In which Wormwood makes his first wish, and Cedric is more at peace than he'll be for a while.

The rain has stopped.

For the past ten minutes or so, the light pitter-patter of drops against the window has been Wormwood's only company as he slowly pried open the higher window with his beak.

He sits on the windowsill to rest for a moment, and preen his feathers back into shape. His coat is still ruffled in some spots, from the rough way Cedric grabbed him not long ago. The damp breeze lets itself in, flurrying the first fallen leaves of the season right in his face.

He takes a deep breath, inhaling the heavy air of the last days of summer, the smell of petrichor and wet grass, as if along with the dust that greys his black feathers, he could shake off the irritation he feels. He tilts his head, listening for calls in the distance, eyes closed. Animal sounds: the swans' chatter in their fountain, the serenade of silly songbirds across the steely sky, and the distant shriek of the harriers soaring high up, way higher than the reach of his territory. Then, rustling in the woods, busy squirrels and incautious deer wading through the river. Kicking and flapping of winged horses in their stables.

Closer, he can hear the humans going about their business: the kitchen staff's usual bustling, with its plethora of complaints and wishful musings all the way down to the plots and gardens, where the servants gather herbs and vegetables, and sweep the layer of wet leaves from the courtyard, cleaning up in preparation of the Autumnal Equinox feast. He can hear them complain about the rainy summer rotting most of the castle's private produce, not to mention some rare specimen up in the front garden, and of course about the Stewart skipping off on a day of important preparations. About all these matters―though the can spare a smile for hearing Baileywick being badmouthed―he cares very little.

More importantly, he hears no challenging caw of rival ravens, nor grating mew of passing seagulls. The afternoon sun sinks undisturbed on Wormwood's turf, and all seems well. Satisfied, and a little calmer, he stretches his black wings open, and dives.

He lets himself free-fall down the tower, just to feel the air curve into the contours of his body; when the ground is somewhat close, he twirls and glides forward, barely grazing the shiny wet cobblestones and then pushing back up in vigorous wingstrokes, a triumphant caw in his throat. He flies in a wide circle, surveilling the whole of his territory twice, before setting off in search of food.

The late afternoon is mild, it seems that the rain will relent―for the first time in the whole week―at least until nightfall, and he's very hungry.

Living his whole life as a companion, he knows he has grown spoiled. He's free to provide for himself whenever he feels like it, yet he let himself grow accustomed to eating when food is offered to him. Nearing dinnertime, with only the light breakfast he shared with Cedric sustaining him, his stomach started protesting the long hours he spent sulking and wrecking the workshop.

Cedric isn't home. He went with Princess Sofia and half a dozen of other brats to the place called Mystic Meadows, the elite retirement home for sorcerers. For the longest time Wormwood had imagined actual meadows, and promptly lost all interest in coming along in the future when he saw simple human settlements instead. The place felt crowded, and Cedric complained the whole time about the Family Wand, and some old hag tried to change the colour of his plumage to match the season... he feels his energy drain at the mere thought.

Cedric can go by himself if he plans to retire there, he thinks. Nevermore.

As he flies off the cliffed coast, though, he's already reconsidering. The days of solitude he'd have to endure should be enough, and the slight damp ache in his wings reminds him once more that Cedric won't retire for a few decades yet, and Wormwood most certainly won't live to see it. Everything considered, if there will be a way for him to live long enough, he'd gladly follow Cedric to any place he decides to retire to.

In his younger years he had lied to himself, that domestication is only for mutts on a leash, docile horses that hold their kicks, and fluffy Wassailia owlets given as no more than magic trinkets to play with. He wonders if others, like him, ended up learning how to read by staying by their human's side as he practiced and practiced, hoping one day he'll stop stuttering his spells. He wonders if anyone else's human routinely went out of his way to find books about their species to read to them.

Not ravens, for sure. The ravens they read about were always free and wild. No story they could find had a raven foundling whose first memories could all be contained in the cup of a child's hands. Hands cleaning him, feeding him, keeping him safe in their careful hold; hands gathering him close to the loud, slow heartbeat that warmed his first nights, reminiscent of a nest he must have known in his even younger days, of the downy chest of a mother he'll never know, not even in memories.

By the time he was old enough to read about imprinting, Cedric had already taught him to fly―with the aid of a tweaked broomstick and Wormwood's anxious heart that couldn't bear to be left earth-bound―and to play checkers, and hadn't lost the habit of feeding him from his hands. Nor thought ill of him when he trashed rooms when left alone for five minutes.

This time, Cedric didn't ask him if he wanted to come with him. He knows Wormwood takes pride in his independence, that both his tolerance and laziness have grown over the years, so that he now enjoys a bit of alone time in the tower every now and then, content to just read for as long as his concentration lasts. Still, through all his indignation, after the first two hours he started to feel the silence grow bigger than he could bear, the old fear sink its icy talons in, and he found himself muttering and pecking at the first thing in sight.

Cedric usually locks the windows when he goes out, so that the noise outside won't bother Wormwood, and the latches will keep him busy for a while if he wishes to go out.

But today, still furious after the new attempt to experiment on him, Wormwood has decided to entertain himself differently. In one afternoon, he has gone through three throw pillows, dismantled a few shelves―he's finally found a way to pry out screws with his beak―and added some more personal carvings to the still magically enlarged hardwood desk. Any damage he makes is easy to fix with magic, and today he thoroughly doesn't care. If Cedric minds when he comes back, he had it coming. Why would he want an enlarged version of him, anyway? Where would he put him? In the stables? Ride him into non-existent battles? He lets out a wistful sigh, shaking his head.

"Same old Cedric," he says aloud, imitating the King's voice. If the sorcerer were with him, he would leap in fear... if only he could understand a word Wormwood squawks, of course. Now, that would be funny.

The hunger is really starting to bother him now. He's craving those thorny blackberries, the small wild kind that grows freely in the back garden. Flying over his favourite climbers, though, he's disappointed to notice that none has any fruit.

They must have been picked already, surely to be wasted in some sugary abomination down in the kitchens. Oh well, he thinks. They're never as good when he eats them by himself anyway. Grumbling out loud, he flies above the maze to check the fruit trees that grow there, in hopeful search of some other thing to snack on. The farther from the castle, the least tended the vegetation is, so there's hope for something not yet picked. Only as a vague reminiscence, he knows the area hasn't been tended to in more than a decade because there, somewhere, the first Queen is taking her eternal rest. By word of the King, access has long been forbidden.

Not interested in either botany or hidden graves, Wormwood doesn't visit this part of the gardens often; yet, the overgrown hedges under him have started to look oddly familiar. Before he knows it, he's faced with a round clearing, surrounded by tall laurels and an old chestnut tree. The semi-invisible path leading to the clearing is blocked to the non-winged by a small gate with three rusty padlocks. He just flies above, following the glint of gold that catches the waning light, letting himself be lead to the centre of the clearing.

He's been here before. He has already seen that old well, hidden away in the forgotten part of the gardens, no windlass and no bucket, only a single white bench. Intrigued, he flutters nearer to investigate.

He saw it for the first time the day the pesky Princess got herself transformed into a cat, and he did his best to swipe the Amulet from her while she was in such approachable form. He was already picturing Cedric's ecstatic praise, his song of pure joy as they finally implemented their plans of conquest. Wormwood had wished with all his wicked heart to be the one to bring the power to him.

Instead, all he got that day were so many slams in the face he had to give up, and go back with an aching bill and no Amulet. He'd flown straight into Cedric's arms instead of his shoulder, and for a while he refused to leave his lap no matter how the sorcerer whined at him to move and let him get up. It made for the perfect sulking spot, warm folds of robes under his bruised feet and belly, forehead pressed hard into Cedric's tied belt.

Wormwood had vented about what happened, though he knew Cedric could only hear him caw and squawk; if he had managed to take the Amulet, at least they could have talked. In the end, though, from the pitch of his voice Cedric had got the hint that something had gone wrong in Wormwood's day. His hands, so used to precise gestures, could be so delicate as they carded through his hackles, fixing his disheveled plumage for him and cooing at him the way he used to do when they both were much younger. He even apologised for shooing him out of the tower, devoting to him the entirety of his attention. Why don't I ask for this more often, he remembers asking himself.

It's been a while since that time, he considers while landing onto the well's steep roof, so neglected it looks like it's held together only by the creepers that grow on it. These days, all the attention Wormwood gets are attempts at duplicating or resizing him and whatnot. He takes pride in his collected demeanour, but constantly having to watch his back in his own home is really starting to rattle him. The wooden boards of the roof creak under his talons as he hops down to the stone edge, angling his head to better take in the wide golden slab that covers the mouth of the well. He studies the slab, sculpted in the stylised likeness of a human face, with mild interest.

He's just noticing how the rays around the edge remind him vaguely of the golden sun on the workshop's wall, when the metal eyelids on the slab pull up, like those of a mechanical doll, and inexpressive gold eyes follow his movement as he leaps back in alarm.

"What a stupid trick," he caws at it, full of disdain. Some residual magic must be in there, for it to move when someone approaches.

"It is no trick," says a voice, making him leap again. It is a soft, high monotone voice that undoubtedly came from the well itself. "Give me your riches, and I'll grant you three wishes."

Wormwood, hackles raising at the eerie echo and overly polite tone of the voice, takes a moment to connect the dots. So this is how the Princess got herself transformed. Some magic is definitely there, then, but how powerful?

"Hello again, Wishing Well," he probes, with a distrustful tilt of his head.

"I prefer the term wish-granting water feature," the Well says, still pleasant, but with a hint of petulance. Wormwood narrows his eyes at the thing, as it repeats its offer.

"I heard you the first time," he spats. Then, opening his wings in the human expression of helplessness, and mimicking the face Cedric makes when he attempts to whine his way out of doing something, he laments, "I am but a poor old crow, I hold no riches of my own."

"Anything can be riches, as long as it has value to the one who gives them," the Well answers.

Not so difficult to play, hm? Wormwood thinks, suppressing a haughty sneer. I just made it explain one of its rules.

Somewhat intrigued, he peruses his left wing in search of the loose feather he felt earlier. It is easily plucked, and he watches it flutter down into the Well's mouth and disappear into the black unknown underneath―a part of himself he'll never see again.

Shaking the sudden unease that crept up his spine, he sets to test if the thing actually works.

"I wish a bramble of thorny blackberries grew right there," he says indifferently, pointing with one of his primaries at the hedge surrounding the Well, right next to the chestnut tree. Wishing for a snack should be harmless enough, he reasons, and very practical. But, while he's at it, why not build a source that will solve the issue indefinitely? "One that bears the most delicious blackberries in the whole kingdom, every season of every year, for all years to come."

A bright golden glow flares through the slab, so intense the raven has to shield his eyes. "Your wish has been granted," the Well says in the same mechanical monotone.

In a flurry of sparkles and dots of glowing light, breaking the soil and snaking its way up the chestnut tree and part of the hedge, a magnificent dark green climber appears.

After a moment, under Wormwood's intrigued gaze, the coiling vines start vibrating and then, with a noise like popping of kernels in a pot, sprout fruit by the hundreds. They are so big and full the green tendrils all curve downwards under the weight. Wormwood's stomach gives an approving rumble.

Filled with pure animal contentment, he flutters to the hedge and digs in, eating his absolute fill. Thorny blackberries were always his favourite, but these are something else―sweet and juicy and delicious, just what he needed.

Cedric could also use some, he decides. Though he knows himself to be of resentful character, he could never stay mad at Cedric for long.

Quickly and efficiently, he nips off five or six of the most loaded tendrils; he then grabs an empty one, and stripping it of its leaves and stems, obtains makeshift string to tie off the ends of the others. Belly filled and mood greatly improved, he only misses the warm comforts of home, and bringing back a gift is a surefire way to win himself some.

Cedric is, after all, very fond of gifts and sweet things. Not to mention he will be in a state of pure misery after a whole day with his father, and after being denied the Family Wand for the nth time.

Wormwood shakes his head at the thought, setting off in the cooling night and its promise of more rain, his little bouquet of fruit secured in the grip of his talons. Like every year, as he ignores the vague call of migration in his bones, he already looks forward to the small space heater Cedric throws wood in to keep them warm.

Cedric lets his gaze wander, unfocused, outside the open carriage and into the black sky, indistinguishable in the night from the earth and forest below.

He keeps his chin propped on one hand, so that the small army of brats won't see him smiling too much. They aren't paying attention to him anyway, occupied with updating Sofia on their day's adventures in an overexcited, chaotic ramble, each trying to finish before they reach the village. He sits on the far left, squeezed between one of the blond twins and the door; for once, he doesn't quite mind.

In the spacious breast pocket of his robe, resting among the keys and scraps of parchment he always forgets to organize, sits the Family Wand. Its slight curve seems to mould to his chest, rough bark-like texture digging a bit into his skin through his vest and shirt. This, as well, he doesn't mind; he'll have to get used to it, and finally having the Wand is worth it anyway, he muses, recalling the raw power that ran through his arm as he conjured those fireworks.

He thought the Wand would feel heavier, so invested of memories and reverence, precious memento that touched six other hands before finally, finally gracing his own. He lets out a blissful sigh, heart light as a feather, full of his father's voice calling him my son, Cedric the Sensational. The alien warmth of Father's embrace took root in his stomach, where it lingers and threatens to move him to tears right there under everyone's eyes.

As soon as they land in the village, most of the troop scampers off the carriage before Baileywick can graciously lend his hand to them, waving and shouting goodbyes. The Stewart, shaking his head fondly, climbs back in the coachman's seat. Princess Sofia instead, only remaining passenger other than Cedric, is quick to switch seats; she bounces down at his side and smiles up at him, swinging her feet.

"We did it, Mr. Cedric," she says, giving him two excited thumbs-ups. His hand goes to the wand laid upon his heart, and he mouths what must be the most heartfelt thank you of his whole life.

Sofia beams, and draws her arms around his side in a half-hug of triumph. Then, her bright smile rounds into a wide commoner's yawn.

"Sleepy, are we?" he coos, amused.

"Hm, too much adventure," Sofia giggles, a hand covering her mouth. Still, in the quick rest of children, her eyes are already starting to droop. "Do you mind if I just...?"

As the carriage covers the short distance of sea and forest separating the village from the castle, Sofia pulls her legs up on the seat and, still burrowed into Cedric's side, lays her head down to rest.

Cedric holds very still, almost frozen in place. It's such a peculiar feeling, the pressure of her sturdy little skull into his ribcage, her soft hair tumbling down his front. She is very warm: the gentle grasp of her arms around him feels like standing right next to a bubbling cauldron. Hesitantly, he lowers his right arm, barely balancing his wrist on the tip of her shoulder. Sofia hums happily, half-asleep.

He can't help but glance down, to the Amulet dangling unguardedly from her neck, right into his lap. It occurs to him that, taken with the Wand as he has been, an entire day passed without the thought of the Amulet crossing his mind, for the first time in two years. He fixes his gaze on it, waiting for the rush of temptation to run through him.

There is nothing. The ambitions and resolves that have kept him company for thirty years... are nowhere to be found.

The warmth of his father's arms has taken the place of the eternal knot of rancour in his stomach, and all his ambitions have been pushed somewhere where he can't find them. Today, the coveted Wand in his breast pocket, his heart is filled with an immense, chilling sense of completeness. He looks at himself, this stranger sitting in his body, flying home. Who is he, if he doesn't want the Amulet, if he doesn't need this kingdom to be happy?

By the time they land, he's completely lost. Without Sofia's help, he would still be nothing in everyone's eyes: she spoke well of him in front of his father, and she was ready to save his face more than once. She literally hauled him to his feet when all he wanted to do was lay down until the couch swallowed him. For reasons he cannot fathom, she's always the one to take his side, convincing others to see the value of his work, even his own parents. Right now, as she rests against his side like a downy nestling, Sofia's gentle hold is all that is keeping him anchored to the ground.

Is this what it's like, to have someone on his side, someone who will listen when he has a problem, someone who asks what kind of solution he would need? He was always a lonesome child, friend to the birds and the sea and his own thoughts, stranger even to the sister he can barely remember. With the years, as tempered metal that cools and hardens, his melancholy turned to contempt.

He wants to wake Sofia, but he doesn't quite know how. He hesitates, awkward, with the child still draped over him. Baileywick has to come pluck his sleeve out of the way, and take Sofia in his arms.

"G'night," Sofia mumbles, hand flopping in a half-wave on the Stewart's shoulder.

"Goodnight, Princess," Cedric replies, almost to himself. He hops off the carriage with his hand buried in his breast pocket, grasping the Family Wand to assure himself it's still there. He watches Baileywick, with the Princess in his arms, walk towards the castle; the tall towers look surreal, with the windows lit against the night like candles in a dark room. He always considered it his second home, but somehow, somewhere along the way, it might have become his only one.

My future stronghold and domain, he tells himself, with the rehearsed certainty of daily affirmations. Yes. Because I'm meant to be. But now, even his inner voice stutters, and sounds as high-pitched and grating and insecure as his external one. He clenches the Wand tighter.

The coachman drives away, to get the horses fed and settled for the night. He is left in the dark on the empty landing pad, as a distant thunder rumbles softly and the intermittent drizzle of the past days starts to fall once more.

Grown a bit colder, he buries his hands in his sleeves, and hurries to his tower.

Sitting high on his perch and feeling very accomplished, Wormwood preens his feathers and ignores the wreckage that surrounds him.

He put the fruit on Cedric's nightstand, ready for him to find. Reaching for that one achey spot on his back, he's just starting to wonder how long is he going to take―and right then he hears Cedric's unmistakeable steps up the stairs.

Unless he's in a hurry, or too absorbed into something else to notice, Cedric never makes much noise when moving around. When he runs, though―Wormwood can hear him take the stairs two at a time―his heels clack distinctively onto the stone, like the clop of graceful hooves on the cobblestones just under their windows. The last three steps come in quick succession, then Cedric bangs the door open with such flare that two flasks and a beaker dance to the edge of the cabinet and shatter to the floor. Still, it would go quite unnoticed in the compound mess Cedric's scatterbrain habits and Wormwood's occasional mischief regularly make of the room.

"Behold, Wormy!" Cedric squeals, his voice as high-pitched with excitement as a robin's morning call. In a triumphant gesture, he lifts a short white branch up high above his head. It takes Wormwood a moment to recognise it, but when he does his wings splay in incredulity, and he's unable to suppress a loud gasp. "The Family Wand! At last, at last it's in my hand!"

Wormwood throws an intrigued glance to the portrait above the escritoire, wondering if Cedric finally just pried the wand out of Goodwyn's cold death-grip.

A theory as entertaining as it is short lived, Wormwood soon realizes. Washing up and changing for bed, as Wormwood perches lazily on the edge of his basin, Cedric spins the day's tale.

It started out terrible, just as the raven predicted. Yet, somehow―with the involvement of a contest―it ended up reaching an unexpected climax, with snowmen, and clapping, and public recognition.

"So, wait, you and your father almost killed your mother and a bunch of other people?" Wormwood asks, unheard. Starting to regret not going and leaving all the fun and support to the Princess, he mutters, "Now that would have been interesting to see."

"And then, when we were leaving, Father came up to me and hugged me," Cedric gasps, downing a glass of water in one gulp, eyes shining, "can you believe it?"

Wormwood, taking his role of audience very seriously, concedes him an awed caw.

"I know, right? I can't believe it either." With a care that borders on reverence, he carries the Wand to the bedroom. He adds, a bit softer, "I can't believe the whole day happened."

The furnishing of the Royal Sorcerer's chambers went unchanged for many generations, culminating in Goodwyn's gaudy taste. Everything―from the wardrobes and curtains to the shelving, to the sturdy walnut bed-frame that looks a century old at least―was already there when they got to occupy it. Save for a few sketched designs and notes and half-finished contraptions littered around, Cedric added nothing of his.

He lays the Wand on his nightstand, right next to Wormwood's berries. It holds perfectly upright, floating an inch from the surface and casting a dim glow all around, giving the luxurious room the dignity of a monk's cell.

Weary with the day's adventures, Cedric leans his head against one of the solomonic columns that hold up the canopy, falling silent and gazing upon the Wand the way old Flamel has probably gazed upon the first Stone ever created. It makes for a very solemn sight.

Then, still engrossed in contemplation, Cedric paws for the fruit left there for him, without questioning its presence. He doesn't comment on its taste or girth, munching absentmindedly by the handful, until Wormwood pecks at his free hand in indignation.

"Ow, Wormy―oh, you've picked these? For me?" he asks, sounding so surprised, and Wormwood wants to roll his eyes because really, who else? but instead he just nods, and fluffs up his mantel, complacent. "Wormy, what would I do without you?"

"Slack off even more, most probably," Wormwood rebuts, still miffed. The sorcerer doesn't react, of course, and just goes on a bit longer, telling him more about his day.

Still talking, Cedric folds his knees under the covers and lies down, words slurring into his pillows, tongue as purple as his robe from the berry juice. His last sentence doesn't even end, it just fades off in the middle.

He's already deep into snoring and mumbling when Wormwood hops closer on the bed, set to peck him once more on the ear for paying barely any attention to him. But the sorcerer's pale face glows in the Wand's silvery radiance, happy tears wetting his eyelashes as dew on short blades of grass―and, after all, Wormwood can always peck him to wake him up.

Thunder rumbles into the night sky, like a distant echo of dying summer, and the noise of cloudburst fills the room in a heartbeat. Sieged by the water all around, they are alone, the two of them cut off from the rest of the castle. But they are together, and the tower protects them. A pleasant shiver through his old bones, the raven yawns with a gurgling whistle.

He flutters to the side of the headboard that he always uses as perch at night. The force of habit makes him shuffle around, until his feet rest exactly in the grooves left by years of strong talons gripping the exact same spot.

His feathers fluffed up in vex and tenderness, he guesses they should rest well: tomorrow, their conquest begins.

So here it is, the fic where Wormwood becomes human! This is set in season 2, between the Mystic Meadows episode and before The Ghostly Gala. I started working on this last October and I accidentally anticipated Cedric's chara development of over a year .A. It is intended to fit with canon as much as possible but I've taken some liberties with the characters and with how magic works c: FINALLY I'M POSTING THIS I CAN'T BELIEVE