Happy Birthday my dear Kat! (You spell that with a K right?) Or as she is known on here, meh123. I think. I'm to lazy to check. Anyway, this is for you! Even though your birthday was like a week ago. Better late than never, right?

I don't own Fangirl, or Simon Snow.

Penelope was giving him the silent treatment.

Simon sighed and glanced over at his frizzy, red haired, bespectacled friend. She was standing with her hand still clenching the handle to the Records Room, glaring at the solid, immovable door as if she could make it open with sheer willpower. She couldn't, though. Simon was sitting on the dusty floor next to her. He had already tried the fairly simple Knock, Knock, Unlock spell, with no results. Penelope had shoved him aside, tried the same, and then done a couple non-verbal, eighth year spells that Simon hadn't even begun to follow. Nothing had worked.

Simon knew it was mostly his fault they were locked in there. He felt quite retched about it, but he didn't think Penelope was quite ready to accept an apology. She might have been the one who needed the information on Don Bibly Bickery for her paper on Magical Miming: Gestures, Language and History that was to be the fifth year's final project before winter break, but he had been the one to suggest coming after hours.

Simon had told her it would be no problem, they wouldn't stay there long, and after all, wouldn't she rather be able to look through the old school records without Mrs. Dodds breathing down her neck? Playing his best friend's weakness for uninterrupted knowledge gathering against her penchant for rules (especially ones that, if broken, would result in death, detention, or even worse - expulsion) may have been a bit underhanded, but Simon had another reason for wanting to check out the dusty old room just off the library that Mrs. Dodds so jealously guarded.

So far he hadn't had any luck finding the five hares. The note had not been very specific, and not for the first time did Simon wish he knew who was sending them. If he did, then he could find them, chain them to one of Miss. Possibelf's horribly uncomfortable desks and make them listen to Penelope lecture about proper secret-note-leaving etiquette.

Simon didn't remember seeing any hares before, not in all his five years at Watford, so he had hoped the best places to look would be in places he hadn't seen before. Watford was so large that even though he knew it better than anyone else, it was still constantly growing or changing and surprising him whenever it thought Simon's life was getting just a little too dull.

So when Penelope had mentioned the Records Room, he had jumped at the chance to check out one of the oldest and least used rooms for clues. But he couldn't do that with a batty old lady watching his every move. You needed special permission to get in the Records Room, and a form signed by a teacher with a description of what you were looking for. It was quite possibly the most valuable and guarded room in the whole school. It held the records of every student who had ever passed through the school, and there had been many famous magicians among them.

Looking back on that now, Simon thought he probably should have foreseen the automatic timer on the door that locked as soon as the clocks chimed midnight.

And now Penelope was mad at him, and they were trapped in the branch of the catacombs just off the library, doomed to wait there until the door unlocked or someone found them, which would certainly end in death, detention or expulsion.

Simon winced at these thoughts. Penelope would never forgive him. He cleared his throat.

"Um, Penelope?"

Penelope gritted her teeth and didn't answer. Simon tried again.

"So did you get Bickery's file?"

Silence.

"I'll just get for you," Simon said, getting to his feet and dusting his trousers off awkwardly. "Might as well get what we came here for, right?"

Penelope glared fiercely at the door.

"Right." Simon waited for a second, just to see if she would respond. She didn't, and eventually he just scuttled away.

Among the tall shelves of worn cardboard boxes and away from Penelope's frosty silence, Simon felt himself relax, if only for a brief moment. He loved his friend dearly, but sometimes her high strung attitude wound him up tighter than Joe Hartz guitar. Joe was a scruffy eighth year who always wore a furry aviator hat, even indoors. He would sit in the hallway of the boy's dormitory instead of going to his classes and strum random tunes on his bright blue fender. Baz had once mockingly tossed some money into his open guitar case.

Baz.

Simon suddenly froze in the middle of the K section, all thoughts of rabbits and Joe Hartz wiped from his mind. He was locked alone - kind of - in the Records Room. Where all the student files were kept. Including current students.

Including Baz's file.

Simon looked around nervously. It wasn't like anybody was watching. Penelope was back by the door, several stacks away, no doubt cursing the very air he breathed. If he just took a small peek . . . well, no one had to know.

Very stealthily, he ninja-sneaked over to the P-section. Tyrannus Basilton Pitch. Pitch, Pitch, Pitch . . . Pi-Pl. Simon had to reach up on his tiptoes to reach the box. Baz, no doubt, would have had no problem, the great, over stretched, lanky, prat. Simon swung it down with an oof and blew several inches of dust off the lid. It all rose into the air, causing Simon to cough and his eyes to water.

Feeling like his throat had been carpeted, Simon plopped on the floor and threw the box lid somewhere off to the side. He flicked through the files eagerly, his eyes skimming over the names. Pirrity, Pirus, Pistachio . . . .

Simon's face fell. Right there in front of him was Emil Pisorcho's file. Next to it was Dramager Pithy's. And in between?

Nothing.

Simon went through all the names again. He opened the files up and glanced at their contents to make sure someone hadn't got them mixed up.

Tyranus Basilton Pitch's file was no where to be found.

Disappointed, Simon put the files away and replaced the box. What had he been expecting? Secret information on his roommate? A weakness he could exploit at his will? Baz's bloody beating heart locked away in a treasure chest?

Simon shook his head. It had been nothing but a whim. It was probably better that he hadn't found the file – he would have been expelled for sure if someone had found him locked in the Records Room trying to get forbidden information on his nemesis. Current student records were strictly off limits.

Trying to shake off the lingering feeling being let down somehow, Simon made his way over to the B-section. Bickery . . . Let's see. Aha! He slid out a box labeled Bg-Bi from one of the lower shelves and removed the lid, wondering if there were really any names that started with Bg.

To his amazement, there was. Just one, mind you - a very thick file with the name Ahdl B'gdah on it. Giggling to himself, Simon opened it to see if Ahdl B'gdah looked as ridiculous as his name.

Imagine his surprise to find Baz's face smirking up at him instead.

Simon gave a little yelp and slammed the file closed. Almost immediately he realized how silly that was. It was just a picture. It wasn't like Baz was going to appear behind him, wand at the ready, as if summoned by the breach of his private file. Rubbing the back of his neck nervously (you know, just to make sure no one was breathing down it) Simon reopened the file. Baz's picture was still there, wearing the same self-satisfied smirk as the real Baz did whenever he manages to answer a question Simon had got wrong.

In his own defense, Simon had to admit it was a very good picture of his roommate. The photographer had perfectly captured the sneering twist to his thin mouth, his arrogantly arching eyebrows, his heavy dark hair swept away from either side of his forehead so the hairline came down in an obvious point. He looked up at Simon scornfully, as if to say - "Come on now, Snow. What did you expect?"

In fact, Simon could practically hear his drawling voice right there next to him.

"What would your precious Mage say if he knew you were sneaking around after hours?" he would say mockingly. "Best run along back to bed now, can't have the prophesied 'Savior' walking around without his beauty sleep, can we?"

Simon shook his head. Even in his imagination, Baz was insufferable. Any guilt he may have felt about reading his roommate's private file was immediately snuffed, and he began to flip through the many, many pages with undisguised interest.

The extra pages were mostly detentions, reported bullying and several more creative infractions and subsequent punishments. Simon had always suspected it had been Baz who spelled everyone's beds onto the roof, but he had never been able to prove it. Apparently someone else had.

Snickering, Simon flipped back to the first page. Under contact information was . . . the name Tyrannus Basilton Pitch? Simon re-read the name a couple times, wondering if Baz (that sneaky bastard) had messed up all the information in his file along with hiding it under a false name. Then he realized it must be his father's name as well. Next to it was an address, no doubt connected to some old mansion full of servants.

What must it be like, having the same name as your father? To Simon, it sounded wonderful, but he couldn't imagine Baz – who hated his first name and didn't seem too fond of the rest of it either, hence the nickname – would be too happy about it. Or anything, really. Simon wouldn't know. Baz never spoke about his family, and it had never even occurred to Simon until just now that he must have one. Did he get along with them? Were they just as bad as he was, or did Baz act differently around them? Were his evil schemes for Simon's benefit only?

Simon scanned the rest of the top page absently. There wasn't much on there that he didn't already know. Baz was 6'1" (which was just ridiculously tall. Simon was only 5'10" himself, and found those three inches particularly bothersome.) His eyes were grey. He came from a long line of prestigious magicians. His birthday was the first of December.

Huh. Simon squinted at the page. He hadn't known that.

The first of December . . . something about that date niggled at his memory. It was December now, wasn't it? Yes, only a couple weeks to the end of the semester. Just the other day, Agatha had been lamenting about that fact that it was the last day of November, which meant the weather would soon get cold, wet and snowy.

But if yesterday had been the last day of November, then today, the day after the last day of November (it was after midnight, wasn't it?) must be . . .

Oh bloody hell in a hand basket.

Today was Baz's birthday.

So far Baz's birthday had been quite enjoyable.

That is, if you found dull classes, monotonous teachers, mountains of homework and a roommate who had apparently been born onto the earth with the unique purpose of torturing you, enjoyable.

Personally, Baz did not.

Actually, Simon Snow, Mages Heir, The Savior, The Prophesied One, Boy Wonder, whatever you wanted to call him, had not shown up for any of his classes, providing Baz with a temporary relief from the frequent between-classroom-brawls and constant whiffs of apples, pine and hatred.

In fact, Baz hadn't heard Snow come in to bed last night (and he would have heard him, he always did) and he hadn't been in their room when Baz had awoken. The reprieve was pleasant, but perplexing. Baz would have thought that at the very least his Annie friend with the big brain would have dragged him to classes, but that day Professor Benedict's lecture hall was delightfully free of honey brown hair and tempting, mouth watering smells.

Baz had heard a rumor that Snow and one of his friends had been caught wandering after hours, but he didn't believe it. For one thing, even Snow wasn't stupid enough to get caught out of bed; sneaking around was ridiculously easy, and Baz knew from his own ventures that Snow had plenty of experience - whether it be from stalking Baz (horribly, he might add; he always knew whenever Snow got within a fifty mile radius) or what Baz had seen stalking him.

And even if Snow was caught, his tyrant father the Mage would probably let him off with little more than a slap on the wrist. Damn Mage's pet.

Besides, there was no way Baz could be that lucky. Not even on his birthday.

His theory was proven the second he opened the door to his room.

"Not expelled, then?" he asked Snow cockily. "Pity. I was about to start moving your stuff out into the hallway."

Snow was glaring at him fiercely. "Shut up, Baz."

"No, you're right," Baz sighed mockingly. "The precious Mages Heir can do no wrong! You'd get a Medal of Recommendation for murder if it came to that, Snow."

"Baz!" Snow cried. "Shut up!"

Baz paused and took a moment to actually look at his roommate. Simon was still glaring at him, his face flushed pink with anger and delicious smelling blood, but it seemed more 'frustrated-anger' than actual 'I blame you, hate you, want you dead-anger'.

"What now, Snow?" Baz asked frostily, pushing past Simon and busying himself straightening out his bed. He cast a dirty look towards Snow's own mangled bedding; the boy refused to care about the state of his own sleeping area, and yet he had gotten so very upset when Baz had retaliated and sent everyone's beds onto the roof. Baz believed that was what most people called 'being a hypocritical ass'. "Did I offend you? Sorry, I was trying so hard to be cordial. You always manage to bring worst the worst in me, Snow."

"Shut up, Baz," Simon said again, but all his anger seemed to have drained away, leaving him awkward and flushed, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting from foot to foot. Baz dearly wished he could get away with a foot lock, feet stop spell, but alas, someone would come looking for the Mage's Heir eventually, and even if someone didn't, Snow would no doubt keep Baz awake all night with his prattle, just to be spiteful.

When Baz turned back around, Simon was just looking at him, this time without glaring.

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Snow, what?"

Simon stared at him with an unidentifiable emotion in his blue, blue eyes, and then opened his mouth with only a hint of nervousness and said the last three words Baz had ever expected him to say.

"It's your birthday."

"W-what?" Baz spluttered, gaping at him. Snow flushed again, until his skin was a delightful shade of red that made Baz's fangs twinge painfully and his stomach do some sort of convoluted back flip. How did he-? How did Simon-bloody-Snow know it was-? Bloody bollocks in Hell's hand basket. Baz hadn't told anyone, not even his friends . . . He hated his birthday. Every year he hoped and prayed no one would notice. He had been extremely careful to hide his fathers formal letter of congratulations (addressed to Basilton, honestly, who called him that?) before anyone could see, and had concealed the much warmer good wishes of his stepmother and his younger siblings' truly dreadful crayon drawings of birthday cakes and penguins in the bottom of his trunk.

"It's your birthday," Snow repeated, hints of anger showing through once more. "You didn't say anything. I didn't even know."

Baz continued to gape at him. Snow sighed and rummaged around in his pocket. And there was Simon Snow, famous Mage's Heir and the worst bloody roommate that ever existed, offering Baz half a precious mint chocolate Aero Bar with an apologetic shrug, as if to say, "Sorry, it's not much."

And, to his horror, Baz found himself taking the proffered candy bar from his dearest nemesis' hand and taking a bite, his head spinning. He had been completely unprepared for the sudden show of kindness and comradery, and therefore had no immediate comeback. Instead, he and Snow sat side by side on the floor between their beds, eating their Aero Bar's in silence.

Licking the last bits of chocolate from his fingers, Baz finally spoke. "That was quite idiotic, you know. Not that I'm complaining-" he licked his lips pointedly "-but I'd already treated myself to the ones under your mattress. And behind the curtains. And in your shoes. Those had a bit of an odd taste to them."

"Eh?" Simon gawped at him, the last square of minty chocolate half hanging out of his mouth. Baz was suddenly struck with a perfectly, wonderfully, magnificently evil idea.

A 'happy-birthday-to-me' idea, if you will.

Smirking in certain triumph, Baz leaned forward until he and Snow were face to face, chocolaty, minty breath mingling between them. Snow looked completely befuddled, unsure whether to give in to the urge to mistrust his roommate and lean away, or just . . . not. And see what would happen.

Baz had to suppress a cackle. Very delicately he opened his mouth, tilting his head until his lip just barely brushed Simon's, and then . . . he closed his teeth around the last square of Aero Bar, tugged it from Snow's lax mouth and tossed his head back, swallowing his prize without a second thought.

There was a single moment of deafening silence as Baz grinned smugly and unashamedly, and Snow gawked at him, unable to comprehend what had happened. Then it seemed to click because he leapt to his feet, face red and delicious looking and started shouting.

"Gandry Gorgons Baz, what the hell!?"

Baz was already racing away down the dormitory corridor, this time cackling freely. Simon ran after him.

"Baz! Baz, you bastard! You better give me a whole box of Aero Bars on my birthday, you ignominious prat! You hear me, Baz? A whole damn box!"

Happy Birthday once again, my blue haired, meaning-of-Christmas smelling friend! Love ya girl ;)