⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

As Nicolás' eyes scanned the parchment, the weight of what he was seeing seemed to constrict the very air in his throat.

He could see the names of every single person within the school's sprawling grounds. It was an extensive tapestry of identities woven into the map, offering a real-time glimpse into every individual's movement throughout the castle's many chambers.

The revelation left Nicolás breathless, and for a brief moment, he found himself unable to speak. When words finally broke free, he uttered in awe, "Oh, Merlin..." The shock and fascination in his voice were palpable.

All the stories of escapades, of rule-breaking, of endless pranking... the Marauders' legacy, all coming back to him.

"What?" Fred and George asked in unison, clearly puzzled by Nicolás' fervent reaction.

"This... This is the Marauder's Map!" Nicolás exclaimed; his voice tinged with exhilaration.

George and Fred exchanged a glance, a touch of confusion in their expressions.

"Yeah, that's what we just said," Fred remarked, not quite grasping Nicolás' excitement.

"You guys don't understand," Nicolás replied, sensing the need to clarify.

The twins merely gave him a perplexed look, as if silently questioning, 'Is there something wrong with your head?'

"My father... he's Moony!" Nicolás continued, and as the words left his lips, the twins' eyes widened so profoundly that for a moment, he feared they might pop right out of their sockets.

"Why didn't you tell us?!" Fred demanded, his voice laden with both shock and indignation.

"You never asked," Nicolás replied simply, offering a nonchalant shrug. "Thank you for the gift, guys. I have a letter to write."

Rushing down the corridors, Nicolás swiftly made his way out of the room, evading the twins' attempts to draw him back into their whirlwind of questions and curiosity.

His laughter reverberated through the echoing corridors as the twins clamored for him to return, their voices ringing with queries about the identities of the other Marauders or even the possibility of securing an interview with Remus.

The mystery surrounding the map had ignited their curiosity, and Nicolás' exit left them clamoring for more.

Dear Dad,

You won't believe it but, I found the Marauder's Map! I know! It's crazy.

Remember you said it was confiscated by Flitch? Well, the Weasley twins stole it, and they gave it to me to help me, you know, cause I'm new here.

I may have or may have not let it slide that you were Moony, and the twins may or may have not requested an 'audience' with you, because you know, you're one of their idols.

Also, please tell mom that Piertotum Locomotor didn't work. It completely animates the necklace, but it stays animated all the time, which is very annoying. I spoke with Professor Flitwick, and he suggested to try and mix it with a detection spell.

Maybe a variation of one of those we used to make wards would help. I'll let you know.

With love,

Nicolás Cardona-Lupin

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting a gentle, golden hue across the castle grounds. It was a Sunday, and if there was a reason for Nicolás to be up at such an early hour, it was solely because Dorian had extended an invitation for him to witness the Slytherin team's practice.

Nicolás couldn't deny that he harbored some reservations about the idea, given Slytherin's reputation for playing rough and embracing a no-holds-barred approach to Quidditch —or easily said, they were prone to fouls and in general to play really dirty.

Nonetheless, Dorian was a cherished friend, and Nicolás found it impossible to decline the invitation. Moreover, he craved a respite from the frustrations of his personal project and the maddening stagnation he was experiencing.

Even Professor Flitwick seemed at a loss when trying to guide him through the conundrum, leaving Nicolás feeling increasingly exasperated. The only suggestion had been to use detection spells, but not even the seasoned wizard could tell him how to actually mix them.

"Why did you guys opt to start training this early? I thought the official training wasn't scheduled to start for another three weeks, or that's what I got from what Cedric said," Nicolás inquired, keeping pace with a green-robed Dorian as they followed behind the rest of the team.

Dorian responded with a non-committal shrug. "I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. "Flint mentioned that he had some insight about a potential advantage we could exploit."

There was an undeniably skeptical note in Dorian's voice, hinting at his reservations regarding their captain's decision. But that wasn't new. Dorian —according to Caelum— constantly complained about how ludicrous Flint as a captain was.

The guy could get them wins, but at the end of the day, with his playing style —or fouling, to be more precise— would guarantee him no professional future.

Nicolás' voice trailed off, his words left hanging in the brisk, autumn air. He furrowed his brow, his inquisitive eyes scanning the horizon. "What could that—"

But his words were abruptly cut short, swallowed by the guttural thud of an unexpected landing that reverberated through the field. A tense silence followed, filled only by the distant echoes of their own collective breaths.

Then, a voice, deep and commanding, sliced through the moment's uncertainty, demanding their attention.

Nicolás' gaze shifted, his curiosity piqued, and his breath caught as he beheld a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, and red-robed figure striding toward them. The other members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team materialized, their flushed faces and wind-tousled hair, telling of an intense practice session interrupted.

Oliver Wood's voice thundered through the brisk air like the roar of a wounded lion, his words laced with authority and irritation.

"Flint! This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!"

Flint only sent a nasty smirk. "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."

"But I booked the field!" Oliver retorted, his frustration bubbling over, his voice almost a growl. He was practically spitting with rage. "I booked it!"

Flint, on the other hand, stood his ground, a sly and malicious grin curling his lips. With a self-satisfied sneer, he produced a piece of parchment from the pocket of his robes, yellowed and worn.

"Ah," Flint crooned, his voice dripping with venom, his smile unnervingly ugly. "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker."

"You've got a new Seeker?" Oliver Wood's voice, a mix of curiosity and apprehension, sliced through the tension that hung in the air like a blade through silk. His eyes darted around, searching for this unexpected addition to the Slytherin roster. "Where?"

In response to Wood's question, all eyes turned to a silver-blonde figure —the same one Dorian arrived with to the Hogwarts Express—, almost ethereal in appearance, as if he had stepped out of a watercolor painting.

Dorian's gaze momentarily fixed on the newcomer, observing a subtle shift in his expression. It was as if the boy was donning a mask, hiding something beneath his cool facade.

Of course, the mere sight of Draco Malfoy was like tossing a lit match into a barrel of gunpowder when it came to the Gryffindor team. His name alone ignited a firestorm of emotions and tensions.

As talk of his father, Lucius Malfoy, began to weave its way into the conversation, Flint couldn't resist the urge to boast. His voice oozed with smug satisfaction, as he regaled them with tales of the elder Malfoy's generosity. Flint's words hung in the air, thick with the allure of the Nimbus Two Thousand and One broomsticks, the latest marvel of wizarding engineering for flying.

"Very latest model. Only hit the market last month," Flint declared, his tone nonchalant, his fingers idly brushing away a speck of imaginary dust from the end of his own broomstick. "I dare say it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. And as for the old Cleansweeps—" he allowed a malicious grin to spread across his face, his eyes flicking over to Fred and George, who clung to their Cleansweep Fives. "—sweeps the board with them."

Before Oliver Wood could even formulate a response, Dorian, jaw clenched and all his aristocratic coldness, took a decisive step forward, leaving Nicolás in the shadow of this brewing storm. His voice dripped with disdain, as if he couldn't fathom the audacity of this useless interruption.

"Is this what 'practice' has come to? We were roused from our sleep to endure your braggadocio about broomsticks? What's next? Are you going to take your phallus out and make a measuring competition?"

Nicolás, acutely aware of the friction between Dorian and their captain, felt a pressing tension rise in the air. This was not a simple dispute over broomsticks; it was a clash of personalities, a power struggle between pride and rebellion.

With a challenging stare, Flint met Dorian's fiery gaze, and their exchange became a clash of wills. "You better shut up, Lestrange," Flint growled.

Dorian spoke again, his tone laced with a heated fervor. "If this is all you can offer, I'll retreat to my dorm."

In response, Flint's growl reverberated through the air, clinging to his authority as captain. "I'm your captain, Lestrange. You do as I say."

"Try me." Dorian's challenge hung in the air like a gathering storm, his eyes locked onto Flint, a tempest about to break loose.

But then, like a calming breeze, Caelum appeared at Dorian's side, a figure of serenity in the midst of brewing chaos. With his hands on the boy's biceps, he guided Dorian back with a deft touch and hushed words, probably trying to make him see reason, or perhaps simply trying to soothe the storm that raged within.

Nicolás walked towards where Harry was standing as the scene unfolded on the field, his eyes were drawn to a pair of familiar figures approaching across the green expanse. It was Ron and Hermione, walking side by side.

"What's happening?" Ron inquired of Harry, his tone reflecting a mixture of concern and confusion. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?" He pointed a finger toward Draco.

With a smugness that was all too characteristic of the description Nicolás had heard, Draco Malfoy seized the opportunity to bring all the attention back to his presence. "I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," he declared, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father bought our team."

"Draco," Dorian's voice carried a subtle warning.

And for a single moment, Draco's confident facade wavered, like a sudden lightning, a flicker of uncertainty betraying his expression before it was hastily concealed. He avoided Dorian's eyes.

And Malfoy, trained for maintaining appearances, remained undeterred. "Good, aren't they?" he said, the words dripping with smugness. "But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I'm sure a museum would be willing to bid for them."

The Slytherin team, all but Dorian —whose jaw was so clenched, Nicolás was surprised no breaking-bone sound had come from it—, erupted in raucous laughter, a chorus of jeers and taunts that echoed across the field.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," Hermione retorted, her voice sharp as the blade of a sword. "They earned their places through pure talent."

The smug look on Malfoy's face, once so assured, faltered for a brief moment, like a flickering candle in a gust of wind.

Even Nicolás knew that boy was about to unleash a tirade of venomous words, "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mud—" but before he could utter it, Dorian's angry growl cut through the air.

"Draco!" Dorian's face was flushed, a stark departure from his usual composed demeanor, and that was enough for all the faked bravery and smugness to leave Drace. "How dare you?!"

With those words, Dorian turned on his heel and began to walk away from the field, his fists clenched —even forgetting the existence of his broom—, his back straight with indignation, and his footsteps echoing the resolve of someone who would not stand for such stunt.

He ignored Draco's desperate calls, leaving the pitch in the wake of an argument that had, very quickly, spiraled out of control.

The next moments unfolded like a tempest, leaving Nicolás reeling in its tumultuous wake.

Fred and George, driven by fiery indignation, surged toward Draco, their fury unchecked, only to be thwarted by Flint's imposing presence.

Ron, his temper like a wildfire —probably something in their family—, grasped his broken wand, his trembling hand pointing it menacingly at Draco. His eyes blazed with a rage that threatened to consume him.

The blond Slytherin, however, hadn't ceased gazing in the direction Dorian had vanished, eyes glassy and his face etched with an unmistakable sense of desolation.

With an impulsive flick of his wand, Ron attempted to cast a curse at Draco, but the spell rebounded with a violent force, throwing him to the ground in a spectacular display of magical misfire.

The Slytherins erupted into uproarious laughter.

In the midst of the chaos, Nicolás' eyes fixated on Draco, who, for the first time, seemed genuinely shaken. Ignoring the cacophony of jeers and the chaos that swirled around him, Draco broke away, his voice still calling out Dorian's name with an almost pleading urgency. His pursuit of the Slytherin Keeper was a stark contrast to the earlier bravado, a vulnerable plea in the midst of chaos.

On the ground, Ron began to vomit slugs, each squirming and glistening with slimy disdain. Nicolás, with too much concern and disgust at the Slytherin's display, had little time for revulsion, he simply moved to support the distressed redhead.

Gently, he guided one of Ron's arms around his own shoulders —Caelum did the same with the other—, offering an anchor amidst the wretched storm of slugs, and started the trek towards Hagrid's hut.

In their wake, the ground's surface became a minefield of expelled slugs, a trail of grotesque evidence marking their passage. The pitiful, slime-covered creatures wriggled and glistened in the light.

As they neared Hagrid's hut, Nicolás discreetly hid them all behind a sturdy bush. Their journey was far from over, though, for the crimson-robed figure of Gilderoy Lockhart, with his infuriatingly pale countenance, emerged from the hut.

Lockhart's audacity knew no bounds, how dared he offer unsolicited advice to Hagrid on how to manage his magical creatures?

After enduring the fake wisdom of Lockhart for what felt like an eternity, Nicolás' patience waned. With a flick of his wand, he ignited the bottom of the man's robes. Lockhart, struck by a mix of terror and surprise, fled in haste of squeals, towards the castle.

As the man ran, Hagrid welcomed them, evidently happier.

Once inside the comforting warmth of Hagrid's hut, the trio huddled together. Harry, his voice tinged with concern, began to explain the bizarre events that had unfolded with Ron. Unfortunately, their options were limited. All they could do was wait for the unsettling slug-vomiting to subside.

"Better out than in," Hagrid chimed in, his cheery demeanor shining through the grim situation, as he placed a large copper basin before Ron. "Get 'em all up, Ron."

With Ron attempting to rid himself of the lingering taste of his slug-induced misery, Harry inquired about Lockhart's unexpected visit. Hagrid, not one to mince words, launched into an unapologetic critique of the infamous author and so-called professor.

Nicolás couldn't help but let out a snort, for it seemed absurd to imagine that Lockhart, of all people, had any true wisdom to offer Hagrid.

Hagrid's willingness to criticize a Hogwarts teacher was an unusual occurrence, one that left the group exchanging surprised glances. However, Hermione, crushed on Lockhart, as a thirteen-year-old can be, offered a slightly higher-pitched, trying to defend the useless git.

"I think you're being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job—" Her earnest defense was met with uproarious laughter from Nicolás and Caelum, their amusement contrasting with the solemn atmosphere of slug-induced discomfort that surrounded them.

"He was the on'y man for the job," Hagrid insisted, his tone unwavering, as he offered them a plate of treacle fudge. Ron, still recovering from his slug-induced ordeal, coughed squelchily into the basin. "An' I mean the on' one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now."

As they settled in around Hagrid's table, the warm and comforting aroma of treacle fudge wafted through the air. Hagrid's curiosity, however, was piqued, and he turned his gaze toward Ron. "So," he prompted, "who was he tryin' to curse?"

"Malfoy was going to call Hermione something —it must've been really bad, because everyone went wild," said Harry.

Ron, his voice still hoarse, emerged from the basin, his pallor a stark contrast to his fiery red hair. "It was bad," the boy croaked, his tone laden with anger and hurt. "Malfoy was going to call her a Mudblood, Hagrid—"

Once more, Ron disappeared from sight as a new onslaught of slugs surged forth from the depths of his poor and unhappy stomach. The copper basin bore witness to his ongoing battle with the unruly gastropods.

Hagrid's bushy beard bristled with indignation. "He didn't!" he growled, turning his gaze toward Hermione, as if seeking confirmation.

Hermione nodded, her expression a mix of hurt and confusion. "He did," she affirmed. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course—"

"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," Nicolás interjected, his voice holding a note of disgust. "Mudblood's the worst name for someone who is Muggle-born." The gravity of the term weighed heavily on the room, casting a shadow over their conversation.

Caelum's voice, laced with unmistakable disgust, resonated through the room as he continued the explanation. "There are some wizards —like Malfoy's family— who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blooded."

Ron, still engaged in his unenviable battle with the relentless slugs, chimed in between the squelching and retching. "I mean, the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all." He hurled another slug into the ever-filling basin, his frustration evident. "Look at Neville Longbottom —he's pure-blood, and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up."

"Okay, let's not throw poor Neville under the bus just to prove our point, eh?" Nicolás' voice was a gentle plea, his eyes reflecting a deeper understanding of the situation.

Harry, intrigued by Nicolás' defense, arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Are you friends with Neville?" he asked.

Nicolás' response was accompanied by a warm smile. "He's a sweetheart," Nicolás affirmed with a touch of pride. "I happened to come upon him one day in the library, the poor lad was crying his eyes out over some Potions homework. Ever since, he comes some days to the library for some tutoring," he explained further.

In response, Harry couldn't help but smile in appreciation, a silent acknowledgment of the kindness and empathy he knew so characteristic of Nicolás.

"An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do," Hagrid declared with pride, his affection for their brilliant friend evident in his voice. As the words washed over Hermione, she blushed, her face aglow in a radiant shade of magenta.

"It's a disgusting thing to call someone," Ron asserted, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and disgust. He wiped his sweaty brow with a trembling hand, his frustration evident. "Dirty blood, they say. Common blood. It's utterly ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles, we'd've died out."

Hagrid's booming voice cut through the room, providing a comforting counterpoint to the turbulent emotions. "Well, I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron," he declared loudly, his words resonating above the thuds of slugs landing in the basin. "Bu' maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy would've come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble." The others chuckled softly as they watched Ron's ongoing slug-filled odyssey.

Their time with Hagrid had been filled with conversations and the display of his colossal pumpkins, a source of pride for the gamekeeper. Now, they made their way back to the towering castle, its stone walls rising like a sentinel.

As they barely crossed the threshold, a voice rang out from behind, pulling their attention. It was Professor McGonagall, her demeanor stern as she approached. "There you are, Potter—Weasley," she addressed them with an air of authority. "You both have detentions this evening."

Nervousness tinged Ron's voice as he inquired, "What're we doing, Professor?" He suppressed a burp, the aftereffects of their earlier slug-induced escapade still lingering in his throat.

"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch," Professor McGonagall announced, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And no magic, Weasley —this task will require nothing but elbow grease."

Ron swallowed hard, a sense of impending toil settling in his gut.

"And as for you, Potter," Professor McGonagall continued, "you will be assisting Professor Lockhart in answering his fan mail."

Harry's heart sank at the thought, and desperation laced his words. "Oh no —Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room as well?" He yearned for a different assignment, one that didn't involve indulging the vanities of Gilderoy Lockhart.

"Absolutely not," Professor McGonagall asserted firmly, her eyebrows arching in a no-nonsense fashion. "Professor Lockhart has specifically asked for you, Mr. Potter. Eight o'clock sharp, both of you." Nicolás couldn't help but furrow his brow slightly at the mention of the man's name, sensing something unusual in the request. She looked at Nicolás, "Mr. Cardona, a word if you please?"

"Of course, Professor," he replied, his tone steady but tinged with a hint of uncertainty. The worried and curious glances exchanged between Harry, Ron, and the others did not escape his notice.

With reluctant footsteps, the others continued down the corridor, towards the Great Hall, leaving Nicolás alone with Professor McGonagall.

He glanced at her, awaiting the conversation he had been anticipating. "Professor Sprout informed me that you wish to speak with Professor Dumbledore?" she inquired.

Nicolás nodded in agreement. "That's correct, Professor," he confirmed.

Something Nicolás has noticed, is that she always looks at them —Caelum, Harry, and Nicolás himself, of course—, with something shining behind her spectacles and her very eyes. Perhaps each time she saw them, the memories of the men and women she saw grow came back to her.

Professor McGonagall's gaze remained steady, as if she were attempting to discern the motivations behind Nicolás' request. "May I inquire as to the reason?" she pressed.

Nicolás offered a small, rueful laugh, understanding the nuances of the situation. "It's about Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor," he admitted. "I would have approached you, but I am aware of your... reluctance, to speak ill of your colleagues. Wouldn't want to put you in a bad spot."

Intriguingly, Nicolás couldn't help but detect a glint of amusement in Professor McGonagall's expression at the mere idea of him speaking ill of Lockhart. It was a subtle acknowledgment of the pompous professor's insufferable character.

Accepting Nicolás' request, she offered a stiff nod and turned to lead the way into the castle, with Nicolás walking alongside her. "Very well," she conceded. "Professor Dumbledore will be available to see you in three days."

With gratitude in his eyes, Nicolás smiled at the woman. "Thank you, Professor Minnie."

Before turning, he saw something, some... emotion? take over her face, before realizing what he just said.

That was a nickname his mother and Aunt María loved to use when speaking of Professor McGonagall, one they kept from their own years at Hogwarts —his father was a bit hesitant about it, but admitted the boys also used it to annoy her.

With a smirk, Nicolás shortly bowed his head, before making his way.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"Can I know why you're dragging me around?" Cedric asked looking around. Some people were looking, rather amused, at how Nicolás, barely reaching Cedric's chest, was dragging him by the arm of his robes. "Not that I'm complaining," he muttered under his breath.

"I have a total babe to show you," replied Nicolás, to which Cedric choked on air.

"What?!" exclaimed Cedric when Nicolás moved to close the door to their dorm.

"I came across this total babe, and I thought you should see it," Nicolás said, Cedric's cheeks were quickly getting red.

"Wha-what do you —mean?"

"Okay, I didn't exactly come across it," Nicolás tried to explain. "The twins brought it to me, and I brought it for you to see."

"What? The twins? Are they arranging blind dates for you?"

"Dates?" Nicolás stopped for a moment to think. "Well, the room was certainly poorly lit, but otherwise we saw each other clearly."

"And – and – you brought her here?" Cedric asked breathlessly.

"You need to see it!" exclaimed Nicolás, still confused as to why Cedric wasn't reciprocating his enthusiasm.

"Nico! You can't bring people here! Least of all a girl!"

In that moment, Cedric looked genuinely on the verge of panic. His wildly opened eyes traveled from Nicolás, moving to his own bed, to the door, and repeated the frantic travel a few times, as his cheeks got more red.

"People? Girls?" Nicolás muttered to himself, before speaking out loud, "Are you expecting someone?" he asked, raising an inquisitive brow.

"Wha-what? Me? It's you!"

"Me?" Nicolás looked at him like he just lost his mind.

"Yes! You! Your — your — your — total babe!" said Cedric... angry? No, it didn't look like anger. It looked like a mix of chiding, bashfulness, upbraiding, and... ignominy? Perhaps offense? "Girls are not even allowed in the boys' dorms!"

"My babe?" Nicolás asked in a breath. "Why would a piece of parchment walk through the door, Cedric?" he asked, inclining his head like a confused puppy. "And what would girls have to do with anything?"

He put his hands inside his robes and produced a piece of old parchment.

For a moment, Cedric looked at him as if he were the most unbelievable person in the world, before letting out a sigh so deep, Nicolás was surprised he didn't sigh his own soul out of his body.

For some reason, Cedric looked very... relieved, almost grateful and pleased by the fact that Nicolás' 'total babe' was a piece of parchment and not... whatever it was he had in mind. A girl? Why would Cedric even think he brought a girl to their dorm, and call her 'a total babe'?

"Why are you calling that old piece of parchment a 'total babe' then?" asked Cedric, now breathing normally, and approached the bed with Nicolás.

"This, Cedric, is my family's heirloom," Nicolás said cryptically. He took out his wand and tapped the paper with its tip, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

"What's that suppo—"

Cedric's words were cut off when the ink started to appear on its own on the parchment, quickly rendering a copy of Hogwarts grounds and the movement of each of its inhabitants for them.

"This, my dearest Ced, is The Marauder's Map, made by my very own father and his friends," Nicolás said as Cedric grabbed the map, eyeing each part of it.

Cedric raised a brow at him. "I hope you won't be breaking the rules with this, huh?"

Nicolás chuckled, "Ced, dear, I already have double the homework you and everyone else have, trust me, I have no time to spare, but who knows, maybe we can use it to have some... escapades, if you know what I mean," he said, raising his brows suggestively.

Cedric seemed to panic in half a second, all the redness back to his face, and looked around, before deciding to punch Nicolás' shoulder, probably how he does with his friends in the Quidditch team, but well, those people are not as small as Nicolás.

It wasn't a punch per se, it was more like a playful shove, like Caelum so constantly does, but it was an immediate reaction, almost unconscious.

"Ow!" Nicolás whined, rubbing where Cedric hit him.

The boy grimaced at his own actions, as if his body acted on its own, he then decided, for some reason, that the appropriate thing was to simply pat Nicolás' hurt shoulder, in a very slow and very uncomfortable rhythm.

"Are you okay?" Nicolás asked, weirded at seeing Cedric act so out of character.

"Of course, babe — Nico! — I meant Nico! Because your name is Nico! Why would I call you 'babe'?" Cedric stumbled upon each and every single one of those words, before standing up in a jump, almost like a spring.

"I'll see you around!" he yelled, running to the door like a madman.

Nicolás' mouth hung open for a couple of minutes as he took in everything that happened in the last twenty minutes of his existence. And... did Cedric just call him 'babe'? That... well... it didn't sound bad... but that wasn't the point. Or was it?

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆