“Derek,” Cora growls from halfway across the Quidditch pitch, her bat paused mid-air like she’d been about to go for a swing. “What the holy hell is your weirdo Gryffindor boyfriend doing?”
“Not my boyfriend,” Derek mumbles, rolling his eyes. Cora won’t believe him. His family has been teasing him about Stiles since the kid was a second year, mouthing off to Derek in the corridors without a care in the world that Derek was a Hale. It would have been an utterly unremarkable event had Laura not been walking down that particular corridor right as Stiles was clapping a hand to Derek’s bicep and squeezing — first because he was just that kind of tactile person and going back in a second time to, as Laura had put it, cop a better feel.
“We’re not allowed to use Gryffindor as an insult anymore, remember?” Malia calls over to Cora, passing the quaffle off to one of the other Slytherin chasers as she goes. Her smirk is a flash of white as she adds, “Not since Derek got himself saddled as one anyway.”
“I was sorted seven years ago,” he reminds them, slapping the quaffle away when an overzealous third year tries to get it past him. “And I think every single one of you forget that dad was a Gryffindor too.”
Cora and Malia both snort in unison and in that moment, they both remind him so strongly of his uncle that it’s hard to remember that only one of them is technically Peter’s. Cora was clearly born to the wrong Hale.
“Everyone knows that Dad’s a Slytherin at heart. Even Mom. Back to the point though—” Cora shouts, gesturing wildly towards the swaying crowd of Gryffindors taking up most of one spectator stand.
Somehow in the past few minutes, it’s gone from just Stiles and Scott stomping their feet to dozens of other students joining in, the noise spreading like wildfire until it sounds like a hoard of elephants are stomping and clapping in a rhythm more reminiscent to a war chant than anything else.
Derek watches, dumbfounded, as Stiles catches his eye and winks before clearing his throat and tapping his wand to his throat.
“We will, we will, rock you!” Stiles yells in the general direction of the Quidditch pitch, the chant that he and Scott have been shouting with an almost religious fervor now magnified a dozen times over. In the stand nearest to Derek, a first year lets out a happy shriek and joins in on the chanting and stomping, her face a mask of utter glee.
“Oh my god, it’s a muggle thing,” Derek hears Erica tell Cora, her eyes wide with horror. “They did this at that game Boyd took me to last summer, the one with the baskets? It was horrible. And loud.”
“And obnoxious,” Cora growls, thwacking the nearest bludger towards Derek. He dodges and glares at her, but she just grins back, unphased.
“Please, Derek, for the love of god,” Malia yells, pulling her broom to a stop a few feet away from him. Most of her hair has fallen loose from it’s sloppy braid, windswept and tangled against the collar of her robes, and her eyes are a little wild around the edges. “Make him stop.”
Some of the rest of his house have followed after Stiles’ example and now there are at least a dozen magnified voices, all shouting along. The stands are utter chaos, the teachers trying to calm the students as they get even more rowdy.
It’s been two weeks since their latest argument had ended with them necking furiously in the common room until a bleary-eyed Scott had interrupted them. They haven’t talked about it, exactly, but there have been repeats, both of the arguing and the making out. Two hours ago, Stiles had shoved him up against a wall in the Gryffindor locker room and kissed him until he was dizzy with it. Then he’d pulled back and promised that he had a surprise planned for Derek’s last Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, darting in at the last second to kiss the tip of Derek’s nose, an impish, affectionate smile on his face.
If this isn’t the surprise, Derek doesn’t want to know what else it could be.
Derek catches Stiles’ eyes again, arching an eyebrow as if to say, really? Stiles just laughs, the sound booming out of him, head thrown back to show off the faintest hint of a purpling bruise half hidden by the scarlet and gold scarf wrapped around his neck.
“Sorry,” Derek tells his cousin, shrugging, eyes still on Stiles, who’s gone right back to chanting and stomping, scrambling over Scott to dodge out of Deaton’s reach. “No can do.”
The noise is deafening right up until Allison Argent catches the snitch and then it somehow gets worse, the rest of Derek's house erupting into boisterous cheers and slipping sideways into another song, this one about being the champions or something. Derek isn't paying them much attention, no matter how loud they're being. Across the way, Stiles is being chastised by Deaton, but doesn’t seem to care either, his eyes on Derek. There’s a soft, almost shy smile playing at his lips, and for the first time, Derek realizes that maybe, just maybe, the next time his family refers to Stiles as his boyfriend he won’t have to deny it.
He considers it, right there in the sky, his teammates clustering around each other and flying in circles as his sister and cousin glare at him from across the pitch. He thinks about full moons with the pack, running with Stiles at his side in that stupid fox form that he still thinks Derek doesn’t know about. As if Derek couldn’t smell the animagus spell components on him for months last year.
Derek considers trying out for a professional Quidditch team, about being an auror or a teacher or a wand maker, and in all of the futures he drums up, he can’t imagine any of them without Stiles at his side.
He thinks about Christmas with his family, Stiles and his dad throwing bread rolls across the table at his sisters. Curling up with Stiles in front of the fireplace, maybe in his wolf skin, maybe in human, and sleeping with his nose pressed to the nape of Stiles’ neck.
It’s a nice thought, he thinks, making up his mind and shooting off towards the stands.
He lands next to Stiles, making Deaton blink in surprise and stop mid-lecture. Stiles grins, bright and wide and happy. Says coyly, voice thick with intention, “Hey handsome.”
Derek raises both brows and stares until Stiles sighs and sidles closer, the grin easing into a filthy little smirk when Stiles curls his fingers around Derek’s waist and yanks him in, pressing them together, chest to groin.
“Some surprise,” Derek whispers, head bent so that his lips are mere inches from Stiles’ ear.
Stiles chuckles, breath hot against Derek’s throat and purrs, “That wasn’t the surprise, Hale. The surprise was for after you win. The behind closed doors kind of surprise, if you know what I mean.”
Derek hums, burying his nose in Stiles’ throat because he can, because Stiles will let him. “How about a kiss first?”
“Der-bear!” Stiles gasps in mock horror, the tips of his ears burning red. “In front of all these people? The scandal! Think of the first years!”
“I’d rather think of you,” Derek tells him, grinning at the shock in Stiles’ eyes. “I’d also really like to stop denying it when my family accuses you of being my boyfriend.”
Stiles’ smile goes blinding at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he loops his arms around Derek’s neck. “Really?”
Derek smiles back. “Really. Now how about that kiss?”
The kiss is good.
The ‘surprise’ after, once they’ve tumbled their way into an unused classroom is even better.