Pylades/Orestes 

(and also E/R because reincarnation)

Inspired by this and Simon’s wish for fic.

All the others had bet him that Enjolras would not put his name in the Goblet, let alone be chosen as the Hogwarts champion, but Grantaire knew his friend. And the moment that Headmaster Valjean had held the small piece of paper in his hands, taken from the Goblet of Fire, Grantaire had known before the name had even been called.

“Julien Enjolras.”

All heads had turned to look at Enjolras then, whose shoulders seemed to straighten, his expression proud but determined. It was going to be a very long school year for poor Grantaire.

But he did win a total of 30 galleons in the end, so it was an alright start.

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france is alight once again, a hotbed of unrest amongst the suburbs throwing uncomfortable truths into harsh relief. the discontent and the wronged run riot down the once serene streets of paris.

professor grantaire watches it all with cynical amusement in one hand, a glass of his favourite wine in another. he has been warned by the dean, javert, to exercise particular caution during this fragile time, but he needn’t worry - grantaire speaks with the utter detachment of an idealist long broken. students that file into his lectures receive a first-class education in exactly how flawed every single political philosophy in the history of mankind has failed and will continue to fail, and how justice should have been a concept laughed entirely out of existence.

or he would - if the insufferable enjolras would just leave him be. his lectern is testament to the years of massacres he has delivered, a bloody trail of once wide-eyed students seeking to match cottony wits against the brilliant steel of his cynicism; freezing over the bonfires of their convictions until the tears water their now-abandoned textbooks. he takes no joy in it whatsoever - passion is a grey memory to him, a sensation long stripped from his soul.

but this boy strides in with the cold idealism of robespierre and the fury of napoleon and from his lips he shreds to pieces every finely honed argument grantaire brings forth, initially with practised boredom and then with a passionate bitterness that one could dare to attempt to corrode the ugly truths of powerlessness he has etched within himself. there is not a note of falseness within the symphony of enjolras, and the tune of his utter righteousness loops maddeningly in grantaire’s mind. 

the weekly lectures give way to debates so epic they draw crowds of students from across the faculties, who watch in awed silence as arguments are flung and shattered and countered in a chaotic intellectual warfare.

their debates finally crest in a battle  where grantaire finds himself screaming almost face to face with this maddening apollo, whereapon javert strides in to put a stop to the proceedings. the anger of javert is a sight to behold, but for the first time grantaire cannot bring himself to care even as he is threatened with certain dismissal if the incident should reoccur. he goes to his office in search of his loyal winebottle but finds the blonde bane of his existence waiting for him instead. “why do you do this?” he asks, weary now. “why do you bother still believing?” 

“i want you to remember what it means to believe,” he replies, with a smile like the sun itself. “i want you to remember what you have deliberately forgotten, because, professor, it is always better to not look down in scorn, but to look up in wonder instead.”

Enjolras uncrosses his arms, runs nervous fingers through his blonde hair. He’s visibly struggling to find the right words, and in the end comes out with, “I haven’t been able to sleep, without you there.”

And it’s such a simple thing to say, and Enjolras thinks it sounds so inadequate but Grantaire is looking at him like it’s monumental.

Grantaire clears his throat. “You managed to sleep for twenty-three years without me there,” he says, in a very-nearly convincing display of nonchalance. “Anything else?”

“I don’t ever want you to look at me the way you did on Monday again.”

“Not bad,” Grantaire says, cocking his head to one side as he regards Enjolras. His eyes are brighter and warmer than they have been in days. “So you still want to be with me?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sorry.”

Enjolras huffs an impatient sigh. “I said I was.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says before he even realizes the word is out.

A deafening silence follows. It’s clear from Grantaire’s stunned expression that he’d just been messing with him, that he wasn’t expecting the ready answer, not at all.

Then, “You tricked me,” Enjolras says. “You love me?” Grantaire asks at the same time.

“No,” Enjolras says at once, but now Grantaire is grinning at him (the wonderful, no-holds-barred smile devoid of mocking or bitterness that Enjolras hardly ever gets to see him use), and Enjolras clears his throat and asks, “Did you get the ladder sorted?”

“You love me,” Grantaire says again, with the smuggest smile Enjolras has ever seen on anyone, and Enjolras groans and covers his eyes with one hand because Grantaire is going to be absolutely insufferable now.

“You’re not following me,” Enjolras places both his hands on the wooden desk, tapping his fingers arhythmically in time with his pulse. “I need your phone number. So that I can talk to you. Perhaps ask you out. Maybe debate philosophy and politics with you, because you are sorely mistaken on some points.”

“Excuse you, but sunlight doesn’t shine out of your ass, what makes your opinions better than—“

“Shh.” Grantaire shhes. “I am asking for your phone number.”