If I owned Professor Layton, then why on Earth would I be writing fanfiction? Honestly..

The official story-the explanation that anyone would find if they asked around-was that they'd met in a cafe somewhere not too long after high school and hit it off. They shared a cup of coffee or two, found that they had the potential to become great friends, and agreed to meet again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day. Until, eventually, they just entered into this phase where they were practically dating, even though neither of them had actually asked the other out. According to that story, they'd technically never gone on a first date, but they would answer that yes, they were dating without hesitation.

It was quite possibly the one myth that Professor Layton had to intention of ever debunking.

Why prove them wrong? It was a small lie, and it hurt no one to go along with it. Besides, it was what she would have wanted. But it wasn't the truth. Far from it, in fact.

And, now that she was (don't say the word; don't say it out loud) dead, only he knew the real story.

Contrary to popular belief, 7-year-old Hershel Layton was not a gentleman.

Truth be told, it annoyed Hershel to always be told how he needed to be a "true gentleman." That wasn't even counting how irritating it was to have every single teacher he had ever had the misfortune to encounter expect him to be perfect because of his excellent marks. There wasn't a kid in the second grade who didn't look up to him like he was some sort of hero just because the teacher and their parents told them over and over how amazing and wonderful and kind he was. Sure, they resented him for it at first, but, once their friends started falling for it, so did they. One by one, the students of the second grade were being drawn in by his forced aura of politeness.

And, to be frank, Hershel hated it.

Sure, he was a child prodigy; there was no point in denying that. But he didn't feel like he was smart at all when everyone fawned over him, let him cut them in every line, and ignored their own friends to practically worship him. No, that didn't make him feel smart-it made him feel fake.

But there was one exception out of the forty-or-so kids in his grade. He didn't know what her name was, although he wanted to, for she intrigued him greatly. He had caught her staring several times, just like almost every other kid, but there were differences between her and the others. Her face wasn't covered in awe or blind admiration, she just looked vaguely puzzled. And she didn't get all flustered and slink away like a kicked dog when he met her gaze. She would just tilt her head to the side inquisitively, then close her eyes and offer him a bright smile.

That smile... it reminded him of some image far beyond his reach; a memory of a brown-haired and brown-eyed little boy smiling down at him. He didn't know who the boy was, nor did he know why only that girl triggered the flashback. Well, he didn't know at first. It didn't take long for him to figure out that it was the emotion behind the action. While all the other smiles he received were either sincere smiles from adults or fake smiles plastered on, hers was both meaningful and from the face of a child, just like the smile of the boy in his memory.

Soon enough, the flashes stopped, and he eventually forgot about them altogether, but his curiosity didn't fade. Unfortunately, he never got the chance to sate it, for it seemed that all the teachers in the school were conspiring to keep him as far from her as possible. The two were sat at opposite ends of the classroom, never were partnered up in group projects, and couldn't even manage to get in line by each other since nearly every kid in the class was trying to crowd around Hershel.

So Hershel, slowly but surely, forgot about the girl, and didn't think about her again until an eventful Tuesday afternoon.

The twittering of birds had never sounded like music to Hershel, and today was no exception. No, this was no music, it was only an annoyance. The same shrill four-note cry echoed and trilled beneath the many hidden perches that surrounded him, and that same cry was just about driving him insane.

There were still traces of paint on his hands, and he was carrying the fruits of his labor along with him: a vivid, if childish, rendition of a vase of flowers. When he had left for home, he had been eager to arrive and show it to his parents, but he soon found his anticipation sapped when the muddy trail left by a rainstorm last night forced him to take the long way. Which just so happened to be an ideal habitat for four out of every five birds on the planet, apparently.

Even through the near-deaf state he was in, both due to the birds and a desperate attempt to ignore them, he heard the distant cry when it rang out. Startled, he snapped his head around to look back to where he was sure he had heard it. Suddenly, the previously boisterous forest seemed uncomfortably silent, even though the bird calls had decreased in neither number nor volume.

...there! He was sure that he had heard the call again, a bit more clearly this time. He couldn't make out the words, and even the voice was too far away to divine a gender from, but it was definitely a human noise.

His curiosity was now officially piqued. He had thought that he was the only one to go home this way. Then again, he supposed, I am taking a different route.

Still very curious-and, though he would never admit it, more than a little concerned-he turned and went back the way he came, all of his motivation to show his painting off completely forgotten. There were only a few more shouts as he went, each one a bit clearer and louder until he could finally make out "Stop it!" and "Give it back!"

Worry only growing, Hershel hurried towards the clearing just ahead where he had pinpointed the voice's origin. As he zipped along, he distinguished mocking laughter and growls of frustration and outrage.

Just outside of the area, he stopped, staying hidden within the foliage. Peering through the bushes and leaves, he took a minute to absorb the scene around him. The anger that began to simmer up in him would have shocked him if all of his attention hadn't been focused solely on the girl.

For the girl was there-drenched in mud from her neck down, but there, glaring and snarling at a group of boys that Hershel also recognized from school while another boy held her back, pinioning her arms behind her. One of the boys, who had the most fake smile Hershel had ever seen whenever the two spoke, was tearing her painting into tiny shreds and scattering them in the wind. One fragment drifted lazily over to Hershel's hiding place and he caught it in the palm of his hand. It was a part of her signature, he assumed, and it appeared to read Clo. A thousand different memories flashed through his mind: memories of bright smiles with closed eyes.

While Hershel was getting angrier by the second, about ready to abandon all of his father's teachings and punch the entire group in the collective faces, the girl was acting much differently than he would have expected. Rather than crying, pleading, or just screaming "No!" over and over again, as the other girls in class were wont to do until the teacher showed up, she was remaining indignant, telling her tormentors off like she was an adult and not asking but demanding to be let go. For all of the strength she was showing, the group of boys was obviously startled, but they didn't stop for long. Just as one of them was ripping open her bookbag to find something else to destroy, Hershel had seen enough.

"Stop, now." He tried to keep his voice calm and polite like his father had told him to-he really did!-but there was far too much of the freezing yet boiling anger going through him to keep all of it out of his voice. What resulted was a chilling and extremely effective snarl that melted glaciers and froze fire, and it was certainly enough to stop the group in their tracks.

They all spun around frantically, obviously terrified that a teacher had heard the girl yelling and come to see what all the fuss was about, but they calmed down when they saw that it was only Hershel. One of them laughed, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "Y-you scared us there, Hershel," he stammered nervously, well aware that he was talking to the single most popular and influential boy in the second grade and that one slip could mean the end of his social life.

For all he knew about the situation, he could have stood to know more about Hershel. For instance, it would have served him well to know that Hershel was majorly against bullying and that, despite not being all too chivalrous, he still cared for the wellbeing of others, female or not. It also would've been great to know that he rarely lost his cool visibly, and it was best to run for dear life whenever he did.

Bottom line, the boy didn't know his opponent before engaging in battle as he should have. He winced when the sizzling glare of a royally pissed Hershel crashed into him head on. "Stop," he repeated, even more heatedly. "Now."

The boys took one last look at him, fuming so much at he was practically radiating anger, and ran for cover. The girl and her bookbag were both discarded carelessly, tossed away like garbage. As she pushed herself onto her hands and knees and hurried to scoop up her belongings before they were ruined by mud, Hershel was gritting his teeth and counting backwards from ten before he did something stupid. By the time he had stopped himself from chasing the boys all the way to the schoolyard and back and turned to face the girl, she had rounded up her things and was staring up at him with big, owlish eyes.

What he had just witnessed came back to him in a flash and he quickly fell down to his knees as well, picking a ripped piece of paper from the mud beneath him. "I'm sorry about your painting," he offered awkwardly, not really sure what he could say in this situation. He paid the mud that began to soak through his clothes no mind. "Are you..." He hesitated. "...okay?" It seemed like a stupid question, but what else was there to say? No paltry words he could think of would be quite appropriate in this situation. He could just envision himself now- "Hey, sorry about you losing your hard work and getting mud on all of your things and all over yourself, ruining your clothes and probably smelling really bad. See ya later!"

For another second or two, she just stared at him, blinking in confusion. Then she tilted her head to the side, closed her eyes, and beamed far too happily for this to be the girl who had just been frantically pulling herself up from the puddle of mud below her. "Oh, yes," she chirped, "I'm quite alright. And don't worry about the painting, Hershel; it looked more like a gnarled old stick than anything."

He paused for a moment, unsure what to make of that comment, then smiled, rubbing the back of his head. "It can't have been that bad," he offered, standing with some difficulty and reaching his hand to her. "You're in my grade, right?"

She gratefully took the hand and he pulled her to her feet. "I think so, yes. My name's Claire. It's nice to meet you."

Another smile with closed eyes saw Hershel with no choice but to smile along, a fleeting flash of memory once again hitting him hard. "Nice to meet you, too," he replied, and he really meant it this time. This was beyond the reassurance that propriety forced him to regularly give out upon meeting someone new. The few meager words they'd spoken to each other so far were enough to clearly indicate that they were very similar.

"It figures that you'd be the one to help me," Claire chuckled, beginning to plunk her various belongings back into her book bag. "I've wanted to talk to you for a while now, to be honest, but I never got the chance." And wasn't that the truth? The opportunity had simply never arose for the two to interact, so they appeared to remain ignorant of each other's existence. "It isn't often that I see a classmate who's as interested as I am in the material."

Now that was news. Although, when he looked back and surveyed his memories, Hershel could distinctly remember that she always was eager to contribute during class. In fact, now that he thought about it, he'd noticed that her hand would regularly be the only one up besides his, much to the teachers' chagrin. "Well, I was always interested in that sort of thing," he admitted, a bit lost as to how he was meant to carry a conversation with this girl when he was praised for his knowledge and she was ostracized for hers. "Schoolwork, reading..."

Then her eyes lit up and she was suddenly the most excited thing in the word as she interjected, "Puzzles?"

Hershel blinked rapidly. How had she known that he had a thing for puzzle solving? "Yes," he agreed, "puzzles." For a long moment, he simply paused and appraised her, wondering just what had caused her sudden transformation from "happy" to "kid-on-Christmas-morning." "Why do you ask?"

She giggled in response, digging a well-worn puzzle book out from her soiled book bag. This was also speckled with mud but was thankfully otherwise untouched. "I'm rather fond of puzzles myself," she revealed, flipping masterfully to a dog-eared page in the book. The spine was so bent to this page that it practically flopped open at the slightest provocation. "Have you ever heard of The Seven Bridges of Königsberg?"

Hershel thought for a second. There was hardly a famous puzzle that he hadn't heard of, but he found, to his confusion, that he'd either never come across this puzzle or the memory of doing so evaded him. "I... don't believe I have."

Claire practically beamed. "Lovely. So, the idea is that this town has seven bridges..."

As she explained about the supposedly impossible puzzle rather animatedly, her eyes glistening as if she was discussing something of the utmost importance, Hershel found himself to be getting more and more engrossed, beginning to contribute to her lengthy list of theories. Soon, although they didn't register the movement fully, they had sat themselves down on drier land and were both staring intently at the book, tracing their fingers along possible routes over and over.

When Hershel looked up, the sun was dangerously close to setting. It took a moment for his mind to process that information, but he then immediately darted to his feet, eyes popping wide. "Oh! It's late!" he worried, quickly gathering his things. "My parents will be sick with worry!"

Claire seemed less concerned, but she stood anyway, still smiling; never losing her smile. "Well, you'd better be off, then," she urged.

He took her advice and began to run.

"Hershel!"

He stopped and turned around, a curious look on his face as he momentarily forgot the importance of his hasty return home.

"Meet me again after school tomorrow?"

He wasn't sure why since his brain never issued the order to respond, but he found himself calling back, "Of course."

He didn't regret that afternoon. Not as his mother fussed over him endlessly. Not as his father reprimanded him for vanishing without warning. Not as he realized that the mud stains on his knees did not intend upon coming out. No, all Hershel could do was smile apologetically and say that something had come up.

Smile happily and think to himself that, hey, maybe being a gentleman wasn't so bad after all.