Garreth Weasley X Reader - Blog Posts

To all the Garreth girlies, this is *the* fic for you!! The banter, the pining, the softness, the angst, it's all just *chefs kiss*!!!!

📚🐦‍🔥Stay With Me

Slow burn Garreth x F!Reader romcom-mystery [T-Rated, 5.6k words]

You don't meet his eye. "I've prepared you some questions, for this... tutorship." You unbuckle your satchel and take out not one, not two, but four rolls of parchment, one for each subject, and slide them across the table. "It's simple multiple-choice so I can figure out how much you know. It won't take you long to do." He stares at them, open-mouthed. "You've set me homework?"

Garreth Weasley is good at Potions… and not much else. You, a bookish, lonesome Ravenclaw with a weighted family secret, are good at everything… except Potions. Assigned together for a mutual tutorship, Garreth is sure he won’t meet anyone more boring.

But the potions lab isn’t the only place where sparks will fly.

Tropes: romance/ humour/ drama, slow burn, fluff, tutoring together, grumpy x sunshine, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, pining, love triangle, dark secret, sworn off love, Everyone Can See It.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

A/N: Just to note, in this story Garreth and others fought Ranrok with MC. Enjoy!

He calls you Prim, mostly because you hate it.

It's not a nickname Garreth gives you for fun (though make no mistake, he loves to tease you with it). No, it's a nickname that's descriptive, deriving from your most cardinal trait. Prim, because you are. Prim and proper and academically minded. Meanwhile he's never had an aptitude for learning, preferring the freedom of exploration over the rigid structure of curriculum.

On paper, you seem like a match made in hell – but in practice? Well, he's always up for a challenge.

He doesn't get to meet you, though, until the dawn of his sixth year, when easy classes and free periods for the exam-weary older students are over. He doesn't even meet you on the day he first hears of you.

Back then, you were merely an illicit suggestion.

"I'm worried about you, Garreth."

He sinks into the chair in Professor Weasley's office. He's been here so many times now it practically feels like a second home. Mostly he's there for, ahem, disciplinary reasons, but there are the rare moments when his aunt calls him in for a quick catch-up, tea and biscuits, sometimes to discuss family news – a great grand-uncle dying or one of his cousins announcing a betrothal.

When the professor called him in this time, two days into the term, he thought maybe his parents were expanding their gnome collection and she wanted him to advise against it (there is such a thing as too many gnomes, and it's any number more than zero). Or maybe his sister Clara needed help adjusting to the school – she's a first year now, after all.

So it's like the rug is yanked from under him when she asks about his grades.

"It's two days into the autumn term, Auntie," he says, not prepared to have this conversation so soon. "What's there to worry about? I haven't even had all my N.E.W.T. classes yet."

"That's exactly what I wanted to discuss with you. You have so much potential, Garreth. You are incredibly bright and passionate, and I know you are capable of so much, but your O.W.L. scores left a lot to be desired, and I worry that you won't be able to handle the workload this year."

"Don't know if you remember," he says airily, "but I practically saved Hogwarts—"

"Yes, yes, last year in the caverns below with your friends, I know, Garreth. I was there." Her lips bunch. "But no school-saving antics will boost your grades. Your heroics are the only reason you don't have to repeat your O.W.L.s, and you won't have such an opportunity this time around."

He drops his head on the back of the chair, groaning. Imagine stopping a whole goblin rebellion... and still having to write history essays. He literally made history.

"Your father suggested something I actually like," she says, drawing Garreth's eyes back down. "It seems you need some motivation, and I know you work well when you're with your friends. Therefore he suggested you pair with someone. A mutual tutorship, if you will."

"You want to give me a study buddy?"

"Yes! Oh, I do like that phrasing much better."

"You can phrase it any way you want. Still wipes."

"Garreth..."

"Come off it, Auntie. What are they gonna' do? Sit with me doing every piece of homework I have? And I didn't flop at everything. I got an Outstanding in Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Which were your only top grades, half of which because Hecat saw fit to reward your capabilities against Ranrok last summer," she remarks shortly, taking a piece of parchment. "You don't need a study buddy for those subjects. You do, however, need one for History of Magic, Astronomy, Divination and," she stares meaningfully over the rim of her spectacles, "Transfiguration."

He grins sheepishly. "As it happens, I know someone who's great at it?"

She sighs, putting the parchment aside and dropping into her chair. "I know you want to become a potioneer, Garreth, but even the most famous potioneers are well-rounded individuals and excelled in subjects outside of their specialty. Look at Professor Sharp! He was an Auror!"

"Okay, I get it, I get it." All this talk depresses him – all this knowing that he's a problem depresses him. "I promise I did try. I just— find revising very hard and demotivating. And you know, the whole saving-the-world thing..."

Professor Weasley gives him the look.

"I made it to N.E.W.T. classes, didn't I? I'll try this year, I will. You don't have to get me a... study buddy."

"Oh, but I think I do, and as it were, I happen to know the perfect student to match with you. A very bright young lady one year your junior, a Ravenclaw. She excels in all her subjects" – she pauses – "except Potions."

"So you want me to teach her Potions," he clarifies, "and her to teach me everything else?"

"That's right."

"Doesn't seem fair."

"I think you'll find it will be." She makes a knowing face that he doesn't like. "So, what do you say? Want to give it a try?"

"... Can I say no?"

"No."

He sighs. "Brilliant."

His schedule's already packed with classes and homework, now that his education's ramped up for sixth year, and he mulls on the extra work a mutual tutorship will bring for the next few days,. Explaining it is even more difficult, when he has to tell Leander he's missing Quidditch for this.

"A study buddy?" he scoffs, as they lounge in the Gryffindor common room after classes that day. "Sounds right horrid."

"Tell me about it."

"Who're you pairing with? Do you know?"

"No idea. A Ravenclaw in the year below, apparently."

"A younger swot? Merlin's pelvis, couldn't she have put you with, I don't know, Amit? Or Everett? If she wanted a Ravenclaw?"

Garreth slouches. The sofas are so comfortable he doesn't want to move. "Bet she knew if she put me with either of them we'd get no work done, Everett because he'd be too busy trying to prank me, Amit because he'd be wasting time describing irrelevant extra stuff."

"Oh, no," Leander panics suddenly, "if this works then she might start doing it to all of us. I don't want a study buddy!"

"Relax. It's only because I'm her nephew that she's testing it with me."

He's sure his aunt wouldn't care quite so much if the same blood didn't run through their veins. After all, she has no children of her own – so Garreth and his sister are the closest she'll get. All her motherly affection, and motherly reprimand too, goes to them.

So when he gets the owl on Sunday afternoon to meet promptly in the library during lunch the next day, he sucks in his gut and resolves to at least try and have fun with it. He likes meeting new people, even if he doesn't like the circumstances – maybe he'll get along with the new Ravenclaw. Maybe they won't be as boring as he suspects.

He heads to the library the next day – late, mind, because he didn't particularly feel like rushing from Charms – and spots Professor Weasley waiting by the front desk.

That's the first time he sets his eyes on you.

Waiting placidly at his aunt's side, you're perfectly put together, not a hair out of place. Your waistcoat is straight, your long skirt starched, your shirt tucked in and top button done. You hold your books in your hand – because of course you do – and the satchel draped over your shoulder bulges with more of them.

You're the picture of a prim Ravenclaw student.

And it fills him with misery.

"Hello, hello," he says to you both, "sorry I'm late." Not.

You purse your lips, like you can detect his lie, but say nothing as his aunt gives him an admonishing glare. "That you are, Garreth. Did I not say you were to be prompt?"

"I grabbed some extra parchment, Professor," he makes sure to use her epithet in the presence of other students, "because I didn't know if I would need it."

By the way her brow loosens, it was a good lie. "All right. Come along, I've reserved a table for you both."

He decides to introduce himself to you on the way upstairs. "Nice to meet you."

You introduce yourself as well, but it's clear by your aloof eyes that you were also roped into this arrangement. "Nice to meet you as well," you repeat awkwardly, voice high with tension.

Turns out, Professor Weasley reserved an entire table, right at the back of the top floor. It seems unnecessary, the isolation, how you've obviously been coerced.

"Now, your proper sessions will take place after classes finish for the day, so for now I believe getting to know one another's style of learning would be most prudent." Professor Weasley ushers you to two seats next to each other. "I'll be sitting over there to keep an eye on you. Madam Scribner has given you both permission to have a quiet chat, so why not break the ice?"

It feels so forced Garreth would prefer to get a Howler right now, but under his aunt's stringent gaze, he plops onto the chair and tosses his bag under the seat. You draw out the seat gracefully, fold yourself upon it, and gently place your satchel, then books, on the table. There is method, he realises, to your movements.

"So..." he claps his hand awkwardly. "Where are you from?"

You clam up immediately, and he doesn't know why that's the wrong thing to ask, but he backtracks.

"Sorry, I mean – you know, where do you live?"

Your frown is still pronounced, but some relief breaths free. "London. You?"

"Devon."

"Right. I've never been there."

"It's nice. Except in the winter. Then the sea air is like murder."

Silence. He has a feeling he'll have to nudge all conversations, which is simply brilliant.

"Have any family?"

"Just my parents. They— they used to live in Asia, before coming here." You shift. "You? I mean, besides the professor."

"How much time do you have?" When you don't answer, he tugs his collar. Tough crowd. "Er, I have a younger sister. Clara, she's called. She's just started her first year. Little menace. Was hoping she wouldn't be Sorted into Gryffindor, but I guess it runs in the Weasley blood. Then there's my cousins, but there's so many that if I named them all you'd miss all your afternoon classes. Hey, maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing?"

You don't even crack a smile. This will be a long, painful conversation.

"Why don't we get started then?" he suggests instead, because the faster he does this, the faster he can leave. "I mean, discussing what we're meant to be, er, learning together? Shouldn't take very long for you if you're only failing Potions."

Your cheeks bloat. "I'm not failing. I just... need a little boost."

Touchy. Okay.

"Well, I'm not afraid to admit I'm failing."

"Yes," you say, and you list on your fingers as you go. "Transfiguration, History of Magic, Divination, and Astronomy. That's four subjects."

"Hey, last year it was five, but luckily I managed to wrangle a Kneazle before it bit Professor Howin, so she bumped up my grade." He's still quite proud of that moment. You make an unimpressed face. "What? You should be grateful we don't have collect Flobberworm mucus together."

"Okay, well, I've prepared you some tasks to complete."

His amusement drains like pus from a Bubotuber.

"What."

It's a statement of disbelief so sheer he doesn't even accompany it with the tonal flick of a question.

You don't meet his eye. "I've prepared you some questions, for this... tutorship." You unbuckle your satchel and take out not one, not two, but four rolls of parchment, one for each subject, and slide them across the table. "It's simple multiple-choice so I can figure out how much you know. It won't take you long to do."

He stares at them, open-mouthed.

"You've set me homework?"

"It's not homework."

"It's work that I have to do in my own time. It's homework."

Your lip curls in displeasure. "Like I said, if I'm going to tutor you, I need to know how much you already know. Then I can incorporate it into my lesson plan."

"Your lesson plan?"

"How else are we going to know what to cover per session?" you ask, bewildered. "You must have something planned for me, right?"

Of course he doesn't. He was just going to give you potions to brew and point out where you'd gone wrong. He rakes a hand through his hair, thinking about whether he could get away pretending to have a stomach/ head/ knee/ butt ache.

"If you don't want to do it later," you say, "you can do it now. Then I can be prepared for our first official session."

How about I run and never look back? With his aunt's watchful gaze on his back, he reluctantly unfurls the first scroll. Transfiguration. You hand him a quill and inkwell and he surfs through, ticking the answers he thinks are right.

"You're not even reading the questions."

"Am too."

"Glancing your eyes over words isn't the same as reading."

Oh, Merlin, you will be the death of him. Sniffing indignantly, he slows down, actually taking time to read the questions. How many exceptions are there to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration? He tries the rest, though not very hard, because just reading this stupid parchment has left him perplexed, and hands the scroll to you when he finishes.

He's halfway through puzzling when Geminis are born for the Divination quiz – he guesses February – before you roll his parchment up again.

"So? What's the verdict?"

You can't control the grimace on your face, and it's all he needs to know.

He's a total shambles. A failure.

"It's not— unsalvageable," you say hastily, your expression flattening. "But we have a lot of work to do."

He drops his head onto the table so loudly Madam Scribner yells "SSSHHH!" from the floor below.

When he's completed all your scrolls and falsely promises to make a list of things for your Potions O.W.L.s, you collect your belongings, slotting each book and scroll into its rightful place in your bag, give a quick word to his aunt in thanks and leave without goodbye. The whole exchange was about twenty minutes but to Garreth felt like twenty years. He tromps up to Professor Weasley in utter disbelief – and despairs in the way her grin unfurls.

"I told you it would be a fair exchange."

"She's made me homework, Auntie!"

"SSSHHH!" Scribner yells.

"Sorry!" he squeaks over the bannister. "Homework, Auntie. And— lesson plans. She told me I was practically unsalvageable!"

"I definitely heard not unsalvageable, Garreth."

"You can't be serious with this girl."

But Professor Weasley simply pets his shoulder.

"Your future is at stake here, Garreth. It's about time you start taking it seriously. She will help you. You will help each other."

But he really doubts it.

He waits for you outside of the Ravenclaw common room entrance for your first session later that week.

Dread roils through him as he leans against the bannister. Two hours of this, thrice a week, when he could be doing literally anything else. Quidditch has started again – which his aunt has barred him from playing due to his grades – but he could at least watch the Gryffindors practice, watch Leander and Eric Northcott toss Quaffles between them.

He's never had a mind for anything that doesn't interest him. History, divining the stars – both approaches. Even turning butterflies into bells doesn't capture his attention the same way potions do. There's just something about the way you can play loose and fast with the rules, with the ingredients, with the measurements, with the method, that delights his curiosity.

He wiggles his arm so it doesn't go to sleep. He's been to the Ravenclaw common room a few times, usually with Amit – for when they need to get back at Everett for catching them with a dungbomb. Unfortunately it means he's well acquainted with the eagle knocker.

"Honestly, Mr Weasley," it enunciates with that high and mighty tone, "if you sulk any harder and your expression will stick permanently to your face."

"Know from experience, do you?"

It doesn't bother to grace that with a response.

"What quandary plagues you so?"

"I'm doing a study buddy programme."

The knocker toots – literally, like a trumpet. "Hundreds of years I have guarded this tower, and never have I heard something so funny!"

"You could be more sympathetic."

"For the boy who thought it would be funny to tickle my nose with a feather when I was asleep? I think not!"

"I didn't think you had a nose!"

The door swings open then, and you step out. Prim, proper, picturesque. You startle at the sight of him.

"I thought we were to meet in the library."

"I was passing by, thought I'd come up and walk with you."

Suspicion flutters through your eyes. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why would you want to walk with me?"

He blinks. Is he being stupid, or has he missed something? "Er, because it's a nice thing to do, and if I have to waste six hours of my life on this mutual tutorship every week then I should at least get to know you better."

"I see."

Something not quite as strong as displeasure edges your voice, but you fall into step with him – not missing the way he makes a rude face at the knocker on the way downstairs.

"Look, I'll be honest," he begins, "I don't like this arrangement any more than you do, but I'm naturally pre-disposed to not taking anything too seriously, so even if we have to endure revision together, we can at least try to have a good time with it. Sound fair?"

You don't answer immediately. "What's the catch?"

"What? No catch. I just don't want to be totally glum each time I see you."

Something flashes across your expression, but it's too fleeting to identify it. "All right, that's... understandable."

"Great."

Conversation is stilted, however, even when you get to the library. You don't immediately warm to him, which is odd, because he's very used to people immediately falling for his magnanimous charms. You pull out your notebook – a timetable neatly journaled into the opening page – as he dumps out his parchment and quills.

"Since our sessions cover six hours per week," you say, "I thought we could work on your subjects for four of them, and then two hours on Potions for me."

"Right, fine." Sounds positively wretched. "My aunt's got Sharp's permission to use the potions laboratory this Friday, so I guess we can do it then."

"The potions laboratory?"

"Yeah. What? Did you think we could do Potions work without... potions?"

"Shouldn't we focus on the written portion?"

He frowns. "The written portion of the Potions O.W.L. is tiny. Like, miniscule. And boring."

You draw yourself up. "I don't find it boring. The essays are the best part."

Oh dear Merlin. "Well, sorry to disappoint you, but the majority of your Potions O.W.L. depends on actual potion-making." He grins. "Why? Scared, are you?"

"Why would I be scared?"

"You seem keen not to do it. Don't tell me you have some tragic backstory involving an exploding cauldron."

"No," you grind out. "I just... don't have a natural affinity for it like I do all my other subjects."

"That must've been really hard for you to accept."

He's teasing, but your face sours. Wow, you really are a tough crowd.

"Let's start. History of Magic."

This is one of those subjects he needs to know for his career choice – potioneers are expected to understand the history behind advancements in potion-making, after all – but Professor Binns makes it near-impossible to derive any sort of interest in the subject. The first topic of the year, the disbandment of the Wizards' Council in 1707, is already so dull Garreth can feel himself melting into the floor the moment the ghost opens his mouth.

"Now, I've already started the essay about the tumult of the Ministry of Magic's early years." You pull out a roll of parchment. "If we compare the key argument points—"

"Wait," he says, holding up his hand, "what do you mean, you've started the essay?"

"The essay that Binns set."

"You're doing N.E.W.T. level classes?"

"I'm doing N.E.W.T. level homework," you correct. "The professors assign it to me and I work on it with my regular homework."

"How do you have time to eat? Or sleep?"

You shrug. It's all so easy to you. You probably dream of your textbooks. It's so boggling.

"As I was saying," you continue, "we ought to start by comparing the points we've both made for the essay."

He just can't fathom it. Is there any point getting to know you when your spare time is dedicated to nothing but grades and studying? How can anyone be so academically good at (almost) everything, take on extra work, agree to tutor a frankly hopeless student... and still find time to enjoy other things?

"Right, yes, comparing essay points," he mumbles. "Sounds good."

Then again, he thinks, when neither of you move, and your eyes begin to narrow, you don't seem like the type of person to enjoy anything.

"You haven't started the essay yet, have you?"

"... Does a sphinx speak in riddles?"

You groan.

The first Potions session that Friday is a fun one – because now he gets to test you, watch you squirm and sweat. After the painful four hours together, scribbling theory for Divination and star charts for Astronomy, it's finally time to show what he can do. You're always so put together, so  he wants to see how bad you are, see what it is that justifies asking for his help in the first place.

Professor Sharp is waiting in the potions laboratory when you both arrive, seated at his desk marking homework.

Garreth grins. "All right, Professor?"

His expression curdles exponentially. "I trust I don't have to keep one eye on you for the entire two hours, Mr Weasley?"

"'Course not, sir. I'm only here to supervise my charge. In fact, you could say I'm the professor here."

"That doesn't fill me with much more confidence," Sharp mutters, then flicks his quill. "I've prepared the one on the left. Work quietly, please."

You seem nonplussed when Garreth steers you to the potions station. "Do you have a... reputation?"

"Don't know what you mean."

"You must do, by the professor's tone. You're a— miscreant."

"I'm a creative," he corrects. "Professor Sharp just doesn't appreciate my artistry."

"I can hear you, Mr Weasley."

"See? No appreciation whatsoever."

He gave you a list of ingredients to bring, and as he lights the fire beneath the cauldron, you sort them on the table – a bezoar in a mortar, mistletoe berries tied together with twine, Mooncalf tears in a phial. He notices you spend an inordinate amount of time placing them in neat, agreeable piles, rather than, you know, starting the actual potion-making, and he tucks this information away.

"Right, so, today I thought you could brew the antidote to common poisons."

"Antidote," you say stiffly. "Common poisons."

"That's what I said."

"Isn't that a third year subject?"

"It is." He smiles devilishly. "But we're going to do it with a twist."

Your brow furrows. "You're supposed to teach me relevant things, Garreth."

"You'll be lucky I'm not adding my own spin on it. No, just a simple improvement to up the ante. We're going make sure our potion can also act as an antidote to spider venom."

"Spider venom?" Your hand reaches for the textbook, but Garreth palms it away. "But— I need the recipe."

"You won't get the full recipe in your O.W.L. exams. You only get a list of ingredients and vague instructions. But it's better to learn by doing, and you will be expected to understand how the property of each ingredient affects the potion." He gestures. "Shall we begin?"

Your lips are flat as you fill the cauldron with standard potioning water – two pints of it, until it bubbles nicely over the flames. You know the first step by heart, which is to crush the bezoar into a fine powder and add four measures. Good start. With each of his thorough explanations, you fidget, uncomfortable.

"Why not just feed someone a bezoar? It works, doesn't it?"

"Why do we extract essence of dittany instead of just nibbling on the stem? Because combined with other ingredients the potion is more powerful. A bezoar wouldn't work against more virulent spider venom on its own, but it will in the potion we're brewing, because its healing properties are enhanced. Also, have you tried shoving that whole thing in your gob? Tastes rank."

"Wait," you say suddenly. "I need to write this down."

"The tastes rank part, or shoving in your gob part?"

You ignore him, grabbing your quill and scribbling furiously.

"Watch your cauldron. It's bubbling over."

You squeak, dropping the quill and stirring. A sheen of sweat coats your forehead, which is pretty hilarious. You've only just started.

"What's the next step?" he asks.

Your eyes skim the ingredients, frantic. "Erm... Mooncalf tears?"

"Try again." When you grimace, he says, "Begins with Stuh. Ends with andard ingredient."

You glare at him. "This doesn't make sense. Why add that now?"

"It's a stabilising agent. It emulsifies the ingredients together."

"Like eggs in a cake," you murmur, which surprises him. "But we've only added the bezoar to the water. What's there to stabilise?"

"Bezoars don't dissolve in water, and this will help the ingredients we add next."

He can see your frustration. Suddenly it makes sense why you hate Potions so much. You don't understand the science behind it – ironic, for someone who seems so methodical, and so proficient at other more technical subjects like Transfiguration. You pour the herbs into the brew, watching cautiously as the liquid thickens and changes colour from grimy brown to forest green, and notes of saltiness waft into the air.

"Good." The potion isn't looking too bad – maybe a little too green, but not unworkable. "Now, what next?"

"... Mooncalf tears?"

"Nope. You need to desaturate the brew."

"So turn up the heat?" He gives a firm nod. "For how long?"

"Well, you've added standard ingredient, which acts as a thickening agent already, and bezoar powder burns easily, even in water. Do you think much heat should be applied?"

"... Maybe?"

"Bet your examiner would love that answer."

You scowl. "Just tell me."

"Bring it to simmer," he instructs. "But only for a few minutes. For the aforementioned reasons."

After you write this down, you nudge another piece of wood into the fire pit below, then adjust the knob for heat. After a few moments, the bubbles pop ferociously on the surface. He watches you watching it, transfixed, eyebrows sloping in intense concentration. It's clear you desperately want this to work – but something holds you back, whether it's just disinterest in the subject or not. You lower the heat after three minutes, leaning back.

"Now do we add the Mooncalf tears?"

He laughs. "Merlin's beard, you're desperate to get those tears in. No, now you wave your wand and let it stew. Do you know for how long?"

"I remember this," you say. "It was about thirty minutes."

"Are you sure?"

"Well now I'm not."

His grin only grows. "What type of cauldron are you using?"

"Pewter."

"How will that affect the time?"

"Isn't pewter less conducive of magical properties than the others, and therefore makes brewing time slower?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"Garreth."

"Yes, you're right," he says. "You're a right laugh, you know."

"You're not," you remark tersely. "So it stews for more time then?"

"Probably about forty-five minutes, though I reckon with how you bunged all the standard ingredient in, it'll probably need a few minutes more. We'll eyeball it."

You squeak. "We can't— eyeball it!"

"'Course we can. When it's reduced enough, we'll take it off the heat."

Still, it's about a fifty-minute wait, and unfortunately you decide to get him back for all the fun he's having by asking how his History of Magic essay is going (... it's not). Even Professor Sharp laughs when he stumps at the first bullet point.

When the fifty minutes slog by (and they do slog – probably because Garreth dies a little with each legislative policy he has to know by name), you check the potion again. The water has boiled down to a gooey liquid, half the size it was before, and the colour has deepened.

"Now you have ground unicorn horn to add. This is where it gets interesting." His voice dances with glee, but you look like you'd rather get punched in the face. "The recipe for the regular antidote calls for a pinch of unicorn horn, then two clockwise stirs. But to work against a more potent poison like spider venom, you need at least two pinches, and double the number of stirs, to let everything combine."

You hunch over your unicorn horn powder. "Are you sure this isn't one of your creative exploits?"

"Hand on heart, this is all by-the-book," he says, then calls out, "In fact, I should really get some house points for it!"

"Don't hold your breath," Sharp calls back.

Garreth winks at you. "Worth a try, right?"

Your brow drops in exasperation.

Still, you follow his next instructions carefully. Two pinches of unicorn horn powder, then four stirs of the cauldron, and it hisses and pops as the powder melts into the solution. Finally you add two mistletoe berries, careful to keep the toxic leaves away, and wave your wand to finish. It's as expected – not bad for someone who claims to struggle at the subject, though he had to coach you through most of it.

"So... how do we know if the potion works?"

"Funny you should ask." Garreth reaches for his bag. "I have a spider I keep in a jar—"

You scrabble away at once. "What?" you shriek – it's the first explosive emotion he's seen from you. "No, no, no—"

"Merlin, that was a joke! 'Course I don't have a spider in my bag!"

Your shoulders drop. Your expression storms.

"Not. Funny."

But he giggles. "Come on. That was kind of funny."

"You really are a miscreant."

"Not a fan of spiders, are you?"

"They're detestable." You shudder, crossing your arms. "I don't know how anyone can stand the creatures."

"I think they're kind of cute. You know, in an ugly sort of way."

You step back to the station, gesturing with your chin to the potion again. "So? How do you know if we succeeded?"

"Colour, consistency, smell. Is it teal? Yes. Is it thick, and the bottom of the cauldron is only visible when you scrape it with a spoon? Yes. Does it smell like Graphorn dung?" He sniffs. Winces. "Oh yeah."

"How do you know what Graphorn dung smells like?"

"You don't want to know." (It involved Everett, naturally.) "So, with all those factors, we can safely say the potion was a resounding success. Huzzah!"

Yet you don't seem particularly pleased. He's not sure why, given that his aunt implied you were so poor at the subject even a mediocre brew was unthinkable. But maybe your bar to success is much higher than his. He helped you a lot, after all – maybe you'll only consider these tutoring sessions a win if you manage to brew an entire potion by yourself, without his ogling over your shoulder. Without someone literally telling you what to do.

And if that's what you want, okay. He's happy to help. The quicker you pick up these potions lessons, the quicker he is freed of your prickly company.

"Wait," you say suddenly, "what were the Mooncalf tears for?"

"Oh, those?" He chuckles. "They're not for anything. They're just to bamboozle you."

Your glare is potent enough to set him on fire.

"I am trying to learn here, and you fooling around is not helping."

"Who says this isn't helping? You'll never forget Mooncalf tears aren't in the antidote now, will you?"

"But— that's—!" You let out a groan. "You're being insufferable."

He just laughs harder. "You're so prim, it's hilarious."

"If wanting to learn things the proper way makes me prim, so be it."

"The proper way? Oh ho ho, no. There's no proper way."

"Written study is the proper way."

He leans on the potions station, grinning villainously. "Then I'll prove to you that it's not all about textbooks and words on a page. You're going to learn so hard you won't know what hit you. You'll see."

Your raise your chin, derision clear.

"Very well then, Garreth."

"All righty then, Prim."

He sees how it digs. "What? Don't— don't call me that!"

"Only calling you what you are, Prim."

When the session ends, he agrees to start that essay – or at least think about starting it – and you agree to review your notes for the antidote, but no matter how many times you remind him of your real name, he teases you with the moniker until you part ways. Unfortunately for you, insufferable doesn't quite have the same ring to it, and you wouldn't dare deign to his level of immaturity.

So at the end of the first week, you still call him Garreth.

And he calls you Prim.

[Divider credit, gorgeous art by Lyworth] [Next chapter coming soon] <3