Work Text:
Enjolras is sitting in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, squinting at his latest case report, when the first snow begins to fall on Christmas Eve.
He’s the only one left in the office reserved for the staff who report directly to Lamarque, head of the department; the rest of his co-workers had trickled out through the afternoon and early evening, making their various excuses and talking animatedly about their plans.
Upon his own departure two hours ago, Lamarque had frowned thoughtfully at Enjolras and said, “Don’t stay too late.”
Enjolras had made the appropriate noises of acknowledgement and acquiescence, and proceeded to do just that.
He has nothing to rush home for tonight; he lives alone, and his parents haven’t spoken to him since The Incident, so he has no family to visit. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his closest friends, are out in Wizarding London for the evening with some of their other mutual friends. They had both attempted to cajole him into going with them, independently and then together in a concerted effort involving promises of mulled wine and butterbeer, but Enjolras had politely declined.
He’s received three messages on the muggle mobile phone he has since then; Courfeyrac is still figuring out how to work the non-wizarding technology, and is apt to send one too many texts or photos when he clicks the wrong button or accidentally butt-dials. The last one he sent reads ‘minCE PIES’.
When Enjolras spots the snow falling outside the window which looks out onto the street below, he pauses in his work and smiles slightly. Things always feel just that little bit more festive when it snows, as much as it’s a pain for getting to and from work - well, for muggles. Thank Merlin for apparition.
He gets up to his feet, dodging one of the flying paper aeroplanes floating lazily around the room with no message to deliver, and walks over to the window. A flick of his wand unlocks the clasp, and he’s able to push it open into the night sky. The air that rushes in is bitter, cold - but also refreshing. Enjolras smiles and holds his hand out, watching as the snow lands on his palm.
He’s pretty convinced he’s the only person in the whole building, never mind his office, and so he’s more than a little suspicious when he hears a thud, followed by muffled swearing, from somewhere down the hall.
Enjolras frowns and turns away from the window, pulling his hand back inside as he looks through the open door way. The hall beyond is empty, but they’ve had a lot of reports recently of dark wizard activity. In recent years there’s been a push for halfbreed rights; witches and wizards with veela, goblin, giant and werewolf blood, ostracised from society in various ways for decades.
They have an extremely valid case, one Enjolras himself has argued for, many times, but there are witches and wizards out there who are unhappy with the slow progress, the bureaucracy, who are turning to darker means to get their voices heard and make their point.
Once upon a time dark wizards fought for the right to pureblood supremacy, now they’re fighting for the innate superiority of halfbreeds: two bloods are better than one is their favourite line.
When muttered cursing comes again from down the hall, Enjolras flicks his wrist to cast a simple charm to light the tip of his wand. Should it detect any suspicious magic, it will instantly glow red.
He heads out into the hallway outside Lamarque’s offices and finds no one around, just a few candles flickering on the walls, giving the place a more oppressive feeling than necessary. Oh, how he wishes the wizarding world would just use electricity already.
He hears another thud from the direction of the Auror Offices and turns to head in that direction, frowning, despite hearing a familiar voice in his mind, warning him not to rush into potentially dangerous situations without backup. Feuilly, a muggleborn wizard and one of the department’s best Aurors, is always warning Enjolras against going charging into things, but he never listens.
The scars slashed across his throat are testament enough to that.
When he pushes open the door to the Auror Offices, there’s another thud and a, “For Merlin’s sake, open up you piece of—”
Enjolras recognises that voice.
He shakes his wand to negate the spell, and slides it into his pocket as he rounds the corner to see an Auror wrestling with an apparently sentient filing cabinet. Above Grantaire’s head, tinsel and holly are strung from the ceiling, stretching from one corner of the room to the other. Enjolras doesn’t doubt Jehan’s had his hand at work here, despite being an Unspeakable and therefore supposedly stationed on level 9.
(Whenever Enjolras questions him about what he’s doing, Jehan always fixes him with a grave look and says, “We Unspeakables are forbidden to speak about our mysterious ways,” before carrying on, like, hanging stockings against the wall in the Staff Room.)
“Got a problem there, Auror?” Enjolras asks.
Grantaire’s shoulders tense and he stops banging on the top of the filing cabinet. There’s a faint flush crawling up the back of his neck. “Nope,” he replies, determinedly not looking back at Enjolras, and gives the filing cabinet handle another firm tug, “Everything’s completely under control.”
“Sure it is,” replies Enjolras, and walks closer to get a better look. The filing cabinet appears to be doing everything in its power to avoid opening up. Two magnets someone stuck against it at some point in time have rearranged themselves to look like eyes, which squint suspiciously at Enjolras as he walks towards it.
Enjolras’s eyes aren’t on the cabinet, however. Instead, he’s looking at Grantaire. Grantaire, who looks every bit as unkempt as he had when they were at Hogwarts, his shirt a size too big, the sleeves rolled up, his robe missing in action. Back then his knuckles had always been bruised from fighting - the muggle kind - getting into scraps with Enjolras’s housemates and fellow purebloods, those who looked down on people like Grantaire, a muggleborn Hufflepuff with a quick wit and an even quicker tongue. Now he doesn’t have any bruises, but there are the faint marks of spell damage across his knuckles instead; burn marks and scars too clean and precise.
Enjolras feels the protective urge he has around all of his friends rear its head, the same one he feels whenever someone is hurt or in trouble, but pushes it down firmly. Grantaire doesn’t need his help; he’s the Auror, Enjolras is just office staff.
When he’s finally close enough, he places a hand on top of the filing cabinet and runs his palm across the surface carefully. “Hey, there,” he says, “I know you’re sleepy because it’s night time, but would you mind if we got something from you?" As he pets the filing cabinet, it starts to purr, much like a cat.
He’s dealt with plenty of enchanted objects through his life. They just want a bit of attention and care, much like the people who use them. No one likes to be used all the time without a little thank you. “Once we’ve got the file we need, we’ll leave you alone,” he promises, lowering his voice slightly as he adopts a more reassuring tone. “You have my word.”
The filing cabinet flexes, the metal bending, and finally allows Enjolras to pull the top drawer open, the one Grantaire’s been trying ineffectively to get into for the last ten minutes.
“—fucking kidding me,” he hears Grantaire mutter behind him.
“Thank you,” Enjolras says firmly, over Grantaire, his voice warm, and sends Grantaire a little glare as he scratches the filing cabinet behind the edge of one corner. It’s not quite an ear but it’s close. The magnet eyes have shifted back into their normal positions, almost looking like a happy face where they sit above the drawer handle.
Grantaire steps forwards quickly to grab a file from inside the drawer and, when Enjolras gives him a pointed look, coughs and mutters, “Thanks.”
The filing cabinet rattles its reply and then closes the drawer again. Enjolras pets it one last time before turning to look at Grantaire. Of all the people who might possibly stay late in the offices on Christmas Eve, Grantaire is right at the bottom of the list. Yet here he is.
“Shouldn’t you be at the Leaky Cauldron?” he asks and, at Grantaire’s questioning look, elaborates: “That’s where you usually spend Christmas Eve, isn’t it? With Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta.” Not that, like, he keeps track of Grantaire’s whereabouts, or anything. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac are there too.”
“Decided to give it a miss this year,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t ask why Enjolras is still in the department: everyone knows he works more hours than anyone else, pushes himself harder, does more, in a determined effort to prove he deserves to be here.
“What about Éponine?” asks Enjolras. “Is she still here?” More than once, he’s seen her here at the department long after her shift is up, ruthless in her attempts at building a case against her parents. The Thenadiers are notorious in the department, never quite doing anything bad enough to be arrested, but always cropping up in every shady case involving stealing people’s money, usually through badly-enchanted items and cursed objects.
He and Éponine never talk when they cross paths in the hallway, but they do always acknowledge each other. Shared understanding of what it’s like to be prejudged by others.
“Her little brother just got back from Hogwarts for the holidays,” Grantaire replies, “Gavroche. They’ve gone to Feuilly’s.” Which explains why Feuilly left so promptly at 5pm. The thought makes Enjolras smile; Feuilly’s always been good with kids, like when he was Head Boy and helping Enjolras, as a newly-appointed Slytherin Prefect, set up a welcoming club for new muggleborn first years, to help them get acquainted with magical life and the castle itself.
“Right,” says Enjolras, nodding. “So instead of drinking with your friends, you’re spending your time hitting filing cabinets?”
Grantaire half-smiles. He’s grown stubble since becoming an Auror, going for the rugged look to go with the nose he broke in sixth year and Joly accidentally reset crooked when practicing his healing charms. “Something like that.”
Behind them the filing cabinet shuffles around in circles like a cat, trying to find a comfortable place to go to sleep. Enjolras finds he doesn’t know what else to say, he only came here to check that Grantaire isn’t evil, and that’s definitely not the case.
“I should get back to my desk,” he says, and gestures back in the direction of Lamarque’s offices. “Things to do.”
Grantaire’s expression says he clearly doesn’t believe him, or at least, in the existence of work so important that it keeps him away from his friends on Christmas Eve, but doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he gestures with the file in his hand and says, “Same. I’ll let you know if I need you to fondle any more filing cabinets.” As Enjolras reaches the door, he says, “Don’t work too hard, yeah?”
Enjolras makes the requisite murmur of acknowledgement and leaves the room.
* * *
Enjolras gets used to hearing Grantaire as he works: footsteps, filing cabinets opening and closing, and the occasional mutter or two. He has no idea what he’s doing at the Ministry this late at night, but assumes it’s something to do with the huge pile of work he always sees teetering on Grantaire’s desk when he has to go into the Auror offices.
He’s not sure why Grantaire has rolls of wrapping paper clutched to his chest when he walks past the doorway at one point, but he thinks it’s best not to ask, even when Grantaire pauses in the doorway on his return journey and says, “How much glitter is too much glitter?”
Enjolras just looks up from his work, lifts one eyebrow at Grantaire, then returns to his reading.
“Hm,” says Grantaire, and disappears down the hall.
His lack of engagement is probably why a few minutes later a shiny red bow comes floating into the office, obviously charmed. It floats its way across the room making lazy loop-de-loops before landing on his head, as if pronouncing him a present.
In all honesty, a levitating bow isn't so bad; in their fifth year Grantaire had charmed mistletoe to follow Enjolras around the castle. It was an extremely tricky bit of wandwork which took Enjolras almost a week to undo, and not before he'd been accosted twelve times, propositioned six, and kissed once (by Cosette, which had given Marius actual heart palpitations).
Rather than rise to the bait, Enjolras just adjusts the bow slightly so it sits better on his head, and returns to his work.
* * *
At half past eight a gingerbread hippogriff appears on his desk, next to a steaming cup of what seems to be hot chocolate.
Enjolras glances up to see Grantaire standing on the other side of his desk. “I have it on good authority that given the chance, you neglect to do the simple things in life, like, eat,” he says.
Enjolras wonders which traitor told Grantaire so, and puts his money on Courfeyrac. Joly might have panicked about it, as the department’s in-house mediwizard and obsessive worrier, but Courfeyrac is scheming.
“Come on,” says Grantaire, “It’s not gonna kill you. I checked it for poison myself. I’m a pro at spotting dark magic, me.”
Enjolras rolls his eyes, but caves and curls his hands around the mug of hot chocolate, leaving his report for now. Outside the snow has stopped, but the world beyond is covered in a thick blanket of white. The open window lets in the distant sound of music, from one of the bars down the street. Grantaire leans back against Combeferre’s desk, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.
The hot chocolate warms Enjolras’s mouth and then burns his throat. “Holy—” he gasps, and has to hit his chest as he coughs. “What—”
Grantaire’s eyes are bright in the light of the candle on Enjolras’s desk. “Special recipe.”
“Has this got firewhiskey in it?”
“Maybe.”
Enjolras narrows his eyes slightly - but doesn’t give up the drink, just takes more care with his sips. On his desk, the gingerbread hippogriff flexes its wings and trundles around, investigating the reports and post. It almost seems mean to eat it; Enjolras has trouble eating chocolate frogs for the same reason.
Grantaire doesn’t seem to share any of his qualms, biting into a gingerbread crup. He seems content to just lean back against the desk in silence, and Enjolras finds himself trying to remember the last time it was just the two of them, when the rest of their assorted friendship circle weren’t around, and—
* * *
The leaver’s ball is in full swing, seventh years in robes and muggle attire alike, scrubbed up and charmed to the nines, twirling each other around the Great Hall. Candles float in the air, shining gold at the bottom and occasionally shaking glitter onto the pupils below. Pixies giggle in the rafters near the enchanted ceiling, occasionally fluttering down to create mischief by flying up someone’s skirt or tying their shoelaces together.
Enjolras steps out onto the balcony with no small amount of relief, appreciating the rush of cold air as he leaves the ball behind. He closes the door behind him and the sounds of revelry become muffled and distant.
Grantaire stands at the edge of the balcony, leaning forwards on crossed arms he rests on top of the railing. He doesn’t look up as Enjolras moves to stand beside him, just glances across at him out of the corner of his eyes.
For the past few years, Enjolras has worn muggle attire to the various Hogwarts balls, stubborn in his determination to eschew pureblood stereotypes . Pointless divisions between their two worlds serve to fix nothing. Tonight he has a cloak draped over his muggle clothes, pinned in place at his collarbone by a brooch showing his family’s coat of arms.
A coat of arms he's no longer allowed to display, seeing as how he’s finally been officially disowned.
He sees Grantaire’s glance at the brooch, then watches his eyes move up to the scars across his throat, still raw.
Enjolras curls his hands around the edge of the balcony.
“You can’t help it, can you?” asks Grantaire, looking away again, back at the rolling expanse of Hogwarts grounds. “Always got to be making a point about something.” His tone is fond.
Enjolras nudges his shoulder with his arm, then leaves it there, resting against Grantaire’s. “No one’s told me to remove it yet. They’re doing a lot of glaring, though.”
“Of course they are,” Grantaire replies, “You’re besmirching their proud pureblood heritages with your muggle-loving, halfbreed-championing ways. How dare you.”
“Not to mention rubbing shoulders with Hufflepuffs,” Enjolras points out, and nudges Grantaire again with his arm.
He sees Grantaire’s smile, feels an answering flutter in his stomach. This feeling whenever he’s around Grantaire, this fondness, has been growing over the past few months. It might have even been there for longer, biding its time, waiting for the moment when Grantaire caught the snitch in the last Quidditch match of the season, a miraculous feat that had seen him dive towards the ground and nearly break his own neck. His eyes, when they’d picked Enjolras out of the cheering crowd, had been startled, like he was shock, and it felt like for a second the whole world had narrowed down to just them.
Or maybe it’s even older, the time when they’d been paired together in Potions, in third year, when Enjolras had put his hand over Grantaire’s to guide him in how to correctly slice dandelion roots. Enjolras had done it purely because he was precise; he knew how potions worked. Grantaire’s haphazard manner had seen him blow up more than one potion, and Enjolras wasn’t going to get a failing grade because of his partner. Grantaire’s breath had wavered and for a second it had seemed like his hand had frozen, under Enjolras’s.
Or even, when he’d overheard Grantaire in the Hog’s Head when they were fifth years, talking about some girls in their year, telling stories about kisses in alcoves and behind bookshelves, and Enjolras had turned and walked straight back out of the pub.
Enjolras hasn’t ever acted on the feeling, not knowing exactly what to do. His friendship with Grantaire is fledgling; whilst they’ve been part of the same friendship group for years, they haven’t always agreed on things, particularly Enjolras’s determination to dismantle wizarding prejudices and inequalities. He doesn’t want to ruin something newly-formed, parchment-thin, but it’s their last ball, if not their last night in the castle, and if not now, then when?
He thinks Joly and Bossuet must have succeeded in spiking the pumpkin juice; there’s a nervous energy in his fingertips, he feels bold. “You know,” he says, “I’m glad that we’ve talked more this year. Since — what happened.” He winces, it’s not his best conversation opener. “I appreciate what you did, that night.”
Grantaire meets his eyes for the first time. He looks wary, which is understandable. Still, Enjolras powers on, because if he doesn’t say this now, he’s not sure when he’ll next ever have a chance to. “I really — I like that we’re closer now, and I’m sorry if I’ve never really said it before but I do - I am. Glad to have you, that is.”
Grantaire moves, but doesn’t break eye contact, just straightens and turns so his body is facing Enjolras’s. “You’ve been at the pumpkin juice, haven’t you?” he sounds amused, fond.
Enjolras has known for weeks - months - maybe even years, subconsciously - that Grantaire likes him. Grantaire has always been softer when he’s around, less sharp edges, even when they don’t agree. He’s never known what to do with Grantaire’s feelings for him, and so he’s just not looked too hard at them. Now he’s scared that if he looks at Grantaire straight-on, the feelings will have disappeared.
“A bit,” Enjolras admits. He can’t look away. “It’s our final night to to be kids and enjoy ourselves, isn’t it?”
“To make stupid choices and mistakes and put it down to hormones,” Grantaire agrees. “Ah, youth.”
Enjolras makes a decision then, turning his body to mirror Grantaire’s, facing him. He leaves one hand on the balcony, fingers just centimetres from Grantaire’s own. Grantaire looks down at their hands, then up at him. “What are you—”
Enjolras inches his hand further along the railing, his fingers brush Grantaire’s. Grantaire’s question dies on his lips. He frowns and, for a second, his gaze drops to Enjolras’s mouth.
If there was ever an indication of what he wanted, that was it. Enjolras steps forwards, bringing his free hand up to place on Grantaire’s side, tilting his head up to kiss him - it always surprises him, that up close Grantaire is that little bit taller - only then nothing happens as it should, because Grantaire’s eyes widen in surprise, and he pulls back away from Enjolras, almost automatic—
—and then his eyes catch on the scars on Enjolras’s neck, a reflex, a betrayal.
Enjolras drops his hand from Grantaire’s side as if burned, takes a hurried step back. “Sorry,” he says instantly, “I wasn’t—”
“There you are!” declares Floréal, one of Grantaire’s housemates who Enjolras never did get to know, as she steps out onto the balcony. “Joly and Bossuet are—” She cuts herself off with a frown, her gaze flicking from Enjolras, who now stands a respectable distance away, his hands curled into fists at his sides, back to Grantaire, by the railing. He still hasn’t moved.
“Did I interrupt?”
“No,” says Enjolras, turning to look at her. “It’s — nothing. We were just talking. I was telling Grantaire how much I value him as a friend.” That much, at least, he can salvage; Grantaire hasn’t ever seemed unwilling to be his friend. The other stuff, the feelings, Enjolras must have imagined those. “Been drinking a bit too much pumpkin juice,” he says, with a laugh.
It sounds forced, even to his own ears.
Floréal is looking at him oddly, but then she looks past him to Grantaire. Enjolras is unwilling to do the same, he doesn’t want to see whatever expression is currently on Grantaire’s face, and so he takes the opportunity to head back into the ball. “I should get back inside. Have a good night.”
Courfeyrac catches him halfway across the dancefloor, that sixth sense he always has whenever people are down sending him straight to Enjolras’s side. “You alright?” he asks. His hazel eyes glance past Enjolras to the balcony, where Grantaire and Floréal can just be seen, heads bowed together as they talk. Grantaire looks annoyed.
“I’m fine,” Enjolras lies, “Shall we dance?”
* * *
They’ve never talked about what happened at the ball in their seventh year. Grantaire had spent the rest of the night with a rotation of Floréal, Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta. At times, it had felt like he was looking at Enjolras, but whenever Enjolras had glanced over, Grantaire’s attention was always elsewhere.
It was kind of hard, after that, to find time to talk, when they finished school two days later and were no longer living in the same building. Then, they were all busy finding jobs and places to live, struggling their way through early adulthood. Grantaire had gone off to the Auror Academy and when they’d finally seen each other again it had all seemed like so long ago that bringing it up wasn’t really an option.
So here they are, drinking hot chocolate on Christmas Eve in the middle of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, with Enjolras fiercely pretending his pulse still doesn’t skip, whenever Grantaire is near.
Enjolras nudges his gingerbread hippogriff with a fingertip and says, “Where did you even get these, anyway? And don’t make out like you baked them yourself. I’ve taken Potions classes with you.”
“Ha, ha,” Grantaire replies, dry. “Cosette brought them in for Marius. I may have casually dropped by the Department of International Magical Cooperation when I found out to test some out. To check there was no poison or dark magic at work, of course.”
“Of course.” Enjolras smiles.”And then you just happened to get one for me too?”
There’s that blush again, creeping up the back of Grantaire’s neck. He glances away as he says, “Yeah, well, actually I got two for me, and then when I realised you were still here too I felt guilty and my conscience made me share.”
“How kind of you,” Enjolras replies.
“Any time,” Grantaire replies. Enjolras starts to wonder if maybe Courfeyrac really did send him to keep an eye on him tonight, to make sure he didn’t starve himself in the face of work. Before he can ask, Grantaire glances down at the watch on his wrist and says, “I should get back to it.”
“What are you doing, anyway?” Enjolras asks, unable to hold back his curiosity. He reaches up to touch the red bow on his head, a subconscious movement.
Grantaire follows the movement of his hand with his eyes and smiles. “Stuff.”
Enjolras almost takes the bow off and throws the it at him, but resists. “Well don’t let me distract you.” He pauses and then adds, “Thank you for the hot chocolate and gingerbread.”
Grantaire grins. “Any time.”
* * *
Reading and organising Lamarque’s post is the thing Enjolras likes the least about his job. Mostly it’s just complaints, people listing all the things that he’s doing wrong and demanding that he change. No one ever thanks him for working tirelessly to make the country a safer place, or managing to make it all work with continued budget cuts, for keeping the Aurors motivated and the wizengamot fair and impartial.
The howlers are the worst, he always leaves them until the end. If it were up to him, he’d just burn the lot of them instantly, but Lamarque insists that they listen to every one, just in case.
For the last twenty minutes, Enjolras has had the Wizarding Wireless turned on and playing Christmas music with the volume turned right up, in an attempt at drowning out each howler he opens. He’s getting the beginnings of a headache when he opens the third from bottom, and so he’s not as careful as he needs to be. The howler launches itself forward and sinks its teeth into his hand before beginning its spiel.
Enjolras’s pained yell is loud enough it reaches the Auror Offices.
Or at least, that’s the only explanation he can give for Grantaire suddenly snapping into existence with the sharp crack of apparition, looking around sharply. He sees Enjolras holding his hand at his desk, the howler hovering in the air and yelling, and brings his wand down sharply. Instantly, the howler is in flames on his desk.
“Hey,” Enjolras says weakly, “That could have been important.”
“You’re important,” Grantaire says in response, which is just... Enjolras doesn’t know what to say to that. Grantaire takes Enjolras’s bitten hand between his own, turning it over to check the bite marks. They’re angry and red, each one about an inch in length, the upgraded version of papercuts.
Grantaire runs his thumb over the skin around the marks. “Doesn’t look like too much damage has been done.”
“Says you,” Enjolras replies grumpily, and glares at the two remaining howlers on his desk. He’s going to burn them, sod what Lamarque told him to do.
Grantaire smiles. “Well,” he says, “You've survived worse bites, haven’t you?”
Enjolras’s blood runs cold. He pulls his injured hand out of Grantaire’s grasp.
Grantaire seems to realise he’s said something wrong, hurries to cover it: “I didn’t mean — I was just—”
“It’s fine,” Enjolras says, curling his injured hand into his good one. “Like you said, I’m used to it.”
“That’s not... Enjolras...”
He’s heard worse comments, over the years. At Hogwarts, before The Incident, he’d been an ardent supporter of halfbreed rights, encouraging the rest of the student population to be the same, to see them as equals, not tainted. Unfortunately, a rogue pack of werewolves didn’t like the idea of a rich pureblood championing their cause, and had made an example of him during a rally gone wrong in Hogsmeade.
He’d been summarily disowned by his parents and lost a great deal of respect from those who had previously supported him. Apparently it was great to champion halfbreeds in theory, but not an actual halfbreed in person. And so he became the poster child of the radical halfbreed movement. See? they say, people listened to him until he became one of us.
Since The Incident he’s faced a huge amount of exclusion and oppression, being rejected for job after job, despite his glowing academic record, until Lamarque became Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement just over a year ago and headhunted him specifically. Lamarque is an ardent believer in equality for all and has hired many halfbreeds into his department, despite the disapproval of the general public and the Minister for Magic himself.
Enjolras knows his friends don’t really mind that he’s a werewolf, that they’re his friends despite the fact every time there’s a full moon he turns into a beast who will literally eat them alive if not for Wolfsbane, but he’s always going to be touchy about the whole subject.
He still remembers Grantaire looking at his scars and pulling away.
Grantaire is not the first of his friends to flinch away from him, when they see his scars or he bares his teeth, on instinct.
Grantaire reaches out as if he’s going to touch him, then seems to think better about it and curls his hand into a fist as he drops his arm down to his side. He frowns. “Do you need a healing potion or salve or anything? I know where Joly keeps his stash.”
Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m fine.” He rubs his thumb over the cuts absentmindedly, and winces at the sting.
Grantaire takes one look at him, then leans over the desk to curl his fingers around Enjolras’s wrist, using the leverage to tug him out of his chair. Enjolras is unable to resist, as he’s tugged into the tiny little kitchen area and pushed towards the counter whilst Grantaire begins raiding the cupboards.
With no other option, Enjolras pushes himself up to sit on the counter, watching the top of Grantaire’s dark head as he searches. There’s a window in the kitchen too, the window pane blurred from condensation and the snow piled up on the sill.
“Pretty sure this is it,” Grantaire says, which doesn’t fill Enjolras with confidence at all, as he stands up holding a luminous green bottle. “Hand.”
Enjolras holds out his injured hand, the cuts still dark red and stinging, and Grantaire takes it in his own. He squeezes a few drops of the green salve onto his skin then sets the bottle down on the counter, taking Enjolras’s hand in both of his own as he uses his thumbs to rub in the medication.
It stings at first for a second, making Enjolras hiss in a sharp breath, then numbness begins to spread outwards, making his fingertips tingle. The other scars on his hands, deep cuts from his own nails when he is transformed, leftover marks from his attack, don’t react to the salve at all. Mediwizards have never quite worked out why marks left by werewolves can’t be cured by magic.
As Grantaire works, he ducks his head, attention focused on Enjolras’s hand. There’s some gold glitter caught on strands of his hair, like he ran his hand back through it without thinking.
Amused, Enjolras reaches up with his free hand to pull them out, discovers that Grantaire’s hair is surprisingly soft. A thought which makes him go, “Oh,” and then Grantaire’s looking up at him, confused.
“Um,” says Grantaire.
“Glitter,” Enjolras explains, holding up his fingertips to show. “What have you been doing in the Auror Offices, anyway?”
“Things,” Grantaire replies, attempting to give the word gravitas by drawing out the syllable.
Enjolras arches an eyebrow at him.
“Wrapping presents?” Grantaire says, sounding more like a question.
“On Christmas Eve?”
“I live life on the edge,” Grantaire replies. He’s stopped rubbing the salve into Enjolras’s cuts; the skin is already knitting itself back together. Even so, he still holds Enjolras’s hand in both of his own. Both of them are appearing to pretend not to notice.
“More like you totally forgot and are panic-wrapping,” Enjolras corrects, because he might sometimes occasionally forget how to breathe when he’s around Grantaire, but that’s never affected the way he acts around him. Things are best between them when they’re poking fun at each other.
“Lies and slander,” Grantaire replies.
“I’ve seen the paperwork on your desk.”
“Well excuse me. Not all of us are form-filling machines. Some of us are too busy trying to save the world.”
Enjolras tries to smile at that, really, he does, and carefully takes his hand from Grantaire’s grasp, all sign of the howler bite now gone completely. Grantaire frowns at him, obviously unsure of what he said wrong.
Enjolras pulls his hands further up the sleeves of the Christmas jumper Courfeyrac foisted on him earlier in the day, until only the tips of his fingers are still visible, and says, in a forced light-hearted voice, “And some of us are too busy filling out forms to make sure you don’t get arrested for stepping out of line.”
He makes a move to jump down from the counter but Grantaire moves to block him with his body. He’s crossed his own arms over his waist. “You know I’d bring you out on cases if I could in a heartbeat,” he says. “Any of us would.”
“But it’s kind of hard to do that when I’m not a qualified Auror?”
“Well, yeah,” Grantaire admits. “Even if you scored higher than anyone else, ever, on the entrance exams for the academy and beat everyone in our year in the dueling chamber at Hogwarts.”
Enjolras half-smiles at the memory. He’d loved the dueling chamber, the sound of spells being thrown back and forth, the determination of the students there, learning how to defend themselves and others. Every year after he’d been a Prefect he’d taken to educating the younger years when they entered, showing them how to master their first blocking charm, giving them guidance on what type of spell to learn next.
“Clearly I’m just too good to be an Auror,” he says, “Anyway, I gave up that dream years ago. I’m heading for the Wizengamot.”
Grantaire’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Not the Minister himself?”
“Baby steps.”
“Well, you’ve got my vote.”
Why does he say stuff like that? It’s not fair. The casual comments, whenever they’re together, this act that he thinks Enjolras is wonderful, even when he just wants them to be friends… it’s not fair. Every time Enjolras thinks there could be more, and then has to remind himself that there won’t ever be. The light at the end of the tunnel is just a hinkypunk.
“I should get back to work,” Enjolras says, and this time Grantaire steps back to allow him room to jump down from the counter and head back towards the office.
“I’m going to the Leaky Cauldron,” Grantaire announces, when Enjolras is almost through the door. He pauses and glances back. “Got to drop off the presents.” Grantaire isn’t quite looking him in the eye. “You should join us. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are there too.”
“I’ll think about it,” Enjolras replies, which isn’t the no he’s been giving everyone else, but isn’t a yes either. There’s still so much work to be done, and he feels like if he doesn’t get on top of it, people will be more justified in their comments.
“Hm,” Grantaire replies, but doesn’t make a move to stop him.
* * *
Sometime around 11pm, Grantaire appears again on the other side of Enjolras’s desk, this time holding a stack of badly-wrapped Christmas presents.
Enjolras promptly sneezes.
Grantaire blinks.
Enjolras feels the tips of his ears turn red; he is well-aware that his sneezes are small and pathetic, like a kitten’s. Kind of ironic, considering the vicious beast he actually is.
“I think that’s a sign you need to leave,” Grantaire says. “Clearly all our friends are currently talking about how sad it is that you’re holed up here in the Ministry instead of out drinking with them.”
“Clearly,” echoes Enjolras, and sneezes again.
“Hey,” says Grantaire, and deposits his stack of presents on Enjolras’s desk so he can place a hand on his forehead, checking for a fever. “You coming down with something?”
Grantaire’s hand is warm on his forehead, but Enjolras is pretty sure it’s not because he’s radiating heat. “You sound like Joly.”
“Joly has good reason,” Grantaire replies, not taking his hand away. “Do you know what some magical illnesses do to people?” Spoken like a true muggleborn. “I mean, dragonpox.”
“I’m fine,” Enjolras replies, and sneezes again, three times in a row.
He doesn’t feel at all like he’s got a cold, he doesn’t feel sluggish or as if he’s got a headache. In fact, he feels completely fine, apart from the slight twitch — again he sneezes, and then glares at Grantaire’s pile of presents. “Mistletoe,” he all but hisses.
“What?”
Enjolras shifts a couple of presents aside to find the offending sprig, tied in to the ribbons on one of the gifts. When he discovers it he snarls, the werewolf in him rising to the surface.
Grantaire takes a step back on instinct and then pauses. “What’s so bad about mistletoe?”
“I’m allergic to it,” Enjolras says, still not taking his eyes off the evil thing. “It’s bad for werewolves.”
“Are you serious?” Grantaire asks. When Enjolras sneezes again four times in succession he says, “Huh,” and flicks his wand at the present, unravelling the ribbon so he can pull out the sprig, looking amused when Enjolras grumpily refuses to take his eye off the mistletoe the entire time.
“There goes my attempt at stealing a Christmas kiss,” says Grantaire, like it’s a perfectly normal things to say, and charms the mistletoe to hover over Lamarque’s desk, on the other side of the room.
Enjolras continues to glare at it for a few seconds. One, to check that it’s far enough away that it’s not going to make him sneeze any more, and two, because he’s not sure what to say in reply to Grantaire. When the time has passed, he looks again to the presents on his desk. There are a lot. He does the calculations in his head.
“Is there one of these for each of our friends?”
“Yeah,” replies Grantaire. “Well, minus Éponine and Gavroche’s, I gave them to her earlier, before she left. He always opens my present on Christmas Eve. Cosette got hers and Marius’s in exchange for gingerbread. Floréal already has hers too - by which I mean she bought herself something and owled me to let me know how much I owed her.” He catches Enjolras’s curious look then and says, “Yes, there is one for you, too, but no, you cannot have it yet.”
Instead, he taps his wand on top of the presents, shrinking them down to fit in the palm of his hand, then puts them into his trouser pocket. He has on his coat, and a thick green scarf wrapped around his neck. He looks warm and cosy and ready to brave the snow outside.
“Well, have fun, then,” Enjolras says.
“Nope.”
Enjolras frowns. “What?”
“You’re not staying here,” says Grantaire. “I’m under strict instructions to get you to the pub before midnight or be hexed into next week.”
“I’m busy, Grantaire.”
Grantaire looks pointedly at Enjolras’s desk, now almost completely clear, and then transfers his gaze to the desks around him, full of far more paperwork and post. “You look like you got this,” he says, turning back to Enjolras.
“Grantaire—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer,” replies Grantaire, casting a summoning charm on Enjolras’s scarf and coat, hanging on the back of the door to the office. His scarf floats along first, thick and red and warm, draping itself around Enjolras’s neck and folding itself into a knot. His coat hovers impatiently behind him, waiting for his arms.
“This is abuse of power,” Enjolras says, “Or spells, whatever. If I don’t put the coat on you’ll just enchant it to follow me around all evening.”
“Abuse of power would be charging you with refusing to aid an Auror when he’s on the job. Obstruction of justice.”
“And just what job is that, exactly?”
“I was given very strict instructions by my boss that I had to get you out of this office and to somewhere where you could have some fun, and, as the orders came from him, I am legally bound to do what he said.” Feuilly’s the absolute traitor, then, not Courfeyrac. Enjolras makes a mental note to have words with him, the next time they see each other. “Plus, you owe me for the hot chocolate and gingerbread.”
Enjolras’s coat nudges him in the back.
“I hate you,” says Enjolras.
“No, you don’t,” Grantaire replies, and has the grace not to smile too widely when Enjolras gets up from his desk to put on his coat.
There are too many buttons on it, and it’s a bit thinner than he would like, especially for this winter’s weather, but he’s not exactly rolling in galleons since being cut-off from his parents’ money and then the whole ‘unable to get a job since graduating’ thing. He filled it out with a warming charm two winters ago, which is good enough.
“Enjolras, why do you think I became an Auror?” Grantaire asks. He’s watching Enjolras’s hands as he fastens the buttons, the scarred skin.
Enjolras blinks, not sure where the sudden left-turn came in their conversation. “The badge? The lack of respect from teenagers? The subpar retirement fund?”
Grantaire snorts. “No, seriously. Why do you think I became an Auror?”
“I don’t know,” Enjolras replies. He tries to think about what Grantaire was like back at Hogwarts, but that doesn’t exactly give him an answer. Grantaire did not excel in many of their classes, dropping out of Arithmancy in their third year after only two lessons. Sure, he got into many fights, but that was self-defence, and when he’d learned how to duel it had just been simple spells to get the pureblood supremacist students to back off.
“To teach bigoted idiots a lesson?” he guesses.
“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and he’s unusually serious, this isn’t like him at all, “I became an Auror because of what happened that day in Hogsmeade.”
“What?” Enjolas feels like a dementor just came along and took away his ability to breathe.
“You don’t know what it was like - I mean, fuck, that sounds awful, you were the one attacked, not me — It was awful. Just standing there, not being able to do anything, unable to stop them when they attacked you. I felt helpless and I hated it. I decided - I don’t ever want to be in that situation again.”
Enjolras still feels like he can’t breathe. He looks down at his desk, rather than at Grantaire. He burrows his neck further into his scarf, tucking in his chin, a subconscious movement to hide his scars. “Don’t want anyone else to end up like me, you mean?”
“What the fuck.”
Grantaire sounds so angry Enjolras can’t help but look up at him. Grantaire doesn’t just look angry, he looks furious. Instinctively, Enjolras takes a step back, his fight-or-flight reaction kicking in very much in favour of the latter. Only when he goes to take another step back, Grantaire’s hand whips out, lightning quick, and curls itself around Enjolras’s scarf, halting him. He leans over the desk between them as he says, “There is nothing wrong with you.”
Which is nice of him to say, and Enjolras even believes that Grantaire means it; they wouldn’t still be friends if he didn’t. But the bitter sting of rejection when he was still a teenager never quite goes away.
“That’s good of you to say,” replies Enjolras, carefully disentangling Grantaire’s hands from his scarf. “Thank you.” Then, in an attempt to lighten the mood: “I suppose you’re pretty alright, too.”
Grantaire frowns at him, but doesn’t resist, letting Enjolras pull back his scarf. The frown melts into something thoughtful as Enjolras gathers up his things from his desk, locking away any important documents in his top drawer for the night. Enjolras casts a quick nox to snuff out the candle on the wall and then follows Grantaire out of the building.
* * *
They’re almost at the Leaky Cauldron when it happens.
Diagon Alley is full of revelry, people shouting and singing and laughing, most of them stumbling home in twos and threes and bigger groups. Enjolras thinks he recognises a few people from Hogwarts but keeps his head down, unwilling to get drawn into an argument with someone because they’ve had just a little bit too much to drink.
Grantaire has his hands in his pockets as he walks, a protective charm causing the falling snow to dissipate with little puffs of blue smoke before it hits his hair or his clothes. He’d cast the same charm on Enjolras when they exited the Ministry, only his little puffs of smoke are gold, causing Grantaire to make a truly awful joke about halos and angels.
Enjolras is content to let Grantaire talk for the most part, telling him of Christmas Eves past, when he’s met up with various of their friends. Enjolras has always begged off them, disliking being around so many people and alcohol. He hasn’t particularly had that much money for socialising, in the last few years, not to mention the times when he was exhausted because of a waxing or waning full moon.
Their boots crunch on the snow as they walk, still pristine and white at this time of night. In muggle London the traffic has probably already turned it to slush, but here in the wizarding world most people just apparate.
Enjolras is about to ask Grantaire why they didn’t just apparate to the Leaky Cauldron themselves, when he feels it.
His nose starts to itch, his eyes close, and then he sneezes.
And sneezes. And sneezes.
Six of them, in a row, and when he opens his eyes again it’s to realise that he lost his balance around number three and the wall he thought he steadied himself on actually turns out to be Grantaire’s body, warm and solid. There’s an arm around his waist and his face is turned into Grantaire’s neck, his thick green scarf, which smells of pine trees and firewhiskey and Grantaire’s cologne.
He knows he should pull back, should step away and make light of the situation, but for a second his body just relaxes. He closes his eyes and just inhales the scent of Grantaire - one of those stupid werewolf habits he just can’t seem to kick - and Grantaire, for his part, lets him.
There’s a burst of sound from further down the street as some revelers pour out from the Leaky Cauldron, laughing and talking. Enjolras pulls back to look at Grantaire then, Grantaire who is already looking down at him and looks — fond. Enjolras has no idea what to do with that look.
“Someone hung mistletoe on one of the shop entrances,” Grantaire says, his voice low. Enjolras can feel his voice rumble in his chest where they’re pressed together. “I banished it for you.”
“Thanks,” replies Enjolras. He doesn’t pull away.
“Dunno why though,” Grantaire says, “You’re cute when you sneeze. Also, I like this whole damsel-in-distress thing you’ve got going here, grabbing on to me.” As if to make his point, his arm tightens around Enjolras’s waist, holding him close.
“I’m not cute,” Enjolras protests, feeling his cheeks warm. It’s just the cold, he tells himself.
“Liar,” Grantaire replies, soft.
Grantaire’s eyes are bright, and his body is warm, and he just sounds so fond that Enjolras isn’t surprised when his heart gives a little jump in response. This is dangerous, he knows it is. Grantaire doesn’t really like him, not more than as a friend, and so Enjolras closes his eyes and takes a breath and pulls away. He’s not sure he can take another rejection from Grantaire, not on Christmas Eve of all nights.
For a second it feels like Grantaire’s going to resist, like he isn’t going to let him go, then his arm slips from around Enjolras’s waist. Enjolras takes one step back, then another, and turns to head towards the Leaky Cauldron.
He’s almost at the door when he hears Grantaire swearing behind him, under his breath, then footsteps crunching on the snow. He’s about to reach out for the door handle when a hand lands on his waist instead, turning him around. “What—” he starts to say, but words disappear when he catches sight of Grantaire’s expression.
Grantaire looks determined, like he just made a decision. His other hand he puts on Enjolras’s shoulder, his thumb brushing over the scarf wrapped around his neck, right over the scars. He must be able to feel Enjolras’s pulse racing, he has to.
“Don’t,” he says, and his voice is still soft, and Enjolras doesn’t know what to do with that either.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t run away,” Grantaire says. “You always run away. Whenever I think - whenever something is - you step back. Why?”
This isn’t the conversation Enjolras wants to have, as much as he’s known it’s been coming for, well, years. Since that night at Hogwarts out on the balcony. Since Floréal interrupted and he made a swift exit back into the ball, and they never once talked about what happened.
At his back is the Leaky Cauldron, filled with his friends like the ball had been, back then. Warm and inviting and uncomplicated. Grantaire is complicated. Grantaire is unorganised, Grantaire takes risks, Grantaire doesn’t seem to have direction beyond living each day as it comes.
Grantaire is looking at him as he asks why, closer than they’ve ever been in years, and Enjolras caves.
“I’ve seen how you look at my - my scars, whenever they’re on show, and I get it, I do. Every month I turn into a wolf. I understand not wanting anything - anything more. I do, I scare myself sometimes. You made it clear at the ball, at the end of our seventh year, when I tried to kiss you and you pulled away. I saw you looking at my scars.”
“Oh my god, what the hell?” Grantaire demands. “I was looking at your scars because I was worried kissing you wasn’t exactly the best idea, seeing as how you’d been mauled almost to death by a pack of radical werewolves, not to mention the fact you’d had far too much of Joly and Bossuet’s pumpkin juice. I didn’t hesitate because I didn’t want to kiss you, god, I hesitated because I wanted to and I thought that…” he trails off.
“That what?” Enjolras prompts.
“That you wouldn’t want to, when you were sober.”
“And then I never talked to you about it,” Enjolras says, his memory of what happened starting to rearrange itself, to show what it had seemed like from Grantaire’s point of view. Suddenly Grantaire stepping back isn’t rejection, but surprise, and his silence on the matter is confusion, not a determined effort to forget it ever happened. “Merlin.”
“I never did get the hang of that curse,” Grantaire says absently, “I do like son of a banshee, though, much more effective than it’s muggle counterpart. Oh, and what the s—”
Enjolras cuts him off, by stepping forwards, tilting his head up, and kissing him.
Grantaire’s eyes widen again in surprise, but he doesn’t pull back. He lets out a wavering breath, his lips part, and the hand holding onto Enjolras’s side clenches in the fabric of his coat, then he’s kissing him back.
It’s nothing and everything like Enjolras imagined. There’s no random bursts of magic, no cliche sparks flying, aside from the little puffs of smoke. The world around them continues to turn, people carry on their way - though one wizard does hoot at them as he passes, arm-in-arm with a witch.
Enjolras for his own part loses himself in Grantaire, in the warmth of him, in the hands he has curled around Grantaire’s shoulders for stability as he leans up on his toes to get closer. Grantaire tilts his head and opens his mouth further and there’s tongue and—
It takes him a while to realise that the cheering he can hear is real, and coming from behind him, and not just people passing by on the street. He breaks the kiss and drops down on his feet, as their various friends bang on the window not two feet from them, because they’re the absolute worst friends ever.
“Do you think if we stand really still they’ll go away?” Enjolras asks, not turning around.
Grantaire glances over his shoulder into the window of the Leaky Cauldron. “Nope.” His cheeks are red. Enjolras knows it’s not because of the cold. “I reckon I could maybe convince them it was a drunken hallucination, though, or call in a favour with this Obliviator I know.”
“No,” Enjolras says instantly. He’s spent enough time pretending there was nothing between him and Grantaire.
“No?” Grantaire asks.
“No,” Enjolras says again, firm. “This happened. I wanted it to. Did you?”
Grantaire doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then who cares if they know?” Enjolras asks, and leans up again to kiss him. “We could use it to our advantage,” he murmurs against Grantaire’s lips, a few moments later. Now he’s been given permission to touch, he doesn’t want to break contact. “Go somewhere else. They’ll know why, and we won’t have to make awkward conversation then bad excuses to get out later.”
“Hmm,” Grantaire replies, and stalls by kissing him again. “I suppose we do have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees, finally stepping back, though he drops one of his hands to Grantaire’s, sliding their fingers together. “And—” he’s cut off when he hears the sound of a nearby clock signalling midnight. “Oh,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
Grantare smiles. “Is this where I make an awful line about how you’re the best present I could have received?”
“Please don’t,” Enjolras says, and tightens his grip on Grantaire’s hand. “You can unwrap me from these clothes like a present though, if you want.”
Grantaire’s startled expression is the last thing he sees before he apparates them both back to his apartment. His laugh echoes across Diagon Alley for a few seconds after they’ve gone, bright and happy.