Sixth Year (Snowbaz)

1. Moving Day

Baz

I neatly fold my purple football shirt into my leather trunk along with my freshly dry-cleaned uniform. I've been on the team since second year and have been yearning to get back out on the pitch all summer holidays. I don't tend to practice by myself when I'm home, because honestly, I feel like a bit of a knob. My suspicions of which were confirmed when my five-year-old sister, Mordelia, said I looked like "David Beckham, but a loser version." Sadly telling my sister, who was unafraid of me and prone to tattletaling, to "sod off" was not an option, so now I just spend my time practising violin instead.

As I clasp the latches of the trunk and place it at the foot of my bed, there's a soft wrap at my door.

"Baz" calls a small voice.

"Go back out and say, "excuse me, may I enter" " I sneer, and I hear the door click shut with a sigh. It cannot be denied that we have the same temper, but we certainly do not have the same manners.

"Excuse me Basilton," Mordelia says with an unruly amount of sarcasm for a girl her age. "May I enter?"

"You may."

She walks in wearing a smart looking green pinafore over a white collared shirt that matches her Mary-Janes. She's starring down at her twiddling thumbs.

"Mummy says you have to braid my hair."

My step-mother, Daphne, has been getting her hair blown out every Thursday for a quarter of a century, which has apparently left her inept to style the hair of her wide-mouth, sarcastic children.

"She certainly did not" I retort, turning my back as a signal for her to leave.

"Yeah but Baz,"she begs. "You do it gooder."

"Better." I correct.

"Yeah, betterer," she smiles, showing her missing top teeth.

I let out an audible sigh. If these children aren't even articulate then at least their hair should look put together.

"Alright," I say, patting the newly made bed. "Sit down, then."

In a moment of weakness last Christmas I had revealed to Moredelia that I knew how to French braid (I had a Barbie phase, don't ask). Since then she has taken full, unabashed advantage of it.

"How come you're dressed so nicely anyway, Mord?" I ask, as I section her thick dark hair into two.

"Father said I can see Watford when we drop you today" she swings her dangling legs and clicks her heels together giddily.

Pretending this information isn't knew to me, I hook a strand in my index finger, adding it to the knitting of hair.

"Do you think I'll see the Mage's Heir?" Mordelia asks excitedly.

I freeze at the mention of him, and the newest strand drops out of my hand and I lose my flow.

"Simon Snow," she continues "the Chosen One. Do you think I'll see him?"

Gathering the fallen strand I compose myself. "Perhaps," I reply calmly. "He'll probably be stuffing his pig-face with scones, no doubt. Pretty ruddy Chosen One if you ask me." it feels good to smite his name after weeks of pining over it, so I add: "If you do see him, hiss at him for me."

"Hmm" she ponders. "I would hiss, but it's hard now."

A "Htttthhhhh," escapes her lips and I realise her lack of teeth is stopping her from following my orders. Despite myself, I let out a laugh and she giggles back.

"I can still spit, Basilton. Is that okay?"

"Perfect." I reassure her and I finish off the two braids, and she looks in the mirror and nods approvingly.

I wish I could spit on Snow, too. Call him a failure then bend down (he's shorter than me. 3 inches) and lick it off. Because it's a reoccurring fantasy of mine and I'm disturbed, ask anyone.

I load my trunk and violin case into the back of Father's Jaguar and Mordelia hurries excitedly into the backseat. Just as I'm about to get in, Father touches my elbow and discreetly motions me out of my sister's earshot.

"Basilton," he remarks emotionlessly. "This is going to a big year for you. The families have plans in the works, and you're the only one of us with 24 hour surveillance on that Snow boy. You are roommates after all."

"I'm aware Father." I retort, but I only add half the usual snark because I don't want to give away my uneasiness on the subject.

"Report back any new findings on the Mage as soon as possible. Keep Snow under your thumb, Basilton. We can't afford for the integrity of the families to be compromised.Do you understand?"

"Why is this my problem, Father?" He's heard this argument a hundred times. "Surely the adults can figure it out." I turn to walk away to the car.

He pulls me back, grabbing tightly at the skin under my jacket.

"I said," he hisses through gritted teeth, there's fire in his eyes now, "do you understand?"

"Yes, Father."

He lets go and I get in the passenger seat, and don't open my mouth the whole drive to school.

It would be spectacular if my family didn't want me to kill my roommate. It would be even more spectacular if I wasn't inconveniently in love with him.