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Stiles meets his best friend on the train ride over to Hogwarts. 

"Hi, I'm Stiles Stilinski," he nervously greets the tan-skinned boy with his own contrasting pale, extended arm.

The dark-haired child assesses him with a pair of bright green eyes that are partially concealed by a messy sweep of poorly-clipped hair. 

"You have dirt on your nose," is the eleven year old's reply before he slams the glass door in Stiles' face and wrenches the curtains closed.

"Nice to meet you too," Stiles breathes unhappily. 

Stiles meets his best friend on the train ride over to Hogwarts, and it's not Derek Hale.

His name is Scott McCall, actually, a wavy-haired, equally as awkward kid with kind brown eyes and a goofy grin. 

They sit across from each other and stare out the window, trading stories about their different - yet both decidedly wonderful - homes. (Scott was born and raised a wizard, apparently, and is very amused when Stiles mimics his muggle parents' reactions to his invitation from Hogwarts.) 

Scott tells him about Quidditch and buys his new friend a chocolate frog. In return, Stiles describes what cell phones look like and shares his Poptart.

His mother's tearful goodbye is a bygone, forgotten like the thousands of trees flickering by in the window. In its place is a sense of belonging, and he'd always known he was a square peg trying to fit into a circular hole, but it was nice to finally come to the realization that that was okay. That there was a square-shaped one waiting for him somewhere.

The dining hall echoes with anxious chatter and the pair of girls at Stiles side keep giggling into each others' ear, and it's all very distracting for a boy diagnosed with ADHD, so he tries to tune them out and practice the controlled expression of neutrality he'll have to use when he's sorted into Hufflepuff like that jerk Jackson Whittemore had snootily teased. But again, ADHD, so that plan lasts for all of half a minute. 

Stiles sighs and scratches at the skin peaking out from the bottom of his right sleeve. It's an irritated pink, obviously hating the sweater his Aunt Linda made for him just as much as he does. 

"Derek Hale," the headmaster, Professor Deaton, calls, and there's a collective silence, save the bubbly girls next to him, whose whispers aren't so much whispers as they are quiet shrieks that continue on noisily until they're silenced by a pretty redhead's frightening glare. When Stiles stares for a bit too long - caught up in the way her green eyes twinkle with a ferocious kind of fervor, or the way her fiery locks curl in soft, shining waves, or the way her plump lips are a glossy pink, or - she turns her pointed scoff onto him, and Stiles can't stop the heat that rises to his cheeks and warms his throat.

Glancing safely away from the beautifully horrifying eleven year old, Stiles instead directs his attention to Derek, who, as it turns out, is the rude boy who slammed a door in Stiles' face, and Stiles quickly and haughtily decides this Hale kid can be sorted into Slytherin for all he cares.

So it really comes as no surprise that when the Sorting Hat is lowered on his mop of dark hair, a loud, confident "Gryffindor" rings out and pierces the restless silence, and the crowded table below the maroon and yellow emblem erupts in excited cheers. 

It's not much, but even Stiles can see it - a tiny curl of the lips, a wry flash of teeth, a raised chin. Derek's shoulders relax and jealousy claws at Stiles chest as he imagines the swell of pride that must be in Derek's.

Stiles pouts for the next ten rounds.

More and more first years get called up the stage and sit through the Sorting Hat's agonizingly long deliberation, tables cheer exuberantly, and fewer and fewer people are separating Stiles from utter mortification.

Scott's sorted into Gryffindor, unsurprisingly. Everything about that kid screams gallant.

The redhead - Lydia Martin, he learns - is happily seated at the Ravenclaw table.

The giggling girls are split up between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, much to their disappointment.

"Szczepan Stilinski."

The prounounciation is just as cruel as the snickers that proceed it. 

For what seems like the twentieth time that day, Stiles face flushes and it takes a few shoves from the antsy boy behind him for Stiles to remember how to move his legs. Ducking his head, the eleven year old makes his way up the stage, cleverly avoiding the thousand eyes that are no doubt glued judgmentally to his lanky frame, pasty skin, and ugly striped sweater. 

(No really. It's pretty bad.)

When he finally settles onto the stool, his palms are sweating and his pulse is racing angrily against his throat. Stiles coughs awkwardly to fill the unnerving quiet and stares intently at his scuffed shoes. 

He almost flinches when the Sorting Hat's placed atop his head, not expecting its featherlight touch. 

And then Stiles waits.

And waits some more.

And there is no way it should be taking this long. 

Stiles gulps and squeezes his eyes shut, fingers fisted in his pant legs and knuckles white. 

The Sorting Hat clears its throat, and Stiles tenses. Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes, here it -

"Gryffindor," the booming voice commands nonchalantly, as if he hadn't been sitting there for at least three minutes. As if his entire world wasn't about to collapse in on itself from a single word.

He blinks. "You're kidding."

"Gryffindor," the Hat repeats, peeved.

"You sure you don't mean Hufflepuff?" Stiles asks. "Because, to be honest, even Ravenclaw seems like a stretch."

"Gryffindor."

"Mr. Stilinski," Professor Deaton says from his side, voice lilted with amusement. "I suggest you join your newly-appointed house before you're sorted into Slytherin out of spite."

That gets Stiles moving.

He approaches the table with a hesitance that only serves as proof that this is most certainly not where he should be sitting, but then Scott is smiling widely and gesturing at the empty seat beside him, and Stiles returns the expression gratefully. 

From the corner of his eye, he notices a grouchy, messy-haired Derek Hale watch the exchange with a frown, but Stiles can't even bring himself to be upset because Jackson is sorted into Hufflepuff, and that's almost as wonderfully amazing as Stiles managing his way into Gryffindor.

"Sszzssepan," Scott tries, eyebrows furrowing, mouth contorting into a weird sort of grimace.

"You sound like a bee," Stiles laughs, and just like that, Scott gives up on his two minute, valiant quest to properly say Stiles' real name because that's what best friends do, according to the dopey eyed boy. "Just stick with Stiles."

Scott doesn't even bother hiding his relief. 

Stiles doesn't really ever see Derek again after their little conversation - if one could even call it that - on the train. Sure, they have some of the same classes, live in the same dormitory, eat at the same table, but - okay, so they see each other quite a bit.

But an uncomfortable amount of eye contact - on Derek's part mostly, Stiles swears - does not constitute actual social interaction.  

In conclusion, Stiles doesn't 'see' Derek.

But he sure does hear about him. All. The. Time.

He's not snooping, for once in his life. Under normal circumstances, he honestly wouldn't care what Derek does in his free time. He really wouldn't.

It's just, Derek apparently survives attacks by He Who Must Not Be Named in his 'free time,' one of which while he was still a baby. 

Really, it's just Stiles luck that the boy he's bent on ignoring would turn out to be so unbelievably cool.

Upon entering his second year at Hogwarts, Stiles decides the school is fantastic in every sense of the word, excluding his Potion's class with Professor Harris, of course.  

But then his father sends him a letter, and he can't breathe.

None of his friends say anything when he leaves the dining hall, most likely because they don't notice, too wrapped up in the pictures and gifts their parents attached in their letters. But Stiles doesn't hold that against them. After all, he wishes he could pulling out his own muggle polaroids and laughing at his friends' confused expressions when they realize the image isn't moving like it's supposed to, Stiles, what's wrong with it?

Instead, he gets this - this suffocating, earth-quaking, overwhelmingly present pain - and he's not sure what to do with it, so he just sits in his room and lets the wound fester and tries so hard not to cry because he's thirteen now, and by the time Scott gets back from breakfast, eyebrows raised in worry when he takes in his roommate's curled-up form, Stiles feels like he's going to explode.

And yet all he can manage is a soft, broken whisper.

Scott skips all his classes that day and sits with him. They don't talk or touch. Stiles doesn't cry. This isn't that kind of grief you can just let out and be done with. This one stays, makes its very own neat mark on your heart and stows itself away until you so much as dare to begin to forget and then it's there again, greedy for attention, taking up your every thought, driving you mad.

Stiles can't help but find it ironic. Every part of him feels drained and empty, like he's dying. 

And he's not even the one who died.

Muggle. It's silly word for an average-joe human, which Stiles isn't.

Mudblood. It's derogatory term for someone with muggle parents, which, as it turns out, fits Stiles to a 'T'. 

He'd just never thought of it as a bad thing. His dad, his mom, Scott, Allison, Danny, Lydia, Jackson even - none of them thought it was.

But he's got a mouthful of dirt and stinging palms that suggest otherwise. 

Rolling over onto his side and swiping haphazardly at his mouth with the sleeve of his no doubt ruined robe, Stiles looks up at his aggressor with a furious snarl. 

"What the hell was that for?"

"Aww," the Slytherin coos tauntingly. "Whatcha gonna do 'bout it, Stilinski? Ask your muggle daddy to throw me in jail?"

"The inmates are punished enough as is," Stiles spits, along with a few blades of dry, autumn grass. "No need to torture them further with your insufferable presence."

"Well then maybe your mum could read me a bed time story. Give me a good ol' kiss good night," Matt flicks his tongue, waggling his eyebrows lewdly.

Everything is red, and suddenly Stiles is up on his feet and swinging.

Eyes wide in disbelief, Matt clutches his jaw. "Did you see that, Crab, Goyle? Bloody mudblood hit me. I say we teach him a lesson - what about you?"

Nodding in agreement, the meatheads crack their knuckles and step forward, grabbing his arms and, despite his protests, manage to wrench them backward, holding Stiles in place.

Stiles' hands clench, and his shoulders tense, bracing himself for impact. The older boy raises a fist, lips pulled back to reveal and toothy smirk, and then proceeds to do the biggest face-plant in epic-fail history. It's so beautiful, it almost brings tears to Stiles' eyes.

Which is exactly when Stiles sees it, and his face falls. Sees him.

If he weren't scraped up, covered in dirt and grass, and sporting a new tear in his robe, Stiles would call the situation hilarious, because who else but Derek Hale would be standing a few feet behind Matt's crumpled form, wand raised? He's not sure whether he should laugh or cry. So instead he just gawks like an idiot.

At least Goyle does the same. But actually, that realization is not nearly as comforting as Stiles had thought it would be. 

Crab emits an indignant squawk. "What did you - "

"It's just a jelly-legs curse," Derek assures them in a very not reassuring, I'm going to rip your throat out with my teeth kind of tone, and perhaps Stiles should have given dumb and dumber more credit because they seem to smarten up real quick, releasing Stiles from their iron-like grip and running over to hoist their friend over their shoulders and help him hobble over towards - hopefully - the infirmary. 

And then there were two. Great, because a one-on-one interaction with Derek Hale had went so well the first - and thankfully only - time.

Stiles huffs out a humorless laugh and brushes of his pants, decidedly frazzled beyond belief and trying desperately to not show it. "They're probably going to report you, you know. For using magic outside of class."

"I think I'll be fine," Derek grunts, and he's probably right. They weren't exactly picking daisies. "You, on the other hand - "

"I'm good," Stiles interrupts quickly. "No need to worry. Totally good." So please let me crawl back into my hole and die.

The wisps of dark hair that had obscured Derek's face all throughout their first year at Hogwarts are now neatly trimmed, revealing a vibrant pair of green eyes that gaze at him intently, disbelievingly - not in the complimentary concerned kind of way. More like: you're a moron so why the bloody hell would I believe anything you say?

"You have dirt on your nose," the tanner boy informs him after a while, and this time, Stiles laughs a little easier. 

Derek's forehead wrinkles, but otherwise, his face is as stoic as always. Not that Stiles would know Derek's facial tendencies or anything because that would be weird. "What?"

Stiles' smile falls. Of course he doesn't remember, you idiot. It wasn't like the first words they'd ever exchanged were particularly noteworthy or spectacular. "Nothing. It's nothing."

Derek swallows, nods, and looks around like he'd rather be anywhere than here at this very moment.

Fine. Good riddance.

And yet he stays, hands shoved into his pockets, foot pushing around brittle leaves that crunch and leave the air smelling musky, eyes trained to the ground.

Stiles squints at him in bewilderment before plopping himself on the ground. What the hell, his clothes are a mess anyway. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, rubs at his temples, suddenly very aware of the sharp sting in his hand. Stiles groans in discomfort. Who knew punching someone would hurt this bad? Action movies should have done a better job preparing him for this.

"Here," Derek sighs loudly in exasperation, like dealing with Stiles is a chore, and steps forward, reaching out for Stiles' throbbing fist in a jerky, sharp motion. But something about his hazel eyes holds a certain softness to it, and his outstretched hand doesn't look too intimidating. Cautiously, Stiles touches his palm to Derek's and tries not to flinch when the latter grips firmly onto his wrist, flipping it over with gentle precision. From up close, Stiles can count every light freckle that dots the taller boy's nose and every eyelash that grazes the top of his cheekbone when he blinks. Derek mutters something under his breath and taps his wand against the inside of Stiles' wrist, a cool numbness sweeping outward from the spot, making his fingertips tingle. 

Most importantly, the pain is gone.

"It's an anesthetic charm," Derek tells him churlishly. (He's beginning to think that's just Derek's normal tone of voice.) "It won't stop the bruising, but at least this way it will hurt less."

"Cool," Stiles responds, because he's not going to say thank you. Something tells him Derek wouldn't even accept it if he did. "I didn't know magic could do that. Heal people. I mean, besides potions, of course."

Stiles is suddenly struck by a horrible thought.

"Do you think magic can - "

"It wouldn't have helped. Magic can't cure death, Stilinski."

Stiles head turns so fast that there's now a crick in his neck that he's naming Derek. "How do you know about my mom?" It comes out more an accusation than anything else.

Derek's brow furrows. "I don't. I just guessed."

Stiles snorts, not sure if he trusts Derek, but also unable to see even a slight faltering tremor in the other boy's candid expression. "Well, you're spot on. She died a month ago, my mother. Brain aneurysm. By the time dad got her to the hospital, it was too late for the doctors to do anything."

"There's nothing you could have done," the other boy remarks, and had the cliche come from anyone else, Stiles would have scowled or laughed or cried, dismissing the claim as idle words meant to placate - to assuage one's own guilt and get that poor boy to stop whining for god's sake - but this is Derek Hale. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who lost his entire family in the span of a single night. The boy who wears the proof on his forehead - a jagged scar, all sharp edges, shaped uncannily like a lightning bolt.

Because it's Derek Hale, Stiles just nods and purses his lips thoughtfully, head tilting back to stare up at the looming rain clouds. "I know," he murmurs, a sound barely above a breath, and this is the closest he's ever come to meaning it. "It's Stiles, by the way." The and you should know this because we've already had this conversation before, you jerk goes unsaid.

Derek turns slightly to his side and peeks at Stiles from the corners of his eyes, face as striking as the mark on his forehead. "Stiles," he repeats sullenly, as if tasting the name and finding it only mildly appetizing.

Stiles and Derek aren't friends. 

They don't talk or share their feelings or hang out outside of class or even offer polite greetings when passing each other in the hallway.

But Stiles understands Derek a little better now, and he thinks Derek might understand him too - in a way that even Scott can't. 

Which sucks, for the most part.

(It's also kind of nice.)

Lydia finally breaks his heart on the first day of his third year at Hogwarts, but in all fairness, it's not like Stiles hadn't seen her rejection coming a mile away. 

Still, she didn't have to rub salt in the wound and show up bright and cheery that morning, fiery, windswept curls pulled back in a way that framed her face nicely, lips a plump, glossy pink as always, her dainty, perfectly-manicured hand clutched in that meathead Jackson's sweaty, rough, smarmy grip. Ugh, just thinking about it made Stiles want to stick his head in a toilet.

Obviously Lydia wasn't that much of a catch anyway if she was willing to suck face with that thing.

Except that she totally is the loveliest, smartest, funniest girl Stiles has ever met in his entire life and what a waste on that pompous asshole who flexes his 'guns' just about every chance he gets.

He's fourteen and he has a six pack. What even.

Stiles weighs one hundred and forty-seven pounds wet.

It also just so happens that Scott and Allison seal that three-year-old, awkward flirting thing they've had going on with a kiss, and that's how Stiles realizes he'll probably be doomed to perpetual singledom for the rest of his life. 

There were several minor discrepancies with Hogwarts that Stiles had ignorantly overlooked in his excitement, one of which being that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professors here had a tendency to, well, die. 

Of course, Quirrell, his first year instructor, ended up being a servant of He Who Must Not Be Named, so an imminent death was to be expected.

Still, dead. 

Which is why Professor Lahey is so cool. (And perhaps a little bit insane. He seems like a nice guy, but one would have to be crazy to so eagerly fill up a job with this kind of track-record.)

Maybe it's because they're now third years and can finally be trusted with actual magic (god forbid), but Stiles suspects their rubric for the year has more to do with the shear awesomeness of Isaac Lahey. Yes, Isaac. He lets them call him by his first name, because he's amazing like that.

Okay, so Stiles might have a bit of a crush.

But let the record show that Isaac Lahey is only twenty five and has soft blue eyes and a warm, heart-stopping smile that lights up the room. And his laugh - Plus, Stiles really needs to get over the whole Lydia-thing because she and Jackson are practically attached at the hip, and it's sickening.

Scott likes to tease Stiles about it, his crush. Not unkindly, but in the sort of dopey, best friend way that Stiles can't even bring himself to be anything more than peeved at. It doesn't hurt that Stiles has the best grade in the class, either, even above Derek Hale. (Despite his ADHD, Stiles finds that he can easily focus on a subject if the object in which it is conveyed through is rather attractive. Also, actual hands-on magic!)

Anyway, horribly hopeless and mortifying infatuations aside, Stiles usually enjoyed the class.

Today, however.

It was a simple lesson, really. Learn to overcome your fear, be able to fight it, become a better person, yada yada yada. Something about a boggart. Stiles got the gist.

He hadn't realized they'd actually have physically overcome said fear in front of the entire class.

Still, it had started out innocently enough. Scott went first - by choice, because he's Scott, who they might as well make Gryffindor's new emblem because he's brave and courageous and an absolute, altruistic dunce. His fear was snakes, which was respectable and completely understandable given the whole fiasco with the ginormous serpent that was medusa-ing everyone and their mother into stone last year. (Scott refused to leave his bed for a solid week.)

Flushing beet red in embarrassment, Scott had quickly manipulated the snake into a large, floppy earth worm with a cry of "Riddikulus!"

Jackson went next, not wanting to be upstaged. His fear was Professor Harris - and Stiles might have cackled inappropriately at that, sorry, Jackson. In the next ten seconds, Harris was sporting a horrendous plaid dress, a feather boa, and an ostentatious hat.

One by one, the students volunteered, some with giddy grins, and others with hesitant trepidation. Stiles initial reaction had better fit the latter group, but he managed a smile on his face because that's what Gryffindor's did, apparently, and stood in front of the wardrobe without a complaint.

The spider hobbling around on rollerskates looks at him with its several pairs of beady eyes miserably, and Stiles closes his own, distancing himself from the laughs and the anxious bodies nudging impatiently at his back. He imagines being frightened, pictures the tell-tale race of his pulse, the cold sweat that would break on his palms, the twist of his stomach.

He opens his eyes, and before him stands a man, hair a light brown with streaks of charcoal gray, a bottle clutched tightly in his hand, irises the same exact color as Stiles'. It's all so unbelievably real.

So real he forgets it isn't.

The man, his father, catches sight of Stiles's wide-eyed apprehension and raises an accusatory finger, eyes gleaming with a sudden onslaught of venom.

"It's you," his father hisses, words slurred, obviously drunk. "It's all you. You know, everyday I saw her lying in that hospital slowly dying and thought how the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own? This hyperactive little bastard - " Stiles flinches with each spat syllable " - who keeps ruining my life." Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head and chunks his bottle on the ground, the glass narrowly missing its feet, but the burst of strong-smelling, sticky amber liquid staining his pant legs effectively conveys the intended message. "It's all you. It's you, Stiles. You killed your mother, you hear me? You killed her. And now you're killing me."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears worried cries and urgent commands, but it all fades to silence when the sheriff steps forward with intent, and for one unbearably long second, Stiles thinks he's back at home. That his father's finally lost it. That his dad believes every word he's saying. That Stiles killed his mother.

In an instant, the scene changes, morphing into a floating flame that flickers maliciously. 

Stiles sucks in a needy breath and nearly drops to the floor in relief, were it not for the reassuring grip on his shoulder. He peaks out the corner of his teary eyes in confusion, and shouldn't at all be surprised that it's Derek Hale, of course. 

Stiles is about to grit his teeth, snap at his savior like a wounded animal, jerk his arm away with a vicious tug, but then he sees the expression on Derek's face - the complete and utter agony. He witnesses the very moment the green of his irises darkens to a lifeless black, swallowed almost entirely by his pupils. The very moment the composed line of Derek's mouth drops into a weak trembling. The very moment Derek sinks into himself. 

It's a different kind of fire that appears before the wardrobe this time. This one's black as night, a liquid shroud. It sends chills down Stiles' spine. The air is suddenly heavy in his chest, and he almost feels like he's suffocating, drowning in sadness, like every happy memory or thought was being coaxed out of him, leaving a lazy aching where his heart used to be.

It's not fire, Stiles realizes, but a figure, its skeletal hand outstretched, reaching for Derek, who's still sinking and sinking, his grip on Stiles' shoulder loosening.

"Derek!" Stiles yells, throat rough, but Isaac is already jumping in front of them, wand at the ready.

The creature evaporates into a yellow-tinted full moon, hidden slightly by gray clouds.

"Riddikulus!" their professor calls, and the moon is a balloon, skidding across the room in what normally would be a humorous display.

The class remains silent.

When Stiles glances back at Derek, he's already halfway out the door.

Dementor, he learns later from the hushed whispers during dinner. That's what they're called - Derek's fear. 

No one says anything about Stiles' fear, but he guesses that being out-shined by Derek in every sense of the word does sometimes have its perks. 

Scott does give Stiles his roll, however, and an awkward shoulder pat, and that's that, which is why he is and will always be Stiles' best friend.

Professor Lahey insists on teaching Stiles and Derek how to properly defend themselves against dementors, seeing as they'd both been attacked by one (sort of). 

Derek insists on them being taught separately, which yeah, Stiles finds a little offensive, but mostly he's just relieved because Derek Hale is exhaustingly cryptic for a fourteen year old and hello, more alone time with Isaac.

("Oh, as if, Stiles." 

"Shut up, Lydia. A guy can dream.")

"Bilinski?" Professor Finstock asks, and Stiles snaps his head up off his deck, eyes still warm from sleep. A piece of blank parchment is stuck to his cheek. He was supposed to be writing notes on it, but come on, it's Herbology class. Plants are plants.

Also, sometimes they're magical creatures. What else is there to know? "Ten points from Gryffindor. My classroom is not a bedroom, Bilinski, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't treat it like one. 

The class snickers.

"It's Stilinski," Stiles replies wearily, rubbing at his eyes, ignoring his fellow house members' glares.

"Don't talk out of turn, Bilinski. Twenty points from Gryffindor."

"What? But - "

Allison and Scott share a groan. Danny chunks a wad of parchment at the back of his head. Even Derek is face-palming.

"Thirty points from Gryffindor. Shall I go on?"

"Stiles. Shut up," Scott hisses.

Stiles flips them all off and Finstock turns back to face the board. He doesn't know why they're even worried. It's not like Derek won't gain the lost points all back with his latest insane act of heroism.

Of course, Stiles hadn't expected to take part in said heroism, but when do things ever go his way? 

Okay, so maybe this was kind of his fault. He definitely shouldn't have been nosy and convinced Scott to follow Derek into the Forbidden Forest, but Derek shouldn't have ventured into the the forest by himself in the middle of the night. So Stiles is not accepting full responsibility for this, contrary to Scott's complaints.

He doesn't dare follow Derek into the Whomping Willow, however, lest he get the shit kicked out of him. (Whether it'd be by the enchanted tree or Derek, he's not sure.) But he does wait patiently outside, throwing rocks and ignoring Scott's moans and groans about his pillow and his nice, warm bed.

"What could he possibly be doing in there?" Stiles asks curiously, picking up another handful of rocks. 

"Sleeping," Scott offers unhelpfully. "Which is what we should be doing right - "

A snapped twig, off in the distance. The sounds of hurried panting.

Stiles and Scott share a look that communicates how utterly fucked they are after Stiles glances up into the air to reaffirm that yep, it's totally a full moon tonight. And Stiles has a creepy, hairy textbook in his trunk that reads in fine print that very, very bad things happen on full moons.

"Any chance that's not a - "

"Probably not," Scott interrupts.

Another shared exchange of horror and they're sprinting back toward the school, not stopping until they're nearing the edge of the Forbidden Forest, inhales shallow and limbs aching.

Once he's able to catch his breath, Stiles remembers something as equally as horrible as being chased through the Forbidden Forest by a maybe-werewolf. 

(The proceeding coincidental howl is enough of a confirmation for Stiles to deem the scary snarling creature definitely-a-werewolf.)

Derek Hale is still in said Forbidden Forest. With said werewolf.

Holy hell, Derek's going to be dog food.

"We have to go back," Stiles gasps out, head ducked and hands clenching at the material of his pajama bottoms.

Scott's eyes widen. "Are you bloody insane?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Scott, Derek's still out there."

"So, let's get Deaton then, or Morrell, or hell, even Harris to help. Stiles, we can't do this ourselves. That thing. In there." He motions toward the dark trees. "I'm pretty sure is a werewolf. A werewolf." 

No shit, Sherlock.

"There's not enough time," Stiles argues vehemently. "Derek could die, Scott. As much as I don't like the dude, he doesn't deserve to be puppy chow."

Scott's responding expression is somewhere along the lines of you did not just.

Oh, but Stiles did. 

Scott stands there for a moment, eyes rolling, hands shaking, but in the end, his Mr. Gryffindor alter ego reigns supreme and he releases a long-suffering sigh.

"Ugh, fine. But if we die, I'm totally killing you."

It doesn't take them that long to find Derek, and it would be a hell of an understatement to say Stiles is relieved to see The Boy Who Lived without any of his necessary limbs missing. 

Physically, he's fine, minus a few tears at the collar of his shirt and a tiny cut tracing the skin stretched across his cheekbones.

Whether he's mentally okay is a completely different story. After all, what sane person calmly watches a werewolf skirmish?

Stiles fists Derek's flannel shirt and tugs him backward with all his might, away from the snarling, hunched over, and absolutely terrifying creatures snapping at each other.

Derek's head jerks around in surprise, a mixture of disbelief and disdain coloring his expression. "Stiles, Scott," he hisses, and it's most expressive he's ever sounded. "What are you two doing out here?"

"We could say the same for you," Stiles answers, irritated. I'm trying to help, you arrogant prick.

Derek, not missing a beat, returns his scowl with even more fervor.

"Um, guys," Scott squeaks uncharacteristically. (Witnessing werewolves fighting to the death can do that to you.) "We should seriously be running away right now."

As if on cue, one of the drooling werewolves raises its head, eyes a piercing red, and growls threateningly, its thick muscles coiling as it haunches over and gets ready. 

For what, the three gryffindors don't wait to find out.

They end up at the Enchanted Lake because Scott is crap at navigation, and that is totally, one hundred percent Scott's fault. 

Going into the Forbidden Forest was Stiles', and partially Derek's.

The following eerie ice cold that pierces the air is another thing entirely.

It takes him a while to recognize the feeling - the chill and sudden wave anxiety. The fear.

So Derek does it does it for him.

"Dementors," The Boy Who Lived murmurs as the first shrouded figure appears, gaunt arm outstretched the same way as before, only this time it's more corporeal. More real. 

More sinister than the imitation that had come from a mere boy's imagination.

"Come on," Derek commands, voice shaky but authoritative. "Get up."

At first Stiles is at a lost, but then he sees Derek pull his wand out from his pants pocket.

"We're going to fight off dementors?" he asks incredulously. "Derek, we're fourteen. My patronus is a crippled Bambi."

"Patronus?" Scott repeats with worry. "What's a patronus? Oh hell, should I know how to do that?"

"No," Stiles dismisses with a faux-nonchalant wave of his hand. "Isa - Professor Lahey just taught Derek and I because of the whole boggart incident and never mind, that is so not important and oh god we're going to die."

"We are not going to die," Derek bites, raising his wand.

"Oh really? I bet you can't even - "

"Expecto Patronum!"

A blue-white light materializes at the end of Derek's wand, surely and confidently taking the shape of a large wolf.

Well then.

The first couple dementors cower at the spell's vivid brilliance, but after a while, Derek arm starts visibly shaking and more and more are appearing, an endless black mass enveloping the sky.

There shouldn't be this much, Stiles thinks in a panic. They shouldn't be here to begin with.

Stiles and Scott shouldn't be here at all.

Stiles wants to resent Derek for getting them mixed up in this mess, but that wouldn't be fair because Stiles made his own choices. Plus, imagining Derek out here, all alone, makes Stiles' chest twinge.

A grunt of exertion, of pain, and the green-eyed boy is turning toward Stiles, lips parting and eyelashes flickering languidly before his hand falls and he crashes to the ground, trembling. Stiles is freezing now, teeth clattering together, goose pimples dotting his exposed skin. And the feeling returns - the one he'd experienced in class - only, it's increased by tenfold. The overwhelming, all encompassing sadness, the disappointment, the doubt, it's enough to drag him to his knees.

His mother's tender hugs, his father boisterous guffaws, Scott's friendly, trademark arm pats, Lydia's annoyed expression, Allison's warm smiles, Derek's soft, empathetic, hazel eyes - all gone, and in their place is a bone-crunching, gut-wrenching emptiness.

"Make it stop," Scott cries from his side. Stiles' own cheeks are wet too, he realizes. "Stiles, please."

Derek is silent, but his tiny tremors have advanced to teeth-chattering quakes.

Think of something happy, Isaac had instructed him cheerfully.

It's that easy? Stiles inquired, surprised. 

Of course not, Isaac laughed, genuinely pleased. It made Stiles' face warm. But it's a good start.

Something happy.

His mother. She's grinning at him wetly, tears streaming down her face as she kisses his cheek and all but shoves him onto the train to Hogwarts, claiming that if he doesn't leave now, she might never let him go. His father is beside her, arm wrapped contently around her waist. The skin at the corners of his eyes and edges of his mouth crinkle. He's on the train now. Scott and Allison are seated across from him and they're all laughing at something that isn't nearly as funny as they make it out to be. He's at Hogwarts, he's holding the House Cup, the students of Gryffindor cheering madly, chanting his name. Danny claps him on the shoulder just as he catches Derek's eye. The normally stone-faced boy beams, flashes a set of just barely crooked, white teeth. It's a becoming expression. But he's suddenly too distracted by a certain redhead in his arms to care. Jackson looks on enviously. He's home again, telling his parents about everything that happened. Everything he did. We're so proud of you, honey. And at no point during any of it does someone call Stiles a muggle or a mudblood or a bastard or killer. And he's happy. So happy.

"Expecto Patronum!" 

It comes out as a stag at first. Bright and powerful, enough that it makes his eyes water, but then it sort of expands and expands until it's more of an umbrella than anything else. 

"Expecto Patronum!" 

He yells again, this time focusing, putting everything he has into the action, and this time he has to shield his eyes with his other hand. A loud ringing sings above everything else - Scott's quieting whines, Stiles quick breaths. It echoes in his skull, the vibrations numbing his limbs and making the tips of his fingers and toes tingle with pins and needles. His head feels light, weightless, what little muscle he has strong and firm, his heart pounds at an exhilarating speed against his ribcage, as if wanting to jump out. Something sparks inside him, something desperate, something roused to animation, tumultuous and uncontrolled. It courses through his veins, sears them with its delicious heat.

And then it's gone.

When the light starts to retract, Stiles lowers his arms to his side, absentmindedly scanning over Scott and Derek, knowing fully he should be checking their vitals right now, but he's so tired he can hardly move his head to the side without getting dizzy.

From his spot on the ground, Derek's sitting up and staring at Stiles with a look of awe. 

"You - " Derek begins, but Stiles doesn't hear the rest because he's toppling forward, vision blurring. He's pretty sure Derek ends up catching him, though. Which is good because Stiles really isn't cool enough to rock the crooked nose look.

He awakens to white sheets and white curtains, the light of early morning peeking out through the wispy, shear material. The room smells heavily of sterile lemon and fresh linen. His tongue feels like cotton, and his mouth tastes foul. Limbs tightening in protest, Stiles hoists himself up into a sitting position, hands digging into the mattress like a its a lifeline.

Vertigo sweeps over his head and Stiles just about topples over with a groan. His stomach clenches with nausea.

A small chuckle from his side snaps him from his self-pity party.

(The way his neck cracks when he looks to his right does not sound healthy.)

Hazel eyes meet his, brighter than usual, glinting green with flecks of amber under the sunlight. The boy's hair is messy in a bedridden sort of way. It makes him look younger. There's a tiny bandage on his cheek.

"Derek?" Stiles voices his confusion, wiping at his sleep-itchy face. "What happened? Why are we - "

"You don't remember?" Derek asks curiously, and there's nothing stoic or sarcastic about the question. 

Stiles squints, thinking, trying to conjure up images from that night. They'd followed Derek into the Forbidden Forest. There had been a werewolf. No, two. And dementors. Definitely more than two of those. "What were dementors doing on Hogwarts grounds?"

Derek's expression sobers at his words, and he drops his gaze to his threaded fingers. "Can I trust you?"

Stiles blinks in shock. "I don't know. Can you?" He stutters out not nearly as confidently as he'd hoped.

Derek's jaw sets. "Scott told me what happened," he mutters, barely above a whisper. "You came back to save me. You. From a werewolf." Derek looks back up at him, eyes unreadable. "You're a moron."

Stiles can't help the giddy laugh that bubbles up in his chest. It surprises Derek almost as much as himself. "Maybe," he admits sheepishly. "But it's part of my charm."

The corners of Derek's lips twitch upward, before he tempers it back down into an emotionless line. Stiles wants to tell him to stop doing that, that he actually looks nice and approachable when he smiles, but he doesn't want to ruin this - whatever this is - with his big mouth.

"I went to the Forbidden Forest to meet my sister."

Stiles balks because isn't Derek's entire family dead? But then he remembers hearing something about a sister. Only, if he recalled correctly, she was supposed to be in Azkaban on the grounds of assisting He Who Must Not Be Named in the murdering of her family. Which definitely poses the question of why on earth Derek would want to see her after that.

"She told me she was framed by my uncle. I didn't believe her at first, but after a while, it started making sense. He always seemed off. He'd say things I wouldn't understand and - " he pauses uncomfortably. "Laura had come with Isaac. He'd helped keep her hidden all this time in exchange for her teaching him how to control himself. Y'know, to keep from shifting."

Stiles' eyes widen because no, he most certainly did not know, thank you very much. "Professor Lahey - " He stops himself, face flushing, swallowing in attempt to lower the pitch of his voice back to normal. "In the forest. That was your sister and - "

"Isaac," Derek nods, face betraying his amusement at Stiles' mortification. At least someone was getting a kick out of it.

"But he attacked you." Except, Stiles had only seen the marks, not how Derek had received them. 

"No, Peter did. My uncle. Isaac was just trying to protect me, and things got a little out of hand. Laura had to calm him down afterwards. That's when you and Scott came along."

Stiles rubs at his forehead, attempting to soak it all in without passing out. A thought strikes him. "Wait, Peter as in Peter the Death Eater." (Stiles would never, ever understand why witches and wizards insisted on having such dark nursery rhymes.)

"He's your uncle?" Stiles doesn't even need Derek's confirmation because it all makes sense now. "Holy hell, are you a werewolf, too?"

Derek scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous. You have to be bitten by one." He raises his hand, silencing Stiles forming inquiry. "Laura was bitten by Peter. Isaac was attacked by some rogue shifter."

"And what, they just happened to meet up? Used their werewolfy networking connections to find each other?"

Stiles does not appreciate the what the hell is wrong with you eyebrow raise Derek gives him.

"No," Derek says slowly, like Stiles is three. "They went to school together. I think they dated for a while, actually."

Well, dang. Stiles hopes his shoulders don't slump too much. Like Derek needed another reason to think he's pathetic.

Either he's too immersed in his own thoughts to notice or is too polite to point it out because Derek just sighs tiredly and leans back against his pillow.

The infirmary is filled with silence. Mrs. McCall must be in the her office, most likely on the phone with Stiles' dad, advising him against coming all the way down to Hogwarts to make sure his son is one piece. Sheriff Stilinski has a tendency to overreact about these kind of things, though Stiles hardly complains because he understands it, he really does.

"What about the dementors?" Stiles asks finally.

Derek hums in response, like he'd been halfway toward sleep, but Stiles' curiosity outweighs his guilt. "Laura escaped from Azkaban, Stiles. The Ministry had hundreds of them sent after her. They weren't supposed to be able to get past Hogwarts' enchantments, but, well, I guess we can thank Peter for that."

Stiles doesn't reply. Thank is definitely not the word that comes to mind when he thinks of Peter's culpability in their near-demises. Asshat.

"By the way, Stiles," Derek says plainly, voice slightly muffled by his pillow. "You're a stronger wizard than I'd thought."

It's a compliment, Stiles is sure. Double-edged or not, it's a compliment from Derek Hale.

Stiles is searching for an appropriate response when Scott throws open the infirmary door and races into the room, all but pouncing on Stiles.

"How you feeling?" Scott inquires, all wide smiles and pleasantly pink cheeks. 

"Like my best friend is sitting on my spleen," Stiles croaks out, swatting at Scott's chest.

Scott huffs out a laugh and moves to the edge of his bed. "Oops. Sorry." He ignores Stiles' unconvinced glower and casts a glance over at Derek's back. "And you, Hale? Feeling better?" 

Derek simply grunts grumpily and Scott laughs again.

It's ridiculous, but the comfortable exchange kind of makes Stiles jealous. Of whom, he's not entirely sure.

"Well, I should probably catch you up on the latest news," Scott decides. "I already filled Derek in, but I bet his reactions weren't as nearly as good as yours will be."

Which is a most certainly nerve-wracking statement.

"You're kidding me!" Stiles exclaims in agonized incredulity. This is so his life. This would totally happen to him. 

Of course Stiles would win Gryffindor the House Cup while lying in bed, unconscious. 

"Did Jackson cry? Please tell me Jackson cried."

Scott shakes his head, smirking. "But he was obviously upset."

Given the odd year he's had, Stiles guesses that's good enough.

For now.

"Can we sit here?" 

Derek looks up from his breakfast with raised eyebrows, and it's not the most pleasant expression, but it's definitely not a refusal.

Poor Derek hadn't realized until it was too late that we meant Stiles, Scott, Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Danny, and so on and so forth, and Gryffindor really needs a bigger table.

Stiles steps off the train with a grin, heading straight for the ridiculous tan trench coat he knows his dad is so fond of wearing 

"Hey, buddy," Sheriff Stilinski grins, throwing an arm over his shoulder and pulling him in for a tight hug. "You have a good year?"

Stiles isn't sure the best way to greet his father is describing how he survived a dementor attack, so he just shrugs and gives him another hug. His father's wearing the cheap cologne Stiles had bought him for Christmas a year ago. The smell is ridiculously strong. That's why Stiles eyes water. That's totally why.

"Uh, Stiles. Who's the kid with the lightning bolt tattooed on his forehead? He won't stop staring at us."

Stiles pulls back with a frown and spins around in attempt to catch Derek in the act, but by the time he spots him in the crowd, Derek is looking away and heading off into the opposite direction.

"Oh, that's just Derek Hale."

His father's eyebrows raise to his hairline. "You friends with him?"

Stiles nearly shakes his head out of habit, but actually, "Yeah," he admits sheepishly. "Yeah, I think so."

"He looks a little… frightening," his father points out with grimace, obviously not comfortable at all with the idea of being unnerved by a fourteen year old. 

Stiles smiles secretively beneath the collar of his thick sweater. "Oh please, dad. Derek's all eyebrows, trust me." Which does less to mitigate his father's fears as it does confuse him. But oh well, welcome to the wonderful enigma that is Derek Hale. 

"So how's Scott?" the sheriff asks after a while and listens patiently as Stiles rattles off without interruption and switches topics at least seven times.

Later, when Stiles finally comes home to his own bed and thank god, his own computer, he can't help but wonder what his father say when he looked at Derek - whether The Boy That Lived was watching them curiously, or enviously, or shyly. Whether he ached to be in Stiles' position, lacking a mother, but very well endowed with a father. 

Stiles finds himself hoping with everything he has that Derek has a place to go home to.

It's his fourth year at Hogwarts and Stiles wasn't always a Quidditch fan, but Derek Hale can make any sport look good. No seriously, throw him out there with a glittery, spandex multi-colored suit and some ice-skates, and Derek would still be rocking it. 

The jerk.

He means this in the most platonic way, of course. (Though, let it be noted that Derek has filled out nicely over the summer and has very aesthetically pleasing bone structure.

"Plus, he's got nice skin."

"Skin?" Scott repeats in confusion. "You think girls are all over Derek because of his skin."

"I'm just saying it could be a contributing factor.")

Anyway, Stiles, being the wonderfully supportive friend that he is, has taken to frequenting every single one of Gryffindor's Quidditch games now that Scott's on the team. And, as strange as it sounds, he guesses he's there to support Derek, too. It hadn't really started out that way, but they're friends now - though both he and Derek have yet to say so out loud. He supposes that dementor attacks are as good an opportunity as any to bring people together.

So, they've been spending more time together. Like a lot of time together. Sometimes more than he does with Scott, who's infatuated with his two-year girlfriend Allison Argent, which Stiles had been a little upset about at first, but again, he has Derek now, so.

Yeah. He's not really sure what that means, but yeah. 

Except, he kind of does, and it's kind of freaking him out.

But he doesn't really get time to reflect on this because the crowd is cheering and Stiles looks up to see Derek Hale raising the golden snitch triumphantly in the air, officially winning them the last game of the season.

Stiles hides his grin in his scarf and jumps up to his feet with the rest of Gryffindor, slinging an arm over Allison's shoulder.

She returns the motion and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, before giggling and dragging them off to where the team is exiting the field.

As soon as Scott and Derek, who have been fist-bumping for like ten minutes now (bromances are so weird) come into view, Allison drops Stiles' arm and runs over to give her boyfriend a congratulatory peck, which - because they're Scott and Allison - turns into a congratulatory snog, and Stiles has to avert his eyes because some things just can't be unseen.

Derek's hair is glued to his forehead by sweat, which should be disgusting, but on Derek it's kind of endearing, the bastard. His green-gray eyes are wide in excitement and he claps a friendly, lazy muscled arm around Stiles' shoulder - like Stiles had done to Allison, and yet it's nothing like Stiles had done to Allison at all - and chuckles deeply. 

"Did you see Matt's face?" 

In fact, Stiles had not. He'd been too busy staring at Derek's.

But there's no way in hell he's saying that.

"Unless it's sporting a black eye, I'm not satisfied," Stiles jokes weakly, uncomfortable under the weight of Derek's casual embrace. 

Sensing his discomfort, Derek pulls back, the skin between his eyebrows creased, lips parting. "What's - "

There's a loud shuffling from his right and Stiles just barely narrowly avoids the onslaught of a perfumed, tampon-wielding army. He catches Derek's panicked expression just before he's swallowed whole by the crowd of screaming Gryffindor fangirls. 

It's the most frightened he's ever seen Derek in his life.

He's laughs about it until his stomach hurts and he's back in his bed, Scott's whistling snores distracting him from any real attempts at sleep. When he actually thinks about - the girls, all those girls with Derek - his stomach starts aching for an entirely different reason. 

So he laughs again because that's the only way Stiles knows how to deal with things - assertive confrontations are just not his thing - and ends up waking up a grouchy Scott who chunks a pillow at him and grumbles nonsensical threats involving Stiles favorite jacket and a toilet plunger.

All in all, Stiles is completely and utterly screwed, and Derek really needs to start being less cool.

Stiles takes Scott and Derek home with him for holiday break. 

He hadn't planned for it to turn out that way, but his father had offered his house to the McCalls because Stiles thinks he has this thing for Melissa, which would be amazing because Stiles always wanted a brother. Derek, however, wasn't so much of an after thought as he was a mistake.

Okay, so that sounds really bad. He and his father would gladly accept Derek into their humble abode. (Or at least half-heartedly on his father's part because, though he refuses to admit to it, Derek still kind of makes him uneasy. But to be fair, most kids who walk around and talk the way Derek does, like they've witnessed death, like they've survived it, don't very often turn out right in the head.)

It's Melissa that suggests it, and Sheriff Stilinski doesn't even bother putting up a fight.

Derek was the one who'd required more convincing. 

But Stiles is a very convincing person. (Read: Melissa is scary when she wants to be, and even The Boy Who Lived isn't brave enough to stand up to that.)

So that's how Stiles ends up wrapped in blankets, curled up by the fire place with a warm mug of hot chocolate in his hand and Scott and Derek on either side of him. Melissa and his father are in the kitchen doing that awkward thing adults think is flirting.

Stiles smiles behind his mug. It's good for his dad, the flirting, though Stiles suspects it's not going anywhere anytime soon. The sheriff still hasn't tampered with his wife's side of the bedroom. Stiles knows because he goes in there sometimes. Sits at her makeup table. Smells her perfume.

Baby steps, he reminds himself. 

"Who's ready to put up the tree?" Stiles' father asks emphatically as he and Melissa enter the room.

Scott hops to his feet in an instant, hot chocolate nearly toppling over in the process, saved only by Derek's quick reflexes as he reaches over and steadies the cup. 

Sheriff Stilinski smiles gratefully as Melissa McCall pinches Scott's ear, grinning from cheek to cheek when he yelps. 

Derek is the last to stand up, and it's with a stiff hesitance that reminds Stiles that Derek had been living in foster care for the majority of his life. Even though he now had Laura, she wasn't really there in the way a kid needed a parent. She was in hiding, meaning she couldn't write, or send presents, or pick him up at the train station. Sure, he had somewhere to stay during the summer break, but surely Derek felt lonely and begrudging when he saw all the other kids' families hugging them hello and goodbye.

In the end, Stiles is glad Melissa extended the invitation to Derek, especially when his father asks Derek to do the pleasure of placing the star atop the tree - which is normally Stiles' duty - because the wonder and slight embarrassment that crosses Derek's features at the request is worth it.

Baby steps.

They're chilling in the Room of the Requirement 

Which sounds like the opening line of a joke, but it isn't. Yet, anyway.

But they had no classes for the rest of the day and the Quidditch season was officially up (with Gryffindor in second to Hufflepuff because Jackson may be a jackass, but he is one hell of a player), so Stiles decided today was a day meant for screwing around.

And Derek somehow managed to convince the room by sheer force of will that they desperately needed to blow off studying for their upcoming Potions exam. Stiles would rather take a bath Moaning Myrtle everyday for the rest of his life than deal with Harris. He voices this and Scott won't stop laughing for ten minutes straight. Derek just looks on disapprovingly until Stiles jabs him in the side, eyebrows wiggling salaciously. The green-eyed boy rolls his eyes and gives in to a small smile.

There are a lot of cool trinkets in the room, but Stiles favorite by far is the Vanishing Cabinet, which had to be moved out of the hallway because rowdy teenage boys cannot be trusted with these things, particularly assholes like Matt who think it's funny to shove first years into dangerously enchanted furniture.

After the third first year Ravenclaw had been assaulted, Boyd, a usually quiet, well-mannered guy, promptly gave Matt a taste of his own medicine. 

Stiles doesn't know Boyd very well, but he seems pretty awesome.

"Guys, check this out," Scott calls from a few feet away. He's standing in front off a large, ancient looking mirror. "It's me and Allison."

Head tilting to the side in confusion, Stiles approaches the mirror and purses his lips inquisitively. It's just plain old Scott in the reflection, grinning back madly at himself like a complete goofball.

"Sorry, man. I think your obsession has reached a point necessitating immediate intervention. You're definitely seeing things."

Scott shakes his head and frowns. "What? No, she's totally there. See look, her arms are wrapped my waist."

"Nope," Stiles says. "You've gone mad. Sorry."

"Huh, maybe it's enchanted or something," Scott muses, and then looks up, squinting. "Wait, what's that there? I think it's a word." He reaches up to wipe away a sheet of dust.

"Erised," they read aloud in tandem. 

"It's desire backwards," Derek explains from over Stiles shoulder and the latter jumps and clutches at his  chest. 

"Derek." Stiles draws the name out like it's three syllables. "We've talked about this. Being creepily stealthy is not good for Stiles' heart."

Apparently in Derek Land, Stiles legitimate near-heart attack only warrants a snort. "It's supposed to show you your deepest wishes."

"Wait, how do you know?" Scott asks.

"Professor Deaton told me," Derek responds dully. Stiles arches an eyebrow and gives Derek his best you're being cryptic again scowl. Derek sighs indulgently. "I used it my first year. It helped me."

Stiles arches an eyebrow. Derek returns the expression.

That's obviously all they're getting out of him today.

"So, what'd you see?" Scott wonders, and though Stiles would have been reluctant to do the same, he's eager to hear the answer.

"My family."

He can't help it. He couldn't sleep because his brain never shuts off no matter how many pills his therapist prescribes him. He just needed a walk, he convinced himself. Some fresh air. 

The air in here is stuffy and each inhales feels like swallowing cotton.

He doesn't know how long he sits in front of it. He loses track of time, too caught up in the way her amber eyes twinkle, or the way her blonde strands scrape the side of his cheek when she leans over him in the mirror. It hurts almost as much to see her as it does to never be able to see her again.

He remembers how sweet her scent was. Soft, unassuming, and natural. Or how she sang. A quiet falsetto. She was good at singing. She was horrible at cooking. She loved the rain and hated snow. She'd much rather redecorate than soak peacefully in a bubble bath.

Most importantly, she knew exactly what to say when Stiles was upset. He wishes he had her advice now. See what she'd propose he do to get over her once and for all.

She beams at him through the mirror, rubs a palm along his buzz cut, kisses his forehead, strokes his face, tries to wipe away his tears. 

He doesn't feel any of it.

"Stiles?"

Stiles doesn't have to look to know it's Derek. It's always Derek, and sometimes he feels like that's the way it will always be.

"It's not really her, right?" Stiles whispers, throat dry. 

"No." It's not candid like Stiles had expected. It's forlorn and sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Stiles, but it's not."

"I figured," Stiles croaks, laughing without any real mirth. Laughing because that's all he knows how to do. Not take things seriously. Not take himself seriously. 

When he turns away from the mirror, it's with a gnawing emptiness, like he's been kissed by a hundred dementors. But there's nothing magical about this - it's just grief. Millions of people deal with it. Scott deals with it. His father deals with it. Derek deals with it.

Stiles can't.

"Derek," Stiles begins, and his voice is so small and unfamiliar, like it doesn't belong to him, but someone else. Some other weak, torn up human being that shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here. He doesn't deserve to be here. Not in Gryffindor, not in Hogwarts. "Can you - " He doesn't want to say it. It's humiliating.

But Derek understands, and Stiles seems to have forgotten that Derek's understood since their second year when he'd jinxed Matt and healed Stiles' hand.

Warm, sinewy arms encase his crumpled form, and at first the embrace is unbearably awkward and Stiles isn't sure where it's appropriate to rest his chin, but they're both stubborn beyond belief and kind of force themselves to relax into the hug, and then it's almost unsettling how easy it feels.

So it makes absolutely no sense that Stiles would choose that moment to break into sobs. But heartache often doesn't. 

"I miss her so much," Stiles breathes, anguished and feeling entirely selfish because Derek misses so much more, and yet here he is comforting Stiles. 

"I know," Derek murmurs and rubs Stiles shoulder blades with a large palm. "But you'll be okay."

The words are said confidently like a promise - one that he's heard so many times from so many different people.

It's the first time since his mother passed away that he actually believes them.

Derek's quite a hit on Valentine's Day, though not as much as Jackson, but Stiles suspects it's only because Jackson graciously accepts whatever gift is bestowed upon him, whereas Derek just kind of gets this constipated look on his face and then grunts out what he must think is an appropriate form of thanks. 

Scott and Allison like to do that saccharine couple-thing where they surprise each other with little gifts like roses and chocolates and stuffed animals and homemade cards, and for god's sake, Scott, you're fifteen, not five, you know that, right? that makes everyone else devastatingly aware of their singleness.

Stiles was already pretty aware of his singleness to begin with.

And come on, Hogwarts, is it really necessary to have enchanted the food to do cutesy little festive things like form hearts in their porridge? 

Stiles shoves his away with a scowl.

"Aw, someone's a little bitter," Lydia simpers. 

"Forgive me if I don't enjoy a commercialized holiday created purely for the purpose of increasing chocolate and flower sales."

"Actually," Danny says from across the table. "Valentine's Day was inspired by the priest St. Valentine who would marry people despite their socioeconomic status and - "

"Leave," Stiles demands. Danny raises an eyebrow. "I'm serious. Leave now or I can't be held responsible for my porridge ending up all over your stupidly attractive face."

"You think Danny's attractive?" Allison asks with genuine interest.

"Anyone with a beating heart finds Danny attractive," Stiles replies. "Pretty sure I've seen Harris giving him the eyeball."

At that, Danny's nose wrinkles. "Ew, dude. Gross."

Allison shakes her head and flushes. "I'm not disagreeing. I just, well, I thought you liked girls." She pointedly doesn't look at Lydia, which is so Allison for even being concerned about something like that because it's not exactly like Stiles has tact and Lydia hasn't figured out his enormous, unhealthy obsession with her. (He's in remission, right now. But who knows when his disease will kick in again.)

"No, no. He was totally into Isaac, remember?" Scott reminds them unfortunately.

Derek chokes on his pumpkin juice, and Allison kindly starts patting his back.

"Okay, great. I think that's more than enough embarrassment on Stiles' expense for one day, thank you very much. I'll be going now. To go lie in a hole somewhere. And hopefully die."

He gets up from the table, remembering to give Scott his best glower before he leaves. On his way out the dining hall, he catches sight of a slytherin girl with curly blonde hair and cherry red lips winking at him coquettishly. Stiles glances behind him to make sure it's not aimed at someone else.

Me, he mouthes and pokes at his chest in bemusement.

Her lips curl upwards in the corners.

Okay then.

Stiles makes it less than a yard down the hallway when a hand is gripping at his sleeve and yanking him backwards. "Scott, buddy. It's not a big deal. Don't worry about - " He blinks. "You're not Scott."

The slytherin licks her lips. "Do you want me to be?" She brings a perfectly manicured hand up to his chest.

"Uh," he wheezes, voice pinched. The hand drifts lower, sliding down his stomach, resting just above his waistband. He sucks in a breath. "No. Definitely not."

She leans forward until her breasts are not so inconspicuously pressed up against his chest, and Stiles might have a miniature panic attack. Her red mouth grazes his ear as she whispers, "Good."

And then she kisses him. Glossy lips soft against his own chapped ones that he's suddenly very self-conscious about. He thinks she's about to pull away when she realizes that he's absolute crap at this and no idea what to do, but instead she just smiles slightly and lets the tip of her tongue peek out to slide along his lips. Stiles parts them and holy hell there's another tongue in his mouth and shit as weird as that sounds, it feels so unbelievably nice. Stiles reaches a hand up and slides it into her hair, wrenching her closer with the other arm that he wraps around her waist. She stumbles into him, surprised, and he uses the momentum to swing them around so that she's against the wall.

She emits a tiny pleased sound and when they finally pull away, she's sucking softly his abused bottom lip softly and smirking proudly.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Stiles," she purrs, heading back into the dining hall, apparently unconcerned about her smeared lipstick and mussed hair.

"Yeah, you too," he rasps.

He turns to the right, and watches the girl slink past some wide-eyed first year from Gryffindor that Stiles can't seem to remember the name of.

"You saw that, right?" he asks the twitchy, bespeckled boy, who nods timidly. "Would you be willing to testify before a court?"

"Hey, Derek," Stiles' father greets, clasping Derek's hand in a manly, firm shake. Stiles rolls his eyes because his dad is ridiculous. 

"Sheriff Stilinski," Derek returns pleasantly, not exactly smiling, but restraining his usual grimace, so he's trying and that's something.

"Oh, please," the sheriff laughs. "You've been over every break for the past two years, son. I think it's okay for you to call me John." Which is what he said last time. And the last time. And the time before that.

Derek is weirdly stubborn.

(Says Stiles.)

It's his fifth year at Hogwarts, and their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor literally has the word mad in his name (err, nickname, whatever). 

And as to be expected, he's not the most mentally sound person Stiles has ever met.

He has a creepy, fake enchanted eye and a dead leg. 

Stiles is pretty sure he drinks spirits during class.

Derek thinks he worries too much. Scott thinks it the most hilarious thing in the entire world. Allison thinks they're all adorable.

Stiles hates his friends, he really does.

It's his fifth year at Hogwarts, and Lydia breaks it off with Jackson. 

Stiles tries not to seem too excited when the meathead stops sitting at their table.

Lydia has also taken to smiling at him more, touching his shoulder more, laughing at his jokes more.

Stiles skips his first Quidditch game since last year because Lydia wants to hang out, which ends up consisting of the following activities: sobbing on his shoulder, complaining about how she's still not over Jackson, and friend-zoning Stiles to the extreme with her harsh but sincere claim that "I wish all guys were like you, Stiles. But, just to be clear, I'm never going to date you."

Or something along those lines.

Scott isn't terribly upset that he missed the game. Though this is probably because Allison was there and he didn't score.

Derek, on the other hand, indiscreetly grumbles at him for the rest of the week until Stiles swears on his favorite sweater that he'll be at the next match.

(On a more depressing note: Stiles is thoroughly convinced that if he were to take several snapshots of his life, all on different years, ninety-nine percent of the time, he'd be wearing an ugly sweater.)

As promised, he's there in the stands with Lydia at his side - she claims she needs to get out more - and might as well have slashed his vocal cords because this much screaming can not be good for his voice.

Derek still seems kind of peeved, but Stiles chocks it up to teenage hormonal mood-swings combined with Derek's usual grumpy temperament. 

They go to the Three Broomsticks together, him and Lydia. It's kind of nice if he pretends she's not using Stiles as a cover while she shamelessly watches Danny and Jackson drink butterbeers.  

"He didn't look too happy," Lydia concludes at the end of the night triumphantly.

Her wicked grin makes him glad she never chose to give him the time of day.

It's his fifth year at Hogwarts, and Professor Deaton is pulling Derek's name out of the Goblet of Fire with a pinched expression.

"You lied," Stiles accuses dramatically, finger pointing and aghast expression included. "You said you weren't going to put your name in the goblet, and yet here you are, kissing babies, signing autographs. I hate you for not telling me; you know that, right?"

Derek skids to a halt and whirls toward Stiles with a fearsome scowl. Strong hands are gripping violently at Stiles' shoulders and backing him into the nearest wall. Rough stone digs into his skin, even through his ridiculously thick sweater, and Stiles returns the frown. "I hadn't realized we'd reached the wall-slamming phase of our relationship yet," Stiles sniffs bereftly.

"I didn't put my name in the cup," Derek informs him, green eyes sharp and brilliant, beseeching. He looks desperate, pleading, and unsure. Scared beyond belief. "Deaton told me not to."

Stiles' brow furrows, annoyance forgotten in lieu of concern. "Then how did you - "

"Someone else must done it," Derek says gravely, his fingers tightening around the meat of Stiles' shoulders, but this time is unlike all the others. Derek isn't angry, isn't seething. Isn't trying to come off as callous and unlikeable.

He's reaching - for support, for something.

For Stiles.

Which is a pretty daunting burden to carry.

The pale-skinned boy swallows loudly. "A prank, then?"

"Deaton thinks it's more serious than that."

Stiles' eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. "What, like someone is trying to kill you?" 

"Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Why didn't you tell me? Stiles wants to ask, but he already knows why. 

He's been an absolutely horrible friend, so caught up in all this Lydia drama. But it was nice to have a pretty girl hang all over him, even if she vehemently reminded him every three seconds they were just friends. Lydia was Stiles' first crush. Being anything with her was kind of a dream come true.

But Derek's safety is more important than that.

The younger boy - by less than a month, they'd learned - brings his hand hesitantly up toward Derek's curled fingers, grazes them softly with the pad of his thumb, and tries his very damnedest to be reassuring.

"And it won't be the last either," he promises sternly - anything he can do to convince Derek it'll be okay.

To convince himself.

Derek's smile takes a while to appear, and it's weak enough to go unnoticed by anyone who hasn't had to put every ounce of their time and effort into decrypting that enigma that is Derek Hale's emotions, but frankly - as pathetic as it sounds - Stiles is not 'anyone.'

He can read Derek like a book.

(Granted, a book in hieroglyphics, but progress is progress, and Stiles is allowed to be proud of himself every once in a while.)

"Now, come on, loser," Stiles teases. "Grab your invisibility cloak. Lydia told me a shipment came in a few hours ago that might have something to do with the first challenge."

Dragons. 

Stiles found it almost comical at first. Freaking dragons. Derek is going to have to slay a dragon. (Steal its egg, actually, but bugger that, he still has to fight. A. Dragon.)

Especially considering Derek's dragon could totally kick the shit out of everyone else's. 

"What the hell?!" he exclaims, outraged. "How is this fair? Boyd just fought the equivalent of Puff the Magic Dragon, and Derek has to go up against this thing?"

"It's totally fair," Lydia responds, snapping her compact mirror closed. "They drew from a hat."

"Right," Stiles deadpans. "And it's not like we know any examples of magically rigged hats."

"Oh, just watch your man-crush and quit your whining," Lydia sighs with a roll of her eyes.

Stiles almost gets whiplash from how fast his head whirls around. "My what?" he squeaks.

"Man-crush," she repeats with a smug grin, snickering at his sputtering. "Oh please, don't try to hide it from me, Stiles. I'm a girl. We know things."

Stiles bites his lips, willing his cheeks to return to their normal pallid color. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replies indignantly. "Derek and I are just friends. Nothing more."

"Uh huh," she closes with a flippant wave. "Hey, I think Derek's coming out."

He jumps up from his seat to get a better view and then realizes no one else is standing and Derek has, in fact, yet to leave the tent, and those are some judgmental stares he's receiving. 

He glares at Lydia as he sinks back down in mortification.

"No, you're right, Stiles. It's obviously nothing other than a torch of pure, brotherly friendship that you're carrying around for him in your pants."

Stiles hands twitch and self-consciously move to cover nothing because Lydia thinks she's funny, but she's really just delusional and mean.

And amazing, but shut up, brain, Stiles is mad at her right now.

Derek survives the first challenge, but Stiles is green and a shaking wreck by the end of it. He feels like shit. 

He must look like it too because Lydia's expression is actually sympathetic.

"I don't think I can do this again," Stiles tells Lydia, clutching at his stomach. She rubs his back sweetly and hums something unintelligible. 

Stiles is the first person Derek approaches after his victory, and in an instant, the excitement fades from Derek's eyes and is replaced with concern. His eyebrows knit together.

"Is he okay?" Derek questions, directly addressing Lydia for the first time since, well, ever. He bends over until his face is level with Stiles' and the latter can smell charred hair and singed cloth. "Stiles?"

Stiles sucks in a quick, unsteady breath and musters up his best smile. "I'm super duper," he chirps. "Congratulations, by the way." 

Also, thank you for not dying.

Stiles realizes that he's probably going to regret this immensely, but - "Hey, Scott? 

Scott looks up from his Care of Magical Creatures textbook that still scares Stiles shitless sometimes. He remembers his last year when he'd accidentally opened it the wrong way and stood on his bed for an hour and a half, waiting for Scott to get back from his study date with Allison and help him control the damn thing.

"What's up?" Scott says, and whatever he sees in Stiles expression makes him shut his book. "You okay, man?"

No, I'm actually like panicking because I think I may have a thing for our other best friend and on his good days, he's like rain on a picnic or a tornado on a road trip, and who's to say he'd ever even be into me, let alone guys, and I really don't think I can do this, Scott, save me, please, save me.

"Never mind."

"You sure? It seemed important."

"Nah."

"Who are you going to the Yule Ball with?" Lydia asks on the way to breakfast.

Stiles holds up an arm and presents it with a graceful gesture of his other hand. "Why, this lovely lady, of course."

Lydia grimaces. "Stiles, really. Your hand? Ugh, you're so weird." She shakes her head as if to regain her bearings. "And no, you're not, actually. You're going with me." She pauses, considers something. "As friends."

Then, with a flip of her hair, she's strutting down the hallway, heels clacking loudly against the floor.

It's the weirdest conversation Stiles has had all day.

(No, scratch that. The weirdest ends up being when Erica, Slytherin Man-Eater, Let Me Kiss You Passionately and Never Say Another Word About It Erica, comes up to him at lunch and asks whether Derek's tried out the prefect's baths before, to which his response is no because what the utter hell.)

Derek's taking Paige to the Yule Ball. Stiles hears it through the grapevine, and he's not agonizing over it, he really isn't. He just didn't think Derek liked that mealy-mouthed Hufflepuff, that's all. What's there to like? Okay, she's pretty and smart and witty and they're kind of like the perfect height for each other, but other than that, she has no appealing characteristics whatsoever.

Erica approaches Stiles twice more that week. 

Apparently, he's not getting it or something because Boyd joins her for one final conversation and stiltedly demands that Stiles just tell Derek to take a bath with his egg, for crying out loud.

"He wants you to tell him what?" Scott repeats in bemusement. 

Stiles huffs irritably. "To take a bath with his egg, but Scott, that's irrelevant. Will you do what I asked you to or not?"

Scott raises his hands innocently, palms forward. "Yeah, sure, man. Just chill, okay."

Stiles shoulders sag in relief. "Thanks, buddy."

Scott gives him a noncommittal hand wave. "No problem. If you don't mind me asking, though, why can't you just tell him yourself?"

Because Stiles is officially the most ridiculously jealous, petty loser on the planet, Scott, duh.  

Lydia is a vision. Her gown is a long, silky off-white, that gathers at the bottom in soft waves, like ripples in water. Her luminous hair is pulled back to the nape of her neck, tiny curled tendrils left to frame her face. Her bangs are a bright sweep of color against the stark porcelain of her skin. Her lips are a polished red, eyelashes long, dark, and thick. 

Stiles can't help but feel like her beauty's being wasted on him, and he suddenly finds himself shifting awkwardly in his new dress robes.

"Stiles," she greets, looping her arm through his. "You look hot."

He gawks before recovering with a croaked, "Yeah, you too."

She gives a sultry purse of her lips and giggles. "I know. And don't be afraid to remind me of that multiple times tonight. Preferably in front of a certain, jerk-wad Hufflepuff." She winks. "Don't worry. I'll return the favor."

Stiles had kind of been hoping Paige would end up looking like a troll or at least trip over her dress in the middle of the customary champion's dance. 

But she's lovely, and her dancing is exquisite, and she's smiling playfully and raising her chin up to whisper something into Derek's ear as he twirls her effortlessly around the dance floor. When she pulls away, they're laughing, expressions radiant and jovial. 

It makes Stiles teeth hurt.

"Come on," Lydia cajoles, ushering him toward the dance floor when the music transitions into a new, more upbeat melody. 

He follows helplessly as the take their place sandwiched between Scott and Allison and Derek and Paige.

Lydia is the most angelic-looking demon Stiles has ever met.

It's not too bad. Stiles isn't the worst dancer. Certainly not as good as Derek, but tremendously better than Scott. 

But then Jackson stomps over and tries to step in in the middle of their dance. Lydia flat out refuses, of course. And then there's hushed tones, then full-blown arguing, and Lydia is yanking Jackson toward the foyer by his ear and waving at Stiles apologetically.

He salutes her and marches off the dance floor. Oh well, the punch bowl was looking quite lonely, anyway.

Two songs later, Scott and Allison join him, which Stiles suspects has everything to do with Scott's guilty expression and the way Allison winces every time she moves her feet. 

Stiles is in the midst of watching Boyd and Erica figure out the best place for her to rest her head when someone pulls at his dress robes' sleeve. (Weirdest couple ever, by the way.)

Glancing up, Stiles spots hazel and jumps. "Oh, hey, Derek," he greets as casually as possible. "You having fun? Where's Paige?"

It almost physically pains him to say her name.

Derek gives a half-smile. "It's okay. And Paige is off dancing with some guy from her Herbology class."

Stiles stiffens slightly, repressing the urge to cackle madly because that's not what bros do when one of them loses the girl.

"Oh, wow. I'm sorry, Derek."

The tanner boy's brow furrows. "Why? I'm not."

"But I thought you were… y'know, a thing?"

Derek's eyes widen incredulously and he outright laughs. "Who, me and Paige?" He casts a mirthful gaze in her directions.

"We're just friends. Our parents were too, actually."

"Oh," is Stiles' reply. Just friends. How nice. Don't fist pump, Stiles. It's not appropriate.

"What about you?" Derek inquires politely, only there's something very not polite about the way he says it. "I hope Jackson didn't ruin your night."

"Jackson ruins everyone's night," he responds off-handedly, which earns him Derek's half-hearted chuckle. "No, really, though. I just hope Lydia's okay."

Derek swallows, his jaw setting. He runs an uncharacteristically uncoordinated hand through his styled hair. "So you're not bothered that your date just ran out on you?"

Stiles snorts. "The term date should always be used loosely when it comes to Lydia Martin. I think she thought of me more as a method of transportation from here to the dance floor."

"So she led you on?"

"She didn't do anything, Derek."

"Why are you defending her if - "

"Derek. Stop," Stiles interrupts, bewildered. "Dude, what's wrong?"

The elder boy flushes, and looks down at his shoes before raising his head with determination, faltering, and lowering it back down to face the ground. "Scott said you worshipped the ground she walked on for two years, I just thought that maybe - "

"What?" Stiles jeers in disgruntled amusement. "That I just couldn't take the hint?" Stiles rubs at his forehead. "Derek, that was three years ago. I'm not that pathetic." 

Derek's eyes are still glued to the ground, and suddenly Stiles understands.

"You're adorable," he says before he can stop himself, and panics when Derek's mouth drops open in astonishment. "I mean, it's adorable that you're worried about me being butt-hurt over Lydia's rejection. That's why you don't like her, isn't it? You've been looking out for me."

Derek frowns at Stiles like he doesn't get it at all.

Derek hands Stiles a red knit scarf the next morning, hair windblown and cheeks tinted pink. 

After dumping it in his arms unceremoniously, Derek pivots on his heels and makes for the other direction of the school entirely.

Curiously, Stiles peeks down at the soft fabric and picks up the attached note between two nimble fingers.

To Stiles, Love Laura. Merry Christmas! P.S. Thanks for putting up with my loser brother.

Which is weird as hell. Stiles hadn't even known Laura knew who he was.

Stiles wears the scarf the next day, and Derek smiles so wide an dimple appears above the right corner of his mouth 

Stiles makes it his personal mission to see the left one, too.

Stiles is generally a good student, behaviorally-wise. Besides that one time he followed Derek Hale into the Forbidden Forest after curfew and fought off dementors. But hey, no one's perfect 

Which leads to the question of why on earth Stiles is seated across from Professor Deaton, hands folded uncomfortably in his lap. 

Deaton's lips part.

"I didn't do it," Stiles quickly interjects.

The wizard regards him oddly. "Yes, I'm well aware, Mr. Stilinski."

"Oh." Stiles bites his lip. "Then if you don't mind my asking, Professor…" 

Deaton raises an eyebrow. "Go on."

"… Why am I here?"

"An excellent question, indeed. Do you like tea, Mr. Stilinski?"

Blinking, Stiles finds a complete tea set suddenly appear before him. "Uh, I guess so."

Deaton nods, pouring some of the steaming liquid into two tiny cups. "Sugar?" he asks, using the tongs to drop a cube in his own cup. Stiles nods hesitantly. "Milk?" Another nod.

As Deaton hands Stiles his cup, he smiles reassuringly. "You seem anxious, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles forgoes a reply, instead taking a sip of the sweet-smelling tea. It's so bitter he nearly gags.

"That's horrible," Stiles cries, setting his cup on Deaton's desk.

Deaton's head tilts to the side, all three of them. "Not enough sugar for your liking?"

His voice drops octaves, loses speed, and it's hard to pick out one word from another. Stiles' vision is dotted with dark spots, like moles.

His head drops onto the desk with a smack.

When Stiles opens his eyes, he's soaked and freezing his ass off, Derek's face hovering less than an inch away from his, tiny water droplets running off his dark strands of hair and onto Stiles' cheek. A sliver of hazel surrounds Derek's blown pupils. He puffs out a relieved sigh when Stiles turns to the side and painfully coughs out a spew of disgusting-tasting water. 

From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Erica wringing out her damp blonde locks.

"Derek, what the hell is going on?"

"Second place. That's pretty unfrickinbelievable and definitely something to celebrate. Butterbeers, on me. It's happening." 

Derek shakes his head, grin still wide and wolfish. "And you're sure you're okay?"

"I was unnecessarily put in imminent danger, but other than that, yeah. Totally, one hundred percent okay." Playfully, Stiles slaps a palm on Derek's shoulder and begins fanning himself with his other hand, eyelashes fluttering. "Plus, Derek Hale, with his big, strong arms and bulging muscles, saved my life. So really, I could die happy. If only I had managed to snag an autograph!" 

"Bulging?" Derek smirks, soft eyes rolling.

"Sorry, did I forget to mention how incredibly modest he is? I was sure I said that in there somewhere."

Stiles smells like stale lake water for the rest of the night, but at least Derek won't stop smiling.

The third challenge is the worst, Stiles decides, as he looks down uneasily at his watch. The other competitors have exited the maze empty-handed 

But time is almost running out and Boyd and Derek are nowhere to be seen. From his side, Erica groans. 

"What if they're fighting it out like absolute airheads?" she frets out loud. She hadn't really said as much but Stiles suspects she chose to stand next to him because he's quite obvious about his maybe-more-than-a-crush and she needs someone to commiserate in her disquiet.

"Wouldn't surprise me," Stiles grunts, checking his watch again. "Derek's - "

The crowd erupts in cheers, and Stiles' head snaps back up to find both boys at the maze's entrance, the House Cup clutched tightly in Derek's clenched fist. 

But something's not right, he realizes. Derek's posture's all wrong - he's leaning over Boyd almost like he's, like he's - 

"Oh god," Stiles breathes, and Erica's hands fly to her mouth with a gasp.

The audience quiets, and all that's left is the sound of Derek's violent sobs.

You Know Who's back. He killed Boyd 

He almost killed Derek.

"You're alive. You're okay," he whispers, barely heard over Derek's heaving cries. His hand, the one that isn't cradling Derek's shoulders, smooths down his mussed, dirt-covered hair.

"I couldn't stop it. It happened too quickly. I couldn't - " Derek explains, apologizes.

"There was nothing you could've done," Stiles assures him, not even so much as flinching when Derek's grip on his back tightens, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. 

"It should've been me."

His voice is gruff, haunted.

"Don't say that," Stiles admonishes, vision blurring and burning with salty tears. "Don't you ever say that."

Derek doesn't show up to any of his classes for the remaining two weeks of the term. Neither does Erica.

But Boyd's absence is the one they sense the most.

No one wins the House Cup. There's no grand send-off. Everyone just packs, says their goodbyes, and boards the train.

Stiles finds Derek tucked away in one of the train's empty compartments, head leaned up against the wall, eyes closed in horrible imitation of peaceful slumber. There's a small envelope in his hand, the Headmaster's red, wax emblem sealing the back. 

Opening the door noisily and giving Derek every opportunity to kick him out, Stiles enters the compartment and settles in the seat across from Derek.

"We need to talk," Stiles says after a while, and Derek opens his eyes and crosses his arms, setting the letter at his side. From here, Stiles can see that the seal has broken. The tanner boy's eyes are rimmed red, the skin above his cheekbones a dark purple, like a bruise. His mouth is set in a grim line.

"So talk," Derek replies indifferently, peering up at the ceiling.

Stiles scowls. "I will once you promise to stop whatever the hell this - " he gestures at Derek's detached posture " - is."

Sighing, Derek rubs at his eyes. "What do you want, Stiles?"

"Glad to see that you're still adhering to Derek Hale's No Insubstantial Pleasantries rule. Stilted and awkward makes for a totally productive conversation." 

Derek doesn't so much as huff his annoyance. Simply sits there. Face trained into that damn stoic expression.

Cutting to the chase it is. "What I want is for you to stop doing this to yourself, Derek. This masochistic-torture routine you like to pull when things turn to shit." Which, for Derek, is quite frequently. "This isn't your fault. You know that, right?"

"Yes," Derek snaps curtly. "You done?"

It's not really a question, Stiles realizes from the way Derek shuts down, looking away - anywhere but at Stiles. Stiles isn't even close to being done.

But Derek is.

"Derek, please," he implores reasonably, already sensing that it's being wasted on someone as emotionally fragile as the same boy that'd lost almost his entire family in one day. The one who had to present a dead son to a father, a dead boyfriend to a sixteen year old girl. "Don't shut me out. I know it may feel like everything's wrong and - "

A thud against the wall startles Stiles nearly out of his seat. It's Derek's fist.

"You know nothing. Do you hear me, Stiles? Nothing."

"Then maybe you could explain it to me," Stiles says. "I'm a good listener when I wanna be." Derek doesn't immediately reject the idea, so Stiles continues, throat dry. "Sometimes talking about things helps you cope with… things."

Wonderful, Stiles. Really made your case right there.

"Holding hands and sharing feelings isn't going to bring Boyd back," Derek bites, all venom and maliciousness. Nothing like the Derek Stiles knows, that he'd become best friends with, that he has extremely confusing feelings for that he'd rather no think let alone talk about. "There's absolutely nothing you could possibly do for me, so you might as well leave." 

"You're going to have to do better than this bullshit brush-off act. That may have worked on everyone else, but I'm not buying it, asshole. So why don't I just tell you what this is really about?" 

He doesn't wait for Derek to respond.

"You think you can just push everybody who cares about you away and somehow that'll make up for Boyd's death. You got away alive and he didn't and now you think that your suffering is some kind of repentance. It's not healthy, Derek, and it's not fair to your friends who are trying to help you, damn it."

Derek laughs incredulously - a bitter, agitated sound. "You still don't get it, do you? For someone so smart, you can be such a bloody idiot."

Stiles flinches, the words stinging more than they should.

"You should go," Derek mumbles finally, closing.

"Fine, but when are we going to talk about this?" Stiles asks. "I'll leave you alone, but in exchange I want an actual set date. Any day's fine. Just promise me we're going to talk about this eventually and you're not going to bottle it all up inside."

"We're not. I won't." 

"Excuse me?"

"I said no, Stiles." Derek scowls. "Why is that such a hard concept for you to understand?"

"So you're just going to ignore me all summer?" Stiles inquires, unimpressed. 

"Yes."

"And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"

Derek laughs humorlessly. "I think I'll manage."

Stiles looks at him for a second, takes in his hunched over, closed off posture, his guarded eyes, his deep frown. "Holy shit, you're serious." Stiles keeps staring in disbelief. "You're seriously not going to talk to me again. For how long, Derek? 'Til break's over? 'Til we graduate? What did I even do?" 

Derek glances up guiltily before looking away again.

"Derek," Stiles states, alarmed. "Derek, why does it feel like you're saying goodbye?"

He doesn't answer. His usually vibrant green eyes are clouded, unreadable.

"Because that's what this is, isn't it?" he announces, stunned. "You're leaving, aren't you? Where are you going?" His eyes drift over towards the opened letter. He lifts up a finger to point at it. "What does that say? It's from Deaton, right? What does it say?" 

The compartment door slides open, and Scott is in the entryway, a deer in headlights and god bless his heart but Scott couldn't hide anything from Stiles even if he tried.

Stiles snorts. "You can't be serious. Scott's in on this too? Am I really the only one in the dark right now? Were either of you planning on telling me anything or were you just going to leave without saying a word?"

"Stiles," and that's it.

Ouch.

Gritting his teeth, Stiles stands. "You know what? Fine. Fuck you, Derek."

He shoulder checks a rueful Scott on his way out the door, but Stiles is too pissed to be gracious.

He spends the summer entirely alone. His dad asks about it once, realizes it's a touchy subject, and speaks no more on the matter, though the sheriff does mope around quite a bit because Derek had taken to watching muggle baseball games with him (which apparently forms a manly bond that Stiles is too much of an un-American heathen to understand… he never bothered pointing out to his father that Derek is British), and Scott makes the best pancakes ever and is strictly against Stiles Vegetables-Only rule.  

It's frustrating beyond belief, the wounded and disappointed look his dad gives him, as if this was his fault - as if he wasn't abandoned too.

Needless to say, Stiles' summer sucks.

It's Stiles sixth year at Hogwarts, and the train is hijacked by death eaters. 

"My father will hear about this," Lydia informs them venomously. 

No, seriously.

It's times like these that Stiles realizes that the amazing Lydia Martin is probably the closest thing he has to a best friend now (with Allison in a close second place) and wonders how the hell the girl didn't end up in Gryffindor.

And how he did.

Stiles stands reluctantly. "Hey losers," he calls out, all bravado like usual because Stiles, contrary to whatever the hell the Sorting Hat was on that unforgettable first night at Hogwarts, is not brave. Not like Lydia, or Danny, Erica, Allison, Jackson, Boyd and wow, that's a mighty long list and he's not even halfway through. "He's not here."

And it isn't until the words leave his mouth that he realizes the meaning behind them.

Derek's gone. Scott's gone. 

They left him here.

The larger, bearded death eater gives him a once over, eyes a smoky, apathetic gray, so cold and unmoving that a shiver creeps down Stiles' spine.

"What's your name?" the wizard asks him, frowning. His voice is gruff - not pleasantly so, like Derek's always was before breakfast - and as cruel and uncaring as his gaze 

The last thing Stiles wants to do is give the man his name - the one link to his blissfully ignorant father, who'd sent him off earlier this morning beaming ear to ear with pride, sighing wistfully, and mumbling nonsense about embarrassing anecdotes that Stiles, were he not absolutely torn up on the inside, would have cared to not have repeated in a public train station.

Instead, he'd just smiled weakly and hugged his father goodbye, wishing him a good flight back home. It'd taken everything he'd had to not chase after the sheriff and latch on his leg, demanding he be taken home immediately because it had been six years since he'd had to face the train ride to Hogwarts with at least Scott by his side. 

He recalls the way his dad totally wasn't crying.

"Answer me," the death eater growls, stepping forward.

"Stiles Stilinski," he spit, wishing his name sounded more gallant and manly. Like Scott McCall.

Or Derek Hale.

Even more so, he wishes the wizard's eyes didn't flare up with recognition the second he'd voiced his reply.

His bald companion grins, exposing a pair of crooked, dirty teeth. "Stilinski, you say?"

He nods, swallowing, throat suddenly unbelievably dry.

"I don't suppose you'd happen to know where Hale is, would you, Stilinski?"

"No," Stiles answers honestly, and for the first time, he's glad he's not part of the chaos that is Derek Hale, that he's not having to lie through his teeth and cover his trail, that he's normal - well, as normal as a kid wizard can be. "I'm afraid I haven't spoken to him since last term."

Because he's a jerkoff, Stiles wants to add childishly.

The taller man scowls, but his partner remains impassive, a politely inquisitive eyebrow raised. "And at no time did he make his intentions of cowardice known?" 

Stiles' first instinct is to deny the claim vehemently. Derek wasn't a coward. An asshat, maybe, but definitely not a coward. But a fleeting look at Lydia's warning expression reminds him that arguing with a death eater isn't exactly the most prudent thing to do. 

"It wasn't a particularly long conversation," he replies shortly.

The death eater studies him for a second. He must find something, because his lips are curling and he's casting a eerily gleeful glance at the bearded wizard. "Keep an eye on this one," he orders. "There's something special about him."

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Derek's departure was like a falling domino, kicking off the series of unfortunate events that would befall Hogwarts 

The ministry, having not believed Derek's tall-tale about You Know Who's return and therefore questioned Deaton's judgment, decided to strip the headmaster of his position, and instead fill the spot with a well-known, respected member of the Ministry of Magic, Jennifer Blake, who was as horrible as she was hot. The Ministry doesn't seem to equate death eaters with the existence of a fully-breathing, functional He Who Must Not Be Named, instead trivializing their sudden appearance as ancient, dying-uproar.

Also, Harris became the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

If Derek was here right now, Stiles would slap him, the inconsiderate bastard, because he had tested out of potions last year and had thought he'd finally escaped Professor Harris, damn it.

Erica still sits at their table even though Boyd is gone. She doesn't talk much, mostly watches them all with glazed over eyes. 

Her red lipstick is gone and her hair is worn in its natural curly disarray. Stiles thinks she looks prettier this way, more like the person he knows she really is.

He tells her as much.

She slaps him, but when she looks back down into her soup, it's with a small smile.

Jackson's back at the Hogwarts table too. Only this time, he sits beside Danny. Like Erica, Jackson doesn't say much, but the longing, apologetic gazes he throws Lydia are distracting enough. And it's not even fun for Stiles anymore because he sees how pathetic Jackson looks, how tiny and lost and worried, and he can't help but sympathize. 

A heart's a heavy burden, he'd once heard.

Stiles feels like his weighs a hundred pounds.

A month passes. 

Hogwarts is under full surveillance now, and is surrounded by just about every protective enchantment in the book. (Which still isn't enough, and they all know it.)

But technically speaking, it's safe for them to learn.

The problem is that they couldn't care less about learning because while they're all safe and cozy in here, their families are out there.

Stiles' father could be getting interrogated by death eaters at this very second.

Scott and Derek could be dead.

Ms. McCall and Allison know something he doesn't. 

Allison tries to be a good friend, patting his back and assuring him that it'll be okay and Scott only kept it from him because Derek made him and they still care about him very much but Stiles can't curb the green envy that curls in the pit of his stomach.

He ignores her for a week.

Too make matters worse, when he finally does cool down and apologize, she just shakes her head sadly and tells him earnestly that he has every right to be upset, she would've done the same, which is a complete lie because she's Allison who once made a petition to free house elves and could lure a siren onto land.

Stiles is about three months into the term when he realizes known of his letters to his father have been mailed. Their new headmaster, Professor Blake, claims it's to risky to be receiving and sending owls. 

She's made the right decision, Stiles recognizes. 

But that doesn't mean he likes it.

Erica kisses him again. Only this time, it's on the cheek, while they're seated on the cool, dead grass of the empty Quidditch arena. 

"Why did you do that?" he asks. 

"Because I wanted to."

"No, the first time," he corrects. "On Valentine's Day."

She actually giggles, the skin around her eyes crinkling at the memory. "I was trying to make Boyd jealous. It was supposed to be just quick enough for it to be obvious what we'd been doing, but I kind of got caught up in the moment. I hadn't expected to like it so much," which is generous and probably not at all truthful.

"So you picked scrawny, spazzy, homely me?"

"Oh please," Erica snorts. "You're not unattractive, especially now that you've finally decided to grow your hair out. Besides, you looked friendly. And lonely. I figured it was something we could both benefit from."

"That was my first kiss," Stiles mumbles, rubbing a thumb along his bottom lip, remembering the warm, slick touch of Erica's tongue.

She seems surprised by that. "Sorry."

"Don't be. It was awesome."

And then, because they're both sad and angry and probably unhinged, they burst into belly-aching laughter that doesn't wane until they're both sprawled on their backs.

She rolls over to face him with a wobbly smile, breaths slightly rushed, and tucks herself into the crook of his neck.

"Do you think it'll ever stop hurting?" she breathes, the words tickling his skin, fingertips tracing the wrinkles on Stiles' palm. 

Stiles purses his lips in thought, then grins wryly. "Do you want my honest opinion?"

"I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

"No." Stiles warms her hand between his, rubbing them together until the friction leaves them tingling uncomfortably. "I think we have to suffer through it."

He thinks of his mother. He's not wallowing in self-pity anymore, but there's still always the constant reminder that something's missing when he closes his eyes and tries to picture his life. When he realizes she's no longer in it.

He thinks of Derek, who he hasn't seen in nearly seven months. Scott. His father.

"And then what?" Erica asks as she shivers against his side. "What happens after that? Do we move on?"

"We die."

Erica's laugh is abrupt, choked. "That's awfully bleak of you, Stilinski."

"Not necessarily," Stiles counters, nose upturned as he gazes up into the clouded sky. The muggy air smells like rain. It's been like that for days. "A little suffering's good for the heart, right? It helps us appreciate happiness." 

Erica nods, deep in thought. Sighing, she leans farther into him and throws an arm over his chest, ignoring the blades of dead grass that are stuck to her sweater. "So where is this so-called happiness?"

Stiles peeks at her from the corner of his eye and flashes a cheerless smirk. "Dunno."

Except he does, he's just not sure if his is alive anymore.

Allison and Lydia are in his dorm room, which violates about thirteen of Blake's behavioral conduct policies, but now that that woman's signature is a scarred pink on the back of his hand (her methods of punishment are questionable), he doesn't give a shit about her inane rules.  

"This scarf is nice. Why don't I ever see you wear it?"

Stiles' hand clenches, forgoing a response to Lydia's thoughtless question.

"Red's definitely your color."

They're standing outside the castle, demanding Hogwarts to hand Derek over. 

Headmaster Blake at first denies the presence of one Derek Hale in the castle without her knowledge. Of course, that was before she was face-to-face with Peter the Death Eater and Kate Argent.

Now, she's more than willing to comply, heaving a frustrated sigh when Professor Morrell repeats for the third time she can't tell them where Derek is because she don't know, sorry. 

"Why don't I believe you?" the woman purrs, the corners of her lips curling. Because you're a psychotic bitch? Stiles supplies mentally. "I know," she says, tapping a jagged, black nail on her chin. "Maybe it's because you're lying."

"I assure you," Morrell says unenthusiastically. "I most certainly am not. I have absolutely no way of reaching Derek Hale unless he desires it."

"You're dancing around words, Mrs. Morrell. Don't think that I haven't noticed," she tsks. "But very well then. I suppose we will have to do this the hard way. Peter," she turns to the man at her side. "Be a doll and grab me a student to begin questioning. Start with a mutt."

Which apparently means exactly what is sounds like because after Peter hops off the stage and makes his way down the isles of students, nose upturned and sniffing the air, her jerks to a halt before Stiles, grinning wolfishly. 

"Found one," Peter leers, grabbing Stiles by the collar of his shirt and dragging him forward, toward center stage.

"Ooh, goody," Kate cheers gleefully. "Bring him here, and clear the room. I want this to be," she licks her lips, "intimate."

Morrell steps forward, ignoring Blake's warning glower. "Leave him alone."

"Ah, ah, ah," Kate tuts, and her wand goes flying. "That wasn't the deal. Sit down and enjoy the show or clear out with the rest of the students." As she speaks, Peter does as he's told and is shoving a crowd out too tiny doors. 

Professor Morrell turns to Professor Blake with a look of disbelief. "You can't honestly tell me you're going to let this child be interrogated by death eaters?" she hisses.

From the dining hall's entrance, Stiles sees Allison and Danny swimming against the crowd, with Jackson trailing hesitantly behind them. Erica's holding Lydia back, who seems to be screeching something at the prefect who's trying to convince them to head back to their dorms.

They're going to get themselves killed.

Stiles catches the Allison's gaze and shakes his head. She bites her lips but nods compliantly, grabbing Danny's wrist and motioning for Jackson to deal with Lydia, who doesn't seemed too pleased to be physically dragged away. There's something in the way she's looking at Stiles, eyes wide, jaw set.

Like part of her thinks she's never going to see him again.

Stiles swallows, turning back to Morrell and Blake's hushed whispers.

"It's sacrificing one for the sake of the whole," Jennifer Blake explains calmly, decisively. "The Ministry will understand."

"What about his parents? His friends? Will they understand?" Professor Morrell exclaims and the headmaster's expression falters. "He's sixteen. We can't just sit back and let him die."

"Merlin's beard," Kate groans in annoyance, wand raising. "Avada Kedavra."

Professor Morrell crumples to the ground like a rag doll, and Stiles has to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming, going limp in Peter's grip as he's thrown at Kate's boot-clad feet.

"There." Kate simpers, fluffs her hair, and sings "Problem solved. You can leave now, Professor Blake."

The younger teacher lying motionlessly on the floor stares at him blankly, and he can't stop the tears that burn at his eyes, threatening to spill over. His fault. She died trying to protect him. Her lips are parted, mouth open in gaping, as if in surprise.

To her credit, Jennifer Blake seems just as appalled, and her hands are trembling. To her credit, she casts Stiles a contrite frown before she quickly makes her escape. To her credit, he's not sure if he wouldn't have done the same.

"Finally." Kate scans the now empty room, flickering impassively over the dead body a mere few feet away. "All alone." 

Her head tilts to the side when she gets a glimpse of his no doubt red eyes and shaken expression. Cherry-colored lip jutting out, she leans over until they're eye level and fixes him with a poor imitation of understanding. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Were you close?"

He spits on her.

An outraged cry, a thudding sound, and Stiles' head is turned to the side, jaw aching and ears ringing.

"You're no fun at all," she informs Stiles with a frown. 

"My sincerest apologies."

Her hand slips into his newly-grown hair. It's long now. Stiles had been trying something new. The way her fingers thread through it makes him wish he hadn't. Wrenching his head back, she jabs her pointed wand into the soft skin just beneath his chin and croons. 

"My, you are a cute one. All this pale skin just waiting to be marked." Something wet and coarse is sliding along his neck. Kate pulls back with a wicked laugh. "And did he?"

Stiles swallows again, adams apple bobbing visibly. "Who?"

"Why, Derek, of course." Her hold on his hair tightens, and the death eater tugs his head farther back. "Peter tells me you're friends." 

It takes him a second to realize that she's waiting for a response.

"We were," Stiles mumbles, the answer coming out more bitter than he'd intended. 

She raises her eyebrows. "Trouble in paradise?" A grin. "Well, that makes this much easier."

"It doesn't matter," Stiles snarks, "if I don't know where he is."

"Ah, but you must know something. Think." She taps a talon-like nail against his forehead. "Think hard, and I promise you'll be rewarded for your help."

Somehow, Stiles seriously doubts the validity of that.

"Try to remember the last time you saw him. What was he doing?"

"We were on the Hogwarts Express and he refused to tell me what was going on. The end."

"Think harder," Kate demands, nails digging into his scalp. 

He flinches and bites his lip. He honestly doesn't know anything. Derek wouldn't tell him anything. He'd just sat there with a blank expression, gritted out harsh words, holding that damn letter in his hand.

The letter with the Headmaster's seal.

The letter from Deaton, who, indubitably, knew were Derek was, or at least were he was headed.

Who perhaps wasn't fired so much as he was hiding.

"Is that an epiphany I see?" Kate asks excitedly. "Come, child, tell us what you've discovered."

Stiles could tell. Part of Stiles wanted to, desperately - the very same part that lied awake at night and thought about how he was stuck in prison unable to communicate with his father while his so-called best friends were out there, free, without him.

It's Derek's fault he's in this position.

But he doesn't.

And it's only then, after six years, that Stiles realizes why he's in Gryffindor. 

His loyalty - the fact that he's willing to risk his life for someone who probably couldn't care less about where he is or how he's doing. 

"I can't," Stiles informs her with a sad smile. 

"Why, of course you can, darling," Kate says softly, like sweet words could just coax the answer right out of him. "Just spit. It. Out."

"Nope."

Her back straightens and her eyes darken, expression livid. "No? Just no. You're not the least bit worried about what we'll do to you if you won't help us? Not even a little bit?"

Actually, Stiles is so scared he might actually pee himself.

"Oh please," he responds boldly. "You need me. If you kill me, how do you expect to find out where Derek is?"

"You're awfully mouthy for someone about to die."

Stiles chuckles darkly. "And you're awfully old for that shade of lipstick."

"Perhaps we can find a way to put it to better use."

"Holy hell," he breathes in faux-stupefaction, "your lipstick?"

"Your mouth," she snaps.

"And just when I thought you couldn't get any kinkier."

The next hit lands in his stomach, sending him sprawling on his back. Dazedly, Stiles glances up just as Kate's boot stomps onto his chest, holding him in place.

"He won't help you. He wouldn't do this for you," she tells him. "So why should you? He's a coward, just like his sister. It's in his blood, and you of all people should understand the significance of that."

"Nice," Stiles coughs, his saliva tinted pink. "A mudblood joke. How original."

She looks up at Peter in exasperation and points her wand at Stiles. "I'm done with this." A pause, silence. Stiles can hear his heart beat thudding madly in his chest. "Crucio!"

It's not like Stiles had imagined. It's not a shooting pain, burning ache, a gut-wrenching sting. It's just torment, agony all over, everywhere. In his hands, his feet, his chest. And then it stops as swiftly as it came, like he's hit a wall. Stiles rolls to the side and dry heaves. Despite his stomach being empty, the feeling doesn't leave his throat, even after he's stopped gagging.

"Where is he?" Kate questions, voice pinched. 

"How should I know?" Stiles grunts, and when he brings his hand up to wipe the sweat of his nose, it's quivering. 

"Crucio!"

His face hits the floor with a smack, and he thinks he might have broken his nose but it doesn't matter because his insides are burning, squeezing, he has to let the pressure out somewhere. Stiles opens his mouth to release a scream. Even to his own ears, it's broken, pleading, anguished.

"Where is he?" the death eater screeches. "Where is he where is he where is he where is he where is he - Crucio!" 

"Avada Kedavra!"

Through blurred eyes, Stiles watches Kate Argent fall. She lands beside him, expression so much like Professor Morrell's. Like Boyd's.

Kate Argent is dead.

Someone is at Stiles' side in an instant, desperate hands running across his face, his chest. There's a humming, low and shaken, like someone's crying. Palms slide to his back, gently lift him up and forward into to something sturdy and warm. The world trembles. "Shh, Stiles. You're okay." It's hushed. "You're okay." 

Stiles recognizes the voice immediately. The humming stops.

"Derek," Stiles breathes, confused, scared. Peter's still here. Peter can - 

"Peter's dead," Derek assures him. Stiles must have been saying that out loud. "Laura killed him. You're safe now. Scott," he calls out, wrapping a hand around his waist and slinging Stiles' arm around his shoulder. "Help me get Stiles to the Room of Requirement."

The Room of Requirement.

Derek Hale can't be reached unless he desires it.

When he awakens, it's with a sharp pain in the back of his head. The Room of Requirement is packed with students, some chatting animatedly, others sparring. He spots Lydia in the corner arguing with Jackson, brow furrowed 

Stiles snorts. 

Derek and Scott are facing the opposite direction, talking to Isaac and another dark-haired girl that Stiles doesn't recognize.

When her pointed green eyes meet his, and her mouth forms a slight, teasing smile, Stiles thinks he might have an idea as to who she is.

She announces something, and purely from her grin he can tell it's all bluster and taunting. Derek whirls around, so fast he almost falls over - Stiles is sort of disappointed he didn't - and takes several long strides over toward Stiles' secluded makeshift infirmary.

"How are you feeling?" Derek inquires anxiously as Stiles sits up and rolls his shoulders and neck, grimacing when the joints pop loudly.

Stiles restrains a choked laugh. "I've been better."

Derek nods, obviously expecting such an answer. "Mrs. McCall said there was no lasting damage, which is good. You can never be sure with - " he stops, tripping over his words, "that curse." His adams apple bobs when he swallows. "Also, Erica asked about you. She's with Allison, helping evacuate the house elves." He looks unsure for a moment, like he's afraid of overstepping boundaries, but his curiosity must outweigh his tact because he continues anyway. "Since when are you two friends? I thought she scared you."

"Since when do you use unforgivable curses?" Stiles counters coldly.

The darker-haired boy looks at him in surprise. "That - that was to protect you."

Stiles knows that, and he knows it's unfair and irrational for him to judge Derek for something he did to protect him, but it was also unfair and irrational for Derek to leave Stiles and not trust him after everything they'd been through and then come back like it's all fine and dandy between them.

"And why on earth would you want to do that?" Stiles derides, looking away just in time to catch only a glimpse of Derek's irritated expression. He searches the room for someone, anyone, that could save him from this derailing conversation. He'd settle for Jackson. Instead, he makes eye contact with Scott, who waves obliviously, still speaking enthusiastically to Isaac Lahey and Laura Hale. 

Derek's sigh regains his attention. "Stiles, we don't have time for this."

"We?" Stiles sniffs. "I have all the time in the world, Boy Who Lived. I'm bedridden, see." He motions to the cot he's seated on with a sarcastic flick of his wrist.

"Not anymore," Derek gruffs, and he must realize Stiles is just going to keep being unreasonable because he rises to his feet and just shuts down, refusing to meet his eyes again. "I need your help."

Stiles sneers. "Oh really."

Derek's jaw sets, teeth clenching. "Really."

Stiles scoffs, rolls his eyes, but nods anyway. "Fine, but I need to talk to Lydia first."

"Fine."

He nearly topples over when he first springs up into the air, and Derek has to steady him with a strong arm. The contact burns through his thick sweater, and when Stiles shoves it away childishly and makes his way toward the redhead and her bulky counterpart, the feeling is still there, aching, like Derek's hand singed an imprint into his skin.

The moment she spots him over Jackson's shoulder, Lydia breaks out into a heart-stopping, knee-weakening beam, and rushes forward, throwing her arms around Stiles and flat out kissing him.

Six years of Stiles' life wasted on the single, anticipated action. He'd imagined the clouds would part when Lydia finally kissed him. Birds would sing. The sun would shine.

She tastes like salt. His head hurts. And it does absolutely nothing for either of them. (That sure as hell doesn't keep him from kissing back, though, because hello, six years.)

She pulls away with a grin and tucks her head into his neck.

"How mad does Jackson look?" she wonders, giggling slightly.

"Infuriated," Stiles replies, and it's true. Jackson somehow manages to look both unbelievably relieved that Stiles is okay and like he wants to put him back in the infirmary bed all at the same time.

"Derek doesn't look too pleased, either."

"Fuck Derek."

She slides her hands to his shoulders and moves back until he can see her knowing grin. "You don't mean that." She puts a finger to his lips before he can get out a response. "But you should definitely make him sweat it out a little bit."

Stiles isn't so sure about the first statement, but he's most certainly down with the second.

"Now go on back to your man-crush and destroy that horcrux."

Stiles blinks. "Wait, what's a horcrux?"

"This is a horcrux? This twelve year old's ratty diary is a piece of Vol - " he quickly corrects himself, recalling Derek's warning about the bad things that happen when one says his name. Which, by the way, were the only words they'd exchanged on the way down there. "You Know Who's soul?" 

The corners of Derek's lips tilt upwards just barely. "The last one was a locket."

"You're kidding," Stiles laughs before he remembers that he's supposed to be angry. And he is angry. Angry that he's is holding a ginormous basilisk fang in his hands. Angry that he's covered in grime from the pipes they'd slid down. Angry that he had to sit through Derek's freaky snake-language show. Angry that Derek hasn't apologized or explained himself yet, damn it.

"So, now what do we do?" he asks, mouth trained back into a frown.

"You stab it," Derek answers, nonplussed, as if he he'd ordered Stiles to tie his shoe laces or bake a cake.

"Wait, why do I have to stab it?" 

"Because I've already destroyed one."

"So obviously you're way more qualified to be the one that stabs it."

"It doesn't work like that."

When it comes to Derek, nothing ever works like that.

Stiles sighs in resignation. "Will it… fight back?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Lovely." Stiles raises the fang. "Okay then, I can totally do this. No problem." 

Just as he's bring the weapon down, the book shudders, halting his motion.

It's your fault she died. It's his father's voice, and the diary's pages are flipping rapidly. And now I'm dead too. They killed me. The death eaters. You couldn't protect me. Just like they all will. Everyone you love. The piping to their right starts to clank. All your fault. His mother's soft soprano has joined in. Your fault. Lydia's, Scott's, Erica's, Allison's. You killed me, Professor Morrell hisses as the other voices continue their chant. I tried to protect you, and you let me die.

"I'm sorry," Stiles murmurs, chest constricting. "I couldn't - it all happened so fast."

That's why I left you. The words are whispered and yet ring above the mantra. It's Derek. You're useless. All you do is screw everything up. And don't think I don't notice the way you look at me. It's sickening. Do you honestly think I'd ever go for someone as pathetic as you? A mudblood? 

"Stiles, do it. Now." 

Your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault your fault -

It screams when he does, a horrible, discordant sound - a garbled mess of people, crying for reprieve, begging for his help.

Stiles stabs it again for good measure just as the pipes burst.

A wave of water crashes into them, and Stiles stumbles to regain his footing, sucking in a large gulp of the stale liquid, drowning in knee deep water light an absolute loser. When the assault finally subsides, he chokes and drops the fang, bringing his arm up to dry his face before realizing that his sweater is thoroughly soaked as well. Great.

"Was that supposed to be fun?" Stiles asks nervously, lungs burning and cheeks pink because Derek heard all of that, right? "That was decidedly not fun."

The fact that his question is met with deafening silence speaks volumes. 

Great. Good lucking trying to salvage what's left of your already pretty shitty friendship now, dumbass.

He starts to look down, to study his feet, the floor, anything that will distract him from this crushing rejection. And he'd thought it was bad with Lydia. Oh well, at least his love life was zero for two, because that's totally reassuring.

But the wet hand that slides under his jaw and cups the side of his face stops the motion. 

A thumb traces along his cheekbone, softly, reverently, before creeping down his overheated cheeks to the corner of his mouth, leaving a burning trail in its wake. It skids across his lips, hovering just barely, pressing so lightly, so - 

Breathe, Stiles. 

If anything, breathing's worse because Derek's closer - he just knows it - and he can practically taste his piney, clean scent. He's drowning again, drifting closer and closer to the bottom, and he's not even going to bother trying to stay afloat because the darkness is calling and he's listening, how could he not?

Stiles glances up, dazed and shivering slightly - not sure if it's from the cool air that pierces through his damp clothes or the feather-light touch. 

Derek's staring at him, green eyes unwavering, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth open as if he's about to - "You never said anything," Derek accuses senselessly. "You never said anything. How was I supposed to know?"

"What - " Stiles is able to gasp out before Derek's lips are crashing into his, like the wave, and Stiles barely has half the mind to do anything but stand there in shock. His arms won't move; he can't feel them. He can't feel anything, actually. Just the harsh pressure of Derek's mouth. But Derek doesn't seem to care because he just brings his other hand to Stiles face and drags him impossibly closer. The action is like an electric shock - a spark of energy that courses through Stiles veins, a current that causes the light to illuminate, brightening the darkness, and then Stiles finally gets with the program and allows his eyes to drift closed, lips parting, gasping slightly because he's waited for so long, too long, and he's never going to be able to stop.

It's rushed and heady and makes Stiles' head spin deliciously - the way Derek's hand is fisting into Stiles' hair. The way his tongue is nudging against his, imploring and demanding all at the same time. The way he groans when Stiles feverishly throws an arm around Derek's waist and presses their chests together. They stumble over each other carelessly, too desperate and eager to do anything more than laugh into each other's mouths when they bump noses or clack teeth. 

It doesn't slow nor cool down for a while, and it isn't until Stiles has somehow ended up against one of the chamber's walls, shirting riding up slightly as Derek's fingers run over his stomach, dipping lower to map-out the skin just above the waist band of his pants, legs separated by Derek's unyielding knee, hands palming at the powerful muscles lining Derek's back, shivering in delight when they flex every time Derek moans, that Derek must remember where they are. Just as Stiles is nipping at Derek's bottom lip and flushing with pleasure when the act earns a shudder, the other boy is pulling away ruefully to rest their foreheads together. 

Stiles release a whine that's nothing like any sound he's ever made before, and it kind of scares him that Derek can do this - make him feel so unfamiliar and disoriented - but at the same time, it's invigorating and exciting and just like he'd imagined it would be but better. So so much better. 

They stand like that for what feels like an eternity, trying to catch their breaths and restraining the urge to surge forward again and again and never stop because there's a war going on, he reminds his libido.

That doesn't keep them from drawing out a few more - relatively - chaste kisses, however. 

When they stop - no, for real this time, Stiles promises - Derek slowly steps away until they can look at each other without going cross-eyed, but he doesn't drop the arm he has resting lowly on Stiles hip, fingers massaging into the flesh just barely. It's a simple gesture, but Stiles can't keep his pulse from racing, all nerve-endings numb to anything but the feeling of Derek's hand on his body.

"I was so worried," Derek says, eyes boring into Stiles', and Stiles' blinks in attempt to clear his mind, to focus like he's supposed to. "Not just when I saw her standing over you and thought you were - " His grip tightens. "You were all I could think about when I was gone. You kept me awake at night. I'd wonder if you were alive, if you were upset, if you'd found someone else. Merlin's beard, Stiles, you were everywhere and I couldn't get you out of my bloody head."

Stiles shakes his own in confusion, and he wants it to come out hurt, betrayed, furious - all the things he'd felt when his two closest friends left, but he's still dizzy from the kiss and can't manage much more than piddling irritation. "Then why didn't you take me with you?" 

It's the question he'd been asking for nearly half a year now. What had he done? What didn't he have that Scott did?

"I was trying to protect you," Derek chuckles humorlessly. "But that obviously didn't turn out the way I'd expected."

The idea - the excuse - it's so completely absurdly Derek that Stiles knows he can't be lying. 

"You could've at least told me," Stiles remarks, and it, again, comes across exponentially less wounded and enraged than he'd intended. "You kind of left me to assume the worst, man."

"That what, I just plain didn't like you?" Derek asks in disbelief. "Stiles, think. Honestly, think. When's the last time I so much as hinted that I'm anything but stupidly, embarrassingly in love with you?"

Stiles gawks. He has a legitimate answer in there somewhere, but for now: "You're in love with me?"

Derek laughs good-naturedly this time and drops his head onto Stiles shoulder in exasperation. "Yes. You're loud and infuriating - "

"And you're grumpy and cynical. Wow, this is fun."

" - But I love you." He turns his head into Stiles' neck, mouth pressing softly against his pulse, his collarbone, his ear. Stiles leans into the touch, tilts his chin to the side, allowing Derek better access. The tiny strokes of the hand on his hip halt completely and morph into a bruising, intoxicatingly strong grip. Stiles' lower body is jerked up against Derek's roughly, and he might let out an undignified squeak, but he's never actually going to admit to that, so. 

"Uh, Derek. You should - oh god - probably stop considering we're kind of sort of. Under attack." Teeth graze skin, and Stiles' hips jolt forward with a shock. "And everything. I'm just - saying - people are worried. There are two horcruxes left. Jackson can't be left unattended for too long because he might be on suicide-watch after Lydia kissed me."

Derek actually growls - freakin' growls - before threading his other hand into the hairs at the nape of Stiles' neck. It'd be scary if Stiles couldn't feel the playful smirk tickling just below his ear. Okay, so it's still a little scary. But sexy-scary. Like Derek.

"Which was totally a spur of the moment, platonic joke-thing, by the way. So was that time with Erica. Well, not platonic or a joke, really. But definitely friendly."

Derek moves back with a frown.

"Shutting up now."  

Stiles doesn't really get to bask in the glory of his classmate's shocked expressions (and Lydia's I told you so) at his and Derek's hand-holding and debauched appearances for very long, because soon they're all getting assigned groups and tasks. The professor's are mainly the only one's fighting. Though some students have stepped forward and volunteered to join in lieu of hiding. Stiles is one of those people, along with (as to be expected) Scott, Erica, Allison, Lydia, Jackson, Danny… 

But Laura and Isaac are suddenly flanking him on either side.

"Sorry, buddy," Isaac says. "You're sitting this one out."

Stiles' jaw drops. "What? No, that's ridiculous."

Isaac raises his hands defensively. "Not my call," and Stiles totally doesn't remember what he saw in this whipped shmuck. 

"You do realize you're taking orders from a seventeen year old, right?" Stiles drones. 

"You've been benched," Laura informs him conclusively. 

Hogwarts is under attack. 

And Derek is nowhere to be found.

They'd poured out of the Room of Requirement in a rush, all heading in different directions - some for searching for safety, others toward the front line. 

Despite all the confusion and adrenaline and masses and masses of bodies, Stiles still can't lose his body guards as they guide him toward the safety.

Until they're fighting for their lives, spells whizzing from left and right, and screaming for him to run. Find Scott. That's he going to be in danger either way, and he might as well be doing something productive.

They don't need to tell Stiles twice.

He finds Jackson and Harris instead, who saves Stiles from losing an ear, congratulates him for standing up to death eaters, and then heads toward the castle's entrance. 

Be safe, he'd told Stiles and Jackson before leaving, and they did the same.

Stiles isn't sure how he feels about that.

"We need to find the next horcrux," Stiles notifies Jackson - while he was unconscious, Scott and Derek had managed to take out the diadem from Ravenclaw… whatever the hell that meant - who just gives him perplexed expression and nods, and Stiles really hadn't seen it coming, he really hadn't. But he guesses it's ironic enough to make perfect sense that that's the exact moment Jackson's eyes widen, and he's shoving Stiles out of the way, a giant serpent - Nagini, he remembers Derek telling him, the horcrux - striking forward, fangs piercing the tanned flesh of Jackson's neck.

A second later, a sword is swinging down and its head is rolling. Scott dislodges the blade from its carcass and drops it with a clang, rushing over toward them.

But it's too late.

Stiles falls to his knees at Jackson's side, eyes wide and mouth opened in distress. 

"Oh shit." He sucks in a shaky inhale. "Fuck, Jackson - "

The larger boy coughs, sputtering up blood, and Stiles feels something warm and wet seep into the bottoms of his pants. He doesn't dare look down, instead yanking off his sweater and pressing the thin material into Jackson's neck. "Maybe if we can stop the bleeding," he tries.

"Don't bother," the bleeding boy croaks. "I'm toast."

Stiles laugh is stilted and more like a sob than anything else. "Damn it, Whittemore. Why'd you have to turn out to be a good guy? I was totally content with hating you for the rest of my life."

"Sorry," Jackson chuckles weakly, groaning when it's accompanied by more scarlet liquid that stains the front of Stiles' plain white shirt. Stiles uses his sleeve to swipe at Jackson's mouth, and he gets Scott to tilt his head to the side so he doesn't choke on his own blood. "Tell Lydia I - "

"She knows," Stiles assures him, tasting salt. "God, Jackson. Her too, you have to know that. She felt the same way. I know she did. She has since first year. Even when you were fighting, even when she despised you with every bit of her being, she still loved you. It used to make me angry. I didn't think you deserved her, but I was wrong. Jackson, I was so wrong. I'm sorry. Fuck, this is my fault. This is - "

"Stiles," Scott murmurs, and a hand is on his shoulder, squeezing. 

They're in the courtyard, bodies pressed against bodies. They're trapped. Waiting for something. Watching the death eaters' expectant faces. 

Scott finds Allison immediately and the two strangle each other with hugs and kisses and I love you's. 

Stiles finds Lydia and she sees his expression and just knows. 

"Oh," she whispers, and it's worse than all the other times, when she'd sob and sob and curse Jackson's name and throw things and bury her head on Stiles' shoulder. "Oh."

They lost Erica, too, he learns.

Do you think it'll ever stop hurting?

Stiles doesn't think he can handle any more death.

Then Voldemort is there before them, and Derek's body is being deposited amongst the shambles.

"Derek Hale is dead," and Stiles can't breathe.

"No," Stiles murmurs. "No," he runs forward, unthinking, toward the area cleared for Voldemort, toward the ghastly, disfigured man that Stiles suddenly hates more than death itself. Lydia tries to hold him back, but he just twists out of her grip. Scott is able to get an arm around him just as the snake-like man orders him to silence, stupid boy 

The grief twists in his gut and if it weren't for Scott's hold, he'd buckle over from the strength of it. Blackness swarms his vision. His head swims. His pulse is fluttering madly against his neck.

There's no way. He can't really be -

"Derek Hale is dead," he repeats, unperturbed. "From this day forth, you put your faith," he pauses, meeting Stiles horrified gaze, "in me."

Suddenly, in elation, he spins around to face his followers, the crowd of black, and once again reiterates the words that stab at Stiles chest, cut into his flesh and rip out his heart. 

Derek Hale is dead.

The chorus of laughter makes his cheeks burn, his eyes sting - he's shaking with desolation, with rage.

"Now is the time to declare yourself. Come forward an join us." No one moves. "Or die."

Scott's hold on him falters, and Stiles' heart stops when his best friend hobbles forward sluggishly.

A quirk of Voldemort's lips. "Well I must say I hoped for better," he goads. 

More laughing.

Traitor, Stiles wants to scream. He trusted you. I trusted you. But he can't find the words, or the air, or the reason to do anything more than sink to the ground, hands clutching his chest, trying to hold himself together - keep himself from breaking into a million pieces.

"And who might you be, young man?"

The distance separating Scott from Derek's murderer is diminishing.

"Scott McCall."

"Well, Scott, I'm sure we can find a place for you in our ranks - "

"I'd like to say something," Scott interrupts.

For a moment, Stiles thinks Voldemort is going to crush Scott like a bug, raise his wand and utter the killing curse, throw his lifeless body down next to Derek's and continue on down the line.

But that never even happens.

"Well, Scott, I'm sure we'd all be fascinated to hear what you have to say."

Scott swallows, his fists clench, and his posture straightens until he looks strong, confident, like he's isn't bloodied and bruised, like he hasn't witnessed death twice today, which is two times more than any sixteen year old should.

"It doesn't matter that Derek's gone." But it does, Scott, so much, more than anything. "People die everyday. Friends," he stares at Stiles. "Family." His eyes drift toward his mother. "Yeah, we lost Derek tonight. But he's still with us. In here," Scott brings a hand to his chest. "And so is Professor Morrell and Boyd, Erica, Jackson. All of them. They didn't die in vain." And then something ferocious crosses over Scott's features and he's threatening "But you will" right to the Dark Lord's face.

Which is why Scott will always be the most appropriately-sorted gryffindor of all time.

"Because you're wrong," Scott spits venomously. "Derek's heart did beat for us. For all of us! And it's not over!" 

It's a sharp movement, so quick that Stiles almost doesn't catch it, but it's there. He sees it.

"Confringo!"

It's Stiles sixth year at Hogwarts, and Stiles is exiting the Hogwarts Express and sprinting straight into his father's opened arms. They encircle him firmly, just like they would when he was little - when they'd assuage the panic from a nightmare and make Stiles feel like the safest, most loved person in the world. The effect isn't nearly as potent as before, but it's still enough to make his shoulders sag in relief 

He should be in class. 

"Melissa called. She explained what happened. Why you never wrote," the sheriff murmurs into Stiles' hair, his palm rubbing little circles on his back. "I'm here."

Two words, and Stiles can't stop the shaking, can't fight the anger that swarms his vision, can't qualm the tears that prick at the inner corners of his eyes. 

"Stiles, what's - I mean, I know what's wrong, but I - I just have to ask because Melissa didn't say. She didn't - is Derek okay?"

Stiles lets out a sob. He doesn't mean to - it just happens. And the way his dad tenses tells him that Sheriff Stilinski must have taken his reaction the wrong way, and he has to pull back and stare up into his father's glistening, blood-shot eyes so that he can see Stiles shake his head furiously, over and over again.

"Derek's alive, dad. He's alive. Don't worry, he's okay," but no matter how many times he assures his father, assure himself, the tears won't stop. It's the first time he's done it since the battle, since he'd watched Jackson die, saw Derek's still body tossed to the ground and then witnessed it get back up again, unscathed, more alive than ever. Since Derek had saved all their lives.

His father exhales in a quick puff and nods. "Where is he now? I didn't see him get off the train. He always gets off with you."

"He was talking to Paige. She's not handling things… well."

Like many of the other students, Paige had lost someone - a best friend, apparently. Some ravenclaw girl Stiles never had the honor of knowing, who'd fought alongside them rather than flee to safety purely because she thought it was the right thing to do.

It's ironic how battle can murder heroes just as quickly as it makes them.

"And you are?" the sheriff asks carefully, eyebrows raised. His expression is concerned, vexed for his son's sake - an irritation that's aimed at someone who well doesn't deserve it.

Stiles sighs. "Dad, stop. Don't do that. Derek's gone through enough as is, I don't need to bother him with my dumb problems."

"Hi, John."

Stiles would roll his eyes if he weren't busy swiping at them with his sleeve because, once again, Derek Hale has impeccable timing.

"Derek," his father grunts with a nod. "I'll just go. Stand. Over there."

Stiles drops his arm and actually rolls his eyes this time because it's obvious now who Stiles inherited his tactlessness from.

"I thought we were done hiding things," Derek says with a disapproving frown once they're alone.

Stiles rubs his palms together and shuffles his feet awkwardly. "We are, I promise. I just - it's not that important considering everything else that's going on…" he licks his lips nervously, wanting to squint his eyes shut and force it all from his mind - Jackson, painted scarlet, Lydia's stricken expression, Erica's funeral, Voldemort's inhumane, empty gaze, Derek's crumpled up form, Professor Morrell and Kate Argent lying side-by-side. "Everything that's happened."

The Boy Who Lived Twice Now's frown deepens and he raises a hand to settle on the back of Stiles' neck, using it to bring their foreheads together just like before, after he'd destroyed the horcrux, only it's nothing like before. They're standing in the middle of a train station. His dad is a couple yards away. 

And yet the connection - the minor touch - is so intimate that even Stiles feels a little embarrassed about looking into Derek's hazel orbs, counting his eyelashes, tasting his breaths.

"It's important," Derek murmurs, a sound meant only for them and no one else. "You're important."

Stiles reaches out to grasp at Derek's free hand and squeeze it like a lifeline, like if he let go they'd be back in the courtyard, Voldemort standing over Derek's corpse, commanding their allegiance. 

"I'm sorry I worried you," Derek whispers knowingly, pulling him back from where he'd sunk in on himself, like always. Derek's his lifeboat, his anchor. And it only took him six years to finally understand.

Stiles gets it now. 

"Psh, I wasn't worried. I mean, you're The Boy Who Lived. You're pretty much invincible."

Derek chuckles airily, and it's another quiet noise intended only for Stiles' ears and that makes his entire body tingle with something he hadn't the confidence to put a name to until now.

"I love you too, by the way," he says plainly and kisses Derek, uncaring of his father's piercing stare, and even though there's still a gaping wound in his chest and things aren't going to be easier from here on out, Stiles knows they'll make it.

It's his final seventh year at Hogwarts, and they kick off the term with yet another a depressing memorial service. Deaton was killed, he'd learned, long before the death eaters attacked - which kind of made Stiles' horrible torture experience in vain, but he supposes there are worse fates. Jennifer Blake isn't their new headmaster, though, thank god. That bitch was fired. No, it ends up being Harris, and both Scott and Derek are startled when Stiles has no complaints on the matter. He's not the worse guy, Stiles had simply said, remembering how, in the end, when it had mattered most, Professor Harris had his back. Still, it wouldn't hurt the guy to at least crack a non-evil smile every once in a while. 

In January, Lydia and Danny start talking to the slythern twins, which is entirely as creepy and weird as it sounds. Of course, he happened to have had the pleasure of knowing a pretty exceptional slytherin, so Stiles isn't really that bothered by the two new additions to their table. Plus, they help make it look less empy.

In February, Stiles receives an invitation in the mail announcing Laura Hale and Isaac Lahey's marriage. Stiles gets teased mercilessly for his not-even-a-crush that was years ago, for crying out loud, for the rest of the day. 

In March, Lydia cries the first time she kisses Aiden, for forgetting Jackson - for being sad, but not enough that she can't think, live, breathe without him anymore. Stiles reminds her that's how these things work. That Jackson would want her to move on.

She doesn't necessarily believe him yet, and Stiles supposes that's normal because it's not. Grief never is.

He doesn't say anything when she sometimes looks away from Aiden with a guilt-ridden frown, just like Derek doesn't say anything when Stiles refuses to go near the Quidditch field again.

In April, Isaac somehow lets it slip that Laura's pregnant, which explains the shotgun wedding planned for July. It's a girl. They want to name her Cora. Derek thinks it's a dumb name. Stiles thinks it's lovely and smacks at the back of his head every time he grumbles something unintelligible about it under his breath.  

In May, Stiles visits Jackson and Erica's graves. He runs into Paige, and she lets him lay his head in her lap and pets his hair while he cries. She even laughs when he tells her about the Yule Ball, how he'd loathed her and wished so badly that she'd tripped on her pretty lilac dress. 

In June, Stiles graduates. Also, Derek gets kicked out of Stiles' bed by his father and demoted back from John to Sheriff or Mr. Stilinski status. (But what woke his dad and got Derek kicked out was totally worth it.)

It's his seventh year at Hogwarts, and, in conclusion, nothing really eventful happens.

It's nice.