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“Would you stop?” Stiles groans as he and Scott make their way through the common room, pointedly ignoring the way Scott grins when Stiles pauses to check his reflection in one of the copper sconces. “It's not—stop saying it's—this isn't a thing, okay? It's just.” He shrugs, giving up on hoping that his face will suddenly become any less pale and dweeby in the next five minutes. “Whatever.”
“Sure, man.” Scott's nodding. He might look sympathetic to the untrained eye, but Stiles has known him since they were both riding toy broomsticks, and that's unrepentant mockery in those puppy-dog eyes, damn it. “I bet Derek only asked you to go to Hogsmeade with him because he's trying to get you to spill the beans about our playbook before the next game against Gryffindor.”
“Oh, shit. Do you really think—ow!” He rubs the back of his head where Scott smacked him, and watches his best friend in the entire world roll his eyes so obnoxiously it looks like he's channeling Jackson Whittemore.
“No, Stiles. I do not think that. I've told you what I think, you just don't want to listen, so let's go before Allison thinks I stood her up or something.”
“Dude, in no possible universe is Allison ever going to think that you didn't want to spend time with her,” Stiles protests. He stops arguing, though, and follows Scott out into the corridor, up the stairs and into the front hall, trying to keep his breathing even.
There are students scattered everywhere, grouped in gossiping clusters or waiting with nervous expressions that Stiles can feel mirrored on his own face. Scott spots Allison immediately, drawn toward her like she's cast a summoning spell on him—heck, maybe she did, those two are kind of weird—and Stiles focuses on the sickeningly sweet brightness of their smiles as they meet in an attempt to distract himself from the way his stomach is tying itself into knots.
He has the self-awareness to admit that if he saw anyone else in this situation, he'd probably be calling them an idiot every bit as vehemently as Scott has been doing for the past three days. But in his defense, this is Derek Hale they're talking about: seventh-year, captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team, and the object of one of Stiles's pathetic schoolyard crushes for two and a half years running. The guy whose unreasonable hotness is paralleled only by his aloofness and constant air of potential violence. The guy who's had Stiles ducking into empty classrooms over the past few months because he's started to stare at him like he's contemplating Stiles's painful and unnecessarily-grisly murder. Which has hardly seemed fair, frankly, because it wasn't like it was Stiles's fault that he'd accidentally stumbled upon Derek hiding in a glorified broom closet, the day after he'd gotten the owl from his sister about . . .
Well, anyway. It wasn't Stiles's fault, and he really doesn't think it's fair of Derek to hold it against him. Or, as Stiles suspects, to issue an invitation to Hogsmeade for the sole purpose of having a variety of convenient options for stashing Stiles's body where it will never, ever, ever be found.
He's tugging at a loose thread on the sleeve of his robe, watching Professor Finstock rant at Greenberg about his name not being on the approved list and wondering if maybe he should've written out that last will and testament after all, when suddenly he senses Derek approach. That's the only way to describe it, too; he doesn't see him, or hear him, or even smell him. (Derek, thank Potter, doesn't overdo the cologne like some Slytherins Stiles might name; even practically pressed together in the supply closet he'd only smelled like Derek—but Stiles isn't thinking about that right now.) No, Stiles just sort of . . . feels him, like static electricity dancing along his back, a tingle of awareness that he can't hope to explain or even understand. Survival instinct, maybe, but he has to admit that it doesn't feel like that.
Derek's not really that much taller than him—Stiles is tall for a fifth-year, after all—but he doesn't let that stop him from looming like an angry giant when Stiles turns to face him. The furrow of his eyebrows is almost enough to distract Stiles's attention from from the line of his jaw, and the sweep of his cheekbones, and the way his scarf brings out the flecks of gold in his eyes.
Almost.
Those impossibly-colored eyes sweep over Stiles, from the top of his head to the hem of his robe and slowly back up again. Stiles can't tell what he's thinking; Derek can put some of the castle's statues to shame when he wants to, and Stiles is suicidally tempted to reach up and poke at his face just to see if it's actually turned to stone. Then Derek's frown deepens slightly, and he huffs out a breath.
“You ready?”
Stiles really doesn't want to die. But he's got a sachet of sneezing powder and two dungbombs stashed in his pocket in case he has to beat a hasty retreat, so he just nods, chin lifting slightly as he slips his cloak around his shoulders.
“Whenever you are, man. Let's get this show on the road.”
*************************
This is, without a doubt, the most awkward definitely-not-a-date that Stiles has ever been on. He's pretty sure that if it were an actual date it would break world records, but really, whatever Scott says, it's very clearly not. If nothing else, Stiles is pretty sure that dates involve actual talking, beyond just, “Hey, do you mind if we stop in at Honeydukes? I'm almost out of Fizzing Whizzbees.” or “Wow, this street sure is crowded today. Yup, lots and lots of witnesses—people. I mean people.”
(Well, okay, Scott and Allison's dates probably don't involve that much talking, but those two are pretty much joined at the lips while Stiles remains tragically unkissed, so he doesn't think that really counts.)
He and Derek are sitting at a table at The Three Broomsticks now, with Stiles's Honeydukes bag and a pervasive, endless silence between them. Derek doesn't have any bags. Derek hasn't actually expressed a single desire to go anywhere in particular, not even a nice secluded spot where he could murder Stiles in peace, and Stiles is wondering—not for the first, or even the tenth time—why Derek is even here. It definitely isn't for the pleasure of Stiles's company. Sure, he bought him a butterbeer, but he also shoved it across the table at him with a scowl that suggested he was personally offended by Stiles's face, so. It's all still a pretty big damned mystery.
Stiles has been reduced to looking around for entertainment, since it's becoming painfully clear that he won't be getting any from the direction of Derek Hale, professional brooder. The place is too crowded for him to be able to do any really good people-watching, but he does catch a few things: Lydia Martin is holding court in the corner at a table full of Slytherins, with Jackson smirking at her side like he is in any way worthy of sitting next to such strawberry-blonde perfection; towards the middle of the room, Erica Reyes has just sat down at a table next to Vernon Boyd, who's regarding her with a look that Stiles can only describe as quietly astonished exhilaration; Isaac and Danny are casting hopeful, nervous glances at each other when they think the other one isn't looking.
And Stiles is sitting here with the object of nine out of ten of his recent nighttime fantasies, who looks like he'd rather be sucking on an acid pop than spend the rest of the day in Stiles's company. Which—what even, you know? He's the one who invited Stiles out, after all. This attitude is just completely unfair.
“I heard you're having trouble with Transfiguration,” Derek blurts out. Stiles, his mouth already opening to give Derek a piece of his mind, nearly chokes swallowing back the words.
“Y—what?” He coughs a little, taking a sip of his butterbeer to clear his throat. “I don't—how?”
Derek freezes for a second before he shrugs, his hands locked so tightly around his own mug that his knuckles are nearly white. “Um. Overheard, really. You and McCall were talking about it at dinner the other night. As you were leaving the Great Hall, I mean. I was right behind you.”
“Oh. Hey!” Stiles frowns, shifting in his seat a little. “That was a private conversation.”
To his surprise, Derek just lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe you should've been having it in private, then,” he says dryly, and the laugh that bursts out of Stiles's throat is shocked but genuine.
“Oh man! That was . . . that was almost like a joke! I mean, it's got a ways to go, but there's definitely a foundation for a sense of humor there. I feel weirdly proud of you right now.”
“Thanks,” Derek says, his voice still bone-dry, but there's a tiny smile lurking on his lips and at the corners of his eyes. He takes a drink, fiddling with his mug for another moment. Then, “Anyway, I was thinking . . . if you needed some help, I got an O on my Transfiguration O.W.L.” His smile grows by a hair, turns into something a little bit wicked. “Professor McGonagall says I'm a natural.”
“Um.” For a moment, all Stiles can do is blink. “Yeah,” he says at last, “that—that would be great! Man, I'm really screwed in that class, some help would pretty much be the best thing. I mean, I'm not doing as bad in that as I am in Potions, but that's just because Harris, like, hates me or something. Seriously, someone was asking about this freaky potion in class last week where one of the ingredients was human blood, and he just looked at me like he was wondering how much I'd fetch on the open market; it was creepy.” He flushes a little when he realizes that Derek is staring at him again, and sudden realization hits him like a bolt of lightning. “Oh. Is, um . . . is that why you asked me o—asked me to come here with you today? Because, uh, I don't have a lot of money or anything, but if you wanted to head to the post office I could send an owl to my dad; I bet he'd be willing to cough up some galleons, considering how freaked he's been about my grades this term.”
“What?”
“Uh. For a tutoring fee?” Stiles smiles, trying to hide the disappointment that's settled like a lead weight in his stomach. Stupid. That's what he gets for letting himself get his hopes up, anyway. “Negotiating terms over drinks, right? Scott loves cheesy Muggle movies; I've seen this sort of thing a ton before. Are we gonna do that thing where we slide a piece of paper across the table at each other to haggle out a price? Because that's, um. Always sort of looked like fun,” he finishes weakly.
Derek is glaring at him again. Just for a second, though, before he turns away like the sight of Stiles is making him physically sick. Which, rude. Stiles can only watch, open-mouthed, as Derek pushes abruptly away from the table.
“This was a stupid idea.” He stands up, looking tall and gorgeous and not a little bit dangerous. “I'm going back to the castle; you can go hang out with your friends for the rest of the day, or . . .” He shakes his head. “Whatever.”
“I . . .” Stiles scrambles to his feet as well, confused all over again at Derek's look of surprise. “Actually, I think I . . . yeah. I've got two and a half feet to write for History of Magic by Monday, so.” He grabs his bag off of the table and shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. “Uh. Do you want me to, like, give you a head start or something?”
Derek doesn't stop looking at him like he's suddenly turned into one of Hagrid's latest class projects, but he shrugs tightly and starts walking slowly enough for Stiles to keep up.
“Do whatever you want.”
“Great,” Stiles mutters under his breath, following after him. “Just . . . awesome.”
*************************
The walk back up the hill to the castle has never felt so long.
The wind has picked up, and looking at the overcast sky, Stiles would bet every last knut he has to his name that it's going to snow before nightfall. But no matter how frigid the weather is, it's nothing compared to the icy blasts that he'd swear he can actually feel rolling off of Derek. The guy takes the phrase “cold shoulder” to the extreme. Stiles hunches his shoulders, trying to huddle deeper into his scarf in what he suspects is probably a futile effort to keep from freezing to death before they get back.
“Look,” he hears himself saying before the part of his brain screaming don't try to talk to him, you idiot has a chance to catch up. “I don't know what I said to make you pissed off all of a sudden, but I'm sorry, okay? I just . . . I mean, I didn't mean to make it sound like I couldn't pay for tutoring lessons, okay? It's not like I'd expect you to do it for free, or—”
“I don't need your money,” Derek snaps, coming to a sudden stop.
“Um.” Stiles almost trips over his own feet as he stops, as well. “Okay.”
“There was insurance money. After the fire.” Derek looks like he regrets saying anything, but he's clearly determined to see it through now. “I don't need your money,” he repeats.
“Right.” Stiles feels like the world's biggest jerk. The entire school knows Derek's financial situation, just like the entire school knows about what happened to his family. The wizarding world is surprisingly small when something like that happens. “So then . . . sorry.”
Derek shrugs tightly. “It's fine, just . . .” He huffs out an irritated sigh. “I'll still help you with your Transfiguration, if you want.”
“Yeah.” Stiles nods a little frantically. “Yeah, thanks, that would be really—okay, no look, I don't get you.”
Derek frowns, shuffling his feet but making no actual move to keep walking. “What's not to get?”
“What's—okay, let's see. You've been acting like you want to murder me for the past six months, and then you ask me to go to freakin' Hogsmeade with you but you don't even make a token attempt to kill me—”
“What?”
“Well, okay, I guess you could've poisoned my Butterbeer, but I dunno, that doesn't really seem like your style.”
“It doesn't seem like my style,” Derek repeats.
“Yeah, I always figured you for a more hands-on sort of . . . anyway.” Stiles clears his throat. “And then you offer to help me with my Transfiguration, and act like you wanna be friends, but then you get in a snit for like, absolutely no reason—”
“I did not get in a snit!”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, dude.”
“You are not this obtuse.” Derek is staring at Stiles like he doesn't make any kind of sense, which. Rude. And hypocritical, honestly. “You're smart, Stiles, I know you are, and . . . I invited you to Hogsmeade!”
“That's what I'm saying!” Stiles cries, throwing his hands in the air. “You just don't make any—oh, crap.”
All of the strength seems to drain out of his legs at once; his knees give a single valiant shake before giving up, and Stiles can't do much more than try to brace himself as he begins to fall. He doesn't even get close to the ground, however, before a pair of strong arms are wrapping around his waist, holding him up.
“Sorry!” Stiles can hear someone laughing behind him, and he manages to crane his neck to look over his shoulder. Scott is standing a little ways down the hill, grinning as Allison tries to hide her giggles behind her hand. “Wand slipped.”
“I'm raiding the potions cabinet and putting horrible things in your bed later,” Stiles shouts at him, glaring when they both keep laughing as they scurry past. “Asshole,” he mutters. “Him, not you. Um. Obviously.” He's coming to the belated realization that Derek is still holding him up, their chests practically plastered together. “Thanks for the catch. Scott's Jelly-Legs Curse is his best one. I'll be fine in a minute, though.”
“Uh huh.” Derek's face is flushed, and he looks quickly away from Stiles's face to stare at a spot just over his shoulder instead. “Um. Yeah, no problem.” They stand there for several long moments, locked together in what Stiles thinks must be a new definition of awkwardness. “You smell different today,” Derek blurts out at last, and Stiles sneaks a quick, surprised look at Derek's too-close face.
“Yeah. Uh, Scott snagged me some some of the fancy-ass soap from the prefects' bathroom. I just thought it might be kind of . . .” He frowns. “Wait.”
“What?”
“You know what I smell like?”
“Uh.” Derek looks panicked, like he's on the verge of just dropping Stiles and bolting, chivalry be damned.
“Holy crap, you invited me to Hogsmeade with you.” Stiles is staring straight at him now as comprehension dawns. “You like me.”
Derek stares right back. “Yeah.”
“I mean—I mean, you like me! Like . . .” Stiles's heart feels ready to burst out of his chest as he leans forward and presses a quick kiss to Derek's lips. “Okay.” He takes in Derek's wide eyes and parted lips and sinfully long lashes and, “Okay, I'm gonna do that again, is that cool?”
Derek just leans forward, capturing Stiles's mouth in a had, eager kiss. The strength that's been slowly returning to Stiles's legs abandons him again, and he's left with his hold on Derek's shoulders as the only thing that's keeping him upright. They might have stayed there until Professor Finstock came down and dragged them back to the castle, but a loud wolf whistle has them jerking suddenly apart.
“Heh.” Stiles licks his lips and tries to ignore the way that Derek's eyes track the movement. “Probably not the place for this?”
“Probably not.” Derek's looking at him like he doesn't mean it, like maybe he feels the same way that Stiles does—that every place is the right place for this, that they shouldn't stop for anything ever. Still, he leans back and loosens his grip just a little. “How are your legs?”
“Good. Good.” Stiles takes a deep breath, stepping back to test his balance. “Yeah. Good to go here.”
“Maybe . . .” Derek reaches out and laces their fingers together, grinning wickedly like he can sense the sudden trip-hammer of Stiles's heartbeat. “Just to be safe.”
“Well, sure.” Stiles is grinning back as he tightens his fingers. “World like this one, you've gotta be safe.”