Head Over Heels! // SnowBaz

3

PENNY

We leave before Baz's parents have a chance to wake. None of us slept well. That is apparent in our tired eyes and sloping postures. I spell the car to drive itself, as I am too afraid that I might cause an accident. The headlights illuminate the motorway as the sun peeks over the horizon. Simon and I sleep better than we did in the house.
   
It wasn't a good idea to enter so recklessly. We could have easily been killed for merely being seen on the property. Fortunately, Baz didn't say a word. We were never going to attempt it again, regardless, even if Baz is missing for six months instead of two.

Sorry, Basilton.

After a long drive, we arrive at Watford. While Simon slept, I worked on the assignments I needed to. We were gone for a day, if that, so there was nothing to worry about. I was expecting to go on a massive journey to uncover Baz's whereabouts, to come in, our wands brazen, and rescue him from the evildoer's clutches. Perhaps I thought he had been kidnapped by the Humdrum, but, fortunately for us, he had been in his house, lounging around.

He did have some scratches and bruises on his face, which I couldn't explain. He probably was in danger. We were just late to the punch.

He wouldn't elaborate any further than "I was busy," but I didn't complain.

I gather all my materials for my first class, which is one of the few I don't share with Simon. He eats a quick breakfast and scrambles to finish his morning routine in the passenger seat. Baz, as usual, doesn't eat anything. He appears cool and collected as he slicks his hair back, examining his reflection the car mirror. His pale complexion is more accentuated by the rising sun.

I know that there is truth in Simon's accusations that Baz is a vampire, but I scold myself for thinking that he's a vampire merely by matters he can't control. His pale skin, his dark hair, his widow's peak, his long, sharp nose, and curved lips which were now positioned in a small, wicked smirk. They were simple features, and he would possess them regardless if he was a vampire or not.

Vampires are supposed to be suave, too, I suppose, and by all the times Simon dragged me out to his football games (and just by seeing him around Watford the past seven years), he is. But those facts alone could not make him a vampire. "Vampire" is not a title, like "Count" or "Madame".

I rush to my first class after pulling my curly, untamable hair back in a ponytail and spell the car away, leaving Simon and Baz in the entry hall.

SIMON

I keep my sights on Baz. It feels a lot better knowing he's here at Watford rather than some undeterminable location, plotting my demise. Here, I can keep tabs on him. I can see what he's up to, if he has some major plan to eradicate me from the face of the Earth.
   
I don't like my seating arrangement in Elocution class. He sits behind me, so it's difficult to determine when I can look back to see what he's doing. Also, Baz's notes have helped me remarkably through this class. His handwriting is neat and elegant, like a girl's. They capture all the knowledge I need for my homework, and Baz never knows when I use his notes.

It's not that I'm naturally sneaky or have a penchant for rooting through his stuff, but he leaves them in his desk, in a drawer, an easy place. And I always replace them in their exact positions in which I found them. If he doesn't want me to copy his notes, then he should hide them in a better place. He never does, so I know he doesn't know. I feel proud that I am capable of doing something secretly and he doesn't even suspect that it's happening.
   
Class ends, and I find myself in my--our room, sitting on my unmade bed, rubbing the tiredness from my eyes. I didn't sleep too well. I did manage to fall asleep for a few hours after I discovered Baz. I'm still not sure if he was crying or not. I don't want to ask him. He deserves some dignity. Whatever got the better hand on him has him embarrassed enough. His face and wrists are covered in light bruises and scratches.
   
He returns to the room, placing his notes in his desk drawer, and he casts a quick, "Clean as a whistle!" on his bedclothes. He must've known Penny had stayed up in our room while he was gone.
   
I don't know how she managed to sneak up here, even though it was against the rules. (I think it's her heirloom ring that she uses to cast spells, the one with the large purple gemstone that weighs down her finger.) (I don't think she knows how she does it, either, and Penny knows practically everything.) I let her, anyway. Her presence comforted me.