Scott and Stiles have always lived in each other’s pockets. Little has been able to keep them apart; not in third grade, when they were assigned different teachers for the first time since preschool (several somewhat frantic calls were placed by both their parents to rectify the situation), not the absolutely batshit letters delivered by owls to each of their houses explaining that they’d been accepted to wizard school (they had escaped too many near misses together throughout elementary school to really attribute it all to luck), and not even an old, patched up and fraying pointy hat had managed to keep them away from each other.
So of course, Stiles is sitting right next to Scott at the Hufflepuff table in the Great Hall, despite his emerald green tie standing out among a sea of yellow like a sore thumb, when Dumbledore announces the return of the Triwizard Tournament. He notices, that even when the hall erupts into excited chatters and whispers, Scott remains still and silent, completely solid as he takes in the information Dumbledore is sharing with a gleam in his eye. The gleam that has always made Stiles’ hackles raise and his eyes narrow.
There’s a reason Stiles is the idea man between the two of them. And that’s because whenever Scott comes up with ideas, they are ludicrous, and usually end in near death for the both of them. Sure, Stiles’ ideas usually end that way too, but the danger is usually just a necessary byproduct of the desired goal. The success rate of his ideas is relatively pretty high, thank you very much. Scott’s too noble to really do what needs to be done. The look in his eye right now tells Stiles he’s getting one of those noble, romantic ideas that always end in disaster.
Anyway, Scott puts his name in the goblet. Obviously, he’s chosen as champion, the pure-hearted idiot he is. Everyone knew he was a shoe-in. Stiles is nervous, sure, but he’ll do whatever it takes to pull Scott through this, just like he’s always done.
But then, the goblet turns red and spits a fifth piece of paper out of its depths. Harry Potter. That’s when Stiles knows it's gone all to shit.
-
The whole school is buzzing with anticipation for the first task. Absolute excitement, while Stiles is vaguely horrified at the whole barbaric tournament, stomach roiling with anxiety for Scott.
Stiles finds ways to vent his anxiety about the whole damn mess, mostly by ranting about the twisted set-up of the whole school. He feels shaky with nerves all the time, and he’s not even the one signed up for a freaking death tournament.
Ranting about the shitty things this school has done is exactly what Stiles finds himself doing at a library table in the back corner with Lydia a few weeks into classes. She has what seems to be half the Arithmancy section spread out in front of them. Lydia, her hair pulled back in a bun, quill in hand and eyes sewn to the text in front of her, is a picture of focused elegance, especially when juxtaposed with the frazzled students, hair frizzy from restless hands running through them and eyes wide and red from one too many stress related breakdowns.
Stiles often shares Lydia’s laser focus, though he’s rarely able to direct it at the things he’s supposed to. Whenever they study together, he usually does his own research on whatever is interesting him at the moment, or whatever will get them out of their recent hijinks alive. Right now, all he can exert energy on is a really good rant about the state of Hogwarts.
“You know what, everyone goes on and on about how Snape is always handing out points to the Slytherins, but I don’t see anybody else giving points to Slytherin. And everybody conveniently forgets that the most blatant expression of favoritism this school has ever seen came from Dumbledore-“
“Stiles-” Lydia hisses, but Stiles is not ready to be interrupted. This rant is too good, and Lydia, the only fellow Slytherin in their little group, is usually the only one who’ll entertain them.
“-when he flooded Gryffindor with points at the last second. That man is chilling. He doesn’t care about anything except whatever game he’s been playing since Potter showed up. It started being convenient again to paint Slytherin as the enemy, so he won’t let us win anything anymore. He’s two steps ahead of all of us, I swear to God. If I could just get into his office for a second-“
“Stiles,” Lydia hisses again, this time sharply enough that Stiles stops his rant. She cocks her chin to a point behind him and Stiles twists in his chair to see Potter, whose jaw is clenched in what can only be righteous Gryffindor anger. Fabulous. He’ll be another story of Slytherin treachery in the Gryffindor common room tonight. He’ll have to get Derek to share the details of how he’s condemned as an evil, prejudiced snake again.
The affront and fury clear on Potter’s face irks Stiles, makes a part of him squirm and want to turn away. So he lashes out. “What,” he snaps viciously, accompanying the words with an impatient flail of his hand.
Behind his glasses, Potters eyes go narrow and cold, and the anger is suddenly wiped from his face. The cold, controlled anger isn’t what Stiles would have expected from the Gryffindor poster-boy. In Stiles’ experience, most Gryffindor’s, including Derek, are self-assured, blustery pricks. “I was looking for Scott,” Potter says, tone icy as his expression.
Stiles can see the prejudices swirling in his eyes already. Potter doesn’t even have to say any of them; he’s going through the same process everyone does; he’s comparing good, kind, friendly Scott against acerbic, sarcastic, cutting Stiles. He’s counting all the ways that Stiles has proven himself to be conniving, cunning, back-stabbing, trash-talking their fearless leader who can do no wrong in the eyes of the great Gryffindors. He’s affirming that Stiles is every bit as Slytherin as his green robes indicate, and he’s already decided that that’s a bad thing.
The silence must’ve hung for too long, because Potter snaps again, impatient. “Do you know where he is?”
Stiles knows exactly where Scott is. Seventh year Hufflepuffs have a weekly study group to prep for NEWTs on Tuesday. It finished fifteen minutes ago, so Scott will come to meet Stiles and Lydia in the library once he and his housemates swipe a snack from the house elves in the kitchen. But Potter’s tone is cold and cutting; it could rival Stiles’ icy sarcasm on his worst day. He wants Potter to leave now. A quick glance at Lydia reveals thin lips and narrow eyes. She’s never taken well to being insulted, and every line of Potter’s body highlights his disdain for them, for their House.
So Stiles just shrugs his shoulders and starts to turn back to his books. “You’ll have to keep looking, I guess.”
He expects Potter to leave, but he still feels his broiling presence remain over his shoulder. His leg starts to bounce.
“You’re wrong about him,” Potter says. When Stiles spins around a second time, the fourth-year’s feet are still planted, his fists tight at his sides.
Stiles can’t help but scoff. This poor fucking kid. Dumbledore’s going to ruin him. Stiles doesn’t even know what to say.
“He’s not,” Lydia says evenly. As usual, her face is unreadable. But Stiles is flooded with a sort of relief that she’s jumped in to help him, filled with a sense of camaraderie he doesn’t usually get to feel in his house common room. Stiles has always been grateful for Lydia, and he feels a spark of it in his chest now. He turns his gaze back to Potter, coiled to strike back if he tries again.
Something thuds next to him and Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, throwing himself around with a choked “Jesus Christ, dude,” to see Scott standing next to the book bag he’d dropped on the bench.
“Hey guys,” he says with a broad grin on his face. He turns towards Potter and his grin widens in friendly surprise, oblivious to the tension in the air. “Hey, Harry!”
“They’re putting us up against dragons for the first task,” Potter snaps, still glaring at Stiles. “Fleur and Krum already know. Thought it was fair you did too.” With that, Potter turns on his heel and storms out of the library.
“That was thoughtful of him,” Scott says as he finishes settling himself next to Stiles, digging around in his bag for a quill. He goes still as he feels Stiles and Lydia’s eyes trained on him, sporting twin expressions of disbelief. He glances between the two. “What?”
“What a precious soul you are,” Stiles says sarcastically. He reaches out to pinch Scott’s cheeks as Scott swats his hands away. “What would you do without us?”
-
Somehow, Scott survives the dragon. Steals its golden, shiny egg, and lives another day. Only to find out he has to find a way to survive underwater for an hour to save the thing he loves the most. Yikes. Scott, as usual, is terribly unconcerned with the whole ordeal.
“They’re not going to do anything crazy to students,” says Scott dismissively.
“Oh, really.” Stiles has been gearing up for this since the first time Scott ignored his insistence that he needed to start figuring out the goddamn clue for the wizard student death match. And, as usual, Scott left it to the night before. Thank god Scott has Stiles. He wouldn’t have made it this far without him. “Remind me again how you spent the first weekend last November? Did you sip tea at Madame Puddifoot’s with Allison? Oh, no, that’s right, you were chased around the quidditch pitch by a fucking Norwegian Ridgeback trying to capture a fucking Easter Egg.”
Scott looks up from his book with a blank expression. He raises his eyebrows at Stiles, skeptical.
“Of course they’re going to do crazy things to students!”
“I get what you’re saying, but I guess I just can’t think of anything important enough that they’ll take.”
“Dude, it’s Dumbledore. I wouldn’t be surprised if you find Alison at the bottom of the lake.” For the first time since this conversation started Scott snaps to attention. “Or they’ll nab your Nimbus?” Scott’s face drops in horror, though whether it's at the thought of losing his broomstick or that Stiles had just placed an object above his maybe-girlfriend’s life, Stiles doesn’t stop to consider.
He decides instead to take the expression as vindication that Stiles is right and Scott has started to realize it. “He couldn’t do that,” Scott says, but Stiles already sees the wheels turning.
“Think about it,” he said. “Freakin’ Potter killed a giant snake in the basement two years ago. Teachers didn’t help at all.”
“He did,” Scott says in horror. “He did do that.”
“Prepare for the worst, man. Dumbledore won’t pull any punches.”
In lieu of repeating the conversation, which Scott is often inclined to do in the face of Stiles’ unwavering distrust of authority figures, Stiles decides that he’s given Scott enough time to process the wisdom Stiles has been trying to impart for a whole entire month. He plows ahead.
“We need to figure out how to keep you, ya know, oxygenated for at least an hour.”
Scott doesn’t say anything, looking at Stiles expectantly. Because this right here, creative and crazy solution making, is Stiles’ wheelhouse. And even though Scott has been distracted by his on again off again and then on again and now kind-of-off-again thing with Allison, Stiles has been preparing for this with the manic single minded focus he usually reserves for impending disasters. He’s felt on the edge of disaster ever since Dumbledore announced this crazy contest at the opening feast.
Stiles’ mind is like a monster of paranoia sometimes, so overwhelming that it’s useless to do anything but trust it. Even if that means losing full nights of sleep and breathing like he’s on the edge of panic most of the time. So what. His instincts are usually right, and when they’re not its usually because he’s searching a little to the left, just missing the real problem. And anyway, he’s never trusted Dumbledore’s ability to keep students out of harms way. Just look at the crap that’s happened to Potter and his friends since they’ve been here. And that’s just the stuff they know about. There’s little that Stiles would put past him.
But Scott has certainly heard this rant before. And even though he’s reassured Stiles a thousand times that he understands where Stiles is coming from, it's clear that Scott doesn’t really buy into it. That’s fine, though. That’s why Scott has Stiles. That’s why they make a good team.
“The Beauxbatons girl is using a bubble head charm. Which, alright, simple, easy, straightforward, but really only helps you breath, doesn’t do anything to help with the swimming. And Krum has been practicing transfiguration, which is an option of course, but that’s never been your best subject and worst case scenario you get stuck with gills. Not ideal.”
Scott, as usual, misses the entire point of the information Stiles has prepared for him. “Stiles,” Scott scolds, “you can’t just spy on the other contestants.”
Stiles flaps his hands to shake away Scott’s objections at the same time he rolls his eyes. “I didn’t put my name in for this stupid contest, I can spy on whoever the hell I want.”
“It’s not right, Stiles.”
“Scott, this won’t be what kills you.” Scott startles at his words. “Because I won’t let it. I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you through this.”
Scott’s expression goes soft, pinches in concern. “Stiles, that’s not what this is. Nobody’s going to die because of this. It’s just a school event, like a lacrosse game.”
But Stiles knows it's more than that. His gut is telling him something sinister happening under the surface. He just hasn’t put his finger on what it could be yet, and he can’t live with the idea of Scott getting hurt because Stiles wasn’t quick enough to put together the pieces.
He decides not to worry Scott with that right now. He starts detailing his plan for Scott to survive under the surface of the lake for an hour. By the way Scott doesn’t protest anymore, just nods along and starts practicing the spell Stiles found to propel him through the water, Stiles knows he’s humoring him.
Scott is just starting to master the spell when a second-year walks up to their table. Tells Stiles that McGonagall is looking for him.
“What could I have possibly done wrong that she needs to talk to me right now. It’s almost curfew.” Scott shrugs. “Fine,” Stiles stands and moves to go with the second-year. “Keep practicing, I’ll be back soon.”
-
Stiles has always known Dumbledore was a few crayons short of a 64 pack, but he hadn’t realized he was downright psychopathic until he slipped wizard roofies in his cup of tea and chained him to the bottom of the Lake.
Of course, it wasn’t physically Dumbledore who did these things. But McGonagall looked thoroughly upset at the whole process. She frowned at the three of them, him and Potter’s little gang, as they anxiously sipped from the porcelain little cups. The side-eye he’s getting from the Weasley kid really starting to grate on his nerves. Even though his pointy white Gandalf beard failed to make an appearance, this whole mess had old Al’s signature all over it.
Stiles’ blacks out pretty quick once he drinks the tea, but he does managed to garble out some protest that the school should need some type of parent consent form before giving underage students wizard roofies. But he’s not sure what McGonagall said in response, let alone if his rambles were even comprehensible.
He doesn’t remember much of anything after that, not until he’s spluttering up murky green water and damn near shattering his teeth as they chatter against each other.
It’s disorienting, to wake up submerged in gross lake water, on the edge of what must be hypothermia, given the way he’s convulsing with shivers, and a hoard of students not far away screaming their lungs out like he remembers the high school kids in Beacon Hills used to do at lacrosse games.
Overall, it’s quite overwhelming. And it takes Stiles a moment or two to realize that in addition to the slimy weeds clinging to his robes, there’s an arm wrapped tight around his chest, pulling him closer to the cheers and shouting coming from behind his head.
This is all rather startling for Stiles, so on instinct he starts flailing, limbs splashing around frantically as he tries to orient himself.
“Stiles, knock it off!”
He goes still immediately. Oh. It’s just Scott. It must be his arm around his chest, pulling him closer towards the sound of the student cheers. Stiles is still spluttering, but now he’s trying to help the process, so he’s not just limp in Scott’s arms. But Scott refuses to loosen his grip, holding Stiles close to his chest.
“Stop it,” Scott breathes out. “Just—let me—“ Scott is spluttering on water too, his teeth chattering. It’s freaking cold.
They reach a makeshift dock, one Stiles doesn’t remember seeing there yesterday. It must have been put up over night, while he was unconscious. And isn’t that an absolutely terrifying thought. Stiles thinks about all that blackness in his memory, spanning from the moment he tasted something off in his tea to right now, floating in the freezing lake. He hates that he doesn’t know what happened to him in that time. Doesn’t know what happened to Scott, even though they're both breathing right now. He had no control over the interlude. The thought sends him spiraling further into his panic.
Stiles can’t make his brain stop running through all the possibilities, even as he feels even more hands roughly grabbing his shoulders, lifting him from where he’s submerged in the water. He’s lowered back down on the dock, so he’s sitting with his legs splayed in front of him. He’s breathing too fast, too shallow. He feels like he’s going to black out again, vision going dark.
Suddenly, Scott is back, his face filling up Stiles’ vision, chasing away the black. His hands warm as they grip Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles reaches back, clinging to his arms gratefully, even as Scott turns his head to bark at someone outside of Stiles’ field of vision. A towel is draped around his shoulders and Scott moves his hands to pull it tight around him.
Scott is saying something to him, but Stiles can’t quite hear over the din of the crowd and the ringing in his ears. The towel is helping him to warm up, but he still can’t get his breathing under control. Still sees blackness encroaching on the edges of his vision. It’s not long before he passes out again.
-
Stiles wakes up in the hospital wing, clothes dry and cheeks flushed with embarrassment, even though he knows he couldn’t control it. It’s been a long time since he had a panic attack at school. It’s been even longer since his breathing got so out of control that he passed out.
Scott is waiting by his bed when he wakes up, grim expression on his face. Scott’s concern makes Stiles smile. He’s so grateful he has Scott. That’s what makes the thought of losing him so terrifying.
Madame Pomfrey dismisses them both after making sure Stiles was feeling better. She tuts angrily about endangering students. Stiles has always been very fond of her.
Scott won’t even think of letting him go back to the Slytherin common room in the dungeons. Says that they both have a chill from the freezing lake, and the barren, stony Slytherin common room is no place to get warm. Stiles isn’t one to complain.
“I thought you were joking about Dumbledore actually kidnapping students.” His face still hasn’t lost that grim expression, even though it feels unnecessary here in the Hufflepuff common room, where it’s always warm and Stiles always feels safe. Scott had made sure they were both tucked up underneath a blanket on the big plush couch in front of the fireplace as soon as they’d walked in. They’re facing each other, with their toes just touching. That fact does a better job of chasing the chill in his bones away than any fire or fuzzy blanket.
Stiles shrugged. He hadn’t been joking, even if he didn’t know that’s what was going to happen. “There isn’t much I’d put past him.”
-
Stiles was prepared for Scott to be shaken by the entire Finding-His-Bestie-At-The-Bottom-Of-A-Lake ordeal. Scotty might be oblivious and easily preoccupied by the teenage dramas of his life, but Stiles has always known that Scott cares about him. They’ve been a package deal since they were snotty four-year-olds, and if Stiles has ever been sure about anything, its that Scott will always be there for him. Scott’s tendency to look for the good in people makes it even worse for him when things like this happen; he so rarely sees it coming.
So it's not surprising that Scott is a little clingy in the weeks following the second task. Scott already sits with Stiles in every class the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins have together. But now it’s not uncommon for Scott to scoot his chair as close as possible during class, so their elbows knock against each other taking notes. Scott’s also picked up the habit of stopping by the kitchens on his way to meet Stiles in the library or the Slytherin common room to pick him up a cup of tea. As if a week later, Scott was still worried about the chill of the lake creeping up on Stiles.
Stiles relishes in it, just a little. It’s selfish, he knows, since this newfound attention is coming from a place of panic and trauma caused by a supposedly trustworthy authority figure. It’s validating to see how much his friend cares about him, after spending the last few months feeling like the third wheel to Scott and Alison’s endless cycle of romance. Stiles knows it won’t last much longer, once the feeling of urgency fades, so he decides to appreciate it while he can.
What does surprise him is everyone else’s reaction.
Stiles expected Scott to be a little overbearing. But he never expected Derek, of all people, to make the mind-boggling switch from vaguely-threatening friend to full-blown mother hen.
It starts the morning after the second task. Stiles is sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, in his spot across from Lydia, when Derek plops himself down next to Stiles. Expression dour as always. Stiles immediately feels the vibe around him change, every conversation simultaneously halting as murmurs about the Gryffindor passing into enemy territory raises.
“You’re still pale,” Derek says. He’s holding his body stiff, awkward and ramrod straight.
Stiles raises his eyebrows. “I’ve always been this pale,” he says. “If I go out into the sun, I’ll die.” Over Derek’s shoulder, Stiles sees the Malfoy kid staring at them in affront, anger growing on his face.
“Come with me to see Madame Pomfrey.” Derek’s eyes are boring into Stiles, mouth pinched in a thin line. My god, he’s concerned.
Stiles doesn’t quite know what to do with this, so he decides to shift his focus to something he knows he can manage. He reaches out and puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder, pushing him aside so he can lock eyes with Malfoy, whose face has turned murderous.
“Yo, Malfoy,” he shouts down the line. “I know you’ve been waiting years to make friends with Potter. Looking for some tips?” Malfoy’s pointed face turns beet-red, looks down.
Stiles feels better now. He turns back to Derek, who hasn’t dropped his laser focus on Stiles. “I saw her yesterday. Took my pepper-up potion like a good boy. I got a lollipop and everything. I don’t need to go again, sour wolf.”
Derek’s stone expression doesn’t change, but he stands up from his seat and steps over the bench. Eyes never leaving Stiles. “You should be wearing your scarf. There’s a draft.” With that, he walks away.
It takes him a while to figure out its the Weasley kid’s fault, telling tall tales in the Gryffindor common room. A real number has been done to that whole house, making them think that anything about that task was cool. Stiles has been waking up every night for weeks, thinking about all of the things that could have gone wrong. Taken hostage by merpeople at the bottom of the lake. If Scott had been a little slower, if Stiles hadn’t helped him find a solution before he’d been force-fed wizard roofies, both of them could have died.
Just the thought is enough to make Stiles light-headed. He knows it’s affected his whole little family in much the same way. Scott sneaking into the Slytherin common room to sleep in his dorm every night. Lydia sticking close to his side as they walk from class to class. Alison making sure Stiles remembers his scarf, as if the chill of the freezing lake still lingered with Stiles.
And now even Derek, stone-faced and grim, following Stiles around. Afraid if he lets him out of sight he’ll disappear. Pestering him to go to the school nurse. Appearing at his shoulder whenever he’s talking to professors, as if they’re about to nab him at any moment.
As much as it makes Stiles feel warm and protected, validates that selfish, clingy part of him that needs to be needed, this has to stop. Whatever Weasley is saying, it’s traumatizing Derek and it's probably not true.
So when Stiles comes across Weasley in the corridor outside the transfiguration classroom, a rare moment when he’s not surrounded by the adoring fans he’s garnered after the Lake fiasco or Potter and Granger, Stiles jumps at the opportunity.
“Hey, Weasley,” he calls out. Weasley whirls around at the sound of his name and immediately goes stiff at the sight of Stiles’ green tie. Typical. Stiles plows ahead, as always. “We need to talk.”
Weasley’s hand shoves in his pocket, pulls out his wand.“I’d be careful coming closer if I were you,” Weasley squeaks.
Stiles raises his hands, placating. “Jesus, Gryffindors are so dramatic. Does every interaction need to turn into a duel? I said we need to talk, not I want to murder you. Put that thing away before a professor walks by.”
He hears Weasley mutter, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” as he sheepishly puts his wand back in his pocket. Stiles musters up all the tact in his body and ignores him, settling for a dramatic eye roll.
“You’ve gotta stop bragging about fighting off the merpeople or whatever. It’s freaking Derek out and I can’t take it anymore. I need him to go back to growling at me, no more of this concern shit.”
“I haven’t been bragging,” Weasley says, offended. Stiles doesn’t listen.
“The fact that you find any of this cool to begin with is beyond me, anyway. Why am I the only one who realizes how dangerous all of this is. You could have died. You’re fourteen years old and you were put in danger to motivate your friend to reach some type of made up glory. That’s not bragging rights. That’s fucked up.”
Weasley’s just standing there, staring at Stiles. He realizes he must have been talking a long time.
“This is all fucked up already. Stop scaring my friends more.” Stiles turns around and walks away, leaving the Weasley kid behind him.