Green is Green, 1/2
Green is Green
a Panic at the Disco/Harry Potter AU
Spencer/Brendon
R
A/N: this fic has taken me forever to finish, but I'm so glad to see it done, because Slytherins are my favorite. I want to take every fictional character I have ever loved and make them fit into this world. A world of thanks to shirethief for listening to me yammer on about it and for the hand-holding.
You can download it's soundtrack here.
Disclaimer: This did not actually happen to anyone mentioned who is an actual real live person, and the fictional characters within aren't mine.
It's not that Spencer thinks Charms are... below him, exactly. It's that he's bored. The endless swishing and flicking of his wand seems so mundane compared to the allure of the wandless magic he knows they'll be learning soon, and he doesn't really have that many teapots to mend. Mostly the servants do that for him, but no, hey wait, he still doesn't think charms are below him, like that they're something that a Smith could absolutely not ever think of doing. It just doesn't seem necessary, and nobody whose ever crossed path with Spencer James Smith V would dream of calling him less than practical. So, no, he doesn't feel that Charms are below him.
However, casting his eyes sideways, he can see that that is exactly how Blaise Zabini feels. Blaise stifles a yawn and then sends death threats Spencer's way with a look that's taken years to perfect. Purebred Slytherin boys do not yawn.
William Beckett twists gracefully into Spencer's lap, feline features arching as he curls a hand around Spencer's neck. "Spencer", he hisses, more singsong than expelled air, "when are you going to let me show you a good time?"
Spencer snorts and pushes William unceremoniously off of him. "When I honestly believe that you even know what the word good means."
William cackles from the floor, but Spencer extends a hand and hauls him up. He's used to William's advances by now.
It's not that William's not attractive, Spencer muses, staring at the pale sliver of skin that shows itself where Williams robes hang haphazardly down his front. It must have taken some maneuvering to get any skin showing at all, but then, William Beckett is a cunning person. In the five years Spencer's been at Hogwarts, he's learned not to underestimate any of his classmates.
In first year, Draco Malfoy had called Theodore Nott a very derogatory name for being completely apathetic towards all forms of Quidditch, which was apparently not an attitude young Malfoy had previously encountered towards his favorite sport. There had been implications about Theodore's bloodline and names with sharp consonants that Spencer had found completely tactless, even at eleven.
There had also been a week of classes free of Draco, after Theodore hexed him oblivion while Blaise had watched with his arms crossed. It doesn't often take a Slythetin boy more than once to learn a lesson, and the lesson was clear. Underestimation gets you nowhere.
William dusts himself off, curls his mouth up into a crooked smirk. "One of these days, Spencer Smith." He threatens, lacing the words with what Spencer knows are his best seductive tones. He'd heard it more than enough times to recognize the low drawl for exactly what it is.
"You know I'm saving myself for marriage." Spencer purrs back, because two can play at that game, and Blaise snorts when William grins, eyes flashing deeper green than usual.
***
The Smith manor is large, which Spencer's never noticed, because he's become accustomed to it. All his friends had houses similar in stature. The lawns were green, the hedges immaculate. He strides out towards the garden, the gentle swell of conversation reaching him as soon as he steps foot out the door and draws nearer to the place where his mother is having tea in the garden.
"Ah, Spencer," Ginger Smith greets him, "I was just telling Zacharias here about your travel plans."
Zacharias Smith is a cousin of Spencer's, and a Smith is never rude to a relative. Spencer momentarily mourns the fact that his tongue will be sore tomorrow from biting it. His dear, dear cousin is a Hufflepuff.
And he's brought a friend.
Ryan Ross is a skinny Ravenclaw who Spencer's never once stopped to even consider outside of the time he had to pass him the Honey Dew essence in Potions in third year. Sitting at the table beside Spencer's mother, he looks confident, defiant even.
Spencer fights down his sigh. Hufflepuffs are fond of interhouse fraternization.
"I didn't know we were having guests today, mother." Spencer's voice is cautiously light, even as he narrows his eyes in Zacharias' direction. His mother's not fooled, of course, but it's the thought that counts.
"Spencer, this is George Ryan Ross," she says, and years of practice allows Spencer to pick up the warning wrapped around the words.
"The third, even," Zacharias intones, amusement crinkling around his eyes. Ginger Smith's motherly vocal patterns must match those of her sister's, because it seems Zacharias could recognize them as well.
"That's correct," Ginger coos, smiling at the two boys, "Ryan will be our guest here for the next year or so. He will sleep in the west wing. It seems his father is going out of town for an indeterminate length of time."
Spencer knows what this means, he's never been anything that could even slightly resemble an idiot. It means that, like Spencer's own father, the esteemed George Ryan Ross senior is hiding from Aurors, lest he garner himself an extended stay in Azkaban. Spencer quickly shakes the thought that maybe he's underestimated Ryan Ross out of his head.
"I trust that you will do everything possible to keep him comfortable." Spencer nods absently, momentarily forgetting about the imminent intrusion into his life, thoughts thrust into a place that was growing all too familiar.
Things were changing in the Wizarding world, in Spencer's world, growing darker and more volatile by the moment. Spencer had always known what his father had believed; he'd been raised with ideas he shudders at, knowing things he could never tell anyone. His father's work had always been more of a way of life for the Smith family, mantras pounded into his head until he supposedly had no choice but to accept them as truths. Ancient. Strong. Pure. Better.
Unlike certain blond-haired, pointy-nosed nitwits, Spencer was not his father. It seemed to him that the path to success was in careful consideration of actions, rather than blind faith in faulty, outdated concepts.
***
Ryan Ross has only been a resident in the Smith manor for a few days when he lets himself into Spencer's room and collapses onto his bed.
Spencer blinks, book still open in his lap. Ryan Ross has still got his boots on. Said boots are now resting on Spencer's favorite down comforter. Spencer blinks. He's just not sure what to do in a situation like this; it's not one he's ever been confronted with.
"Ugh, what a day. You're family are... well, they're not nice, I can't even make myself say it, but they're interesting."
Spencer makes a noise that sounds not unlike "nngh?" when Ryan pulls a pillow out from behind his head and throws it to the floor. The floor. Spencer scrambles off the bed.
Spencer waits until he feels certain he won't stutter unattractively before he opens his mouth for the first time since Ross' intrusion. "I wasn't aware we were friends."
"Well, you didn't really think about it."
"You're correct on that one," Spencer glares, folding his arms and cocking his hips. The stance being one of the only things he inherited his father, it'd stuck no matter how many times his mother warned about bad posture.
"I've decided we can be friends." Ross says calmly, waving a dismissive hand and failing to glance up from his journal. "Once you've learned to judge peers based on the quality of their words and not their house colors, you'll realize that we really do have a lot in common."
He spares Spencer a look, sweeping his eyes from the page in front of him, which is covered in illegible black scribbles. "Friends, Spencer Smith. So begins your foray into life beyond the green room."
Spencer opens his mouth to comment, before closing it again. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, but he really has no appropriate response to that.
***
Spencer's managed to mix what is supposed to be a tumbler of Eternity Draught into a gray, fermented sludge that smells quite a bit like something he'd encountered during Care of Magical Creatures in his second year.
No matter how much William stares into his potion, pretty lips pursed into his best pout, his concoction looks for all the world exactly like Spencer's.
"I think," Blaise begins from Spencer's left, "that we may possibly have to admit our defeat in this, boys."
William slouches further, blows his bangs off his head. Spencer bites his tongue to keep from commenting on his posture.
A quick glance around the room tells Spencer that none of his fellow Slytherins have managed anything that looks the slightest bit hopeful.
Across the room, the potions of the Ravenclaw side are hissing happily in their cauldrons, popping and snapping. Spencer's sure the liquid is mocking him.
He catches Ryan Ross' amused glare through the crowd. Ryan rolls his eyes, and looks like he's having a serious internal battle, before he shoves back from his table and makes his way towards Spencer.
William hisses and corrects his slouch as Ryan draws near, Blaise tenses at his other side.
"Spencer Smith," Ryan's drawl is amused, Spencer can hear it even through the monotone. "You look like you could use a hand."
William Beckett is known for his quick-draw, but Spencer's better known for his ability to read people, so he catches William around the wrist before it even gets into his pocket.
He squeezes so tightly that he can almost hear William's soft exhalation, but he doesn't look at anybody but Ryan when he say, "I really could."
***
Spencer stares down anyone who might dare say anything to him about his newfound friendship with Ryan Ross, Ravenclaw. He knows they think about it, Draco Malfoy's sneer seems etched deeper into his face whenever Spencer passes him in the common room lately and he hears whispers, tiny snippets of hissing conversation. It's not new, not really. In these circles, there are always whispers, no matter how many times they'd all attest to the impoliteness of the gesture.
Theodore mentions it once, Spencer figures that it's because Blaise can't be trusted to open his mouth on the subject without saying how he really feels. He knocks a knee against Spencer's in the great hall over dinner. Spencer looks up; Theodore Nott does nothing by accident.
"It's not my place to disapprove," Theodore says, low enough only for Spencer's ears, "but I will say this. You let one in, you let them all."
"Like vermin, you mean?" Spencer hisses back, letting a practiced venom creep into the edges of his voice. He knows that Nott will catch his meaning, even though Spencer knows Theodore isn't one to judge as quickly as some of his more pro-pureblood advocate friends.
"I'd advise you to drop the defensive, Smith." Nott says, "Your weakness is showing." He stands from the table, mumbling his pardon to the rest of their housemates. Blaise follows.
***
There's a resounding crash, a streak of limbs and stray "oomphs", and a tangle of red, yellow and robe comes crashing to the bottom of the fifth floor stairs at Spencer's feet.
"Ow," says a voice from under the rubble.
He's really got no intention of waiting to see how any of this turns out, but the offending wizard is blocking the staircase, and Spencer is meeting Blaise in the library.
An arm protrudes from the robes, "a little help here?", and well, it's not like Spencer would help in any instance, but he's especially at a loss here, so he doesn't rush to the guy's aid.
A head appears, finally; short, unruly hair and a bespectacled face that looks much too happy considering the tumble the kid's just taken. The twinkle in his eyes fades slightly when he sees that his would-be-rescuer is Spencer.
"Oh," the guy says, springing to his feet, "nevermind. I'll just..." He dusts off the front of his robes, kneels to pick up his books.
Spencer's never really been one of those wizards, a Draco Malfoy who believes that Slytherin is the be-all and end all, but it's been his experience that most stereotypes are based in truth. He likes to soothe any and all accusations that his brain might make that he's more like Malfoy than he'd like to admit by reminding himself that he's got Ryan, now, but it doesn't do much.
It's part good upbringing and part in defiance to the generalization that this kid has just made about Slytherins that has Spencer going to one knee to help him scoop up books. When Spencer pushes the volumes into his arms and sweeps his bangs off his forehead, the kid stares with huge eyes.
Spencer almost shrugs before catching himself and he moves to go around him. He's made it up two steps when he hears, "thanks, Spencer" from behind him.
He's been in several cross-house classes with this guy over the last seven years, but since he can not remember his name, he pretends not to hear him and continues up the stairs.
***
Seven years of Hogwarts and Spencer hadn't even bothered to wonder what the kid's name was, but now that he knows, he sees Brendon Urie everywhere. In the hall between classes, reaching for the same Porean root in Potions, across the hall at suppertime.
It's with disgust that he watches him, certainly not interest. Disgust and possibly a morbid fascination. They say a person's eyes are drawn to disasters, and Urie is certainly that; he stumbles around without a care for where he's going or what he's doing. Pure inertia exploding everywhere, and he's lucky that his arms and legs seem to be accustomed to catching himself. Not that Spencer's noticed.
Another thing Spencer certainly hasn't noticed is the way Brendon Urie's robes sometimes hang lopsidedly off his body, the neck hanging down so that smooth skin is visible above the neckline.
"Smith, why do you keep gaping at the Gryffindors? What could possibly be worth looking at?" Draco Malfoy sneers the question at him between delicate bites of pudding.
"Nothing." Spencer insists, drawing his mouth into a tight line and trying to remember that.
***
Spencer's standing with Ryan; he's managed to lose Blaise for a rare moment, Theodore is nowhere to be found, Draco's off bitching about a bespectacled savior of the Wizarding World and Spencer's managed to find Ryan Ross.
It's a breath of fresh air in an atmosphere seeped in negativity, heavy with tradition, manners and bitter feuding.
Suddenly, Ryan is accosted from behind by a ball of energy, long arms come around his neck and cling.
"Ryan, Ryan Ross!" Brendon Urie screeches, and there's a Hufflepuff Spencer recognizes standing, sheepish grin firmly in place, off to the side a bit.
"To what," Ryan deadpans, even as he pries Brendon's hands from his neck with what looks to be practiced ease, "do I owe this pounce?"
"He's been into the sugar quills," the Hufflepuff says, eyes guilty, "I couldn't stop him. Nothing can stop him."
Ryan groans as Brendon lets out a peel of manic giggles, "Jon," he says with a long suffering sigh, "you know better than that."
Jon, the Hufflepuff (Walker, it dawns on Spencer, that's his name), raises his hands in defense. "No power on earth could have stopped that."
Jon Walker is talking, telling Ryan something about Quidditch or muggle studies or something, but Spencer doesn't even register it because he's too busy staring at Brendon's spit slick, sugar-stained lips. In disgust, obviously.
Spencer stuffs his hands into his pockets, and takes a step backwards. "Uh," he stutters, unattractively, "I've got to, um."
He spins around as Brendon's eyes scrunch into a frown and doesn't feel like himself again until he's on the stairs down to the dungeon.
***
Spencer hates making excuses, usually doesn't feel the need to do so. He also isn't a fan of pointing fingers, but truth be told, Spencer is in the library researching his overdue potions theme and it's all Draco Malfoy's fault. As he forces himself to think about something that isn't stabbing Malfoy's eye out with his wand, something like gillyweed essence, the door opens and Brendon Urie bustles in. He spots Spencer, just manages to tramp down on the grin that threatens to bloom and drops his books on the table next to him.
This isn't really Spencer's night.
"Hi," Brendon says brightly. Spencer blinks.
"Hello."
"Potions theme?" Brendon asks, nudging Spencer's volume with his elbow. Spencer blinks again, not quite sure how he and Brendon got this familiar.
"No, I'm writing a novel. Romance, you know. Pure smut."
Now it's Brendon's turn to blink.
"... I was kidding."
"No, yeah, I know that." Brendon laughs suddenly, tilting his head to the side. "I just didn't know Slytherins did that. I was just... I think I like it."
"You like it when Slytherins joke?"
"I like it when you joke."
"Oh...kay." Spencer breathes almost sharply, pulling his volumes closer to his chest in a move that is most certainly to deflect any further conversation and definitely not in order to stop his heart from throbbing out of his chest cavity.
He ducks his head as Brendon beams at him, and spends the next half of an hour trying to ignore Brendon's quiet humming and the way he licks his quill when he concentrates.
Spencer finally cracks when he hears him sing something, the slightest bit under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "alms, alms for a miserable woman."
"For the love of Circe, were you dropped on your head as a child?" Spencer realizes that he could possibly have spared Brendon some of the venom, but honestly. Celestina Warbeck, Britney Spears, Cher, and now show tunes.
Brendon actually looks apologetic, as if he hadn't realized that he had made any noise at all. "Sorry," he says, sheepishly, "I just don't really like silence."
It's late and Spencer's tired. He's also on edge about his theme, and it really isn't Brendon's fault. Since Ginger Smith did not raise a heathen, Spencer does the only thing he can think of to dispel the sad creases that have appeared at the edges of Brendon's eyes. He apologizes.
"I'm sorry, Brendon," Spencer releases the words begrudgingly, in a soft woosh of air, "It's been a long day."
Brendon's smile leaps back to his face with renewed vigor. "Wanna talk about it?"
Spencer shakes his head, a tiny movement, and can't help but reflect Brendon's grin back to him. "It's really not that big of a deal. Let's just say that being a classmate of Draco Malfoy is extremely trying."
Brendon scowls, almost comical. "They should probably induct every single Slytherin in your year into the Order of Merlin for putting up with him."
The comment catches Spencer off guard, and he laughs as he nods his head in vehement agreement.
"Oh," Brendon's smile is wide, "I like that better."
"Like what better?" Spencer says, letting his chuckling fade into a comfortable lull. He's feeling open, actually, a lot better than he had been earlier.
"I like it better when you laugh, Spencer." Brendon says, smiling matter-of-factly before he stands and gathers his books. "Good luck with potions," he calls over his shoulder as he disappears around a stack of volumes, "see you around."
***
He can actually pinpoint the exact moment that he decides to stop lying to himself. He's walking down the hallway and forgets himself for the slightest moment, spotting Brendon's hopeful smile as he passes. Brendon's eyes light up when Spencer returns it, a blush starting at the nape of his neck, he ducks his head adorably.
He's gorgeous, Spencer thinks to himself, feeling the heat gather in his cheeks even as he keeps walking, I want him to be mine. And then, immediately, oh fuck.
***
"'It grows like fancy flowers, but it goes nowhere'?" Ryan's voice interrupts the heavy silence.
Spencer starts, breath catching in his throat. They're at the Smith manor, home for a long weekend Holiday for them to do extra N.E.W.T preparation.
"You know, it's rude to read over people's shoulders." His arms cover his parchment in an automatic move that isn't really necessary.
"Oh come off it, you've perfected the science of being rude while actually appearing polite. I'm onto you." Ryan flops down onto his bed, a move which, several months previous, would have had Spencer cringing and calling for a house elf. It's welcome now, despite the fact that Ryan had entered his room without permission and is still wearing his shoes.
Spencer snorts and trains his eyes back to his paper, finishing the last sentence of his Herbology theme.
"Very nice, Spencer Smith, but a bit poetic for Professor Sprout, don't you think?" Spencer ignores Ryan, rolling up his finished product and tosses it to the floor.
"To what do I owe this interruption?"
"It's an invitation," Ryan grins, playing aimlessly with the scarf at his neck. "Also, a warning of sorts. A head's up."
Spencer quirks an eyebrow.
"I've got guests coming over. Guests of the non-Slytherin variety."
"Merlin, I hate you."
"You dropped that guise weeks ago, Smith. We're friends. And friends warn each other, so here I am."
"Thanks a million." Spencer grumbles, his head already running through a list of curses that he might be able to escape the blame for.
"You know what else friends do," Ryan continues, "They tolerate. They tolerate the friends of other friends."
"Right," Spencer agrees, nodding. Ryan's not buying it.
"No curses."
"Fuck." The Muggle swear feels appropriate on Spencer's tongue.
"A million chocolate frogs if you refrain from Bat-Bogeying Brendon."
Spencer pales at the name. He can feel his heart skip and his palms start to get sweaty, and he really, really does not know why. More importantly, though, he hopes Ryan doesn't notice. "Brendon?" he goes for casual, and is pretty sure he achieves it.
Ryan nods, showing no sign of having picked up on the new speed at which Spencer is inhaling and exhaling. "Brendon Urie. He's a Gryffindor in our year."
"I know him." Spencer says, waving his hand dismissively, getting up off the bed. "And yes, alright, have whoever you want over, I promise, no hexing. No cursing, not even an off glance, will that make you happy?"
Ryan nods and strides to the door, smiling quietly to himself as though he's happy with how the conversation went. Spencer finds out why when he gets to the door and adds, "well, fabulous, because I'm also expecting Pete Wentz", slipping out the door before he can hear Spencer's wail of despair.
***
Spencer locks himself in his bedroom and casts several wards at the door, but it doesn't stop the horrifyingly obtrusive noises that accompany Pete Wentz from seeping underneath of it.
He can feel the beginnings of a headache at the base of his skull, and he knows better than to even attempt any sort of magical remedy while it's in such early stages. Instead, Spencer opts for a short walk through the gardens.
As far as Spencer's aware, the only reason that the Slytherin inner-circle holds Gryffindor as their collective number one enemy is because they would feel embarrassed even pretending that Hufflepuff was worth their energy.
Jon Walker is no exception, but it's not because he's as stupid as the stereotypes color Hufflepuff students to be. Instead, it's because he's... well, as far as Spencer can see, nobody in the world hates Jon Walker, not even Draco Malfoy.
Spencer finds him outside in the garden, holding the boxy contraption that Spencer knows is a muggle camera. He's staring at the fireflies that Ginger keeps, watching as they circle and dive, trails of light following them as if they were moving in slow motion.
He pauses, considering turning around and retreating back to his room. He keeps going when he figures that all he was looking for was some quiet and that Jon probably wouldn't mess with that. Also, Pete Wentz is inside.
"Hi." Jon says as he approaches, using his foot to kick at the chair beside the one he's sitting in, turning it to Spencer, motioning for him to sit down. Spencer marvels that Jon could be so comfortable as to offer him a seat in his own home, but he finds to his surprise that he's amused instead of bitter.
"Hello." He says, dropping into his seat. He's not quite comfortable enough to let Jon Walker see him slouching low like he wants to, so he stays upright. Jon's watching him, it feels to Spencer like he's assessing him, wondering whether to proceed with caution.
"Staring is impolite." Spencer crosses his arms in front of him, ruining any superiority his statement may have made with the equally impolite gesture.
Jon just smiles a lazy smile and motions to his camera. "Can I take your picture?"
Gritting his teeth so as not to shoot back an I don't know, can you?, Spencer just nods.
"Awesome," Jon says, "the light here is just, you know?" Spencer has no idea, but he sinks back into his chair and relaxes his arms.
The flash pops once, blinding Spencer momentarily, once, and then again and again.
They sit in silence, flash popping ever so often, illuminating the dusk. It's not until Jon sets the camera down, asks him about his mother's lightening bugs that he realizes he's actually comfortable enough to answer without an ounce of acidity.
"My mother is fascinated by the things," he tells Jon. "The only magical creature that is actually known to muggles. Whenever they discover something unexplainable, the attribute it to science, miracles. Ridiculous."
Jon sits back and listens, his face interested, serene. Spencer continues.
"They're actually dying out, because of the artificial light being produced. Muggle electricity makes it impossible for mating pairs to find each other, whereas usually they're the only thing lighting up the darkness."
"That's sad," Jon muses, but he says nothing more.
"It is," Spencer agrees, and they sit.
***
Since Spencer's father had left town, there has been a rule in the Smith manor regarding Spencer James Smith IV's possessions and residences. This rule has been unspoken by both the young Spencer James Smith and his mother, but they've both manages to follow it without exception or question. The rule is as follows: do not touch. Do not step foot. Offices, studies, libraries, all off-bounds, left exactly how the Smith patriarch left them.
Amoung these spots and things that Spencer wouldn't dare look upon, let alone touch, is a mahogany cabinet with gold trimmings. It's located at the back of the study on the main floor. It contains exotic and rare muggle liquors imported from as many exotic points around the globe as Spencer can name.
Spencer comes into the house slightly disoriented, flashes still fading behind his eyelids from Jon's camera's bright white pops, and he hears Pete Wentz. He hears Pete, he hears the dry lull of Ryan's voice, Brendon's laugh, and he can't really stop his feet from following the sounds.
He finds the door to his father's study open wide.
His heart's been behaving badly lately, betraying and reminding, and not working quite right, but nothing his heart has done so far is anywhere near the feeling of the clench in his chest and the panic rising into his throat.
"You," Spencer manages, stepping into the doorway. Brendon's eyes are wide and happy, he's draped across Pete Wentz's lap. Several bottles lie scattered around them, one on it's side, empty but for the drops that Spencer's meticulous eye can see slipping out.
He spins suddenly, words lying dead in the air. He's pretty good at knowing his limits, and getting out of there before he says or does something he'll regret is a top priority.
Brendon doesn't know Spencer very well, though, and he calls after him.
Brendon catches up to him in the hallway; Spencer feels the crook of his elbow grasped in a firm grip, feels himself being spun around.
Brendon's skittish, drunk. "Spencer, I'm really sorry, we didn't think..."
"Get your filthy, mudblood hands off of me!" The words leave Spencer's lips without so much as a thought, his teeth clenched together. His hands fist, uncurl and fist again.
"Spencer!" Jon shouts, coming into the hallway at the same time as Pete and Ryan.
Brendon doesn't even blink at the others, just keeps his gaze locked on Spencer's. "Spencer, I..."
Spencer is notoriously thoughtful, calm. He's collected and together. When he hits Brendon square in the eye, he's none of these things.
He hasn't been watching Brendon Urie long enough to know him completely, but it's been long enough that Spencer knows that he wears his emotions on his sleeve, in his eyes and entirely out there for people to witness. It's not the blow, but the words that slip from Spencer's tongue that make Brendon's entire face fall, his shoulders square and then sink in defeat. He doesn't even pretend it doesn't hurt, just steps back, one step, two steps, into Jon's hand at the small of his back. He looks devastated, heartbroken, and what really surprises Spencer is how quickly his own heart mimics the sentiment.
Spencer opens his mouth to try and say something, anything, to take it back, but Brendon's already being ushered from the great room, Jon leading his way. Even Pete Wentz's face is twisted into a menacing glare that would rival Professor Slughorn's. Ryan just shakes his head quickly, disappointed, before he follows Brendon out into hallway, letting the heavy oak doors fall shut behind them.
The apologies in Spencer's head, unsaid and necessary, echo off the high ceilings along with the low, dull sounds of slamming wood.
***
Spencer's never felt anger like this before.
He trails behind William Beckett it the long, marble corridor, the white and black stone a striking contrast to his dark mood.
"Come on, Spence," William says, low near Spencer's ear, lips ghosting lightly over the pulse point in his neck. Spencer shivers, every nerve in his body is on edge, singing, tingling. William slips long, agile fingers into his belt loop and pulls him along the corridor.
They pass a mirror, and Spencer's gaze is pulled subconsciously toward it. The pull in his gut when he sees his reflection makes him want to vomit, it's as though his insides are being wrapped tight in a vice. He looks away immediately, forcefully, after he sees his eyes flash a deep shade of green he doesn't recognize.
When they reach his bedroom, William's eyes find his, lock there, smile knowing and calculating. Spencer knows he's waiting for the moment that Spencer wakes up, comes to his senses and decides that he doesn't want to do this. William knows that it's a moment that's sure to come. Spencer, however, doesn't. The thrill of that indecision is the reason Spencer's still here.
He's spent the last couple of weeks hanging on the edge of doing something rash. Spencer's not known for taking impulsive action. He'd come to William's to get it out of his system, though there's a little voice in his head (which, incidentally, sounds irritatingly like Ryan Ross) that's telling him this is him trying to take control of his impulsive action, and that it's not going to satisfy.
Spencer ignores the voice. It is going to satisfy. It is, because he's so sick of looking at certain obnoxious, clumsy, ridiculous Gryffindors and wanting to satisfy this newfound need with them.
Here is how far he gets: William's shirt, not tossed to the floor, but draped carefully over the back of an armchair, Spencer's following it. He feels the cool, pale expanse of William's back. He tastes William's smirk, cherries and mint. They fall back on William's bed, legs tangled together. William drops underneath of him like a cat, back arching and hissing sounds slipping from between his lips. He feels William's hands come up and grip his hips. That's how far he gets, and then he throws himself up and off, backwards off the bed in an ungraceful scramble.
"William," Spencer pants, keeping his distance and trying catch his breath, "William, I..."
"Fuck, Spencer," William groans, but it's a resigned sound. "If you apologize to me, I will hex you into oblivion. Do kindly just get the fuck out."
"Right," Spencer fumbles with his shirt, yanking it back over his head, nearly tripping in his haste to get out the door.
He hurries back the way he came, and this time, he doesn't let himself look into the mirror.
Part Two.
a Panic at the Disco/Harry Potter AU
Spencer/Brendon
R
A/N: this fic has taken me forever to finish, but I'm so glad to see it done, because Slytherins are my favorite. I want to take every fictional character I have ever loved and make them fit into this world. A world of thanks to shirethief for listening to me yammer on about it and for the hand-holding.
You can download it's soundtrack here.
Disclaimer: This did not actually happen to anyone mentioned who is an actual real live person, and the fictional characters within aren't mine.
It's not that Spencer thinks Charms are... below him, exactly. It's that he's bored. The endless swishing and flicking of his wand seems so mundane compared to the allure of the wandless magic he knows they'll be learning soon, and he doesn't really have that many teapots to mend. Mostly the servants do that for him, but no, hey wait, he still doesn't think charms are below him, like that they're something that a Smith could absolutely not ever think of doing. It just doesn't seem necessary, and nobody whose ever crossed path with Spencer James Smith V would dream of calling him less than practical. So, no, he doesn't feel that Charms are below him.
However, casting his eyes sideways, he can see that that is exactly how Blaise Zabini feels. Blaise stifles a yawn and then sends death threats Spencer's way with a look that's taken years to perfect. Purebred Slytherin boys do not yawn.
William Beckett twists gracefully into Spencer's lap, feline features arching as he curls a hand around Spencer's neck. "Spencer", he hisses, more singsong than expelled air, "when are you going to let me show you a good time?"
Spencer snorts and pushes William unceremoniously off of him. "When I honestly believe that you even know what the word good means."
William cackles from the floor, but Spencer extends a hand and hauls him up. He's used to William's advances by now.
It's not that William's not attractive, Spencer muses, staring at the pale sliver of skin that shows itself where Williams robes hang haphazardly down his front. It must have taken some maneuvering to get any skin showing at all, but then, William Beckett is a cunning person. In the five years Spencer's been at Hogwarts, he's learned not to underestimate any of his classmates.
In first year, Draco Malfoy had called Theodore Nott a very derogatory name for being completely apathetic towards all forms of Quidditch, which was apparently not an attitude young Malfoy had previously encountered towards his favorite sport. There had been implications about Theodore's bloodline and names with sharp consonants that Spencer had found completely tactless, even at eleven.
There had also been a week of classes free of Draco, after Theodore hexed him oblivion while Blaise had watched with his arms crossed. It doesn't often take a Slythetin boy more than once to learn a lesson, and the lesson was clear. Underestimation gets you nowhere.
William dusts himself off, curls his mouth up into a crooked smirk. "One of these days, Spencer Smith." He threatens, lacing the words with what Spencer knows are his best seductive tones. He'd heard it more than enough times to recognize the low drawl for exactly what it is.
"You know I'm saving myself for marriage." Spencer purrs back, because two can play at that game, and Blaise snorts when William grins, eyes flashing deeper green than usual.
***
The Smith manor is large, which Spencer's never noticed, because he's become accustomed to it. All his friends had houses similar in stature. The lawns were green, the hedges immaculate. He strides out towards the garden, the gentle swell of conversation reaching him as soon as he steps foot out the door and draws nearer to the place where his mother is having tea in the garden.
"Ah, Spencer," Ginger Smith greets him, "I was just telling Zacharias here about your travel plans."
Zacharias Smith is a cousin of Spencer's, and a Smith is never rude to a relative. Spencer momentarily mourns the fact that his tongue will be sore tomorrow from biting it. His dear, dear cousin is a Hufflepuff.
And he's brought a friend.
Ryan Ross is a skinny Ravenclaw who Spencer's never once stopped to even consider outside of the time he had to pass him the Honey Dew essence in Potions in third year. Sitting at the table beside Spencer's mother, he looks confident, defiant even.
Spencer fights down his sigh. Hufflepuffs are fond of interhouse fraternization.
"I didn't know we were having guests today, mother." Spencer's voice is cautiously light, even as he narrows his eyes in Zacharias' direction. His mother's not fooled, of course, but it's the thought that counts.
"Spencer, this is George Ryan Ross," she says, and years of practice allows Spencer to pick up the warning wrapped around the words.
"The third, even," Zacharias intones, amusement crinkling around his eyes. Ginger Smith's motherly vocal patterns must match those of her sister's, because it seems Zacharias could recognize them as well.
"That's correct," Ginger coos, smiling at the two boys, "Ryan will be our guest here for the next year or so. He will sleep in the west wing. It seems his father is going out of town for an indeterminate length of time."
Spencer knows what this means, he's never been anything that could even slightly resemble an idiot. It means that, like Spencer's own father, the esteemed George Ryan Ross senior is hiding from Aurors, lest he garner himself an extended stay in Azkaban. Spencer quickly shakes the thought that maybe he's underestimated Ryan Ross out of his head.
"I trust that you will do everything possible to keep him comfortable." Spencer nods absently, momentarily forgetting about the imminent intrusion into his life, thoughts thrust into a place that was growing all too familiar.
Things were changing in the Wizarding world, in Spencer's world, growing darker and more volatile by the moment. Spencer had always known what his father had believed; he'd been raised with ideas he shudders at, knowing things he could never tell anyone. His father's work had always been more of a way of life for the Smith family, mantras pounded into his head until he supposedly had no choice but to accept them as truths. Ancient. Strong. Pure. Better.
Unlike certain blond-haired, pointy-nosed nitwits, Spencer was not his father. It seemed to him that the path to success was in careful consideration of actions, rather than blind faith in faulty, outdated concepts.
***
Ryan Ross has only been a resident in the Smith manor for a few days when he lets himself into Spencer's room and collapses onto his bed.
Spencer blinks, book still open in his lap. Ryan Ross has still got his boots on. Said boots are now resting on Spencer's favorite down comforter. Spencer blinks. He's just not sure what to do in a situation like this; it's not one he's ever been confronted with.
"Ugh, what a day. You're family are... well, they're not nice, I can't even make myself say it, but they're interesting."
Spencer makes a noise that sounds not unlike "nngh?" when Ryan pulls a pillow out from behind his head and throws it to the floor. The floor. Spencer scrambles off the bed.
Spencer waits until he feels certain he won't stutter unattractively before he opens his mouth for the first time since Ross' intrusion. "I wasn't aware we were friends."
"Well, you didn't really think about it."
"You're correct on that one," Spencer glares, folding his arms and cocking his hips. The stance being one of the only things he inherited his father, it'd stuck no matter how many times his mother warned about bad posture.
"I've decided we can be friends." Ross says calmly, waving a dismissive hand and failing to glance up from his journal. "Once you've learned to judge peers based on the quality of their words and not their house colors, you'll realize that we really do have a lot in common."
He spares Spencer a look, sweeping his eyes from the page in front of him, which is covered in illegible black scribbles. "Friends, Spencer Smith. So begins your foray into life beyond the green room."
Spencer opens his mouth to comment, before closing it again. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, but he really has no appropriate response to that.
***
Spencer's managed to mix what is supposed to be a tumbler of Eternity Draught into a gray, fermented sludge that smells quite a bit like something he'd encountered during Care of Magical Creatures in his second year.
No matter how much William stares into his potion, pretty lips pursed into his best pout, his concoction looks for all the world exactly like Spencer's.
"I think," Blaise begins from Spencer's left, "that we may possibly have to admit our defeat in this, boys."
William slouches further, blows his bangs off his head. Spencer bites his tongue to keep from commenting on his posture.
A quick glance around the room tells Spencer that none of his fellow Slytherins have managed anything that looks the slightest bit hopeful.
Across the room, the potions of the Ravenclaw side are hissing happily in their cauldrons, popping and snapping. Spencer's sure the liquid is mocking him.
He catches Ryan Ross' amused glare through the crowd. Ryan rolls his eyes, and looks like he's having a serious internal battle, before he shoves back from his table and makes his way towards Spencer.
William hisses and corrects his slouch as Ryan draws near, Blaise tenses at his other side.
"Spencer Smith," Ryan's drawl is amused, Spencer can hear it even through the monotone. "You look like you could use a hand."
William Beckett is known for his quick-draw, but Spencer's better known for his ability to read people, so he catches William around the wrist before it even gets into his pocket.
He squeezes so tightly that he can almost hear William's soft exhalation, but he doesn't look at anybody but Ryan when he say, "I really could."
***
Spencer stares down anyone who might dare say anything to him about his newfound friendship with Ryan Ross, Ravenclaw. He knows they think about it, Draco Malfoy's sneer seems etched deeper into his face whenever Spencer passes him in the common room lately and he hears whispers, tiny snippets of hissing conversation. It's not new, not really. In these circles, there are always whispers, no matter how many times they'd all attest to the impoliteness of the gesture.
Theodore mentions it once, Spencer figures that it's because Blaise can't be trusted to open his mouth on the subject without saying how he really feels. He knocks a knee against Spencer's in the great hall over dinner. Spencer looks up; Theodore Nott does nothing by accident.
"It's not my place to disapprove," Theodore says, low enough only for Spencer's ears, "but I will say this. You let one in, you let them all."
"Like vermin, you mean?" Spencer hisses back, letting a practiced venom creep into the edges of his voice. He knows that Nott will catch his meaning, even though Spencer knows Theodore isn't one to judge as quickly as some of his more pro-pureblood advocate friends.
"I'd advise you to drop the defensive, Smith." Nott says, "Your weakness is showing." He stands from the table, mumbling his pardon to the rest of their housemates. Blaise follows.
***
There's a resounding crash, a streak of limbs and stray "oomphs", and a tangle of red, yellow and robe comes crashing to the bottom of the fifth floor stairs at Spencer's feet.
"Ow," says a voice from under the rubble.
He's really got no intention of waiting to see how any of this turns out, but the offending wizard is blocking the staircase, and Spencer is meeting Blaise in the library.
An arm protrudes from the robes, "a little help here?", and well, it's not like Spencer would help in any instance, but he's especially at a loss here, so he doesn't rush to the guy's aid.
A head appears, finally; short, unruly hair and a bespectacled face that looks much too happy considering the tumble the kid's just taken. The twinkle in his eyes fades slightly when he sees that his would-be-rescuer is Spencer.
"Oh," the guy says, springing to his feet, "nevermind. I'll just..." He dusts off the front of his robes, kneels to pick up his books.
Spencer's never really been one of those wizards, a Draco Malfoy who believes that Slytherin is the be-all and end all, but it's been his experience that most stereotypes are based in truth. He likes to soothe any and all accusations that his brain might make that he's more like Malfoy than he'd like to admit by reminding himself that he's got Ryan, now, but it doesn't do much.
It's part good upbringing and part in defiance to the generalization that this kid has just made about Slytherins that has Spencer going to one knee to help him scoop up books. When Spencer pushes the volumes into his arms and sweeps his bangs off his forehead, the kid stares with huge eyes.
Spencer almost shrugs before catching himself and he moves to go around him. He's made it up two steps when he hears, "thanks, Spencer" from behind him.
He's been in several cross-house classes with this guy over the last seven years, but since he can not remember his name, he pretends not to hear him and continues up the stairs.
***
Seven years of Hogwarts and Spencer hadn't even bothered to wonder what the kid's name was, but now that he knows, he sees Brendon Urie everywhere. In the hall between classes, reaching for the same Porean root in Potions, across the hall at suppertime.
It's with disgust that he watches him, certainly not interest. Disgust and possibly a morbid fascination. They say a person's eyes are drawn to disasters, and Urie is certainly that; he stumbles around without a care for where he's going or what he's doing. Pure inertia exploding everywhere, and he's lucky that his arms and legs seem to be accustomed to catching himself. Not that Spencer's noticed.
Another thing Spencer certainly hasn't noticed is the way Brendon Urie's robes sometimes hang lopsidedly off his body, the neck hanging down so that smooth skin is visible above the neckline.
"Smith, why do you keep gaping at the Gryffindors? What could possibly be worth looking at?" Draco Malfoy sneers the question at him between delicate bites of pudding.
"Nothing." Spencer insists, drawing his mouth into a tight line and trying to remember that.
***
Spencer's standing with Ryan; he's managed to lose Blaise for a rare moment, Theodore is nowhere to be found, Draco's off bitching about a bespectacled savior of the Wizarding World and Spencer's managed to find Ryan Ross.
It's a breath of fresh air in an atmosphere seeped in negativity, heavy with tradition, manners and bitter feuding.
Suddenly, Ryan is accosted from behind by a ball of energy, long arms come around his neck and cling.
"Ryan, Ryan Ross!" Brendon Urie screeches, and there's a Hufflepuff Spencer recognizes standing, sheepish grin firmly in place, off to the side a bit.
"To what," Ryan deadpans, even as he pries Brendon's hands from his neck with what looks to be practiced ease, "do I owe this pounce?"
"He's been into the sugar quills," the Hufflepuff says, eyes guilty, "I couldn't stop him. Nothing can stop him."
Ryan groans as Brendon lets out a peel of manic giggles, "Jon," he says with a long suffering sigh, "you know better than that."
Jon, the Hufflepuff (Walker, it dawns on Spencer, that's his name), raises his hands in defense. "No power on earth could have stopped that."
Jon Walker is talking, telling Ryan something about Quidditch or muggle studies or something, but Spencer doesn't even register it because he's too busy staring at Brendon's spit slick, sugar-stained lips. In disgust, obviously.
Spencer stuffs his hands into his pockets, and takes a step backwards. "Uh," he stutters, unattractively, "I've got to, um."
He spins around as Brendon's eyes scrunch into a frown and doesn't feel like himself again until he's on the stairs down to the dungeon.
***
Spencer hates making excuses, usually doesn't feel the need to do so. He also isn't a fan of pointing fingers, but truth be told, Spencer is in the library researching his overdue potions theme and it's all Draco Malfoy's fault. As he forces himself to think about something that isn't stabbing Malfoy's eye out with his wand, something like gillyweed essence, the door opens and Brendon Urie bustles in. He spots Spencer, just manages to tramp down on the grin that threatens to bloom and drops his books on the table next to him.
This isn't really Spencer's night.
"Hi," Brendon says brightly. Spencer blinks.
"Hello."
"Potions theme?" Brendon asks, nudging Spencer's volume with his elbow. Spencer blinks again, not quite sure how he and Brendon got this familiar.
"No, I'm writing a novel. Romance, you know. Pure smut."
Now it's Brendon's turn to blink.
"... I was kidding."
"No, yeah, I know that." Brendon laughs suddenly, tilting his head to the side. "I just didn't know Slytherins did that. I was just... I think I like it."
"You like it when Slytherins joke?"
"I like it when you joke."
"Oh...kay." Spencer breathes almost sharply, pulling his volumes closer to his chest in a move that is most certainly to deflect any further conversation and definitely not in order to stop his heart from throbbing out of his chest cavity.
He ducks his head as Brendon beams at him, and spends the next half of an hour trying to ignore Brendon's quiet humming and the way he licks his quill when he concentrates.
Spencer finally cracks when he hears him sing something, the slightest bit under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "alms, alms for a miserable woman."
"For the love of Circe, were you dropped on your head as a child?" Spencer realizes that he could possibly have spared Brendon some of the venom, but honestly. Celestina Warbeck, Britney Spears, Cher, and now show tunes.
Brendon actually looks apologetic, as if he hadn't realized that he had made any noise at all. "Sorry," he says, sheepishly, "I just don't really like silence."
It's late and Spencer's tired. He's also on edge about his theme, and it really isn't Brendon's fault. Since Ginger Smith did not raise a heathen, Spencer does the only thing he can think of to dispel the sad creases that have appeared at the edges of Brendon's eyes. He apologizes.
"I'm sorry, Brendon," Spencer releases the words begrudgingly, in a soft woosh of air, "It's been a long day."
Brendon's smile leaps back to his face with renewed vigor. "Wanna talk about it?"
Spencer shakes his head, a tiny movement, and can't help but reflect Brendon's grin back to him. "It's really not that big of a deal. Let's just say that being a classmate of Draco Malfoy is extremely trying."
Brendon scowls, almost comical. "They should probably induct every single Slytherin in your year into the Order of Merlin for putting up with him."
The comment catches Spencer off guard, and he laughs as he nods his head in vehement agreement.
"Oh," Brendon's smile is wide, "I like that better."
"Like what better?" Spencer says, letting his chuckling fade into a comfortable lull. He's feeling open, actually, a lot better than he had been earlier.
"I like it better when you laugh, Spencer." Brendon says, smiling matter-of-factly before he stands and gathers his books. "Good luck with potions," he calls over his shoulder as he disappears around a stack of volumes, "see you around."
***
He can actually pinpoint the exact moment that he decides to stop lying to himself. He's walking down the hallway and forgets himself for the slightest moment, spotting Brendon's hopeful smile as he passes. Brendon's eyes light up when Spencer returns it, a blush starting at the nape of his neck, he ducks his head adorably.
He's gorgeous, Spencer thinks to himself, feeling the heat gather in his cheeks even as he keeps walking, I want him to be mine. And then, immediately, oh fuck.
***
"'It grows like fancy flowers, but it goes nowhere'?" Ryan's voice interrupts the heavy silence.
Spencer starts, breath catching in his throat. They're at the Smith manor, home for a long weekend Holiday for them to do extra N.E.W.T preparation.
"You know, it's rude to read over people's shoulders." His arms cover his parchment in an automatic move that isn't really necessary.
"Oh come off it, you've perfected the science of being rude while actually appearing polite. I'm onto you." Ryan flops down onto his bed, a move which, several months previous, would have had Spencer cringing and calling for a house elf. It's welcome now, despite the fact that Ryan had entered his room without permission and is still wearing his shoes.
Spencer snorts and trains his eyes back to his paper, finishing the last sentence of his Herbology theme.
"Very nice, Spencer Smith, but a bit poetic for Professor Sprout, don't you think?" Spencer ignores Ryan, rolling up his finished product and tosses it to the floor.
"To what do I owe this interruption?"
"It's an invitation," Ryan grins, playing aimlessly with the scarf at his neck. "Also, a warning of sorts. A head's up."
Spencer quirks an eyebrow.
"I've got guests coming over. Guests of the non-Slytherin variety."
"Merlin, I hate you."
"You dropped that guise weeks ago, Smith. We're friends. And friends warn each other, so here I am."
"Thanks a million." Spencer grumbles, his head already running through a list of curses that he might be able to escape the blame for.
"You know what else friends do," Ryan continues, "They tolerate. They tolerate the friends of other friends."
"Right," Spencer agrees, nodding. Ryan's not buying it.
"No curses."
"Fuck." The Muggle swear feels appropriate on Spencer's tongue.
"A million chocolate frogs if you refrain from Bat-Bogeying Brendon."
Spencer pales at the name. He can feel his heart skip and his palms start to get sweaty, and he really, really does not know why. More importantly, though, he hopes Ryan doesn't notice. "Brendon?" he goes for casual, and is pretty sure he achieves it.
Ryan nods, showing no sign of having picked up on the new speed at which Spencer is inhaling and exhaling. "Brendon Urie. He's a Gryffindor in our year."
"I know him." Spencer says, waving his hand dismissively, getting up off the bed. "And yes, alright, have whoever you want over, I promise, no hexing. No cursing, not even an off glance, will that make you happy?"
Ryan nods and strides to the door, smiling quietly to himself as though he's happy with how the conversation went. Spencer finds out why when he gets to the door and adds, "well, fabulous, because I'm also expecting Pete Wentz", slipping out the door before he can hear Spencer's wail of despair.
***
Spencer locks himself in his bedroom and casts several wards at the door, but it doesn't stop the horrifyingly obtrusive noises that accompany Pete Wentz from seeping underneath of it.
He can feel the beginnings of a headache at the base of his skull, and he knows better than to even attempt any sort of magical remedy while it's in such early stages. Instead, Spencer opts for a short walk through the gardens.
As far as Spencer's aware, the only reason that the Slytherin inner-circle holds Gryffindor as their collective number one enemy is because they would feel embarrassed even pretending that Hufflepuff was worth their energy.
Jon Walker is no exception, but it's not because he's as stupid as the stereotypes color Hufflepuff students to be. Instead, it's because he's... well, as far as Spencer can see, nobody in the world hates Jon Walker, not even Draco Malfoy.
Spencer finds him outside in the garden, holding the boxy contraption that Spencer knows is a muggle camera. He's staring at the fireflies that Ginger keeps, watching as they circle and dive, trails of light following them as if they were moving in slow motion.
He pauses, considering turning around and retreating back to his room. He keeps going when he figures that all he was looking for was some quiet and that Jon probably wouldn't mess with that. Also, Pete Wentz is inside.
"Hi." Jon says as he approaches, using his foot to kick at the chair beside the one he's sitting in, turning it to Spencer, motioning for him to sit down. Spencer marvels that Jon could be so comfortable as to offer him a seat in his own home, but he finds to his surprise that he's amused instead of bitter.
"Hello." He says, dropping into his seat. He's not quite comfortable enough to let Jon Walker see him slouching low like he wants to, so he stays upright. Jon's watching him, it feels to Spencer like he's assessing him, wondering whether to proceed with caution.
"Staring is impolite." Spencer crosses his arms in front of him, ruining any superiority his statement may have made with the equally impolite gesture.
Jon just smiles a lazy smile and motions to his camera. "Can I take your picture?"
Gritting his teeth so as not to shoot back an I don't know, can you?, Spencer just nods.
"Awesome," Jon says, "the light here is just, you know?" Spencer has no idea, but he sinks back into his chair and relaxes his arms.
The flash pops once, blinding Spencer momentarily, once, and then again and again.
They sit in silence, flash popping ever so often, illuminating the dusk. It's not until Jon sets the camera down, asks him about his mother's lightening bugs that he realizes he's actually comfortable enough to answer without an ounce of acidity.
"My mother is fascinated by the things," he tells Jon. "The only magical creature that is actually known to muggles. Whenever they discover something unexplainable, the attribute it to science, miracles. Ridiculous."
Jon sits back and listens, his face interested, serene. Spencer continues.
"They're actually dying out, because of the artificial light being produced. Muggle electricity makes it impossible for mating pairs to find each other, whereas usually they're the only thing lighting up the darkness."
"That's sad," Jon muses, but he says nothing more.
"It is," Spencer agrees, and they sit.
***
Since Spencer's father had left town, there has been a rule in the Smith manor regarding Spencer James Smith IV's possessions and residences. This rule has been unspoken by both the young Spencer James Smith and his mother, but they've both manages to follow it without exception or question. The rule is as follows: do not touch. Do not step foot. Offices, studies, libraries, all off-bounds, left exactly how the Smith patriarch left them.
Amoung these spots and things that Spencer wouldn't dare look upon, let alone touch, is a mahogany cabinet with gold trimmings. It's located at the back of the study on the main floor. It contains exotic and rare muggle liquors imported from as many exotic points around the globe as Spencer can name.
Spencer comes into the house slightly disoriented, flashes still fading behind his eyelids from Jon's camera's bright white pops, and he hears Pete Wentz. He hears Pete, he hears the dry lull of Ryan's voice, Brendon's laugh, and he can't really stop his feet from following the sounds.
He finds the door to his father's study open wide.
His heart's been behaving badly lately, betraying and reminding, and not working quite right, but nothing his heart has done so far is anywhere near the feeling of the clench in his chest and the panic rising into his throat.
"You," Spencer manages, stepping into the doorway. Brendon's eyes are wide and happy, he's draped across Pete Wentz's lap. Several bottles lie scattered around them, one on it's side, empty but for the drops that Spencer's meticulous eye can see slipping out.
He spins suddenly, words lying dead in the air. He's pretty good at knowing his limits, and getting out of there before he says or does something he'll regret is a top priority.
Brendon doesn't know Spencer very well, though, and he calls after him.
Brendon catches up to him in the hallway; Spencer feels the crook of his elbow grasped in a firm grip, feels himself being spun around.
Brendon's skittish, drunk. "Spencer, I'm really sorry, we didn't think..."
"Get your filthy, mudblood hands off of me!" The words leave Spencer's lips without so much as a thought, his teeth clenched together. His hands fist, uncurl and fist again.
"Spencer!" Jon shouts, coming into the hallway at the same time as Pete and Ryan.
Brendon doesn't even blink at the others, just keeps his gaze locked on Spencer's. "Spencer, I..."
Spencer is notoriously thoughtful, calm. He's collected and together. When he hits Brendon square in the eye, he's none of these things.
He hasn't been watching Brendon Urie long enough to know him completely, but it's been long enough that Spencer knows that he wears his emotions on his sleeve, in his eyes and entirely out there for people to witness. It's not the blow, but the words that slip from Spencer's tongue that make Brendon's entire face fall, his shoulders square and then sink in defeat. He doesn't even pretend it doesn't hurt, just steps back, one step, two steps, into Jon's hand at the small of his back. He looks devastated, heartbroken, and what really surprises Spencer is how quickly his own heart mimics the sentiment.
Spencer opens his mouth to try and say something, anything, to take it back, but Brendon's already being ushered from the great room, Jon leading his way. Even Pete Wentz's face is twisted into a menacing glare that would rival Professor Slughorn's. Ryan just shakes his head quickly, disappointed, before he follows Brendon out into hallway, letting the heavy oak doors fall shut behind them.
The apologies in Spencer's head, unsaid and necessary, echo off the high ceilings along with the low, dull sounds of slamming wood.
***
Spencer's never felt anger like this before.
He trails behind William Beckett it the long, marble corridor, the white and black stone a striking contrast to his dark mood.
"Come on, Spence," William says, low near Spencer's ear, lips ghosting lightly over the pulse point in his neck. Spencer shivers, every nerve in his body is on edge, singing, tingling. William slips long, agile fingers into his belt loop and pulls him along the corridor.
They pass a mirror, and Spencer's gaze is pulled subconsciously toward it. The pull in his gut when he sees his reflection makes him want to vomit, it's as though his insides are being wrapped tight in a vice. He looks away immediately, forcefully, after he sees his eyes flash a deep shade of green he doesn't recognize.
When they reach his bedroom, William's eyes find his, lock there, smile knowing and calculating. Spencer knows he's waiting for the moment that Spencer wakes up, comes to his senses and decides that he doesn't want to do this. William knows that it's a moment that's sure to come. Spencer, however, doesn't. The thrill of that indecision is the reason Spencer's still here.
He's spent the last couple of weeks hanging on the edge of doing something rash. Spencer's not known for taking impulsive action. He'd come to William's to get it out of his system, though there's a little voice in his head (which, incidentally, sounds irritatingly like Ryan Ross) that's telling him this is him trying to take control of his impulsive action, and that it's not going to satisfy.
Spencer ignores the voice. It is going to satisfy. It is, because he's so sick of looking at certain obnoxious, clumsy, ridiculous Gryffindors and wanting to satisfy this newfound need with them.
Here is how far he gets: William's shirt, not tossed to the floor, but draped carefully over the back of an armchair, Spencer's following it. He feels the cool, pale expanse of William's back. He tastes William's smirk, cherries and mint. They fall back on William's bed, legs tangled together. William drops underneath of him like a cat, back arching and hissing sounds slipping from between his lips. He feels William's hands come up and grip his hips. That's how far he gets, and then he throws himself up and off, backwards off the bed in an ungraceful scramble.
"William," Spencer pants, keeping his distance and trying catch his breath, "William, I..."
"Fuck, Spencer," William groans, but it's a resigned sound. "If you apologize to me, I will hex you into oblivion. Do kindly just get the fuck out."
"Right," Spencer fumbles with his shirt, yanking it back over his head, nearly tripping in his haste to get out the door.
He hurries back the way he came, and this time, he doesn't let himself look into the mirror.
Part Two.