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Scripps had met Dakin first, on their first train journey to Hogwarts when they were children. Scripps had been hiding out on his own in a compartment, poring over the Byron anthology his dad had given him as a leaving present, when the door had creaked open and a tall boy with ridiculous hair had leaned round.
“Is anyone sitting here?” he’d asked, stupidly in Scripps’s opinion, seeing as it was quite clear that no one was.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Scripps had replied without even looking up from his book, and the boy had flopped down unceremoniously into the empty seat opposite him, and Scripps has been stuck with him ever since.
“How’d you think you’ve done on the astronomy homework?” He asks Dakin one morning before they leave for breakfast. “I reckon Irwin’s gonna rip my head off, you know. I mixed up Jupiter’s moons with Saturn’s.”
“Unlike you,” Dakin muses from where he’s lounging on his bed, half dressed and showing no signs of moving. “Were you too busy staring at Posner’s arse in that lesson?”
“Fuck off, you can’t talk,” Scripps grumbles, fishing around for his other sock. “Mooning over Irwin whenever you’ve chance.”
“Heh, mooning,” Rudge pipes up from where he’s on the floor digging around under his bed for his Herbology textbook. “It’s funny. Because he teaches Astronomy.”
Dakin gives him a withering look and finally sits up, lazily summoning his tie from his trunk. Scripps fiddles with his hair until it sits flat while Dakin finishes getting ready, until they can finally leave for the Great Hall.
The other boys are all already waiting for them down one end of the Gryffindor table, having long since abandoned sitting where they’re supposed to.
“How are you always the last ones here?” Lockwood exclaims by way of a greeting. Scripps drops down into the empty place next to Posner and nudges him, making him look up from his book on famous xylomancers of the Middle Ages. “Your common room’s two minutes away! I’ve to get through half the sodding castle if I want so much as a slice of toast before a full bloody day!”
“You don’t live with Dakin,” Scripps says sagely as he starts flicking through the Prophet and busying himself with a cup of tea. Dakin at least has the decency to look a little sheepish when he stops piling toast on to his plate.
“I don’t think even Dakin faffing about with his hair could make you ten minutes late,” Akthar pipes up, not even looking up from the letter he’s reading.
“I worry you underestimate him,” Posner finally says, giving up on his book for now. “He did once enchant his hair so it wouldn’t get all windblown during Quidditch.”
“Quite true,” Scripps interjects, gesturing with a fork and narrowly avoiding flicking eggs on to Crowther’s robes. “I did rather hope he’d get it wrong and end up bald, though.”
“I am here, in case you’ve forgotten,” Dakin says darkly through a mouthful of toast. “Besides, I’m sure I’m the only reason we won that game.”
“Oh, and a great help you were, swanning off round the teacher’s stands and flirting your little arse off while the rest of us were getting destroyed,” Scripps grumbles into his coffee. “I had half a mind to let that Bludger knock you off your broom.”
“I was not flirting, you unspeakable shit,” Dakin almost snaps, and the rest of them turn in their seats to stare at him in disbelief.
“Is everything alright?” Irwin’s voice rises over Dakin’s shoulder and he freezes, forkful of bacon halfway to his mouth. “You all seem rather excitable for half past eight on a Monday morning.”
“Everything’s fine, professor.” Crowther smirks, doing his best to stop Timms from laughing too loudly by kicking his shins under the table.
“Nothing to see here, professor.” Lockwood pipes up, snickering into his porridge.
Irwin frowns at all of them and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he must think better of it, as he turns and leaves towards the teacher’s table without another word. Crowther sniggers into his orange juice as he leaves, and Dakin decides not to talk to the rest of them for the remainder of breakfast.
“Whoever decided that Potions first thing on a Monday was a good idea is distinctly evil, I think,” Posner moans as he and Scripps trudge down to the dungeons, the other students trailing behind them.
“Evil’s a bit strong, I reckon –Voldemort’s evil. Whoever did the timetable’s just a knob, really,” Scripps hums, shifting his books under his arm and following Posner down the stairs.
“You’ve changed,” Posner frowns at him, stopping outside the door to Dungeon Three. “You never used to say his name before.”
“He was a threat before,” Scripps replies, rather more bluntly than he means to. “Given he got his arse kicked by a baby there suddenly seems less of a possibility that him or his maniac followers are going to kill someone I care about.”
Posner fixes him with an odd look for a moment, and Scripps wonders if he knows just how worried he’d been for his safety, how often he’d been thinking of him instead of his summer reading, how awful it’d been hearing of an attack but not knowing yet if he was safe.
“Your tie’s wonky,” Posner says finally after a long silence. He reaches over and smoothes and plays with the green and silver fabric until it sits nice and flat against Scripps’s collar. “There. Now you look less like you were dressed by a particularly clumsy troll.”
Scripps laughs, because he’s not sure he knows quite what else to do, and follows Posner into the classroom.
They spend an hour listening to Professor Slughorn ramble on and on about Amortentia and the dangers it poses to healthy relationships for what must be the third time since they started their N.E.W.T.s, and eventually they’re shooed from his classroom with the knowledge that they need to be prepared to brew it in tomorrow’s class.
“I mean, honestly, the way the bloke goes on about it you’d think we’d be tripping over the bloody stuff every day,” Scripps grumbles as they’re leaving, starting the trek up to History of Magic with Dakin and Posner a few steps in front of him. “I’d give my left leg for a lecture on Wiggenweld potions for a change.”
“If you gave your left leg, you’d fall off your broom, and we can’t have that,” Posner deadpans, fixing Scripps with a look as he passes him in the doorframe. “Besides, it’s interesting. Don’t you want to know what love smells of?”
“I don’t,” Dakin interrupts, turning around to walk backwards so he can talk to them. “Bit too poetic for me, that.”
“Just ‘cause you’d shag a girl in the boathouse and act like it’s the greatest love story of our age doesn’t mean the rest of us would,” Scripps barks out a laugh, leaning forward to flick Dakin on the forehead. “Some of us have standards.”
“I did not shag Fiona in the boathouse,” Dakin replies, indignant and affronted. “Well, maybe once.”
“This is what the Oldest and Most Smug House of Dakin has come to, is it,” Posner groans. “And I’m the one that’s meant to have ‘dirty blood’.”
Dakin frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything, and turns to open the door to their History of Magic classroom. Scripps hangs back with Posner, who’s kicking at the tiles under his feet and fiddling with his tie.
“Oi,” Scripps catches his elbow and squeezes, and Posner looks up at the familiar gesture. He’s skittish still, though, and Scripps moves Posner’s hand away from his tie to his side, and reaches up to straighten his collar and fix his rumpled tie. “You know people don’t seriously believe that, don’t you? Not after everything.”
“I know,” Posner sighs unhappily, “I know it’s ridiculous, but you know what families like Dakin’s are like –even your mum didn’t want you mixing with him and you’re at least a Slytherin and a halfblood, and I just –I worry. I know he thinks me a fool, probably always has, but I do hope none of that’s racially aggravated. I’ve had enough of that already.”
“It’s not, promise,” Scripps frowns at him, and Posner cocks his head, tugging his books tighter against his chest. “Dakin might be a prick, and his family might all be fucking terrible, frankly, but he’s nothing like them. Anyway, what’s it matter? Things are changing, and you’re the smartest bloke I know. World’s gonna be your oyster, mate. Now come on, we’re gonna be late, and I’m sure Hector’s some godawful story about his Hogwarts years he wants to delight us with.”
Posner finally breaks out in a grin, and lets Scripps drag him into their classroom. If Scripps had looked hard enough, he might’ve seen Posner blushing.
*
Posner has been staring blankly at the crystal ball on the desk in front of him for at least twenty minutes when Akthar finally breaks and puts his quill down.
“Okay, so what crawled up your arse and died?” He says, fixing Posner with a stern look. “You’ve been in a weird mood since we got here.”
“Haven’t,” Posner replies tartly, pointedly not looking at the other Ravenclaw and keeping his eyes firmly on the swirling fog in the ball. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve not written anything in the last half hour,” Akthar snips with a firm look at Posner’s woefully empty parchment. “And you’re normally ace at crystal-gazing. Seriously, what’s up?”
“Nothing,” Posner frowns again, this time at the table. “It’s just –I used to think I knew what I wanted, now I’m not so sure.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know,” Posner looks down at his lap, awkward. “Anyway, stop trying to prophecise me, you arse. I could be having a crisis for all you know.”
“Nah, I’ve seen you having a crisis,” Akthar smirks, not without affection. “You’re moodier than this, usually. You get a right pout on.”
“Oh, piss off, will you?”
Akthar just laughs, knocks their shoulders together, and goes back to his work.
*
“Do you get any of this?” Dakin hisses across their shared desk in the middle of Arithmancy, and Scripps lifts his head from where he’d been attempting to decipher a particularly difficult chapter of Numerology and Grammatica.
“I think I did, once, but I don’t remember when that was,” Scripps groans. “All I know is that I never want to see the number seven again.”
“Quite,” Dakin hums, leafing aimlessly through his own textbook. “D’you want to get a bit of practice in tonight before the match next week? Only I need to work on diving and I need someone to spot me so I don’t crash.”
Scripps unsuccessfully stifles a laugh, but shakes his head.
“Can’t, mate, sorry,” he clicks his tongue, copying out a table from his book messily. “Said I’d meet Pos in the library to go over our Ancient Runes work. Rudge’ll go with you though, he’s captain.”
“Fine,” Dakin grumbles, sounding more put-upon than he has any right to.
“But don’t you be showing off during the match, we actually need to win this one,” Scripps raises an eyebrow at him, remembering their last disastrous match against Gryffindor. “Merlin knows if we lose Lockwood’ll never let us hear the end of it.”
After dinner that evening, Dakin slinks off with Rudge to the Quidditch pitch, leaving Scripps in their dormitory trying to unearth his copy of Advanced Rune Translation from where it’s buried at the bottom of his trunk. He eventually manages to heave it out from underneath his Quidditch uniform only to discover he’s running late, and he ends up sprinting most of the way to the library.
Madam Pince frowns at him as he slows to a jog in the doorway, and he smiles at her in a desperate attempt to placate her. Posner is waiting for him at one of the long tables in the middle, thumbing through a book Scripps’s recognises as the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard he’d bought him for his last birthday.
“What time d’you call this?” Posner asks, without even looking up from his book, as Scripps takes the seat next to him.
“Sorry, Dakin was being ridiculous,” Scripps rolls his eyes, dropping his books on the table.
“That’s hardly a new development,” Posner clicks his tongue, closing his book and rummaging around for a quill and ink. “I’d’ve thought you’d worked that much out by now.”
“Oh, I have, but more so than usual. Keeps fannying about with his hair, and that. Like Irwin’s gonna even notice.”
“Oh, let him hope,” Posner laughs almost fondly, patting Scripps’s arm. “He might make a fool of himself in Astronomy again, and that’s always a lark.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” Scripps smirks at him, swiping Posner’s work out from under him to examine his translations. “This time last year you’d’ve been writing a sonnet about his perfect skin, or something.”
“I like to think I’ve grown since then,” Posner steals Scripps’s parchment and starts scrutinising his lettering. “I think I’ve more strength of character now. And besides, I wasted so long fawning over him last year it’s like I almost forgot to live myself. I could tell you how he played in each of the Quidditch matches last year but not how my family celebrated my birthday.”
“So that’s it, is it?” Scripps looks up from the work in front of him to fix Posner with a curious look. “You’re done with him? No more quoting love poems by long dead Muggles at him and hoping he gets it?”
“Something like that,” Posner tuts. “More like ‘He that made this knows all the cost, for he gave all his heart and lost’ I fear. Though I rather think I’m better off; I’ve more time to live now. But I still can’t read your runes.”
“Oh shut up, they’re perfectly legible,” Scripps slides his own work out of Posner’s hands and peruses it himself. “That’s clearly fehu.”
He distracts himself with bickering with Posner for the next hour or so, so he doesn’t have to think about the revelation that Posner isn’t so enamoured with Dakin anymore.
They get shooed out of the library by Madam Pince when it closes, and Scripps finds himself strong-armed into the Ravenclaw common room until their Astronomy class that night.
“Akthar’s snuck out with that fifth year Timms set him up with –Annabelle something, I think her name was? Anyway, he’s convinced it’s all going to go horribly wrong, so they’ve gone to the Hog’s Head,” Posner’s telling him, lounged back on his bed with some classic Muggle novel open in his lap.
“Well, of course it’s going to go wrong if he’s taking her to the bloody Hog’s Head,” Scripps scoffs, from where he’s sprawled on his back across Posner’s duvet, staring at the high ceiling and feeling a little jealous that his dormitory’s so far underground he can’t see natural light. “He needs to at least be going for the Three Broomsticks.”
“Oh, great haven of romance that place is,” Posner laughs, turning a page in his book. “Where you’ve to shout to hear yourself think, and Madam Rosmerta might well hex you if you don’t buy enough rounds. Really poetic, that sounds.”
“Suppose your idea of a romantic outing to Hogsmeade is tea at Madam Puddifoot’s, isn’t it?” Scripps rolls over to face him properly, only to see Posner is making an utterly disgusted face.
“Is it bollocks,” Posner huffs, finally giving up on his book and tucking it back into his trunk. “Just because I like boys doesn’t mean I automatically like that godawful place. I’ve never seen that much pink in my life before.”
“I didn’t mean–“
“I know, I know,” Posner nudges him in the side with his foot. “But if you must know, my standards are considerably lower than that. I think I’d just like to hold his hand and walk around the village and just talk, really. Maybe kiss him if I’m feeling brave. I know it’s not exactly big, swooping romantic gestures like in the books, but it’s the little things I’d want, I think.”
He smiles fondly at his lap, almost like he’s imagining something, and Scripps tries desperately not to think about kissing him in the snow outside the station.
They stay in a comfortable silence for a long time, and Posner eventually picks his book up again and throws Scripps a copy of Little Women to keep him busy. Akthar returns much later, miserable after his predictably awful date, and forces the both of them to get a move on to their Astronomy class.
Dakin’s already there when they arrive, sitting on Irwin’s desk and talking the man’s ear off, looking unbearably pleased with himself. For what it’s worth, Irwin himself doesn’t look too unhappy about this development, Scripps thinks, if the blush high on his cheeks is any indication.
The lesson is as predictable as ever, with Irwin passionately recounting the details Muggle science has discovered about the planets and the stars and how they should use that in their essays and exams, and Scripps can’t help but notice that Irwin lingers longer around Dakin than the rest of them. He decides not to tell him; he’ll probably work it out himself sooner or later.
They have a free period first thing the next morning, and Dakin is nowhere to be found, so Scripps sits with Posner in the stone circle, reading one of the textbooks Professor Lintott had set in yesterday’s lesson. Posner is frowning at his divination work, leafing irritably between sheets of parchment and muttering under his breath.
“You alright?” Scripps marks his page with a clean quill and puts it down, raising an eyebrow at Posner’s unusually dishevelled pile of papers.
“Fine,” Posner looks up at him, expression still pinched. “Can’t find my cartomancy notes, is all. I’ll just have to nick Akthar’s. Actually, can I borrow your hand for a sec?”
“What for?” Scripps makes a face, but holds out his hand anyway. Posner takes him by the wrist and pulls him closer in, studying his palm carefully.
“I need to practice palmistry, that’s all. It didn’t come up on last year’s exam, which means it might this time, and I’m positively crap at it.”
Posner opens a thick book in front of him, and hums to himself while he looks between Scripps’s hand and the detailed diagram displayed on the page. Scripps, meanwhile, is just trying to remember how to breathe properly.
“Interesting,” Posner clicks his tongue and scribbles a few things down on a blank piece of parchment. “Thanks.”
“What, that’s it? No big dramatic future I’ve to look forward to?” Scripps frowns, and Posner stifles a laugh and pats the back of his hand. “Way to hurt my feelings, mate.”
“Well, you’ll live a long and relatively uninteresting life, I’m sorry to say,” Posner smiles almost fondly, leaning away from him to close his book and roll up his parchments. “If your palm is to be believed, that is. Up to you if you place any stock in it.”
“Do you?” Scripps asks. Posner fixes him with a curious look, and a tiny smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’d be nice. There’s something comforting about it, especially if it’s good.” Posner looks away for a moment, out towards the forest, like he’s thinking about something. He stops, shakes his head and then comes back to himself. “Anyway, we should go. We’ll be late for Potions.”
Scripps frowns, but picks up his things and follows Posner to the dungeons anyway.
Dakin is already there, looking really rather smug, and also distinctly more ruffled than he had at breakfast. Scripps doesn’t ask, just raises a cursory eyebrow as he drops his bags on the adjacent desk.
“Had a meeting. With Irwin,” Dakin provides after a few minutes, when Scripps has busied himself stoking a fire under his cauldron and preparing his ingredients.
“Did you now?” Scripps deadpans, fixing him with a firm look. “The definition of ‘meeting’ must have changed since the last time I had one.”
Dakin smirks, but Scripps notices that his cheeks colour slightly, even in the dim lighting.
“Well, it wasn’t strictly a professional one, if you must know.”
“I mustn’t,” Scripps counters immediately, carefully adjusting the temperature of the fire until his potion starts bubbling gently. “But I imagine you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“Not much happened, actually,” Dakin hums, perusing his textbook for the next step he needs to take. “Mostly just talking. He’s Muggleborn, you know. Would’ve gone to Oxford if he was a Muggle, he reckons. And there was a bit of kissing too, obviously. But nothing salacious.”
Dakin drags the word out and grins cockily, and Scripps fixes him with the blankest stare he can manage. There’s a sudden waft of steam through the air, and Professor Slughorn makes a pleased noise from a corner of the room. Scripps turns to see him standing over Posner’s cauldron looking impressed, and a smell starts to drift through the classroom; he sees Dakin freeze halfway towards stirring his potion.
At first he doesn’t smell anything remarkable; old books and fresh newsprint, rain on an early morning, the wash powder his grandma always used to use. But there’s something beneath it, he thinks, something warmer and softer and safer somehow, only he can’t place what it is until he looks over at Posner and it hits him that that’s all it is, just Posner and some combination of his shampoo and his deodorant and his fabric softener. He smiles stupidly to himself, ducking his head and looking at the floor.
Posner himself is white as a sheet and terrified, and Akthar is watching him carefully.
“You alright, mate?” He asks, and Posner shakes himself out of his reverie and turns to him, wide eyed.
“Fine,” he replies, voice strangled and pitchy. Akthar frowns at him, stirring his own potion carefully.
“What can you smell?” He asks, relatively innocently; really, he’s been wondering if all the looks Posner’s been giving Scripps have meant anything. “I get my grandma’s homemade curry. And fresh cut grass. Bit cliché, but it’s nice, I think. Something comforting about it.”
“I can smell mum’s cooking; mostly her latkes, actually. Newly bloomed tulips, wet ink on new parchment. And–“ he hesitates, looking at his textbook studiously. “No. That’s it.”
Akthar raises an eyebrow sceptically, because Posner never has been a good liar, even since they were eleven and newly sorted, when he’d said he didn’t have nightmares only to wake him up crying not three hours later.
Posner shakes his head, collecting a vial of his potion for Slughorn to grade and busying himself packing his things away. He doesn’t say anything else, so Akthar doesn’t press, bottles his own potion, and follows Posner to Astronomy.
Dakin doesn’t turn up to Astronomy, and Irwin is in a particularly vile mood for the whole hour, and both things strike Scripps as odd. He takes his usual seat next to Posner and digs around for his star chart, and when he straightens himself out Posner is looking at him oddly.
“Everything alright?” He stops what he’s doing and touches Posner’s shoulder, bringing him back to himself. “Are you coming to the match next week?”
“What?” Posner sounds startled, somehow, even though he’d only been staring at Scripps anyway. “Oh. Yes, of course. You’ll want us in your stands, I take it?”
“Please,” Scripps replies, looking away from him to start leafing through a tome on Saturn’s rings. “Timms is defecting to Gryffindor ‘cause Lockwood whinged, so I wanted to ask you so we’ve at least one person in our stands. You can borrow my scarf, if you want.”
Posner feels himself blush and cringes to himself, burying himself in his work.
“Did you see where Dakin went?” Scripps asks after several minutes of companionable silence. “Only he was in Potions with us, then he never made it up here. If he’s not in History of Magic I should probably report it, but I can’t really be arsed to, and he’d only moan.”
“I’ve not seen him, no,” Posner looks over at the other boy, who hasn’t looked up from his parchment. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised you’re lapsing on your Prefect duties again. Maybe something happened he didn’t tell us about?”
“You can say nothing,” Scripps stops writing to fix Posner with an incredulous look. “You sacked off half your duties last year because you were too busy reading and forgot you were meant to be on patrol. Anyway, I don’t know what could’ve gone off; last I heard he should’ve been eager to be here.”
“How do you mean?” Posner raises an eyebrow, and Scripps grabs him by the collar to mutter in his ear and recount what Dakin had told him earlier. “Oh. Well, then. Maybe things were sourer than he made it sound? Or something might’ve spooked him.”
“I thought that, only I couldn’t work out what it could’ve been,” Scripps taps the feathered end of his quill against his parchment a few times, expression pinched in thought. “Unless the Amortentia had something to do with it?”
“How so?” Posner’s expression tightens and he looks away, focusing suddenly on his star chart. Scripps notices and frowns at him, holds back the urge to touch his arm and check he’s okay.
“Don’t know, really,” Scripps hums, leaning back in his chair and mussing his hair with his fingers. “Reckon he must’ve smelled something he wasn’t expecting, though. It’s Dakin; he probably didn’t realise he could love with that tiny ashen heart of his. Might well have knocked him for six, that.”
“True enough,” Posner looks up again, and Scripps is smiling at him in a way that makes him feel like he means something. “I suppose he won’t have considered the fact he could have the capacity to love, after all.”
Scripps laughs brashly, and Posner’s smile broadens, a faint blush spreading over the tops of his cheeks. Akthar meets his eyes across the classroom and raises an eyebrow, and Posner ducks his head to hide his face.
“Anyway, what did you smell? I meant to ask earlier, actually,” Scripps starts after a minute or two. “Mine wasn’t anything surprising; books mostly, would you believe.”
“I would, actually,” Posner replies, deliberately dodging the question and praying Scripps won’t notice. “You like books more than you like people, sometimes. I still remember the face you made when you saw the library here for the first time when we were little.”
“You grew up with Muggle libraries too, you understand,” Scripps is blushing a bit, Posner thinks, and he looks a touch embarrassed. “I’d never seen shelves that high before.”
Posner laughs fondly at him, and is about to reply in his best mumsy tone, when Irwin looms over their desk to reprimand them for not doing their work.
Dakin reappears after lunch, but Scripps doesn’t broach the topic of his disappearance until over a week later, when they’re heading over to the Quidditch pitch for their last practice before the match.
“You never did tell me what your Amortentia smelt like, you fucked off right after the lesson,” Scripps says, fingers playing with the hem of his itchy jumper.
“Nor did you,” Dakin counters immediately, looking almost annoyed until he schools his expression into his usual cocky smirk. “You first.”
“I asked first.”
“So?” Dakin rebuffs him, leading the way to the broom store cupboard. “What does that matter?”
Scripps glowers at him as he grabs his broom from the rack and heads out towards the pitch.
“Alright, fine, even though I know you’ll think it’s predictable,” he sighs, taking the bat Rudge offers him as he passes. “Books, newspaper, rain, wash powder, Posner.”
Dakin whistles through his teeth and follows him out, mounting his broom and kicking off from the ground. Scripps does the same, and they fly a few laps around the pitch while they wait for the rest of the team.
“I’m just saying, you’re quite boring, you know?” Dakin hums, hair whipping into his face. “Though, I did say that; you love him.”
He drags out the ‘o’ sound and Scripps resists the urge to hit him around the head with his bat.
“Ah, thanks for pointing that out, I’d’ve never worked that one out for myself,” Scripps all but glares at him. “Anyway, what did you smell, if I’m so horribly predictable?”
“Oh, no doubt exactly what you expect from me, I suppose,” Dakin pulls back and Scripps swings around to face him. “Blown out candles, new leather, sea spray in the morning.”
“Poetic, that is,” Scripps snorts, spinning his bat in his hand. “Well, for you, at least. That it?”
Dakin looks away from him and back up towards the castle, fingers carding through his hair.
“Irwin’s cologne, too, I think,” he admits almost sheepishly, and Scripps raises one eyebrow in mock disbelief. “But you can’t say shit about me running away from my problems, mate; have you told Posner?”
“No, I haven’t,” Scripps admits easily. “Though I also don’t get off with Posner on the sly on a regular basis.”
“If you did, you might be less mardy,” Dakin considers, and Scripps hits him around the shoulder with his bat. “I’m surprised you haven’t given me some book that’ll help yet, actually.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Scripps rolls his eyes, sitting back on his broom and laughing. “That’s Hector’s job, that. But I’ve no decent advice to give you, really. Sorry, mate. Just have a word with him, what’s the worst that can happen?”
Dakin doesn’t say anything, but he frowns at him. Scripps sighs, and is about to start talking again, when Rudge shouts for him across the pitch.
“Oi, Scripps!” Their captain yells from down near the goal hoops, where the two Bludgers are circling him ominously. “Come give us a hand with these bastard things!”
“Coming!”
Dakin watches him go, expression still unhappy, and pulls back to start looking for the Snitch.
*
Both teams are in particularly vicious moods the next morning, even at breakfast. Lockwood has been loudly boasting for at least ten minutes, to the point that even his own teammates are sick of hearing him, if Crowther’s expression is anything to go by. When Posner arrives, Scripps is already there, in his full uniform and ungracefully stuffing a slice of toast into his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, still half asleep as he pours himself a large cup of tea. Scripps makes a noise by way of a greeting, finishing his toast hurriedly and digging around under his feet for something.
“I’ve not got long before I’ve to leave for the pitch, I’ve to be there before you lot are,” he explains quickly, knocking back the dregs of his cup of coffee. “Rudge and Dakin have already gone, so’ve most of the others, but I thought I’d best wait around in case you did want this. It’s bloody windy outside today, I think, and I know what you’re like with the cold.”
He thrusts his scarf into Posner’s hands, then heaves himself up from his seat, robes swishing behind him. He’s blushing a bit again, Posner thinks dumbly, and he curls his fingers around the soft, worn wool in his hands.
“Anyway, I’d best move,” he dusts his hands down on the front of his trousers, pulling his gloves from his pockets and tugging them on as he talks. “Wait for me, after the match? I might well need someone to stop me hexing something if we lose, and I’m afraid that honour’s yours today.”
Posner nods briefly, and Scripps smiles lopsided at him, before he makes to leave the Great Hall.
“Good luck,” Posner says with a small smile, and Scripps turns back to almost grin at him before he hurries off to the pitch.
Akthar comes sidling in not long after Scripps has left, and spots the scarf on Posner’s lap almost immediately.
“I’d ask whose scarf that is, only I think I already know,” he clicks his tongue, pouring out a healthily sized glass of orange juice. He fixes Posner with the sternest look he can manage, and Posner tries his damnedest to keep his expression as blank and clear as he can.
“You smelt something else in that Amortentia, didn’t you?” Akthar deduces, rounding on Posner with intrigue. “And it’s not been about Dakin for a while now, you’ve told me that much.”
Posner smiles to himself, looking away from Akthar when he feels his cheeks start to burn.
“It’s Scripps, isn’t it?” Akthar says, even though he’s already relatively certain that it is, and though Posner doesn’t say anything, he blushes a terrific shade of red and provides him with enough of an answer. “I knew it! How long? Do you think he knows? Do you think he fancies you back?”
“No, say it louder, I think there’s an owl down in the Owlery that didn’t hear you!” Posner hisses, jabbing an elbow into Akthar’s ribs. “I don’t know, honestly. One minute he was just Scripps, the boy who introduced himself to me because his owl decided it liked me, next minute he was. I don’t know. It doesn’t make a great deal of sense to me, but I’m not upset. There’s worse people to be in love with.”
“Like Dakin?”
“Yes, like Dakin,” Posner hums, picking at the bowl of cereal he’d set out before him. “But I don’t think he knows, no. He might, mind you; this is Scripps, after all. He does tend to notice these things. But no, I don’t think he fancies me. Or if he does, then he’s a better knack for hiding it than most.”
“I reckon he does, you know,” Akthar nods firmly, stabbing a bit of egg particularly viciously. “I think he’s proper mad for you, he is.”
“Is he bollocks ‘mad for me’,” Posner scoffs, setting his spoon down with a clang. “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Akthar whistles through his teeth, looking at the other boy firmly. “You’re not stupid, no. You might be blind, though. He’s always bloody watching you. You’d think you hung the sodding moon, or something, with the way he looks at you.”
Posner fixes him with an utterly dejected expression, and Akthar almost feels bad for asking.
“Look, the worst you can do is ask, okay?” he says, patting Posner on the shoulder. “He’s hardly gonna turn you out on your arse and never speak to you again, is he?”
“Well, no,” Posner frowns, staring down at the table. “But that’s not the point. It’s nerve-wracking, even the thought of it.”
“You never let that stop you with Dakin,” Akthar points out, raising a cursory eyebrow at him. “Quoted a lot of old poetry at him, if memory serves.”
“Dakin was different,” Posner’s frown deepens somehow, and Akthar half expects him to carry on speaking, but he doesn’t. He just picks at his cereal for a moment before he gives up, sets his spoon down again, and curls Scripps’s scarf carefully around his neck. He almost hides himself in it, Akthar thinks, as if that way no one will notice his cheeks are burning red.
*
“Have your little scarf swap, did you?” Dakin smirks when Scripps comes jogging into the changing rooms, broom in hand.
“Talked to Irwin yet?” Scripps counters, unusually snippy, and Dakin glowers at him. “Didn’t think you had. At least I’m doing something.”
“So am I,” Dakin retorts, straightening out his robes so he doesn’t have to look Scripps in the eye.
“Shagging over his desk isn’t quite what I meant by ‘something’, you know,” Scripps replies with a dry laugh, taking his bat from Rudge offhandedly. “I was thinking slightly more romantically than that, I admit.”
“Still something,” Dakin huffs, turning away and swishing his robes around him as he goes, which Scripps takes to mean the conversation is over. He sighs, fastens his own robes tighter around him, then retires to where Rudge is giving a rousing warm-up speech.
*
Posner drags Akthar with him to the Slytherin stands, Timms having abandoned the pair of them for the Gryffindor stands upon arrival at the pitch; they can still see him across the field, doing his best impression of a lion and scaring a few first years.
“Please, try to reign in your crises to one per hit, if at all possible,” Akthar sinks down on to the bench next to Posner, well aware he stands out with his blue scarf in a sea of green. “I’m neither awake nor drunk enough to deal with you whining at me about his forearms, or something.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Posner grumbles good-naturedly, fingers twisting idly in the end of Scripps’s scarf. “You can’t talk; remember that girl when we were in fifth year? You spent weeks, actual weeks, telling me all about her eyes and her hair and basically any body part you’d deigned to take an interest in that day. I am allowed to cry about his forearms if I want to.”
Akthar laughs, and Posner’s thoughts seems to catch up with him as he turns a glowing shade of red, and drops down into the seat next to him.
“I did just say all that, didn’t I,” he asks, cheeks still burning, and Akthar just sniggers at him.
“’Fraid you did mate, yeah,” Akthar replies, patting him on the leg. “I won’t tell unless you do.”
Posner groans and buries his head in his hands, only looking back up when the teams come flying out to uproarious applause. Rudge and Lockwood are squaring off in the centre of the field, before the balls are released and the match begins.
Posner has never been a particularly big fan of Quidditch, or even sports, but when Scripps comes flying backwards past their stands having just smacked a Bludger at Crowther’s head, looking all windblown and attractive, he thinks he just might change his mind.
“Oh,” Posner says quietly, and it’d be lost in the cheering as Slytherin scores, were it not for Akthar expecting it.
“What?” Akthar turns to him, keeping one eye on the match as the Slytherin Chasers come roaring up the field after the Gryffindors, both pairs of Beaters on their tails.
“I’m fucked, aren’t I?”
“In the traditional sense of the word?” Akthar asks, looking properly at Posner and seeing his wide-eyed expression. “Not yet you’re not. You know, all this could be resolved if you just used your words –you are good with those, after all.”
“I –we’ll see,” Posner replies, and Akthar raises an eyebrow at him. “I might. Say something, that is. I’m not sure what, but I suppose you’re right, because that did never stop me before.”
Akthar smiles at him, lopsided and genuine, and knocks their shoulders together affectionately.
“Good, I’m glad,” he turns his attention back to the game. “And for what it’s worth, I do genuinely reckon he fancies you. I’ve caught him looking at your arse, mate. That’s more than friendship, that is.”
Posner doesn’t say anything, turning back to the game and hitting him around the arm without looking.
Slytherin eventually win, after another fraught few hours, when Dakin finally goes bolting from one end of the pitch to the other, hand outstretched in front of him. After a moment he raises his hand victorious, Snitch flapping weakly against his fingers, and the rest of the Slytherin team go barrelling down the pitch to embrace him. Lockwood, lurking round near the Gryffindor goal hoops, swears loudly and looks visibly annoyed.
Akthar leaves Posner in the stands and begins the trudge back up to the castle with Timms, who’d appeared not long after the game had ended. Posner picks his way down to the field, by which point the teams have all landed and are congregated in the middle, gossiping and bickering. Scripps spots him over the head of one of their Chasers and waves him over.
“Good game,” Posner comments offhandedly, even though he has no idea whether it actually was or not. “Shame no one fell off their broom, though. That’s always entertaining.”
Scripps laughs at him, unclipping the front of his robes so they fall open and reveal his hideously itchy uniform jumper.
“Give us half a chance, it’s only the first match of the year,” he smiles, unclipping his gloves and pulling them off one by one. “There’s plenty of time for that yet. Give us a few to sort myself out and we can go back up to the castle.”
Posner nods and lurks around outside the changing rooms for him. He’d been meaning to have a word with Dakin, only the other boy seems to have completely disappeared and is now nowhere to be found. He contemplates asking Rudge, only to discover that he’s currently involved in some sort of congratulatory punching match with Lockwood.
“Ready?” Scripps reappears from the changing rooms, in an old blue jumper with patched elbows and jeans that have seen far better days. Posner nods at him, and lets him lead them both out of the pitch and up towards the school.
“Are you going Hogsmeade next weekend?” Scripps asks innocently, hands in his pockets as they pass through the stone circle. “Only I’ve to go to Scrivenshaft’s and I don’t want to go on my own.”
“I wasn’t gonna, but I can do, yeah,” Posner nods, idly looking out over the lake as they walk. “I could do with some more parchment, actually.”
“Okay, grand,” Scripps nods, a small smile on his face. “I’m gonna go nick some food from the kitchens, I’m starving. Coming with?”
“You are a Prefect. You’re supposed to set an example,” Posner admonishes him, but lets himself be dragged down towards the basement anyway.
*
“Professor?” Dakin asks, pushing open the door to Irwin’s office and leaning around it. Irwin looks up from his work and past the mountain of essays on his desk to look at him quickly, before turning back to his marking.
“I’ve told you not to call me that,” he replies tartly, and Dakin frowns at him.
“You weren’t at the match today,” Dakin carries on regardless, leaning against the chair opposite him, still in his Quidditch uniform as if to prove a point. “You said you would be. Are you avoiding me?”
“I could ask you the same,” Irwin finally lets his quill down and caps his ink pot. “You’ve not been in the last few Astronomy lessons. I’d say your marks might suffer for it, only we both know that’s not true.”
Dakin smirks, but drops it after a minute’s thought.
“Not the point,” he hums, bouncing on the balls of his feet and smoothing a hand over his hair. He’s suddenly aware he’s still in his Quidditch uniform, ridiculous white trousers and all, and looks down at his feet. “It’s come to my attention that we’ve been doing this all wrong.”
“Have we?” Irwin pushes his glasses up his nose and crosses his arms over his chest. “I thought most relationships began illicitly when one party was underage and the other was in a position of power.”
“Will you fuck off with that shit?” Dakin glowers at him, stepping forward and sitting on the edge of Irwin’s desk. “I’ve told you I don’t care about it, and neither should you. You’ve not long left here yourself, I’ll be leaving in less than a year, what’s stopping you?”
“I am your teacher,” Irwin retorts, hands gripping the edge of his desk. “What would your parents think?”
“Fuck what my parents think,” Dakin snaps, expression hardening. “I’m asking you, honestly, do you want to have a go? Make something of whatever the fuck we have going on here.”
“I –I don’t,” Irwin hesitates, stammering, wringing his hands together.
“If you want me to go, then I’ll go, but that’s it. I’m done here if you are,” Dakin raises a hand and makes to get up. “If you want me to stay, want us to do something with whatever the hell this is, then you’ll come with me to Hogsmeade for a drink. That’s all I want.”
“One drink?” Irwin asks after a pregnant pause that Dakin had spent feeling about ready to bolt out of the room and never return.
“That’s all I’m after, yeah,” Dakin nods tensely. “Doesn’t even need to be alcoholic. We can have a butterbeer and talk shit for an hour or two if that’s what you’d want.”
Irwin studies him for a moment, takes in his messy appearance and lopsided little smirk, and nods jerkily.
“Okay,” Dakin looks up from his lap at this, almost surprised. “Yes, we can have a drink.”
Dakin grins, grabs him by the collar of his robes and drags him in for a kiss.
*
“Have you heard about Dakin and Irwin?” Scripps asks later that week, when he and Posner are on the train to Hogsmeade. Posner is still wearing his scarf, but had brought his own as a peace offering. Scripps hadn’t minded and had put it on immediately, and finds that he quite likes seeing Posner in green.
“Stopped dancing around each other, have they?” Posner hums, looking out of the window and watching the countryside go by. “I hadn’t heard, but I did assume. They look much happier.”
“Dakin’s stopped pouting all around the shop, at least,” Scripps clicks his tongue, watching Posner stare at the fields they’re passing. He nudges the other boy’s shin with his foot, and Posner looks over at him and smiles fondly.
“Chin up,” he says, and Posner raises an eyebrow at him. “You’ll find someone.”
“I’m not so worried about that, actually,” Posner replies, looking back to the window as the train pulls into the station.
“Oh?” Scripps says, following him as Posner heads out of their compartment and out into the village.
“Yes, oh,” Posner turns to look at him, drawing to a stop outside the post office. “I rather think I have found someone.”
“Have you now?” Scripps replies, perhaps cagier than he means to. “Some beau you’re not telling me about? Woefully attractive, he is, I suspect.”
“Not quite,” Posner laughs a little, taking hold of Scripps sleeve and leading him down towards the clearing near the Shrieking Shack. “Though the woefully attractive bit is true. I just haven’t quite got around to telling him yet.”
“Haven’t you?” Scripps looks sideways at the shack itself. “You should get to that.”
“I should,” Posner looks at him hard for a moment, and hesitates before he reaches and tangles his fingers in the end of Scripps’s scarf. “Scripps, look, I–”
“I haven’t exactly done this before,” Scripps admits, running a hand through his hair. “So I might be doing this wrong, or reading you wrong, only –er. Can I kiss you?”
Posner recoils, surprised despite Akthar’s assurances Scripps felt the same way.
“What?”
“Sorry, have I –I’ve fucked this up a bit, haven’t I?” Scripps frowns, and Posner tightens his hand in his scarf. “Only I know I’m not Dakin, and I know how you felt about him, and I don’t really expect you to feel the same thing for me, but–”
“Scripps,” Posner interrupts him, soft and affectionate. “Dakin is past tense. I felt things for Dakin, things I don’t now. You just –took me by surprise, is all. Ask me again.”
Scripps sucks in a breath and steels himself, hand moving to slide against the line of Posner’s waist.
“Can I kiss you?”
Posner grins at him, pulls him in by his scarf, and kisses him hard by way of an answer.