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i.
"But we always stay for Christmas!"
"I know," Scott sighs forlornly. "I'm sorry, dude."
"But we already told our Heads of Houses we were staying!"
"I know," he says again. "And my mom already told Deaton to cross my name off the list."
"I can't believe you're ditching me to hang out with your dad," Stiles seethes, crunching down angrily on his mutilated Sugar Quill.
"I know." He heaves a sigh and scuffs the stone floor with the bottom of his sneaker. "It's going to suck."
"Who am I going to hang out with?" Stiles asks, with dawning horror. "Scott, who am I going to sneak into Hogsmeade with??" Scott shrugs morosely and Stiles glares at the cauldron in front of them like it's personally offended him. "You can't go. I won't let you go. Don't worry man, we'll figure something out." An idea strikes him. "How do you feel about falling off a broomstick?"
"Stiles—"
"No, you're right, that's stupid. Your mom could heal that in a heartbeat."
"Dude—"
"I think I have some leftover Puking Pastilles in my trunk—"
"Stiles. Stop." Scott sighs, ruffling a hand through his hair. "I don't really want to go any more than you want me to, but. I have to."
"No you don't—"
"Yes. I do. I already told my mom I would, and it's..." he sighs again. "It's the right thing to do."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "You're such a Head Boy."
Scott smiles, and straightens the badge pinned to his robes. "Thanks," he says goofily.
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Mr. Stilinski," Professor Harris interrupts snidely. "Mr. McCall. Is there a reason you haven't started brewing today's assignment?"
"Just going over the ingredients we need," Stiles chirps before Scott can do something horrible like tell the truth. "I'm going to grab them now."
He doesn't wait around for Harris to take points away, instead sticking the last few inches of his Sugar Quill into his mouth like a lollipop and making a bee-line for the Potions cabinet across the room. Of course, since Potions class is the literal bane of Stiles's existence, and nothing ever goes right for him in this fucking class, he doesn't notice that a certain Gryffindor Prefect is already rummaging around in the stores until he's standing right behind him.
Before he can really wrap his head around a plan of action, he's clearing his throat awkwardly.
Derek Hale, of the preternaturally beautiful Hale Family, casts one eye over his shoulder, stilling when he sees Stiles fidgeting there. For a second Stiles thinks he's actually going to say hi, but instead his gaze flicks down to the candy hanging out of Stiles's mouth and he scowls, spinning back around without so much as a smile.
"Wow," Stiles says, almost choking on the sweet in his haste to swallow it. "I've never known anyone who hated Sugar Quills before."
"I don't hate Sugar Quills," he says without turning around.
"Oh. So it's just me then."
He must say this louder than he means to because then Derek does turn around (though it's ostensibly only to fix him with one of his patented unreadable looks).
"Ha," Stiles says weakly, trying to surreptitiously wipe his sticky fingers on his robes. "Kidding."
Derek nods once and turns around. Again. Stiles foregoes any other attempts at conversation in favor of making a face at the back of his head.
"Here," Derek says gruffly after another minute more of uncomfortable silence. He shoves a jar of mistletoe berries into Stiles's hand, fingertips brushing against his palm. Stiles just barely manages to prevent the bottle from falling to the floor.
"Wha...uh, what?" he asks dumbly.
"There's only one jar left," Derek tells him, brows furrowed. "I'll go ask Harris for another."
"Um. Why don't you just take this one?"
"He likes me better than you," he says, and then stalks away.
Stiles's nostrils flare. "Of course he likes you better than me," he mutters mutinously as he gathers the rest of the ingredients. "Everyone likes you better than me. I like you better than me." God, he's getting a fucking complex. He returns to Scott in a huff, letting the supplies spill out of his arms and onto the table. "Derek Hale just gave me his mistletoe berries," he blurts out as soon as he sits down. "For no reason."
"Is this one of your euphemisms?" Scott asks warily, looking up from the textbook.
"What? No! Shut up!"
"Oh," he says simply, as his eyes fall on the jar. "Well. That was nice of him."
"Nice?" Stiles scoffs. "Yeah, right. It was weird, that's what it was. Why would he do that? He hates me!"
Scott gives one of his long-suffering sighs. "Stiles, I really don't think he hates you."
"Yeah, well, you're an optimist."
"He's a good guy."
"A good guy?" Stiles repeats incredulously. "Just look at him!" They both turn around to surreptitiously survey him—Stiles suspiciously, and Scott markedly less so. Derek isn't doing anything but waiting next to Harris's desk (presumably for the other bottle of mistletoe berries). After a minute he straightens a stack of parchment. "Ugh," Stiles groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. Scott smiles smugly. "You're right; he is a good guy. I hate him."
"I thought that he hated you?"
"Well I hate him too!" Stiles exclaims, half-hysterically. "He's such a cliché Gryffindor with his stupid chivalry and his stupid—"
"His stupid good looks?" Scott teases.
"Shut up."
ii.
On the first day of Stiles's winter break (which he has convinced himself he's going to spend wallowing in solitude), he walks into the Great Hall and sees Derek Hale sitting at the Gryffindor table. He's dressed in a soft looking red sweater, hair still mussed and sleepy-looking. He's nibbling on a piece of toast, nose buried in a book. It's way more appealing than it should be.
He sighs and averts his eyes as he takes his own seat at the Slytherin table. It's a little earlier than normal, so there's only a few straggling Hufflepuffs seated around the Great Hall. If Derek notices him, he doesn't show it.
Stiles is gonna ignore him too, he is, but then a little sprig of mistletoe floats down from the enchanted ceiling and hovers over Derek's head, shimmering slightly.
Stiles pauses, watching from behind his goblet of milk. Derek tries to bat the mistletoe away with his book, but it just bobs in the air for a second before coming back to hang in the air by his ear. He scowls at it and Stiles bites back a laugh.
Charmed mistletoe, then.
Bummer.
The smirk falls off Stiles's face rather quickly when he realizes that the easiest and most well-known way to banish charmed mistletoe is by kissing someone. Sure, Stiles knows a counter-spell that would work, but that's only because he went on a Pepper-Up-Potion-fueled research binge back in fifth year. Besides, for all his talents, Derek Hale is abysmal at charms. Even if he did know the incantation, he'd never be able to cast it correctly.
Derek seems to realize this too, because as the mistletoe continues to dangle merrily over his head, his glower becomes more pronounced and his ears pink up.
Stiles takes a vicious bite of bacon to distract himself from how adorable the big-bad Gryffindor Beater (Number 4 on the team, not that Stiles looks for him during matches or anything) looks when he's flustered. It's not fair. Ugh.
He's thinking about letting Derek suffer through the rest of breakfast simply because he exists, but one of the Hufflepuffs keeps glancing over at Derek's hunched form like she's getting ideas, and Stiles's wand is out and swishing around under the table before he even fully registers it.
The mistletoe explodes in a flurry of snow, white powder settling prettily on the curve of his broad shoulders. The Hufflepuff (who was half off of the bench) sits back down reluctantly while Derek's angry expression morphs into one of bewildered confusion.
Stiles digs into his breakfast and pretends he saw nothing at all.
"Hey," he hears on his way out of the hall. Derek jogs up behind him, eyes narrowed. "I know you did it."
"Wha—what?" he chokes.
"You got rid of the mistletoe."
"No I didn't," Stiles denies, unsure why he doesn't just take credit where credit is due.
Derek rolls his eyes, taking a step closer. Stiles instinctively takes a step back, his flannel shirt pressing up against cold stone. "I know it was you, Stiles," he spits out. "No one else is that clever."
"Yeah, well—" he stops, the words belatedly registering in his mind. He gapes at Derek and Derek spends one last second staring intensely at him before gruffly muttering, "Thanks," and striding away.
Stiles knocks his head back against the wall, wondering why compliments always sound like insults when they come from Derek Hale.
iii.
A few days later, Stiles pops into the Kitchens at a quarter 'til one.
He isn't expecting anyone else to be inside, which is probably why Derek Hale is sitting at a table clutching a mug of hot chocolate in his hands. Stiles just has that kind of luck.
He stumbles to a stop, eyes wide and fixed on Derek's startled gaze.
What is with this guy? Stiles is never going to be able to enjoy his Christmas Break if Derek Hale keeps showing up around every corner.
Derek must be thinking along the same lines because his expression quickly turns sour. "What are you doing here?" he asks sharply, setting the mug down on the table.
Stiles frowns. "I could ask you the same question."
"I'm a prefect," Derek snaps. "I'm allowed to be out past curfew."
"You're allowed to be out after curfew if you're enforcing the rules," Stiles corrects, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "What are you doing in here? Policing the pumpkin juice?"
Derek scowls at him and turns away, and Stiles wishes (not for the first time) that he could figure out something to say to Derek that wouldn't result in bickering.
He's seriously considering bailing and letting Derek brood in peace (or whatever the fuck he's doing) but then a wrinkled house elf tugs on his jeans and sweetly asks: "What would Mr. Stiles like to eat?"
He heaves a sigh and shoves his hands in his hoodie's pockets. "Just a hot cocoa," he says, eyeing Derek's stiff back. "Extra marshmallows."
The house elf nods and scurries away and Stiles lopes over to the table Derek's at and plops down across from him.
"So," he says loudly, smiling widely—if falsely. "You come here often?"
He fully expects Derek to glare at him some more, but instead Derek looks almost startled, glancing furtively up at him from under his eyelashes. "What are you doing?" he asks warily.
"Making conversation," Stiles shrugs. "I figure as long as we're both stuck here over break, we might as well try not to hate each other."
Derek scowls. "I don't hate you," he says gruffly, though his face and tone completely contradict his words.
Stiles blinks at him for a few minutes, numbly taking the warm mug proferred to him by another elf. "You—what??" He can practically hear Scott screaming I told you so.
Derek downs the rest of his drink like it's a shot before flicking his gaze back to Stiles. "I don't hate you," he says again, and then frowns suddenly. "You thought I hated you?"
"Well, yeah," Stiles breathes, feeling winded.
"Why would I hate you?" Derek asks, looking (if possible) even more bewildered than Stiles feels.
"I just. I dunno, you're always glaring and frowning at me."
Derek has the gall to blush. "Not because I hate you," he says. "That's just how I am."
"Oh," Stiles says dumbly. "You don't even hate me on principle? Because I'm in Slytherin?"
"Because you're in Slytherin?" Derek asks, eyebrows furrowing. "I don't...My uncle was a Slytherin. I don't care about that."
Stiles squints at him, but he doesn't seem to be lying.
"I thought you hated me," Derek mumbles.
"What?" Stiles asks incredulously, voice going up an octave. "I mean, yeah, okay," he admits after a second. "I hated you a little. But only because I thought you hated me!"
"But I don't hate you."
"So you've said," Stiles says weakly. "Glad we got this straightened out." He isn't sure what else to say, and an awkward silence quickly descends upon them, broken only by the bustling elves around them. Derek is glaring down at the table top, although apparently he's not glaring because apparently that's just his face.
"Would Mr. Hale like something else?" the house elf asks as she clears away his empty cup.
"Are there any extra sugar cookies?" he asks hesitantly.
"Of course!" she squeaks excitedly, and runs away to fetch him the treat.
"Thanks, Tippy," he says when she comes back, and his words make the elf glow. Stiles tries not to find it horribly endearing that Derek Hale addresses house elves by their names, when he doesn't even acknowledge fellow students sometimes.
"So," he says, averting his eyes from the travesty in front of him. "Why are you staying in the castle?"
Derek takes a bite of the cookie. "They needed a prefect to stay over break."
"And you volunteered?" Stiles asks incredulously.
Derek shrugs. "It's not a big deal. I like the quiet."
"Hm."
Neither of them say anything else, and Stiles watches Derek brush away crumbs from the front of his sweater in fascination. Derek Hale is so fascinating.
"Well...this has been enlightening," he says after a moment, gulping down the rest of his drink. "I should get going."
"I'll walk you," Derek blurts hurriedly, standing up.
Stiles gives him a strange look.
"In case a teacher sees you," he clarifies hurriedly. "If you're with me, you won't get in trouble."
"Oh. Are you sure? I don't want you to go out of your way—"
Derek rolls his eyes and opens the portrait hole for Stiles, holding it open so he can pass through first. "It's not out of my way," he says impatiently, but Stiles knows that a lie because Scott always complains about how far he has to go when he walks Allison back after a date.
"What," Stiles jokes, "are you trying to drown me in kindness to make up for all those times you were mean to me?" Derek doesn't laugh. He's still just standing, eyes stupidly earnest, waiting for Stiles to pass through the door.
Fucking Gryffindors.
"Excuse me sirs," a little voice chirps from below them. They both look down to see Tippy pointing up at a sprig mistletoe hung in the portrait entrance. "I believe it's tradition," she giggles.
Stiles looks at Derek, mouth gaping, but Derek is glaring up at the plant, mouth thin and nostrils flared.
Stiles is debating whether or not he should just lean forward and brush a little kiss along his cheekbone, but before he can decide what to do, Derek storms away into the hallway like his pants are on fire. Stiles bites back an exasperated grin. There's the Derek Hale he's used to.
"Hey, at least it's not charmed!" he calls, trotting after him.
iv.
Stiles is returning a book on the history of mistletoe when he catches sight of Derek sitting at a library table, writing diligently. He hasn't really talked to him since the night in the kitchens, and their whole conversation still seems so surreal that he's half convinced he dreamed it all up (even though he sent a letter off to Scott with the whole incident written down in startling detail approximately 15 minutes after Derek had given him a soft smile and a wave and left him outside of his dormitory).
"Hey," he says, slipping into a seat across from him before he can change his mind. "Working hard or hardly working?"
Derek blinks at him, like he's surprised Stiles is talking to him—which, what? Shouldn't Stiles be the one surprised that Derek is giving him the time of day?? After a second, Derek waves a hand at his work. "I'm trying to do this stupid Potions essay."
"Oh yeah, I finished that," Stiles says, leaning over the table to get a better look at what he's written. "Did you know mistletoe is a poison and a cure?"
"You finished it?" Derek repeats, mouth agape.
"Yeah..." Stiles says slowly, settling back down in his seat. He rubs the back of his neck. "Is that weird?"
"It's four feet of parchment."
"So?" Stiles asks defensively.
"No, it's nothing," Derek says, shaking his head. "I'm just impressed." He pauses. "You're really smart."
Stiles blinks at him. "Oh." That isn't what he's used to hearing. "Thanks. You too."
Derek snorts wryly. "Not as smart as you. I still have three and a half feet to go."
"Well, I didn't exactly have anything better to do," Stiles admits, fingers tapping out a pattern on his knees. "With Scott gone, I don't really have anyone to hang out with."
Derek nods. "Me neither."
Stiles scoffs. "I find that hard to believe."
"I'm shy," Derek deadpans, and Stiles has literally no idea if he's making a joke or not. It makes him laugh anyways, and Derek smiles. It's a disgustingly nice sight.
"I'll hang out with you," Stiles tells him. "We're friends now right?"
Derek nods slowly.
"Cool. So do you want to get out of here?"
"What," Derek chokes.
"Like, get out of here to go do something," Stiles clarifies hurriedly, cheeks flushing an ugly red. "As friends."
A grin pulls at Derek's lips.
He goes back to writing and Stiles thinks that's it, that Derek is just going to ignore the offer. He's about to slink away when Derek asks: "Something like what?"
Stiles relaxes and leans across the table, smiling devilishly. "How do you feel about snow ball fights?"
Derek scoffs. "I feel like I'm gonna beat you."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Prove it."
v.
Being friendly with Derek is surprisingly easy. Much easier than Stiles had ever thought it would be. The revelation makes it that much harder to ignore it when Derek does something horribly cute; like apologize for hitting Stiles dead in the face with a snowball, or jump so badly he shoots sparks out of his wand when Stiles manages to sneak up on him. Or when he gets worried about rules and says things like:
"We shouldn't do this. I'm a prefect."
"Come on, I do this all the time with Scott."
"With Scott?" he asks, aghast. "He's Head Boy!"
"Exactly. If he can sneak into Hogsmeade, then so can you!"
"Stiles."
Despite his misgivings (and constant fucking complaints) he follows Stiles down the secret passageway, grumbling every time Stiles stumbles over something; arms shooting out to steady him each time.
"How did you find this?" he asks, after the fourth time Stiles trips over nothing. He lets his arms drop slowly, fingertips trailing along his shoulders. Stiles shivers. "Are you cold?" he asks, concerned.
"No, god, shut up," Stiles mumbles. Stupid Gryffindors.
Derek frowns, but doesn't press the issue.
"I found it in fourth year," he explains after a minute of walking in companiably silence. "I was just messing around, exploring, you know. I like knowing things."
Derek hums. And then catches Stiles again.
"Stop tripping," he growls.
They reach Hogsmeade without any further issues. The passageway Stiles chose spits them out in a small clearing, a little stroll away from the village. The snow crunches under their feet as they make their way there, Stiles burrowing into his jacket to hide against the wind. Derek keeps trying to casually walk in front of him to shield him from the gusts and Stiles hides a smile in his scarf and lets him.
"So what do you think?" Stiles asks Derek, once they reach the High Street. They stand off to the side for a minute, taking in the picturesque view of the village. Without hordes of students swarming everywhere, it's quiet and intimate, snow falling lightly from the sky and dusting the roofs of all the shops like powdered sugar. A giant christmas tree is decorated at one end of the road, wreaths and christmas lights and enchanted candles adorning each shop. Christmas music is playing from somewhere nearby, and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes has enchanted snowmen out front that throw snow balls at people when they pass by.
"It's beautiful," Derek breathes, shoulder bumping against Stiles. "Thank you."
"Yeah," Stiles says. "No problem."
There's a vendor selling roasted chestnuts a little ways away and Derek buys a bag for a sickle, sharing them with Stiles as they stroll towards Zonko's. "You want to stop by Madam Puddifoot's later?" Stiles asks, just barely choking back laughter at Derek's face, which is somehow managing to look both disgusted and flustered.
"You want to go in there?" Derek asks, looking sideways at Stiles.
"Yeah, why not?" Stiles asks, maintaining a straight face by sheer force of will. Just the thought of Derek Hale sitting at a candy-cane striped tablecloth with lace trim, drinking peppermint tea and eating peppermint cookies is enough to make him want to collapse with laughter. Derek scuffs his foot against the ground and doesn't answer Stiles's question. They stop to look in the front window, and Stiles realizes too late why Derek's ears are pink.
Madam Puddifoot's is the notorious place to go for a date. And sure enough, every single couple inside is holding hands or kissing over the table. Stiles blanches.
"Oh shit—I didn't—"
"I was thinking we could go to the Three Broomsticks together instead," Derek interrupts quietly, turning towards him.
It's Stiles's turn to feel flustered, mostly because he doesn't know whether Derek means they should go to the Three Broomsticks together or just together. He knows what he wishes would happen, but he's never been able to tell what Derek's thinking. He hopes Derek is attributing his flushed cheeks to the chill in the air. "Done," he agrees quickly. "Zonko's, Honeyduke's, then the Three Broomsticks."
"And maybe Scrivenshaft's?" Derek asks hopefully. "I need a new quill."
"Sure."
They continue on their path to Zonko's, the backs of their hands brushing against each other with each step they take. Stiles's heart feels like it's in his throat. He's trying to work up the courage to just grab Derek's hand and hold it, but then they're approaching the joke shop and he shoves his hands back in his pockets, vowing to do something on the way to Honeyduke's. Maybe he'll buy Derek a box of chocolates. That conveys date-like vibes, right?
He's so caught up in his planning, he's completely caught off guard by the sprig of mistletoe that jumps to life as soon as they walk through the door.
"NOW KISS!" it shouts, voice grating and loud.
Stiles jumps a few feet in the air as a loud cheer goes up through the store.
"KISS, I TOLD YOU!! KISS!!!!"
"What the fuck," Derek says next to him, brows furrowed and wand out.
"Welcome to Zonko's!" A witch calls cheerily from the counter. "Are you interested in buying some Mouthy Mistletoe? We have a holiday sale going on!"
"Uh, no thanks," Stiles says shakily.
"KISS!!!"
"Can you turn that off?" Derek snaps, cheeks red.
"It'll stop if you kiss," an old lady standing to their left says, arms full of nose-biting teacups.
"Oh, um, we're not—" Stiles starts to say at the same time that Derek sharply says, "There's no way that's happening."
Stiles falls silent, heart dropping somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.
"Turn it off," he tells the lady at the counter.
"Yeah, what he said," he says quietly, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth and exiting the shop.
vi.
"Stiles!" Derek shouts, catching up with him halfway back to the secret passageway. "Where are you going?"
"I don't really feel like shopping anymore," Stiles says shortly, forcefully attributing the stinging in his eyes to the whipping of the wind.
"We could still get a butterbeer," he suggests.
"No thanks."
"Stiles, hey," he says, grabbing his arm and gently turning him around. Stiles resists the urge to stomp on his big stupid foot. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing,"
"You're lying," he says, sounding hurt. Good. Stiles hopes it fucking burns.
"Yeah," he says shortly. "I am."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to talk to you about this." Goddamn, Stiles wishes that Scott were here. He should've known that getting his hopes up about Derek Hale was futile. He's still just as much of an ass as he's always been.
"But what happened? Was it the mistletoe? The old lady?"
"No!" Stiles shouts, kicking some snow onto Derek's boots in his frustration. "It wasn't the fucking mistletoe or the fucking old lady, it was you. And the fact that I'm apparantly so repulsive you wouldn't even give me a peck on the lips!"
Derek reddens almost immediately, looking stricken. Stiles gives him a mean smirk.
"Look, whatever. It's not like I blame you. I get it."
"No, Stiles—"
"Why would Derek Hale want to kiss me? Right? I know the odds. But did you have to be so mean about it?"
He starts off again, and Derek stumbles over his feet trying to catch up. "Stiles, I didn't mean to—"
"God, I thought Gryffindors were supposed to do the noble thing all the time? Doesn't that include a little pity kiss for the kid that's been crushing on you for the past three years, I mean—"
"What—" Derek chokes, sounding winded and desperate. Stiles ups his pace. "Stiles, hold on!"
"Just leave me alone!" he shouts back. "I just need some time, okay? Some time to get over you and your stupid face—"
A snowball hits him in the back of the head.
Stiles turns around slowly, eyes flinty. "Are you fucking kidding me," he says. "Did you seriously just throw that at me?"
Derek's breathing hard, flushed, and looking pissed. Good, that makes two of them.
"Yes," he snaps. "Yes, I threw it at you because you wouldn't fucking stop and listen to me."
Stiles bends down at lightning speed, scoops up a handful of snow and flings it in Derek's direction. He splutters, snow sticking in his hair and probably sliding down inside his scarf, before he strides forward angrily. Stiles is completely expecting to get shoved down into a snow bank, but there are suddenly two broad arms encircling him.
"I'm sorry you felt like I didn't want to kiss you," Derek mumbles against his ear. "I wanted to. I've..." he falters before pulling away and forcefully admitting, "I've wanted to all day."
Stiles is frozen, mouth gaping in shock. "W-what?"
"It's what I've been trying to tell you, idiot," Derek says, huffing out a frustrated breath. "I didn't want to kiss you in the store because I didn't want our first kiss to be because of mistletoe. I wanted it to mean something."
"You—you've thought about kissing me?" Stiles asks weakly.
Derek flushes, eyebrows furrowing. "Yes. I'm not good at feelings, okay? I didn't want you to know I liked you because I didn't think you'd ever like me back. Apparently I was wrong."
"You like me," Stiles clarifies, feeling light and giddy.
Derek is still extremely close to him, little flakes of snow caught in his eyelashes. He nods solemnly and Stiles feels his breath catch.
"I like you too," he blurts. "In case that wasn't obvious."
Derek smiles slightly, ducks his head.
Stiles takes another step closer. "There's no mistletoe out here now," he says nervously. "Wanna—"
Derek cuts him off with an abrupt kiss, lips moving earnestly against his, hands coming up to clutch at the back of his oversized jacket. Stiles grins and melts into the embrace.
"Merry Christmas to me," he breathes into the kiss, laughing when Derek pinches his side.