Lydia is from a long line of witches, ones who decidedly knew better than to stay in Salem and migrated to Halloween Town. Their poisoned apple pie wins most gruesome every year and her great aunt Malificent's apothecary is a pillar of the community. But Lydia has dreams. Dreams bigger than one day taking over her family's business. Dreams of moonlight skies, burnt sugar and spice. Of poisoned apple pies with ice cream and hot caramel. Of ink-stained fingers. Numbers arranging in harmony like a well placed hex. There's never been talk of a mathematician in the family. She'll settle for arithmancy for now.
She rules the hallowed halls of high school like a queen such that Stiles barely registers on Lydia’s radar. Granted not many do. He went from being that odd new kid who’s rosy cheeks were almost as red as her flaming locks to her Runes partner. Usually she’d partner with Mary but she’s gotten pretty busy haunting high school mirrors to make it into class regularly. Apparently Bloody Mary is trending on Twitter.
“Hey Lydia,” Stiles greets with trepidation. He’s a mass of ungainly limbs - nearly knocking over their Rosetta stone.
“You smell like wet dog,” she sniffs when he slides in next to her. The smell is unmistakable. Probably that werewolf she’s seen trailing around everywhere Stilinski is like a love lorn puppy.
Stilinski gapes at her. For once, he’s quiet for the entire lecture.
It’s Allison that mentions it. She’s trying to talk Lydia down from hexing Jackson. Lydia’s half way through making a voodoo doll.
“How about some cookies? Stiles made them. They’re gingerbread,” Allison’s stitching stretches to the seams at the force of her smile. She holds out an evergreen shaped cookie.
Lydia’s brightly lacquered nails finish detailing Jackson’s stupid hair. Specificity is the hallmark of any hex. Maybe she should also make a hex bag.
“I mean, revenge is below you Lydia,” continues Allison, making a grab for the doll.
“He dumped me,” Lydia snarls viciously. “I’m going to make him burn.”
It would serve that bloodsucker right. A Martin witch scorned would not go unpunished.
“How about sparkle?” suggests Allison gamely. “You know how much Jackson hated Twilight.”
Lydia considers this and reaches for the glitter glue and a cookie. She bites into the heavenly morsel.
“Stilinski made these?” she says. Her mind whirling with possibilities. She almost forgets why she was so angry.
Jackson’s been glowering in the shadows all day. She decides she’ll hold onto the doll until he grovels. Sparkles suit him. She may even add eyeliner. She spots Stilinski hurrying away from campus and grabs her broom.
Lydia catches up to Stilinski in the graveyard. He’s frightfully easy to sneak up on.
“Lydia!” he flushes, looking up from where she's hovering overhead.
“I want a house,” she says, drifting gracefully down to perch on a headstone.
His forehead wrinkles adorably. No wonder that wolf is over the moon for him.
“And I want a new snowboard,” he counters, confused.
“A gingerbread house,” she explains slowly like he’s an idiot.
“Oh,” Stiles says. “Try the grocery store.”
“I want a real one,” says Lydia.
Stiles’ eyes widen. “Like a house, house?”
Lydia grins. “With a gum drop roof.”
“You’re not going to eat children are you?” He bites his lip worriedly.
“Don’t be silly,” she says dryly. “I want my dream house.”
She has plans. All the best witches have the most cavity inducing architecture.