Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The damn restaurant is still open.

Derek scowls, holding his wand up to his mouth and whispering the quick communication spell to his Auror team. “Parrish, I thought you slapped this place with health code violations.”

They’ve been trying to get the place closed for a month, since the cult they’ve been trying to crack down has been meeting here. Possibly the owner or an employee is in on it. Either way, it’s hard enough to prove that the Rising Blood group is a threat and get the Ministry to allocate more resources to taking them down— and even to arrest them, when their meeting places consist of just, well, eating lunch. Derek knows they’ve got a plan to somehow resurrect the Dark Lord, and he just needs to catch them… talking about it. Or doing something about it. He’d thought if they’d lost their lunch spot— and Derek’s already got a tracking spell on one Eugene Ricketts, so if he led them to any… shadier dealings, he’d know instantly.

Except Ricketts never seems to go anywhere when he leaves his manor, except occasionally, to Diagon Alley, and to this particular restaurant.

Roscoe’s.

Derek shudders. Even the name is so… commonplace, like he could stumble upon it walking around London.

Derek stares at the lurid bright blue paint of the walls, how incongruous the modern building looks amidst traditional wizarding buildings in Diagon Alley. It would probably look better next to Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes.

Parrish’s voice comes over the communication spell, slightly echoing as it exits Derek’s wand. “Apparently they passed their inspections with flying colors,” he says. “Look, it’s lunch time, why don’t you just scope out what Ricketts is up to? You can blend in with the lunch crowd.”

Derek looks down at the sleek black robes that is typical Auror-issue, designed to look intimidating and authoritative, unmistakably a uniform. Derek had been dressed to patrol, or maybe arrest someone, if it came to it, but now that’s not what he needs.

He ducks into a dusty looking shop selling parchment paper, finds an alcove and discreetly transfigures his robes into a t-shirt and jeans. And a leather jacket, because Derek is style conscientious, even undercover.

He nods to the bored looking clerk behind the desk, who doesn’t even notice Derek’s clothing transformation.

Outside, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, it’s a lovely day, people going about their shopping, owls hooting overhead.

He takes a deep breath and enters the restaurant.

Roscoe’s is bright and airy, built with clean, modern lines of steel. It’s a bit dissonant from all the turrets and stone and wood that’s typical of Diagon Alley, but… it’s pleasant, actually.

Not that Derek will admit it out loud.

He picks a seat at a counter, watching the mixed crowd— mostly young students, killing time before Hogwarts starts for the year, but there’s a good number of adults too, all eagerly eating food and talking to one another.

Hanging above the fireplace is— is that a car? Derek isn’t familiar with all the different Muggle versions of the vehicles, but it’s definitely good portion— of what do they call it, the front piece with the window and the sticky outy bit and the eng-un, something like that.

A sheet of paper— not parchment, wafts towards Derek, stiff and shiny with something. It’s the menu, bright and colorful, and it comes to the air in front of Derek, shaking expectantly until he picks it up.

Derek peruses the menu, looking over the sheet— seriously, what is this made of, it’s so tough— and he spots Ricketts in the far corner, talking it up with some of his buddies. Derek watches them, trying to time a casual way to get up and walk to the bathroom, maybe, and put a tracking spell on them as well, except someone walks right up to his counter.

“Hey there, decide on what you want yet?” the man asks. He’s got bright eyes and curly hair, and is wearing Muggle clothing— jeans, a t-shirt, and a scarf, for some reason, in the summer heat. Then again, robes typically go full length to the ground, so Derek really can’t say anything about fashion and necessity.

Derek hadn’t been able to make sense of anything on the menu, it seemed to be written in gibberish.

“What’s the House special…” There’s a brightly colored nametag pinned to the front of his shirt. “...Isaac?”

Isaac shrugs. “Can’t tell you, but I can tell you the chef will make it, based on what he thinks you’ll like. You know. Magic. You want it or not?”

A few patrons are starting to look at him, so Derek just nods and waves Isaac off.

There’s a rack of reading material floating around, and it comes to a stop in front of Derek, who is impressed despite himself at the intricate Charms knowledge needed to pull this off. He selects a Daily Prophet from the rack and unfurls it, reading it silently.

There’s the usual gossip, and Derek skims past it, going for the crossword at the back. He pretends to be immersed in it, concentrating with his werewolf senses to pick out the conversation Ricketts is having.

At least sometimes these things come in handy. Werewolf rights have come a long way since the second wizarding war, but the public still views them with suspicion and distrust. Only a few of Derek’s trusted Auror colleagues know; if Potter hadn’t been Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when Derek applied, he wouldn’t have gotten the job.

As it is, Derek’s one of the lucky ones.

Ricketts is talking about the food. Apparently his mates all think the food is delicious, and they all had the house special meal and drinks— some sort of combination Muggle invention and magical draught that is apparently, the best all of them have ever had, tailoring to their specific tastes, whether alcoholic or fizzy drink or tea. Or some combination between, Derek hasn’t figured out.

He sighs, listening, but Ricketts doesn’t talk about anything more interesting about how amazing the food is, blah blah blah. It should have been more than Derek hoped to catch him in his world domination plans at lunch.

A steaming plate of food and a full glass float in front of Derek and come to a stop on the counter. It smells heavenly, and Derek’s stomach growls. He takes a tentative sip of the drink— and then another. It’s a rich, nutty beer, full and bursting with flavor, and somehow was the exact kind of pick me up he needed.

He turns his attention to his plate: a thick, juicy burger and a full serving of chips. Derek takes a bite of the chip and is pleasantly surprised to find it lightly flavored with malt vinegar, just the way he likes it.

Derek’s heart starts to beat nervously, and he looks around the restaurant. It’s just patrons enjoying their food, there aren’t windows or anything where the chef could be watching him. Do they know him?

No, it’s not likely. Derek kept to himself after Hogwarts, had a few friends in his class, was soft-spoken and until joining the Aurors rarely socialized. Even now he doesn’t spend much time outside his family with his coworkers. He’s pretty sure Parrish doesn’t even know what any of his hobbies are, let alone his favorite foods.

It’s just a coincidence that the chef predicted the kind of beer he likes— and a lot of people like malt vinegar on their chips, that’s not weird.

Derek picks up the burger and takes a bite. It’s a symphony of flavor— the meat barely seared, Derek’s never been able to get any meat cooked this rare in a restaurant before— and he relishes the dripping red juice oozing from the meat, marvels at the perfect combination of seared mushrooms and blue cheese crumbles. It’s all topped off with lettuce and crisp slices of bacon on a lightly toasted brioche bun.

Derek eats the whole thing in one sitting, voracious. He alternates between eating the burger, the chips, and taking long swigs of his beer. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he looks up and his plate is empty, save for a few crumbs. He downs the rest of the beer, sitting back in his chair, completely satiated. He basks in the feeling, an afterglow much better than any sex he’s had in the longest time. Or maybe the food was just that good. It was definitely an experience, for sure.

The plate and glass float off on their own, heading for the kitchen. There’s a little curtained window it flies through, and Derek is once again impressed by the magic that goes into this place.

Isaac returns with his check on a plate, and Derek picks it up, noting the price. He looks up and also realizes Ricketts is gone.

“Merlin’s socks,” Derek scowls. He won’t be able to activate the tracking spell again until he gets back to Auror headquarters, and by then they could have missed something crucial. He fishes in his pocket for a few Galleons and tosses them on the table, and then grabs the sheet of paper that is his receipt.

He Summons a quill and gets a pen instead, and Derek’s frustration at missing his target turns into full blown anger. It’s this restaurant, the chef’s food, it’s their fault for being so— delicious and distracting him. And it probably wasn’t even that good! Derek was just hungry. And how dare this chef just assume to know they know what Derek would like? They don’t know Derek, that’s what. He doesn’t even eat raw meat all the time. That’s a werewolf stereotype. And furthermore, how does the chef even know he’s a werewolf?

He pens an angry note to the chef on the back of the receipt, how the mushrooms were overcooked, and the meat was bloody, that’s a safety hazard, and the bun wasn’t warm, all these little nitpicky things that he doesn’t really care about and are really only half-true, writing until his frustration is gone.

Derek feels better, and sits there looking at his diatribe, breathing until he calms down. He’s about to pick up the receipt when the plate, money and note and all, floats up and and goes for the little window for the kitchen.

“No!” Derek gets up, horrified, chasing the thing down, but it’s already disappeared behind the flapping curtain.

“That’s employees only, sorry, can I help you with something?” Isaac appears behind him, lifting his eyebrows.

“I didn’t mean to— I was just—” Derek clenches his fists and unclenches them. He’s no good at this, this social thing, and now someone’s feelings are going to be hurt because he couldn’t wait to write in his journal at home—

The kitchen door opens.

“Well. Derek Hale. I mean, I knew you hated me, but I really didn’t know you hated me this much.”

Stiles Stilinski steps forward, a chef’s hat rakishly balanced on his head. He’s gotten taller since Hogwarts, broad shoulders filling out a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms. He’s every bit as beautiful as he was eight years ago.

Stiles folds his arms, giving Derek a dismissive glare, and in an instant, Derek feels like he’s seventeen again, looking at the one person he can’t have.

Chapter Text

“I didn’t know this was your restaurant,” Derek finally says, when he gets his voice. I didn’t know this was your restaurant, what a great first thing to say, Derek. Real smooth, Derek chides himself. Eight years and this is all he can say.

“Didn’t know this was my restaurant,” Stiles repeats, chuckling, and he gestures to the walls.

Derek notices now— he’d been distracted by the food and Ricketts, earlier— the entire restaurant plastered with photographs— some moving and some still Muggle ones— Stiles and Scott, Stiles and people Derek doesn’t recognize, and some he does, Stiles with his father in some Muggle outfits with matching hats, patrons of the restaurant enjoying their food.

It’s all very homey and happy, and Derek realizes, with a cold turn of his stomach, that he recognizes one of the photos of Scott and Stiles. They’re young, faces still round with baby fat, both grinning and dirty, covered in mud, posing in their Quidditch uniforms on the Hogwarts pitch, their photographic selves laughing and tugging at each other. The entire left side of the photo has been torn off, and just barely visible is an arm slung around Stiles’ shoulders. Every now and the Stiles in the photo will turn and look out of frame, a fond, dumbstruck smile on his face.

It had been raining that day.

Ten Years Ago

“Not bad for your first game, Stiles,” Derek says, smiling.

“Not bad! Not bad! I CAUGHT THE SNITCH!” Stiles waves triumphantly in the air, scattering mud everywhere.

“Yeah, it was a good catch. I mean, Gibbins couldn’t even see it because of the storm, and I don’t think anyone else would have dived in that puddle,” Scott muses. He’s covered in mud, not because he was diving in puddles to catch the Snitch, but because of Stiles’ congratulatory hugs.

“Well, Gibbins wasn’t doing shit, you guys were like, a thousand points in the lead, there was no way Slytherin was gonna win, which sucks because this is my first game playing Seeker but like, oh my God, Scott, that Chasing was amazing!” Stiles speaks with his hands, mostly, all energy and flailing, and it’s hard to look away. It’s still raining, just a fine gray mist now, but Derek could be looking right into the heart of the sun if he didn’t know any better.

“Derek, you’re such an asshole, not bad for your first game, Stiles, when Scott scored most of the goals today! Go Gryffindor!”  Stiles makes a face. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

Scott laughs. “Aw, bro.”

“Uh, Scott— this isn’t Scott’s first game,” Derek says belatedly. He looks at his Scott awkwardly, trying to come up for an excuse for paying more attention to Stiles instead of his teammate. “Scott’s been playing since the start of the year, he knows I think he’s really talented, one of the few third-years we have on the team, and he’s really hardworking…”

Scott lets off an amused huff and offers his fist for Derek to bump. Derek bumps it, grateful that it’s easy to talk to Scott, that they almost always understand each other.

“Aww, yeah, Scotty!” Stiles grins, and bumps Scott in the chest. Scott repeats the gesture, maybe a bit too hard, because the two of them go tumbling into the mud, laughing and giggling like children.

Derek pulls them out, shaking his head but smiling anyways. Scott grips his hand and stands up on his feet easily, stepping away, but Stiles yanks him forward, and Derek falls face first into the mud.

Stiles laughs at his little prank, but he offers Derek a clean sleeve to wipe his face on, and then his face softens a little.

“Thanks,” Stiles says.

“For what? Falling to your level?”

“Well, yes, that was hilarious, but I mean during the match. You like, showed up out of nowhere and you’re lucky that Bludger went somewhere useful otherwise people would be accusing you for playing for the wrong team.” Stiles leans in close, and flicks a piece of mud off Derek’s nose.

“That Bludger was heading right for you. If you hadn’t been so busy cheering on Scott at that moment you might have gotten hurt,” Derek says gruffly. “It’s not my fault the Beaters on your own team are incompetent.”

“Aw, you do care,” Stiles says, clutching his chest in mock surprise.

“Of course I care. You’re my friend,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“Really?”

The surprise is sincere now, and it makes Derek feel a little guilty. He knows he’s not good at the social interaction thing, and Cora always teases him for having a resting angry face, but he’s thought of Stiles as his friend for awhile now. “Of course.”

Stiles and Derek share a glance, and Stiles opens his mouth to say something when Scott bumps back into Stiles’ side, exclaiming something about photographs.

Present Day

“Of course,” Derek says. “Of course I know this is your restaurant. It’s— nice.” He adds, “Good job,” and it comes out dull but he doesn’t mean to, there’s just a lot of emotion going through him right now. He hasn’t seen Stiles since he left Hogwarts; only heard through the grapevine that Stiles after extensive and demanding application and interviews, turned down Auror training, and went back home to the States. To go to some Muggle university or something.

There's a big part of him that wonders if Stiles didn't want to go through Auror training because he didn't want to see Derek again.

And apparently now he’s back, standing there glaring at Derek, having opened a successful restaurant and has just gotten an insulting comment via napkin— a comment that Derek didn’t mean at all.

“Sorry,” Derek says, and it doesn’t encompass the whole of the regret he feels.

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, folding his arms.

Derek wants to explain what he was doing with the note, he was just annoyed that he lost Ricketts, and the food actually was really good— amazing, in fact, but the door opens and Erica walks in. She must be done with her assignment already and wants to hear what his progress is on Ricketts.

Erica’s in civilian wear, or at least her version of it, some stylish form fitting wizarding robes that sway as she walks.

“Der, c’mon, I wanna see if Fortescue’s still has that sparkling bubblegum flavor,” Erica says, grabbing his arm. She glances at Stiles, and there’s a faint flicker of recognition in her eyes, but Derek doesn’t have the heart to stand through another reunion talk. And judging from the look on Stiles’ face, he doesn’t either.

“I just had lunch, but I can still eat,” Derek says.

As soon as the words are out of his mouth Stiles’ face tightens even more, and Derek just… he’s not winning at anything today.

“Bye, Stiles, you’re pretty—it was pretty good to see you again,” Derek mumbles incoherently as he walks with Erica towards the door.

“What?”

Fucking shit, this is the worst.

“I said you’re shitty!” Derek blurts, and then in horror realizes what he’s said.

And then he just gives up and Disapparates.

Chapter Text

He Apparates outside of Fortescue's, and finds a bemused looking Erica waiting for him on the patio, eating a sundae with an impatient expression.

“You wanna tell me why Stilinski still hates you?” Erica asks, licking her spoon.

It’s been a few years since she’s moved to England but there’s still a trace of an accent in her voice. Both the Auror Division and the Sécurité Magique from the Wizarding Republic of France consider her a valuable asset, and Erica neatly maintains citizenships and does assignments for both. She’s been working with Derek ever since her arrival in England, and Derek likes to pretend that she’s a permanent part of his department.

“Is it that obvious?” Derek scowls, flopping into the chair next to her. “He really hates me, doesn’t he.”

“I mean, I’m sure I could smell it, if I was a werewolf,” Erica says, pushing the sundae toward Derek.

“Shh!” Derek casts around to see if any of the other patrons in the ice cream parlor are listening. The last thing he needs for this awful day is to be chased out of Fortescue's by angry and scared families.

He’d been too preoccupied with trying to save face to even try and get a whiff of Stiles’ emotions. Just seeing him again was entirely overwhelming.

Derek sighs, picks the cherry off the ice cream and plops it in his mouth.

“Useful thing, that. You should use it more often. The smelling thing.”

“Erica,” Derek growls. She’s the only other one in the Auror Division that knows he’s a werewolf, aside from Potter. Not intentionally. If it were up to Derek he probably wouldn’t tell anyone outside of his immediate family.

It’s kind of nice, that Erica knows, actually, and she laughs, stealing the ice cream back from him.

She’d been an exchange student from Beauxbatons in Derek’s seventh year, and had been in the hospital wing when Derek was recovering from a full moon. They’d bonded over Madam Pomfrey’s fussing and missing the Quidditch Cup, and remained good friends even after Hogwarts.

“You know, I’m pretty sure he hates me, too. Gave me quite the stink-eye when I left his restaurant. Weird, considering I’m pretty sure I spoke a total of ten words to him the entire time I was at Hogwarts.” Erica finishes the last of the ice cream, thinking.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Derek says. “Occulto Sinu!” The spell opens access to his floating ‘pocket’ where he stores any necessities or equipment in his fieldwork; currently looking like a floating nebulous black cloud in the air next to them. He pulls out the thick file he has on the Rising Blood cult, slaps it on the table and closes the pocket.

“We have a lot of work to do,” he says.

Twelve Years Ago

Cora’s among the new first years at the Gryffindor table, and Derek ruffles her hair proudly. Laura’s gonna be beside herself, but she missed the Sorting because she and Teddy Lupin were doing Head Boy and Girl stuff, some sort of epic planning meeting with McGonagall.

The feast is spectacular, as always, and Derek’s prepared a plate for Laura already, piled with heaps of herbed mashed potatoes, roasted butternut squash, and stuffed garlic chicken, her favorite. He’s got the plate to his side while he talks to the new first years. They’re a lively bunch, and one of them is even from the States.

“I’m Scott, I’m from California—”

“Ooh, do you see movie stars, like everyday?” another first year girl with pigtails asks, eyes wide.

“No, I mean, I live like hella NorCal—”

“I thought you just said you’re from California,” Cora says, raising her eyebrows.

“Yeah, I just said, northern California,” Scott continues, still smiling warmly even with the interruption. He takes a bite of his chicken, chewing appreciatively, as the other first years introduce themselves. Derek’s the only older student sitting on this end of the table; everyone else is catching up with friends, talking about their summers.

When the conversation turns to him he just shrugs and says, “Derek Hale. Third year. Uh. Not much to say.”

“You’re on the Quidditch team!” Cora pipes up, elbowing him on the shoulder.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m a second string Chaser, I haven’t exactly played any games yet, but sure, I’m on the Quidditch team.”

“That still counts! Hey, Scotty!” Another kid— a first year, who isn’t even wearing his uniform properly, his shirt untucked and robe flapping behind him casually, squeezes onto the table next to Scott. “Aw, dude, yeah, more food!” The boy grabs the plate Derek set aside for Laura and picks a piece of chicken off it and starts eating it.

“No, hey, what are you doing!?” Derek scowls, grabbing the plate away from boy. “This is for my sister! She’s our Head Girl, you can’t just—” He frowns, because he doesn’t remember this guy getting sorted into Gryffindor.  “Hey, wait a minute, you’re not even in our House!” The first dinner at Hogwarts is special; it's a time for a House to bond together and welcome the new students.

The boy looks up, giving Derek a quizzical look. “What, does that matter, dude? It’s just a table. Plus, I wanted to sit with Scott.”

Scott beams, throws his arm around the newcomer, and pushes his own plate towards him to share.

“What’s his problem?” The boy asks, raising his eyebrows.

The question is directed at Scott, but Cora answers. “Derek’s teeth are too big and they cut into his brain, so he has less room to be nice to people.”

The entire table of first years erupts in laughter, and Derek feels abjectly humiliated. That’s a family joke, it’s funny when his sisters say it, but these first years don’t know him, they don’t know that he has trouble making new friends, and it’s not his fault his neutral face looks angry.

Great. Now the boy is looking at home at the Gryffindor table, introducing himself. “I’m Stiles,” he says. What kind of name is that? It’s not a name.

“Whatever.” Derek grabs Laura’s plate and leaves the table, running his tongue over his teeth self-consciously. That thing doesn’t even make sense, how could his teeth cut into his brain?

Rude. This Stiles is trouble. Derek hopes he never sees him again.

Unfortunately, he does see him again. The guy seems to attached to Scott at the hip, and Derek swears he’s seen him in their common room, even though that’s heavily against the rules.

A week later Derek’s out on the pitch after Quidditch practice, trying his best to work on his goal toss. It’s just starting to get dark, but he keeps going, throwing the Quaffle and then flying to retrieve it. It’s no use, he’s terrible at this.

He thinks he hears someone in the stands but he can’t be sure; the rest of the team already went back to the castle.

Derek lands back down, angrily kicking the chest open and tossing the Quaffle back inside. Unfortunately the movement jostles the one of the straps holding a Bludger down, and the thing flies free, heading right for the stands.

Derek grabs the bat from the chest and kicks back into the air, flying off in a rush. Sure enough, his instinct was right, there are two kids sitting there, trying to scramble out of the Bludger’s path, screaming—

He swings, hitting the Bludger with a loud crack and it flies off in the opposite direction.

“Holy shit, Derek! Thanks!” It’s Scott, looking pale and shaken, standing next to Stiles, who looks equally ruffled.

“Oh shit, it’s coming back!” Stiles shouts.

The Bludger is indeed making its way back towards them, whistling loudly in the air as it goes. Derek heaves the bat at it once more, this time knocking it back onto the ground. He flies after it, barely able to distinguish it from the inky twilight falling around them, but he knows how fast it’s going, where it’ll probably be…

He pounces, struggling with the Bludger, trying to get it back in the chest.

By the time he’s done, Scott and Stiles have joined him on the grass. Someone’s helpfully cast a Lumos charm and aiming the wandlight at the chest so until Derek shoves it back inside and rebuckles the straps.

“Quidditch practice is closed to the public, you guys shouldn’t have been here,” Derek says, closing the chest. He’s sweating from exertion, and more than a little relieved that no one was hurt. But the fact remains that only the team should have been here— the wards to protect the stands from the balls haven’t been activated yet.

He stands up, noticing that it’s Stiles holding his wand aloft with the light. It’s an impressive thing for someone to master in their first week of Hogwarts, but still. They weren’t supposed to be here.

“Dude, that was awesome. You’ve got a great swing, you know! Way better than what you were doing earlier. I don’t think you made any of those goals.” Stiles says.

“What are you guys doing here, anyways?” Derek snaps.

Scott looks down at his feet, and Stiles nudges him. “Scott wanted to try out for the team,” Stiles announces.

“Really,” Derek says in a flat tone. “Well, no one since Harry Potter has made it onto the team their first year, so good luck.”

Scott’s chin wobbles a little, and he just looks so sad and all Derek can remember is Laura’s lecture about being a role model to the younger students, and trying to be better.

Derek sighs, and picks up his broomstick— one of the old Cleansweep models, a hand me down from Laura— and hands it to Scott. “Let’s see it then. I mean, tryouts aren’t for another month, so I guess you have time to practice, right?”

Scott grins from ear to ear, taking the broom. He’s not a novice, at least; and he flies with earnest enthusiasm, doing a quick loop around the pitch and touching back on the grass. It looks like he has natural talent, too, and catches the Quaffle Derek tosses him with ease.

Derek looks at Stiles, watching eagerly next to him. “What about you?”

“What about me? I don’t play sports. I am not a sport-friendly dude. Plus I’m afraid of heights.”

Derek sighs. “I’m gonna get some extra brooms out of the shed, if you want to fly too. Or you can stay on the ground, as it gets dark, while Scott and I are in the air. Your choice.”

“Alright, but I wasn’t kidding when I said I was afraid of heights— Derek! Where are you going?”

Derek shakes his head as he roots about the Gryffindor team’s storage shed, picks out the best broom of what’s left and hands it to Stiles. “Come on, let’s go. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Chapter Text

They discuss the Ricketts and Rising Blood case for awhile at Fortescue's, but it’s clear that it isn’t going anywhere. Erica gets a tip off on one of her smaller cases— cauldron smuggling— and Derek follows along, just to do something. They’re wrapping up the investigation when a tawny brown Ministry owl finds Derek and drops a letter on his head.

“Oooh, official summons,” Erica teases as Derek rips it open.

“It’s just the stationary,” Derek says. “Potter doesn’t bother using anything different.”

Sure enough, it is Potter, asking him to pop by his office this afternoon if he’s free. Derek scribbles a quick confirmation and sends the letter back with the owl, who takes off.

He offers to stay and help Erica with the paperwork, but she just snorts and waves at him to go.

Derek Apparates right to the Ministry Atrium, and heads for the elevators. He gets a few looks for his leather jacket and jeans instead of Auror robes, but he doesn’t care right now.

He gets a spot in the back of the elevator and waits patiently as more witches and wizards pile on. Apparently there’s some drama in the Department of Magical Sports and Games, and Derek can’t help but listen in. Ricky Santorini is cheating on three different people, two of which are in the elevator and both know about each other, but are speculating companionably on who the newest beau is.

One of the witches who is wearing the uniform of Department of Magical Catastrophes, sighs, and her companion— friend? the guy Ricky is cheating on her with— says, “You should leave him too! You can’t keep telling me to and not do it yourself.”

“You just met him this year, I’ve known him since Hogwarts, okay! You can’t just— it’s first love, I just—” she sighs, eyes darting around the elevator.

Derek has no idea what his face is doing but apparently it’s enough that the witch nods at him, finding solidarity. “This guy knows what I’m talking about,” she says.

“I really don’t,” Derek says, breathing out in relief when the elevators door opens.

He exits before the voice can finish announcing, “Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Derek swoops through the office, nodding at people who greet him with a polite, “Auror Hale,” or “How are you?”

He makes it to Potter’s office with only holding three short conversations, and that’s a good thing.

Derek knocks on Potter’s office door and it creaks open, so he steps inside. He’s always been on good terms with Potter, was friends with his children at school and has been invited back to his home for Christmas a few times; Potter’s one of the few people Derek trusts with his secret. He’s a good guy, Derek looks up to him and owes him so much.

The office isn’t empty.

“Oh, I didn’t know you had a meeting,” Derek says, taken aback at the woman sitting in front of Potter’s desk. He steps back and gives her a deferential nod. “Miss Granger.”

“Oh, Derek, come on in!” Potter says, gesturing Derek inside. He gets up and closes the door, Conjuring up another chair. “Do you know Hermione? She works over in Department of—”

“International Magical Cooperation, I know,” Derek says, shaking her hand, a little bit in awe. He’s corresponded with her when he was still in school, and a bit after that, but he’s never met her in person. “I wrote my seventh year honors thesis on one of the early bills you drafted. You’ve definitely got my vote for Minister of Magic if you ever decide to run.”

“Derek Hale, of course, I remember all your owls, they were so sweet,” Granger says, grinning. “And you’re such a charmer, thank you, I appreciate that. If Shacklebolt ever decides to retire, we’ll see.”

“I asked you here because I thought you might like to hear about Hermione’s current project,” Potter says, gesturing to the chair for Derek. Potter gives him a little bit of a nervous glance, and Derek can hear his heartbeat pick up as Potter leans in close and hands him a folded scrap of parchment. “She’s working on a new bill that could result in more protected rights of werewolves across all magical borders.”

Derek’s takes a deep breath, suddenly hyperaware of how cold it is in Potter’s office, the slight weight of the parchment in his hands, Potter’s hesitance. Derek unfolds the parchment and reads it quickly: I haven’t told her about you. She thinks you’re here because of an academic interest, particularly that paper you wrote at Hogwarts.

He nods at Potter, curious at what this is about.

Granger launches into an explanation of the bill— it’s very ambitious, calling for anti-discrimination on all fronts— employment, services, healthcare, education, and more. Derek thinks it’s a great idea in theory; he just doesn’t see it actually getting passed into law. The Wizengamot is pretty conservative, especially on the werewolf front.

She’s quite brilliant, Derek has to give her that, and he admires how much work has gone into drafting this already; but it’s going to take a lot to change the ideas in the wizarding world. They’re going to need a figurehead— Remus Lupin was a great role model, may he rest in peace, but in order for this bill to pass the people need a public figure, someone who’s open about being a werewolf, someone stable, dependable…

“Thanks, Hermione, I’ll see you Sunday for dinner as usual,” Potter says.

Apparently Derek was so lost in his thoughts he missed the final bit of Granger’s presentation. He hurriedly gets up to shake her hand as she leaves the office.

Once the door shuts, Potter blinks at him and smiles again, nervous scent filling the room. “So…”

“No,” Derek says.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Potter says, leaning back in his chair with a lift of his eyebrow.

“A new werewolf rights bill? And me, a werewolf. Come on,” Derek says, crossing his arms. “You said no would would ever know. That I’d be safe. That I’d have a career here with the Aurors. You promised.”

“I’m not going back on that, Derek,” Potter says, pushing his glasses up slightly. “Not at all. I’m asking you to consider going public. Just consider it. What it could do for the sake for werewolves everywhere, not just in Britain, but the entire wizarding world.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then nothing,” Potter says, giving Derek a small sad smile. “I’m not gonna sack you, you can stop making that face. I just— it’s just an idea. Hermione has no clue, of course. And I know it’s an immensely private issue, but just think about it. You’re a highly respected Auror, you’re young and handsome, I think people will respond very well to you.”

Derek stands up, pushing the chair back in. “I’ll- I’ll have to think about it, sir. I really like the idea of the bill— but it’s my life. I don’t know if I could ever get it back after the press… well.”

Potter nods at him. “I understand.”

“There are others, who’ve been bitten longer, are more experienced and more political. There are some werewolves in the public eye— Carissa Jones, for example—”

“Carissa Jones is eighty-seven years old and retired from a lifetime of growing roses,” Potter says, sighing. “She’s a lovely woman, and we already have her support. But quite frankly, the bulk of this bill rests on employment; we’ll need someone who’s worked a demanding career and can prove that they can. I also need someone the public can relate to, someone hardworking, someone who goes above and beyond to help give back to society. Ideally, it’s you.” Potter rubs his temples and sighs. “I understand your qualms, though. I wish I didn’t have to ask it of you.”

Derek swallows down his nerves. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you, Derek. Now if only we could crack down on all these cases violating the Statute of Secrecy, eh?”

Derek frowns. It’s been a recent trend, and they can’t figure out who or what is behind it. It almost seems to be random, but it’s too deliberate. Magic being performed in front of Muggles— nothing too serious, flying sparks here, levitation there— nothing that isn’t too out of the ordinary for accidental spellwork. But the sheer number of spells being performed in such a short time period, and increasing rapidly— and by Untraceable wands, too, it’s a bit alarming.

“Sir, you remember my report on the Rising Blood cult, and my theory that these— violations— are part of their agenda somehow—”

Potter waves him off. “We don’t have any known connections, and besides, all the materials for the Untraceable spells are kept under close watch. Ricketts and his known associates haven’t been touching the stuff, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Derek grabs a few files from his desk and is heading to the Apparition point so he can head home and work from there when he smells someone startlingly familiar.

What is Stiles doing in the Ministry?

He’s wearing a badge that reads “Visitor” but it doesn’t have a department listed on it, and he’s headed in Derek’s direction.

Derek grits his teeth. He could turn around and go use the southern Apparition point, but that’s another twenty minutes navigating through the Ministry and people would stop him for conversation and just— no. He can do this. He can face Stiles.

So Stiles hates him. So what?

They pass each other as Stiles heads to the elevator, and he looks up and meets Derek’s eye.

“Ah, I totally forgot you were a hotshot Auror,” Stiles says coldly, raising his hand in a mock salute.

“Are you here on Ministry business?” Derek asks politely. “It can be a confusing building. I can help you find your way, if you like.”

“No thanks,” Stiles says brusquely. “Why don’t you ask me why I’m here, it’s more direct.”

“Uh— why are you here?”

“Visiting,” Stiles says, with a smirk. “And I can find my way just fine. Why were you in my restaurant? And don’t tell me because of the food, you definitely seemed to dislike it.”

“I didn’t—”

“Oh right, yeah, you hated it!” Stiles gives him a curt nod. “Well, it was just fantastic seeing you! I’ll be on my way!”

Stiles does a sarcastic little bow and darts off towards the elevator, ducking inside before the doors close.

One of the portraits in the hallway, a stern looking woman in glasses (Mabel Eisenwhew, Inventor of the Stunning Spell), shakes her head and nods sympathetically at Derek. “An old flame of yours, sweetheart?”

Derek bites his lip. “Almost, maybe.”

Chapter Text

Derek’s flat is small; a spartan, tidy thing that is part of a new development in the mixed wizarding and Muggle village of Stagshead. The building is gray and five stories and made of concrete, his place is equally unimaginative, the flat having come furnished with a dull, uncomfortable couch, some equally boring furniture, a utilitarian fireplace connected to the Floo network, and a minimal kitchen.

He wanders right to the bedroom, and flops down on his hard, unforgiving bed. He rolls over on his back, thinking about the work he has to do, the amount of stuff he has to review. His stomach growls, but Derek can’t think of anything in the fridge he wants to eat, and going out just seems like an awful lot of energy.

He looks at the blank, empty walls of his bedroom, and falls asleep.

It’s dark when he wakes to the crackle of his fireplace coming to life; someone’s calling over the Floo.

It’s Cora’s voice. “Derek? Hey, are you home?”

“Be out in a sec,” Derek calls. He groggily gets up off the bed and walks back into the living room, where his little sister’s head is sitting in the embers. He crouches down to sit in front of her. “Hey, how are you?”

“Good, good! How was your day?” Cora is beaming. She’s been overly cheerful since the engagement, and Derek is happy for her, but today of all days, he’s feeling more than a bit sorry for himself, especially after his encounter with Stiles.

“Fine. Just work.”

“Eat dinner yet? Lily just made this amazing stew, made way too much of it, you should totally come over and eat dinner with us tonight.” Cora grins.

“I appreciate the invite, and you know I love Lily’s cooking, but I’m not really feeling up to it tonight. You and your fiance enjoy—”

Cora pouts.

“I’m out of Floo Powder, and I’m not Apparating all the way to Wales tonight, as much as I would appreciate the company.”

“Oh, come on, we’ll Apparate to you! And bring the food too.”

“Cora, season just started, the Harpies have their first match in a few weeks, don’t you have practice super early every day?”

Cora shrugs. “Isn’t no big deal, it’s just a bit of magic, I’ll take a Strengthening Potion when I get home or something. Or maybe I’ll get our fireplace upgraded from just firecalls so we can travel out of it as well and we’ll be able to visit you more often.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m not feeling up to it,” Derek says.

Cora, perceptive as always, raises her eyebrows. “Alright, what’s up with you? You’re being even more broody than usual, and that’s kind of a feat. Lily did say her dad had a meeting with you and he was kinda down about something, everything okay?”

Derek rubs his temples. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, but it’s probably a good idea. It’s not like he can confide in this with many of his friends; aside from his family, there are very few people in the know. “Yeah, he wants me to go public as a werewolf, in support of this new anti-discrimination bill Granger’s bringing to the Wizengamot.”

“Oh, Derek. I would reach out and hug you if I could.”

“Thanks, Cora.” Derek sighs. “I don’t know what I wanna do. I mean, the bill is great. It’s important. I just…”

He talks with Cora a bit about his concerns; about his privacy, about the public reaction, everything. Potter wouldn’t fire him, but with enough public backlash against having a werewolf in the Auror ranks, Derek might have to step down anyways. But who knows.

Cora listens intently and doesn’t judge him at all for not wanting to do it, and doesn’t pressure him towards it either, and Derek feels a bit better after the talk, but the bill isn’t all that’s on his mind.

“Yeah, that definitely wasn’t all of it. Come on, bro. I haven’t seen you this down since the Yule Ball.”

Derek groans.

Cora blinks in realization. “Oh shit, you saw him, didn’t you?”

“He opened up a new restaurant in Diagon Alley, and I ran into him again at the Ministry. That’s twice in one day, Cora. I just… eight years of nothing and all of a sudden…” Derek doesn’t know where to start.

“Don’t look for him, Derek,” Cora advises. “If he wants to talk to you, he’ll find you. Don’t go back to the restaurant, don’t try and find out where he lives…”

It’s a good plan.

Unfortunately it doesn’t work out.

The next day Derek meets with Parrish, who’s got the new, updated, now fully-funded investigation plans on Ricketts and the rest of the Rising Blood cult. “Day-to-day monitoring of the restaurant Roscoe’s,” Parrish says. “Hey, you liked the food there, right? Sounds like a good deal to me.”

“Right,” Derek says.

Ten Years Ago

“What’s got you in a funk?” Stiles plops onto the couch next to Derek, his Slytherin tie standing out against the red and gold of the Gryffindor common room.

“Career assessment,” Derek grumbles. “All fifth years have to do it. I just… I don’t know what I want to do. How could anyone know what they want to do?” He pushes the pamphlets aside and they scatter to the rug below. “What do you wanna do?”

Stiles nudges the pamphlets with his toe. “Hah, I bet they’re gonna have a field day when I have to do this assessment thing. My career doesn’t exist yet.”

“Right, okay, don’t tell me then, be all secretive,” Derek teases.

Stiles throws a pillow at Derek’s head. “Alright, don’t laugh.”

“Promise.”

“I’m gonna be the first to make magic work with Muggle tech,” Stiles says proudly.

“Cool,” Derek says. “I bet you can. I mean, you got that thing to work? That lets you firecall your dad without Floo powder or a fire?”

Stiles blushes. “Yeah, the phone worked a little bit and I got Facetime running for ten minutes before it exploded. Lucky you were there, really.”

“I’m sorry about your thing,” Derek says. The Aguamenti charm had been the first one he’d thought of, but apparently it also rendered Stiles’ device completely obsolete.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, shrugging. “I dunno. I mean, I like tinkering with things but it’s not exactly money in it? I’ve kind of always dreamed of owning my own restaurant, too.”

“I think you’ll be good at whatever you decide to do,” Derek says honestly. Stiles is clever and determined— a scary combination when he puts his mind to it. “I don’t know if I’m good at anything.”

“You’re good at being a hardass,” Stiles says, chuckling.

“Hey!”

“What? It’s true. Scott, be careful with those ingredients they might explode, Stiles this is contraband, I’m gonna have to confiscate it. Honestly, you might as well be a Prefect for all the rules you try to enforce.”

“I’m just looking out for you guys.”

“Okay, but you’ve got that… I dunno, nose for justice or something. That’s what my dad called it when he was looking to hire a new deputy— that’s like a junior Muggle Auror, of sorts. Like that time you went to Professor Longbottom because what those second years were saying about the War and Muggle-borns.”

“Okay, that wasn’t technically against the rules, it was mean and also just wrong,” Derek says adamantly.

“There you go, stickler for justice. Hey! Auror! That’s a thing, right? How come you don’t have one of those pamphlets?” Stiles rifles through the discarded pamphlets.

True, it had crossed Derek’s mind but he honestly didn’t think he had high enough marks in Charms. He was good at Defense, and adequate in Transfiguration, but really, the Aurors only accept the best for training. “I, ah…”

“Look, I know you’re down about that last Charms exam, but look, it’s easy.”

“Just because it’s easy for you doesn’t mean—”

“Look, I’ll help. And you don’t have to tell anyone a puny third-year is tutoring you in Charms, either.”

This time Derek throws the pillow at Stiles.

“Come on, I know just the thing. The house elves are letting me experiment in a corner of their kitchen, and there’s an apple pie just about ready.” Stiles grins at him and beckons him towards the portrait exit.

Derek nods, gathering up his things and following Stiles when he realizes something. “Should we get Scott? You came down here to visit him, right?” After all, whenever Stiles is in the Gryffindor common room it’s to spend time with his best friend.

Stiles shrugs. “Scott is in Potions class right now.”

“But—”

Stiles laughs. “He’s not the only Gryffindor I break into common rooms for, you know.”

Chapter Text

“This is the best pie I’ve ever had in my life,” Erica says, groaning around her mouthful. “And this beer goes perfectly with it, it’s like kind of nutty? I never would have thought— fuck, Stilinski can definitely cook. Did you know he could cook?”

A surge of memories rushes through Derek all at once: sneaking off to the kitchens, Stiles demanding he taste-test all sorts of things, ridiculous and strange combinations, and more often than not, his ideas turned out amazing.

Derek takes a deep breath. No. He’s not going to go down that road of reminiscence; it’ll be only be painful.

Derek ignores Erica and her pie, ignoring the mixture of pride and bitterness that sweeps through him. He’s happy Stiles found success, and that his restaurant is doing well, but he can’t get the way Stiles looked at him out of his mind.

Unfortunately where Ricketts goes, Derek goes, and Ricketts and his crew are there again, eating and laughing and every now and then whispering furtively to each other.

Derek’s been waiting for an opportune moment to cast a listening spell to eavesdrop on their conversation, but the place has been packed full for lunch for two hours. After two cups of coffee and plenty of newspaper-reading, he and Erica finally ordered lunch.

Erica sets down her fork and pats her belly with a happy sigh, looking over at Derek. “How’s yours?”

Since his run-in with Stiles, Derek had no idea what to expect when he returned to Roscoe’s. Deliberately ruined food, or maybe Stiles would refuse to serve him all. Kick him out.

Instead, he gets another burger, just as delicious he had the other day. It’s rare, just like he likes it, and there’s a surprisingly thick wedge of cheddar melted right inside the burger. Incredible.

Stiles probably just doesn’t want to cause a scene.

“It was fine,” Derek says.

“What’s the deal, you and Stilinski? How long it’s been?”

“Eight years,” Derek says, gritting his teeth.

“I don’t even remember what he was so upset about,” Erica says, looking over her shoulder at the Ricketts gang, who are muttering unintelligibly again. The restaurant is still too packed to perform the spell without anyone noticing. “If anything, he was quite rude to you. I mean, we went through all that trouble to get you to the Yule Ball in the first place and then he just turned you down in front of everyone.”

Derek’s hands clench into fists, and his knuckles turn white, and he exhales.

“Seems like a weird thing to hold a grudge for so long,” Erica continues, finishing the rest of her beer, and raises her eyebrows at Derek.

Erica’s a good friend; reconnecting with her since she moved to England has been good. She’s one of the few people Derek trusts implicitly… she should know.

He sighs. “It’s a long story.”

Erica jerks her head at the crowd around them. “We’ve got time.”

“We were friends.”

Erica waits, watching him, and Derek closes his eyes, remembering that winter. Mistletoe hanging all over the castle, snow covering Hogwarts like a soft, pretty dream. “I think I… I loved him. For longer than I was ready to admit. And I should have— I wanted to—”

He opens his eyes, but it’s not the restaurant he’s seeing, it’s the muffled hot heat of the woods in the summer, the pain in his side, the teeth tearing into him.

“You know that the summer before my seventh year of Hogwarts, I was—” Derek drops his voice to a whisper— “bitten.”

He hadn’t talked about it much to Erica. Especially not then. They’d become fast friends in the hospital wing that fall; Erica had spent many nights with Madam Pomfrey being treated for her seizures. She was used to managing them with her own set of potions, but her Beauxbatons professors had felt more comfortable with her in a observation setting, in case anything went wrong.

It had been all so new to Derek then, and painful. He wanted to talk about anything but being a werewolf— the TriWizard tournament, the tasks, the champions, anything. Erica had been happy to oblige, talking in accented English about her studies and her pet rabbit and her family back in France.

“What does that have to do with Stilinski?” Erica asks, taking a sip of her beer.

It shouldn’t have. Derek thought… it wouldn’t have mattered, and Derek would have told him, eventually, but it was too new and too much and the timing and then Stiles was just gone.

Eight Years Ago

“Ba-baaaa-ba-baaaaa,” Stiles sings, tapping his wand against one of the side tables as he reads from his book. The Gryffindor common room is packed, filled with people buzzing about the completion of the second task of the TriWizard tournament. There’s a roaring fire going, and Stiles is sitting distractedly close to Derek, who should be studying for a Transfiguration test.

Instead, Derek is watching the flames reflected in Stiles’ amber eyes.

“Ba-baaaaa-baa-baaaaaa,” Stiles sings, in a higher pitched tone. It’s obnoxious, is what it should be, but Derek has always been fond of the Carol of the Bells.

“Shut up, Stilinski,” Roberts says from across the room, looking up from his parchment. “Go back to your common room.”

“Leave it, Roberts,” Derek says, glaring at the fifth-year.

Roberts shakes his head and goes back to his studying.

Anita Glassman sits on the other end of the couch as she plays Gobstones with her friend, and Stiles ends up scooting closer to Derek.

Derek isn’t even trying to pretend to study anymore; his mind keeps wandering, thinking about Stiles’ thigh pressed up against his.

Stiles finally sets down his book. “So.”

“So…” Derek raises his eyebrows, which makes Stiles laugh.

“Got a date to the Yule Ball?” Stiles asks.

Derek’s heart sinks. “Uh, no,” he says quickly.

He really wanted to go, he wanted to ask Stiles, it would have been perfect to tell him how he feels. He was swept up in imagining Stiles saying yes, and they could date the rest of the year and be together.

The full moon falls the night before the Ball, and Madam Pomfrey already has him booked for three nights in the hospital wing. Derek will be still be sick to his stomach, trying to recover from the transformation. The last few haven’t gone so well, even with the Wolfsbane Potion, Derek felt weak, awful, unable to do anything but lie in bed and eat chocolate and wait a few days to get better.

It’s going to be like this for the rest of his life.

Madam Pomfrey told him he’d get better as he gets older, but Derek hates it. He hates everything, and most of all he hates the timing of it, and he can’t go to the Ball.

Cora had tried to console him, and suggested Derek ask Stiles out to the first Hogsmeade weekend after the winter break. It’s a pretty good plan. That would have worked.

Except.

Stiles is looking up at him, eyes shining. “Well, um— would you like to go with me?”

“With you?” Derek repeats, happiness and warmth flooding through his veins. Stiles wants to ask him out. Stiles wants to dance with him, to kiss him, to date him.

Stiles nods.

“I— I can’t,” Derek says, biting his lip. “I’m sorry.” Not that night, not any night that week, why did it have to be the Yule Ball?

“Oh.” Stiles looks crestfallen, and then his eyebrows knit together. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be weird, if I like you and you don’t… I mean, we can go as friends. If you want.”

“I can’t go,” he says again.

“Why?” Stiles tilts his head, ever curious.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” Derek hedges.

“But…” Stiles’ mouth is open to form the word why again and Derek knows it’s going to be one of those things that he won’t let go.

“I can’t date you, okay!” Derek snaps angrily. “We can’t be together— you and I are different and it’s not ever, ever going to work!” He doesn’t realize he’s shouting until the entire common room has gone silent, watching the two of them.

“Is this because I’m Muggle-born?” Stiles asks, in a smaller voice.

No, that would never be it, but Derek can’t tell Stiles the real reason, the awful truth, and the longer he’s taking to come up with a plausible answer the harder Stiles’ face gets until finally Stiles takes a deep breath and says, “Well, I never thought I’d see the day. I guess you’re just like the rest of that outdated pureblood rhetoric.”

Stiles tightens his green and silver tie and takes one last look at Derek and turns around, dashing off.

Present Day

“And then what?” Erica prods.

Derek stands up. “The Ricketts party just left,” he says, stunned.

Erica snaps to attention. “Fuck, I’m sorry— we should have—”

“No, it’s my fault.”

They rush over to the empty table, but it’s clear already of dishes and there’s nothing left behind, no notes scribbled on napkins, no trinkets, nothing.

Outside the window, Derek catches a glimpse of them, but they’re already all Disapparating.

“I’ll see if I can spell where they went,” Erica says before dashing out the door.

Derek checks the table again, sweeping his hands across the surface. He looks at everything, and then spots something unusual in the decorative vase of flowers. It’s partially obscured by the greenery, but Derek brushes it aside and plucks it out.

It’s heavier than he was expecting, for something so small. It’s about the size of his thumb, made out of a smooth black material that he hasn’t seen before. There’s a circular piece of glass that’s the most unusual, and a few other bumps in the surface but Derek has no idea what it is.

He pockets it.

The rest of the day is a crapshoot. Erica’s spell turned up nothing, and then she had to run off and work on her cauldron smuggling case, and Derek had nothing else to do but paperwork and try and retrace his steps.

That night at home, he sets the strange object on his table, peering at it.

“What are you?” Derek mutters, turning the thing this way and that. It’s the little glass piece that fascinates him the most; but he can’t think of what purpose it could have, for a thing so small.

He finally gets a headache trying to figure out what it is, and Derek stops pacing back and forth. It’s been a stressful day, what with the case and all this thinking about Stiles.

He needs to relax. A shower, and heading to bed early.

Derek strips out of his t-shirt, dropping it on the floor, and his hands are on his trousers when he hears the distinct pop of someone Apparating outside his flat.

He reaches for his wand, but the person speaks first, and of all people to show up outside his flat, this is probably the one he expected least.

“Please put your shirt back on before you answer the door,” Stiles says.

Derek blanks for a moment before he does so, and he opens the door, half-expecting to be hallucinating what just happened, but Stiles is in fact standing in the hallway, his cheeks flushed pink.

Chapter Text

“How did you know I wasn’t wearing a shirt?” Derek asks, his eyes narrowing. “And what are you doing here— how do you know where I—”

Stiles waves his hand vaguely. “Not a social call. I just want my piece back.”

“Piece…”’

“There it is! I’ll just…” Stiles squeezes past Derek without so much another word and plucks the thing off his dining room table. “I won’t even press charges. Stealing from a public establishment, really, Derek?”

Stiles is back out the door again and striding down the hallway, and Derek is watching him (and his ass) in a stupor when he jars back to reality.

“Stiles!” Derek races after him and catches up easily. “This is official Auror business. I wasn’t stealing. What is this thing, anyways?”

He reaches for it, but Stiles holds it aloft defiantly.

It really has been awhile. Derek remembers at Hogwarts being much taller than Stiles for so long, that it’s jarring to have this actually work. Stiles is his height now.

That smirk is not attractive, Derek tells himself, but he finds himself caught by Stiles’ mouth all the same.

“That’s my business,” Stiles says.

Derek casts a quick spell to summon his Auror paperwork out of his storage pocket, and the official parchment with the Ministry of Magic seal hovers in the air. “And also mine,” Derek says. “It’s part of an official investigation.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine. Play it that way.” He snaps his fingers, and without speaking an incantation— when did Stiles get so proficient in wandless magic?— another piece of parchment appears in the air, also bearing the Ministry seal.

Derek stares at it for a minute, scanning quickly, registering Stiles’ name and the Department of Mysteries emblazoned on the parchment, and steps back, stunned. “You’re an Unspeakable?”

Stiles shrugs. “Doing some recon on behalf of one. So therefore, official business, yadda yadda, you’re the one interfering, goodbye.”

He makes a gesture as if he’s about to Disapparate, and Derek on impulse catches him by the elbow. If Stiles does it anyway, without the proper spellwork for Side-Along Apparition, it’s probable Derek will be splinched, but he’s willing to risk it.

Stiles freezes.

“Wait, Stiles, please,” Derek says.

A doorway opens across from them. Jemma Filks, one of Derek’s more busybody neighbors, eyes them curiously. Derek waves halfheartedly at her and lowers his voice. “Let’s talk about this; there’s no reason why our two departments can’t work together.”

“Fine. You’ve got five minutes.”

Stiles lets Derek lead him back to his flat, and picks a corner of the couch and perches on it delicately, like a bird. Like he’s just ready to leave at any moment.

Derek explains quickly, as much as he can explain the last two years he’s spent investigating the Rising Blood cult and building enough evidence to arrest them all. Despite the fact that he’s got a few members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement convinced that they’re dangerous, no one besides Potter really believes that the cult is a serious threat to the wizarding world.

Ricketts is old money, one of the last bastions of families clinging to preserving bloodlines. Even the Malfoys aren’t doing that anymore; it’s ridiculous. And yet his ideology has attracted followers; it’s this growing movement that worries Derek, people echoing the last Dark Lord’s sentiments.

If only Derek knew their plan he could stop them.

Stiles holds his hand up. “Your investigation— you’ve been following Ricketts very closely, right? Official Auror tracking spells and all that?”

“Yes,” Derek grumbles. It had been such a pain getting that warrant, too.

“Where was he on the night of…” Stiles snaps his finger and a book appears out of the air. He starts rifling through it, pausing. “April twenty-fourth?”

Derek is too relieved Stiles is actually talking to him to question the strangeness of the detail. He casts another spell, linking to his desk drawer at work, and pulls out a thick sheaf of parchment where he’s been keeping careful notes. He rummages through it, finally looking up. “Somewhere off the Cobb estate outside of Reading. Why?”

Stiles waves his hand and his book disappears, and he nods his head. “I know their plan.”

Derek stares. “I’ve been working on this for years —”

“Look, the Department of Mysteries has had this project in the making for at least a decade, okay—”

“You said you’re not an Unspeakable—”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Which is why I can talk to you about it, duh. You have no idea how hard it was for Scott to get any information out of anyone when he’s under a spell that forbids him from talking about his work. Which is why he brought me onto the project. Also because Ricketts can’t get enough of my fish-and-chips. But I’ve only ever been able to record pieces of their conversations, had no idea where they got up to. Between the two of us we should have all the information we need.”

“Project? What project?” This is so unusual; the Department of Mysteries doesn’t deal with crime— they work on research, on huge overreaching things that would affect wizardkind as a whole. “And how did you record their conversations?”

Stiles holds up the thing. “Audio and visual. Even altered it so it doesn’t need to be hooked up to power. Magic is amazing, just add a little bit of it to Muggle tech and you can create so many neat things.”

Muggle technology and magic together. “That’s incredible, Stiles! You did it!” Derek is so amazed and proud he forgets for a moment the rift between them, and moves to hug Stiles— it feels so automatic, like they could be back at Hogwarts again and Stiles is trying to convince Derek to use pens.

He stops himself and casually sticks his hands in his hair, pretending to smooth it. If Stiles notices the gesture, he doesn’t say anything. He does look much more comfortable now, less like he’s going to bolt. Stiles is leaning back on the couch, picking one of the cushions and picking at it aimlessly. He always did like to keep his hands busy.

It’s comforting, these small details about Stiles that are the same.

Derek sits down next to him. Maybe there’s a way to fix this. Maybe they can be friends again.

“Okay, what I’m about to tell you is top secret. I’d have to have you sign all this Ministry paperwork about the Department of Mysteries clauses but since you’re an Auror and as it’s quickly getting dark, I think it’ll be fine.” Stiles fixes him with a serious look. “So for the past ten years the Department of Mysteries has been developing a plan to repeal the Statute of Secrecy.”

“What?” Derek is floored. The Statute is the cornerstone of so many laws in the wizarding world, it’s to protect them—

“Hear me out. Minister Shacklebolt is totally on board, as with a few other influential members of the Wizengamot. Also Harry Potter. And Hermione Granger, who has been working directly with me and Scott.” Stiles starts to explain. “It’s a huge, involved project. We’ve been slowly working with Muggle heads of state for years to prepare them for the eventual reveal. The Ministry has just been waiting for the right political administration to do it, but meanwhile we’ve been laying the foundation.”

Derek never realized it, but Stiles actually… makes a lot of sense. Muggle technology is moving forward at a faster rate than anyone can predict, and the wizarding world constantly underestimates them. It’s true, it’s only a matter of time before the Muggle world discovers them. Stiles demonstrates how easy it is for someone to record something— and apparently every single Muggle is now equipped with what seems like the equivalent of a wand, a device that can communicate instantly, whether by calls or written messages or moving photographs.

“So you see why it’s a good idea for us to tell them, on our terms. It’ll be a soft reveal, and we’ll be working together to transition everyone peacefully.”

This is amazing. It’s easy to see from the passionate way Stiles talks about the project that he’s found his calling. Derek is so happy for him; he’s doing exactly what he wanted to do.

“I mean, Potter even had the idea of having some spokespeople, because Muggles already know about werewolves and vampires and stuff, it’s a huge part of their literature and movies and things, and they’re very romanticized.” Stiles laughs. “He promised me a sexy werewolf, but no such luck. I mean, I understand. It’s probably easier to tell a Muggle you’re a werewolf than anyone in the wizarding world, though; there are so many prejudices they have that the Muggles don’t.”

This is so much for Derek to process. “What does this have to do with Ricketts?”

Stiles holds up a finger. “Ah. Well, Rising Blood also wants to repeal the Statute of Secrecy. They don’t want to work with the Muggles, though. They want to make a huge, shocking statement of power with magic, scare them all, and then establish themselves as an upper class. Which throws a huge fucking wrench into all of our plans. Scott and I had a schedule of doing small, unexplainable recordable bits of magic— cool things, pretty things that people will wanna snapchat or tweet about, and it’s been a hell of a time trying to stop the cult from hurting people.”

Stiles closes his eyes, rubbing his temples. “I’ve been trying to figure out where they might be tonight, and there definitely has been a monthly sort of pattern.” He stands up, and suddenly reverts back to the cold, distant Stiles. “Thanks for your help. I’ll have my office request yours for your notes on the investigation.”

He’s already walking to the door. Derek wants to stop him, tell him something, anything, beg him to stay, ask him why he returned all those letters unopened, anything. He skips over their conversation, looking for any detail he could claim he wants clarifying— “Tonight? Where are you going?”

Stiles shrugs. “Stakeout.”

“I’m going with you.” Derek is prepared to argue with Stiles about why this is a good idea, but Stiles just nods and even gives him a small smile.

“Figured you’d say that. Come on, then.”

“We aren’t going to Apparate?”

“They always have wards up. I’ll drive.”

Derek ducks his head, embarrassed. He knows they can’t Apparate directly to the location; he meant Apparate closeby and then walk.

“It’ll be faster, come on. I’ll introduce you to Roscoe II.’”

Roscoe II is a car that Stiles lovingly calls a Jeep. It’s large and clunking, but it navigates easily on the backcountry roads, splashing through the mud. Apparently it’ll take only an hour to get to the Cobb estate, but it’s much better than traipsing through mud for hours after Apparating.

Stiles doesn’t say much after he waxes poetic about the car, just keeps his hand on the wheel and drives, his eyes on the road. The night is silent, no sound but the car rumbling through the darkness.

“Stiles,” Derek tries, and then clears his throat and tries again. “About the Yule Ball—”

“It’s fine, Derek.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I really did try to explain, but before term started you just… disappeared. I sent you letters, but you just… sent them back.”

Stiles glances at Derek, then snaps his eyes back to the road. “Yeah, I dropped out of Hogwarts. My dad was hit by a stray bullet when he was out on the job, and I wanted to go home to take care of him. I mean, I couldn’t live across an ocean from him, not after that.”

Derek stills. He had no idea. He remembers Stiles said his dad was some sort of Muggle Auror— a dangerous job. “Your dad… is he okay?”

Stiles waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, he’s fine. Missed all his vital organs, but he got stuck doing a desk job, which he hates, and I had to make sure he was eating healthy and everything.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say. Part of him is hurt that Stiles never told him, but he remembers they didn’t exactly leave as friends. “I’m sure McGonagall would have been fine with you taking time off and returning so you could graduate,” he says.

Stiles shrugs. “I didn’t really care at that point. I wasn’t exactly happy with magic at the time, or anyone in that world. It’s cool, I went to a community college and then transferred to Berkeley and did alright. I almost went to grad school, but then Scott needed help with this thing, and I always did want to start a restaurant, so.”

Derek nods, folding his hands together. It’s silent for a few minutes, and he steels himself. “I am sorry, you know. I sent you so many letters, trying to explain.” It had been so hard, for seventeen-year-old Derek to write I am a werewolf , watching the ink seep into the parchment with finality. But he never heard back from Stiles.

“Wasn’t in the mood to listen. But I… appreciate that.” Stiles gives Derek a sad smile. “Look, it’s fine. I know I was a bit snippy with you at the restaurant, but I wasn’t expecting to see you and it threw me off. I’m sorry about that. And it’s… fine, really. I’m over it.”

“Oh.” Derek takes a deep breath. “You know it wasn’t because you’re Muggleborn, I just— I’m a—”

“It was a me thing, and that’s all fine.” Stiles is staring pointedly at the road.

“Stiles—”

Stiles coughs. “What about you? Right into Auror training after Hogwarts? Still with your French girlfriend, I see. Or is it fiancee or wife now?”

“What— you mean Erica?” Derek blinks. “No, we’re just good friends. She’s also an Auror, has been working with me on the Ricketts case.”

“So you dated at Hogwarts and then started working together again, that must be weird, old flames and all that.” Stiles is gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white.

“Stiles, we never dated, why would you—”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Yule Ball? Huge celebration between three schools, super hot foreign students?”

“No, that’s not what happened.” Derek sighs.

Eight Years Ago

“Miss Reyes, I already released you. What are you still doing here? Are you bothering Derek? He’s supposed to be resting.”

“Just bringing him some chocolate, Madam Pomfrey,” Erica says sweetly.

“I guess that’s alright. Make sure he eats it.”

From behind the curtain Derek watches Madam Pomfrey's shadow leave the room, and Erica comes back to his bed, grinning at him. She’s wearing her dress robes already, a shiny, shimmering turquoise that makes her eyes stand out, and she’s holding a large box.

“You should go,” Derek says weakly, struggling to sit up. Last night’s full moon had really taken it out of him.

“I will,” Erica says. “But not without you. Here.” She uncovers the box to reveal a stylish set of black dress robes.

“What?”

“You’ve been talking my ear off about Stilinski forever. Go to the Ball. Ask him to dance.” She grins at him, like it’s an easy thing to do.

Derek gapes. “Erica! I can’t leave the Hospital Wing! I’m supposed to be recovering from the full moon!”

“And you thought it would be tonight, not last night, so the universe obviously wants you to go. The worst of it is over, come on. Just put on the robes and I’ll help you get there, and obviously Stilinski will hold you up while you dance and then when you’re snogging you’ll be sitting or laying down of course—”

Derek blushes. “Okay, okay. But Madam Pomfrey—”

“She already left for Hogsmeade to go drink with Madam Rosmerta.”

It takes awhile, and the Ball has already started by the time Erica finishes helping Derek into his robes and slowly walking with him to the Great Hall. Every step seems to take an hour, but Erica steadies him, letting Derek drape his arm around her shoulders as they move.

The Hall is lush with flowers and mistletoe and wreaths, softly illuminated by floating candles. Music is playing, and couples are dancing. There’s laughter in the air, and in the distance Derek spots Stiles. He’s wearing Slytherin-green robes, and he’s standing by the punch with Scott and his friends, looking bored.

“There!” Erica says, pleased. “Now you just—”

Derek loses his balance, and Erica props him up. He manages to stand up again, but he feels a bit dizzy.

“Are you okay? Do you want some water?”

Derek nods.

Erica leads him to nearby wall, and Derek feels pretty stable leaning against it, and Erica rushes off, her robes swishing.

Finally he makes eye contact with Stiles. Derek waves, hope building up in his chest.

Stiles’ mouth hardens to a flat line and he strides over to Derek.

“Do you—”

“How dare you,” Stiles hisses.

“ — want to dance,” Derek finishes awkwardly.

“No, I do not!” Stiles says, voice carrying. “I cannot believe after you rejected me you would just rub it in my face, I thought you were better than this but clearly I was wrong, and I don’t want your pity dance, and I don’t ever want see your face again, you rude, egotistical, pureblood— asshole!”

“Stiles—”

Stiles turns around and walks off without another word.

Derek stands there, stunned, and the crowd that’s gathered around them watches in interest. They move aside as Stiles angrily storms through them, leaving Derek by the wall, alone.

Present Day

“Oh? What happened, then? Because you two looked very cozy, coming into the Great Hall together.”

Derek takes a deep breath. He’s going to tell Stiles he’s a werewolf now. He opens his mouth, and then closes it, and tries again. Why is this so hard?

“Whatever, it was a long time ago. Oh, we’re here.” Stiles pulls the car to a stop, and clicks a button on the console, and then the car disappears. It’s a bit unsettling, to be sitting on what appears to be nothing but Derek manages to get out just fine.

He lands in a puddle up to his knees in mud.

“Alright, we’ve got surprise on our side, especially since we didn’t Apparate in,” Stiles whispers. “It looks like it’s those set of buildings over there— I see a light.”

They quietly make their way over to the buildings— it’s an old farm, spelled to look abandoned to Muggles, and originally was used to brew butterbeer, but the brewery changed location. The place hasn’t been used in ages, but the sweet scent of the beer still lingers.

They spot figures moving as they make their way closer, and Stiles signals Derek to duck down in the grass. It’s different from any stakeout Derek’s ever done. For one, he would have much more backup, and they’d have to case the place first, do an overview to prevent—

Derek feels the cold press of a wand to the back of his neck. “Hello there, boys,” sneers a voice.

Chapter Text

It’s too dark to see clearly, but Derek thinks it might be Norokov, Ricketts’ right hand man. Derek recognizes the gruff voice from a few recording spells.

“Wands,” Norokov demands.

There’s another man holding Stiles at wandpoint, too; otherwise Derek might risk a fight to get out of the situation, but there’s no getting out of this.

He hands over his wand, and Stiles hands over his reluctantly as well.

“And who might you be? Spies from the Ministry, perhaps?” Norokov sneers.

“Nothing, we were just—  we were just out for a stroll,” Stiles says automatically. “Nice moonlit night—  not that it’s out yet, but it’s romantic, anyway— ”

Derek nods, edging closer to to Stiles.

Norokov narrows his eyes. “We’ll see about that. Check his pockets,” he says to the other man, and flicks his wand, conjuring up ropes, tying Derek’s and Stiles’ hands behind their backs.

The few odds and ends in Derek’s pockets get turned over; a folded-up copy of the Daily Prophet, a few Galleons and a handful of Sickles. Norokov tosses it all in a rucksack and holds it open for the contents of Stiles’ pockets—  a pen that Derek recognizes, a small sheaf of paper, a leather wallet, and a slim black case.

Stiles’ mouth pinches into a frown; it’s only a quick gesture, and Derek knows the thing is important, whatever it is.

Unfortunately, the Rising Blood men notice as well.

“What’s this, then?”

“Some Muggle rubbish.”

The two men snort and look at Stiles with disgust. Norokov grabs the thing and looks Stiles into the eye, dropping it into the mud.

Stiles’ fist clench and unclench, and Derek wants to reach over, take his hand, give him any sort of comfort, but the most he can do is knock his shoulders against Stiles’.

Norokov steps on it, and Derek can hear the clink of it breaking into pieces.

“Damn it, that was a new— ”

Derek does elbow Stiles this time, but not before Stiles lets out a litany of curses, talking about eye-fone-sevens and other things, and then they’re both gagged and there’s no more talking.

The inside of the former brewery is filled with people—  at least forty of them. Derek balks; he hadn’t realized Ricketts had so many followers.

“They say there were out snogging or something,” Norokov says, pushing Derek and Stiles forward.

Ricketts eyes them critically and then laughs. “Do you know what you have brought me? This is Derek Hale.”

A murmur of whispers break out around them, and Derek can hear someone say Auror and then in the back, someone mutter, “One of Greyback’s? That summer he got loose?”

RIcketts laughs again. “Yes, the very same.”

Derek freezes. His werewolf status is confidential, but it’s in the Ministry records and they could have…but nowhere on any paperwork is it recorded who bit Derek. If they know… they must be in contact with Greyback in Azkaban.  

“And to think, Potter wants this one to be the public face,” Ricketts says, striding forward Derek and grabbing his chin, shaking it. “Because he’s so competent and peaceful and noble.”

Stiles is making his face, the one when he’s trying to put the pieces together. He glances at Derek, concerned, but Derek doesn’t think he could have heard the Greyback comment in the back.

No, not like this, Derek thinks desperately. I want to tell him, I want to tell him everything.

Ricketts stands up and raises his voice. “Tonight, we are going to make history.”

Derek thinks this room originally was a safe, a locked storeroom for the vintage brews of butterbeer. It’s been fitted with a set of iron bars, facing the rest of the brewery. The slight sweetness still hangs in the air, and he and Stiles are dumped inside unceremoniously by two laughing goons, who leave promptly. They join the rest of the group at the other end of the hall. Some sort of long, intense discussion happening over there.

Stiles works his wrists against a set of iron-wrought pillars until the ropes come undone, then rips his gag off. “History,” he scoffs, carefully untying Derek. “What the fuck were they on about? History is locking us in this cell?”

Derek rubs his wrists and takes a deep breath, trying to take stock of the situation.

“Scott will know something’s wrong when I don’t show up at the rendezvous,” Stiles says. “It’ll be fine.” He scoffs at them as the men start to play cards. “They meant to say torture, right? I mean, they must know how boring you are— yep, that face, I bet you’re just gonna sulk in the corner and make that face all night.”

Despite the flippant remarks, Stiles smells anxious, and more than a bit scared. Derek wants to do something, anything, to protect him, but they’re locked in here without wands, and there’s little he can do.

Stiles squeezes his arm through the bars and reaches for the lock, scowling.

“What?”

“I’ve got a lockpick but it’s in my wallet,” Stiles says, slumping against the bars, sliding down until he hits the floor, closing his eyes.

Derek paces back and forth, unwilling to accept that they’re trapped here. At least not yet. Stiles may think help is on the way, talking about them being tracked by his eye-fone or something, but Derek’s never heard of this GPS thing and since no one is authorized to put a tracing spell on him, and he didn’t tell Erica where he went, no one will be coming tonight, for Derek, anyways.

“At least there’s a window,” Stiles says. “Some view, though.”

Derek glances upward; indeed, the dingy cell has an open skylight, probably from disrepair rather than actual intention. It’s too high up to be any sort of use for escape. At least there’s a bit of light now that the clouds have shifted to reveal the pale glow of the—

Moon.

Derek flinches— that must have been why Ricketts was so gleeful when he said Derek Hale. If tonight is a full moon—

“Fuck.” Derek glances around the cell quickly, looking for discarded manacles, chains, anything. He won’t hurt Stiles, he won’t. Already he can feel his blood rising; he must have been putting off the evening’s agitation towards just the situation, he must have lost track of time, he thought his transformation wasn’t until next week.

There. In the corner. A rusted chain. No manacles, but…

“Wandless magic,” Derek gasps.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “It exists, yep.”

Derek seizes the chain, wrapping it around his waist. “Can you chain me—”

The amused snort is not what Derek’s expecting, and then Stiles coughs and fixes him with a curious look. “Transfiguration was never my strong suit, so no. I can do a few Charms, like cast a globe of light that will illuminate these already delightful digs… why?”

Words. He can’t… he can feel it, his bones starting to rearrange, the pain magnifying a hundredfold.

Stiles stands up. “Derek?”

Derek doubles over, feeling the wolf surge within him, taking control of his body, his mind… with his great effort he finally manages, “Stiles— I’m sorry— you—”

“Derek!” Hands, hands on his face, caressing his cheek, no, no, Stiles, Stiles run away—-

Pain. He can only feel pain now— the anguish in his heart that he’s carried for so long, the words he couldn’t say, the chance that he lost, the beautiful man next to him who doesn’t deserve this— it all melts away.

He howls.

The night beckons, but the wolf is trapped, trapped. He needs to run, to fight, to claim, to—

He sniffs the air.

The man next to him scoots backward, slowly, holding his hands up. “Holy fuck, Derek. When did you…”

The wolf stalks forward, and sniffs again. It is a good scent. Mine mine mine, he thinks, turning around and snarling, just in case there are enemies near. Protect protect protect. He howls again, to let everyone know.

He circles the space; it isn’t his territory, it smells nothing like him, only of the foul ones who put him here.

“Your seventh year… you were sick for three days in September. And October. And… I was gone over Thanksgiving, you must have… fuck, Derek.”

His human smells like pain, of sadness. The wolf bumps his head against him.

“Derek… you look really soft, and you probably don’t understand me but I kinda want to… okay, it looks like you’re cool…”

There’s a soft hand in his fur, and the wolf grumbles in contentment. His human is unhappy still, though. It has something to do with the foul ones nearby, he knows this.

The wolf rushes forward, and meets cold hard resistance, but not for long. He snarls, throwing himself at the metal, over and over—

“Derek, stop it, you’re gonna hurt yourself—  oh, hey, you actually loosened it, do it again— ”

The wolf’s head hurts, but it doesn’t matter, they need to be free to run.

Voices, and shouting, the foul ones are scattering, but the wolf is glad. He chases one down and snarls, and they disappear, the sharp acrid tang of magic left in the air after they’re gone.

Open air, open fields, the moonlight beckons to him, and he howls.

His human is running after him, and the wolf playfully noses at him, circling, playing.

“Derek, I got our stuff, everyone Disapparated as soon as we busted out, guess a feral werewolf is too much for them. But you’re not that feral, huh?”

A moth lands on his nose, and the wolf snorts and shakes it off.

“We should probably get out of here, I don’t think anyone will be too happy to see a loose werewolf...Okay, I think Side-Along Apparition should work even when you’re a wolf… I just have to put in these parameters… how much do you weigh, uh… okay…”

His human wraps his arms around his chest, and attempts to pick him up. The wolf huffs in amusement.

“Alright, let me spell this. Okay, ready?”

The magic is uncomfortable, but it’s over in a second, and then the wolf is surrounded by familiar scents. His den, his human, everything smells right here.

He takes his human by the arm, very gently, as one might do with something precious, and leads him to the soft place.

“I can sleep on the couch, Derek—  okay, okay— ”

The wolf curls around his human, satisfied that they are safe. He licks the man’s neck once more, and settles down to sleep.

Chapter Text

Derek wakes up in slow increments. He’s tired, aching all over, muscles and joints in pain from the transformation.

His thoughts are muddled, still mixed with the pure instincts of the wolf, all of which are currently sleepsleepsleep. Derek fights it a little, trying to get back to consciousness even as his eyes don’t seem to want to open.

Usually after a full moon Derek can’t even move, he’s in so much pain. He’s a little sore, and exhausted, but it isn’t the cooped-up desperation that usually comes with spending the night locked in his bedroom.

He doesn’t usually remember much when he’s a wolf, just bit of the feelings left from the night before— anger, usually, from being locked in. The improvements in the Wolfsbane Potion have leapt tremendously in the past few years, but the new variation Derek has been taking is just a simple potion every morning at breakfast, so there’s less chance of him forgetting it. It’s doesn’t have the same amount of control the traditional potion did, and recommended usually for older werewolves who know what they’re doing and can secure themselves.

Light is coming through the window. Derek yawns and curls in closer to the warm body next to him that smells like home.

He freezes and opens his eyes.

Stiles is in his bed.

Stiles is in his arms.

His mouth is open, breathing rhythmically, looking at peace. Stiles is wearing his Muggle clothes still; a shirt and those thick denim trousers, and even bright red shoes.

Derek watches him for a moment, the way his eyelashes move with every breath, the rise and fall of his chest, takes it all in. Stiles is a heavy weight on his arm, and Derek’s other arm is wrapped protectively around him, his own leg thrown over Stiles’ thighs. One of Stiles’ arms is wrapped around Derek’s waist… like they’re cuddling.

What happened last night? All Derek can remember is the two of them getting caught by the Rising Blood members and being locked up— he must have transformed, but how did they escape? And get back to his flat? And to cuddle? Derek doesn’t even cuddle; how did he manage it as a wolf?

Stiles shifts, rolling onto to his side. The arm around Derek’s waist slips down to the curve of his ass.

Stiles’ eyes snap open.

“Fuck, Derek— I—”

Stiles scoots back, like he’s been scalded, so quickly he almost falls off the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, the words taking a lot of effort, and he tries to sit up and only manages to roll over on his back.

Stiles’ cheeks turn bright red, and his eyes fall to Derek’s lap, and then he quickly look back up again. “Don’t even,” he says. “You, uh, you saved us both. I just Apparated us back here.”

“Even so,” Derek says, trying to push himself up in a sitting position.

Stiles squeaks. “How about— here.” He hands Derek a pillow and places it in his lap. “Okay, that doesn’t— I still have to look at— okay, how about a shirt?”

Derek musters up his energy and grabs the corner of the blanket, pulling it up to his shoulders. He raises his eyebrows.

Stiles exhales. “Okay, okay, I just— yeah.”

He’s still flushed, which normally Derek would find very interesting but right now he’s kind of dizzy.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks. “I mean, I don’t know many werewolves, but the transformation is supposed be really exhausting. Like you can’t move, exhausting.”

Derek nods.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Exhausting enough where you definitely couldn’t go to the Yule Ball, but you tried anyway and I was— I was a jerk. I’m sorry, Derek.”

“Stiles—”

“Hey, you must feel like shit— how about some tea? Or breakfast? I can make you breakfast, whatever you want, or you know I have that gift where I always know what people would want to eat and I bet you’re starving.” Stiles is already walking towards the door, talking with his hands.

Derek is exhausted, but he’s also warm and comfortable. And sated, for some reason. He guesses the wolf got to run around last night. “Stiles, it isn’t your fault,” he starts, but Stiles is already out of the bedroom.

He sighs, and curls up even more in his blanket burrito. He closes his eyes, and can feel sleep pulling at him again.

Derek wakes again to a fantastic smell. He opens his eyes and Stiles is standing in his bedroom doorway, holding a large tray Derek didn’t even know he owned. Stiles gently sets the tray down on the edge of the bed; there’s a large pitcher of orange juice, a mug of coffee, a huge delicious-smelling mess of fried potatoes and onions and peppers, and fried eggs, yolks runny just the way Derek likes it, and a huge steak.

His stomach grumbles; usually after a full moon Derek is famished, but the most he’s ever been able to make himself was oatmeal.

He stares at the food, dumbfounded, and pushes himself up into a sitting position. “Thank you,” he says.

Stiles sits down next to the tray and smiles eagerly at him.

Derek smiles back weakly.

Stiles’ mouth falls open a little. “Oh, I realized, I, er... I can make you like, a smoothie or something, or… help?”

Derek nods.

It’s silent except for the sound of their breaths, and Derek can hear Stiles’ heartbeat racing. Not from fear. From excitement.

He smells of hope.

The mug of coffee is gently brought to Derek’s lips, and Stiles helps him slowly take a sip. And then Stiles jabs the egg, swirls the potatoes around in the yolk and spoons the whole thing over to Derek for a bite.

Stiles feeds everything to him, bite by bite, even cutting up the steak into small pieces.

“You should eat too,” Derek musters.

“Oh, come on, you first,” Stiles says, and finally after Derek insists more, takes several bites of the food himself.

They eat off the same plate, and Stiles starts talking about breakfast in his restaurant, some of his favorite patrons and their eccentricities.

Derek takes it all in; Stiles in his bed, the soft intimacy of it all, Stiles drinking from the same mug, Stiles being here. Taking care of him.

The plates are cleared away, and then Stiles is back, fluffing Derek’s pillow. He’s sits down on the edge of the bed, and reaches out, like he wants to touch Derek’s face. Stiles blushes, running his hand in his hair.

“You should get some more rest,” Stiles says softly.

“Thank you,” Derek murmurs. “Stay,” he adds. “Please…”

He isn’t sure if Stiles hears him, and then he drifts off to sleep, warm and content.

Derek stirs to consciousness. On the first day after a full moon, his routine tells him he should probably stumble to the kitchen and whip up another batch of oatmeal, but his body says he’s well fed, and much less exhausted than he currently is.

He sits up in bed. Stiles. The decadent breakfast. The run-in with the Rising Blood group last night.

Derek throws off the covers and stumbles out of the bedroom.

Stiles is in his living room, arguing with his fire.

“No, I don’t know where the files are, and no, I’m not gonna wake him up to ask—”

“Well since you’re cohabitating and all, you can just poke around and look,” Erica says, smirking.

“We are not— ”

“What are you doing there, then, very obviously looking like you stayed the night?”

“Okay, I did, but it’s not what you’re thinking— I just made breakfast and got him some groceries, you know, he’s not feeling well—”

Erica grins. “Oh. So he’s told you, then. Finally getting your heads out of your asses, I see. Good, I was getting tired having to avoid your restaurant. You make good food, Stilinski. Tell Derek when he wakes up to send me the Ricketts case files right away— I’ve got him in custody, but the DMLES is after me on all the paperwork, so— oh, hey, Derek!”

Derek waves gingerly and makes his way over to the couch.

“You should be in bed,” Stiles says, frowning at him, but he grabs the throw blanket and wraps it around Derek’s shoulders.

“You have Ricketts in custody?” Derek asks.

“Yep. Apparently most of his followers were having some full moon party out by Reading, but they did some illegal wards and stuff that tripped off Ministry restriction alarms, so we have them on the books for those for sure.”

Derek casts a quick spell that sends the contents of his filebox back in his office to Erica’s office and smiles at her. He’s glad it’s taken care of.

“Ricketts was raving about some huge feral werewolf on the grounds,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

Derek shakes his head, but he can’t help smiling.

“I’ll get the full story from you later. Get some rest, Derek,” Erica says, and she waves and disappears from the fire.

“Yeah, get some rest,” Stiles echoes, shaking his head at Derek.

“I feel pretty good, actually,” Derek says. “You stayed.”

“You asked.” Stiles glances at him, and then looks away, guiltily. “I… I’m sorry for not staying before.”

“It’s not your fault,” Derek says gently, and on impulse reaches out and takes Stiles’ hand.

Stiles takes a deep breath, fingers curling into the touch, and he squeezes Derek’s hand, stroking his fingers. He smiles, shifting closer on the couch, and Derek’s heart skips a beat.

“So my fifth year at Hogwarts, the year we— the Yule Ball. Derek, I didn’t want to ruin things but you were going to graduate and then it’d be two years of Hogwarts without you and I’d never get that chance, and I thought— might as well, you know? And I figured we were good enough friends where if you didn’t feel that way about me we could just go back to the way things were before—”

“I did,” Derek says. “Feel that way about you. I couldn’t go to the Ball because it was supposed to be on the full moon, but I did want to ask you. On a date to Hogsmeade, right after winter holidays.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, blushing.

“I was just bitten that summer,” Derek says, trying not to dredge up the memories too much. “It was so new, and werewolves aren’t exactly…”

“I know.” Stiles grimaces.

“I didn’t turn you down because you were Muggle-born,” Derek says softly. “You know I don’t care about that.”

“I know,” Stiles says, closing his eyes. “It just— at the time, I didn’t have enough explanation for why else, and you never argued against it, and then you showed up to the Ball with a hot Beauxbatons girl on your arm, and I just—”

“Erica was trying to help me. I’d been talking about you nonstop in the hospital wing. And since the full moon actually fell on the night before, I was relatively recovered enough to get to the Ball.” Derek sighs. “I just wanted to see you. Ask you to dance.”

Stiles nods, biting his lip. “I didn’t stay long enough to let you explain or— I was just so upset and heartbroken and I left the Ball and that night, that night McGonagall asked me to her office. There was an owl. It’d taken forever to get to me because my dad isn’t so good with birds, they freak him out, and that’s why I’d been working on getting my phone to work at school, but my dad, he was in the hospital.”

“That he was shot,” Derek says, suddenly losing feeling in his stomach. Stiles had said it was a stray bullet, on the job. Everything Derek knows about bullets is that they’re terrifying and deadly. Stiles had just spoken so quickly about it last night, but it’s just sinking in.

Derek squeezes Stiles’ hands. “Look, you don’t have to explain why you left. Your dad is family. I would have done the same.”

Stiles’ eyes are shining. “But even as he recovered— months and months of letters, Derek, and I just… I burned them all.”  

“I thought you must have read them and just… hated me,” Derek admits. “The one where I told you I was a werewolf was the hardest. That was the last letter I sent… I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me after that.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, never. I just—- I was so depressed, you know, I couldn’t stand to deal with anything that had to do with Hogwarts and what had happened. I just got rid of it all, put away my wand and books and everything and went to college and pretended I was normal, but I couldn’t, and I…” He’s trembling, letting go of Derek’s hand to gesture wildly.

“I liked you! And you liked me! And I just— I was just so upset, and so many things happened at once, and I was stubborn and…ruined everything. Any chance I had with you.”

Stiles is so beautiful, the way the warm flames are reflected in his amber eyes, the way his long fingers dance in the air when he talks.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Derek says, looking steadily into Stiles’ eyes.

“Good.” The word hangs in the air, poignant and full of hope. Stiles turns and his face breaks into a slow, broad grin. “So when you’re feeling better, we should—”

Derek leans over and presses his lips to Stiles’. It’s only a moment, but he swears the world stops.

They pull apart, and Stiles gives him a dazed, pleased look. “Yes. Good. I was gonna say date, but yes, kissing is good too.”

If a month ago someone were to ask Derek what he thought about dating Stiles Stilinski, Derek would have said he would have been nervous about it, trying hard to stay ahead of the game so he didn’t mess things up, because he finally had this one chance of what he wanted since school.

But it’s not like that at all.

It’s easy. Comfortable. Like it was always meant to be.

Derek had forgotten how fun it was, to tease Stiles and be teased back, and they fall back into the familiar rhythms of their old friendship at Hogwarts. There are new things too; the broad width of Stiles’ shoulders, how he’s as tall as Derek now, the confidence in which Stiles breezes around his restaurant.

It’s fun, getting to know him again. All the old things and the new.

Derek holds hands with Stiles as they stroll through Diagon Alley, eats at Roscoe’s , goes to the Muggle cinema with Stiles out in London. Stiles shows Derek all the different technologies he’s been working on fusing with magic, and Derek gets up to speed on Shacklebolt’s new initiative to repeal the Statute of Secrecy.

His life had always been routine, before. Go to work, call his sister, eat meals at his spartan apartment. But now he goes over to Stiles’ at lunch, and his afternoons and evenings are filled with the warmth of Stiles’ laugh. Derek spends time at Stiles’ flat, a cozy mess that he shares with Scott over in Aberdeen, and Stiles seems to become a permanent fixture in Derek’s flat. Colors appear— the bright orange decorative pillows that Stiles insisted were “very Derek,” the cheery mug with the shape of a cat.

Derek wakes up one morning with a warm weight on his chest. Stiles is snoring loudly, and Derek laughs, running an amused hand through his hair.

“Nnnn, it’s Saturday, we don’t have to get up,” Stiles murmurs, pressing a kiss to Derek’s bare shoulder.

“Okay,” Derek says softly. He never slept in before Stiles. There never seemed to be a point to the indulgence.

Stiles laughs and rolls over onto his side tugging Derek’s arm with him and curling them into a spooning position.

Derek falls back to sleep, with the love of his life in his arms, and he thinks, this is the point.

It’s a full moon tonight, and Derek is spelling his bedroom with the necessary reinforcements. His wolf, restless and stirring awake inside him, is already grumbling with the thought of being locked up again.

There’s a pop , which could only be Stiles, who is the only one who has the ward keys to Apparate directly into Derek’s flat.

Derek sets his wand down and raises his eyebrows. “I thought I said I couldn’t do dinner tonight.”

“Brought you dinner anyway,” Stiles says, holding up two delicious-smelling grocery bags and smiling.

Dinner is delicious, and Derek listens to Stiles ramble on about the progress that they’ve made in the Department of Mysteries, and how happy Scott is, and the Ministry being ready to take the final step in the initiative to start collaborating with the Muggles.

“And check this out,” Stiles says smugly, tossing a copy of Witch Weekly onto the table.

Derek glances at it and his cheeks heat up. “Please tell me you didn’t buy that. Cora says she ordered a box of them. She’s gonna tease me for centuries.”

Stiles clutches his hand to his chest with a theatrical sigh. “Derek Hale, The Sexiest Werewolf We’ve Ever Met!”

Derek scowls. “I didn’t know she also wrote for Witch Weekly! I thought the interview was only for the Prophet!”

“Oh, I have that one too,” Stiles says proudly, pulling out a copy of the paper. The main feature story is accompanied by a photo of Derek with Harry Potter at the DMLES headquarters, shaking hands and talking to a group of Aurors. “It’s a great article,” he says, taking Derek’s hand and squeezing it.

It had been a good article. Derek was nervous about it, but everyone’s been incredibly supportive ever since he decided to go public.

Stiles grins. “But Derek Hale— Wizard, Auror, Werewolf doesn’t quite have the same sizzle as…” Stiles flips open Witch Weekly, past an article about the upcoming Potter-Malfoy wedding to the centerfold, where there’s photo of Derek in the Auror training center teaching a workshop on sparring.

Derek remembers the photographers there, but he doesn’t think his shirt was quite so tight. It’s embarrassing.

“He makes us howl ,” Stiles says gleefully. “Please tell me you’ve gotten fanmail.”

“No,” Derek says, flatly. There’s a bag full of mail at his office that he hasn’t opened.

“You make me howl,” Stiles says, taking Derek’s shirt by the collar and pulling him forward into a kiss.

They forget about dinner.

They’re curled up in front of the fire, Derek absentmindedly stroking Stiles’ shoulder. It’s warm under the blanket, and outside the window he can see the sun nearing the horizon. It’ll be sunset in an hour. And then there’ll only be a bit of time left to prepare before the moon rises.

He sighs and presses a kiss to Stiles’ temple.

“Stiles, you should go.”

“But I wanna be with you.”

“Stiles, it’s not safe. Just because the last time I didn’t do anything doesn’t mean… look. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” Derek pulls back to look Stiles in the eye.

Stiles fixes him with a steady gaze. “Look. I’ve done a lot of research on this. And the Wolfsbane Potion that you take everyday— top notch. You might hurt someone, but you probably won’t— you’re just subjected to the wolf’s urges during your transformation. Now usually you lock yourself up in your bedroom, right?”

Derek nods.

Stiles stands up, pulling Derek off the couch with him. “I want to show you something.”

Stiles’ Side-Along Apparition takes them somewhere that smells like sweet grass, and Derek can hear the wind in the trees. He opens his eyes.

They’re in a field, and the sun is setting in a blaze of cheery golds.

“Okay, look. This property, it’s over two thousand square meters. It’s fenced in. Originally a cow pasture, but there’s a part that’s overgrown and basically the forest has encroached on it. I’ve had a construction team reinforce the fencing with steel, and I’ve double and triple warded it. No one can get in or out without my ward key in their spell.” Stiles swings his hands, and Derek can tell he’s nervous.

Derek takes a step and breathes in the fresh air.  “This is for me?”

Stiles nods. “And I know you’re worried about me, here, look.” He starts down a path, and gestures at a… sturdy-looking treehouse. “I’ve got my wand, if anything happens, and I can also get up and away if I need to, so you know I’ve got a safe place to go. This tree is also reinforced with spells; it’s not going anywhere.”

There’s also stuff on the ground; pieces of sturdy and comfortable-looking furniture. A couch. A rug. Pillows. Things that Derek as a wolf has definitely enjoyed chewing on before. (He’s had to Transfigure his own bed back to normal way too many times.)

“Stiles, this is…” Derek takes a deep breath. He wants to say how much he loves Stiles, how much he appreciates this. But it’s too soon, right? It’s only been about a month of dating. It’d be too much pressure. “Thank you.”

Stiles kisses him, and then tugs him towards the couch. “And the cuddles continue! Come on, we don’t even have to stop cuddling when you’re all fluffy. That was kinda awesome, I’m looking forward to it again.”

December arrives with cold winds and softly falling snow. Hogsmeade is a picturesque landscape, glistening with sparkling snow and glowing lamps from cozy storefronts.

Derek’s been planning this for weeks. When he first started he thought the gesture might have been too much, but then Stiles went above and beyond to make sure his werewolf transformation was comfortable and a positive one.  

“Oh man, I haven’t been here in forever, this was such a good idea,” Stiles says, their intertwined hands swinging as they stroll along the village streets.

They’ve just had dinner at the Three Broomsticks, and now Derek is carefully steering them up towards the castle.

“Hogwarts,” Stiles says, looking up at the towers with a wistful sigh. “I totally missed out on those last two years. I mean, college was great, and I loved Berkeley, but this… it’s just magical.”

“It’s not gone,” Derek says. “We can go up for a visit. I bet they’re still doing dinner right now for all the kids who didn’t go home for the holidays.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose. “Eh, I don’t think McGonagall would want to see me. She got a bit snippy last time we talked— I mean, I um, I was owling her about my research on fusing Muggle tech and magic.”

“She’s still encouraging you to publish that paper, right?”

“Yeah— okay, let’s go up to the castle. I always liked their decorations.”

Derek’s nervous as they walk up the hill and to the doors, which open at Derek’s touch.

“They’re probably still keyed to me since I came here to do that Auror talk for Career Day last week,” Derek says.

Stiles nods, but his attention is on the gently falling snow from the sky of the Great Hall.

Derek waits, and watches as Stiles’ gaze drops from the enchanted sky to the transformed hall.

It’s better than Derek thought it would be; they really went above and beyond; in all of Derek’s memories it never looked quite so lovely. Candles and wreaths and baubles everywhere, trees and trees galore, enchanted icicles, a band playing a sweet melody in the distance. There’s couples swaying on the dance floor, refreshments stacked high on tables, and fires merrily glowing in all the hearths.

“Stiles,” Derek says, taking his hand. “Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

“Derek— you— you did all this?”

Derek nods.

“This is amazing,” Stiles says. “I, of course, Derek, I’d love to,” he says breathily.

“I know we just ate dinner, but you’re always hungry, so I made sure we could have second dinner,” Derek says.

Stiles laughs and lets Derek lead him to a table.

There are Hogwarts faculty here, and a few students, and Scott and Kira are here, too, as well as Cora and Lydia and everyone who could make it on such short notice.

It’s all worth it, to see the expression on Stiles’ face.

Headmistress McGonagall strolls by them, a smug smile on her face.

“Everything is wonderful, thank you so much, Professor,” Derek says, shaking her hand gratefully.

“Oh, please, you don’t have to call me Professor anymore,” McGonagall says, smiling.

“YOU!” Stiles says, standing up, his arms flailing.

Derek blinks.

“I cannot believe you! I wanted to do this, and you said no!” Stiles purses his lips and adopts a scathing tone. “Really Mr. Stilinski, do you think you can just come in here and demand that we set up a Yule Ball so you can reenact your schoolboy love? She told me I couldn’t do it! That they’ve already made the plans for the Christmas dinner for the students and it would be too much trouble!”

McGonagall sounds like she’s holding back a snort. “Of course you couldn’t do it, because Mr. Hale asked me first, and he was very determined that it all be a surprise.”

Stiles glances at McGonagall, then back at Derek, who gives him a sheepish smile.

“Enjoy your evening, gentlemen,” McGonagall says smoothly, before walking off with a cheeky wink.

“I cannot believe—”

Derek laughs. “For the record, I think it’s great that you wanted to invite me to a Yule Ball too.”

Stiles gets to his feet. “Okay, but I’m asking you to dance first!”

It’s a lively tune when they get to the dance floor, and Derek laughs as he watches Stiles move exuberantly, even trying to show some students how to properly do a dance move.

“So vintage! Cool!” the boy says, before running off to show his friends.

“Vintage? That move isn’t even ten years— ugh, whatever. I’m old, I get it.”

The song slows to a romantic ballad, and Derek takes Stiles in his arms. They fit perfectly together, and Stiles gives him a soft, warm, look, a little private smile that’s all for Derek.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “Thank you. For this. I just really wanted to do this over again, the Yule Ball thing, because it was such a— it was a turning point, you know? I was so in love with you, and I agonized over asking you out forever, and then I ruined that chance—”

Derek leans in to kiss him. “Shh. It’s okay. We’ve talked about this. It’s not your fault, I should have told you sooner but I was scared—”

“We’re both so dumb,” Stiles says, his mouth quirking up.

“You were in love with me?” Derek says it casually, meant to be teasing, but he can’t help the way his voice breaks a bit over the word were.

“I am in love with you.” Stiles’s cheeks are pink. “I know this between us now is new, and I— but if you— it’s okay if you, I mean, I don’t expect—”

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time, Stiles. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving you.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, his chest heaving. His eyes are bright as he looks up to Derek.

For a moment, under the lights of the Great Hall, Derek can feel like this is what it could have been, kissing Stiles at the Yule Ball.

Maybe it could have been like this, but they wouldn’t have been the same people, gone through the challenges they did to make them who they are today.

It’s better, Derek thinks, pulling Stiles closer.

“Ahem,” comes a voice next to them. McGonagall is dancing with Madam Rosmerta, and she raises her eyebrow at them. “I can still give you boys detention, you know. Public displays of affections are still against school regulations.”

“Professor—” Stiles starts.

“Since Mr. Stilinski hasn’t graduated from Hogwarts, I believe he is still a student here and should abide by these rules,” she says.

“No problem, Professor,” Derek says, stepping back from Stiles so there’s a respectable distance between them as they dance.

“Oh, hell no,” Stiles says, grabbing Derek by the chin and bringing him in for a wild, furious kiss. Stiles pulls back, beaming. “Alright, I’m ready for detention! Charms classroom on the third floor, right, Professor!? Okay, bye!”

Stiles is already pulling Derek away and out of the Great Hall.

Derek follows, laughing. “What are we doing, Stiles?”

Stiles winks at him. “Come on, this is like, a big thing for me. Me. You. Abandoned classroom.”

Derek grins mischievously. “Astronomy tower?”

“Oho, Prefect Hale, breaking all the rules.” Stiles kisses him again, rucking his hands through Derek’s hair.

“For you, I would,” Derek says, and he follows Stiles down the corridor, as he hopes he will for the rest of his life.