Chapter Text
BAZ
This might constitute as torture. At the very least it’s unethical.
Bunce agrees with me, clearly. I can see her across the room, huffing and groaning. She looks more impatient than Snow. But then again, Snow always seems to actually enjoy this forced interrogation.
Just further proof that he’s a moron.
If it weren’t required for seventh years, I’d never come to these lab rat seminars for the Psychology of Magick class. It’s ludicrous, making seventh year students show up once a month to participate in these “experiments” for the eighth year students. They make us suffer through useless activities, and then at the end reveal the true purpose of the experiment, like testing a spell to enhance colours, or studying the effects of confidence spells on middle siblings. It’s inhumane, and often humiliating, and I would happily escalate this up the chain of command and attempt to abolish the entire requirement, if it weren’t for the fact that my mother was the one who implemented it.
I respect her legacy, but not her support of psychology.
The Magickal Psych students are congregated in the corner of the dining hall, organising a thick stack of papers and setting out pens. They’ve provided a paltry selection of refreshments (they always do) and I can already see Snow eyeing the food impatiently. I’m amazed he hasn’t already attacked it.
“Okay, I think we’re just about ready, so please take your seats!” calls a blonde eighth year. I hate him. He has one of those happy round faces and he’s persistently cheerful. (He says hello to me in hallways although we’ve never spoken.) (What kind of person does that?)
“So, before we begin, we’re going to cut some of you. Anyone who is in a relationship, feel free to leave, we won’t need you for today’s experiment,” the eighth year says.
I raise an eyebrow. Sweet merciful Morgana, what kind of idiotic questions are they going to make us answer today?
From beside me, the pixie and her girlfriend leave the room, and several other students begin to file out as the crowd thins.
Usually when they ask control questions like this, I lie to get myself excused. Thus far I’ve pretended to be allergic to cats, lactose intolerant, and colourblind. I consider lying again today — just tell someone I have a girlfriend back in Hampshire — but Dev and Niall would know I’m lying, and somehow creating a fake girlfriend feels far more pathetic than pretending to have a milk sensitivity.
Crowley, this is unbearable.
I hear Bunce let loose a whoop of joy as she grabs her bags and heads to the exit. (I guess she’s still dating the American.) I wait for Snow and Wellbelove to follow her, but neither of them are moving. And neither of them are looking at each other.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“Alright folks, everyone left, write your name on a piece of paper and drop it in the hat,” calls the cheerful eighth year. (His voice lilts up when he speaks.) (He’s incredibly unpleasant to listen to.) He walks around holding out a literal cone shaped wizard hat, and I have to keep myself from vomiting as I put my name in it. When everyone is done, he goes to the corner, pulls out a wand, mutters some kind of spell over the hat, and returns.
“For today’s experiment, everyone remaining will be paired with a partner. Pull a name, find your partner, and then please pick up a questionnaire packet from the first pile on the left,” he says, walking down the rows.
I hope I get Wellbelove. That would piss Snow off magnificently, and make this day less of an absolute waste.
She blushes when she pulls her name from the hat, and I raise an eyebrow as she turns around. Did she really — Oh. No. She’s looking at Dev, who is now glowing beside me like he’s just won a lotto. Merlin. Knowing my luck, I’ll probably be paired with Gareth, the belt buckle boy.
Snow is up next, and he shoves his hand into the hat far too violently, stirring around like he’s agonising over the decision, (every decision seems to torture him) and then pulls a name out.
He looks at it, and the room immediately fills with a sticky haze of smoke and I know whose name is written on it well before he turns around to glare at me. His chin is jutted out and his brow is furrowed, and he’s staring daggers at me like I somehow managed to orchestrate this.
I should have just lied about having a girlfriend.
SIMON
I usually love doing these experiments. I get to hang out with Penny for the day and answer random questions and eat food and get class credit for it. I never have to do magic, I never have to take a test. One time I got to just make loads of random lists. It was brilliant.
I don’t think today is going to be brilliant.
What the fuck kind of experiment can only be done on single people? And why did it have to happen this month, of all months? When Greg, the eighth year running the experiment, told the people in relationships to leave, I didn’t know what to do. Agatha said she needed a break, but that usually ends up with us getting back together. We never actually break up, I thought. We just go on pause.
But when Penny got up, Agatha didn’t follow. So I guess Agatha doesn’t consider herself to be in a relationship. So that was a kick in the fucking gut.
And now I’m paired with Baz.
It’s fine, I guess. You win some, you lose some. I just… I really didn’t want to fucking lose today. These things always involve conversations and questions and doing activities together, and Baz is going to make this unbearable.
My magic is leaking a bit and people are coughing, so I try to pull it back in as I storm to the front and grab the questionnaire for today and glance over the first page.
Is this a fucking joke?
Before beginning today’s activity, please fill out this short survey regarding your impressions of your partner for today.
1. On a scale of 1-5 how would you rate your relationship with your partner, with 1 being stranger and 5 being close friend?
What number do I put for enemy? I’ll just put 2.
2. On a scale of 1-5, how approachable do you find your partner, with 1 being not at all and 5 being extremely?
That’s definitely a 1.
3. On a scale of 1-5, how trustworthy do you find your partner, with 1 being not at all and 5 being extremely?
Can I put 0? Probably not. I’ll just put 1.
4. On a scale of 1-5, how likely would you be to discuss personal matters with your partner, with 1 being not at all, and 5 being highly likely?
Yeah, that’s definitely a 1.
“What the fuck kind of questions are these?” Baz sneers from beside me. At some point while I was filling out the questionnaire, he came and sat across from me. He’s got his hair down around his face, which annoys me, because he usually pulls it back when he’s studying or taking something seriously. But his hair is just hanging lazily in his pouty-looking eyes right now, showing to all the world just how much he doesn’t care.
Why do people think it’s cool to not care about things?
“What did you put?” I ask. He raises an eyebrow.
“What do you think I put?” he snaps back. His tone is dismissive. “I gave you fives across the board, obviously. Because you’re my best friend and closest confidant.”
I glance at his paper to see if he’s lying, only to see that he hasn’t even written anything on it at all. I growl and finish filling out the first page. It’s full of questions like that — how willing would I be to disclose a fear to my partner? (Never.) How comfortable am I physically touching my partner? (Never. Unless I’m hitting him.) How likely am I to agree with my partner’s opinions?
I put a 2 for that one, because I do actually agree with Baz on one thing: what the fuck are these questions?
“Okay you lot!” Greg calls over the crowd. “You should be done with part one by now. I’ll come collect those, and give you your activity for today. The sheets you receive will have a series of questions that you and your partner will each answer.”
I relax a bit. Answering questions isn’t too bad. Baz will probably just be silent. I can get food. We can get through this. I was slightly worried we were going to have to do trust falls or something.
Baz is sitting back in his chair across from me, his arms folded, and he glances down at his watch like he’s bored. When Greg drops another thick packet in front of us, Baz doesn’t even blink at him. Circe, he’s working himself into a full on strop.
“Enclosed find 36 questions. Please take turns asking them. Both partners should answer the question before moving on to the next one,” I read aloud. Baz doesn’t even blink at me. He’s picking fluff off his sleeve.
Fine. If he wants to sit there like a twat, that’s fine. I’m going to try to do the assignment though.
“Alright, first question,” I growl. “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?” I pause for a moment, then shrug. “Uh, I guess Ronaldo?”
Baz raises an eyebrow.
“Ronaldo? You could have dinner with anyone. Anyone. And you choose a footballer?”
I shrug again. Why does he have to be a dick about everything? Ronaldo is cool.
“Who would you choose?” I growl.
“No one,” he answers simply. “I dislike dinner company.”
That’s such a fucking Baz answer.
He grabs the packet from me, flips to the next question, and then a grin stretches across his face. He looks absolutely delighted. Fuck.
“Would you like to be famous?” he asks, then laughs. “Tell me Snow, would you like to be famous?”
My mouth opens and closes a few times, my jaw working on an answer while his grey eyes just dance with glee. Why did I have to get paired with him for this? I wish I had been paired with Gareth. At least there doesn’t seem to be magic involved, so I could have just had a nice chat with him without having to see his weird hip gyrations.
“No,” I spit out. “You?”
Baz just slides the packet back over to me and reclines back in his chair again.
“I don’t seek fame, I just exist comfortably in it. I’ll be a legend after I kill you,” he says cooly. There’s a glint in his eye right now, a glint that always spells trouble. And usually a broken nose or a fire.
Merlin, this is going to be miserable.