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Courfeyrac slid into the seat across from Grantaire, ignoring the looks that easily half of the table sent his way. After this many years, they had all learned to ignore the looks that other House members gave them for switching tables at the various meals. Of course, this was Hufflepuff, so the looks Courfeyrac received were friendly more than hostile, and a few even waved at him. Still, Courfeyrac’s attention was solely on Grantaire. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, abruptly, snagging a piece of bacon off Grantaire’s plate.
Grantaire, who was nominally reading over his potions essay due that day, shrugged, not looking up from the scroll of parchment in front of him, though he instantly reached out to slap Courfeyrac’s hand as he went in for another piece of bacon. “You want food, go sit with your own House.” He grabbed his quill and scribbled a word out before saying, “And there’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rolling his eyes, Courfeyrac glanced at Bossuet, who was sitting next to Grantaire, for support. “Come on, you know what I’m talking about.”
“Take bacon off my plate and I will hex you all the way back to your table,” Bossuet said pleasantly, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. “But I do think I know what you’re talking about. You’ve been awfully quiet at Les Amis meetings recently.”
“Exactly!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, sneaking another piece of bacon from Grantaire’s plate. “You’ve hardly said one word to try and irritate Enjolras, which I thought was your favorite pastime. I mean, I follow you versus Enjolras more than I follow Quidditch.”
From his seat next to Courfeyrac, Feuilly snorted. “That’s because you root for the Chudley Cannons. I’d give up on watching Quidditch too, in that case.”
Grantaire rolled up the scroll of parchment and glowered first at Bossuet and then Courfeyrac. “I just haven’t had a lot to say,” he said, tucking the scroll into his bag. “Besides, it isn’t as if Enjolras pays any attention to me when I say something anyway.”
Feuilly and Bossuet exchanged glances and quickly looked down at their plates, knowing that this was one thing they did not want to get in the middle of, for Grantaire’s sake if not for theirs. Courfeyrac, of course, had no such reservations. “Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “I thought you Hufflepuffs were unafraid of hard work. If Enjolras isn’t paying attention to you, maybe you just need to work harder.”
“And maybe you need to keep your nose out of other people’ business,” Grantaire snapped, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder as he stood. “I’m going to Potions.”
“We’ll come with,” Feuilly said quickly, and both Bossuet and Feuilly left with Grantaire, who was still scowling. They walked down to the dungeons in silence until Feuilly said cautiously, “Courfeyrac may have a point, you know.”
Grantaire glared at him. “And what point would that be? That I’ve not been trying hard enough? That I should keep being as obtrusive as possible in the hope that maybe he’ll spare me a second glance instead of just ignoring me like he always does? Because maybe I’ve just gotten tired of the only way he pays attention to me is to yell at me.”
Bossuet snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” Grantaire switched his glare to him. “Come on, you’re too addicted to any kind of attention from Enjolras to quit cold turkey.”
Shrugging, Grantaire pushed the door to the Potions dungeon open. “So what do you want me to do?”
Feuilly and Bossuet sat down next to him and Feuilly said carefully, “If I can finish my thought from before…Courfeyrac may have had a point. Not that you need to work more, but maybe, if Enjolras isn’t paying attention to you, you need to try something else.”
“Like what?” Grantaire asked, trying not to sound as curious as he felt.
“I’ve got an idea!” Bossuet said excitedly, grabbing his Potions book and flipping it open, sliding it across to Grantaire when he had found the page he was looking for. “Polyjuice Potion! You know how excited Enjolras gets when someone new comes to a Les Amis meeting, so why not have you go disguised as someone new?”
Feuilly frowned at him. “That’s a terrible idea,” he said firmly. “Firstly, there’s a million and a half ways that it can go wrong. Secondly, the entire point is to try and get Enjolras to notice Grantaire more, not some stranger.”
“That’s a great idea,” Grantaire said enthusiastically, having not heard a word Feuilly had said. “But where are we going to get all the ingredients? Doesn’t it have some things not available to students?”
Waving a dismissive hand, Bossuet said cheerfully, “Don’t worry about it! I’ll take care of the whole thing. Consider it, I don’t know, an early Christmas present or something.”
Feuilly still looked decidedly skeptical. “Bossuet,” he said, as patiently as he could manage, “you know that we all love you, but Potions isn’t exactly your strongest subject. If I wanted a cheering charm, you would be the first person I go to. But maybe, if we’re going to go through with this idiotic plan, we should get someone like Combeferre or Joly to make the potion.”
Neither Bossuet nor Grantaire paid him any mind, and Feuilly sighed heavily as he pulled his own Potions book out of his bag. “Just remember that I told you so.”
For the next month, Bossuet assured Grantaire that he was working on the potion, and right before that week’s Les Amis meeting, Bossuet brought him a smile vial that was filled with a bluish potion. “Here you go,” he said breathlessly. “I got some hairs from a fifth year Ravenclaw I’ve never really seen before, so that should work. And I’ve got more for you to drink during the meeting so you don’t change back too soon if it drags on.”
Grantaire took the vial and sniffed it suspiciously. “Thanks. Well, bottoms-up, I suppose.” He drained the vial and stared at it suspiciously. “Is it working?”
Bossuet watched him closely, frowning. “It doesn’t appear to be.” He took the empty vial back from Grantaire and glared at it. “Damnit. I must have done something wrong with the recipe.” He looked back at Grantaire, concern creeping into his voice as he asked, “Do you feel ok? I don’t, uh, I don’t know what I did wrong, so I don’t know what it might do to you.”
“Nah, I feel fine,” Grantaire said, though he looked briefly disappointed. “Ah well. You tried, and I appreciate it. Now c’mon, let’s get to the meeting.”
Biting his lip nervously as he followed Grantaire to the Room of Requirement, Bossuet muttered to him, “I don’t know, Grantaire, maybe you should go to the hospital wing. Who knows what that potion might do to you…”
Grantaire just shook his head, pushing open the door to the Room of Requirement. “I told you, I’m fine, so just—” He stopped mid-sentence, literally running into Enjolras, who was right inside the door, chatting with Combeferre.
“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow at Grantaire, who had doubled-over after running into him. “Is everything alright?” He switched his gaze to Bossuet, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Um,” Bossuet said weakly. “Well, he, uh, may have had an incorrectly brewed potion. So we’re, uh, not entirely sure what his reactions are going to be.”
Enjolras’s eyes flashed to Grantaire, grabbing his arm to pull him upright. “Grantaire, are you—” He broke off, his face whitening when he saw what was wrong with Grantaire. Somehow, whatever Bossuet had done to the Polyjuice Potion had turned Grantaire bright blue. “Merlin’s pants,” Enjolras swore, though he didn’t let go of Grantaire’s arm. “How do you feel?”
Grantaire made a face. “Not great, if I’m being honest,” he rasped. “My stomach—” He couldn’t finish the sentence without doubling over again.
It took less than ten seconds for Enjolras’s face to take on a particularly determined set. “Right,” he said firmly. “I’m taking Grantaire to the hospital wing. Combeferre, start the meeting without me. Bossuet—” Bossuet looked suitably abashed as he looked at Enjolras nervously. “Whatever potion he took, find it and get rid of it.”
With that said, he carefully put his arm around Grantaire’s waist to help hold him upright as he steered him outside, leaving the rest of Les Amis staring at the doorway as they disappeared, the echoes of Enjolras telling Grantaire bracingly, “You’re going to be fine, Grantaire, I promise”, lingering as they exited.
Then Combeferre cleared his throat. “Alright, well. Let’s get started, I guess.”
Bossuet slid into the seat next to Joly, who frowned slightly at him. “What in the world did you give him?”
Now Bossuet smiled just a little, his eyes twinkling. “Essence of Pixie Wings, with a few other things. It’ll leave him blue and with a bit of a stomach ache for about an hour, but then he’ll be fine.”
A crumpled piece of parchment landed next to Bossuet’s elbow and he opened it to read, in Feuilly’s cramped handwriting, “I told you so.”
Bossuet’s grin widened, and he grabbed Joly’s quill to write back, “And I told you it would work regardless.”
Of course, not even that incident was enough to completely sate Grantaire, and in only a few short weeks, he was moping again. Combeferre, rather tired with Grantaire’s brooding, told him one day during Care of Magical Creatures as they were both working with the same knarl, “Perhaps if you put half as much effort into being passionate about something other than Enjolras, he would pay a bit more attention to you.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” Grantaire snapped, flicking a few drops of milk at Combeferre and laughing as they splattered directly on the center of Combeferre’s blue-and-silver tie. “You and he are two peas in a pod. What chance do the rest of us have, especially those of us who don’t exactly share the same political convictions?”
Combeferre waved his wand over his tie and muttered, “Tergeo,” siphoning the milk out of it. Then he fixed his stare back on Grantaire. “You know very well that it’s not like that between him and I. And besides, I never said anything about being passionate about politics. Just…something.”
Grantaire frowned but kept it in the back of his mind, bringing it up that night as he, Feuilly and Bahorel passed a bottle of firewhiskey between them as they sat at the top of the Astronomy tower. “What can I be passionate about?”
“Well, what do you like to do?” Feuilly asked reasonably, taking a drag from one of the cigarettes he had smuggled back with him after the Christmas holidays.
Sighing, Grantaire leaned back, taking a swig from the bottle before passing it back to Bahorel. “I don’t know. I mean, not really anything school-related. But what else is there?”
Bahorel shrugged. “What about Quidditch? You used to play, right?”
Grantaire snorted. “If by used to play, you mean that I used to half-ass tossing the Quaffle around, then sure.”
“Hufflepuff’s going to need a replacement Keeper for the game against Slytherin this week,” Bahorel said, ignoring Grantaire. “You could try out for that. You all don’t have a second for Keeper, right?” Bahorel was one of Gryffindor’s Beaters, and took Quidditch very seriously.
Feuilly frowned at him. “Why is Hufflepuff going to need a replacement Keeper this week?”
Bahorel just grinned a savage grin and twirled his wand between his fingers. “Let’s just say that I owe a certain Hufflepuff Keeper a little comeuppance after he almost got undiluted bubotuber pus on me during Herbology, and now seems as good of time as any to cash that in.”
Rolling his eyes, Feuilly turned back to Grantaire. “Ignoring the means to get to the end, you could totally be Keeper. I’ve seen you when you and Jehan go out and dick around on the Quidditch pitch. You’re good.”
Grantaire blushed slightly and waved his hand. “I don’t know about that,” he muttered. “Besides, I don’t have a broom.”
“You can borrow Jehan’s, you know he’d let you,” Feuilly said enthusiastically, clearly warming to the idea. “Come on, at least it will give you something to do besides sit around here and whine about Enjolras.”
Grantaire just shrugged and took another swig of firewhiskey. “I’ll think about it.”
The next day, after getting back from the Quidditch pitch, he found Feuilly and told him, looking slightly shamefaced, “So I guess I’m Hufflepuff’s new Keeper until Michel gets back from St. Mungo’s.”
So Grantaire spent the rest of the week preparing for the match, trying to remember all the things he had once known about Quidditch and working his ass off to make sure that he, at the very least, didn’t embarrass himself too badly in front of Enjolras and everyone. But mostly Enjolras.
The morning of the match, Grantaire was so nervous that he barely ate. Bossuet clapped him on the shoulder and told him cheerfully, “At least you can’t do as badly as I did when I tried out our second year, remember? Hit myself with a bludger. No one’s sure how and no one’s been able to do it since. So really nothing can be as bad as all that.”
Almost despite himself, Grantaire cracked a grin, though his eyes flickered over to where Enjolras was sitting at the Slytherin table for once. “Right. Nothing.”
He was silent all the way down to the pitch, silent as he pulled his black-and-gold robes on, and only managed a tight smile at his teammates before they took the field.
Luckily, for once in his life, things seemed to go his way. The Slytherin Chasers seemed to not be playing very well together, at one point tussling with each other over the Quaffle as the Hufflepuff Chasers looked on, confused. And Grantaire himself managed to make several excellent saves, to the increasingly loud cheers of the crowd. By the end of the game, he was grinning broadly, and joined his teammates in a group hug after the won.
Once they had touched down on the ground, Grantaire was surrounded by Les Amis, getting hugs and thumps on the back from all of them. Even Combeferre gave him a hug. But as Grantaire looked eagerly past Combeferre’s shoulder for a head of blond curls somewhere in the crowd, Combeferre’s smile fell, and he told Grantaire softly, “He’s not here.”
“What?” Grantaire asked, his own smile slipping off his face. “Why not?”
“He wanted to be,” Combeferre said quickly. “But he, uh, he managed to land himself a detention from Javert, and you know Javert. There was no way he was going to let Enjolras out of it just so he could come watch Quidditch.” He squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry. But if it helps, he’d be really proud of you.”
Grantaire nodded dully, his jubilation completely gone. “Sure,” he said dully.
Bahorel caught up with him as they all made their way back to the castle. “Cheer up,” he told him, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “I’m still not entirely sure what I did to Michel, so there’s a good chance that you’ll be playing at least one more match, and Enjolras will be able to see you then.”
“Right,” said Grantaire, though the thought did cheer him up.
And sure enough, Enjolras was there to watch Hufflepuff get steamrolled by Ravenclaw, and he even told Grantaire after the game, “At least none of it was your fault. It was your Chasers that dropped the ball, literally”, and Grantaire’s smile could have lit up the entire room.
In their fifth year, Grantaire and Jehan were poking around the recently opened Hogsmeade branch of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and Grantaire found himself standing in front of a display of love potions. Jehan nudged him in the side. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of buying one of those,” he said disapprovingly.
“Of course not!” Grantaire snapped, though he flushed at the accusation. He hadn’t been thinking about it, not really, but the temptation was always there, especially since it’d be so easy to slip it into a cup of pumpkin juice and hand it to him, and then Enjolras might finally, finally notice him the way he wanted him to…
He turned away abruptly from the love potions. “I don’t want that,” he said harshly, half at Jehan, half at himself. “I mean, I want him, of course, but not like that. I would never. You know that. I want him to like me, you know, the way I like him. And preferably come to the conclusion on his own, not aided by artificial means.”
Jehan grabbed Grantaire’s arm, slipping his through it as they pushed through the throngs of students to the cold Hogsmeade streets. “I do know that,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” He raised his voice slightly as the wind picked up, sweeping down the street as they headed towards the Three Broomsticks. “Though speaking of love potions—”
“Speaking of love potions?” a familiar voice interrupted, and Grantaire paled, turning to face Enjolras, who even in the cold wind looked as lovely as ever and was raising his eyebrows incredulously at them. “Don’t tell me either of you were thinking of buying love potions.”
Grantaire was certain that his face was beet red as all three of them walked into the Three Broomsticks. “Of-of course not,” he stammered, trying and failing to give Enjolras a dismissive smile.
“Good,” said Enjolras, turning to grab his butterbeer off the counter and waving at Combeferre, who was seated in the corner. “Because I don’t think either of you would need a love potion to get a date. And besides, taking away the other individual’s consent would hardly constitute—”
“Yes, we know, Enjolras,” Jehan interrupted gently, before he could get swept up in a tirade about consent.
Enjolras nodded at both of them. “Good,” he said, mock sternly, patting first Jehan and then Grantaire on the shoulder as he brushed past them to sit down by Combeferre.
Grantaire just stared after him, face still red, and then all but collapsed against the bar, burying his head in his hands. “Why isn’t there such a thing as an anti-love potion?” he moaned, as Jehan hid a grin and patted him on the back.
“There, there,” Jehan said sympathetically, gesturing to the barmaid for some drinks. “At the very least, you guys didn’t argue about anything. And besides, maybe the idea of love potions will plant some thought of love in his mind.”
Grantaire just groaned even louder.
Their sixth year started with some sneering fifth-year Slytherin challenging Grantaire to a duel. It had started what should have been innocently enough; Grantaire was in the library during one of his free periods, and the Slytherin was at a table with a group of his friends. They were talking and laughing loudly, and since the librarian was no where in sight, Grantaire asked them, in a fairly calm voice, all things considered, “Could you keep it down?”
The Slytherin glared at him and said loudly, “What are you going to do, make me?”
Grantaire sighed and set his book down, automatically reaching for his wand. “I mean, I would really rather not, but if you force me to, I would.”
Sneering, the Slytherin asked, “Oh yeah? You and whose army?”
As if on cue, his entire group of friends drew their wands, and Grantaire licked his lips nervously, his mouth suddenly dry. On his own, he could have handled him easily enough (he and Bossuet and Feuilly had practiced dueling often, and Grantaire was actually pretty decent at it, even taking down Bahorel with a well-placed Stun in one memorable practice session), but not even he was confident or stupid enough to take on six guys at once.
“Well, me, for starters,” came a voice from behind Grantaire, and he turned to find Bahorel behind him, looking even more menacing than usual, his wand drawn and shooting out red and gold sparks. “You want a fight? We’ll give you one. But not here, not like this.”
The Slytherin scowled. “Fine. Duel tonight. 11pm. Charms classroom.”
Bahorel smiled grimly, his lip curling. “How charming. Let’s hope your lack of complete sentences doesn’t affect your spell-casting. Who’s your second? I’m his.”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” the Slytherin sneered. “See you tonight.”
With that, he and his friends left, and Grantaire groaned before turning to Bahorel. “A duel? Come on, Bahorel. Aren’t we a little old to be indulging in that sort of thing? Besides, think of how much trouble we’ll be in if we get caught.”
Bahorel just grinned at him. “Aw, come on, I couldn’t let him goad you like that. Your reputation never would’ve survived it. We’ll be fine. We’ll kick some ass, we’ll show some Slytherins who’s boss, and we’ll be able to tell our friends all about it tomorrow morning. It’ll be great. And besides, think of the look on Enjolras’s face tomorrow when you tell him…”
“If you say so,” Grantaire grumbled, turning back to his book, which was really all he had wanted to do in the first place, even though his mind was now far away, lost in images of Enjolras telling him how brave he was.
He and Bahorel met up that night by the Great Hall before heading to the Charms classroom, chosen, assumedly, for its magical reinforcements (a few overenthusiastic first years had almost burned down half the building a half century ago or so, and ever since, the charms had been renewed every year to make sure whatever magic happened in that classroom didn’t accidentally leave that classroom).
Once they got to the classroom, Bahorel volunteered to go in first, to ensure that there were no set booby traps or anything of that sort. Finding none, he and Grantaire headed into the classroom, the Slytherin and his second, another Slytherin fifth year, waiting for them. The second boy paled slightly at the sight of Bahorel, but the first just sneered. “Are you ready for this?”
Grantaire grinned savagely at him. “I am. Are you ready to get your ass kicked by a Hufflepuff? Because that’ll be a good story to tell your Housemates tomorrow over breakfast.”
“If you even make it to breakfast,” Bahorel added, grinning.
The Slytherin just scowled and drew his wand, and both he and Grantaire were about to shout a spell when the door to classroom burst open and Enjolras, looking for all the world like an avenging angel, strode in. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, eyes blazing. “You — Coombs and Martin, right? — get back to the Common Room before you get yourselves written up and get a load of points docked off our House.”
If the two Slytherins had considered telling Enjolras to shove it, it didn’t show on their faces, and, looking terrified, they both made a hasty escape. “And as for you both,” Enjolras started, whirling on Grantaire and Bahorel.
Bahorel stepped forward holding his hands up. “Look, it’s not like that,” he said, but Enjolras just shook his head.
“I would expect this from you, but really Grantaire? You thought this was a good idea?”
Grantaire’s jaw clenched in indignation. “Oh really? So you’re going to blame me for this but not Bahorel? Because I’ll have you know, it was actually his idea. So don’t just blame me like I somehow masterminded this whole thing.”
Enjolras shook his head, still angry. “That’s not the point! The point is that you should know better! You, who won’t even fight against injustice, are willing to fight two idiots over, what, some insult?”
“Oh, so that’s what this is about?” Grantaire shouted back. “Because I won’t join you in your precious revolution?”
Looking back and forth between the two of them, Bahorel said quickly, “Right, so I’m just gonna go…” and then disappeared out of the classroom.
Enjolras ignored Bahorel’s exit as he gestured dismissively at what Grantaire had just said. “It’s not about that. I’m just saying that there are causes worth fighting and even dying for, and I can’t imagine what either of those two idiots could possibly have said that would qualify!”
Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Well sorry that not all of us have dedicated our lives to great causes. But I can take care of myself, thanks. Besides,” he added, almost as an afterthought, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he glared at Enjolras, “why do you even care? Why are you even here, besides just to yell at me and remind me once again why I’m completely worthless?”
“Because I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to get yourself killed!” Enjolras snarled. “Which, now that I know you’re not, I’m going to go before I get in trouble for your stupidity!”
With that said, he turned and left, leaving Grantaire behind, still seething. Whether he was more angry at himself or Enjolras, he didn’t know, and would never tell anyway.
It was a cold March day, and it had been completely shit for Grantaire, who had received a poor grade on his Potions essay despite spending the entire weekend working on it. To top it off, things between Enjolras and him, though back to being fairly polite, were still strained. He was in a foul mood, and the thought of the Les Amis meeting tonight made him want to drink.
So he did, grabbing the bottle of firewhiskey from where he hid it in his trunk and drinking it straight out of the bottle. He was so glad he had managed to stock up recently, because he had the feeling that he was going to go through this entire bottle that night.
He was well on his way through it when he glanced at his watch and realized that he was going to be late to the meeting. Swearing loudly, he grabbed his robes and tossed them on, keeping the bottle clenched firmly in his fist.
Enjolras was going to be so thrilled to see him like this.
He managed to stumble through the halls and up to the Room of Requirement, and even got the door to appear — after a few tries.
Once the door showed up, he pushed his way through it, grinning wildly. “Don’t mind me,” he called, interrupting loudly. “Sorry, sorry.”
Enjolras stood up from where he had been sitting at the other end of the room and glowered at him. “Are you drunk?”
“Mmmm, no,” Grantaire decided, though he grinned and raised the bottle in a toast anyway. “But I have been drinking. And I’m sure I’m probably on my way to getting drunk.”
Enjolras’s ears burned red and his hands clenched against the table. “Of all the stupid, irresponsible, idiotic—”
“Oh, save it,” Grantaire said, slumping into a seat. “I’ve heard it all before from you. So just save it. Carry on with your precious meeting.”
Shaking his head, Enjolras crossed around the table towards him, his eyes flashing. “No, I won’t. And I won’t let you sit here and disrupt everything because you’re selfish enough to want to do this to yourself and then subject us all to it.”
He grabbed Grantaire’s arm, pulling him out of his chair, and started pulling him to the door. “Get off me,” Grantaire snarled, wrenching himself out of Enjolras’s grasp. “You know what? Fine. You want me to go, and I’ll go. And fuck you very much. I don’t need your help or your scorn or whatever you deign to give me.”
And with that, he stormed out of the Room, leaving everyone in stunned silence behind him.
A few weeks later, Grantaire lay on his bed, staring up the ceiling, the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6 lying open beside him, his unfinished Transfiguration homework sitting on top of it. He made no attempt to pick up his quill and continue working on it, instead glancing occasionally at his watch and sighing heavily.
There was a Les Amis meeting tonight, and Grantaire was not there.
He had mostly avoided Enjolras after their little confrontation, and Enjolras had been avoiding him for the most part as well, but there hadn’t been any meetings for him to miss until now. And it felt weird not being there, but he didn’t think he could take Enjolras glaring at him for two hours straight.
So he had decided to work on his homework, but had given up on that quickly, not finding describing possible complications when transfiguring human hair to be compelling enough to stop him from dwelling on thoughts of Enjolras.
Heaving another sigh, he rolled over, wondering if it would be better if he just fell asleep instead of staring at the ceiling or his watch and thinking about what Enjolras probably looked like tonight in all his fiery fury, standing in front of the group.
A knock sounded on the door and Grantaire groaned aloud. “Go away, Bossuet. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s not Bossuet,” said a voice that Grantaire had never expected would be in his dormitory, standing outside his bedroom, and Grantaire actually fell off his bed as Enjolras opened the door, raising an eyebrow at him as he leaned against the doorframe. “Bad time?”
Grantaire groaned as he slowly sat up. “More like a bad life.” He waved towards Feuilly’s bed next to his. “Come in, please.”
Enjolras crossed to Feuilly’s bed and sat tentatively on it and watching as Grantaire picked himself up on the floor and sitting down on his own bed. They stared at each other for a few minutes, only a few feet apart, and then Enjolras cleared his throat. “I, uh, I stopped by to see where you were, since you didn’t come to meeting tonight.”
“Oh. Well. I was, uh, working on my Transfiguration homework.”
Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras asked incredulously, “And that was more important than one of our meetings?”
Grantaire shrugged and looked down, finger tracing an idle path along his bedspread. “Honestly, I didn’t think you would notice,” he mumbled.
Enjolras frowned at him. “I always notice.” Grantaire’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and Enjolras blushed slightly. “I mean, I, uh, you always make yourself pretty obvious in meetings. It’d be hard to ignore you.”
“And yet you seem to try all the time,” Grantaire said mildly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “In fact, all you seem to do is try and ignore me.”
Enjolras was thoroughly red by now. “Well clearly that didn’t work out too well for both of us,” he shot back, though he also smiled slightly. “Look, I’m sorry about the last meeting. I didn’t mean—“
“I know,” Grantaire said, quietly. “And I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t trying to be a dick on purpose, I promise, I just…it was a bad day.”
It was Enjolras’s turn to incline his head and say softly, “I know.” Silence fell between them until Enjolras cleared his throat and asked, “So are you going to come to the meeting or not?”
Shrugging, Grantaire said, his voice dropping into something slightly less mild, “Since we both seemed keen enough on kicking me out last time, what makes you think I’ll come back this time?”
“Because I asked you to?” Enjolras said hopefully, though there was a question in his tone.
Grantaire laughed. “Did Combeferre tell you to say that?” Enjolras’s deepened blush told him that he was correct, and Grantaire shook his head, still chuckling. “I’d be insulted if I thought that you didn’t mean it on your own.” He cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Provided, of course, that you do mean it.”
Enjolras’s eyes flashed and he huffed, “Of course I mean it. I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about that.” He stood up and offered Grantaire his hand. “Come on. Come back to the meeting. It’s not the same without you. No one’s there to encourage us to curse people who disagree with our goals.”
“You hate when I suggest that you curse people who disagree with your goals,” Grantaire pointed out, though he took Enjolras’s hand, allowing Enjolras to pull him off of the bed.
“Of course I do,” Enjolras said genially, giving him a small smile. “But that doesn’t mean that the meetings are somehow better without you interjecting stupid things like that. So come on.”
They both started toward the door and realized at the same time that they were still holding hands, and they dropped their hands quickly, both blushing scarlet and avoiding each other’s eyes. “After you,” Grantaire said courteously, holding the door open for Enjolras, who smiled tentatively at him. Then they walked out of the Hufflepuff Common Room and to the Room of Requirement, their hands occasionally brushing against the other’s, shooting each other glances and small smiles when they thought the other wasn’t looking.