Chapter Text
When Courfeyrac was five years old, he came home from running wild in the fields with a bouquet of handpicked sunflowers that he presented to his mothers with the flourish of a much more sophisticated person. “For you,” he said in his clear, piping voice.
“They’re beautiful,” his mother told him. “What are they for?”
Courfeyrac cocked his head slightly. “For you,” he repeated. “For my brother or sister.”
His mother smiled a puzzled sort of smile, because Courfeyrac didn’t have any siblings, and went to find a vase, and after that, a pregnancy test.
And that evening, when Courfeyrac had gotten into bed, his father joined him, which was rare, and he sat down so that the bed dipped and creaked, and he told Courfeyrac about their family.
About their history.
About the secret they had guarded for centuries.
For while Courfyerac had inherited his mischievous smile from his mother, and the curls that fell roguishly across his forehead and his ability to charm anyone in hearing range from his father, he had inherited something more.
Courfeyrac was magic.
In later years, as his magic grew, he’d learn that sunflowers were for fertility, and wish fulfillment, but he’d also learn that just bringing sunflowers wasn’t enough. It was his magic that had told him to pick them and his magic that had bound them with his will. It wasn’t just about the flowers or herbs, though when Jean Prouvaire brought him home one night in college after too many drinks at the bar, he’d still chuckled at the damiana he’d spotted in a small pot on his balcony.
It was about the will to make something happen, and the magical power to back it up.
And Courfeyrac had both in spades.
There was one other secret Courfeyrac’s father told him that night, running his hand lightly through Courfeyrac’s dark curls. “This is the most important thing of all,” he said, his voice low, serious. “You must always use your magic to help, not to hurt. And always to help someone else, never yourself.”
“Why not?” Courfeyrac asked, a little mutinously, as his five-year-old mind had already thought about how he was going to use his powers to get unlimited ice cream from the ice cream truck.
His father’s hand stilled. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Be careful what you wish for’?” he asked. Courfeyrac shook his head. “Well, when you use your magic to help yourself, it almost never turns out the way you want it to.”
Courfeyrac nodded, and his father bent to kiss him on the top of his head before tucking him in and leaving, keeping the door open just a crack so that a bit of light spilled into Courfeyrac’s room.
Courfeyrac lay back in bed, excitement growing as he stared up at the ceiling, too many possibilities for his five-year-old brain to count running through his head.
“Be careful what you wish for,” he whispered, a smile growing across his face as he settled back against his pillow.
Well, Courfeyrac certainly had plenty of wishes.
And no one had ever accused him of being careful.
“I just think that it’s asinine—” Enjolras snapped, his face red.
“Oh, asinine?” Grantaire repeated, with an ugly, dangerous smirk on his face. “What decade did you waltz out of? If you’re going to yell at me all evening, I’d at least appreciate some insults derived from this side of the new millennium.”
“Sorry, I thought asinine was a more polite way of referring to your perpetual dumbfuckery.”
“Dumbfuckery?” Grantaire said, his smirk growing. “Now that I do like the sound of.”
A muscle worked in Enjolras’s jaw. “If you’ll shut up for long enough to let me get to my point—”
“I wish they would both just shut up,” Courfeyrac muttered, drumming his fingers against the table in the back room of the Musain and trying to stop himself from glaring at Enjolras and Grantaire, whose quiet bickering at the end of a Les Amis meeting had grown into what could charitably be described as a shouting match.
“Careful,” Combeferre said, eyeing his fingers warily.
Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and sighed. “You know that’s not how it works,” he huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Combeferre just arched an eyebrow. “I do know,” he said mildly, turning back to the article he was reading on his phone.
And Combeferre did. He was the one who had figured it out, had put two and two together when they were still at university, realizing that the tea that Courfeyrac had given him for his anxiety had a lot more than just valerian root in it. How many sleepless nights he had spent at the library, Courfeyrac might never know, but what he did know is that Combeferre burst into the apartment they shared with Enjolras early one morning, cheeks flushed, to proudly tell Courfeyrac, “I know what you are.”
“And what’s that?” Courfeyrac had asked, bemused, stirring a salve to help with Bossuet’s hair loss on the stove.
“You’re a witch,” Combeferre had declared proudly, before pausing, making a face. “Or a wizard. I’m not quite sure on the proper nomenclature.” He paused, taking a deep breath, before looking back at Courfeyrac. “But you’re magic, aren’t you.”
Courfeyrac had been so dumbfounded that he’d forgotten to try to lie. Not that it would have mattered if he had – Combeferre by that point knew more about Courfeyrac’s magic than the man himself did.
Here, in the present, Courfeyrac was beginning to regret that he hadn’t lied. “Anyway, even if I did want to use my magic on the two of them, I doubt a silencing spell would solve anything,” he said sourly. “They’d probably learn sign language just to keep fighting with each other.”
“Probably,” Combeferre agreed with a light laugh, looking back down at his phone.
“Besides, what they really need is to just admit how they feel to each other. That would solve far more of their problems than a temporary loss of speech,” Courfeyrac sighed.
He traced an idle finger along the table, half-consciously sketching the runic shorthand he used when creating a spell, and he was halfway through before he realized he was tracing out a truth spell, and he froze.
Of course.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
Combeferre’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t,” he warned, and Courfeyrac glanced over at him.
“Don’t what?” he asked, aiming for innocent and missing by a mile.
Combeferre set his phone down. “Don’t do what you’re thinking about doing.”
“Even if I was thinking about doing something,” Courfeyrac started before adding pointedly, “which I’m not—” Combeferre snorted in disbelief. “—give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“Because you can’t use your magic for personal gain,” Combeferre reminded him, his tone disapproving, and Courfeyrac squirmed, just a little.
Somehow, in addition to being the only one who knew about his magic, Combeferre was also the only one whose judgment he cared about, just a little.
“It’s not for personal gain,” he protested. “It’s practically for the public good at this rate.”
“It’s for your own good,” Combeferre countered, looking at him evenly. “You’re tired of them bickering and you think this will solve it.”
Courfeyrac scowled. “Well, won’t it?”
Combeferre just shook his head. “Almost certainly not in the way that you want it to,” he said pointedly.
“Ok, thanks Dad ,” Courfeyrac said, equally pointed, and Combeferre gave him a look before picking his phone up. “And I didn’t say I was going to do anything. But those two need an intervention, and seeing as how I have the tools at my disposal to make something happen, it seems like criminal negligence to not.”
“I doubt your criminal law professor would approve of this misuse of jurisprudence,” Combefere said dryly. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, and Combeferre sighed, the long-suffering sigh of someone who was almost certainly going to say ‘I told you so’ at some point down the line. “Just be careful what you wish for,” he murmured, looking back down at his phone.
Courfeyrac rolled his eyes again, deciding, emphatically, to ignore him, looking instead at Enjolras and Grantaire, an excitement like he hadn’t felt in years growing in his stomach, and this time, when he drummed his fingers against the table, it was with the magic that coursed through his veins. “Cardamom,” he murmured to no one in particular, “trefoil, henbane, skullcap…”
“That better be a grocery list you’re reciting,” Combeferre said warningly.
“It is,” Courfeyrac assured him, only half-lying. He would have to buy some herbs, after all, if he was going to pull this off. Whatever ‘this’ ended up being.
Because come hell or high water, he was going to get those two together, no matter what Combeferre might think.
He was the one who was going to say ‘I told you so’ to Combeferre.
For once.
First time for everything.
“Are you even listening to me?” Enjolras burst, and Courfeyrac glanced over at them, at Enjolras standing and glaring down at Grantaire, who raised his glass in a mocking toast before draining it.
“No,” Grantaire told him. “But damn if I’m not enjoying the view.” Enjolras let out a noise like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on and Grantaire stood, grinning. “Refill,” he said blithely, heading toward the door, and Enjolras trailed after him, clearly not willing to let the argument go, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the pictures on the walls.
Combeferre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before opening one eye to squint at Courfeyrac, who immediately recognized the look on his face and tried not to look as excited as he felt. “I’m not condoning this,” Combeferre warned.
“Of course not,” Courfeyrac said somberly.
“I still think this is a mistake that you’re doing for personal gain, and the results are going to bite you in the ass.”
Courfeyrac nodded. “Undoubtedly.”
Combeferre hesitated, and Courfeyrac enjoyed more than he would ever admit watching the indecision play out across Combeferre’s expression before he finally ducked his head and sighed heavily. “So what did you have in mind?”
Courfeyrac grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”