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“Look I know why I’m here can we please just get this over with?”
The Dean’s eyebrows appeared above his glasses and Stiles resisted the urge to smile with great difficulty.
“We both know that I don’t have your type of magic, not even enough to class me as a Hedge Witch, neither am I part of the Wizarding World...” and boy could he hear the sarcasm in his own voice as that came out of his mouth “... don’t even have Druidic magic based, Druids they’re about balance, Sparks aren’t — we’re about protection. And come on, Dude, how can you help me with Spark magic? It’s pack based, and I don’t sense any packs round here and by the way I’m not leaving mine.”
By the time he’d finished getting what he wanted to say off his chest the Dean’s fingers were drumming against the desk between them. It took him a moment to recognise there was a pattern in the drumming enough to have his magic flaring as he rolled to the side and dived for the nearest piece of cover, which in this case happened to be what was probably a very expensive antique sofa, not that he cared he was more interested in protecting himself.
“Very good, Stiles, while we might not be able to teach you our magic, we can teach you the theory — you’ll have to work out the practicalities on your own, mostly. We’ve had Spark here students before though not in the last hundred years or so. But there will be something in the library that you can use.”
As the Dean finished speaking his fingers completed whatever the pattern was and the feeling the of alien magic washed over him, mostly it bounced off whatever kind of shield his magic had provided. The rest reminding him of his mom as it bushed across his skin, the feeling he’d had occasionally; the one where it felt like she was in the other room. It didn’t hurt as much as it used to but the ghost of the pain would probably always be there.
Sitting crossed legged on the floor, he contemplated Dean Fogg, whatever the magic that bounced off him had been it had turned the wall behind him a rather disgusting shade of yellow. It was like playing a game of dare to see who blinked first.
Initially when Deaton had suggested going to Brakesbills he hadn’t been against it per se. But with some digging on the internet and in any and all books he could get his hands on he’d worked out there wasn’t much they could teach him really.
But that splash of magic had caught his interest, whatever the spell had been had felt too much like his mom for it to be anything other that what it was. Proof that his mother had magic.
And it was Dean Fogg blinked first.
“Your mother chose not to accept a place here. It was decided that she was one of those cases that didn’t require wiping. Magic had been part of her family for generations, most of her family had attended European universities...”
Stiles didn’t move from where he was, stilling himself to listen, so he could concentrate. It was always interesting to hear stories about his mom.
“... She knew not to practice magic and that was fine by us, she would have done the small spells handed down in families, of course, but none of the big stuff she would have learned here. So it was really no surprise that she passed that magic on.”
Stiles could hear the Dean was about to start a lecture, so he bit his tongue on another comment about them not having the same magic as he was interested enough that he was willing to stay put for a moment or so.
“Best anyone can work out is that Spark magic is our kind of magic that somehow becomes changed by nature or circumstance or both,”
The pen and paper he’d been wanting floated over to him, without much of a thought and even less of an apology to the Dean.
“Even with the ley lines in Beacon Hills you probably wouldn’t have had that much of a change in your magic, but the Hale fire and what has happened since is probably the reason that your magic has mutated, to become what you personally need.”
“What I needed?” He hadn’t even realised how hard he’d been gripping the pen in his hand until he saw red dripping onto the notebook that was resting on his knee. The pain from where the plastic had shattered drawing him back sharply into reality. It wasn’t the first time that his temper had blinded him, drawn him back to the chaos that was the nogitsune. And it probably wasn’t the last, that was still very much a work in progress.
Deans Fogg’s voice close to his ear had him backing up against the sofa, panic softly floating round the edges of his mind.
“It’s alright Stiles...” The voice backing away as his phone began to play ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’.
“...answer your phone, Stiles.”
“Peter?”
The look on the Dean’s face said it all which was more than enough to have him smiling again.
Stiles and Peter Hale were a disaster waiting to happen.