I was very ill when I wrote this chapter so sadly there's a logical falling-out that happens in the second half. I can't figure out how to fix it properly, so sadly it's still there, I'm sorry!
Snakeskins
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
Arthur's return to Hogwarts had not been especially easy. There was something unbearably sour about taking back parting words spat at someone else's feet because neither of you could live up to the spiteful obligation, and waiting until September to come back to the castle was exactly that: a promise Arthur couldn't keep.
Missing friends was a minor inconvenience, but trying to avoid the Headmistress' ire and trusting her not to fail either nation for the year and hold them back simply took things out of Arthur's hands. He returned to the school almost two weeks after the incident and his suspension, and he came back with no word on when Mister Vargas would be joining them.
He told the children exactly what he had told the professors, every word of the lie exactly the same and countered with all the grains and patches of truth: Vargas had gone running like a lunatic into the forest, Arthur had gone after him to stop him from getting hurt. There had been a fight, Arthur had apparated, and Italy had been terribly injured as a result.
It was hard to be so forthright with the last two points. He very much wanted to deny the last one but there was ultimately no way around simple truth. He had hurt Italy, it was his fault, but he was completely mum on the fact that he'd been to Venice and seen how his recovery was progressing.
And Arthur knew, implicitly, that the other Slytherins were not completely satisfied with his answers.
"You don't… really seem that sorry." Charlie was the one to point it out shyly, voice faltering in the library during a quiet Saturday study session. Ellie was sitting next to him with Addison Miller comparing notes with David off to Arthur's left, and Arthur looked up slowly from his Arithmancy book and the stack of essays and assignments he had been plowing through to make up for lost schooling.
"What?"
"I mean, you've been quiet about it, Arthur, but you don't really seem that torn up?" Oh…
"I'll admit, I'm awfully mad at him too." Not as angry as he had been, but steeled well enough by that insult and anger from Venice that no, he really wasn't that upset about the issue anymore. There had been mistakes and stupidity on both ends, so Arthur just wanted to see the upset laid to rest. The ball was in Italy's court now and Arthur wasn't interested in chasing after him for answers. "It doesn't matter, Charlie." So Arthur went back to work.
"It does though…" Arthur had his quill poised to finish off a line of script explaining the consequences of Saturn's alignment this spring when he heard the almost shy words from the boy across from him, pausing with his eyes staring blankly at his abandoned herbology text with last-week's mandrake essay staring up at him half-complete. If he had anything to say, it was interrupted by the sound of footfalls charging across stones and the ripple and snag of robes billowing from a dead sprint.
Arthur and everyone else at the table looked up to the sight of Slytherin's Seeker charging across the library floor, broom in hand and green and silver quidditch robes still fluttering around him from the practice he'd just been at, eyes focused on their table. Charlie already had his book shut and was standing when Scorpius blazed a path right up to the startled group and then swung around behind Addison and David's chairs to get to Arthu-?
"He's back-"
"What?"
"He's back, c'mon, get up!" And with a flick of Scorpius' wand Arthur's books were snapped shut, assignments folded and tucked neatly between pages, and even Arthur's quill tugged itself out of his grasp to fly away into his book bag.
"Now see, why can't you do that with your socks?" Arthur complained, aware of how grandfatherly it made him sound as he was coaxed and urged and outright poked into finishing the clean-up and standing. "If he's back then he certainly won't want to see me."
"How do you know he's here?" Charlie asked. The announcement was enough to get everyone else cleaning up too, even Addison and David were capping their ink and stuffing class notes down between textbooks in their bags.
"Saw him as we were coming back from the final practice!" Scorpius rushed to explain, getting Arthur's robe up off the back of the chair where he'd shrugged it off and thank you, Scorpius he could dress himself! "Professor Huntington was leading him someplace while the team took a lower stairwell to get down to the dungeons, so I broke away and hurried here."
They reasoned that Huntington had either been on her way to take Vargas off to some inane detention period, or more likely for a visit to Professor Malfoy in the hospital wing. Arthur was hustled off to the fourth floor without being given much opportunity to argue his way out of it, giving up with a heavy sigh and simply allowing his friends to chaperone him along through panels of sunlight. Four Slytherins, a Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff made for a strange sight especially with Scorpius leading them all in his quidditch robes all mucked up with grass and dirt from the year's final practice, but the oddities helped them make good time to the white double doors of the infirmary.
Doors which were, for the record, swinging open as they arrived and brought a familiar olive-skinned, green-robed almost-fourteen-year-old boy into view. Arthur understood the black gloves he saw around Italy's hands and the minor slump of his shoulders as he personally slowed down and twisted back a little so everyone else could hurry ahead and mob the other nation.
"Vargas!" Which they all eagerly did.
"Feli you're back!"
Ellie was the first one to get there and Italy looked up just in time to catch her in a quick, happy hug when she flung her arms around his shoulder and then fell away again, giving Charlie who was so much taller the space to come in and give him a hard hit in the shoulder and demand to know where the devil he'd been. David swept up to hover right in front of him with curious words relaying how the teachers had been baffled about what to do with the empty seat in their lessons.
"Everyone was just so worried about you!" Ellie carried on, her voice pleasantly strong even from where Arthur was still hanging back and observing. "Flint has just been unbearable since Arthur came back."
"She's in detention today, that one." Scorpius explained, filling in something Arthur already knew because he'd been physically present when something had passed between Flint and one of their Gryffindor classmates during Longbottom's final exam. Whatever it was had ended with someone getting cactus juice squirted in their eyes. "I don't think she's ever even had detention before."
"I'll apologize to her, I don't…" however Italy wanted to end that sentence was interrupted for Arthur by a dull jab in his ribs under his folded arms. Jumping slightly, he turned and saw Miss Miller standing there next to him, her short cropped gold hair still growing out at funny angles and nowhere near settled down after its sheering a few months ago. She was giving him such a wide-eyed, affronted look that Arthur was worried he'd stepped on her foot.
"What was that for?"
"Go on, talk to him!" She hissed at him, which was rather unfair.
"He's quite busy."
"He's your friend, go!"
Arthur refused, he wasn't interested in pushing through the mirthful excitement of the children seeing their friend well and standing again just to pick a fight or bring a cold wind blowing through the hall. They had parted bitterly in Venice and Arthur was of a mind to let sleeping dogs lie as long as possible. Italy wasn't known for carrying a grudge any more than he was for losing his temper in the first place. If given enough time, he would calm down on his own and the two of them would agree to either end the charade or get back to work.
"I've been to both Rome and London today, when's dinner?" Italy's complaint about food was a good enough reason to break eye-contact with the very disapproving Ravenclaw to Arthur's left, Addison's irritation with him rank just from the way he felt her continue to stare at the side of his head.
"You just missed lunch about an hour ago," Charlie was explaining. "But there should be some snacks down in the common room."
"We were all studying in the library when Scorpius came running to get us." Ellie added, Scorpius nodding along with them before Italy spoke. He was as light-hearted and conversational as ever, which for the sake of keeping the peace, Arthur appreciated. This wasn't going to be so difficult after all.
"I need to review for my exams too, how many have I missed?"
"At least three, I think." Scrorpius answered and Arthur tried thinking back. History of Magic and Herbology had happened last week, one just to get the third years out of the way and the other because their plants had ripened and matured faster than expected. Arthur had rolled his eyes at making the final preparations on a plant he'd shared with Italy, but done no less of a job with it. Passing the year was essential. The third one was probably Astronomy or Divination, he couldn't recall after such a hectic week.
They started moving as a group after a bit more chatter, destined for the dungeons and yet refusing to part with their out-of-house friends right away. They moved with Scorpius as always at the head of the train, David and Charlie flanking Italy in the middle, and when Arthur tried bringing up the rear behind Ellie and Addison he was turned on almost immediately by both girls.
"What are you doing?" Addison hissed again, getting Eliza's attention right away as well.
"I'm walking?" Arthur tried to answer, only to bite his tongue when he saw the hurt expression on Ellie's round face.
"Why aren't you talking to him?" No, no, no: not the big cute eyes, Ellie, that simply wasn't fair! "I bet he missed you so much if you'd only say something!"
"He missed Baker and Higgs, not-"
"Arthur Kirkland I've seen field mice with more sense than you." Now see here, Miss Miller!
Despite Ellie's almost tears and Addison's venomous stares, Arthur maintained his silence all the way to Slytherin House. He was not wrong to walk this path because Italy didn't once turn around to speak to him when he went downstairs to the dormitory to take a look over his belongings. Arthur vouched to remain in the common room and keep Ellie company: a decision he soon regretted because instead of actually crying, he made her quite cross with him instead.
"I keep telling you: he's mad at me."
"He is not mad, he has never been mad before." Oh if only he could have told Miss Gamp how wrong she was! "If you don't stop and at least welcome him back home then I'll be mad at you instead!" And she rather was, especially after the common room doors opened up and let Flint and Finnick into the chamber in a flurry, the two of them promptly banishing Arthur and Ellie to a couch so Flint could overwhelm Italy with her voice and another fierce (and rather possessive) hug when he reappeared from the boy's dorm. Scorpius was dressed in plain clothes again under his school robe instead of the quidditch get-up, explaining what had taken them so long, and he made a rude gagging gesture behind his hand at Gloria's enthusiastic welcome.
"You see? I think he feels quite welcomed without me." Arthur preened, turning a glowing smile on Ellie beside him as Higgs sat down and looked like he might give Arthur a swat.
"Arthur-"
"But what are these ugly things you've got on?"
"They're not ugly!" Italy's whining voice pulled Arthur from his scolding to see the other nation quickly backing down the staircase beyond the gender charm to stop Gloria from fussing at him so much, the aggressive young witch stomping her foot and huffing at him dangerously from the top step while Scorpius laughed and Charlie and Margaret Finnick both tried talking her down. "I just have to wear them for a few more days, that's all."
Arthur almost tried to smile at the frantic cover, but before he could even try it there was a sour sting in the back of his throat, not to mention the uncomfortable weight over his shoulders. No. The reason behind the gloves was no laughing matter, and he was probably only wearing two to try and make it a bit less conspicuous. The only friend of theirs Arthur was willing to bet had a chance of knowing the full official story about the forest was Scorpius, and that was only if he and his father had come together to talk about it.
Chancing another look back at Scorpius as the gloves were brought up and dismissed just that easily by the others, it took until Italy came back up into the common room to be sure, but… Yes.
Just the way his eyes followed Italy's right side, and the way he positioned himself so Italy's arm was always just a little obscured and it would be difficult to pass between them. He knew... something.
"You're even worse than Arthur about answering your letters, Vargas."
"I know. I'm sorry, Charlie!"
Just the way Scorpius was the very first person to stop bothering Arthur to talk to him on that first day. That uneasy look from beside the fire when instead of sitting down next to anyone Italy took a high backed green chair, and Scorpius placed himself so he could see everyone from behind it. Little details which made a very obvious impact from the start: he knew. Maybe not the truth, but Scorpius knew.
But Scorpius still helped gang up and get them sitting next to each other at dinner, where Arthur resolved to spend the evening talking to Margaret at his right and Eliza across the table, and Italy carried on a short but delightful conversation with the second years sitting next to him.
They were given a free pass that night by Scorpius and Charlie so they could get to bed early and sleep, Arthur kept awake by his own thoughts for too much of the night, nevermind the ambient glow of Italy's stone bed and the occasional hiss of discomfort from the other nation and his stinging hand. Although he knew it would wake Charlie up, Arthur drew a breath.
"Is it healing?" Healing with the charm on, nevermind the great distance between Hogwarts and Rome, would slow things down. But as long as it didn't stop….
"Slowly…" It was his right hand, the dominant one.
"Can you write like that?"
"Do I have a choice?"
The sting on the end of his reply prompted Arthur to roll over, punch up his pillow for comfort, and will himself to a deep and pleasantly pain-free sleep. If it was possible to spite someone by resting comfortably, then Arthur was willing to figure out and perfect the technique.
And judging by the seething Sunday morning look burning under Italy's sleepy grin the next morning, he succeeded.
They didn't say a word to each other at breakfast despite Charlie chewing his sausage like a cow with cud watching them both ignore the other's presence. And when Italy weaseled his way out of flying to take up Gloria's offer to help him study for his first make-up exam on Monday, Ellie decided it was all Arthur's fault.
"You're being childish!"
"Me? Eliza he's just as much-"
"You're both being childish!" she amended, which allowed Arthur to finish his meal with a clear conscience once Italy was long gone off with Flint. "Talk to him!"
"We had a chat last night."
"You're a liar, Kirkland." Oh for goodness sake, Charlie. "No! Don't look at me like that. Unless that's it from now until graduation for your two, you need to talk to him."
"We'll talk when we're good and ready, thank you." And that, as far as Arthur was concerned, was the end of the matter.
He'd come back too soon.
One day- just one more day at home and Feliciano was sure his hand would have finished healing completely. His knuckles would have regrown at least most of the way, fingertips fleshed out and nerves fully restored. If he'd stayed in Rome or Venice for another twenty-four hours to sleep and eat and socialize without interruption, then it would be over with and all he'd have to worry about was a bit of ugly discolouration across his fingers.
Instead he'd come back early, and between the charm like an ice-cold noose around his neck and the agonizing distance from his warm and beautiful home to this cold and dreary castle, he felt his recovery stall right before the finish line.
"Ahh…" Right before the finish line meant that no, he wasn't in any real pain anymore, but he was suspended in the crippling sensation of a healing itch. The slow, steady burn of nerve endings slowly realigning and flickering back to life, like a permanent state of pins-and-needles that was concentrated fully around his fingertips. His thumb had healed and finally stopped stinging yesterday after he'd spent the last half of the weekend avoiding the question of when to talk to England, but his other four fingers were trapped. If he'd stuck his hand in a bee-hive, the noxious buzzing would have been comparable.
He just wanted to slam his fingers against the desk as he dropped his quill again, pulling his hand into his lap and massaging his thumb down hard into the palm of his afflicted hand, air hissing between this clenched teeth as he sat there on the padded blue bench in the front of the otherwise empty chamber. Glancing up quickly, the ornate brass clock on Professor Huntington's wall was ticking away mercilessly, thirty of his precious fifty minutes already gone and most of the essay he'd been in the middle of floundering through splotched and messy in front of him.
It was hard enough remembering bits and pieces of junk he'd barely listened to Romania gab about on the phone earlier that week, but getting through the maddening itch in his fingertips first made the whole thing feel impossible. He just had to score high enough to pass the class as a whole, something he wasn't in danger of failing anyways as long as he got at least half the points the stiff-lipped witch behind the desk was looking for.
As exams were completed, students were dismissed from those lesson blocks for more studying and socializing: this was the normal time of day for the third years to have their history of magic lesson, but Feliciano was the only one sitting in for the make-up exam, and he had to curb the urge to slam his fingertips into the desk like it was a circulation issue. The feeling had nothing to do with blood-flow, it was the fact that his body was trying to put the web of nerves in his fingertips back together, but wasn't smart enough to lay the wiring first and jump-start the connections after.
On the upside, this was probably the first piece of writing Feliciano had ever handed in that actually looked like a thirteen year old had written it. Picking up the quill again slowly, he wrapped his left hand hard around the right to try and keep the nib steady, and began to slowly scratch away at the parchment.
Four minutes later, he pressed the wrong way trying to curve his 'g' properly and the quill split, bleeding black ink across the brown parchment which soaked in and marred the bottom half of the page where the rest of his answer was supposed to go. He was too baffled to scramble and clean it up, staring at the stain and then the disloyal feather in his grasp before giving up.
School was not supposed to be this hard! He was an adult, not a child! He was too frustrated to think straight and he was too close to tears to keep his head up! Folding his arms over the paper, Feliciano dropped his head with an outraged gasp, eyes closed because he didn't care about the ink that was soaked up by his black school robe, he just wanted to calm down before trying again.
"Mister Vargas." He had about thirty seconds to just sit there and swear over and over in his head before he was called to sit up, spine snapping straight and eyes burning almost as badly as his fingers as he wrenched open his bag where it was on the floor under the desk and he pulled out another quill. He was not going to quit, he only had another fifteen minutes of this room and her presence before he'd be free until next year. "Mister Vargas."
"Yes, Professor." What did she want? He already had the new nib dipped in ink and was struggling to rearrange his desk so he could pull out a fresh sheet of parchment. Alright, he was going to cut it close with this exam since it was going to be unfinished, but at least he'd hand this essay in without the great black blotch on the front.
He was about to touch the quill to the parchment when he stopped, left hand bracing his wrist again like before, fingertips numbly rolling the feather between them trying to restore some of the normal sensation. She'd called him twice but not answered, so with a frustrated but guilty look, he raised his eyes up to her desk.
Professor Huntington had been silently working on something up at her desk for the entire length of the exam. Feliciano didn't fault her for it, she wasn't allowed to fall asleep or do anything fun while observing the test, but it looked like she'd paused in the middle of whatever it was, eyes on him and painted lips in a thick straight line across her face. She wasn't smiling, and he saw the tall yellow plume of her quill dip and spin around as she rolled it between her fingertips.
He didn't like Professor Huntington and the feeling was mutual, but as more precious time ticked away, Feliciano felt a quiet sense of dread creep up on him: she wouldn't really try to sabotage his exam by distracting him like this, would she?
"Which question are you on, Mister Vargas?" He had thirteen minutes left of the five-question exam, and looking back down at the question sheet and then his half-formed essays, he answered.
"The third one." A mind-numbing short essay about what Dorinel the Daring's campaign against Unicorn hunting had meant for the development of modern wand-making techniques in the seventh century. The blood and horns had obvious magical properties, but he couldn't remember if the advantages of Unicorn leather had come from Huntington's lectures or his own personal experience with the material…
"Which materials have you chosen for number three?" The question… surprised him?
"Ve… Unicorn horn and blood so far… and skin."
"Why blood?"
"Uh-?"
"Stand up, Mister Vargas." Confused, Feliciano did so, nudging the bench back just enough so he had the space to do as instructed. "Why did you choose unicorn blood?"
"Because…" he couldn't remember, but nudging the fresh parchment aside he decoded his own broken script for the answer. "Because before to the ban, wand wood was soaked in unicorn blood to give it more power and higher magical conductivity, with the risk of the wand's spirit growing too strong or turning evil."
"And the horn?"
"Under special circumstances unicorn horns are still harvested, but not for wands: the horn used to be a common core wand ingredient but was unstable and prone to dying unexpectedly after duels. Dorinel the Daring's father was killed in a duel when his unicorn horn wand suddenly died."
"And the hide?"
"Unicorn hide was…" Oh please, let him get this right! "Used to craft wand sleeves, and meant to protect the delicate core pieces. Instead, they only made the sentience issues worse." Vengeful wands were perhaps one of the most dangerous things in the world. There was a reason why expelled magic users had theirs snapped, along with those who found themselves in prison or bound for execution…
There was a dry scratching sound whispering from Professor Huntington's desk and her shuddering quill, but then she looked up again expectantly.
"Question four." He had ten minutes left. "Six marks; name three valuable magical materials which drove the Italian Markets after the Fall of Rome, and their primary uses." This one he could do!
"Silk: enriched with living patterns, used as wall-hangings in colder nations like Great Britain and Scandinavia. Used for clothing throughout central Europe. Special bolts could speak and offer advice once translation charms were fixed to them."
"That's two marks." Yes, he wasn't finished yet.
"Spices, specifically cinnamon, cardamom, cayenne, and tea: all factor into potion making as non-magical flavour and medical aids, tea leaves for advanced and developing divination practices, hotter spices are still used in house-hold repellants." That rush of information gave him four marks, and Feliciano had to close his eyes with his hands held tight behind his back. He knew this and he remembered it, but divorcing muggle memories from magical ones, plus trying to remember what had been in his textbook versus just off-hand in memory was hard. But at least speaking was so much easier than writing. "And texts, texts in any language but specifically Greek, Latin, Arabic, and Sanskrit. Anything in a non-latinate alphabet sold for inflated prices whether they were star-charts, potion recipes, textile graphs, or almanacs."
The quill scratched again, whispering as Feliciano looked up quickly at the seven minutes on the ticking clock. He was in the clear after answering four questions, wasn't he?
"Question five:" the professor read, eyes clearly down so she didn't have to bother with looking at him. "Of the three eighth century goblin rebellions, which one had the greatest impact on the textile industry of Great Britain, and why?" Th-
"There were three?" That was… not the right answer. His eyes wandered back up to the polished clock and just hovered there, his mind flicking through notecards that were all blank or filled with information that couldn't help him. "Vee…" CO-2 emissions for the last ten years weren't going to help him anymore than the tax reforms his new government was trying to bring in. Yes he could remember the working-holiday agreement he'd drafted with Turkey, but no he didn't know what goblins had to do with Chinese silk and pointed hats. "There was, um…"
She wasn't staring at him, she was waiting for him to answer with her eyes still watching the page in front of her where she must have made notes on his other answers. No he wasn't prepared for an oral exam, but if he'd still been writing things down he'd probably have given up and doodled a cat on the space left for this one.
The itching in his hand, temporarily eased by having to talk instead of manipulate his fingers, was back again. He caught himself digging the not-quite healed ends into his own side trying to ease the tingles, but it wasn't helping him answer and there were only three more minutes left on the clock.
"Goblins… can't sew." Well if he was going down he might as well go down singing. "But they're very good at football, a muggle spot played with two nets and a ball using only your feet. So I think they played so much football in the rainy English weather that they made everyone's clothes dirty and that forced all the wizards and witches to go out and buy brand new robes!"
Now Professor Huntington was staring at him, head still angled down the exact same way but her eyes, oh, those piercing pale eyes. He saw her dark red lips tug and twist at each other like she was going to scowl at him, but then she simply took a full breath in through the nose and sat up straight behind her desk, shoulders hiked up and rolling a little to limber herself up after sitting in the same position for so long.
"I believe you meant soccer and will be taking that into account." Oh, don't even start with that. He- "You may hand in your written answers and clean up, Mister Vargas: the exam is over." He-! He… he was just going to take his dismissal and go…
"Thank you, Professor." Walking up to her, he didn't pay attention to which hand he used to pass over the parchment sheets, realizing it was his right hand when Huntington paused after taking hold of them from across the desk. She didn't say anything snide or condescending to him, just settled her eyes on his gloved hand briefly before clearing her throat and giving a small sideways jerk of her head.
"See to it that you rest that hand of yours, Mister Vargas." She didn't make eye-contact with him again, simply looked down at his essays and flipped to find the final page he'd marred with the split quill. "Your other instructors may not be as accommodating."
"Yes…" It was fine. If that was how she wanted to take things, he didn't mind anymore. Thirty seconds and he'd have two months of freedom. "Again, thank you, Professor."
"You are dismissed."
And he took that dismissal ten seconds before the distant toll of the school's bell like a man out of prison. Another four years of this? He was going to have to talk to McGonagall about exemptions or private lessons or something if Hogwarts decided to keep Binns' replacement. Maybe he could bring back Professor Binns?
The rest of the school would lynch him if he dared.
"There you are!" Feliciano jumped when he stepped out into the sun-drenched corridor of the fifth floor and saw Gloria Flint standing with her arms folded and a suspiciously familiar large black case at her feet. A quick glance up and down the hall showed Margaret Finnick sitting on the floor a few feet away with a book in her lap and a lock of red hair spun around her finger where she was studying, but he didn't have much time to wave at her with a smile before Gloria was on him again. Or on him still, whichever was closer.
"Gloria is that my-?"
"Honestly you had us both utterly flustered waiting for you to finish up in there!" Gloria scolded him harshly, a deadpan stare over her shoulder from Margaret clarifying that there was no truth behind that 'us'. "After letting you borrow my notes for the exam I thought you'd finish it up in less than half the given time, what happened?"
"I can't write, Gloria, it's really hard-"
"Then you should quit making up excuses and go see the professor!" He didn't want to be yelled at! Why was she always yelling at him? Why did she seem to think yelling at him would make him like her more? "But we both know you won't do that, so answer the question instead: how did it go?"
"Very, very badly." He watched her jaw drop wide open and her dark eyes expand before a disgusted snarl started in the back of her throat, but before she could go any further with it he cut her off with: "Is that my guitar case?" Because that was definitely his guitar case. If anyone else in Hogwarts' music program had an Italian flag stuck on their instrument case, Feliciano would have known about it. It was his business to keep track of things like that!
"We brought it to help you practice for your music final." Margaret finally spoke up, her book and notes put away and an easy tone in her voice that made the calming touch she laid on her best friend's wrist and arm all the more effective. Margaret had the habit of walking around with her nose just as high as Gloria, but she wasn't half as scary.
"But our next exam is potions with Slughorn isn't it?" He almost finished the question before Gloria's snarl turned into a fed up groan in his direction.
"No, no, Feliciano we told you: Slughorn's exam was last Friday." Which meant he got to take another make-up test… "But we asked Professor McRuth and your music final is today in fourth period."
"Yes, and I have the sheet music for it, I just-" Back to his other question! "I left the guitar on my bed this morning, how did you get it?" He'd left it there because he could barely play it with his hand like this. Other instruments he could probably handle, but nothing that required sensation in his fingertips or at least numbness and trust in muscle memory. He could barely hold a pen and he'd been writing letters for over a thousand years, how could he handle a guitar? He was hoping that the professor would just let him sing the scales instead!
But his questions put both girls on the defensive, because Gloria didn't break into a cackle and explain her marvelous plan to him, and Margaret didn't swoop in with her easy mannerisms to clear the air and get them moving to wherever the girls wanted him to practice for them. The two were best friends, but they shared an awkward best-friend look that communicated nothing useful to him, and then Feliciano's hopes fell.
"So you asked Scorpius?" So he tried to lead them to a better answer than, one, breaking down the gender charm, or two-
"Well, he is your best friend." Or that. He'd been hoping it wasn't that. The way Margaret shrugged her shoulders and swayed a little over her own feet didn't make the blow any easier. Feliciano stood there with the corner of his mouth between his teeth, chewing on his lips because he didn't know how to react at first, but the urge to smile and brush it off was growing. He liked that option a little bit more too, something to keep the conflict mild and under the surface where unhappy things belonged, not full and in everybody's face clouding the air and ruining the end of the school year.
He decided he was going to smile about it and laugh, but then he watched both girls turn their heads together and stare down the hall, and when he turned to look at what had caught their attention, he changed his mind about being cheerful.
For centuries France's favourite thing to do had been to go around saying terrible, spiteful, and just plain mean things about England floating bitter and unwanted up in the north sea. He hadn't come around Feliciano's house very often before he and Romano had consolidated it into a larger Kingdom, but invitations to Paris or post-war meetings on the continent to help divide up empires and duchies had meant that, over the years, Feliciano had seen a couple hundred imitations of England's very worst traits and most obvious physical cues.
So he understood when he looked into the late afternoon sunbeams that England had chosen that end of the hall on purpose, and France's centuries of snickering plus three years of his own life spent inside these walls told Feliciano exactly how the blonde teenager opposite him in the light felt. England had his arms folded, which was a negative and stand-off-ish way to position himself anyways, and he was leaning with his back against the stone corner of the wall around the edge of the empty classroom across from Huntington's chamber. His face was hard to see without squinting into the light or coming closer, but his head was turned in Feliciano's direction.
It all boiled down to say that England felt defensive, annoyed, righteously proud, and just not like someone Feliciano wanted to deal with. The only person he wanted to deal with less was Gloria.
"If you ask me-"
"I didn't ask you." He snapped.
"Since when are you so rude to girls?" He could have bitten his tongue for it but England was faster on the draw. "I lugged that thing up six flights of stairs during my free block, Vargas, the least you could do is thank them."
"Yes, because we all know how much trouble you have with everyday magic." Feliciano never even brought the instrument as far as the common room without attaching a basic hover charm to it. He wasn't going to give up moral ground over nothing!
"If you still aren't in the mood to talk then fine, I'll go."
"My mood has nothing to do with it."
England's silhouette pushed away from the wall and went striding across the panels of sunlight, still hard to see but clearer now too. His blonde hair caught the light and shone with it, some of the glow reflecting around his face like a halo and glimmering over his eyes. He was too far away for the colour to mean anything, but the contours of his face were there now. He was angry- no, what was the English word he was always hearing? Peevish: that was it.
"Well then what does?" England called out, the hall as quiet and empty as it had been before Feliciano's exam had ended. There were no lessons up here today. "If blame is how you want to play things then go for it, I'm quite sick of arguing with you."
"Then give back what you stole!" Feliciano shouted, and then because he knew that was a mistake, he added to it: "Make up for everything with more than just words. Until that book is back in Rome, you are not forgiven!"
It was a big mistake and they both responded the same way: before the history room door could swing open, England was a blur in the light storming back the way he'd come out of sight, and Feliciano abandoned the instrument in its case at Gloria's feet to flee the other way up the corridor and around the first corner he saw.
Huntington wouldn't stand there and yell at two of her brightest Slytherin students, but she also wasn't about to catch her least favourite pupil in a screaming match right outside her door.
He wanted this wretched year to end.
Oh these poor babies. See you guys soon with 54!
