A/N: If I get none of my other wishes for season 3, I really hope Harris gets punched in the face.

This chapter has a TRIGGER WARNING for hatespeech. Or for Jackson-being-Jackson. (I really have no idea what I'm supposed to TW for and what I'm not, so, better to ere on the side of caution? Because Jackson uses nasty words.)

Chapter Eleven

"It can't be a coincidence," Allison agrees immediately, as soon as school is over and they're having a quick powwow before lacrosse practice starts. "But Jackson? Magic?"

"Dr. Deaton says almost anyone can have innate talent," Stiles says. "I guess it's no weirder than the possibility of me having magic. And guys, Jackson is a perfect pawn for this guy. He can get close to us. We literally can't stop him from getting close to us. He hates us, and that would make him easy to manipulate. And we know for a fact the guy is power hungry. That's why he wanted to be a werewolf in the first place."

There's doubt on all their faces, but Lydia seals it with her immediate agreement. "Stiles is right. There's no way he would say no if Stone offered to teach him."

"The purity of a soul on the edge," Scott says. "It wasn't you, or even Deaton. It was Jackson."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, if there was ever an Anakin Skywalker in this school," Stiles agrees. "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate . . ."

"So what do we do about it?" Isaac asks.

Stiles doesn't have a clue. It's not like Jackson would listen if any of them tried to warn him away from magic. He wouldn't believe them for a second, and even if he did, he might not care. He would believe that he was strong enough to withstand the temptation. Or he might embrace the dark magic without a qualm. Stiles really doesn't know. "I asked Deaton if there were ways to strip someone of their power," he says. "He wouldn't answer me. But he thought I was talking about Stone. Maybe his answer will change if I tell him it's about Jackson."

"We could go see him while you're at lacrosse practice," Erica offers.

Stiles thinks this over, divvies up his resources. "Okay," he says. "You and Boyd go pay him a visit. Allison, I want you to go talk to your dad. See if he knows anything about fighting sorcerers. Take Lydia with you. The rest of us will go to practice. We'll regroup and have dinner at Derek's tonight."

Everyone's in agreement with this plan, so they break out of their cluster and Stiles heads towards the locker rooms with the other guys. He comes around a corner and nearly walks face first into Harris. "Jesus!" he says, stumbling backwards, more from surprise than anything else. Derek's head comes up, but he manages, admirably, not to snarl. "Are you following me or what?" Stiles asks.

Harris gives him that tight, pinched look. "I'm not sure I like your tone, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles opens his mouth to say something nasty, but at the last second, thinks better of the idea. He makes a mental note to tell his father about this moment so he can give him some sort of prize. "I'm sorry, Mr. Harris. You just startled me."

Harris smiles thinly. "Well, somebody should be keeping an eye on that animal of yours," he says. "If Principal Finch isn't going to, then I will."

For a moment, Stiles just stands there with his jaw ajar. He doesn't think there's a response in the entire English language that would actually cover his thoughts here.

Unfortunately, Harris takes this as license to continue. "Have you arranged that behavioral evaluation yet? It would be terrible if something were to happen and you weren't able to prove that your dog was the one in the right. There could be serious consequences for the animal in that sort of situation."

"I, uh, what?" Stiles manages, which admittedly is better than all the things he wants to say.

He's still gaping when Harris gestures to the open hallway and says, "Go ahead to practice, boys. Coach Finstock will be waiting." Then he turns and walks away.

"Did he just 'run along, little boys' us?" Isaac asks.

Stiles snaps his jaw shut so hard that he hears his teeth click. He shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "C'mon, let's go," he says. But before he can start walking again, Derek takes Stiles' sleeve in his jaws and purposefully tows him towards the boy's restroom across the hall. "Uh, I guess we'll catch up with you in a few minutes," Stiles says, waving to them. Once in the bathroom, he checks the stall for any eavesdroppers, then says, "What's up?"

Derek shrugs out of the vest and shifts back to his human form. "I want to go have a little chat with Harris."

Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers all the many, many things that he could say. Finally, he just says, "Then you should put some clothes on."

Derek nods and grabs Stiles' backpack, which contains, in addition to his school things, a T-shirt, pair of jeans, and flip-flops. Stiles had put them there on his first day in school, just in case Derek had to shift for some reason. It's not the most elegant of outfits, but he doesn't really have room in his backpack for Derek's leather jacket and combat boots. "I don't want to miss too much of practice," Stiles says, pulling out his phone to shoot a quick text to Scott, who can make his excuses to Finstock.

"I'll be quick," Derek says, with a smile that shows teeth.

They find Harris back in his classroom, grading papers with an angry red pen. Derek tells Stiles to wait outside, and Stiles does, because Derek obviously has a plan and he's not going to get in his way.

Derek steps inside the classroom, somehow managing to move silently even in a pair of flip-flops, and settles his weight against the first student table directly in front of Harris' desk. He just sits there with the heels of his hands braced on the edge of the table to either side of his hips, and stares at Harris. The teacher, obviously expecting that the sudden presence in one of his room is a student about to beg for mercy, takes this sweet time looking up. As he does, he's saying, "Yes, can I . . ." And then he catches sight of Derek. "Help you?" comes out an octave higher.

Derek smiles at him. It isn't exactly full of teeth, but it certainly isn't comfortable, either. "I'm thinking you're going to be doing a bit of self-help."

Harris takes off his glasses and gives them a quick polish. "I'm sorry, but visitors have to check in at the office and receive a badge," he says sharply. "You are not allowed to be here."

Derek just shrugs one shoulder. It's obvious that no fucks are going to be given about this subject. "So, there's this friend of mine that you've been bothering. A lot. In a rather creepy, lurky sort of way. I'd appreciate it if you would stop. Once we come to an understanding on that, I would be happy to vacate your classroom."

"I-I'm sorry, but who are you?" Harris asks.

"Derek Hale," he says, and doesn't hold his hand out to shake.

Harris turns three shades paler. "I, that is, what are you," he stammers.

Derek can't help but roll his eyes at 'what are you'. There are so many smart-assed replies available that he just can't. Not a one. It's too easy. "What am I doing here?"

Harris clears his throat and says, "Yes. What are you doing here?"

"Stay with the conversation. I've already covered that." This is a lot like hunting any other prey, Derek is discovering. It's best to keep Harris from getting his mental feet under himself. "I want you to stop skulking around after my friend and making vaguely ominous comments about his dog."

There's a brief pause while Harris tries to collect himself. "If you're referring to Mr. Stilinski, then I'll have you know that I believe that dog is a danger to the other students, and my behavior has been perfectly appropriate."

"The dog wouldn't have been certified as a service animal if it had any sort of temperament issues," Derek says. "They're tested for that." God only knew that he had put up with all sorts of ridiculous crap that day, including being manhandled by small children, loud noises right in his ear, and a phone book that had nearly been dropped on his foot. "I'm pretty sure that nobody asked for your opinion on the matter, so kindly keep it to yourself."

Harris draws himself up a little and says, "Well, I fail to see how your opinion on the matter has any bearing, either. You're not a student or faculty member of this school."

"No." Derek shifts his weight. "But I am Stiles' friend. Or more to the point, he's my friend, and I try to look out for people who are close to me. On account of that there just aren't that many of them anymore. There was a fire. You may have heard . . .?"

At this, Harris blanches and looks away. It takes him another moment to pull himself together and apparently decide that he's not going to respond to that. "So what exact consequences do you intend if I don't agree? Are you threatening me?"

"Well, I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking," Derek says, but he's careful to keep his voice calm and non-menacing. "I'm pretty sure that following Stiles around the school and making him uncomfortable, making him feel like his service dog isn't safe – the service dog that he needs in order to attend school like anyone else his age – is harassment, and most likely breaks several laws that cover disabilities. You know, those same laws that allow him to have the service dog to begin with." Derek smiles, that same, slightly feral smile. "So I guess I am threatening you. With my lawyer. My very good, very expensive lawyer. That I keep on retainer, paid for with all the insurance money I received after my family died and my home was burned to the ground. Which I may remind you, you helped happen, and I have never pressed charges over. But I still can. At any time."

Harris stammers for another minute before he manages to say, "You, you wouldn't actually take this to court, it's just a dumb animal – "

Derek lets out a snort of laughter. "If you have to ask me that question, then I'm pretty sure that dog is smarter than you. I will absolutely take this to court." He gives that a second or two to sink in. "In a heartbeat." Another pause. "I hear you're one year from tenure."

Now Harris just looks like he might actually dive out the window to escape the conversation. "I, I, that's completely irrelevant – "

"Is it?" Derek feigns a look of surprise. "Am I misunderstanding the term? Tenure is the status that teachers are granted that protects them from summary dismissal, isn't it?"

Harris can't even say a word to that.

"So, since you aren't arguing with my definition of the word, I guess I'm correct," Derek says. "And since Stiles' dog passed all of his qualifications and certifications, and all the appropriate documentation was provided to your superiors, and since I do have that lawyer, do you think maybe we can come to some sort of agreement? Such as, you teach chemistry and leave Stiles and his dog alone?"

Harris manages a wordless nod.

Derek heaves a sigh. "Say it out loud so I know you have some conviction."

"Unless . . . there is another incident," Harris says, "I will leave Stiles and his dog alone."

Derek can't keep the disgusted look off his face at Harris' qualifier. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? Just a prize among humanity." With that, Derek stands up and heads to the door, because otherwise he's going to introduce Harris' face to his desk.

Stiles is still waiting outside, sitting on the floor and leaning against a locker, holding his phone in one hand. He looks up when Derek comes out and says, "Dude. That was hot."

"Have you slipped another point on the Kinsey scale?" Derek asks, glad to be distracted from Harris. He extends a hand to Stiles and pulls him to his feet.

"Yeah, I'm looking at, like, one and three-quarters now," Stiles jokes. He bumps his shoulder against Derek's and says, "I'm starting to rub off on you. That's kind of awesome."

There might be a small but genuine smile. "You get all that recorded?"

"And you know me so well!" Stiles flails a little, gesturing with the phone. "Of course. Good job not threatening to tear his throat out with your teeth. I know how badly you wanted to."

"Oh my God." Derek's nose wrinkles. In a rough parody of Harris' voice, he says, "It's just a dumb animal." He growls. "I wanted to cut that son of a bitch."

"Down, Fido," Stiles says, amused despite himself. "So do you actually keep a lawyer on retainer, or was that bullshit?"

Derek glances over at him as they start down the hallway towards the bathroom. "The Hale family did keep a lawyer on retainer," he says. "Being part of the supernatural world can have legal consequences, as you've seen. I . . . after Laura died, I let it lapse for a little while. I just didn't care that much about . . . anything. But after what happened when you killed Peter, I decided it might be a good idea to have him on retainer just in case . . . that ever went to trial."

"Aw, you're making me blush," Stiles says. "You did that for me?"

With a scowl, Derek says, "I did it for the pack."

Now Stiles just grins at him. "Of course you did," he says. "Now let's get you back in your fur so I can go to lacrosse practice."

Stiles plays the audio file of Derek's confrontation with Harris on his phone so everyone can hear it. They eat fresh gingersnaps that he spent the afternoon baking and generally laugh about what a dickhead Harris is for almost fifteen minutes before Stiles reins them all in to get down to business. "Okay, guys, what'd you find out?"

Boyd looks down at his notes. "Dr. Deaton says that when you have a rogue sorcerer, there are two ways to contain them. You can either strip their power away, or bind it so they can't access it. The former is permanent but the latter can be undone later. But he says doing either of those things to someone would require either their cooperation, or hair or blood. And he said the spell was really difficult, and only something to attempt as a last resort."

"Hm." Stiles thinks this over. "Okay. Next lacrosse practice, Isaac, Scott, I want you to go after Jackson. See if you can get him to bleed on you."

This is met with a somewhat startled laugh, and then agreement. Then Allison takes out some notes she had taken while talking with her father. Some of it confirms the things Justin had told them. Unfortunately, by the time Chris and his hunters are dealing with a warlock, they've usually passed 'strip them of their power' and moved on to 'shoot them in the face'. Stiles is pretty sure that this is not something that he'll be doing to Jackson any time soon. He'll settle for hoping that the protection charms will keep them safe from anything too bad. He and Allison have the most to worry about; a fall like the one Isaac took will hurt them far more than any of the wolves. But they're pretty accustomed to being beaten up on, and in general, they can protect themselves.

Lydia ventures, very hesitantly, that Jackson is the one who will end up being hurt. Stiles can't exactly argue with this, given what Deaton has told them about black magic. He has absolutely no idea how to fix the problem, however, so he decides to sleep on it.

"Maybe we can talk to him," Allison says, as they head to school the next day.

"What, like, 'this is your brain on magic'?" Stiles asks.

"Why would Jackson listen to anything we say?" Isaac asks, his shoulders hunched up, hands tucked into his pockets. "I bet Stone's already told him we'll try that kind of thing and that he shouldn't believe us, that we're just saying that so he'll stop doing magic."

"He's probably right," Lydia says. "Even if he hasn't, Jackson won't . . . he'll think it won't happen to him. That he'll be better than that. You know how, people with a strong family history of alcoholism, a lot of them just never take a drink in their whole lives? Because they don't want to risk it? Jackson's the guy that would drink just to prove that he could."

"Maybe we can convince someone he cares about to talk to him," Boyd suggests. "Someone he would believe."

"Like who?" Scott asks, frowning. "He doesn't really seem close to anyone, and besides, nobody else knows about magic or any of that shit."

"Do you think Dr. Deaton would talk to him?" Erica asks.

Scott's face crinkles with thought. "I think he would, but I don't think that would make any difference to Jackson," he finally says.

"If we could physically get a hold of him, we could put him in a mountain ash circle and see if we could strip his power," Allison says. "Deaton said it was difficult, not impossible."

Stiles shakes his head. "That's a move they'll see coming," he says. "If we try to physically hold him, we'll find ourselves in big trouble. Don't forget that Jackson's dad is the district attorney. They've got it set up somehow so if we try to force him to go with us, or hold onto him, there will be legal ramifications. We're going to have to find another way."

Nobody has any ideas, so they suspend the conversation for the length of the school day. Stiles forces himself to focus through a lecture on Doctor Faust and what seems like endless trigonometry. He's fidgety during history and keeps raising his hand until the teacher finally glares him down and calls on Scott instead. Scott fumbles for the answer to her question but seems to have no clue. "Did you do the reading, Mr. McCall?" the teacher asks, sounding a little exasperated. Stiles can't help but let out a snort of laughter, knowing that Scott did the reading, but Allison was in his lap at the time, so he might have been a little distracted.

Then he goes to home economics and they're in pairs, each pair having been assigned a different way to cook eggs, which is just as boring as it sounds. He slips a hard-boiled egg to Derek, who has been putting up with all of this with his usual stoicism (by which Stiles means he slept through the first three periods of the day; he resents Derek deeply for this, given how much he complains about having to get up early).

Spanish is after lunch, a class he shares with Scott and Erica, who takes the class for an easy A because her father's from Mexico and she was raised bilingual. They're going up and down the rows, doing conjugations. Scott again just stares blankly at the teacher when he's called on. Now Stiles frowns over at him. They did their homework together; he knows that Scott knows this. One might be a fluke, but when Scott just sputters a second time, he begins to suspect that something is actually wrong. The teacher, Mr. Espinoza, makes a show of making down Scott's failure in his little book. Scott starts to look panicky, but he survives until the end of class.

As soon as the bell rings, he turns to Stiles and says, "Ask me a question I know the answer to."

"Okay, who's Luke Skywalker's father?" Stiles asks. It's meant almost as a joke, but when he sees the completely blank look on Scott's face, a chill goes through him. "Seriously? Uh, what city is the capital of California?" Nothing. "How many players are on a lacrosse team?" he asks, and Scott just sputters again and then lets out a little wolf whine.

"What's wrong with me?" he asks Stiles, who waves him into the hallway.

"My guess is that someone has magically sucked out every shred of intelligence you once possessed," Stiles says grimly.

Scott just stares at him, then stammers, "I, I have an anatomy test sixth period. I can't be stupid right now!"

Stiles sympathizes, but he's at a loss as to how to help. Erica and Derek are both watching this conversation, but not participating, as the crowd of high school students mills around them. Short of the cure-all mountain ash circle, which a teacher would surely notice, he can't think of a way to fix this. he has no idea how Jackson might even be doing it; the protection spell is supposed to be shielding them against this sort of spell, that would directly affect them. "Are you wearing your pendant?" he asks, but he knows the answer is yes. He gave them all strict instructions never to take the damned things off. Not for sleeping, showering, sexing, anything. He even made little bags of padding that could be tied around them to protect them during lacrosse practice.

"What? Yeah, of course I am," Scott says, his hand hovering over his chest for a minute. He sees the look of frustrated helplessness on Stiles' face. "Oh, shit, I'm really fucked, aren't I," he says.

Scott's having a panic attack, that much is clear, and that's what gives Stiles the idea that might at least save Scott's grades, if not solve the larger problem. "You're having an asthma attack," he says.

"I – what?" Scott asks, giving him a funny look, momentarily confused out of his anxiety.

"You, me, nurse's office," Stiles says. "Let's go." He takes Scott by the elbow, loops Derek's leash around his backpack strap, and gets an arm around Scott's waist. "Too bad, but you're gonna have to go home. You'll have to make up your anatomy test later. I'm sure the teacher will understand. You do have fairly severe asthma, after all. Why, it's a miracle you've made it so long without missing school."

Scott gets the picture at this, and starts putting on a rather convincing show of wheezing, pulling for each breath. Of course, he's faked asthma attacks before, although mostly back when he was much younger and really wanted to a) get out of doing the dishes, or b) get his father in trouble for upsetting him. Stiles helps him into the nurse's office and into a chair, where he sits with his hands clenched down on the edge of the chair, elbows locked, head slightly bowed.

"Oh, Scott," the nurse, an older woman named Julia, says. "You were doing so well, I hadn't seen you in a while!"

"Yeah, I," Scott wheezes out.

"Did you take your inhaler, sweetie?" she asks him, and he nods. "Okay. I'll call your mom . . ."

Scott knows Julia well, and he knows that asking to go home is the quickest way to get sent back to class – and vice versa. "No, just wanna lie down for a bit," he says, spacing out the words between each breath. "I have a science test . . ."

"I don't know, you really don't look very good," Julia says, doubt creeping into her voice. "I think I'd better have your mom come get you."

Scott gives in and slumps over, defeated. Stiles hastily says, "I can drive him home," because he doesn't want Scott to be left by himself.

"I don't think so, Mr. Stilinski," Julia says. "You should get back to class."

"But I – " Stiles says, and then realizes that there's absolutely no protest he can make. It makes perfect sense to him to ditch school and get Scott out of here. Scott is part of his pack, and defending his pack comes before everything else. He doesn't want any pack member to be alone right now, so obviously, he has to go with him. That's not exactly something he can say to Julia, though.

Before he can hem and haw, Erica comes in through the nurse's office door. "Mrs. Forrester, I feel really crappy," she says, thumping dramatically into the chair, just as Julia is about to dial Scott's mother. "My head hurts and I feel all foggy and tired."

"Okay, hon," Julia says. "Give me a minute to call Scott's mom, and then I'll call yours."

"Oh, that's okay," Erica says, pulling out her phone and starting to send rapid-fire texts. "If Scott's mom is coming to pick him up, I'll just go with her. She can drop me off. She's my nurse; my mom will be totes cool with it." She sees the dubious look on Julia's face and adds, "I don't want to bug her at work, you know? She's been so happy about being able to get a job now that I've been doing so much better on the new drugs. I'd hate to make her have to leave."

"Well, I'll tell you what," Julia says, "I'll call your mom, and if she says that's okay, we'll do it. But I have to call her."

Erica heaves a sigh and continues texting. "Yeah, okay," she says.

Julia pauses in her dialing to give Stiles a pointed look. "Mr. Stilinski."

"Oh! Right," he says hastily. "Class. I'm on it." He gives Scott a quick, manly, shoulder squeeze. Then he leans down and kisses Erica on the cheek. "See you later," he says to both of them, and trots out of the waiting room, feeling much relieved. He pulls out his phone and texts Erica to have Scott's mom take them back to Derek's, and he'll meet them there later.

He fidgets through physics like he's in Adderall withdrawal, wracking his brain for what could be happening. Beyond 'magic, duh', he's at a loss. This is exactly what the protection charm is supposed to prevent, so how could it be happening? He tries to surreptitiously look through some websites that he's found more reputable than others that might explain this, but no dice, and he eventually puts it away because he's going to fail physics if he doesn't pay attention. It's difficult enough to concentrate. He can feel Scott's impending panic like a shrill whine right in his ear, and the unease and concern of the other werewolves crawls over his skin no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

His last class of the day is gym. It's dodgeball Wednesday, which works out for him. He lets himself be tagged out early so he can sit on the bleachers and play with his phone. But it's also a class with Jackson, so he takes a look over at the other teenager. He just looks bad – pale and exhausted, sweating, uncoordinated. He's normally a demon at dodgeball, but on this particular day he's tagged out almost as quickly as Stiles is.

Stiles thinks of how tired and hungry he was just after half an hour of trying to do magic, and it doesn't surprise him that Jackson is worn out. He's not resting and eating enough to compensate for all the magic he's trying to do. It further confirms the theory that whatever's wrong with Scott, it's Jackson's fault. Stiles thinks this over and then sends a quick text to Scott, asking if Jackson had gotten close to him at lacrosse practice the previous day. Scott replies that they'd bumped a couple of times, but there had been no serious encounters. No bleeding, and he's pretty sure that if Jackson had pulled out some of his hair, he would have noticed.

"Then how in the hell . . ." Stiles mutters under his breath, frustrated beyond reason. He sneaks a quick look at Jackson on the bleachers, who's just staring out into space. Stiles snarls to himself and goes to re-read the cheat sheets he's gotten from Justin and Chris. The answer hits him like a two-by-four to the face. "Fucking hell," he says under his breath. Derek lifts his head, ears pricking up. He knows the tone that Stiles uses when he's made a connection. "Scott's fucking ring."

They both look over at Jackson, who seems to be on another planet. Then another game starts and Stiles is forced back into the fray. It's all he can do to contain the jittery rage that's consuming him until Finstock calls a halt to things and they go back into the locker room. Once there, Stiles wastes no time. It's a shame he doesn't share gym with Isaac or Boyd; he could really use the backup right now. He marches right over to Jackson when he's done changing and says, "Give it back."

"Give what back?" Jackson asks, smirking at him.

"You know damn well what," Stiles says, aware that half the guys present have stopped changing to watch this confrontation. "Scott's Claddagh ring, that Allison gave him. It went missing during lacrosse practice the other day, and you took it."

"What the fuck would I want with that jerk-off's ring?" Jackson asks.

Keenly aware of everyone listening, Stiles says, "How should I know? Maybe you want to give it to your girlfriend. Maybe you want to wank to it. Maybe you're using it as a voodoo charm to cast black magic on him."

The look on Jackson's face, the quiet, stunned, almost panicky little 'can he say that in front of everyone?' is priceless. He recovers quickly, though, and says, "Yeah, well, you can come up with all the bullshit you want, but I don't have Scott's ring, so piss off."

Jackson shoulders by him and leaves the locker room in a huff. Stiles lets him. He's at school; he's got enough trouble. He can't just beat the shit out of Jackson, as much as it would give him joy. Instead, he shoulders his backpack and sidles over to Danny. "Hey. Do me a solid?"

Danny looks after Jackson, then sighs. "Yeah, I'll talk to him about it," he says.

"Thanks, bro," Stiles says, and takes off. He doesn't want to leave the others waiting. They meet him in the parking lot, and he gives them all a quick update. His frustration must be obvious, because they hover close to him, pressing in tighter than most people would consider socially acceptable. He doesn't expect Danny to be able to get anywhere with Jackson, which is confirmed by text about five minutes later, as they continue to stand in a tight knot.

Lydia is particularly quiet, but after almost ten minutes of fierce discussion, plans proposed and then dropped for obvious flaws, she finally says, "Let me handle this."

Stiles gives a her somewhat surprised look, and hesitantly says, "Lydia, I don't think he'll give it back if you ask him to."

"Oh, he will," she says. "I just have to do it right."

"Okay," Stiles says, because Lydia's a lot smarter than him most of the time. Of course, Jackson is one of the few things she tends to be stupid about, but they can at least give her plan a go. "But I'm going with you."

She tosses her hair and says, "You'll be more hindrance than help."

"Yeah, swell," Stiles says.

Lydia sighs. "Okay. Fine. I'll make it work."

Stiles looks at the others and says, "You guys head back to Derek's. We'll meet you there when we're done. Try to keep Scott from freaking out too much. Allison, I leave that in your capable hands. Hopefully he hasn't forgotten how to, hey, maybe I shouldn't finish that sentence, look at me censoring myself, my dad would be so fuckin' proud of me. Let's get moving."

The others shake their heads in fond amusement at his antics, and head over to Allison's car. Stiles gets in the Jeep with Lydia and Derek and says, "Where to, my lady?"

She tilts her chin over towards Jackson's little sporty car, which is still in its spot. "Have to wait and see where he's going," she says.

Fortunately, they don't have to wait long. Jackson skulks out of the school about five minutes later, gets into his car, and drives off. Stiles leaves some space between them, but it quickly becomes clear that Jackson is just going straight home. "Fuck," he says, underneath his breath. But Lydia gives him a pretty smile and says that's good; that's where she wants him. Stiles gives up on understanding what Lydia's plan is. The lady likes her mystery. So he parks down the street and they walk over to Jackson's house. Lydia goes right up the front walk and rings the bell.

Jackson's mother answers it a few moments later. She looks surprised, and says, "Lydia! Oh, honey, it's so nice to see you again!" She reaches out and gives the teenager a hug. "I've really missed you, you know. Nobody gives me fashion tips like you do!"

Lydia laughs, that charming, beautiful laugh. "I'm sorry I've stayed away," she says. "Oh, this is my boyfriend, Stiles," she says. Mrs. Whittemore smiles and shakes his hand. "And his dog, Jack. He's a service dog. Do you mind?"

"No, not at all, come in," Mrs. Whittemore says. "I think Jackson's mentioned the dog," she says, a little bit of doubt creeping into her voice.

"He's very well-behaved," Stiles assures her. "Jack, shake."

Derek shoots Stiles a quick look and rolls his eyes, but then politely extends his paw. Mrs. Whittemore is instantly charmed.

"So what brings you here?" she asks.

"We-e-e-ell," Lydia says, drawing the word out, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. It's a little embarrassing, and I know that I'm going to sound petty, but . . . Jackson has this ring that I gave him, and I really want it back. It's a family heirloom – it was my grandfather's. I gave it to him, I know it's silly, but I really thought we were going to be together forever. And I know it's horrible to ask for a gift back, and if it hadn't belonged to my grandfather I would let him keep it, but . . ."

"Ah, young love," Mrs. Whittemore says, laughing a little. "Believe it or not, there was a time when I was young and foolish, too."

"I've asked him for it," Lydia says, and her voice chokes up a little. Tears on command have always been a favored weapon of Lydia's. "But he won't even talk to me about it, I mean, he really won't talk to me at all, and I . . ."

"Oh, honey," Mrs. Whittemore says, and pulls her into a quick embrace. "Okay. Let's go have a chat with him."

Lydia smiles at her, a wan, 'I'm trying to keep it together' type of smile. Then she looks at Stiles and says, "Why don't you wait down here, okay?"

"Sure," Stiles says. But he creeps over to the bottom of the staircase so he can listen to their conversation, aided by his enhanced hearing. Jackson is playing terrible rap music, and Stiles can't help but roll his eyes as Jackson protests his mother turning it off.

Then Jackson catches sight of Lydia and says, "What are you doing here?"

"Jackson, for goodness' sake," his mother says. "Manners, please."

Jackson huffs out an annoyed sigh, but says, somewhat grudgingly, "Uh, Lydia. Did you need something?"

Her voice a study in timid uncertainty, Lydia says, "Jackson, I, I really want my ring back."

"Your ring?" Jackson says, incredulous.

Lydia makes a choked little sob. "I know, I know that I gave it to you and I'm horrible for asking for it back, but you know how much it means to me . . ."

Jackson seems to be at a complete loss for a minute, obviously wondering why the ring he stole from Scott now somehow belongs to her. After a minute, he decides he had better just roll with it, because he has no idea what kind of scheme Lydia's playing at and he can't exactly mention who the ring actually belongs to in front of his mother. "Look, you uh, it's not fair to ask for a gift back, I mean . . . besides, we broke up almost a year ago! Why do you want it now?"

Stiles can practically see Lydia's haughty hair flip. "Well, maybe, just maybe, I was holding out hope that we might get back together!" she retorts. "Up until you started reaching second base with your new girlfriend between every period and at every lacrosse practice!"

"Hey!" Jackson protests. "What Autumn and I do is none of your business – "

"Oh, really?" Lydia's all flash and fire now, the righteous indignation of a woman scorned. "Then why is it that every time you see me and Stiles so much as holding hands, you shoulder check him into oblivion during lacrosse?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Lydia," Jackson snaps back, "if you think for one second that I'm buying you and Stiles as a couple, you're dumb as fuck. I know he's queer for Derek Hale, anyway, and I'd think you could do better than being some fag's beard – "

"Jackson!" Mrs. Whittemore sounds appalled. "You should be ashamed of yourself! And Danny would beat the snot out of you if he heard you talking like that. You apologize to Lydia right now!"

There's a pause, before Jackson says, sullenly, "Okay, I'm sorry I called your boyfriend queer."

Lydia is obviously struggling to 'compose herself'. Her voice is again just a little choked up as she says, "Apology accepted. Can I please just have the ring back, Jackson?"

"Fine, Jesus Christ," Jackson snaps. "Take the damned thing." There's the noise of a drawer opening and then slamming shut.

"Thank you," Lydia says tearfully. She comes downstairs with Mrs. Whittemore a moment later, wiping her eyes as Jackson's mother pats her shoulder sympathetically.

"I'm so sorry he's acting like that," Mrs. Whittemore says. "He's just been so moody lately. I'll talk to him, okay?"

Lydia forces another smile. "Thanks, Mrs. Whittemore," she says. "Mission accomplished," she adds to Stiles. Stiles, who knows how to play his role, leans over and gives her a hug and a chaste peck on the lips. He thanks Jackson's mother as well, and the two of them depart with Derek trotting along behind him.

"God, you're such a babe," Stiles says, as soon as they're outside.

Lydia just gives him one of those 'I'm the prettiest, smartest, most amazing girl on earth' smiles. "I know," she says. "To the clinic?"

"To the clinic!" Stiles declares. "Avast, ahoy, and all that." He puts the Jeep in drive and starts down the street. "You know, I'm surprised," he says. "Jackson's mom actually seems like a nice lady."

"Jackson's mom is a nice lady," Lydia says. "Why does that surprise you?"

"Just, he's so awful, I presumed that his parents would be stuck-up, entitled snots just like he is," Stiles says, with a shrug.

"Jackson's parents spoiled the ever-living crap out of him because he's never forgiven them for the fact that he's adopted," Lydia says. "They thought that letting him have anything he wanted would somehow fix that." She gives a little shrug, then darts a sideways look at Stiles. "Is that what you thought about me? That I was an entitled snot?"

"Well, yeah," Stiles says. When she gives him a hurt little look, he says, "Lydia, you used to go out of your way to pretend I didn't exist."

Lydia cringes a little. "I guess I can't hold that against you," she says.

"What's past is past," Stiles said. "It's done. And nobody's perfect. So, I forgive you, let's move on with our lives."

She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. "Okay," she says. Then: "I'd better call Dr. Deaton and let him know we're coming."

Several minutes later, they're at the clinic. Deaton has warned his secretary that they're coming, and she waves them into the back and slips Derek a treat, which he carefully holds in his mouth until she's out of view. Then he spits it onto the floor. Stiles gives a snort of laughter and says hello to the veterinarian.

"This will take just a minute," he says, accepting the ring from Lydia. He examines at it carefully, then shakes his head and murmurs, "Now that is just petty." Then he heads through the trap door and into the basement. Stiles paces around anxiously while he waits, but as promised, it only takes a few minutes before Deaton comes up and says, "Tell Scott to be a little more careful of his things."

"Lesson learned, I think." Stiles takes out his phone and dials Scott. He picks up sounding stressed and anxious. "What's Spider-Man's real name?"

"Peter Parker," Scott responds automatically. Then he says, "Oh my God, dude, I, I, I fuckin' love you, can I say that without this being weird?"

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter. "Yeah, okay. But it's Lydia you should be going gaga over. She was amazing. I'll tell you all about it when we get back." He says his goodbyes and hangs up the phone. Then he looks at Dr. Deaton. "We have a problem," he says.

Deaton nods, solemn. "Yes, you do."

"How much time do we have before Jackson . . .?"

"It may already be too late," Deaton says quietly. "Black magic corrupts people very quickly. It provides an unbelievable rush. His little pranks are going to escalate. You should be very careful."

Stiles pushes both hands through his hair. "What if we can't stop him?"

"Then you'll have two choices," Deaton says. "Either you can kill him, or you can let him be a warlock. Either way, the Jackson you know will be lost forever."