mother is Chinese-actually, really none of his family looks alike. Dev has dark hair, like Baz, but his is curly and more brown and his eyes are more greenish-brown instead. And he doesn't have the grey tint Baz does. (I wonder if that's because he's a vampire. I wonder what he would look like if he wasn't.)

I keep asking questions (because I don’t have a family, because I want to know what it’s like) and Baz keeps answering. That’s how I find out the Grimms are all Jewish, and Baz grew up with those holidays until his mother died and his father was too distracted. (He does Christmas now, because that’s what Daphne celebrates, and his father fell out of practicing. He says Daphne knows it would be too painful for him, being reminded of all the things he lost and all of what he can’t do with Baz’s mum anymore. New memories completely, instead of replacing old.)(Daphne sounds wonderful.)

I didn’t expect this. But I’m enjoying it more than I think I should be.

BAZ

We both jump when my mobile rings. It’s the alarm-I have it set for twenty minutes before curfew every night, just in case.

“Shit,” I say, “we better go. Did you eat?”

“Yeah. Had dinner before I followed you down here. Did you?” 

“No. I’ll have to grab something from the kitchens. You can’t come,” I interrupt when he opens his mouth. He looks disappointed for a moment, then sighs and turns, leaves.

I wait until he’s out of sight. The second he is I slump against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut.

Fuck.

I didn’t mean to say so much.

But I was caught in the high of talking to Simon Snow, of listening to him laugh and sitting with our shoulders pressed together.

I let out a shaky breath.

I am well and truly fucked.

January of Fourth Year, Watford School of Magicks

SIMON

We’re in the middle of Magic Words on a Thursday when the nurse knocks on the door and asks for Baz.

He’s in such a rush to leave he doesn’t take his books. Whispers spread through the class, wondering what’s going on, but the teacher clears her throat and continues the lesson.

In the seat ahead of me, Micah leans further into Penny and whispers in her ear. She bats him away and sends me a look over her shoulder.

Later, I mouth. I didn’t tell Penny about Baz’s stepmum. About any of what he told me. It felt too private to just go and say like that. She nods and turns around, pinching Micah’s arm, and the lesson continues almost like normal.

I know what’s happening. Daphne went into labor and Baz has gone to be there for his new sisters.

I grab his books too when I leave. It’s a good thing that this happened now-it’s our last class for today, and a Friday, so Baz won’t miss anything. Not that that would even affect him, of course. Penny and Micach are waiting for me outside the door-Agatha doesn’t have this class with us-and they ambush me when I step outside.

“What was that?” Penny hisses. Micah nods behind her.

“I have to drop these off,” I say, “but I’ll tell you on the way. Ebb’s?”

They both nod and Penny goes to grab Agatha. Micah grabs my bag so I can shift the stuff in my arms around, and I send him a grateful look.

I leave him at the bottom of Mummers-he has a private room near the infirmary-and when I get back from dropping off our books Penny and Agatha have joined him. Agatha’s arm is still in a sling from our Christmas adventure, and I take her bag. She smiles at me and rubs her cast.

(Penny must’ve caught her just as she was leaving her last class. She wouldn’t have her bag still otherwise.) 

“So what was that?” Micah asks. Penny nods in agreement, and I guess she already told Agatha what happened, since she does the same.

“His stepmum had twins.” I say. I don’t sugarcoat it or preface it, just lay it out. Penny blinks, Micah smiles, and Agatha laughs.

We don’t talk about it on our way to Ebb’s, slushing through snow while Agatha tries cajoling Penny into doing something with her hair and Micah chatters about America and cold.

BAZ

I knew what was happening as soon as the nurse asks for me and I bolt.

They’re here. My new sisters. It’s late in the night-Fiona picked me up as soon as Father told her Daphne’s water broke-and she was in labor for fifteen hours. Not horrible, she says. Mordy took almost a full day.

I was born via c-section. Father says it took about ten hours overall, and Mother swore to never have any more kids after it was over.

We’re still at the hospital, and Fi’s on a food run. Macca’s. Father and I are in the room with Daphne, who fell asleep a while ago.

“Basil,” Father says softly. “Come say hello to your new sisters.”

I don’t point out that I already have. I saw them when the nurse wheeled the cart back in and when Daphne held them.

I cross the room so fast I almost trip. Father smiles, and it’s not as strange to see as it was five or six years ago.

Daphne is good for him.

He passes the one with the little white hat to me. I have experience holding babies, so I adjust her in my arms until we’re both comfortable.

She blinks little baby-blue eyes at me and I smile wider.

“What’s her name?” I ask, looking at Father. He’s rocking the other one slowly.

“Daphne and I agreed that you can name her, Basil. She named Mordelia, and I named this one. Auralia Cecilia,” he pauses to lift her, and poor child. I guess it’s family tradition to have a strange first name. “And you will name that one.”

I blink back at her. I wasn’t prepared for this.

I think for a moment, and then I have it.

“Alchemilla Cora,” I say, then, “She’s going to hate me, isn’t she?”

Father nods seriously. “Fits the theme. But really, Basil, you named my daughter after a plant?”

“I’m named after a plant and you weren’t complaining then.” 

He doesn’t argue. Mother picked Tyrannus, but not Basilton. Alchemilla lets out a little cry in my arms and I start swaying back and forth.

“Lady’s Mantle. Natasha loved it, and Fiona was always bringing her clippings. Nat couldn’t keep a plant alive for the world.” 

I look at him. I didn’t know that. “I’m glad I picked it, then.”

He hums quietly and we stand there in silence, swaying, until Fiona gets back.

SIMON

Baz gets back around noon on Sunday. He’s in our room when I get back from lunch, and he’s tacking up a new photo next to the few already there.

“Hi,” I say and wait.

“Snow,” he says and it doesn’t sound as cold as usual. Must’ve went well, then.

“How’re the twins? And your stepmum?” I ask, because he doesn’t seem to want to say anything more.

“Good. Healthy, all of them. Girls, but we knew that,” he says, and there’s that odd soft edge to his voice again.

I joke, “Did they get stuck with names as posh and long as yours?” 

He actually laughs at that. “Yeah. Aurelia Cecilia and Alchemilla Cora.”

“Christ,” I blurt before I can stop myself, “really? Family tradition, is it?”

Baz laughs again. He’s never done that before. Laugh at my jokes twice in a row, I mean. Sometimes I can tell he thinks I’m funny, because a little crease furrows his brow and his cheeks suck in a bit.

“I named Cora,” he says, “and at this point, yes. Tyrannus Basilton, Mordelia Astoria, Aurelia Cecilia and Alchemilla Cora. Full set.”

I snort, and he laughs again -this is officially the happiest I’ve ever seen him-and he tells me about the girls and Daphne and we’re civil for the first time since I followed him to his mother’s tomb.

October of Fifth Year, Watford School of Magicks

BAZ

Snow bursts into our room and he smells like blood and sweat and death.

Blood.

“Crowley, Snow, what happened to you?” I ask and my heart is beating hard. Thank snakes I fed last night and I’m not hungry. Exposing myself as a vampire to the Mage’s Heir would be the worst thing to happen to me, right next to my mother’s death and my crush on Snow.

“Humdrum sent numpties. Four. Had to fight them,” he growls, then slumps. He looks exhausted.

I stand and come towards him. I left my wand at my desk, but he still looks on edge as I come closer.

He stands. We’re nose-to-nose (Snow must have had a growth spurt over summer.)(How did I not notice? It’s October.)(This is the first time this year we’ve been close enough for me to see, not counting the time I accidentally pushed him down the stairs.) and he growls again.

Curse my heart. It seems to have made a place in my throat, and it moves there every time Snow growls at me. 

“Crowley, Snow,” I say again, because I want to help this stubborn idiot. “Let me help. I know more medical and cleaning spells than you do, and I can actually use them. Or, better yet, go to the fucking infirmary.”

“No infirmary,” he says, and sighs. Snow slumps back down onto his bed as he mumbles something along the lines of posh bastard roommate.

I have to get the blood off him before I lose my senses and lick it up instead of using magic.

I ignore it and fetch my wand from my desk. Snow stays still as I Out, damned spot his clothes then Clean as a whistle the blood and dirt off him.

I circle around to his back. He tenses, but only for a moment. Too tired to be on guard.

There’s two long gashes running perpendicular down his back, visible through the shredded material of his blazer. I prod gently at the edges and Snow gasps.

I withdraw. “How, for magics’ sake, did you get these, Snow? Numpties don’t exactly have claws.”

“They had swords. Sword. Just one. Dunno how they got it.” 

I spell the seams of his blazer and undershirt apart and peel them gently off him.

I’m pulling Simon Snow’s shirt off.

Am I cursed or blessed?

Snow doesn’t struggle or ask what I’m doing. I think he’s accepted I know-sort of-what I’m doing and I have the better angle to see it. I coax him into laying down and he goes, leaving muddy shoes hanging over the end of the bed.

I put one knee on, carefully. I’ve never been on Snow’s bed before. I just barely press the tip of my wand to the thinner edge of the longer one and Snow pushes a pained hiss through his teeth.

“Time heals all wounds,” I say and watch as the skin knots closed. Not all the way, but a good bit. I repeat the spell until there’s only one gash, though now it’s split by healed golden skin where they intersected. Three more spells and Snow is back to new.

He’s lucky they were so shallow. Any deeper and he would have had to go to the nurse.

“Did I miss lunch?” He asks, and groans. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

“Yes. By about-” I glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand (because the Mage banned electronics. Fuck him) “-two hours. Dinner is soon, Snow.”

He groans again and belly-crawls up enough to bury his face in his pillow. 

I collect my books and stuff them in my bag. I stop between our beds and Snow blinks one eye open.

“Where goin’?” he slurs, and I swear he’s trying to kill me.

“Library. Here, Snow.” I toss a bag of crisps and a mint aero bar at him. He scrambles to sit up and tears into them before I’m two steps away.

I pause while he’s distracted and look at him. Simon Snow, shirtless, with mud caked to his shoes, tearing into a pack of crisps like a wild animal.

I must be truly disturbed, because the sight makes my stomach flip. I leave before I can overthink it.

I head to the Catacombs instead. All that blood made me hungry, and I have to think.

Because somewhere in between hating his guts and pretending too, I fell in love with him.

I’m in love with Simon Snow, and it’s chief among the worst things to ever happen to me.

May of Fifth Year, Watford School of Magicks

SIMON

There’s only a month of school left and I can’t find the last blade.

I should have been looking harder, honestly. But I’ve been distracted.

Because Baz is a vampire and I’ve been following him instead. More so after what happened to Phillipa.

But now I have to get the last blade, because I have four already and the Mage needs the last one. I wonder if he’d let me stay over summer to look for it, or if he’d send me to a home anyway and tell me he’s disappointed. (He keeps promising I can stay over summer, but I haven’t yet. I don’t want to give up on it, just in case.)

He won’t let me stay at Penny’s either-not that I’d want to. Not all summer, at least. Or with Agatha. The Wellbeloves even offered to let me stay after Agatha told them about the homes. The Mage still said no, said I have to stay close to the language. (Bullshit. There’s no useful language to be learned in boys’ homes, only violence and wanting. Keeps me sharp, though.)

I’m in the library-I came alone, to Penny’s delight and surprise-though not to study. Baz is sitting two tables down, and I’m watching him.

I know he has the secret to the last blade. He’s been leaving too many little hints to not. 

Like last night when he said, sneeringly (is that a word?) that I must be even more thickheaded than he thought since I don’t have it yet. Or earlier today when he told me the books I was looking through would be more useful as kindling. Or when he just stared at me with flat grey eyes when I asked how he knew about the blades. “Everyone knows about the blades, Snow. It’s a childrens’ story-Daphne reads it to the girls almost every night. Numpty.”

I decide I’ll take the direct route and just ask him outright. If I explain how important it is, maybe he’ll take pity on me for once and just tell me.

BAZ

Snow corners me in our room last night. He looks determined, smells like smoke, and is just standing in the middle of the room.

I wonder how long he’s been there. He doesn’t look like he’ll waver at all, like he could stand there for hours. Probably already has, the idiot.

“I need you to tell me where the last blade is,” he says, and he sounds as determined as he looks. Doesn’t stutter, even. “It’s important.”

I do my best to look uninterested. So he’s gone for the most direct route-not a problem, that’s Snow’s usual modus operandi.

“And why would I tell you, Snow? What would I gain?” I think briefly of making a deal again, like in third year. I can’t ask for his blanket again, though. He would get suspicious. (I loved sleeping under that stupid blanket that smelled like him. Never got cold. I’m always cold, now.)

Well. I might as well just tell him. I don’t know why I decide to-maybe because I feel bad for him, or Philippa, or I’m just desperate for him to not hate me.

“Ask Bunce about the rhyme. Or Wellbelove, her family’s more traditional like that. Idiot,” I add, because it feels far too nice to just give him this without any insults. He blinks and runs out of the room without another word.

I collapse onto my bed. The room still smells strongly of smoke. (I could spell it away. I don’t)

I hate Simon Snow.

[Warning for mild angst and some graphic descriptions of injuries. If you want to skip the parts with it, skip Baz’s first POV in the December scene and to the bolded line in the April scene .]

SIXTH YEAR

December of Sixth Year, Watford School of Magicks

BAZ

I’m sitting in the Watford nursery, and my mother is burning.

I stuck to the spot, but when I look down I’m still in my normal fifteen-year-old body. Still grey. Still in my Watford uniform.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to see this, not again. (I can still hear it, though. Her screaming. Flesh crackling. Bones snapping. I shudder.)

A hand, colder than mine, grips my shoulder. I jump and open my eyes and it lets go.

It’s the vampires. The ones that Turned me, the ones that killed her. I remember the dead eyes and grey faces. The one that bit me grabs me by both shoulders, shakes me.

I try to scream, but my mouth won’t open. His hands shake me again, more insistent. He opens his mouth-

SIMON

Baz is having a nightmare. I recognize the signs, and though I’ve never before, I decide to wake him up.

He’s making these little whimpering sounds and thrashing against the blanket. I sit up in bed and call his name. (I couldn’t sleep. We found another clue about the hares, and we’re stuck on what it means. It kept me up, thinking about it.) Once, then twice, and he doesn’t respond.

I get out of bed. Words aren’t going to work, but he’ll probably wake up if I touch him. I grab his shoulder and shake a little. He thrashes and moans a scared little sound and I withdraw.

I put my hand back, then I put one knee on his bed and grip his other shoulder too. Baz, I call, and shake. He doesn’t open his eyes, just flinches. I do it again.

He jolts awake and up. I yelp and lean back-good I wasn’t directly above him or he would have smashed our heads together.

He blinks at me. When he speaks, he doesn’t sound tired at all, just annoyed. “What are you doing, Snow?”

“Waking you up, you prick,” I growl. “You were having a nightmare.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. He hasn’t said anything about my knee on his bed, so I take it as permission to sit down fully. His eyes bulge near out of his head at that.

BAZ

Simon Snow is sitting on my bed, staring at me earnestly.

I hate when he’s earnest. It makes it far too tempting to spill my secrets to him, and that’s good for nobody.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, and he sounds unsure. “I don’t...I don’t know what to do after a nightmare. Never been woke from one. But. If you want to talk. I’m here, and I won’t tell anybody.”

I pause. I’ve never told anybody about my nightmares, not even Fiona. Too close to home for her. “My mother. I was watching her burn,” I blurt before I can talk myself out of it.

See? Far too easy to tell him secrets. 

“Oh.” He pauses. “Sorry?”

Simon Snow, I hate you.

SIMON

I don’t know what to say to that. How exactly are you supposed to respond to your rival-slash-roommate telling you he has nightmares about his dead mother?

“It’s no big deal, Snow. Not the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last.” How is he so awake already? Usually he needs twenty minutes before he’ll even acknowledge me. 

“Sorry,” I say again. I hesitate, then add “Do you want me to wake you up next time? If I’m up, I mean.”

“Do what you want, Snow. But right now, it is-” he makes a production out of looking at the clock of his nightstand “-almost three a.m, and we have class tomorrow. Go to sleep, you living disaster.” And he pulls up the covers and rolls over.

Well. Guess that’s over, then. I’m still surprised he told me as much as he did, honestly. (I don’t think about what that means, that Baz dreams about his mother.)

I lay down too, and try to sleep.

April of Sixth Year, Watford School of Magicks

SIMON

I’m standing in my room in the last home and watching Penny bleed out. 

Agatha is slumped against the wall, unconscious, bleeding from a wound near her hairline. The blond of her hair has turned red-brown and clumpy, and I can’t tell if she’s breathing.

Penny is clutching her stomach, hands slippery with blood, and through her fingers I can see pink ropes where there should be smooth brown skin.

I scream, and smoke fills the room. The beds blow back against the wall, and I know whoever did this is still here.

I know who did this. The Humdrum.

As soon as I think it, all the smoke in the room coalesces and forms a vaguely human shape. It has arms, and legs, and a body, but no face. Only smooth grey smoke. It starts towards me, ambling slowly.

I scream and sit up in my bed.

And collide with Baz, who stumbles back, cursing, and rubs his head. Oh. I guess he must’ve woke me.

That feels odd. Strange. The first time someone wakes me up from a nightmare, and it’s Baz.

I bring my hand up to the sore spot where we hit. It doesn’t really bother me-I’ve had much worse. And I’m distracted right now.

“What are you doing?” I demand. “Were you trying to kill me?”

“No, Snow, you imbecile. You were being loud, and the smoke woke me. And how would I kill you-did you forget about a little thing called the fucking Roommates Anathema?” He drawls, and I almost wish he had left me asleep.

Then I remember the dream, and I’m glad he didn’t. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say when he opens his mouth. He closes it and glares. 

“Okay. Go back to fucking sleep, it’s one in the fucking morning.”

“You swear a lot when you’re tired.”

“No, I swear a lot when I’ve been woken up at one in the fucking morning and then had my head clashed against your fucking rock skull, Snow. Now go to fucking sleep.”

He lays down, still rubbing his head, and I do the same. I need the sleep.

I just hope I don’t dream again.

BAZ

This is what I get for trying to be nice. A sore skull and no sleep. (His is so hard it must be made of concrete, I swear. Or filled with rocks-that would make a lot of sense.)

But he was moaning and thrashing and he sounded terrified. I couldn’t just do nothing.

I couldn’t sleep after that, and now I’m sitting in class fighting off yawns and counting down the hours until I’m free while he’s chittering with Bunce and holding Wellbelove’s hand.

That’s not a new development. They’ve been tormenting me with the sight of them being mushy and sweet for months now. I hate it. I hate how it makes me feel.

I wonder how hard it would be to mimic Wellbelove’s handwriting.

SEVENTH YEAR

November of Seventh Year, Watford School of Magicks

BAZ

I have a concert in less than a month and if I don’t get this solo perfect I will die.

I’ve been reserving one of the practice rooms almost every day and practicing for hours and I’m still having problems. Fuck the conductor for choosing this piece-why do the violins have to shift every other measure? Fuck the composer. Fuck the orchestra. Fuck the solo.

I should have picked viola. They don’t have an entire fucking arm workout shifting twelve times in ten measures alone.

I set my violin down carefully after I mess up again. Then I scream. I’m so fucking frustrated.

And Simon fucking Snow burst through the door, and I scream again. “What the fuck are you doing, Snow?”

“Why are you screaming?” He demands, and I’m the one to growl this time. I  fucking hate him. 

I hate this fucking piece. Life is horrible, and now there’s two things that frustrate me beyond reason in this room. Snow. And this piece. (And me. But that’s always true, so I don’t count it.)

“Because none of your fucking business, Snow! Leave me alone!” I step towards him menacingly. “Go play with your little girlfriend instead of following me like a sad puppy.”

He growls and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

SIMON

I didn’t mean to follow Baz again. But he’s been out of our room from the end of class until curfew every day for the last week, and I had to find out what he was doing.

Plotting, I thought. (I was half right. Only, it’s for his orchestra class and not the doom of everything good.)

I’ve never heard him play before. He’s good. Really good. I’ve been just sitting outside the practice room door every day, listening to him play.

And then today he started screaming, and I had to know why.

And then he screamed at me, and I still don’t know.

I don’t know if Baz is the kind of person to scream when he gets frustrated. I’ve never seen him anything but cool and collected. (I don’t know anybody like that. That screams, I mean. Penny will conjure a lot of porcelain and break it until she feels better and then read for a few hours, and Agatha runs. She’s the fastest runner I’ve ever seen, including Baz. It’s beautiful.)(Sometimes during exam season I can see her from the window of my room, circling campus.)

When he gets back, though, I’m ready for him. Waiting. 

BAZ

Snow corners me as soon as I get back to the room. 

It’s five minutes from curfew. I usually stop at Dev and Niall’s room until the last possible moment, but they told me earlier not to. They’ve been insufferable since they got together-inseparable, too. I see them snogging during our study groups enough already, I don’t want to walk in on anything.

I scowl at him when he jumps to his feet and points at me. (I can’t believe he actually points. Does he think he’s in some sort of drama film?)

“Why were you screaming?” He demands, like he did before. I give him my most venomous glare.

“Frustration, Snow. I’d think you’d be familiar with it, considering how incompetent you are,” I sneer, and he growls again. I hate him. I’m in love with him.

Then, slowly, he softens. I can’t think of another way to say it-he sighs and slumps, sitting back down like the fight went out of him.

“I’m too tired to do this,” he mutters, and blinks at me with his ordinary blue eyes. I arrange my face into a mask of careful neutrality and don’t respond.

He hasn’t been following me lately-barring the last few days, of course-and I kind of miss him. Not the constant, nagging anxiety that came with him stalking me every second of the day, but. His presence. The scent of smoke in my clothes. Catching glimpses of him from the corner of my eye and knowing he was safe. (I’m not a danger to him, not seriously. I can’t hurt him.)

I sit on my bed and pull out my book. It’s a retelling of the myth of Achilles, told through his lover’s eyes, and I’m enjoying it. It’s another one from the box Fiona sends me every month. (They always arrive exactly on the twentieth. It’s like having a subscription box, except I don’t pay for it and sometimes I get weird gay erotica that I have to get rid of before Snow sees.)(Not that he’d read it. But the covers can be... graphic, to say the least)

Snow turns around suddenly and says “Why? You sounded fine.”

I raise an eyebrow and pretend my palms aren’t sweating. (He never compliments me.)(Even like this, when he’s trying to figure something out) “Because I have a concert in a month, Snow, and I still haven’t got the shifting for my solo down.” I do my best to sound neutral-to-condescending, because it is far too late in the day to fight. I just want to finish my book and go to sleep.

“Oh. Well, you still got a month, right? That loads of time,” he says and he sounds like he’s thinking. Far fetched idea, that.

“I know. And I don’t have a month,” I say, and his face twitches like he’s trying to raise his eyebrow too. “It’s already the tenth, and the orchestra performs on December fifteenth and sixteenth. Not much time at all.”

“And sixteenth?” He asks, confused. “I thought only like, plays and stuff performed twice.”

“Second is for parents. First for students,” I say and this is dangerous. Playing nice with Snow always is, and my self control is fraught tonight. I lift my book again and pretend to read to discourage any more conversation.

“I’ll stop following you,” he says quietly and I snort. I doubt that. “Seriously,” he insists, and I give him a baleful look. “Well. For this, at least.” He amends and I nod. That seems more feasible.

This time when I lift my book I actually do start reading, and I ignore Snow for the rest of the night.

SIMON

I mark down the fifteenth of December in my notebook. I’ll have to ask Penny for the details-I didn’t even know Watford had an orchestra-but Penny knows everything, and what she doesn’t she finds out.

I want to see if he can get the shifting down in time. (Whatever that means.)

May of Seventh Year, Watford School of Magicks

SIMON

So maybe putting the polecat in Baz’s wardrobe when we share a room wasn’t the best idea.

I decide to think about that later-or never, I’m really starting to hate polecats-and glare at Baz. He’s leaning against his wardrobe doors, holding them closed while hissing and growling sounds menacingly from it.

I shiver. Between Possibelf’s office and getting it here, my arms are so scratched up there’s barely any whole skin left.

“Go get Bunce,” he hisses, and he sounds almost like the polecat-from-hell. “And have her heal your arms, you numpty.”

I don’t argue, just go.

BAZ

Snow returns ten minutes later plus Bunce and minus bloody arms. (Thank magic. I don’t think I could’ve dealt with that on top of this fucking animal.)(It’s a miracle my fangs haven’t popped already.)

I don’t question how Bunce got up here, just look at her longsufferingly. “Please tell me you have a plan,” I say and I don’t even care that she looks at me weird for it. I sound like Snow, I know, but I want this damn thing out .

Bunce outlines what she’s come up with and I curse myself for not thinking of it sooner. We get ready-I at the wardrobe, Bunce standing at the ready with her wand raised, and Snow holding open his pillowcase with a determined expression.

We exchange looks and Bunce starts the countdown. On one, we move. 

I fling myself away from hissing wardrobe, pulling the doors open behind me, Snow raises his pillowcase, and Bunce casts “I got it in the bag!”

That’s usually a spell to guarantee luck in a game of chance, but Bunce emphasizes in and bag and turns the spell beautifully literal. The polecat, which was leaping towards my face, jerks in midair and flies into Snow’s pillowcase. He gathers the top closed around it while it’s still stunned.

I hit it with an Out cold and the bag stops wriggling. I take it and hold it up. Bunce nods thoughtfully-about what, I wonder-and Snow pokes it.

“I’ll take this into the Woods,” I say. I should drain the damn thing. “And Snow, I’m burning the pillowcase.”

Bunce nudges him with her elbow when he opens his mouth and he closes it again, glaring.

I leave.

SIMON

Baz left forty minutes ago and he’s still not back.

When I tell Penny-she’s still in our room, said she would help me with my homework-she sighs and tells me to focus, Simon .

I try. I can’t. I hate Magic Words.

I pull my pillow into my lap. Penny double troubled one of Baz’s fancy pillowcases, so it’s a pale blue instead of white. But my pillow is soft as always when I bury my face in it and groan.

I keep my head there until it’s hard to breathe, and when I look up Penny is starting at me thoughtfully.

That’s not new. She does that a lot-Penny stares blankly into space when she thinks. When she looks at me, though, I always make faces at her to try and make her laugh. (We’ve been friends for almost seven years and I haven’t figured out her sense of humor yet. She laughs at the strangest things, but not all of them, and sometimes she likes my jokes and sometimes not.)(Agatha can always make her laugh, though. Some kind of telepathic connection is my theory.)

“Simon,” she says slowly, “I think you and Agatha should talk. Your relationship with her has been...strained, lately, and I-”

“I caught her holding hands with Baz in the Woods, Penny,” I interrupt hotly, “of course we’re strained!”

She levels me with her don't-interrupt-me-I’m-trying-to-help-you glare. (Penny can be terrifying. I shut up and scowl.) “All I’m saying is you should find out what actually happened, Si. Talk to her, talk to Baz, I don’t care. Just sort this out and make nice with your girlfriend. I need someone to watch medical documentaries with and I can’t with Agatha when she’s distracted like this.” She sighs, then stands. “I’ll see you at dinner, Si. Listen to me, okay? I’ve never steered you wrong before.”

She gathers her stuff and stops to curl her arm briefly around my shoulders. I lean my head against her for a second before she pulls away with a meaningful look and leaves.

I have to admit, grudgingly, that she’s right. If I can count on Penny for anything, it’s good advice. I resolve to confront Baz tonight, and ask Agatha tomorrow.  

BAZ

I don’t drain the damned polecat, though I am extremely tempted to.

I dump it in the Woods instead, and head to the Catacombs to feed. I stay there long enough Bunce won’t be in the room, even if she stuck around, then head back. 

Dinner still isn’t for another two hours, I think idly as I pick my way through the shifting stones of and dusty halls of the Catacombs. I fed much earlier than usual today-I need both regular food and blood, albeit less than others, but I think I’ll skip dinner tonight. I’m not hungry, and it will be nice having the room to myself. I could play my music aloud on my illegal mobile for once.

Snow is waiting for me when I get back. (Story of my life.)(Not really, and not in the way I want, but I can wish.) He jumps up and points-again, really?-sputtering. I sigh. I’m too full and sleepy to deal with this right now.

“What is it now, Snow? I got rid of the damn polecat,” I add when he scowls. “And I should be mad at you for putting it in my wardrobe, anyway.” I don’t say anything about Bunce getting into our room. She helped us, after all, and she’s the last person I need mad at me.

Snow sucks in a deep breath and drops the scowl, but he’s still tense and the room still smells like smoke. When he speaks, his words sound carefully measured and deliberately calm as he asks me what I was doing with Agatha in the Woods.

I think. I can play this off like we were doing something, or I can tell the truth.

I decide the truth. It’s late in the day and I just fed; I don’t want to start a fight I don’t actually care about. And Agatha already told me Simon knows, so it’s not like I’m outing her.

“She came out to me,” I say, and Snow blinks and stumbles back to sit on his bed. “That’s what we were doing. If you must know.”

“Oh.” Snow says. “Okay.” He frowns. “If you-”

“I have no intention of outing her,” I say coldly. (I resolved to be honest, not nice.) “And I don’t care that she’s transgender. It doesn’t affect my opinion of her.”

“Good.” Snow huffs, then adds “If you ever try to hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

I have no doubt he means it. I don’t say anything, just nod and sit on my bed. We let a few minutes pass in silence, then Snow stands and leaves without a word.

I can’t help but feel like something just changed between us. 

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. (That’s what it is. I can’t get my hopes up. Not for nothing.)

July, Two Years After Watford School of Magicks

BAZ

I wake to the sunrise on a half-empty bed.

The sheets are still warm, and they smell like Simon-cinnamon and bacon and slightly better quality soap. I curl into and savor the feeling.

I never thought I could have this. I never thought I’d be allowed to. But now-I wake to this almost every day, and every time I wonder how I got so lucky. How I got Simon Snow to pick me.

I drift back to sleep. When I wake again, it’s to a warm weight in my lap and the curtains being thrown open. I blink blearily as I sit up, and Simon smiles at me from across the room. The sun is higher in the sky, but not by much.

I set the breakfast tray on the bed next to me and grab a hairband of the nightstand-syrup is a nightmare to get out of my hair, and I’d rather not go through that again. (I did grow it out again. It’s almost to my hips, and Simon braids it for me most mornings.)(It still reminds me of my mother, but it hurts less now. I can think about her and know she’s proud, that she still loves me.)

Simon settles onto the bed next to me with his own tray. He’s grown up, I think, and he really has. He’s not much bigger, but he seems more comfortable. Like his skin fits better now.

“What time is it?” I ask through a mouthful of pancake. I never would have done that even a year ago, but it’s not like anyone but Simon will see, and he isn’t one to talk. 

“Eight. I knew you’d want an early start.” He says, and I fall just a little bit more in love with him. (Before we started dating, I didn’t think that would be possible. He surprises me every day, and every day I love him more.)

It’s my brother’s fourth birthday today, and we promised Daphne we would help with setting things up. Simon’s bringing dessert and some snacks from his bakery and I’m babysitting the children so Daphne and Father can set up everything else.

“We don’t have to be there until ten,” Simon says. I nod and we grin at each other. We finish eating quickly and I take our trays into the kitchen to clean up while Simon has a shower. He kisses my forehead as he passes, then snaps his towel playfully at me.

I’m in love with Simon Snow, and it’s chief among the best things to ever happen to me.

I put my music on as I wash the dishes. The flat seems a little too quiet, sometimes, since Penelope moved out.

(She met Shepard soon after graduation, when she flew out to America to see Micah and the bastard broke up with her. Shepard helped her through it when we couldn’t be there and came back with her. Now, Penelope works as a magic researcher and Shepard as a magic-tracer, tracking down ancient magickal artefacts for the Coven. They moved in together three months ago, and the flat’s felt empty since.)(I think we might get a pet. A cat, maybe.)

I’m just finishing the last dish, singing along quietly with my music, when Simon’s warm arms loop around my waist.

SIMON

Baz was standing at the sink, singing, and he looked so perfect I couldn’t help it.

I walk up behind him, and I’m careful to be silent. He doesn’t seem to notice me, and I slip my arms around his waist and tuck my chin over his shoulder. (I have to rise onto my toes to do it, but I don’t mind.)

“Hi,” I say and I purposefully breathe a bit harder than necessary into his strangely-pointed ear. (We learned why, eventually. Vampire thing, because of the extra magic Turning brings. We don’t know why pointed ears are a magic thing, but all creatures have them-vampires, fairies, weres.) 

It twitches. Baz hums without looking at me and sets the lash dish into the strainer.

As soon as it’s safe, I step back, pulling Baz with me. He turns in my arms to face me and loops his over my shoulders.

“Hi,” he says, and I can hear the humor in it. I hum back like he did. 

And then he kisses me.

When he pulls away I move, slipping my hands from his waist to his hands and weaving our fingers together. I picture what we might look like, soon, with bands on our fingers that clink when we hold hands. He squeezes, and I squeeze back, and he grins wider.

The song changes. This is the playlist he made for me, to ‘teach me about the finer points of good music.’ I don’t care, but I like this song. It’s fast, and bright, and it makes me want to dance.

So I do. I sway, and Baz sways with me, until I start doing some of the dance moves his siblings taught me, and Baz laughs so hard tears come to his eyes.

“Taking dance lessons from eight years olds now are we, Simon? Seems right.”

“Oh, shut up. And Mordy’s nine, you know that,” I say and shake my finger like the mums scolding their kids do on the telly. This time he does cry from laughing, collapsing to the floor.

I slump next to him, leaning against the counter. My shirt sleeves stick to my arms where Baz dried his hands on them, and he’s still laughing, and I lean in and kiss him.

And then he’s laughing into my mouth, and I think of the little box in my sock drawer.

Because I love him. Because he loves me.

It took me so long to see it, but now I do, and he’s mine.