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“H-Head Girl,” someone cries out, bursting into the greenhouse. “Please help!”
Castorice turns away from her latest batch of flowers immediately. “Yes?” she asks, as kindly as possible. She straightens out her badge, brushing the dirt off of it so that the words Head Girl sparkle alongside the Ravenclaw crest. “Did you need something?”
The student—a newly-minted prefect girl, two years younger than her—looks up at her with wide eyes. “You know the Prefects’ Baths…?”
Of course Castorice knows the baths. She likes them a great deal. Access to the Prefects’ Baths is one of the best parts of her job. “Did you forget the password?” she guesses. “Don’t worry. This week it’s ‘Ribbon Blue.’ And it’s on the fifth floor, right by—”
“I know where it is,” she says, glancing restlessly around the greenhouse. “I, um, went there last night. That’s the problem.”
“Did you get confused by the taps? Just ask the little fisherman on the wall mural what the taps do.”
The prefect girl squeezes her eyes shut. “Head Girl, I don’t know how to tell you this…”
Castorice takes off her dirty gloves and gently reaches out, taking the student’s hands in both of hers. “It’s alright,” she says gently. “Unless it involves harm to yourself or others, I promise to keep it confidential, okay?”
The prefect takes in a deep breath. Then, very quickly, she says, “IthinktheHeadBoywashavingsexinthere.”
Castorice blinks. Something about the Head Boy, Phainon…?
“I think the Head Boy was having sex in there. With the scary guy.”
“The scary— Mydei?” Castorice asks, incredulous. “He’s not scary at all. In fact, he’s the president of the baking club and—WAIT, THEY WERE DOING WHAT?”
“…Never mind,” she says quickly, flushing bright red. “Anyway, I won’t use the Prefects’ Baths if they’re going to be in there. I can just use the regular ones! The Slytherin bathrooms are just fine, you know, um. I guess you don’t know. You’re a Ravenclaw. Um. Sorry.”
“No no no,” Castorice says, gripping her hands tighter. “This is really important. You said they were—? Phainon and Mydei?”
“I’ll go,” she says desperately, wrenching her hands free. “Just forget I said anything! I’m fine!”
And then she slips out of the greenhouse and vanishes.
Castorice stares after her. She keeps staring at the door for a while longer, lost in thought.
Maybe the student was mistaken, she thinks, as she puts her gardening gloves back on. Maybe it wasn’t even Phainon and Mydei in there! Maybe it was someone else entirely! There have got to be a ton of students here with… super distinct colored hair and six-foot builds…
Hm. Well. Still! It could totally be a coincidence.
***
“Morning, Cas, Hyacine!” Phainon says brightly as he sits down at the table for breakfast. He shuffles into his seat and pours himself a tall glass of water, then downs it like he’s been parched. Then he pours himself another.
Castorice frowns at his missing plate. “You forgot to get yourself something to eat.”
“Oh. Mydei’s getting both of our plates! He’s filling up at the Gryffindor table. He’ll be here soon.”
“Isn’t the food the same at all the tables?” Hyacine asks, tilting her head.
“Yes,” says a familiar voice from the other side of the table. “I just feel bad taking from your table if we’re not in your house.”
Two plates hit the wood with a dull thunk: one in front of Phainon, and one next to him. They’re each stacked with identical breakfasts, beautifully organized and perfectly portioned.
“Mydei,” Phainon whines, looking at his plate. “You got the parfait again…”
“It’s good for you,” Mydei says, sitting down next to him with a huff. He picks up his spoon and starts eating his yogurt parfait, unbothered.
“I just wish you’d get us something else. Savory breakfast, maybe? You always get the yogurt parfait.”
Mydei opens his mouth.
“And I know it’s got good protein and I know that it’s good to start the day with vitamins from the fruit and I know that you spend extra time plating it to look pretty for me,” Phainon says, all in one breath. “But sometimes a guy just wants sausage and cheese custard and pickles with hash browns for breakfast!”
“Pickles?” Hyacine asks faintly.
Castorice looks down at her own breakfast—maple waffles with a fried egg and a generous side of melon—and suddenly feels a bit queasy.
“Just eat it,” Mydei mutters, shoving their shoulders together. “Quidditch season’s coming up. You have to eat well.”
“Yes, Mydeimos,” he says miserably, and eats his damn yogurt.
“You know,” says Hyacine delicately, “you could just get your own breakfast. And eat whatever you want.”
Phainon just laughs. “Come on! Don’t be silly.”
“Yeah,” says Mydei, like this proves anything. Then they both go back to eating their breakfast.
Phainon’s left-handed, and Mydei’s right-handed, so they’re sitting with their non-dominant shoulders pressed together. Castorice stares at them. They’re very pressed together. They do not need that much contact. It’s a little strange. That can’t be normal.
…Well. Maybe it’s normal if the duo in question had sex in the Prefects’ Baths the previous night. Castorice wouldn’t know. She’s never had sex in the Prefects’ Baths. Most people probably haven’t.
In front of her, Phainon carefully picks the pomegranate kernels out of his yogurt and sneakily deposits them onto Mydei’s plate. Mydei has obviously noticed, but hasn’t pointed it out. Instead he just sneaks an apple slice or two onto Phainon’s in return, like a well-practiced trade deal.
Castorice quietly eats her waffle. This will take more observation than she thought.
***
Muggle Studies. Four in the afternoon. Mydei is staring at the board with such focus that his glasses are slipping off his nose. He hasn’t appeared to notice them sliding off.
Castorice clears her throat softly. She motions vaguely at her eyes.
Mydei looks at her crookedly.
“Just—here,” she says, and reaches out to fix his glasses, perching them on his nose again.
“Oh,” Mydei says, looking down at his glasses frames. It makes him look sort of cross-eyed. “Thanks, Cas.”
“Anytime,” she says.
They sit next to each other in silence and listen to the lecture. Mydei writes something down in his notebook that looks entirely incorrect. Then he frowns down at it and scratches it out again, staring at the diagram on the board.
Castorice almost pities him. Her adoptive mother, Amunet, is a muggle-born witch; she raised Castorice and Polyxia in a non-magical city, so Castorice at least has a grasp of the non-magical world. But Mydei, despite having a muggle-born mother, was raised by his pureblood father, kept insulated in magical society for a decade. Surely this class, if it’s hard for her, is even harder for him.
Today’s lecture is about non-magical engineering. Castorice looks again at Mydei’s lost expression, his hopeless determination, and makes up her mind. She takes more detailed notes than usual, even on things she understands.
“Mydei,” she says, after the lecture ends. “I found that topic a bit confusing. Do you want to go to tutoring together later?”
Something between Mydei’s brows smooths out. “Yes,” he says quietly, packing his bag back up. “That sounds good. Thank you, Cas.”
“Whatever for?” she says, smiling slightly. “Thank you for agreeing to accompany me to the tutoring session.”
Mydei makes a sound halfway to a laugh. They both know Castorice is good at Muggle Studies; if anything, she’d be at a tutoring session to help others, rather than to get help herself. But Mydei doesn’t say anything. He just closes his messenger bag and waits for her by the door.
“Why are you taking this course, anyway?” Castorice asks, as they walk down the stairs. “I thought you were hoping to pursue a magical career.”
“I don’t know,” Mydei says, looking vaguely off to the side. His face is faintly flushed. “It’s—it’s good to learn about these things. In case I wanted to fit into that world better. Or pursue a career related to it. Muggle Studies is useful for a lot of people. Like restaurant chefs, or social workers…”
“You want to fit into the non-magical world?”
Mydei’s face turns darker pink. “Phainon said his parents would like me. And his sister. And the children in his hometown.”
Castorice stares at him, baffled. “You want to live with Phainon’s family?”
Mydei makes an odd, pained noise and walks faster.
Castorice jumps down the rest of the stairs to keep up with him. She shuffles through the hallway, catching back up to him. He might have long legs, but she has the Head Girl badge, and nothing parts the sea of students like the authority to dock points.
Eventually, just before the courtyard, she catches up to Mydei. The moment he sees her, he visibly resigns himself and slows down again.
“So,” says Castorice, faintly out of breath. “Muggle Studies?”
Mydei ducks his head. “I want to impress his family, at least a little,” he mutters. Then, clearing his throat awkwardly, he says, “When should we go to tutoring together?”
“Tonight?” Castorice suggests. “I’m free after seven.”
Mydei coughs. “I can’t.”
Castorice frowns. “You don’t have any evening classes. And there aren’t any assignments due tonight… Practice?”
“No Quidditch practice either.”
“Then what?”
“Phainon’s keeping me busy at the baths tonight.”
Castorice’s jaw nearly drops.
“What?” Mydei says, raising one eyebrow. He doesn’t even look embarrassed about it! So shameless!
“Nothing,” Castorice squeaks. “Any chance you’re going to be free after that?”
“No,” Mydei says plainly. “He wants to take me to the baths at eight, then we’ll be busy for… two hours? Usually about two hours. I’m always quite tired afterwards, so I’ll go to bed right after.”
Castorice is baffled. How is he saying this with a straight face? Mydei—her sweet, innocent, baking club president Mydei—and Phainon—her gentle, easygoing Head Boy Phainon—having sex for two hours in the Prefects’ Baths? The publicly accessible Prefects’ Baths?? And he isn’t even trying to cover it up! He isn’t even making excuses!!
“…Cas?” asks Mydei, waving a hand in front of her face. “Are you alright?”
“Fine! Fine,” she says, too quickly. “How about we go to tutoring on Friday morning instead?”
Mydei nods. Then he takes off his glasses and heads out toward the Quidditch pitch for afternoon practice.
Castorice stares at him as he leaves.
He’s just told her, explicitly, what they’re going to do, and where, and when. This is her chance.
Okay. Okay! She can do this. She can do this!
***
Eight thirty. Castorice is carrying a towel in case anyone gets suspicious. She approaches the Prefects’ Baths door like a stealthy raccoon might approach a trash can.
And then she hears it.
At first all she can hear is a great deal of splashing and a vague yelp. That’s fine! That’s totally fine! She’s heard that before. Everyone has pool parties in the big bath, right? And then…
“Hah, shit, Phainon, you like that?”
“Nnh—not even close. You can do better than that—HAH!”
“Yeah? You want me to do better? Then I’ll fucking do better—”
“FUCK—NGH—MYDEI—”
Castorice runs.
***
“Hyacine,” she wails, as Hyacine plunks down her Hufflepuff tray at the Ravenclaw table with her. “Hyacine, I have to tell you something. Immediately.”
Hyacine’s eyes go wide. “What is it? Have you been having allergic reactions to the fruit compote again? I asked them to label oranges as an allergen…”
“Nothing medical,” Castorice says quickly. “It’s just—I need to tell you something.”
“Go ahead,” she says gently, leaning in closer.
“Yeah, go ahead!” says Phainon excitedly, plunking himself in the seat across from her.
Castorice’s heart sinks.
“Ow,” he mutters, wincing. He shifts in his seat, scrunching his nose.
Hyacine immediately turns to him. “Phainon! Did you hurt yourself? Is something wrong?”
“Ah, just sat down too hard,” he says, waving his hand vaguely. “Mydei didn’t go easy on me last night! We didn’t get back to the Gryffindor common room until eleven. Poor Mydei was practically falling asleep on his feet.”
Mydei slams down their two matching breakfast trays. “You had fun,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “You wouldn’t keep taking me to the baths if you didn’t like it.”
“God only knows why,” Phainon sighs, shaking his head. Then he looks down at his plate and instantly brightens up. “Mydei, you got us a savory breakfast!”
Castorice looks down at their plates. Sure enough, instead of the usual sweet fare, both their plates contain two beautifully soft-boiled eggs, two slices of toast cut into triangles, and four sausage patties, alongside a pile of fried potatoes and green chilies.
Mydei shifts awkwardly in his seat. “It’s not your stupid pickles with hash browns,” he mutters. “But I thought you’d like it.”
“I love it,” Phainon says earnestly. Then he proceeds to dump an unholy amount of bright orange hot sauce all over his potatoes.
“Oh, right,” Hyacine says, turning back to her. “What did you want to tell me? I’m listening!”
Castorice watches Mydei discreetly scoot some of his potatoes onto Phainon’s plate. “Nothing,” she says in despair. “It wasn’t important after all.”
Hyacine just shrugs and reaches for the butter. “If you say so, Cassie.”
***
It was fine when she could deny it. When she hadn’t heard it with her own ears. And she tries to convince herself that it’s still fine! Why would this change anything?
But she can’t do it anymore. She’s never liked using the baths, prefers showering instead, but these days she can hardly stand to look at the Prefects’ Baths door, let alone go inside. And every time she eats a meal, she thinks about Phainon’s strange wince when he sat down. And Mydei’s odd indulgence of his whims. And the strange closeness they sit with. And—
Well. In any case, enough is enough. So after the next Head Students meeting with Professor Aglaea, she puts her foot down.
“Phainon,” she says, as they both exit the Professor’s office. “May I speak to you?”
Phainon turns back around with a bright smile. “Of course! I’m heading to the Quidditch pitch, but I’ve got a few minutes. Want to talk as we walk?”
“I thought Gryffindor only had practice on Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.”
“Yeah,” Phainon says. “But Mydei and I are gonna beat off.”
Castorice actually stops in her tracks. “Sorry?” she says, incredulous. Because it sounded like he said he and Mydei were going to beat off. (Not that she didn’t know they were doing that already, but at least Mydei had a modicum of discretion about it.)
“Together,” Phainon clarifies, like this means anything.
“On the Quidditch pitch,” Castorice says flatly.
“It’s Hufflepuff practice, and they don’t really mind if we’re fucking around while they’re playing! Hyacine’s got a lot of sway with them, you know, as a medic.”
Castorice looks down the spiral stairs and thinks she’s going to be sick.
“Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Castorice sits down heavily on the stairs. “Nothing,” she says faintly. “You go do that.”
“Okay,” says Phainon brightly. “You can talk to me anytime, you know? We’re not just Head Boy and Head Girl. We’re friends! Oh, and Mydei and I will be back for dinner! See you at Ravenclaw table, right?”
The staircase begins swirling beneath them. Phainon yelps and scrambles down the stairs, headed for the field.
Castorice just sits there. She stares at the ceiling.
Whatever. Whatever! This is fine!
***
Today, Castorice tells herself, is going to be normal. She’s going to have a normal afternoon. A very normal afternoon. Starting with a normal lunch. So she gets herself a big bowl of vegetarian dumpling soup and a side of fluffy bread and sits down.
“Hey, Cas,” says Hyacine, peering into her bowl. “Oh! You got the soup! It looks really good today, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, totally,” Phainon gushes, leaning his chin on his elbow. The angle—Castorice tries to look away, but can’t—puts the strangely evocative bruises on his collarbone on display. “Even the vegetarian food seems good today! You know I usually don’t like your stuff, Cas. But that actually looks great.”
Castorice looks at his empty place. She frowns. “Did you already finish? You’ve only been here for ten minutes, right? Or did your class get out early?”
“Oh, no,” Phainon says, shaking his head. “I’m not eating today. Or—not yet, anyway.”
Hyacine frowns at him. “You really should be eating a balanced diet, Phainon, especially as an athlete.”
“I know,” Phainon sighs, looking off into the distance. “It’s just that Mydei and I are having a special competition tonight.”
Castorice frowns, confused, for a few seconds. Then, like an abrupt downpour of forbidden knowledge, it descends upon her.
A special competition. A special competition he’s already got bruises on his neck from. A special competition that he doesn’t want to eat before. A special competition that requires him to—to have a clean digestive system before he—
All the blood drains from Castorice’s face.
“Well, as long as you’re being healthy in the long run,” Hyacine says, returning to her own dumpling soup.
Castorice stares at her own reflection in her soup. She despairs.
***
Midnight. Cozy in her private room in the Ravenclaw dorm. Castorice’s phone buzzes on her pillow.
She ignores it.
It buzzes again. It buzzes again. It buzzes again.
She groans and turns it over, pushing it under her pillow.
“I DON’T WANNA BE ALONE TONIGHT—”
Phainon’s ringtone. Castorice, sleepy and rather petulant, declines the call. Fuck him.
A few seconds of blissful silence. Finally. Castorice rolls over on her side, stretching out.
Then:
“YOU AND I ARE WEAK LIKE THE REEEEEDS—”
“Fuck,” Castorice mutters aloud, declining the call again. This time she actually drags herself out of bed. If it’s Hyacine, it’s probably a real emergency. She throws on her overcoat and rushes out of the Ravenclaw common room, already hurtling down the stairs toward the infirmary.
As she’s running, her phone rings again. This time, it’s Mydei’s number. His ringtone is a recording of Phainon doing an impression of whale song back in their second year. This time, Castorice actually answers the call.
“I’m already on my way,” she says, before he can say anything.
Mydei sounds caught off guard. “We’re in the—”
“Infirmary,” Castorice says, sprinting around the corner. “I’m actually there right now.”
“Huh?”
“Open the door.”
Mydei opens the door. Castorice pulls up, hoping her hair looks appropriately windswept and not like she’d just sprinted down four flights of stairs an hour after curfew.
“What’s the matter?” Castorice asks.
Hyacine is already looking at someone, so Castorice heads over and peeks. Then she blinks. It’s Phainon. Phainon is lying on the infirmary bed, passed out cold.
Castorice stares at him, baffled. He’s a strong guy; it’s hard to catch him off guard enough to stun him. But his chest is still moving. He isn’t magically stunned at all. He’s just… unconscious. “Did he get physically injured?”
Mydei shifts on his feet. He nods.
“He looks exhausted,” Hyacine observes, pulling the flashlight away from his face. “Was he exposed to extreme heat?”
“…Hot baths,” Mydei says, looking a little uncomfortable.
“Oh. Yes, Phainon did mention that he gets heatstroke. But the baths shouldn’t have done that…”
Mydei’s visible discomfort grows.
Hyacine frowns. She turns back to Phainon and starts wringing out a wet cloth above his face.
Castorice looks at her poor fellow Head Student’s unconscious face and his bruised collarbones. She thinks of his odd diet and his pain from sitting down and his stupid competitive spirit and makes up her damn mind.
“I can’t keep my silence anymore,” she declares, slamming her fist down on the side table of Phainon’s patient bed. She flings her finger at Mydei. “This is all your fault!”
Hyacine blinks several times. “What? I’m sure it isn’t. Let’s just—”
“No,” Mydei interrupts, ducking his head. He sighs heavily. “It is my fault. I should have been more careful.”
“Not just this time,” Castorice says loudly. She wraps her coat around herself tighter and stands up straight. “This is the worst offense, but not the only one! Remember when Phainon showed up limping and couldn't sit right?”
Mydei looks at the floor.
“And when he didn’t eat lunch or dinner that one day?”
Mydei just sighs through his nose. “Cas—”
“I’m not done,” she snaps. “What about the bruises? The dark circles under his eyes? You keep him up too late! And you—you injure each other with how rough you are! And I know you’re being intimate and that’s your own decision, but I can’t stand by and watch my best friend get knocked out!”
“You’re entirely right,” Mydei says quietly. Then his eyes snap up from the infirmary floor. “Wait. What do you mean, intimate?”
“You’re having sex in the Prefects’ Baths.”
Mydei stares at her. Hyacine drops her washcloth onto Phainon’s face.
“Ow,” Phainon says faintly, scrunching his eyes shut. He lifts one arm slowly, brushing it off with weak fingers. “Um, hey guys. What’s up?”
“Mydei fucked you so hard you passed out,” Castorice says, fuming. “That’s what.”
Phainon’s jaw drops. “He did?”
“I did not,” Mydei sputters. His face is bright red under the harsh infirmary lights. “We were sparring! Not—what the hell, Cas? We were—we were fighting. Like, fistfighting. No magic. It’s not allowed to have non-magical duels, so we do it in the baths.”
Castorice’s words die in her throat.
“Yeah,” Phainon rasps, rubbing his eyes. “God damn, your right hook is getting good.”
“Wait,” Castorice says weakly, looking between them rapidly. “Then why did you show up limping?”
“Kick practice,” Phainon says, tilting his head. “Mydei doesn’t skip leg day! He’s really something.”
“And—and the day when you didn’t eat…?”
“All-you-can-eat baked beans competition in the kitchens that night.”
“And the bruises?”
“Sparring.”
Castorice looks at them both, baffled. “But what about—what about the time Phainon said you were going to beat off together on the Quidditch pitch?”
“Oh,” says Mydei. “That’s when we beat the Bludgers at each other.”
“Because we’re both Gryffindor Beaters,” Phainon says helpfully.
“I know that,” Castorice mutters. “But—do you know what that phrase usually means?”
“That’s why it’s funny,” Phainon says. “Because it’s like, Let’s go beat off, and then we’re just beating the shit out of each other with magic baseball bats.”
Mydei still looks distraught. “You thought I was—was fucking him so hard that he passed out?”
“You thought I bottomed?” Phainon asks excitedly.
Castorice groans into her hands. She sinks to her knees at Phainon’s bedside and lets her forehead fall onto the metal frame of the sickbed.
“If you need any supplies to have safe sex,” Hyacine says brightly, “you can always come talk to me!”
“…Thanks,” says Mydei, sounding strained. “But we aren’t—we’re not—it’s not like that between us.”
Phainon’s bed creaks like he’s sitting up. “It isn’t?”
“…No?”
“Why was that a question?”
“Because it’s not like that… yet…?”
“It isn’t?”
“Well…”
“But it could be?”
“I mean, if you wanted it to…?”
“OH MY FUCKING GOD,” Castorice says, standing up from the floor. “You know what? You guys sort this out on your own. Since Phainon isn’t dead, I’m going back to bed. This is your problem now.”
And then she walks out of the infirmary, back to her beautiful single dorm and her blue satin pillowcase that’s always cold on both sides, and goes right back to sleep.
***
“So Mydei and I are dating now,” Phainon tells her the next morning at breakfast, all smiles. “And he’s gonna come home with me this summer to meet all my family and help out on the farm, and then we’re gonna get married and spend the rest of our lives together!”
“Congratulations,” says Castorice, pouring herself a glass of pumpkin juice.
“Use protection,” says Hyacine wisely.
“And lube,” Castorice says. “Plenty of lube.”
Hyacine nods emphatically. “And drink lots of water beforehand, and use the bathroom afterwards.”
“And eat your damn breakfast,” Mydei says, slamming down two matching plates. “Without fucking complaining, because you like me.”
He’s gotten them the parfaits again. Phainon looks up at him. He opens his mouth.
“No fucking complaining,” Mydei repeats, without even glancing over at him.
Phainon sighs and picks up his spoon. “Whatever you say, Mydeimos,” he says wearily, picking out the pomegranate kernels again. Next to him, Mydei is already setting aside apple slices. “Whatever you say.”