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Combeferre had thought that he had earned a nice, pleasant morning.
Combeferre really ought to stop setting himself up for disappointment.
"What happened to your nose?" Éponine yawns when he sits beside her, and he honestly can't tell if she's joking or not.
"Did you get into a fight?" Bahorel adds. He's shoveling food into his mouth at an impressively alarming rate. Combeferre watches for a moment, fascinated.
"Enjolras," he says at last. "Enjolras happened to my nose. Because someone slipped him a love potion. Via a box of Chocolate Cauldrons." Bahorel's fork freezes midair. Éponine stares at Combeferre uncomprehendingly, frown deepening as he raises his eyebrows at her. "To make him fall in love with Grantaire?" he prompts, and suddenly Éponine goes white.
"It was a joke!" she wails as Joly, Bossuet, and Cosette join them. They've long since stopped eating at their respective House's tables, and the teachers have given up on trying to make them - today is Slytherin day. "I made that weeks ago!"
"Well, that explains why his reaction to it was so strong," her foster-sister says primly. "But not how Enjolras got a hold of them." Éponine opens her mouth to argue then groans.
"Shiiiiit," she exhales. "Okay, this might be my fault."
"Might be?" Cosette demands in polite exasperation just as Feuilly takes a seat next to Combeferre and asks, "What might be your fault?"
"Éponine slipped Enjolras a love potion and he kissed Grantaire," Courfeyrac explains without preamble, matter-of-fact and appearing so suddenly that Combeferre wonders, not for the first time, if his friend has somehow managed to bypass the Apparition bans. "Which means the fireworks will not be ready in time for the Quidditch match tomorrow, thank you very much, and scoot over Feuilly, that's my seat." He squeezes himself between Combeferre and Feuilly, nicking a bit of toast off of Bahorel's plate. For once, Bahorel doesn't retaliate - he's wearing the same expression he had when he'd been knocked off his broom during Quidditch practice, a curious mixture of total shock and glee, mirrored by Éponine.
"Enjolras - "
"I was going to keep that part private," Combeferre mutters to no one in particular as Courfeyrac replies, "Snogged Grantaire, yes. Very sloppily, too, I might add." He takes a delicate sip from Combeferre's pumpkin juice, continuing airily, "He's got the general idea down, but his technique - "
"What about my technique?" Enjolras asks quite coolly from behind him.
"Just lacking in some practical application," Courfeyrac explains, then chokes on the pumpkin juice. "Enj - "
"Where's Grantaire?" Enjolras interrupts. "I have an apology to make."
"That’s a bad idea," Feuilly responds immediately.
"I think someone else has an apology to make as well," Cosette announces loudly, attempting to kick Éponine underneath the table and managing to get Bossuet instead.
"I didn't mean to," Éponine snaps, going red, adding, somewhat more contritely, "Feuilly was talking about how you never eat, and Azelma got some Chocolate Cauldrons for me at Hogsmeade even though she knows I hate them, and I shoved them in my trunk, and they got mixed up."
“I still don’t know why you felt the need to make Grantaire a love potion in the first place,” Enjolras says tiredly. Everyone makes the collective discovery that their food is the most interesting food that they have ever had the good fortune to have on their plate. Slow and cat-like, Enjolras blinks. “Where is Grantaire?”
Feuilly mumbles something that sounds like, “Really bad idea,” but no one else gives any indication that they’ve heard Enjolras. Enjolras glares, sets his jaw, and gets a very ominous look on his face.
“Fine. I’ll find him myself.” And he’s off.
“One morning,” Combeferre remarks to no one in particular, gazing into his pumpkin juice as if contemplating drowning himself in it. “That’s all I ask. Just one morning.”
“Not a chance,” Courfeyrac says with a rueful grin as they watch Enjolras thread through the Great Hall, the intent in his gait clear even from a distance.
They don’t know the half of it.
~
Enjolras, contrary to popular belief, is not so totally immersed in his Quest for Justice (as Eponine has dubbed it) that he’s completely oblivious. Grantaire has obviously had something of a crush on him for a while now. This is fine. Irritating, but fine. Nothing Enjolras can’t handle.
A first year literally dives out of his way as he rounds the corner, robes whipping behind him.
Eponine has a knack for potions, he has to admit. Even after Cosette had given him the antidote, he’d still spent all night with his stomach in knots, replaying that moment over and over until he had to physically turn over, push his face into the pillow, and curl up into a ball as if by making himself smaller, he could block out the image of Grantaire, lips reddened and wide-eyed (his eyes were always blue, Enjolras knew this, but somehow they were bluer when he was surprised? Apparently? And Enjolras had never noticed before?).
It hadn’t worked.He’d slept maybe four hours.
Normally, when he stays up all night thinking, it’s about lycanphobia or pureblood bigotry or a thousand other Things To Be Solved, things that have clear answers, clear goals. Grantaire is…messy. He’s not really sure what he wants to do when he finds Grantaire. Apologize, certainly, for forcing himself on him (his face goes red, as it has been periodically since he woke up this morning to a deluge of unwanted memories and a tug in his lower abdomen that he is actively trying to avoid). After the apology, though – should he just leave?
He loosens his tie, feeling uncertain and a little trapped and definitely frustrated. At least he knows where he’s going. Grantaire has his spots; he knows where all the secret passageways out of the castle are, he knows the best shops in Diagon Alley for anything and everything. And he knows the best places to hide.
He finds him, predictably, perched on top of the Owlery. He can’t technically see him, but the soles of a very familiar pair of trainers hang just above the window when Enjolras pokes his head out.
“You’ve got class,” he calls in lieu of a greeting. The owls rustle and hoot, glaring at him. From the silence emanating very pointedly from the roof, Grantaire is just as pleased to hear him as the owls are.
“I’m skipping.”
“You’ve skipped Transfiguration three times already, Grantaire.”
“I hate Lamarque’s class anyway.”
“O.W.L.’s are coming up. You know, if you applied yourself, you could get all Oustandings. You're smart, Grantaire, you just never - ”
"Merlin, fine, I'm coming down."
Feet pop down from the window, followed by two legs, a set of rumpled robes, and a curly head, under which those two very blue eyes peek out.
“I’m sorry for what happened last night,” Enjolras says immediately. Grantaire makes a face. “I didn’t mean to attack you.”
“’S all right,” the other boy replies, a little loftily. He grins, which takes Enjolras by surprise; Grantaire can go from sulky to devil-may-care in .3 seconds, but it’s still a bit jarring. Grantaire gets a very sly look on his face. “Did you enjoy it?” Enjolras clears his throat.
“Generally, I make a point not to enjoy assaulting people.”
“Aw, come on. It must have been a little fun.” Grantaire tucks his hand in his pockets, cocking his head at Enjolras. “It’s not like - it was a love potion, Enjolras.” Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, but is momentarily thrown by the fact that Grantaire has called him by his name and not Veela Boy, The Boy Who Won’t Shut up – they only get progressively worse . “You didn’t assault me – ”
“Did you want to kiss me?” Enjolras demands, then freezes, because, right, no, that did not come out the way he had wanted it to at all. “Because otherwise I didn’t have your permission, so – ” he amends hastily, but Grantaire’s already shaking his head.
“Permission. Merlin, Enjolras. Don’t worry about it,” he says and now his grin looks a little forced. “You have class, too, you know. Go. Further your magical education - apply yourself. I’m making friends with the owls.” He ruffles his hair – arrogant as per usual, not taking this seriously as per usual – and again comes that unfamiliar tug in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach.
“Okay,” he replies. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do – this feels unfinished. But Grantaire only seems relieved. “You have very blue eyes,” he blurts because it’s the first thing that pops into his head. Grantaire blinks.
“Thank you?” He shifts uncomfortably. “Like my mum’s. Or so everyone says. Er, you have class, Ange” – right, yes, he thinks he hates that one the most – “don’t be late on my account.”
And then he smiles, and Enjolras realizes in one horrific bolt of lightning-to-the-brain that he wants to kiss him again.
The owls rustle for a moment. Grantaire squints up at the rafters, where sunlight filters in, features and dust drifting through the air. Enjolras definitely does not stare at him.
“I’ll see you in class,” he says stiffly and then he definitely doesn’t flee.
Definitely.
~
Grantaire doesn’t show up for Transfiguration. Combeferre wants to say he’s surprised, but he’s not; Enjolras can stare down a hippogriff, but resolving conflict is something he has yet to master. He likes arguing too much, Combeferre supposes. Too emotionally involved.
He imagines the look on Enjolras’ face if he ever told him that and ducks his head to hide his grin.
“How did it go?” he asks later, when they’re walking out of Lamarque’s class. As always, they are the last to leave. Enjolras likes to hang back for a bit to talk with Professor Lamarque, and Combeferre usually waits for him. Courfeyrac will say he’s not waiting, but as soon as Combeferre and Enjolras walk through the door, Combeferre knows Courfeyrac will be standing there.
“How did what go?”
“Your apology to Grantaire.” Enjolras makes a noncommittal noise and becomes very invested in digging through his bag.
“Finally,” Courfeyrac says from where he’s leaning against the wall. Combeferre adjusts his glasses, still eyeing Enjolras. “What were you doing, reciting the entire history of the Goblin Wars?” Enjolras hardly even spares a glare for him.
“It went fine,” he mutters.
“What went fine?” Courfeyrac asks immediately.
“Nothing,” Enjolras snaps while at the same time Combeferre explains, “Grantaire.” A hunch pops into Combeferre’s mind and from the way Courfeyrac's head snaps toward Enjolras like a point dog, he's not the only one who thought that was a little bit peculiar.
Combeferre looks at Enjolras. Enjolras goes red.
Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras. Enjolras goes redder.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at each other.
“No way,” Courfeyrac breaths as his eyes widen. Enjolras glares furiously at him, and it’s as good a confirmation as they’re going to get.
“One morning,” Combeferre says sadly. “Just…just one morning.”
"Not a chance," Courfeyrac says with something like reverence, and Combeferre supposes he's right.