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Sieun awoke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the dull ache radiating from his left arm. The soft glow of enchanted lanterns flickered overhead, casting long shadows against the white curtains surrounding his bed. He exhaled slowly, blinking away the lingering haze of unconsciousness, and tried to move—only to feel the sharp protest of pain in his arm.
Right. The fight.
His lips curled downward as the memory settled in his mind like an unpleasant aftertaste. A Ravenclaw—a particularly smug one—had opened his mouth one too many times, and Sieun had been the one to shut it for him. Not physically , at least not at first. He'd tried to ignore it. Truly. But when someone stands in front of you, sneering, and says, "No matter how smart you think you are, you'll never be good enough for Ravenclaw. You're a Slytherin. You’ll always be held back by that," —well.
There were only so many insults Sieun was willing to tolerate before something, or someone, snapped. And today, that someone had been the other guy.
Not that the professors saw it that way, of course. No, Sieun had been labeled the instigator, sent straight to the hospital wing with a concussion and a broken arm, while the Ravenclaw walked away with nothing but a bruised ego. Unfair, but then again, life always had a particular fondness for being unfair to people like him.
With a sigh, he shifted, adjusting himself against the stiff pillows. It was only then, in the quiet lull of his thoughts, that he realized he wasn’t alone.
A soft huff of breath. A rustling of sheets. Then—
“Oh, hey! You’re finally awake.”
Sieun froze, eyes narrowing at the obnoxiously familiar voice.
Slowly, he turned his head to the side.
There, in the bed next to him, was Suho, Gryffindor’s loudest, most insufferable fourth year. His right leg was encased in a thick, enchanted cast, propped up by pillows. The usual manic energy in his dark eyes was still there, undeterred by whatever stupid thing had landed him in the hospital wing.
He grinned, far too cheerful for someone who was clearly injured. "Guess we’re hospital buddies now."
Sieun closed his eyes. He kind of regrets regaining consciousness. Maybe if he stopped moving and pretended to sleep, Suho would shut up.
But as usual, the world is not on his side.
"I'm Suho. You're Yeon Sieun, right?"
Sieun could hear the undeterred excitement in Suho’s voice, as if he wasn’t even aware, or simply didn’t care, that Sieun was actively ignoring him.
The introduction almost made Sieun laugh. As if he didn’t already know who Suho was. Of course he knew. Everyone knew Suho. He was famous in their year—probably even in the other years. A Quidditch star, effortlessly charismatic, the type of person who could befriend anyone with nothing more than a bright grin and sheer persistence. Loud, energetic, impossible to ignore. The kind of presence that naturally drew people in, like a gravitational force.
What surprised Sieun, however, was the fact that Suho knew him.
But Sieun is really tired, and he has a concussion, so he isn’t really in the mood for small talk.
Sieun stays still, facing away from Suho, waiting for him to give up the conversation and leave Sieun alone. But Suho was persistent.
“I know you’re awake!”
Sieun sighed through his nose as his bed started to shake ever so lightly. He turned his head slowly, and saw Suho there, looking completely unapologetic. He was laying back against his pillows, arms crossed behind his head like he was relaxing at the beach. His uninjured leg, however, was protruding toward Sieun’s bed, giving it weak, persistent nudges.
"Are you seriously trying to kick my bed?" Sieun asked, voice flat.
Suho just grins at him.
Sieun barely had time to brace himself before Suho launched into a dramatic, long-winded retelling of his so-called heroic sacrifice.
"Picture this," Suho began, throwing an arm over his forehead as if he were on his deathbed instead of just mildly inconvenienced. "The wind roaring, the sun setting behind me, the crowd on their feet! There I was—charging full speed toward the goal hoops, the very fate of Gryffindor’s Quidditch honor resting on my shoulders—"
"Didn’t Gryffindor already secure a lead last match?" Sieun cut in, unimpressed.
Suho blinked. "Okay, yes, but that’s not the point!" He waved his hands wildly. "The point is—I was seconds away from the greatest goal of my life when—BAM!—a Bludger, a rogue Bludger, I swear, came out of nowhere!"
"Nowhere," Sieun echoed dryly.
"Exactly! And in that moment, I had two choices—duck like a coward, or take the hit like a true Gryffindor and make sure my teammate could score instead."
Sieun stared at him. "So you sacrificed yourself."
"Heroically," Suho corrected. "And now, here I am, my leg in a tragic state, but my team victorious, my honor intact."
Sieun exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.
Unbothered, Suho immediately switched topics. From his Quidditch prowess to the injustice of Bludgers, and then, as if following some unpredictable train of thought, "Wait, do you ever go to Quidditch matches?"
Sieun barely paused before answering, completely deadpan: "I’d rather read an Arithmancy textbook upside down than willingly watch Gryffindors throw a ball around."
A horrified gasp filled the air.
Suho clutched his chest like Sieun had personally stabbed him. "You—what—how—how could you say that?!"
Sieun arched an eyebrow, unimpressed by the theatrics.
"You’re missing out on—on—the poetry of the skies!" Suho exclaimed, as if the mere thought of someone not worshipping Quidditch was physically painful. "The art! The thrill! The—"
"The headache?" Sieun offered.
Suho looked personally offended. "You wound me, Sieun. Deeply."
Sieun tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Good. Maybe it'll make you talk less."
Suho’s mouth fell open at his response. And he looks ridiculous like that, his uninjured leg still pointing towards Sieun, looking like he’s about to nudge it again.
Sieun proceeds to turn his back to Suho, pulling the thin hospital blanket higher over his shoulder, and deciding not to indulge the other any longer because he can feel the beginning of a headache.
The bed nudging intensifies.
"You’re insufferable."
"And yet," Suho said, now nudging Sieun’s bed in a deliberate rhythm, "You’re still talking to me."
Sieun exhaled sharply. "Only because I have a concussion and can’t walk away." Sieun closed his eyes, regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment.
Somewhere between Suho’s rant about Quidditch tactics and injury, complete with wildly gesturing arms and sound effects, and his in-depth rant about the finer points of Chaser strategy, Sieun found himself… not hating it.
Not that he’d ever admit that.
It was just—Suho was so ridiculous that it was hard not to be at least mildly entertained. The pure conviction in his voice as he explained how Bludgers clearly had a personal vendetta against him, the way he acted out every part of his own tragic tale like he was starring in some grand play—it was almost funny.
Almost.
Sieun kept his expression blank, willing himself not to react. "I could have gone my entire life without hearing that."
Suho only grinned, completely unfazed.
Just as Sieun was about to close his eyes and attempt to pretend he wasn’t being held hostage in this conversation, Suho suddenly said— "You always sit by the window in the library, but never on the left side. Why is that?"
Silence.
Sieun froze, eyes snapping open.
Slowly, he turned his head to look at Suho, who was still grinning, oblivious to the weight of what he had just let slip.
"Why do you know that?" Sieun asked, voice sharp with suspicion.
It took a full second for realization to sink in.
For the first time that day, Suho’s confidence wavered.
His grin faltered. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, like a fish out of water. His ears turned noticeably red as he stammered, visibly flustered.
"I—uh—well, you see—um—" Suho coughed, clearly scrambling. "I mean—I just happened to notice, you know? Not in a weird way! Just—just in a normal—uh—friendly, totally casual way—"
Sieun narrowed his eyes.
Suho’s panic only increased. “It’s just that I saw you one day and you… it was cute. You were looking all serious like the fate of the world depended on your textbook.” Suho’s face was still bright red. And Sieun—Sieun absolutely did not think anything about that. Nope. Nothing at all.
So instead, he replied flatly, "You look like you think everything’s cute."
Without missing a beat, Suho shot back "Not really. Just you."
Sieun felt something stir in his stomach at the quick retort. A strange flutter, like he’d missed a step on the stairs.
He hadn’t expected that.
From the way Suho immediately stiffened, wide-eyed, horrified, it was clear he hadn’t expected it either.
Suho’s mouth opened like he wanted to take the words back, but it was far too late for that. His face, which had already been red, somehow managed to turn an even deeper shade—almost as red as his Gryffindor tie.
Sieun knew his own neck was heating up too, which was ridiculous because he did not get flustered by dumb, bold Gryffindors who ran their mouths without thinking.
Suho looked like he wanted the hospital bed to swallow him whole.
Sieun stared at him.
Suho stared back, frozen.
The confident, cheeky boy from earlier? Gone.
Well.
Suho, clearly desperate to change the topic, cleared his throat and leaned in slightly, an eager gleam in his eyes. "Tell you what. Go to one of the Gryffindor matches, and if you hate it, I’ll never bother you about it again."
Sieun just stared at him. "You must be concussed too if you think I’ll agree to watch a game."
"Please? At least this way, you’ll be able to accurately criticize my skills." Suho shoots him a grin.
Sieun sighed heavily, dramatically reluctant, as if the mere idea of stepping foot near a Quidditch pitch was physically painful. "Fine. One match."
Suho fist-pumped the air in victory, and immediately yelped when the movement jostled his broken leg.
Sieun stared as Suho curled in on himself, groaning in pain, clutching at his cast like it had personally betrayed him.
With a slow blink, Sieun finally muttered, deadpan, "Serves you right.”
The hospital wing matron suddenly appeared out of nowhere, arms firmly crossed, wearing the exhausted expression of someone who had seen far too much nonsense for one day.
"For Merlin’s sake," she said, exasperated, "if you two are going to flirt, at least do it quietly. Some of us are trying to work."
Sieun froze.
Suho choked on air.
For a long, painful second, neither of them moved.
Then, with a groan of pure mortification, Sieun turned over and buried his face in his pillow, determined to disappear from existence.
Suho, on the other hand, somehow managed to turn even redder, eyes wide as if his soul had momentarily left his body. He opened his mouth, tried to say something—failed spectacularly—then finally managed to sputter out a weak, strangled— "O-okay."
The matron shook her head, muttered something about teenagers and walked away, leaving behind one Slytherin pretending to be unconscious and one Gryffindor still visibly short-circuiting.