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The night is cool and dark; the moon hangs low and large and glowing out from behind the clouds. Jason slips out of the castle, his footsteps muffled by the same murmured charm that keeps the heavy wooden doors from creaking. He sticks to the shadows, tucking his face into the collar of his robes to obscure his face and keep the worst of the biting wind off his nose, skirting the edge of the stone walls before breaking out onto the grounds, the grass wet with dew. He pauses by the lake, near a group of thin flat stones polished smooth with age, and fishes out the parcel from his inner pocket.
It’s wrapped in brown paper, tied off with rough twine, but the smell as he undoes the knots makes him gag. Entrails and offal, straight from the kitchens and fresh from that night’s dinner just hours earlier. They make a wet plop as they land on the small altar, more decorative than functional, kept out of tradition rather than use. Even so, Jason’s never gotten caught due to Filch popping up out of nowhere due to unholy screeching from the depths of the lake ever since he started leaving little offerings as he passes by. Doesn’t need to be done, he guesses, but he doesn’t see how showing a little respect to terrifying deep water dwellers with pointed teeth could be a bad thing. The kitchen elves are confused by his requests, but they cooperate, and even sneak a sweet or two into his pockets before he sets out.
They’re peach turnovers tonight, flaky crust and warm fruit filling dusted with cinnamon. Jason ate one as he climbed the stairs out of the kitchen and lingered for a moment in a small alcove, waiting for that night’s Prefect to finish their patrol, and been incredibly tempted to eat the other, but…
But Dick loves peaches. Bruce has an orchard, mostly overgrown (and studded with muggle landmines, the absolute paranoid lunatic), and in the summer Dick lounges in hammocks strung between the trees, plucking peaches ripe and hanging heavy from the branches, the sweet sting of the juice on the air and dripping down his wrist.
Every summer except last summer, Jason thinks darkly, and pushes the indulgent memories away. He can dwell on the good old days (the book in his lap and the breeze in his hair and Dick’s head propped lazily on his shoulder) when he’s back in his room. For now he needs to focus, because there’s plenty of things that creep about in the Forbidden Forest that would love to cut his planned rendezvous short.
He has to wait to conjure a light, until he’s deep enough into the treeline that it wouldn’t be visible to anyone looking out from the castle, and it’s slow going, to ensure he’s not making too much noise or walking face first into a giant spider.
He trips over another root that he swears wasn’t there last week, barely regaining his footing, and curses under his breath. Close enough, he thinks, and raises his wand. A murmured lumos later and he can see enough to know that he’s on the right trail, new roots notwithstanding.
“Boo,” Bruce says, right in his ear, and Jason starts, jumping back as a defensive charm flares to life in a green halo around him.
The glow of it lights up Bruce’s features, the lines around his mouth and the hard set to his nose and cheekbones, before they melt away into bright blue eyes peeking out from a floppy mop of dark hair, the skin darkening and smoothing into youthful bronze. “Got you,” Dick says, and laughs when Jason tries to elbow him in the eye, dodging easily. “Nice spellwork, speechless and everything.”
Jason scowls at him.
“Aw,” Dick says, and goes up on his tiptoes to sling an arm around Jason’s shoulders. Just last Christmas he’d still been taller, but Jason had shot up like a weed in springtime, enough that he’d had to shuffle into the infirmary and beg some draughts off Madame Pomfrey to dull the growing pains in his shins. “Don’t be mad, little wing. I gotta joke sometime; the lot I’m currently living with is incredibly unfunny.”
Jason’s scowl intensifies. Like he needs the reminder of who Dick is hanging out with. Still, he can’t help it softening him enough to shove the other pastry into Dick’s hands. “For you,” he mutters. “Asshole.”
Dick sniffs it, his nose twitching into a pig’s snout for only a second before his face creases into a smile. “Peaches,” he says softly. “My favourite.”
Jason shrugs, uncomfortable. “It’s not like I made it. C’mon, eat it while we walk.”
Dick bites into the pastry and makes a noise, half groan and half blissful sigh. “Over here,” he says, his mouth full and his eyes heavy lidded. He points to a cluster of gnarled trees, the branches bare and twisted up like claws, and Jason follows him, grimacing as he squeezes himself between two trunks, the bark rough and scraping.
He pops out into a tiny clearing, mossy grass spongy beneath his feet and the stars shining overhead. The branches and trunks of the surrounding tree are so clustered it feels private and secluded, but Jason still raises his wand, murmuring familiar words. He’s been putting up barriers since he was ten, and Flitwick’s been after him ever since first year, trying to get him to commit to a career in highly specialized charmwork.
Dick hums as he finishes, the rippling dome of magic rising around them. “Never gets old,” he says, admiration evident, and Jason pushes down the flare of warmth it inspires. He touches the ward, sending ripples of refracted light out from his fingertip. He holds out his hand, the last square of pastry resting in the center of his palm. “It’s only fair.”
“Gross,” Jason says, because it’s got the outline of Dick’s teeth at the edges. But he takes it, careful not to touch Dick’s skin as he does so. It’s cold, and a little smushed, but still sweet and filling; he fits his mouth right over where Dick had bitten. “Anything new?”
Dick chews his lip, his brow furrowing in frustration. “There’s definitely something coming, but I’m just not on the inside yet. It might be time to enact plan D.”
Jason pulls a face. “I never agreed to that name.”
Dick shrugs. “I’m older than you.”
“And in the same year,” Jason shoots back. Dick turned nineteen over the summer, sweating and sobbing in Bruce’s basement cave as he changed, over and over, building his stamina and dragging himself through Bruce’s grueling training regimen. Usually he’s a little sensitive about his age--Bruce had to pull strings, Jason heard on the grapevine, to get him into Hogwarts as a first year --but the current constant danger he’s in seems to have inured him to being self-conscious. Bigger picture, Jason figures.
“We can’t all be prodigies,” Dick says cheerfully, and the little creased frown between his eyes has smoothed out.
Jason rolls his eyes. “Prodigies are child geniuses,” he corrects. “I came to school just as late as you did.”
Dick heaves a theatrical sigh. “But skipped right into your age year. Younger siblings really do have it easier.”
“We’re not siblings,” Jason says sharply, something twisting at Dick’s jibe. Dick blinks, surprised at the adamance of the response, and Jason turns, pulling his composure back. “Plan D,” he acquiesces. “Tomorrow?”
“Day after,” Dick counters, after a pause. “At the match.”
Jason nods. “Okay. I’ll follow your lead.” He raises his wand to lower the wards, only to stop dead when Dick touches his wrist.
“What’s the rush?”
Jason raises an eyebrow. “Our meeting in a part of the campus that means instant expulsion if the creatures that live here don’t kill us first?”
“Oh Jason,” Dick says, and he’s still smirking but there’s something so soft under the teasing. “You listed expulsion before espionage and treason.”
Jason pinks. “My point stands. And yours just backs it up.”
Dick grimaces. He drops his hand from Jason’s wrist. “I know, sorry. It’s just… nice to be me again, even for a few minutes.” He glares at his shoes. “It’s stupid; forget it. I’m focused on the mission.”
He says it in his own voice, but all Jason hears is Bruce. “Hold on,” he says, “I want to go over what we’ll do at the match. You know I don’t like to improvise.”
Dick shoots him a disbelieving look. “I don’t need to be coddled. And you love improvising.”
“I don’t like to improvise as much as you do,” Jason amends. “I think ahead, weigh my options. Make plans.”
“Bruce caught you breaking into the manor using underage magic on a stolen wand.”
“And? That was a carefully thought out plot.”
“You tried to bribe Alfred into letting you get away with the family silver with a gym sock. He’s not even a house elf.”
Jason grins, cocky. “And then Bruce adopted me. Plan worked out perfect.”
Dick laughs, head tilted back and eyes scrunched up.
Jason sits, criss cross applesauce, and pats the ground next to him. “Just a minute. Then we’ll go back.”
Dick hesitates.
Jason purses his lips, then whistles, fluting and musical: a birdcall.
Dick smiles, small and pinched. He sits. Then he lays in the grass, arms spread out and face tilted into the moonlight. His mouth ripples, the muscles moving into unnatural shapes under his skin, his lips lengthening. A perfect robin’s song pipes through the cold night air, ending with a chirp and a lingering coo. His eyes close. “Can’t help but notice the lack of plotting.”
Jason lies next to him on his back, his arm folded under his head. The dew is soaking through his robes, chilly damp and unpleasant; Jason has a history exam first thing in the morning he needs to cram for and hours of sleep he’ll never catch up on. “In a minute,” he says, and Dick exhales, fist clenched and face tight. He leans their shoulders together and breathes.
++
“Heads up,” Kyle mutters, glowering over Jason’s right shoulder. “Baron on your six.”
Jason tenses, then straightens, not looking away from the teams bobbing and weaving through their warmups on the pitch. He’d anticipated Dick to make his move during the game, or even at the end, but Dick’s never been one to conform to the expected.
“Todd,” he drawls, deeper and haughtier than Dick’s natural tones. “Here to watch the pretty brooms go by?
“It’s Wayne,” Jason replies, his tone flat and disinterested. “You should know the name; it’s been around longer than yours.”
Kyle laughs. “How’s that purity burn feel, new money?”
Baron pinks, high on his cheeks, and Jason knows it’s manufactured. When Dick flushes it’s from his chest, up his throat. His glower is through green eyes, not Dick’s natural blues; his skin is pale, freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose. It’s easier to slide into his role when Crane Baron doesn’t look a thing like Dick.
"Rescued off the street,” Baron sneers. His voice is cold and cruel and his eyes are as sharp as the cut of his nose and the charisma there is all Dick, the innate performer in him that makes everyone stop what they’re doing just to watch what he’ll do next. “I suppose it’s just as well, since the Estate lacks a blood heir. With the first gutter rat he tried to civilize rotting in Mungo’s, and all.”
Jason sees red. The next thing he knows people are shouting and his knuckles are smarting and Kyle is pulling him back, wand raised to erect a thin shield of blue light around them. A hex smashes into it, crackling the edges, and other students are pouring down from the stands, yelling and throwing spells of their own. It’s a cacophony of sparks and bellowing voices, and Jason can barely make out Baron among his Slytherin cronies, one eye already swelling shut from where Jason punched him.
“How’s that feel?” Jason yells at him, ducking as a swarm of bats swoops the crowd. It’s so chaotic he can’t even tell which spells are aimed at him and which are coming from his supporters. “Ten generations of pureblood magic and you couldn’t stop a muggle right hook!”
Abruptly, all sound cuts out. Jason’s never heard the lack of something like this before, the absolute absence of all sound. At the same time, his belly flips over and his feet leave the ground, unbidden, as he and every other student involved in the melee, at least thirty of them, float gently away from the ground. Jason flails, arms pinwheeling, and bumps off a panicked looking third year in Ravenclaw colors.
Someone grabs him clumsily by the back of the robes, yanking him around as they both flap ungainly around in midair, drifting like dandelion seeds. It’s Kyle, his yellow scarf floating up from his neck. what the fuck! he says, and Jason knows that’s what he said from the way his lips are moving, but absolutely no sound comes out. Jason shrugs, grasping Kyle by the collar of his robes so they don’t float away.
And just as abruptly, the world roars back to life around them. They drop to the ground, landing in a heap with a groan, and Jason shoves Kyle off him to sit up and look around. There’s a stunned sort of quiet settling over the crowd, everyone’s limbs akimbo and puzzled looks galore.
“That,” Headmistress McGonnagall says, her wand still raised and the glow of power clinging to her aura, “is quite enough.”
++
They’re dragged, Jason and Kyle and Dick-As-Baron, up to the main office and reamed out. Jason tries to look appropriately apologetic because he likes McGonagall and he still feels bad about the time Bruce had her over to the Manor for a formal dinner and then accused her of complacency to the point of complicity over the second course.
Then Professor Slughorn shows up to make some simpering insincere comments about how both of them are better than common brawlers in the street and Jason is midroll of his eyes before he realizes, with dawning horror, that if the Slytherin Head of House has come, then that means--
“Jason,” Diana says as she closes McGonagall’s office door behind her. “This is disappointing.”
Jason doesn’t flinch, but he swallows, eyes dropping. He stares at the floor, morose. Of course they called Diana, current Head of Gryffindor, the one person besides Bruce whose disapproval cuts like a knife.
“Mr. Todd,” Slughorn says, lingering on the honorific, “started the brawl. This is corroborated by all witnesses.”
“Not me,” Kyle interjects. “Sir,” he adds.
“You’re not a witness,” is the snippy reply. “You’re a perpetrator.”
“Kyle,” Diana says, cutting through Slughorn’s remarks. “Pomona awaits you in the greenhouse. I believe your detention will begin immediately.”
Kyle’s shoulders slump. “Yes miss,” he mumbles, and leaves, casting Jason one last supportive nod as he slips through the doorway.
Slughorn sniffs, literally looking down on him, and Jason doesn’t hold back his eyeroll this time. “Jason,” Diana says, and he bites his lip. “Did you start the fight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The hard line of Jason’s shoulders ease. It’s hard, to bite his tongue and call these people sir while they whisper slurs at him behind cupped hands. But it’s a little easier with Diana around, who never makes assumptions, turns her nose up at patronyms, holds a no-magic self defense seminar every second Saturday of the month. “He spoke ill of my family.”
“It was my understanding that you are an utter orphan,” Slughorn sneers
“Horace,” McGonagall snaps, chiding, and it’s a good thing she’s decided to weigh in, because out of the corner of his eye Jason sees Dick’s fists clench. “That’s quite enough,” she says, and quicksilver fast Dick’s mood shifts, his lips twitching up at the corner. He flutters his lashes at Jason, and Jason almost grins back. Oddly heartening, to know that old McGoogles uses the same lines on the adults as she does on them, Headmistress or not.
Diana’s hand lands on his shoulder, even her lightest grip tight and reproving. “It’s late. Let us speak again as equals in the morning, and let the boys go on to bed.”
“Everyone go,” McGonagall decrees, waving a hand with a weary sigh. “And see Madame Pomfrey first thing in the morning.”
Jason opens his mouth; Diana squeezes his shoulder and he shuts it. He steps into the hallway and stops dead despite himself--the walls are lined with Slytherins, maybe fifteen in total, leaned up against the stone, their wands drawn but held loosely by their sides. They don’t chant, they don’t yell slurs, they don’t have Deatheater marks on their forearms. But their eyes glint in the dim candlelight and their mouths twist, and Jason can feel it, the hatred oozing out of them, how bad they want him dead just for daring to exist.
Diana’s thumb brushes the back of his neck, pressing in and unfreezing him. Be brave, her voice murmurs into his ear, even though her lips don’t move.
Jason lifts his chin. He squares his shoulders and puts on a mean look and swaggers like the whole magic world couldn’t keep him down.
++
“Tell me the truth,” Diana says, just outside Gryffindor Tower.
Jason steels himself. Even Bruce has a hard time lying to Diana, something innate and undefinable about it, magic but not any kind that comes from a wand.
“Did you strike Crane Baron?”
“Right in the eye,” Jason says truthfully, relieved it isn’t a question he needs to try and lie about.
Diana holds out her hand. “Give me your wand.”
“What?”
Jason breaks into a cold sweat. Surely she’s not about to break--to snap his wand. It’s the only thing in the whole world that picked Jason over everybody else. He could try to run, he thinks resignedly, but it wouldn’t do him any good. Bruce himself told Jason no one’s ever beat Diana at a duel, and Bruce is probably good for the money for a new wand anyway. He forces himself to drop his wand (aspen wood, seven inches, dragon heartstring, the way it sung when his fingers curled around it).
She tucks it into he robes. “You showed an interesting approach, to make a fist instead of drawing your wand. It’ll be a good exercise in wandless magic for you tomorrow. Come to the head table at supper to retrieve it.”
So she doesn’t intend to snap it. Jason relaxes. Then he remembers he has double Charms tomorrow and scowls. “He had it coming.”
“Good for you,” The Fat Lady says, and swings open.
Diana walks him through the common room, a sudden hush falling over the few students loitering by the fire. “I am very disappointed in your actions tonight,” Diana says severely. Then she winks.
Jason blushes when she leaves, and throws a half-hearted hex at the third year who jeers at him for having a crush. Then he goes up to his bed, drawing the drapers around it and tossing up a quick ward before settling back against his pillows and fishing out the slim journal stuck under the mattress. He props it on his chest and yawns so hard his jaw cracks, eyes heavy despite the relatively early hour. Then he waits.
He’s drifting, half-asleep and nearly dreaming, his fingers lax where they’re holding the book open to two blank pages, when movement jars him out of his stupor. Spidery black handwriting is appearing across the page, thin and translucent until it thickens and darkens.
They bought it
Jason fumbles for the enchanted quill. You gonna get some action at last?
He can almost see Dick’s eyeroll, but his returning message is all business. H. Weekend @ HM. Hogsmeade weekend is in two days.
Jason frowns. It’s much more shorthand than it usually is, these written correspondences the most private they can manage with Dick’s cover as deep as it is. They can spend hours talking about nothing, until the candles burn too low to make out the writing and the moon has all but receded, the sky slowly lightening.
you okay?
The page is blank for a long time. Jason sits up more, rubbing at his face with a tired hand. This whole thing, he thinks, is so fucking awful and eveyrthing he’s ever wanted at the same time. Chafed the whole summer Bruce spent prepping Dick, muttering under his breath at supper and being cruel to the point of no forgiveness at Alfred, burned up by jealousy and frustration and betrayal, this new beautiful world of magic that he thought was so much better than living on the streets turned sour, the ugly twist to it, the hatred and the bigotry and whose blood it was built on.
it’ll be over soon, Dick writes to him, the muggle born orphaned darkskinned boy pretending to be a fourth generation pureblood wizard. Jason never really thought about Dick’s life before Bruce, not until this term. one way or the other
++
“Psst,” Kyle stage whispers at breakfast, even though they’re seated right next to each other. He jabs the butt of his wand into Jason’s ribs through his robes, from under the table. “I’ve got Potions, so take mine for Charms.”
“An amazing plan,” Jason says dryly, stuffing toast into his mouth and spraying crumbs as he speaks. “I’m sure no one will notice that I’m using a wand that isn’t mine, on the day I’m supposed to not have a wand.”
“Maybe Flitwick doesn’t know,” Kyle suggests.
They look at the head table, where Diana bends almost to her knees to murmur in Flitwick’s ear. She points at Jason.
“Bummer,” Kyle commiserates, and tucks his wand back into his robes.
“Sure,” Jason mutters, mind elsewhere. Baron Crane is sitting at Pirithia Carrow’s left hand side, drinking orange juice with just the faintest ring of purple around his eye, head tilted as Pirithia holds court with the echelon of old money Slytherins.
Kyle sees him looking and scowls. “Bitch,” he mutters, and her eyes flit to them, sharp and pale blue, the same shade as the spidery veins around her eyes, her skin so white it’s nearly translucent. She smiles, the deceiving dimple in her cheek and the soft waves of her honey hair contrasting against the mean baring of her teeth. Kyle shudders. “Creepy. Don’t tell me you’ve got a crush.”
Jason makes a noise of disgust. He shoves two plums into his pockets and leaves with a last friendly smack upside Kyle’s head.
++
He slips out of Transfigurations twenty minutes early, something that wouldn’t fly except he doesn’t have a wand and he’s tired of staring at a rock and willing it to become a biscuit. There’s no way they’ll be able to meet up, not so close to Dick finally breaking into the inner circle, but it doesn’t feel right, going days and nights without seeing Dick’s crooked smile or hearing his voice.
He polishes the two plums on his robes and leaves them nested on one of Jason’s old sweaters, a pretty blue that he’s always thought went well with Dick’s eyes, folded up neat and cushy and left on a stump in the meadow they used to meet in.
He taps a finger against the bark of a tree as he leaves. Maybe, when this is over, he and Dick could come back, in the summer. Eat strawberries and fresh oranges in the shade under the sun.
++
Diana isn’t at dinner, and Jason scowls through half a bowl of thick stew before standing abruptly and stalking off towards her office.
“You said,” he accuses, barging through the door, and then stops short.
“Mister Todd,” Slughorn says, not without smugness.
“It’s Wayne,” Jason shoots back, recovering quickly. “Get it right.”
Diana, as delicately as she ever gets, clears her throat.
“Sir,” Jason amends.
“We were just discussing your punishment.” Diana retrieves a small box from a drawer and slides it across the desktop. “Your wand, as promised.”
“I thought that was my punishment.”
Slughorn scoffs. “Not hardly. Detention, every weekend morning, starting tomorrow, and that’s just to start--”
Tomorrow is the Hogsmead trip, tomorrow Dick’s going to be out on the wire and he needs Jason in the wings to back him up if necessary. “Over my dead body,” he bursts out, fingers clenched around his wand. Diana’s eyes pin him down, still him and silence him.
“It is not decided,” she says sharply. “And I will discipline the students in my house, Horace.”
Slughorn starts blustering, which is at least familiar. “This weekend at the very least, you must agree.”
“Yes,” Diana says, and Jason makes a strangled noise. “This,” Diana says, and her voice is suddenly cold fire, just as binding as the golden bracelet she wears on her wrist. “Is a consequence for a choice that you made. Let it teach you to consider the ramifications of your actions. Further detentions have not been decided.”
In his chair, Slughorn glowers.
“You’re excused.” There’s no questioning Diana’s tone, and Jason stalks out of her office, furious with no good place to aim his anger.
He storms through the common room and his housemates scatter out of his way at the look on his face, stomping up the stairs to his room and throwing himself onto his bed. He stews for three hours, glowering at the ceiling and clenching his fists so tight his nails dig painfully into the meat of his palm, before Dick makes contact through the enchanted journal.
A doodle of two birds flying around a tree, crudely sketched: Dick isn’t much of an artist, apparently. Jason turns the journal sideways, squinting at it, then sighs, resigned, as his mood lifts slightly despite himself.
cheer up, buttercup, Dick writes.
let me tell kyle
ew is Dick’s answer. and you know the rules. no one else can know
Fuck Bruce’s rules, Jason thinks, but he knows better then to pull at that thread again. k’s annoying but he’s loyal, he argues instead. you’d get along if you weren’t so similar.
:(
Jason rolls his eyes. it’s that or I sneak out
don’t. you’re in enough trouble already. I don’t need backup, it’s just a test, maybe some hazing. how bad could it get, if it’s happening in the village?
Jason groans aloud, dragging a hand through his hair. please stop jinxing yourself
silly jay Dick writes, and he dots the ‘j’ with a tiny heart. don’t you know there’s no such thing as magic?
++
Jason shows up to detention on time, but he’s sullen about it. Diana takes his ill mood in stride, clapping his shoulder companionably. “Personally,” she confides in a low tone, “I would have punched him too. It’s not wrong to stand up for yourself, but you should know that everything has consequences, even the actions that are worth it.”
Then she leaves him alone to scrub the stone paths of the greenhouse.
It’s not the worse detention in the world, Jason thinks. He likes herbology well enough, except when the plants fight back, and the part of the greenhouse he’s starting in isn’t even magical plants, just rows and rows of dittany, the pretty pink of their small flowering buds and the sharp pleasant scent cutting through the rest of the odd assortment of smells. He’s got a bucket and scrub brush and before long he’s sweating enough he shrugs off his robes, leaving him in jeans and a t-shirt. With his wand tucked away and the sun slanting through the grass and only the quiet chirping of the birds, it’s almost like he’s a normal person instead of a wizard.
His mom, he remembers suddenly, used to take him to the community garden near the estate where they lived. She grew tomatoes in a tiny patch, the dirt turning darker and richer when she ran her fingers through it. The tomatoes grew plump and heavy and he helped her pull them from the vine early in the morning, biting into them like apples, the burst of sweetness across his tongue and the sticky juice between his fingers.
Diana brings him lunch around noon, which Jason is grateful for not only because of the rumbling of his stomach but because he’s started to feel sick with worry, his thoughts stuck in circles of worst case scenarios.
“You’re quiet,” she observes, while he’s picking at the butcher paper wrapping of his sandwich, and he looks up from his cross legged seat when she plops down into the dirt beside him, fishing another sandwich out of the pockets of her robes. “Regrets?”
“Kind of,” Jason admits. He frowns at the dirt under his nails, then shrugs, wiping them off on his pants and sinking his teeth into the sandwich. Slow roasted beef and sharp yellow cheese between thick fresh baked bread, only Alfred could do better. He speaks through the mouthful. “I’m supposed to be somewhere else today.”
Diana nods, then doesn’t push, which is why she’s absolutely Jason’s favourite. She surveys what Jason’s managed to clean so far, then smiles. “Dittany is my favourite.” She tells him like it’s a secret, like she’s trusting him enough not to spread it around. “They’re native to my homeland.”
Jason blinks. “Greece?”
“Sure,” Diana agrees. She breathes in, then smiles a softer sadder smile when she exhales. “It reminds me of my mother.”
“My mom used to garden,” Jason tells her. “They have these gardens anybody can use, and we planted tomatoes.”
“How were they?”
Jason swallows. “The best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Diana nods approvingly. “I’ve always believed magic ran strongest matrilineally.”
“Oh,” Jason says. “No, I’m muggleborn.” His face twists, the word sour and rotten on his tongue. “Full mudblood.”
“That is a foul word,” she says sharply. “It holds no truth and doesn’t belong in your mouth.” She sighs. Then she pulls a chocolate bar from an inner pocket and drops it into his lap. “This world is hard, but you’re strong enough to change it.” She stands, dusting herself off, and points at the chocolate. “Just between you and me,” she says, and leaves with a wink.
++
He’s released just before suppertime, yanking his robes back on as he jogs back towards the castle, his muscles starting to ache and tighten up. He scans the Great Hall, but doesn’t see Dick anywhere, nor Carrow or her flying monkeys.
“Hey,” Kyle says, punching Jason in the arm as a greeting. “I brought you back some butterbeer.”
“Did you see Baron?” Jason asks. “Or Carrow?”
“Uh,” Kyle says. “No? But I actively try to never focus my gaze on neo-Deatheaters. Not even the decency to die out with their Dark Lord.”
Jason scowls. “Well what good are you, then?” He strides towards the Slytherin table.
“Woah, hey.” Kyle grabs his elbow. “I get you’re cranky but starting another brawl won’t help.”
Jason shakes him off, making an impatient noise. “I don’t have time for you right now.”
“Fine,” Kyle says, and he’s obviously hurt but Jason only has the brainpower for one crisis at a time. “Fuck you too.” He leaves, and Jason doesn’t even spare him a look.
“You,” he says, zeroing in on a third year in a green scarf passing by.
The third year squeaks.
“Did you go to Hogsmeade today?”
“Yes,” the third year says, shrinking back against the wall. “I’m… sorry?”
“Did you see Carrow?”
“Yea, ‘course, can’t miss her.”
“Where’d she go?”
The third year, finding his spine, scoffs. “She came back with the rest of us, man. Get a grip.”
Jason lets him scurry off, frowning at nothing in particular. He goes up to his room, checks to see if Dick’s sent any written messages. The pages are blank so he returns to the Gryffindor table, eyes fixed on the doors.
The sun sets, the ceiling red-and-yellow sunset fading into the deep satin darkness of the night sky. The curfew has long passed and the hall is slowly emptying. Jason’s plate is untouched, his fists clenched under the tabletop.
Kyle sits next to him. “Does this radical personality shift have anything to do with why you’ve been sneaking out at night all term?”
Jason turns to look at him. “What?”
“I’m not nearly as dumb as I look,” Kyle tells him. “I get you’ve got shit going on, and I don’t get why you can’t tell me about it, especially after I covered for you that time you got drunk and released all those flobber worms in your old man’s fancy larder, but if you’re this snappy it’s an emergency, I guess.”
“Kyle,” Jason starts, “I really don’t have time--”
“The elf that works the oven at The Three Broomsticks says there was a ruckus in the back alley earlier today. Says three students dragged another boy off towards the passageway.”
Jason blinks. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“Elves talk; I asked Reemy down in the kitchens, and she popped over to inquire on my behalf.” Kyle shrugs at Jason’s open mouth. “What, you think you’re the only one who can make friends?”
Jason grins. “You’re a rockstar.” He smacks a kiss to Kyle’s cheek. “I owe you, man.”
“Gross,” Kyle complains, wiping at his face. “I’m never helping you again.”
“Yeah sure,” Jason says, already beating feet towards tunnel behind a mirror on the fourth floor. “Whatever you say.”
The passage lets out into a back alleyway. Jason hunches into an alcove and pulls his left boot off, wedging the butt of his wand between the leather and the rubber sole, prying it in two. Hidden in the heel is a tiny vial, something thick and dark red within. He turns it upside down, watching the viscous liquid slide slowly from one end to the other, and says a quick prayer to the universe that he’s within the radius of what he’s planning to do.
“Sorry Dickie,” he mutters, unscrewing the small black cap. “You don’t have to visit me in Azkaban if you don’t want to.”
++
The blood magic leaves him drained and achy, a headache pounding in his temples. But it works, a curling string tugging him towards Dick’s location. It winds him through the village, the darkened windows and the quaintly flickering streetlights, and up the hill.
“Gotta be kidding me,” Jason says, almost out of breath, when he reaches his destination. “I shoulda seen this coming.”
It’s the Shrieking Shack.
He creeps up, bristling with Don’t-Notice-Me charms, and crouches below one of the cracked windows. There’s nothing but the whistle of the wind, but that doesn’t mean anything. Jason taps his knee, thinking. There’s a portkey in his pocket that would take him back to Bruce in an instant, but that’s no guarantee they could make it back as fast.
He loops back to the front door, raises his wand in front of him, and kicks the door open.
It’s empty. Except for a slumped shape on the floor, someone lying prone and blooded. “Dick?”
The body doesn’t move.
Jason steps forward, muscles tensed and every sense straining, but as far as he can tell they’re alone. He rushes over, falling to his knees and turning the body over.
It’s Dick, but his face is so badly beaten it’s hard to tell just from looking at him. Jason curses, checking for a pulse: thready and weak, but it’s there, and when he holds the back of his hand to Dick’s lips he can feel the tiny puffs of Dick’s breathing. He presses his wandtip to Dick’s chest and chants the best healing spell he knows, over and over, his free hand fumbling at his pocket.
“I got you,” he promises, pulling Dick into his lap. Then he grips the portkey in his fist and the room disappears.
The alarm goes off just as they appear in the cave below the Manor, and Bruce is coming down the stairs in almost the same instant. “Jason,” he barks, and Jason lifts Dick up, offering him to Bruce’s arms.
“I found him,” Jason says, and he sounds bewildered. “I didn’t--I don’t--”
“Control yourself,” Bruce orders, and Jason’s shoulders square. He follows Bruce to the makeshift infirmary. “Get Alfred,” Bruce directs, and Jason hesitates. “Now!”
Jason bolts for the stairs. “Alfred!” He careens into the kitchen, almost tripping over himself. “Alfred!”
Alfred steps out of the pantry, already pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “Eat something,” he says, and disappears through the doorway.
As fucking if, Jason thinks. He’s at Alfred’s heels all the way to Dick’s side.
Dick’s eyes are open, only a tiny sliver of blue visible under the swelling and the bruises, and he’s trying to talk, his voice cutting in and out and rasping like broken glass. “Gotta, Bruce, you gotta…”
“It’s alright,” Bruce murmurs, oddly gentle. He smoothes Dick’s hair out of his face, then cups his cheek. “It’s handled, chum, don’t worry about it.” He straightens, focusing on Jason and Alfred, his hand falling away.
Alfred pulls a cart of supplies to his side. “Go get Leslie.”
Bruce disapparates with a pop.
“Jay,” Dick croaks, his hand twitching like he wants to reach out.
Jason steps up, touching Dick’s knuckles with a fingertip. “Hey Dickface, lookin’ hot.”
Dick smiles. His lips are split in multiple places, and fresh blood wells up at the movement. “Flatterer.”
“Take a nap,” Jason tells him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Okay,” Dick says, and passes out.
Jason gets kicked out when Leslie gets there, the curtain pulled tightly around the bed. He slumps into a sitting position against the nearest wall, not even taking his shoes off, and falls asleep to the quiet murmurs of Bruce and Leslie’s casting.
++
Dick takes three days to wake up again, and Jason stubbornly refuses to leave the cave the entire time, showering in the locker room and sleeping on a cot he drags over to Dick’s bedside.
“You look worse than me,” Dick tells him on the third morning, and Jason laughs so hard he cries.
“They had a first year,” Dick tells him the day after that. “Wanted me to….” He tries a smile. “Doesn’t matter. Couldn’t do it.”
“Good,” Jason says, and steals Dick’s pudding cup.
On the fourth day, Jason confronts Bruce. “Hey,” he says, ambushing Bruce before he’s had his first cup of coffee. Any encounter with Bruce needs as many advantages as possible. “Did you know you have a giant cave underneath your house?”
“It’s a manor,” Bruce says, squinting at Jason from underneath his bedhead. “What do you want, Jason?”
“So you do know about the cave. And I guess you do remember sending your sons on a dangerous undercover mission without any real backup? And possibly you can recall that your oldest is downstairs--”
“Yes,” Bruce growls, “I understand what you’re getting at.”
“Well then why the hell haven’t you visited him?”
Bruce crosses to the counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Dick isn’t my son.”
“What?”
“He’s not my son. I haven’t adopted him.”
Jason gapes at him. “So that means you don’t care if he dies?”
Bruce’s cup clinks down on the counter hard enough to crack the porcelain. “It does not.” He looks at his cup and sighs, pulling another mug down from the cabinet. “We’re partners,” he explains. “He doesn’t like to look weak in front of me, he would push his recovery beyond what he should.”
Jason scowls. “What a crock of bullshit.”
“Language.”
“Oh fuck you, Bruce.” Jason goes to storm out, then pauses in the doorway. “Everytime someone comes in he looks for you.”
Bruce’s jaw clenches. “That’s enough,” he says, and Jason leaves.
“I’m never going to graduate,” Dick moans, his arm slung around Jason’s shoulder as they shuffle their way to Dick’s room. He’s only just been cleared to leave the infirmary, and Jason barely managed to get slippers on his feet before Dick flung himself out of bed.
“Bruce’ll fix it,” Jason says, and a darkly hurt look flickers across Dick’s face before he forced it away.
“Even if he does,” he says, back to his dramatics, “I’ll hold a record. Oldest idiot to make it out.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Don’t pretend like you were looking forward to exams.”
“Whatever, nerd.” Dick stops and Jason waits, patiently, while Dick catches his breath. “I wanna go outside.”
Jason snorts. “I want a pony.”
“He wouldn’t even let me get a dog, so if you get a pony I’ll be pissed.” Dick shifts, sweat prickling on his hairline. “C’mon, Jay, I’ve been stuck underground for ages. I can make it.”
Jason looks at him, disbelieving.
Dick pouts. “You said you were gonna help me.”
Jason sighs. “You’re lucky you look cute when you’re pathetic.”
For some reason, it makes Dick blush, but Jason doesn’t think much of it, because he’s distracted by adjusting his grip, below Dick’s knees and on his back, and lifting Dick up into a bridal carry without dropping him or falling over.
“Woah,” Dick says, his arms looping around Jason’s neck to steady himself. “You don’t have to--”
“Shut up,” Jason says, and carries him out into the back garden. Winter has just starting to poke its nose through the countryside, so it’s not as lush as it is in spring, Alfred’s prized roses blooming and the rows and rows of overgrown trees fruiting along their lush branches.
Dick sighs, long and satisfied, and Jason settles them down onto a bench. He loosens his grip, so Dick can slide of his lap, but Dick just leans his head on Jason’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming to get me, Jay.”
Jason looks at him, the bags under his eyes and the sickly yellow of his fading bruises, a curl of a new scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt. “Yeah,” he promises. “Always.”
Dick breathes quietly for a few minutes, listening to the wind through the leaves and the twitter of the birds. “I held Baron’s face for as long as I could.”
Jason’s grip on him tightens. “I know.”
++
“He likes extra jam,” Jason says, hovering at Alfred’s elbow. “On top of the butter. Are you sure that toast is burnt enough? He likes it--”
“Master Jason,” Alfred snaps, slamming the butter knife down with a clatter. Jason shrinks back, admonished, and Alfred sighs, his face softening. “I have been making Master Dick’s breakfast since he was eight years old. I assure you I know how it’s done.”
“Okay,” Jason says, scuffing his foot on the kitchen’s stone floor. “I know that. Leslie wore him out yesterday with the follow up treatment, that’s all. I wanted to do somethin’ nice.”
Alfred smiles, then presses the breakfast tray into Jason’s hands. “You are a fine young man.”
Jason’s still blushing when he nears Dick’s doorway, but the quiet voices from inside make him pause just outside.
It’s Bruce, he realizes, sitting at Dick’s bedside with a book in his hands.
“--find her?” Dick is asking. “The first year.”
“Yes,” Bruce says. “I contacted Diana, and she found the girl, took her to St. Mungo’s. She also oversaw the arrests. She tells me the girl will recover.”
Dick’s breath hitches. “I was afraid to ask, I thought… But I saved her?”
“Yes,” Bruce says simply. “You saved her.”
Dick’s breath hitches again, then smooths out. “Thank you, Bruce.”
“I,” Bruce says, and then falters. Jason almost drops the tray in shock. Bruce never falters. “I brought The Jungle Book.”
“You did?” Dick sounds surprised. “You used to read that to me when I was little.”
“When you were sick,” Bruce agrees. “I thought maybe you’d like to hear it again.”
“Yeah,” Dick says, and Jason can hear the smile in his voice. “I’d like that.”
There’s a rustling of paper, then Bruce’s voice, halting and unsure again. “You did very well, Dick.”
There’s a soft quiet lull, then Dick speaks, hoarse and raw. “You gonna read to me or what, old man?”
Bruce clears his throat once and starts to read.
Jason creeps back down the stairs. When he leaves the tray on the counter a small wooden tray of packets catches his eye. There’s tomato seeds there, and it’s far far too off season to grow anything, but Jason snags a packet and heads out to the back garden.
He plants them under the bench he and Dick had sat on, digging at the cold earth with his bare hands. It’s not like when he and his mother did it, the sun shining down on them and the dirt warmed between their fingers, but when he sprinkles the seeds down and buries them he remembers her anyway.
++
“Jason,” someone is whispering, and Jason comes awake with his fingers curled around his wand, tucked under his pillow. He sleeps on his stomach, arm bent under him, legs tucked up against himself. He’s never been able to stretch out, ever since he can remember, never been comfortable with his belly exposed.
“G’way,” Jason slurs, some part of his brain identifying the intruder as Dick and not a Deatheater come to take revenge.
“Wake up,” Dick says impatiently, because he’s a morning person and refuses to be properly apologetic about it. “It’s important.”
Jason groans, levering himself upright, blinking blearily. “You’re not even supposed t’ be outta bed.”
Dick is smiling at him, soft and fond. “Your accent is thicker when you’re sleepy. It’s kinda cute.”
Jason, unforgivably, blushes. “What?”
“You heard me.” Dick clambers up on the bed next to him, Jason turning to prop himself against the headboard. Dick winces slightly as he positions himself, and he’s still a little pale, but he looks miles better than when Jason cradled him close and took him home. “I gotta serious question, though. You awake enough?”
Jason rubs at one eye with his knuckles, yawning loudly. “Yeah, sure. Shoot.”
“How’d you find me?”
Jason’s brain stutters. “Magic,” he says, trying to play it cool.
Dick’s eyes narrow. His face ripples, eyes changing color, cheekbones shifting. Jason looks at his own face, reflected back at him.
“Quit it, you know I hate that shit.”
“Then stop lying,” Dick says with Jason’s voice.
“I ain’t lyin’,” Jason says gruffly, turning his gaze away to look at the wall instead. “It was magic.”
Dick is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again it’s as himself. “That’s Unforgivable magic, Jason.”
Jason shrugs.
“How’d you even have some of my blood?”
“From the infirmary,” Jason says, because that’s a simple answer, at least. Nothing about the ethics of using blood magic, nothing about why he felt compelled to cast a spell that could send him to prison for life, that could net him the death penalty, all for Richard Grayson.
“You carried that around all term?” Dick’s question is wondering, confused.
Jason shrugs again. “What good are secret compartments in our boots if we don’t use ‘em?”
Dick frowns, lost in thought. “Does Bruce know?”
“I guess,” Jason says, because Bruce tends to know everything, especially the things you wish he wouldn’t. “He hasn’t asked.”
“He won’t,” Dick says confidently, and Jason just shrugs again. Dick knows Bruce best, after all. “And if someone else figures it out, you tell them I did it, from my end.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m serious,” Dick insists. “I’m older, and--”
“You shut up,” Jason snarls, and Dick, the annoying idiot who’s just woken him up to talk nonsense, tries to steamroll him.
“--and not likely to graduate, and you deserve--”
Jason turns, pinning Dick against the headboard with his bulk--and when did he get bulkier than Dickie, anyway, Jason remembers when he had to look up and Dick’s shoulders were broader than his. “Shut the fuck up,” he says lowly, and Dick does, big blue eyes wide and suprised at Jason’s proximity. None of his weight presses against Dick, he doesn’t want to jostle his bruises or bump his stitches, but they’re so close he can feel the warmth of Dick’s body. “I’m not doing that,” Jason tells him, and there’s no room for arguing. “Not ever.”
Dick exhales, slumping slightly. The moment breaks and Jason slides down on his stomach again, shoving the pillow under his head to hide the flush in his cheeks. “Fine,” Dick says petulantly, arms crossing. “Go to Azkaban if someone finds out.”
“Good,” Jason gravels, closing his eyes again. “Glad that’s settled.”
Dick huffs again, but the mattress doesn’t dip like he’s getting up. Instead it shifts, the springs creaking. His head rests on Jason’s shoulder and he sighs, his breath fluttering Jason’s hair. His foot nudges Jason’s ankle.
Under the pillow, Jason’s fingers release his wand. He drifts away to Dick’s quiet breathing.
++
Dick’s up and about with Alfred’s blessing before long, and doing handstands on furniture for no reason not long after that.
They’re both due to go back to Hogwarts after the winter holidays, and Dick finds Jason in his room, nose buried in a textbook. Dick groans dramatically, throwing an arm across his face and slumping against the doorframe.
“Noooo,” he bemoans. “Jason c’mon! We’re on vacation.”
“We’re on medical leave,” Jason corrects, but he puts his book aside. “Didn’t Bruce draw you up an educational plan?”
“He likes it when I defy him,” Dick confides. “He doesn’t act like it, but he looks less constipated for like, one second. Watch closely.”
“I’ll do that,” Jason says, amused. “Why are you gracing me with your presence?”
Dick brightens. “I found something cool,” he says. “You gotta come see it.”
“Alright,” Jason says, because he’s never been able to deny Dick anything and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to start now.
Dick takes him down into the garden, over to the bench. He kneels down, craning his neck. “Look,” he says impatiently, tugging on Jason’s pantleg.
Jason looks, on his hands and knees. His mouth drops open. There’s a small vine, just a single one, but thick and dark green, curling on the ground underneath the bench, a single bloodred tomato hanging from it. “That’s--” he stops, speechless.
“I know, right?”
Jason reaches over, tugging the tomato off the vine with a single firm yank. The skin is soft and firm against his palm, sunwarm despite the sharp frost in the air. When he sits up Dick is suddenly very close.
“It’s right where we sat,” Dick says softly.
“I know,” Jason says. Dick’s eyes are very blue, the tips of his ears red from the chill. “I planted it, but--I never expected… it shouldn’t have grown.”
“Almost like a sign,” Dick murmurs, shuffling closer to Jason on his knees. “Don’t you think? A little bit of magic.”
“This summer,” Jason tells him, “I wanna take you out to the orchards, just you and me. I wanna tell you about my mom.”
Dick smiles: the sweetest thing Jason’s every felt, the sharpest ache he’s every endured. “It’s a date,” he says, and they kiss just as it starts to snow.
They eat the tomato plain, cut into slices with Dick’s pocketknife, huddled together for warmth. When they walk back up to the house, they hold hands.