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Michelle Jones blinked down at her cauldron.
Naturally, the potion had turned out exactly as it should have, glossy and pearl-coloured, but she wouldn’t quite say it was because she had a knack for potions. Rather, she was sure it had more to do with the fact she was decent enough at following instructions. She can’t say the same about her classmates, but that’s to be expected when she shares Potions with Gryffindor. Wouldn’t be complete without an explosion. Or three.
The amortentia seemingly stared back up at her, its scent, at first, sweet and cloying and enough to make her want to cringe a little. Classmates around her are leaning in, the room filled with dreamy sighs and giggles and wow, that’s nearly enough of a deterrent on its own.
When she looks up, she can see Peter slumped in his chair beside Ned, fingers spinning his quill, something Michelle knows to be in a fidgety manner. Unlike his transfiguration skills, Ned’s pretty talented in the potions department, so she’s got no doubt when the boy leans in that he’d barely needs to take a whiff for his eyes to dart up to her deskmate.
And he does. Michelle fights the urge to smirk proudly.
Peter, on the other hand, eyes the potion with less certainty. That surprises Michelle, because she’d always seen Peter as nothing less than a romantic, if all the times he’d been gazing at Liz for third and most of fourth year had been anything to go by.
(Fifth year had been different. Fifth year had been Peter’s rough nights, his first Christmas without his uncle; had been Michelle sneaking into the Gryffindor common room, had been quiet confessions under blanket forts by the fire of I should have done more, I could have stopped it, I should have been there - and had been when Liz had graduated and left with nothing more than a sweet kiss to Peter’s cheek, with a fondness for him that Michelle knew firsthand came easily for a boy like Peter Parker.)
This year had been different, though. As far as she knew, there hadn’t been any signature Parker heart-eyes, no extra purchases at Honeyduke’s to impress a pretty girl, no sighing from across the Great Hall.
So she’s sort of surprised he hasn’t leaned in to the potion, hasn’t wanted to find out what he’d smell like the rest of the class. In fact, it seems like he’d found the potion as annoyingly cloying as she did, with the way, at first, his nose wrinkles and his lips curl down in a small frown and -
“-and I just think I can track the scent down to—Michelle?” Betty’s soft voice, hand on her arm is enough to jerk her out of her temporary Peter-vision, though conveniently, just as she’s pulling her gaze from Peter looks up at her and grins before pulling an exaggerated face, plugging his nose with his index finger and his thumb.
It’s enough to make her laugh, feel something soft and warm bloom in her chest (and she doesn’t need a potion to confirm what Betty suspects while watching her with an amused smile, and what half of her year already assumes).
But she entertains the thought of a potion being strong enough to reveal something she’d thought she’d hidden away so deep inside of her - and she smells ink, dew-dampened grass, and something warm and musky and familiar, that she can recall having smelled before.
When Michelle looks back up, Peter is blinking at her from across the classroom, looking oddly thoughtful. She jerks her chin up, as if asking him what was up, brows knit together, and all he does is shrug in return, the apples of his cheek tinting a soft shade of pink.
-
Let it be known that Michelle Jones doesn’t hate Hogsmeade trips, per say.
She likes the way the village looks dusted in snow, or when autumn leaves are rain-dampened, likes the scent of new herbs at Dogweed and Deathcap, likes buying herself a new record at the music shop, or a new quill.
What she does sort of hate, in a way, is how she’s dragged along year after year since third in crowds of increasing numbers. Last year, Liz had usually been the one to tug her to Gladrag’s for jewelry or new uniform shirts, for ice cream when the weather warmed up.
This year, though, her arm is looped through Ned’s because it’s snowing and he’s levitating an umbrella above their heads - he’s carrying their bags, one of the many thoughtless but sweet gestures that are so very Ned. Betty’s sick this weekend, so they’d left her in the Ravenclaw common room tucked away with soup, warm by her bedside, and promises to bring back sugar quills.
And Peter, well. Peter’s on a date.
He’d said it’s not a date, but to be fair, whenever he tried to argue with either her or Ned about it, his voice goes two octaves higher and his ears redden until colour spreads to his cheeks.
(It’s cute. But she’ll take that to the grave.)
Her name is Gwen. She’s a seventh year in Michelle’s House, and a prefect. While they’re almost entirely opposite one another, Michelle likes her - she’s pleasant and nice enough. And she’s beautiful, too, all bright blue eyes and pink lips, delicately curled blonde hair cascading down her back, always held back neatly by a colour-coordinated hairband. Michelle can’t find any reason to actively dislike her - and she’d never stoop so low as to dislike someone simply because they were on a date with Peter. Not her style, no.
“We don’t need to go in,” Ned tells her, worrying his lower lip. She rolled her eyes and reached up with her free hand, pulling his toque down further over his forehead, just about covering his eyes.
“I’m going to pretend like I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you’re going to buy me a butterbeer in exchange for my convenient momentary “Obliviate” moment that’s keeping you from getting punched.” Ned huffs out a laugh, and it’s enough to make Michelle’s mouth twitch upward into a smile.
“I bought last time,” he whined, even as they slip inside and start toward their regular table, navigating through the masses of students warming up inside.
“You owed me for fixing you up after Flash jinxed you and gave you warts all over,” Michelle countered, gaze darting around the pub only to land on Peter sitting at their table - and Gwen, across the room with a gaggle of girls from their House, chatting away happily.
She was immediately on defense - did Gwen just ditch Peter on their date? That seemed rude, and unnecessarily so, and — okay, well, when she really looked at Peter, it didn’t seem like he was distressed even in the slightest. In fact, he’d been looking thoughtful, brows knit as he traced a finger along the rim of his mug. And when he’d looked up to see Michelle and Ned, his face had slip into a grin and he waved them over with surprising enthusiasm.
Ned tells her to go on ahead and she goes, taking the shopping bags from him before doing so. She slid into the booth, surveying Peter and his stupidly bright smile. “You’re here,” she blurted out, gaze darting back to Gwen.
“Um, yeah? It’s three. We always have butterbeers at three.” Peter looks amused, and she watches him tilt his head to one side, hair still mussed from his hat.
“And Gwen’s over there.”
“Yes,” Peter says, slowly, “did you eat something funny at Honeydukes, by chance?” Michelle flips him off and he laughs - luckily, she’s saved from any further awkwardness by Ned, who slid into the booth next to Peter, already firing question after question at his best friend.
Michelle tunes most of it out, choosing to sip on her drink and think about her new quills instead - it’s only when Ned kicks her under the table that Michelle looks up at the boys.
“Guess I just wasn’t feeling it,” Peter says quietly - and of course, like he regrets it, and Michelle assumes both because Gwen is sweet and soft and just his type, and because Peter is sweet and soft and far too nice. He probably feels guilty, worried he might have led her on.
That, naturally, makes things harder for Michelle.
“Maybe she didn’t smell right,” Ned teases - much to her chagrin, Michelle’s cheeks heat up and Peter shoots her a confused glance after he elbows Ned.
What could Peter have possibly smelled in that amortentia?
Her thoughts are interrupted by Peter’s foot nudging hers gently under the table.
Are you good? He mouths while Ned goes on about Betty’s favourite cardigan, and all Michelle can do is give him a small nod, the slightest of smiles.
She’s decidedly not good.
-
It’s a universally accepted truth that Peter Parker and Harry Osborn don’t really get along. They used to be friends, and Michelle remembers this, because she sat with them on the very first train ride to Hogwarts when she was eleven and had no friends at all.
But since being sorted into houses with an ancient (and according to Michelle, downright stupid) feud, it seemed like their relationship went from strained to basically nonexistent.
The Osborns are old money, famously pure-blooded and come from a long lineage of Slytherins, and Harry is the kind of boy that Michelle ordinarily, like she does with most people, ignores. He’s a self-proclaimed ladies man, all charming smiles and rehearsed lines, innocent head-tilts and expensive cologne. He’s certainly not her type, as handsome as he may be, and she’s definitely not the kind of girl he’d ever go for. They’re desk mates in History of Magic, though, and get along well enough because he’s tolerable and smart.
So one can imagine her surprise when, three weeks to the Yule Ball, he’s almost awkwardly rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet in front of the Ravenclaw table at lunch, hands shoved in his pockets, blinking down at her like this is the hardest thing he’s had to do.
“Huh?” That’s all Michelle can manage because there’s no way in hell she’d heard what she heard, no way in hell that Betty’s gasping and Gwen is craning her neck, no way that Peter and Ned are literally standing up at the Gryffindor table to see what’s going on.
Harry heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh.
“I asked you if you wanted to go to the Yule Ball with me. I’d rather not go with someone that I don’t really know.”
Oh. So she hadn’t misheard.
Michelle isn’t sure what to say - mainly because she hadn’t even planned on going, not since Peter had mentioned maybe going with Gwen (if no one else asked, he’d said afterward, but Michelle’s nose had been buried in a book). It was all very couply and showy, she’d thought.
“So?” He interrupts her train of thought, and once again, actually looks nervous.
What the fuck.
“Yeah, okay,” she said, shrugging her shoulders a little. What harm could it do, right? And she had no real beef with Harry himself - while she generally had a few choice words for his housemates, Harry was one of the few good ones.
His face splits into a grin. “Awesome. Shopping on Saturday, then? So we match. I’ll pick you up at the gates at ten.”
They’re in free period on Friday afternoon, studying when Peter brings up the ball.
“So, it sounds like Gwen’s actually going with Jason, so I guess I don’t actually have a date,” Peter’s telling Ned, and Michelle keeps her eyes downcast. She hasn’t told them anything yet and she doesn’t plan on it until Peter looks over at her with a lopsided grin.
“I mean, I guess I can always go with Michelle.”
“What, since she’s grumpy enough to scare off any dates,” Ned jokes - and the thing is, Michelle knows it’s a joke, but that doesn’t make it any better.
“Scare off any dates?” Michelle says sharply, gaze darting up to Ned and then to Peter.
“I mean—I’m just joking, Michelle, I just meant—“
“Yeah, obviously it’s not —“
“Right,” Michelle drawls, slamming her book shut. “For the record, someone did ask me. And I said yes. So, really sorry that I can’t be your last resort plan.”
-
“Michelle, I really need you to stay still.”
Michelle huffs. This is stupid. This is stupid. She’s in the Gryffindor girls’ dorm, since she’d been coerced by Betty into bringing her stuff and getting ready with the girls from the other houses together there.
Which is how she’d ended up on the bed with Cindy leaning dangerously in her personal space, an eyeliner pen held in her hand somehow more threateningly than a wand has ever looked in it.
“I’m trying, but you are trying to draw on my goddamn eyelid.” Cindy rolls her eyes.
“You were the one that was staring at me while I did mine. I’m doing you a favour!” That drew a laugh out of Sandra, who’s already dressed in her deep scarlet dress and has taken to toying idly with Michelle’s curls (grooming potions were fucking amazing, letting her natural curls and texture shine without the frizz that used to only be combated by hot oil treatments and loads of products).
“She has a point, ‘Chelle,” and when the nickname slips past the girl’s lips, Michelle feels an acute, uncomfortable pang in her chest because that’s Peter’s nickname for her. Peter, her dweeb of a best friend who’s been awkwardly distant for nearly two weeks now.
Stupid Peter, and his goddamn puppy eyes staring at her across the Great Hall, his stupid mouth curled into a frown as he watches her pass him in Potions to get to her own table. She wasn’t even sure what happened, exactly - after she’d snapped at him about his insensitive comment, they hadn’t really spoken, any conversation really mediated by Ned.
“Okay!” Cindy exclaims brightly - it snaps Michelle out of her thoughts when she watches Cindy step back and admire her handiwork on Michelle’s eyes. “Time for lashes!”
“No - no, you’re not coming at my eyeballs with tweezers.”
“I can levitate them on!”
“That’s even worse!”
Michelle does not wear the false lashes. But she helps Betty with her updo, zips Cindy’s dress up for her, fixes the strap of Sandra’s left high heel, and feels a strange, odd sense of camraderie. It’s…almost strange, having friends that aren’t Peter and Ned or Harry, friends that don’t seem to mind that she knows next to nothing about curling irons or mascara wands or how to secure one’s strapless bra. In fact, they help her with all of it. It was one of the rare times she let herself dress up, and understood what girls meant when they did things for themselves, not for their dates. She highly doubted Harry would notice Betty’s strategically-placed highlighter on Michelle’s cheeks. But she’ll admit to staring at the glow and feeling like a goddess herself when she catches her reflection in the mirror.
-
She waits for Harry by the Fat Lady’s portrait. There hadn’t been sign of Peter - not that she was looking, of course - but Ned sees her before he goes to give Betty her corsage and brightened, palms pressed to his cheeks (of course, in exaggerated fawning, but it was still enough to draw colour to Michelle’s cheeks).
“You look like a princess that also knows forty-two ways to kill a man with her bare hands.”
It’s probably the greatest compliment she’d gotten in her life.
They’d chosen a deep aubergine as their colour - it had been surprisingly easy, as they’d both been drawn to the same dress, long and flowing, simple enough that Michelle wouldn’t feel like she was drawing too much attention to herself. She likes blending in.
All in all, by the time Harry has jogged up to Gryffindor Tower, looking as handsome as ever in a crushed velvet blazer in the shade he’d charmed to match Michelle’s dress perfectly (and all black everything else, which she could appreciate) and walked with her down to the Great Hall, most thoughts of Peter have been pushed to the back of her mind.
She isn’t going to let a silly crush on a boy that couldn’t possibly feel the same way ruin her night.
-
She hates to admit it, but Harry is kind of a fantastic date. She almost wishes she did like him, since he’s utterly charming. They spend most of the start of the evening at a table with a few of his friends from other houses talking, and he asks her about the book he’s seen her carrying to History of Magic, and she asks him about his plans for the summer to visit South America and go on excursions to study ancient runes.
He manages to insist that they dance at least once (but once turns into three songs), and even breaks her deadpan expression when he sings along exaggeratedly to a girl band pop song.
She finally manages to drag him off the dance floor when it heats up, and with a laugh, he tells her he’ll run to get them some punch. It’s then she sees Ned with his chair facing the dance floor, eyeing her warily, Peter next to him, slouching in his chair and looking pointedly anywhere but in Michelle’s direction.
“It’s hot,” she says when she flops down next to Ned, who offers her a grin - at least he looks happy she’s having a good time. “Harry’s gone to get some punch. Do you want to join us?”
That’s when Peter snorts, muttering a disdainful “Harry” under his breath.
Michelle scowls. “What’s your issue, Parker?”
“He’s a Slytherin,” he finally says, turning to meet Michelle’s eyes. She’s hard-pressed to believe that’s what he’s really thinking. “You’re, like, fraternizing with the enemy.” And that makes zero sense because it’s not like she’s the one in the House with the stupid rivalry with Slytherin.
“The enemy? That’s - you’re damn well aware the whole point of this entire thing is to encourage inter-house friendships.”
“Oh, and suddenly you want to make friends, Michelle? And I hardly think friendship is what he’s after.”
What the fuck. Michelle stands abruptly, her arms crossed over her chest and Ned turns to Peter with his mouth in a frown, before darting back to Michelle.
She wants to snap back at him, tell him he’s being a total stupid idiot, but - Harry’s heading toward her with two glasses of punch and god, the last thing she wants is those two in jinxing range. So she turns on her heel, ignoring the tears pricking at her eyes in frustration because Peter’s being so un-Peter tonight, and stomps back to Harry.
She’s going to have a good night, goddammit.
-
“How dare you,” she’s saying to Peter, arms wrapped around her abdomen. Harry’d been at her side seconds ago, but she’d turned to him and apologized - a glance between Michelle and Peter seemed to say enough to Harry and he nodded, pressing a kiss to Michelle’s cheek, telling her he’d had a good night.
“I’m just saying, Michelle, he’s a Slytherin, and I don’t know what he’s up to, trying to get close to you, I don’t —“
“Oh, that’s what this is about? You’re so obsessed with the idea that he’s a Slytherin,” Peter’s walking away now, towards the door, his brows knit, and no, like hell is she going to let him just stomp away from this. So she follows him out of the hall until they’re at the main entrance.
“You’re so obsessed with finding something suspicious that you can’t even process the fact someone actually thinks I’m interesting and actually wanted to take me as their date?”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying, ‘Chelle, I just -“ Peter huffs out a breath and turns away from Michelle, but doesn’t step any further.
“You just what, Peter? Nothing. You know what the solution is, then?” Michelle’s cheeks are hot, frustration obvious in the way her fingers run through her curls, pulling them out and out of shape. “If you have a problem with who I’m going with, then you should have just worked up the courage to ask me before someone else did, and not as a last resort!”
Peter goes still, shoulders stiffening.
“That’s not - I wasn’t -“ Of course it wasn’t. She’s an idiot, that’s why Michelle Jones had to go open her big freaking mouth and — “Ned!”
Peter looks momentarily relieved when he sees his friend, who takes one look at Michelle and looks immediately concerned.
Peter doesn’t wait much longer, already jogging up the steps to the main staircase - Ned instinctively follows, but to his credit, he looks torn until he glances at Gwen over Michelle’s shoulders.
“You spoiled everything!” Michelle can’t help but shout after him, “you goddamn selfish—“ but she can’t even finish her sentence because - because Peter’s never like this. He’s never been like this toward her, toward anyone.
But it hurts, in a way Michelle hates. She can hear her voice break when it shouts after Peter, can feel Gwen (of all people, Gwen) at her side, worry evident in her eyes. They sit like that on the staircase, Michelle’s shoes kicked off and Gwen holding her hand, not talking, not asking any questions, just sitting.
She misses Liz. She misses a time when she hadn’t been able to articulate her feelings for Peter. She misses a time when she gave far, far fewer shits about anything.
She definitely hates what she’s been reduced to, a sad girl on the staircase after a night that should have been perfect goes south. But like she had a sense of what Michelle was thinking, Gwen finally pipes up, her grip on the girl’s hand tightening.
“I’ve known you for a long time,” she starts, her free hand tilting Michelle’s chin up to meet her gaze, “and in that time I’ve seen you be strong and stay strong. When Slytherins would hurl insults at you, when you had a hard time fitting in, when Peter needed you after his uncle passed, when Ned’s mum fell ill over the summer. You’ve been nothing but strong for everyone, and for yourself, all these years. But letting yourself be vulnerable is a kind of strength, too. And it isn’t anything to be ashamed of.” And Gwen says this to her with so much conviction that for a second, Michelle believes her. For a second, she lets her guard down, lets herself soften.
Lets herself hurt without feeling stupid, or guilty.
Because it’s stupid, how hurt she’d been over Peter Parker. And it’s stupid how she’s still concerned for him because that wasn’t the Peter she knew.
Gwen stays with her for a little while longer, waving her own date goodbye instead of leaving her side. And she guides Michelle back to the Ravenclaw tower, loans her a few makeup wipes, presses a palm to her forehead before Michelle falls asleep.