posting a bit of the Hogwarts AU w/ werewolf Feuilly I’ve been meaning to write; maybe encouragement will motivate me to finish it, eh. I’ve literally been writing like. Two sentences a day.
“Feuilly’s dissappeared again,” Enjolras sighed, dropping his bag on the carpeted floor of the Hufflepuff common room and drawing his gathered friends’ attention. The entire room was empty and silent except for the eight of them, with most of the other students still in the Great Hall or studying in the library. “I saw him talking to Ms. Simplice again at around six, near the infirmary, but he wasn’t at dinner.”
“He wasn’t in the Ravenclaw Tower either,” Joly piped up from where he was sitting on the floor. Bossuet twisted a little on his seat to make room for him, which Joly gratefully accepted, snuggling up against his best friend’s side.
“Nor in the library,” Prouvaire shook his head, his soft voice more hesitant than usual. He worried at the cuff of his sleeves. “We checked both.”
“Of course, this time matches with the moon cycle. Again,” Combeferre rubbed his chin, checking the little notebook in which he had compiled all of their friend’s absences since the beginning of the year; Courfeyrac made a sad sort of choked sound and slumped on the couch next to him.
“But it doesn’t mean he’s…” he trailed off, unable - or unwilling - to say the word.
“Sure sounds like it, though,” Grantaire grumped. Enjolras glared at him.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Previously uncharacteristaclly quiet, Bahorel jumped up from a plush armchair near the fireplace. He turned towards Prouvaire, his jaw set and his gaze serious.
“What?” Prouvaire blurted out, his features colouring violently. “Bahorel, what-”
“You’re the tallest and strongest of us, ‘cept me. So punch me! Break my nose, chip a tooth or something. I’ll go to the infirmary and check, so we know for sure Feuilly’s not a goddamn werewolf.”
He was up in Prouvaire face now, his eyes fierce and bright under his thick eyebrows, and Prouvaire took a step back.
“I can’t -”
“Oh, come on!” Rolling his eyes, Grantaire stood up and walked over to them. He put a hand on Bahorel’s shoulder, and when the Gryffindor turned towards him, Grantaire pulled back his fist and swung, smashing it in the taller boy’s face with a dull thud and a sickening cracking noise.
“Grantaire!” Prouvaire shrieked, horrified.
Another crack. Someone - Joly, probably - gasped audibly.
“Bloody hell, Jehan!” Grantaire’s hands flew to his own now-bleeding nose.
Prouvaire staggered backwards, fist still raised, before collapsing into the couch. Combeferre immediately scooted towards him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Prouvaire seemed to melt into the embrace, his lanky frame shrinking on itself.
“Sorry,” he murmured shakily, running a hand through his hair. “I just-”
“’s alright,” Grantaire shrugged. Bossuet digged in his pockets and offered him a handkerchief, which the other boy accepted with a grunt. “God, that hu-”
“Good,” Bahorel interrupted, grinning through the blood from his broken nose and split lip. The skin around eyes were already starting to turn a sick shade of purpleish blue, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Now we have double the excuse to go to the infirmary, right?”