Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Who're you going with, then?" said Ron.

"Angelina.”

"What? You've already asked her?"

"Good point," said Fred. He turned his head and called across the common room, "Oi! Angelina! Want to come to the ball with me?"

Angelina gave Fred a sort of appraising look. "All right, then," she said.

"There you go," said Fred to Harry and Ron, "piece of cake.”

It’s already snowing by evening, when the Gryffindors gather near the waterfalls. Seungcheol casts a quick spell so their robes won’t get damp, but not before Seokmin has somehow already got himself coated in soggy grass. He supposes he can realistically only hope for so much. 

“What’s with the sudden house meeting?” Mingyu demands, settling down by the riverbank. “Hyung, did you do something?” 

Seungcheol scoffs hotly. “Why would I do something?”

“I don’t know, why did you?”

“That’s—”

Chan looks up, bright-eyed. “It’s not a house meeting. I heard the Slytherins were coming too.”

“The Slytherins?” 

It must be serious then. Professors generally avoid mixing large crowds of Gryffindors and Slytherins outside of Quidditch—on account of the centuries-old blood feud between the houses, and how interactions have had a history of escalating into full-on duels across the castle courtyard. 

“Oh yeah, there they are.” Seokmin throws up an arm. “Hey, over here!”

When he turns, a crowd of silk black robes is already cresting the horizon, trampling the delicately frosted grass. Soonyoung lopes away from the group in long, easy steps, eyes sharp. Jun, Jeonghan, Jihoon, and Minghao follow, each with hair perfectly combed, silver green ties gleaming. 

Seungcheol’s frown deepens as they settle into the grass. “Do any of you know what’s going on?”

“Well.” Jun leans back on his palms, mouth already ticking up. “I heard a rumor that they were going to bring back the—”

“Listen up!”

The Sonorus spell cast is so powerful that it nearly knocks him over. Startled, Seungcheol traces the sound back to a stout, bearded professor standing in the middle of the frozen lake. 

“After some careful consideration, the university council has made a decision.” The man rakes his steely gaze over the crowd, the ferocity of which is muffled by the way his hat flops around like a flag in the breeze. “It has been twenty five years since it was banned in this castle. But the professors are confident in the current student population. For this reason, we have determined that it is appropriate to bring back the Yule Ball.”

Voices erupt.  

“Silence!”

It goes quiet. 

“Students from all four years may attend, if they wish to. There will be no cost for tickets, thanks to the generosity of the Yoon family. Please maintain a formal dress code. And for Merlin’s sake,” The professor fixes Soonyoung with a long, pointed look. “No mischief. Understand?”

No one dares speak. 

With a long self-suffering sigh, he lets his hands drop, and deactivates the Sonorous spell. 

And the voices spark again, like little flames all across the field. 

“Was he looking at me? What does he mean, mischief? I’m an introvert, I never do mischief—”

“You better not spike the punch,” Mingyu rambles. “That’s what they did twenty five years ago when the Yule Ball was banned, and someone accidentally set the library on fiendfyre—”

Chan’s face is scrunched into confusion. “But isn’t the Yule Ball part of the Triwizard Tournament? Why didn’t they bring that back?”

“Well it’s too late to start a whole Triwizard Tournament, isn’t it?”

Seungcheol suspects that it may have something to do with Yoon Jeonghan. Even if the Yoons pressured the council into reinstating the Ball, even if they sponsored the entire thing, there is not enough money in the Wizarding World to convince the headmaster to host a Triwizard Tournament with the possibility of Jeonghan in participation. 

But that’s not what he’s thinking about right now. He’s thinking about the fact that this is a dance. And, for no reason at all, his palms go clammy. 

Minghao turns towards him. “Who are you going to ask, hyung?” 

Seungcheol smiles weakly. “I’m not sure.” 

He’s probably not going to ask anyone. Yeah. That’s always the safest option. 

Minghao’s eyebrows fly up, disbelieving. “Oh?”

Well. If he had to ask someone, he supposes he has an idea of who he’d want. Something vague. Nothing specific. Someone pretty. A lanky Hufflepuff. With a loud laugh and broad shoulders. And black glasses and soft hair and a face that looks like it’s been carved straight out of the stone of some lovestruck poet’s gushings. 

Jeon Wonwoo. 

Well. That was a quick spiral. 

“Nope,” he croaks. “No clue.”

~

He sees him the next morning, across the Great Hall. 

Wonwoo is running his spoon through some oatmeal as he listens to Seungkwan. His hair curls around the bottom of his throat, head angled ever so slightly that stripes of morning light bleed across his face. 

Chan squints at him. “What are you looking at?”

Seungcheol yanks his gaze away, drilling it into his toast instead. “Just the house point tally. Making sure we’re still in first.”

Hufflepuff won, last year. Inched out Gryffindor by five points. He still feels the shadows of it, the lilting echo of Wonwoo’s tease, the warm clap of a hand on his shoulder. Both a sting and a secret treasure. 

“Huh.” Chan keeps chewing, expression growing more suspicious with every flying crumb. “Okay.” Without missing a beat, he twists around to look over his shoulder, and tracks Seungcheol’s line of sight straight to the Hufflepuff table. “Hah, you—”

His toast is very brown today. He burned it, while eavesdropping on a pair of Slytherins talking about Quidditch team drafts. To be fair, it’s mostly filthy rich Slytherin families who own Quidditch teams, so they’re his best source of information for the upcoming season. 

Jihoon slides in beside him on cue, pausing to glance at Chan. “What’s he looking at?”

Bats. “Stop staring,” he snaps, reaching over to smack Chan’s hand while trying to keep his own eyes fixed on his wretched toast. 

Chan lets out a high-pitched gasp. “Hey, he’s looking this way!”

Seungcheol’s head whips up so fast it’s embarrassing. 

To his absolute shock, Lee Chan is not lying. Across the Great Hall, across hunched heads and striped ties and long tables, Wonwoo’s mouth twitches up. He sets his spoon down and crosses his arms across his chest, chin raised, eyes amused. 

What could possibly be amusing, he has no clue, since he’s feeling about on the verge of collapsing. Whoever said that wizards couldn’t die from simple muggle heart attacks was almost certainly a liar. 

Wonwoo is saying something to Seungkwan now, but his eyes still seem to be fixed on him. Or his table. Maybe Jihoon? They’re batchmates. Or Chan? Chan was the one staring, after all. 

Seungcheol presses his lips together into what he hopes is a smile and ducks his head as fast as possible. 

A moment squeaks by. Jihoon’s chopsticks clink against his bowl like monastery bells. “You should ask Wonwoo. To the Yule Ball.”

Heat rises to his face like a soaring hex. “Eh. I don’t know.”

Chan, blessedly, quits his ogling and turns back around. “You should. He could say yes.”

He could say no.

“It’s fine.” Seungcheol scratches the back of his neck. “Just drop it. How is History of Magic going? Have you been studying well?”

“I’m going to tell Jeonghan hyung.”

“No, don’t—”

Operation “Get Seungcheol and Wonwoo to go to the Yule Ball Together”

Attempt #1:

“Doesn’t that name seem a little loaded to you? Our operation should sound more sleek.”

“Well, the operation is—”

“It’s not an operation,” Seungcheol hisses, violently rolling up his sleeves. “You’re just here to support me.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Soonyoung squeezes his arm too hard with one hand, the other clutching a drink he’s not supposed to have too much of. “Now, where is Wonwoo?”

One day after the breakfast incident, most of his friend group knows that he’s going to ask Jeon Wonwoo to the Yule Ball. Hell, they practically knew before Seungcheol did. Anyhow, Mingyu and Jeonghan’s combined lobbying was too much, and he eventually succumbed to the pressure. 

And, well. He wants to try. Wonwoo is cool and handsome and everyone likes him. Seungcheol should take his chance while he still has it. 

The Gryffindor common room is crowded, thick with sounds and scarlet-dimmed lights and people slipping past each other, against each other. For some semblance of coolness, he’d actually put his tie on today, but the longer he thinks about it, the more foolish he feels. 

“I heard he was coming,” Seokmin murmurs, craning his neck to peer over the crowd. “Seungkwan usually drags him along to these things.”

Seungcheol lets his head loll back. Little spheres of golden light float around the room, every so often dipping close enough to grab. He’s fairly sure they’re sound muffling charms—the kind that eliminate all voices except the one closest to you, perfect for loud parties. 

“Oh! I see him!”

He straightens, and all of a sudden, Wonwoo is there. Three meters away. Tall even in the crowd, hair falling into his face, hands covered by the fabric of his sweater. Lips still curled from something Joshua said. 

Seokmin pumps his fist. “Fighting!”

Okay. Yeah. Exhaling, Seungcheol pulls away from the wall. His heart is like a swinging door in his chest. He can do this. Definitely. And even if it doesn’t work out, that’s fine. He can play it off casually too. Totally. 

Hey. Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me? Oh, no? That’s fine. I’m not in love with you or anything.

He’s so caught up in rehearsing this that he almost forgets what he’s doing.

Until Wonwoo is right in front of him. 

Wonwoo blinks at him. He blinks back. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Wonwoo replies, voice tunneling deep and warm beneath the chaos of the party. He seems taken aback, but not displeased, gaze flicking down to Seungcheol’s collar. “You’re wearing a tie,” he adds, and his mouth curls up further in that familiar jolt. 

Seungcheol swallows, throat suddenly feeling tight. Okay, the tie was an awful idea. “Did you hear about the Yule Ball coming back?”

In a frankly horrifying move, Wonwoo leans closer. So close there’s hardly an inch between them. His eyes are sparkling. “What? I can’t hear you.”

Merlin, all this godforsaken noise. Each new sound drains a drop of resolve from his soul. Seungcheol takes a deep breath through his nose, trying to ignore how close Wonwoo’s mouth is. “I said,” he repeats, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Did you hear about the Yule Ball coming back?”

“The Yule Ball?” Wonwoo’s smile widens, almost imperceptibly. A little flash of teeth. “Yeah.”

“Listen, I was just wondering, did you want to—”

A loud screech interrupts him. He glances to the side, aghast. One of the Gryffindors has climbed on top of an armchair and is levitating a massive fake spider above Seokmin’s head. First year. Idiot. It’s like he has to notify his entire house before trying to do anything. He should just put it on the bulletin next time: Choi Seungcheol is trying to ask campus heartthrob Jeon Wonwoo to the Yule Ball and would appreciate it if you all weren’t a bunch of flobberworms for once. 

“Ignore that. Do you want…” He trails off as Wonwoo steps closer. Because it’s loud in this party. Because he can’t hear him. That’s all it is. Only an inch but it feels like a year’s worth of oxygen has been expelled from his lungs. 

Just as he manages to gather his wits, Wonwoo’s hand finds his tie.

“It’s loose,” he hums, sliding the knot up, snug against Seungcheol’s throat. “There.”

His eyes are too close, too low-lidded, too calm. And Seungcheol’s skin is burning too hot, and he can’t do this right now. 

“Do I want what?” Wonwoo prods, voice soft, almost velvety folding around him. . 

“Do you want to study for that Arithmancy test together?” Seungcheol blurts. “Seriously, that class is really the bane of my existence. If I’m late one more time, the professor said he would have me kicked off the Quidditch team.”

Wonwoo falters, smugness cascading off his expression like an invisible cloak. Looks at him for a long moment, lips thin, as if trying to decipher runes etched across Seungcheol’s face. 

“Okay.”

Seungcheol forces a smile. “Great. Thanks.”

As he escapes, he catches a glimpse of something gold gleaming in Wonwoo’s ear. One of the muffling charms. Which means he should have been able to hear him all along. Which would mean he shouldn't have had to step closer and send Seungcheol’s heartbeat so off-kilter? 

Mind thoroughly addled, ego bruised, confidence stripped from his every bone, he limps back to their corner. Seokmin winces in the low light. “Sorry hyung, did I ruin it?” 

As tempted as he is to say yes you did, his pulse is thumping so fast he probably wouldn’t have gotten the words out anyway. It’s just, Wonwoo is so pretty it’s hard to comprehend he even exists. Especially when he’s a sliver of a breath away from you. 

“No, it’s fine,” he huffs, ripping the tie off his neck, Wonwoo’s touch still sparking faintly like a fairy’s curse. 

“Eh, you’ll get ‘em next time.” Soonyoung presses his hand against Seungcheol’s forehead and makes a choked sound. “Well, unless you die from fever first.”

~

Winter is always strangely, deathly silent. No bird calls to pepper the sky, no rustling leaves or rippling stream. Just wind. Cold, cold wind. There is something beautiful, though. In the cold, in the silence. Like the silvery space a spell leaves behind long after it is cast. Like the smoothness of stone, unwilling to give beneath his weight when he settles against it. 

Some of the others scatter nearby, noses red. They seem to have made a game of levitating their snowballs into each other midair, explosions of white against the feathered sky. 

Thanks to his blatant fumbling, he and Wonwoo are now scheduled to study together in the library tomorrow. In some ways, it had been a very fortunate mishap. He gets to see Wonwoo again, at least.

Seungcheol watches his breath billow into the breeze like smoke. 

Of course, the more Wonwoo sees him, the more opportunities he has to prove himself to be a total dunce. But that’s a risk of the occupation. 

Footsteps scatter over the stone behind him. 

“So, I heard,” Jihoon begins gently, folding his wool scarf tighter against his neck. “That Wonwoo has already rejected two people. He isn’t planning to go to the dance at all.”

“What?”

Operation “Get Wonwoo to go to the Yule Ball”

Attempt #2:

With the goals of the operation thus limited, Seungcheol finds himself hunched over a splay of leatherbound textbooks, mouth parted in faint disbelief as he watches Wonwoo flip through his notes. Photographs have been glued between neat blocks of text, moving images of professors casting difficult enchantments, or engraving runes into slabs of elderwood. 

“I always see you with a camera,” he murmurs, smoothing his thumb reverently over the corner of a photograph. 

Wonwoo’s eyes snap onto him through the fog of his glasses. “Oh? Do you see me around a lot?”

No. But you’re difficult to ignore when you are there. Near the woods, camera tilted up to capture a squirrel darting up the limb of a tree. Always finding the beauty in the world around you, when you yourself are worthy of every pair of eyes.

Seungcheol chews the inside of his cheek. “Eh. Have you seen the little family of white rabbits burrowed near the willow tree?”

“No.”

“Oh.” In a twitch of desperation, he tugs his unfinished assignment out from beneath the weight of Advanced Arithmancy for Wizarding Success Volume IV.  “If I had a time turner, I swear, first thing I would do is beat my past self across the head. Advanced Arithmancy, what was I thinking? What kind of professor makes us write essays about the history of math?”

Wonwoo is looking at his notes again, quill tracing a line of neatly copied equations. “Why’d you take it, then?”

“Because I heard you—” were taking it too, he almost says. By some facet of Merlin’s grace, he manages to choke it off. 

“Heard I what?”

Frogs. He grapples for his notes sheet with sweaty palms. “Because I…heard you third years were taking it. Jihoon and Jun and you. And I knew one of you was going to tease me about it if I didn’t take it too.”

Wonwoo smiles down at his books, a soft sound like the sky breaking. “I wouldn’t tease you.”

Seungcheol exhales shakily. Doesn’t know if it’s from relief or torment. “No, you wouldn’t.”

In the span of a skipped heartbeat, Wonwoo reaches across the table to write something in the margin of his assignment. Their wrists brush, a little sliver of skin. 

<3

Seungcheol freezes. Looks up, wide-eyed. 

“Agrippa’s theorem,” Wonwoo explains, leaning back in his chair with silky calmness. “The value of an integral in Flamel’s continuum must be less than three.”

Right. Yes. 

In hindsight, studying with Wonwoo was an immensely stupid decision. He’s neither got much studying done, beyond having Agrippa’s theorem scrawled on his paper, nor has he managed to confess what he really wants. All he’s managed to do, really, is acquire more fire by which to fuel his burning comet of a crush.

A deep threaded silence overcomes the library. December is about to begin. Cloaks drape across the backs of wooden chairs. Tinsel winds around bookshelves and floating ladders. He feels the words at his throat, about to spill out like Amortentia from an overturned cauldron. 

Wonwoo asks first, as if pulling them straight from his mouth. “Are you going to the Yule Ball?”

Seungcheol’s mouth goes dry. Is he an Occlumens? Honestly, at this point, he wouldn’t put it past him to learn, except that if Wonwoo knew how to read minds, he’d probably be a lot more insufferable. Considering Seungcheol is halfway to putting him on a godly pedestal at any given moment. 

“What? Yeah. Probably. I think the whole house is going, so it wouldn’t make sense for me to stay back.” He lets himself laugh, meaning to be casual but sounding more like he’s choking on a plum. “You should really come too. It’ll be chaos, I’m sure, but it’ll be fun. I swear, no one will light anything on fiendfyre, lion’s honor and all. ”

Please come. 

Wonwoo hums, attention still fixed to his notes. “Jun told me you were going to ask someone.”

He feels his smile fade. 

Wen Junhui. Seungcheol had rather liked the fellow, but he sees now that he’s a devious snake to boot. 

“I haven’t asked anyone,” he adds quickly. 

Wonwoo’s quill stops. The hinges of Seungcheol’s mouth snap open again. 

“Actually—” do you want to come with me? Like, I’d be fine with that. 

A bell rings. Loudly, in a way that the ceiling seems to thrum in waves. Third hour classes are about to begin. 

Seungcheol is about to barrel right through the interruption, but Wonwoo’s head flies up, eyes blown wide. “Hyung, you said if you were late to Arithmancy classes once more this semester, you’d be kicked off Quidditch.”

Bats. Rats. Professor Na’s sallow-eyed face looms ominously in his memory. And his team, they’ve actually been making goals this year— “Son of a blast-ended skrewt,” he curses, scrabbling for his bag. 

“Wait, don’t forget your assignment.”

He snatches it from Wonwoo’s outstretched hand and sprints out of the library so fast he can’t even think to say goodbye. 

Arithmancy is miserable. He manages to drop into his seat two seconds before the second bell rings, and Professor Na seems actually disappointed at being unable to cripple the Gryffindor Quidditch team. 

Jihoon peers at him from the corner of his eye. 

Seungcheol’s face burns. “Let’s not talk about it.”

Operation “Get Wonwoo”

Attempt #3:

“I’m so tired of people bringing frozen snowballs inside,” Seungkwan rambles, waggling his finger so violently that his hair bounces. “And then the castle ghosts steal them and throw them at us when we’re trying to sleep, and it’s like ugh give me a break!”

Frowning, Seungcheol looks up from his potions essay. “The ghosts? They’ve never done that to me.”

Vernon snorts. “Yeah, because they’re scared of you. You’d probably, like, die of spite and pass to the ghostly realm just to punch ‘em stupid.”

“It’s because the gate near the greenhouse doesn’t have a detection charm on it,” Seungkwan goes on, unfettered by the ridiculously loud sounds of Vernon crunching a pear. “I don’t know how the council keeps forgetting to re-enchant it. I mean, even Wonwoo hyung uses it when he returns to dorms at midnight all mysterious—”

Seungkwan keeps talking. Vernon keeps crunching his pear. Around them, the candlesticks continue to flicker in golden waves. 

Very slowly, Seungcheol sets his quill down. 

~

So that night, for no reason at all, he waits by the castle gates near the greenhouse, leaning against moss-touched arches and trying not to scuff his shoes against the cobblestone. 

The greenhouse is charmed with eerie, artificial sunlight that makes it glow yellow like a dying lamp through the snow-damp midnight. Bored, he turns halfway, pressing a palm to the glass of the broad windows. In his first year, when herbology was a required course, he had planted a baby mandrake. Maybe it’s still alive in there somewhere. 

Shrill punk. 

What kind of flowers would Wonwoo like? Yellow ones? Buttercups and felix felicis like the way his eyes squint into half-lemons when he cheers? Or something more serene? Indigo, like the color of his laughter, and the robes he wore as a library prefect last year that made the line of his waist impossibly narrow?

The gate creaks open with the shrill screech of scraping rust. The shadow appears before its owner, stretched purple spilling across stone floor like a jar of ink. 

Wonwoo steps in like a phantom-touched breeze. Snow-hushed, shoulders curled in, wand clutched tight in one hand and camera in the other, glasses all fogged up with frost and heat. The gate is closed with a soft Silencio. He turns with an exhale. Sees Seungcheol. Freezes.  

“What are you—”

“You aren’t—”

Seungcheol’s mouth clacks shut.

Wonwoo blinks at him a few times. His house scarf, yellow and black striped, wraps around the entire bottom half of his face, blocking his nose and mouth from view. “You aren’t going to report me? For breaking curfew?”

“No. No, no, I was just checking on my, uh, mandrake.” Clearing his throat, he raps his knuckles to the nearby glass. 

Wonwoo eyes the greenhouse skeptically. “Not much to see. Mandrakes mature in the spring.” 

No ancient heating charm can stave off the frigid draft sweeping across the floors. And perhaps that’s for the best, because if it weren’t freezing, his face would probably be on fire. 

Seungcheol steps forward with a burst of courage, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Can I walk you back to your dorm?”

“Okay.” 

The reply is quick enough to startle. Seungcheol’s stomach does a flip of disbelief as he watches Wonwoo loop his camera around his throat. Oh, okay. Okay, great. 

The castle by night isn’t as scary as the first-years would have you believe. Rows of crimson torches cut through the darkness, casting soft bulbs of warmth from where they are mounted to the stone walls. Centuries of footsteps have eroded the stone floors so that they are almost velvety. Even the ghosts have become kinfolk. 

They pass the library, chained shut with two padbolt locks. Wonwoo’s footsteps are soft beside him. 

“Sorry for running off so quick, last time,” Seungcheol murmurs, sheepish. 

Wonwoo smirks. Small, sharp, lit by torchlight. “It’s good you didn’t get kicked off the team. I’d hate for you to not be there when Hufflepuff beats you.”

“Yah, the Gryffindor team is going to crush you guys.”

“Sure, sure.” Wonwoo’s chuckle fades into the ghost of a smile. Seungcheol keeps protesting with faux anger, just to watch it wax and wane, like the brilliance of the moonlight on a rocking sea. 

There’s a shortcut to the Hufflepuff dormitories. Joshua had taught him in exchange for five chocolate frogs and a charmed quill. You have to find the painting of a toad-faced witch with an ugly brown dress, and give her a sincere compliment. If she’s pleased enough, the hinges of the painting will swing open to a secret tunnel. Joshua said all Hufflepuffs learn about it in their first year. 

They walk right past it. Wonwoo doesn’t even glance over. 

Maybe he forgot about it. Or maybe he’s distracted. Seungcheol decides that reminding him would be morally wrong. 

“No, no really! You should come to our next match. Who are we against again?”

“The Slytherins.”

“Oh, then you better.”

He says it a smidge too loud in a hallway that is particularly echoey. It bounces off the ceiling like a stamp of utter doom. 

Better…

better…

better…

Hexes. Wonwoo claps a hand over his mouth, as if to halt the sound that has already escaped. 

There is a moment of tense, frozen quiet as they wait. And Seungcheol almost convinces himself that maybe they’re safe when—

“Ah, hah! I’ve got ‘em now, I’m going to catch you!”

Aw, blast it. 

The university doesn’t hire hall monitors. They do have a poltergeist named Sleeves, though, who functions as a hall monitor but is ten times more terrifying. Technically, there are two ghosts—Long Sleeves and Short Sleeves—who had been identical twins when they were alive, except one was tall and one was short. But they sound the same from a distance and Seungcheol doesn’t really fancy catching a glimpse to gauge which one this is. Sleeves has an awful knack for making you regret being found. 

He could probably worm his way out of it somehow, he’s gotten into trouble with the ghosts before, but Wonwoo—

Seungcheol grabs Wonwoo’s wrist and starts running. 

They need to hide. Most doors are charmed to not allow ghosts in. Wonwoo grabs the handle of a classroom door and tries it. Locked. 

Sleeves’ cackles echo around the corner. “Run, run, but I’m going to catch you!” 

Gods, Seungcheol is going to strangle that ghost someday, and it’ll be sweeter than beating the Slytherins at Quidditch. 

But in the meantime, he has to try to not be whacked upside the head by Professor Na. He sprints faster, trailing his free hand along the wall, trying to summon his spotty mental map of the castle. “There’s a tunnel somewhere around here,” he breathes. “I think left. No wait, right? Shoot.”

Wonwoo looks over his shoulder, neck twisting. “We could try making a run for Hufflepuff House.”

Seungcheol winces. “No, the ghosts usually block off the entrances to all the dorms when they think they’ve caught someone out past curfew.”

Sleeves’ laughter is closer now, ricocheting into his ears.

That’s when he sees it. A thatched, splintered little door, so dusty it’s almost obscured by the darkness. Broom closet. 

Before he even really has time to think about it, he’s yanking the door open, and shoving himself and Wonwoo inside. 

There’s a crash. Some loud clattering, and the sharp jab of something heavy falling against his side. By the time he manages to whisper a Lumos minima, Sleeves seems to be outside the door. He digs his tongue to the inside of his cheek, not daring to breathe. 

They’re close. 

One of Wonwoo’s hands presses to the wall behind his ear. His black hair is a curtain over his eyes, and his sweater rides an inch too far up his side—

Seungcheol forces himself to stare at the ceiling. It’s really rather low. The closet is as cramped as a coffin, littered with foggy jugs of Squeegee’s cleaning solvent (“Leaves your floors as shiny as the Sorcerer’s Stone!”) and ratty old brooms no good for flying. Pale particles of sawdust float between them. 

A thought rushes up his throat before he can stop it. “What were you—”

“Wait,” Wonwoo hisses. 

A flash of movement and a thud. Suddenly, Wonwoo’s other arm is caging him against the wall.  

“Sorry,” he rasps, breath so close it seeps into his skin. “Tripped.” 

Tripped. So casual, like Seungcheol isn’t imagining tangling his hands in his hair and locking their mouths together, like his nose didn’t almost brush Seungcheol’s throat, like their skin isn’t still touching. It takes every ounce of willpower in his body to just nod. 

Offering a smile that’s thin like a sunray and far too pretty, Wonwoo draws his wand and casts a low-muttered Muffliato. A column of yellow light bursts from his wand, coating the door in paling shimmers. Sound-proofing charm. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

For a December in the castle, it’s awfully warm in this damn closet. Seungcheol squeezes his eyes shut to compose himself—which is rather difficult when the prettiest man on campus is looming three centimetres away.  “I said, what were you doing out this late?”

There’s a long silence, the kind that makes this already tiny closet tighten like a noose around his neck. Wonwoo’s gaze rakes over him. Almost cautious. 

“I was taking pictures.”

“Oh.” Seungcheol feels rather lame. “In the night?”

“The rabbits, they get scared of all the people on campus. They only come out at night.” Wonwoo’s eyes catch a shine. “And the moonlight illuminates their fur really nice.”

It’s a moment before he can process. Then, everything clicks into place. His breath twists. “You were—you were taking pictures of the rabbits?”

Wonwoo’s face falls ever so slightly. “Oh. Yeah, I thought…you told me about them? Remember?”

Yes he did. Yes, he did. But he hadn't thought Wonwoo had heard, or cared. Not enough to sneak out of school for it. Or raise his precious camera towards it.

 “That’s cool,” he says, too-fast, chest puffing out. “That you’re taking pictures. You’re good at that. Did you see that little fluffy one? I think it’s the baby. Still got a black patch of fur on its stomach. It rolls in the snow sometimes and you can see it.”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“Did you take photos of it?”

Wonwoo falters. Just for a second. “You want to see?” Without waiting for an answer, he flicks his camera back on, jabbing one of the buttons with a trembling hand.  “I didn’t get too many, it was cold outside. Here.”

The screen is shaking. He grabs Wonwoo’s wrists in his hand and holds them steady. And the picture sharpens. 

A little, silver-bathed rabbit shines up at him. Crystals of snow scatter across its fur, and pale whiskers of white streak out into the midnight. 

Seungcheol looks up, breath hitched like a chunk of ice he can’t swallow. “Hey, that’s beautiful.”

But the person in front of him is even more so. The feathery shadows of Wonwoo’s eyelashes traipse down his cheekbone. Every part of him is delicate, every part pretty. His mouth parts a little, as if to say something, then settles into a pleased line. His hands are warm in Seungcheol’s palms. 

Would you go to the Yule Ball with me? It doesn’t even leave his throat this time. 

It would have been easier to ask if he hadn't liked Wonwoo so much. If he hadn't been so desperate to get it right. Because everyone always says Gryffindors do everything so rash, so risky, but he doesn’t want to risk this. He doesn’t want to screw this up. 

Yes, it’s easy enough to like Wonwoo. You don’t even have to try, really. It’s everything after that that’s hard. Pretending you’re not head over heels for him when someone talks about him. Pretending that your hands aren’t toffee-clammy under the table every time you catch eyes across the room. 

Wonwoo’s eyes tick between his. Hair mussed, lips pursed tight. 

A moment passes. 

Shoot, Choi Seungcheol, just say it. 

But it’s not him that speaks first. Wonwoo pulls back, attention drifting to the door. “I can’t hear him anymore.”

“Hear what?” Seungcheol croaks, dazed. 

“Sleeves?”

Right. Yes. The ghost, the whole reason they’re stuck here in the first place. 

Wonwoo’s hands break away. His own remain midair, half-curled and cold. 

“I’ll check,” he murmurs, reaching for his wand, because he’s losing confidence in his ability to not grasp at the collar of Wonwoo’s sweater and drag him into a kiss.

The halls are empty and narrow and taste a little bit like disappointment. Once he gives the all clear, Wonwoo slips off towards the Hufflepuff common rooms. His shadow seeps into the greater darkness and disappears all at once.

It’s quiet again. 

Exhaling, Seungcheol slumps against the wall. 

Operation “First Date”

Attempt #4:

Frankly, he’s a little tired of being interrupted by house shenanigans, school bells, nosy poltergeists. If Seungcheol were a smidge more paranoid, he would have convinced himself that it wasn’t meant to be. 

But he isn’t. And he’s no coward, either. Between Quidditch practice and dinner, he hovers in midair on his broom, hair curling with sweat, winter uniform half-pinned, planning. 

Here are the basics: Wonwoo is pretty and smart. He likes herbology less and photography more. He never studies by the lake, but he has a favorite table in the library, and a striped stray cat he feeds minced fish beneath the willow tree. He tops charms and arithmancy every year, even though he lends out his notes to every puppy-eyed classmate around.  

And he’s rejected four people for the Yule Ball. Including both the Slytherin and Ravenclaw prefects. Jihoon has been keeping tally. 

Hogsmeade is a good place to do it. Over takeaway mugs of hot butterbeer and wax paper squares of fudge. Near the fountains at the center of the village, where luck-kissed coins will glitter up at them, bronze and gold. 

“It sounds like it’s going to work,” Seokmin yells down, from where he’s weaving loops between the goalposts on the Mopsy 2000 broomstick Seungcheol bought him. “But what if something happens?”

Story of his life. He has a backup plan. If something happens—a blizzard, a runaway hippogriff, Hogsmeade burns down, et cetera—they can have an indoor picnic in the interhouse gathering chambers beneath the library. It’s small, cosy, and best of all, hardly anyone knows about it. So no one will interrupt them. 

He’s learned enough from History of Magic (or Chan’s inspiring recitals of it, anyway) to know that legendary warlock Nicholas Flamel only bested his trials through preparation. When his workshop blew up, he already had another one ready for him. Now, Seungcheol is no alchemist, but the principles of the matter are probably the same. 

Tucking the parchment into his pocket and the quill into his fist, he makes a birdnose dive for ground. 

~

Despite his best efforts, they only share one class: Magical Government II. Wonwoo always sits two tables up, head lilting to the side, hands folded beneath his chin, as if pre-revolution power structures are his favorite thing in the world. 

Maybe that’s another thing he likes about Wonwoo. That unfettered, unabashed sincerity. That warmth he’ll ladle out like it’s nothing—like having his attention fixed on you, whole, swan-eyed and swelling, isn’t enough to bow a grown man over. Like there aren’t a hundred lovestruck gazes following his every tic, his every half-smile. 

And still. Still, sometimes he will look at Seungcheol, will find his gaze across a room or a table or nothing at all, and give him hope. Hope. A clawing disease that you pretend is beautiful. A stupid, stupid thing that makes you do even more stupid things. Like a parasite. Like this. 

“Okay, go over it again,” Jun hisses, hands flapping. 

“Yah. This is the fourth time, you’re driving me nuts,” Seungcheol snaps, like he’s any less nervous. “I’m going to walk up right now and ask him to Hogsmeade. If he asks, I’ll just say my friends are coming along too. You guys will leave us alone after the fudge shop. We’ll walk to the fountain, and I'll ask him to the ball. Okay?”

Jun flashes him a boxy, faintly anxious smile that doesn’t tell him much at all. 

Godrick, he just hopes Wonwoo doesn’t say no. He’s lost sleep over this plan, ironing out each wrinkle, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Threads of potential outcomes litter his brain like cobwebs.

Wonwoo says yes. Wonwoo says yes and then decides that he’d really rather not. Wonwoo says no. Wonwoo reveals himself to be a veela, and then says no. Wonwoo doesn’t like fudge. Wonwoo doesn’t like fountains. 

The bell rings. He looks up. 

The table is empty. 

Wonwoo is late to class. But it’s not possible. Seungcheol blinks. Rubs his eyes until white-hot sparks burst across his vision. 

“Maybe he’s been moved to Magical Government three.” Jun snickers. “He’s the only one who’d actually take that course.”

Seungcheol spends the rest of class staring at the door. Jumping up every time it swings open, only to sink back into his chair when it’s just a passing ghost.

Well rats. He doesn’t think Nicholas Flamel had to deal with this. 

~

He can’t find Wonwoo. Not at the Hufflepuff house table, not beneath the willow tree, not sneaking back into the school through the greenhouse gates. 

So here’s the fact: Jeon Wonwoo has gone missing. 

“Ooh.” Soonyoung rubs his hands together, making a noise eerily similar to an orc’s battle cry. “Count me in. I love a good mystery.”

His agony hardly counts as a good mystery, but he’s too anxious to even bite back. 

“The wizard Nicholas Flamel tried three hundred and forty seven times before creating the Sorcerer’s Stone,” Hansol says. 

“Yeah.” Chan perks up at the mention of his favorite inspirational story. “I’m sure Wonwoo is worth at least a few more tries.”

Seungcheol chews on the inside of his cheek, trying not to stab his chopsticks through his plate. “I don’t know. What if he says yes to someone else before I can ask at all?”

Jeonghan bats a dismissive hand. “Eh, he won’t. He’s been rejecting everyone so far.”

“Six in total,” Jihoon pipes up helpfully. “Including the Hufflepuff Quidditch team captain.”

His withering glare is only cut off by a loud screeching of “Guys!” and the loud ricochets of footsteps clapping across the stone floors of Great Hall. Twisting, he finds a massive blur he can barely quantify as Kim Mingyu rushing down the corridor and towards them like a bolt of lightning. 

Seungcheol scrambles to catch him as he barrels into their table and nearly flies right over it. “Yah, be careful. What’s wrong?”

Righting himself, Mingyu slams a piece of parchment down. “Hogsmeade is closed for the next two weeks. Ministry spies have spotted a faction of dark wizards near the gates. They’re sending in—” He pauses to take a long gulp of the water Chan passed him. “aurors and cursebreakers to sweep the area.”

Okay. Alright, okay. Hogsmeade is closed, so they can’t do that. Interhouse common room it is, then. He’ll have to visit the kitchens to put a little picnic together, maybe grab some flowers from the greenhouse, but it shouldn't be hard at all. 

He just manages to catch the edge of Joshua’s sleeve as he passes. “Shua, wait, do you know where Wonwoo is?”

“Oh, he—” Joshua does a double take when he registers the whole table of expectant eyes. “Wow, is this his fan club? I’ll have to tell him, he’ll be happy.” 

“Shua.”

He glances back down at Seungcheol, smile fading into something remembered. “Wonwoo is sick right now.”

Seungcheol’s heart sinks into his stomach like a weight tossed into sea. “Sick? Is it serious? They were talking about a sirenpox outbreak near the coast but—”

Joshua laughs, once, light. “No, it’s a common cold. He’s been out in the snow too much, snapping pictures.” He mimes clicking a camera, one eye squinted shut. “But he’ll be stuck with it till Sunday, at least. I figured I’d bring him some soup.”

He’s already half out of his seat, grabbing one of the heat-charmed takeaway bowls stacked between them. “No, you have to study for your alchemy test, right? I’ll take it to him.”

“My alchemy test isn’t until Janu—I mean yes, I’d better get studying.”

~

The Hufflepuff dorms are empty and barren of sound when Seungcheol steps in. He’s not surprised. Care of Magical Creatures II and Medicinal Herbology overlap on Wednesdays. 

Where the Gryffindors have been gaudy, the Hufflepuffs have created a holy place. Spots of winter sunlight from the windows dance across the buttercup-yellow walls. Soft armchairs and age-sunk beanie bags cluster around the common room. All the heat from the kitchens crawls in through the vents, steeping the space with oven heady warmth. 

Wonwoo is dormmates with Shua, two rooms down the hall. A large poster of a badger with sunglasses is pinned to the door. Seungcheol raps his knuckles against it.

Wonwoo’s voice, tiny and raspy but unmistakable, comes muffled through the door. “Josh?”

“No. It’s me, Seungcheol.” He pauses. “I brought soup?”

When he opens the door, Wonwoo is moving to sit up against his pillow. His glasses are skewed open on the nightstand, eyes bleary, nose flushed red against the pale sheen on his skin. His hair is a mess, feathers of black fluffed up in the air like the underbelly of a firebird.

He looks soft. Still unbearably pretty, but so different from the porcelain figure who cuts through campus, perfect and perfectly untouchable. Seungcheol feels another little bit of his heart surrender through his exhale.  

“Hyung?”

“Hi,” he murmurs, shutting the door. “How do you feel?”

“I—” Wonwoo falters. He looks down at himself—sheets wrinkled, the goose gray alchemy shirt sagging down with sleep—and back up again. One of his hands flies into his hair and starts combing it back like that won’t make it worse. “Did Josh hyung send you?”

“No. I wanted to visit.” A flush breaks out across his face as he says it, but the words emerge anyhow. “Want some soup?”

Wonwoo’s mouth opens. Then closes. 

Must be a yes. All sick people want soup. Seungcheol takes a chair from the foot of Joshua’s bed and drags it over, pulling out napkins in crumpled tufts. “Here, put these on your lap so you don’t spill anything.” Carefully, he snaps the lid off the container and slides the spoon in. 

Wonwoo shifts closer, hair flopping into his eyes. “Spicy chicken?”

“Bone broth.” He watches Wonwoo’s nose wrinkle. “Don’t make that face, spicy things aren’t good for your throat. This’ll help you sleep.”

After a moment, Wonwoo reaches for the spoon. Stops halfway. 

He crosses his arms. “Go on. Eat.”

Wonwoo’s lips purse. “My hands are cold.”

“Really?” Seungcheol presses his palm to one of them. It’s like a block of ice. “Merlin, Wonu, don’t you have handwarmers?”

“I ran through all of them.”

“All of them?”

Silence. Clumps of snow stick to the window and condense into shimmering drops of light. Sighing, Seungcheol takes the bowl in his lap. “Keep them under the blankets and warm them up a little. I’ll feed you the first few.” 

Mouth curving into something pleased, Wonwoo leans in, so far out that he nearly falls out of bed.

He catches his elbow in a flash. “Woah, sit back, you’re dizzy. Let me come closer.”

Wonwoo obeys, accepting the first spoonful with closed eyes and a quiet wince. Seungcheol brushes away some of the sweat on his brow. 

“Shua said you caught a cold because you were out in the snow too much?”

“That’s—” Wonwoo’s voice cracks. 

“Don’t talk too much, it’ll make it worse.” He gives him another spoon before bending over to retrieve the bag he’d stuffed beneath the chair. “I thought I’d stop by the healer’s office on the way. I wasn’t sure what symptoms you had so I grabbed some of everything. They were suspicious. Nurse thought I was selling cough syrup on the black market or something.”

Wonwoo laughs. It comes out in a breath, eyes squeezed shut. 

He clicks his tongue, lifting the spoon again. “Of course, the moment I told them it was for you, they practically tied it all up with a ribbon.”

This time, when Wonwoo sips, some of it dribbles down his chin. Seungcheol dabs it away. “Once you’re done with this, you can take some fever medicine and go back to sleep. I’ll leave some immune boosting draught on your nightstand, have it before tomorrow.”

A hum. 

He ends up feeding Wonwoo the rest of the soup, scraping the spoon until all the little pieces of carrot have been scooped up. He’s pouring the cough syrup and fever medicine into little cups when Wonwoo speaks again. 

“Hyung.”

“Hmm?”

“I feed a cat under the willow tree.”

“I know.” He says it before thinking. Freezes. 

Wonwoo doesn’t seem perturbed, though, rolling over until his neck is propped against the pillows. “Would you feed it tomorrow? It waits for me.”

Feed the cat. It sounds like a trivial thing, but feels bigger somehow. As if Wonwoo is trusting him with something priceless, a glass relic handed over the counter without a second glance. Seungcheol manages a nod. “Okay.”

Wonwoo sniffles. “And would you take my camera and get a picture of it?”

He can’t help a scoff as he caps the bottles. “Do you want me to catch a cold too? Like you?”

A drowsy smile. “I try to take a picture every day. It’s so easy to forget—” He yawns, head tipping back, hand stretching over his mouth. “how pretty things are when you really pay attention to them. That’s why sunsets shock you every time you see one. Cause you’re never really thinking about them until they’re right in front of you.”

Pretty. Wonwoo is pretty even when you don’t pay attention to him. Even when just mentioned, even in the shadow of a thought. Like a flower pressed into an old book, whose colors may have drained on the pages, but burn vivid in memories. 

The room is lined with printout pictures. Clipped up with clothespins, pasted to the curtains, the corkboard. Little moving images of light dancing off windchimes, and the firebird that used to live on the elder tree beyond campus. 

Huffing, Seungcheol pulls the blinds back shut, draining out all the pearly winter light in an instant. Cloaked in fresh shadows, Wonwoo swallows his medicine and blinks up at him through a curtain of sleep-crumpled lashes. 

“Will you come tomorrow?”

He freezes midstep. “Do you—do you want me to?”

Wonwoo’s hum is belated and sleep-heavy as he turns back over. “Bring the spicy soup.”

~

“So you didn’t ask?”

“He was sick, why would I ask when he was sick?”

Chan clicks his tongue. “Yeah, he was sick and delirious, hyung! It was your only chance for him to say yes!”

Mingyu and Seokmin make identical ohhhs. 

Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. “Do you like being on the Quidditch team, Channie?”

The smile crumbles off of Chan’s face.

Operation “Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Jelly Beans”

Attempt #5:

Seungcheol doesn’t quite understand the latest name Soonyoung comes up with, and no one really bothers explaining it to him. All he knows is that the Slytherins seem awfully pleased about it, giggling all secretive in those devious little snake huddles they seem to form on instinct. That’s enough to convince him to avoid the topic. 

Early December is quickly searing by. It’s the time of year he reminds himself of all the helpful little charms which he learned in grade school and then proceeded to forget. Particularly helpful: Exaresco, to dry off his socks every time he has to slog through a coat of snow halfway up his knees. 

The Ball looms on a liquid white horizon. Most people already have dates, even the first years. Shockingly, Wonwoo doesn’t. Yet. He’s beginning to suspect someone is feeding him wrong information. Or maybe Wonwoo is just ridiculously difficult to impress. 

“Someone asked Seungkwan by letter,” Seokmin offers, over a cup of hot chocolate. 

Lashes of yellow light bleed across the room. Seungcheol rubs his eyes. “Did he say yes?”

“No.” Sheepish, Seokmin shifts in the cozychair. “But Wonwoo might appreciate it. He seems like he would like something from the heart.”

The thing is, as horrible as Seungcheol sometimes is with conversation, he’s maybe ten times worse with writing things down. Articulation is for Ravenclaws. Poetry has never been his suite. Forget poetry, even penmanship is apparently a struggle. Minghao and Seungkwan bemoan his handwriting so much, it’s a wonder that anyone can read it at all. 

Then again, after four attempts, he’s no closer to asking Wonwoo than before.

“Guess I could try,” he mutters groggily, planting his feet on the carpet like he’s trying to seal it. “Okay. Sleep well.”

Seokmin smiles in that soft, memory-faint way he does at the end of the day. “Goodnight, hyung.”

~

Which is how he finds himself in the owlery, two days later, with an envelope clutched so tightly in his hands it’s practically folded in half. 

Inside, a piece of parchment entirely too large for what is written on it. He hardly even remembers what he scribbled there, sweat-soaked and hair mussed, eyes nearly glued together at three AM. 

“You sure you spelled everything right?” Vernon had asked, eyes dead serious. “I can proofread.”

Getting cheekier by the day. Seungcheol prods his tongue into his cheek, hand hovering near the wax seal press. Of course he spelled everything right. As long as the message gets across. Wonwoo has probably gotten plenty of love letters before. Surely not all of them had impeccable grammar. 

Still. He flicks the paper open again. It can’t hurt to be sure. 

“Is that for your family?”

What. 

Like a summoned spirit, Wonwoo looms at the doorway. 

Seungcheol slams the parchment down, to a cloud of sawdust and owl feathers, and quickly creases it shut with his thumb.

“What? Oh W-Wonwoo.” A nervous chuckle forces its way out of his throat. “It’s dusty in here, don’t come in.”

Wonwoo laughs in a breath, stepping closer. “That’s fine, I’m all better. All the bone broth helped.” 

“That’s good,” he croaks, not quite sure what to do with his hands. “Do you have a class after this?”

“Just geomancy.” Wonwoo scratches his nose. 

“Eh.” After a moment of awkward twitching, he turns and starts grappling for an envelope, stomach littered with the familiar butterflies he gets when he sees Wonwoo. At literally any other time, he’d be thanking his lucky stars to have bumped into him by chance. But of course it had to happen now. Maybe someone is trying to sabotage him. 

Behind him, Wonwoo clears his throat. “Is the letter…for your family?’

“My family?” Seungcheol mutters, fixing the wax into the seal and pressing it down. “No. Yes. Yeah, it is.”

Wonwoo shifts aside, watching him try to pick an owl from the rows of suspended nests lining the walls. “Didn’t you have your own owl?”

“Kkuma’s on vacation,” he mumbles. She’s enjoying the beaches somewhere, so he’ll have to settle for one of the school’s messaging owls instead. A small brown one hoots, swooping down to rest on his shoulder and tilting its beak down expectantly. Seungcheol is just about to give it the letter when—

“Well, that one can’t travel long distances.”

Hexes. “No it can’t,” he agrees. Now, just to maintain the ruse, he’ll have to shell out extra for a ridiculously large long-distance owl, whose epic journey will be limited to taking a few turns around campus before flying into Great Hall tomorrow. 

But this owl is simply unwilling to leave, even when he tries to shoo it off. It ruffles its chocolate-mottled feathers and gives an offended little hoot! when Seungcheol tries to say goodbye with a few discouraging pats. 

“They can tell where the letter is going to go,” Wonwoo says, eyes curling with the slow stretch of his smile. Almost smug, he leans back against the bench. “If you just tell it the name of the person who’s going to receive it, it’ll decide to stay or leave.”

The owl honest-to-Godrick nods. 

Well this is wonderful. He squints at the owl on his shoulder, then at the man standing across from him. Maybe they’re in it together. In cahoots. Merlin, he’s heard so many awful jokes from a fever-delirious Wonwoo within the past week that he can hardly think straight. 

Very carefully, he tucks the envelope into his robes. “I think I forgot to write something. In my letter. To my mother. I’d better go back.”

Wonwoo cocks his head, hair scattering in soft strands. “There’s quills in here.”

“No!” It’s so loud he startles a few owls from their sleep. The room fills with a chorus of indignant hooting, which is really horrible background music for his growing panic. “I mean, I can’t. I have a favorite quill.”

Wonwoo’s smile widens. “Ah, really?”

Shit, of course he doesn’t have a favorite quill. Stationery. Of all the ridiculous excuses. 

What’s the point anymore? Nothing he means to do seems to work out. 

He sets his letter down on the bench with a thwack and crosses his arms. “Look. I just wanted—”

His speech is rudely impaled by the thin, pitched squeal of the door swinging back open. 

Seungcheol turns, exasperated. 

A tall Slytherin in a shimmering velvet turtleneck hovers there, silver chains looping his neck. Minghao’s eyes are wide, mouth curled into a shocked little o. “Hyung?”

“Myungho?”

“What are you—” Minghao peeks past him and finds Wonwoo. If possible, his eyebrows fly up even further. “Oh?”

Seungcheol quickly hides his envelope behind his back before Minghao can see it. If either Jeonghan or Soonyoung hear about his newest plan (or, Godrick forbid, somehow got their scrummy little hands on his letter) he thinks he’d have to self combust in the Forbidden Forest. 

He glances at Wonwoo, nervous. 

Wonwoo, who doesn’t seem to be having nearly as much fun anymore. His smile has fallen into something tight, and his eyes have narrowed. Gaze flicking between him and Minghao. Then the letter. 

Who knows what he’s thinking. Seungcheol isn’t sure he wants to. There’s threats all around. Jeon Wonwoo’s suspicion on one side, Xu Minghao’s judgment on the other. It’s best he gets out of this place as fast as possible. 

“Okay. Well. This has been nice. Bye, Myungho-yah.” He chances another look at Wonwoo. “Bye, Wonwoo.”

To his utmost horror, Minghao catches his arm as he tries to squeeze past. “Wait, I had a question for you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Wonwoo peels off the bench. 

Seungcheol tries not to look impatient. “Hmm?”

All the sawdust in the air must be tricking his eyes, because unless he’s mistaken, Minghao’s face twists into something almost shy. As if embarrassed, he looks past Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Wonwoo hyung, you don’t have to stay.”

“It’s fine,” Wonwoo says shortly. His jaw is almost a perfect angle. 

Blinking, Minghao turns back to him. “You know you’ve always done nice things for me, haven’t you?”

Now, what could that mean? He blinks, trying to decipher how this statement could possibly be turned against him. Unless… “Yah, Seo Myungho, you can’t just ask me to sabotage my team! I know why you’re asking, Gryffindor is going to beat you guys by so much it’ll be embarrassing, but Quidditch is a fair sport and as captain—”

“You’re such a jock.” Minghao smacks him, any semblance of shyness dissipated. “Not everything is about Quidditch.”

His other hand is beginning to cramp from holding the letter at such an odd angle behind his back. He shifts from one foot to the other, equal parts offended and impatient. “Well then what is it?”

Pressing his lips together, Minghao tucks a strand of jet black hair behind his ear. His mouth opens. 

The bell rings shrilly, startling the little owls into another frenzy. 

And Wonwoo doesn’t move. 

Seungcheol blinks, turning in a daze as feathers scatter around them. “Oh. Don’t you have geomancy?”

Wonwoo’s nose twitches. “No.”

“But you said—”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.” Puzzled, he turns back to Minghao. This is all feeling very fishy. “What were you going to ask?”

“I was just wondering if you wanted to—”

Wonwoo goes very stiff. 

“—take care of my owl over winter break.”

Owl. Owl? 

“You have an owl?” he blurts. Minghao has always struck him as a bit of a cat person, if he bothered to have pets at all. Then again, he’d probably get fussy about all the fur getting stuck in his vintage velvet sweaters. 

“Don’t you remember Pi Cheolin?”

Minghao points to the absolutely massive black void that roosts on the uppermost nest, a solid three metre radius away from all the other owls. At the sound of his name, Pi Cheolin swivels his head and blinks down at them with the sort of half-lidded distaste that Seungcheol figures he probably somehow inherited from Minghao. 

“You’re good with animals,” Minghao prods. “He can give you company over winter break.”

“Yah—”

Wonwoo settles against the bench again, eyes softened back into amusement. 

By the time Minghao finagles him into petsitting Pi Cheolin (“I can sleep easy knowing my baby is in good hands, right hyung?”) and the two of them are alone again, the owls have settled back down. Exhausted, Seungcheol stares at the envelope in his hands, now irreparably crumpled from the way he’d been clutching it. 

“He knew you’d do it.”

He looks up. Wonwoo has straightened, satchel in one hand, mouth faded from the burst of humor into something soft. 

“Hm?”

“That’s why he asked you.” Wonwoo raises his chin, as if gesturing to the shadow Minghao left behind. “Because he knew you’d do it.”

Shame blooms in his chest like a belated weed. “You think I’m a pushover?”

“No.” Wonwoo looks at him, eyes soft, melting brown in the glassy winter light. Tufts of floating owl feathers and sawdust float around him in halos. “I think you’re a good person. And a good friend. And I think that can be hard.” He fiddles with his glasses. “You can get in your own way sometimes.”

Seungcheol swallows. 

Wonwoo smiles. Small, shy. Sweet. “You should mail that letter.” 

~

The letter, in fact, does not get mailed. 

That evening, he comes back up to the owlery to send it off properly. Sets it down on the bench, and turns around to feed Pi Cheolin. 

By the time he turns back, the letter is gone, and all that’s left is a bar of papaya-pink sunlight streaming in from the upper window. 

“What the hell?”

He whirls back. The rest of the owls stare back from their perches with wide, innocent eyes, except Pi Cheolin, who gives him a mildly disgusted expression. 

~

“I swear he looked all scary.”

“Come on. It’s Wonwoo. Golden boy. How bad could it be?”

“Why don’t you try it next, then?”

“I think I—”

Even for a Friday, the common room is rather crowded. A little congregation sprawls across the fleece rug, most of them not even Gryffindors. Jeonghan is swinging his legs. Soonyoung is smiling so wide his cheeks look like marshmallow. Minghao…isn’t even supposed to be here. 

“Myungho? Didn’t you have to leave for home today?”

Joshua bats a dismissive hand at him. Too tired to deal with it, he slogs to bed. 

~

It smells like vanilla and cinnamon in the tailorshop, motes of light beading across the edges of mirrors. Rows and rows of silk robes so fragile they seem to be spun of water. Velvet swatches in every possible color. Stiff gold flowers embroidered on collars that bloom and bud when they catch the light. 

Joshua spends too much time scrutinizing two samples of navy blue fabric which seem otherwise identical, before going for a black velvet instead. A pair of charmed scissors slice the cloth down the middle, and fold it neatly on the tailors’ bench. 

Humming, Joshua steps away from the fabrics and meanders towards the shelf of golden threads. “You should get your robes fitted too, Cheol. There’s a huge Yule Ball discount for customs.”

Seungcheol grunts, head lolling back against the back of the dressing room chair. “What’s the point?”

Joshua frowns, fishing out a spool of shimmering thread from the box and examining it against the light. “What do you mean? You can’t go naked. I mean, there’s definitely an audience for that, but—”

“I’m not going to go at all.” Seungcheol decides, sitting up in a half-crunch. “It’s in two weeks. I don’t have anyone to go with. It’ll be pathetic. I should focus on the Gryffindor Slytherin match.”

“Hey. You still have two weeks to ask someone.” Joshua turns around and fixes him with a suddenly serious look. “By someone, I mean Wonwoo. You should ask Wonwoo.”

He doesn’t even ask how the word got around. At this point, it’s probably common knowledge. “I’ve tried. Ask me how many times. Five.”

“Sixth time’s the charm.”

“Shua.”

“What, did Nicholas Flamel create the Sorcerer’s Stone in one go?”

“Shua.”

“Look.” Tossing the thread aside, Joshua settles into the chair next to him. “Wonwoo isn’t going to pick the Slytherin prefect because she’s an upcoming model, or the Hufflepuff captain because he wrote him a poem once. That’s not—that’s not him.”

Great. Seungcheol slumps further in his seat. “You’re a Hufflepuff. What do Hufflepuffs like, then?”

“A lot of us are pushed around.” Joshua presses his lips together. “Hufflepuffs, I mean. It’s easy, because most of us don’t put up a fight. But we all want someone who values us beyond the novelty of a date. And none of those people made an effort, Cheol.”

He raises an indignant hand. “I tried to take him to Hogsmeade.”

“Not like that. After you two studied together, Wonwoo kept talking about the rabbits you mentioned. At lunch, between classes. That night he came back late to our room, he pinned the pictures he’d taken right above his bed. Immediately. I caught him looking at them, like, fifty times over the next three days.” Joshua tilts his head, eyes softened by fondness. “And I think that was you.” 

It feels like someone is scrambling his brain up with a spatula. “Eh?”

“Making him feel happy about what he loves. Like it isn’t stupid. Being able to do that means you value him, even the sometimes silly bits.” His attention drifts to the window. “Oh, look at that. Speaking of the devil.”

Seungcheol blinks. 

The bell above the door rings. Like a flicked switch, Joshua’s face falls into exaggerated shock. “Oh! Wonwoo!”

He twists and chokes, flying up in his seat. 

Wonwoo stands there, shoulders drawn tight, eyes wide like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn't have. His hair is wilder than usual, curled in tufts around his ears as if he’d been messing with it. His gaze darts between the two of them in rapid swishes. 

Seungcheol gawps. 

Joshua grins. “Are you here to be fitted for robes too?”

“I…” Wonwoo swallows, fists falling limp at his side. “Just thought I could keep you company.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet.” Joshua hums, hands clasped. “As expected of our school heartthrob, what a steal for whoever ends up with him. I hope you don’t mind, Cheol. I told him we were going to the tailorshop together.”

Seungcheol blanches, heart lodged in his throat. “That’s okay.” From his godforsaken seat, he watches Joshua prance away with all the smug poise of a waltzer.  

He wonders what Wonwoo would wear to the ball. Maybe his house colors. Or maybe something sleek black, something that brings out the gleam in his eyes. High collars for his long, swan throat. Delicate and soft, or angular and fine. It doesn’t matter, really. He could show up in rags and be fawned over for the evening. 

“Don’t you want anything?”

He startles. Glances at Wonwoo and pulls his gaze away just as fast, clearing his throat. “No, no, I’m fine. Shua just wanted a second opinion, and everyone else was busy.” He runs a hand through his hair, self-conscious. Pulls out an onyx black feather. Pi Cheolin. 

“Oh.” After a moment, Wonwoo’s mouth lilts. “He said you were getting fitted together. Couple sets.”

Seungcheol is mortified. First, that Joshua talks about him with Wonwoo, because that uncovers a whole cauldronful of highly embarrassing possibilities. Second, that Jeonghan’s brand of humor seems to be spreading like dragonpox through the friend group. 

Wonwoo’s hands have drifted into his pockets. Swallowing, he looks down at his shoes. “What were you guys talking about?”

There’s no use sneaking around it, if he’s going to ask anyway. Besides, Jeonghan has made it very clear in the past that he’s a rotten liar. “Just…you know.” He thumbs the corner of his mouth. “The Yule Ball.”

There’s a long silence. 

When Wonwoo speaks again, his voice is tight. “It’s coming up soon.”

It’s hard not to notice. Their premier a cappella group (Pitchcraft and Rizzardry) has been practicing romantic ballads next to the Quidditch hoops. Apparently the ice cold wind is “good for vocal training”. Chan and Seungkwan have joined the planning committee, making loud shushing noises each time the other gets too close to spilling the color of the balloons or something (they’re going to be yellow).

“Yeah.” He allows himself a wince. “It’s pretty crazy.”

Oh. This is a good chance for a segway, now that he thinks about it. There’s privacy enough, something pretty playing from the antique record player, and he’s not dressed too shabby. 

Wonwoo teeters, robes swaying like the swings of a nervous butterfly. “Definitely. Uh, on top of everything, there’s been so many people asking me to the Ball. I got, like, three proposals in the past week.” He trails off expectantly, combing a lock of hair behind his ear. 

Seungcheol clamps his mouth shut on the words Do you… and clears his throat. “Must be annoying.”

Confusion wilts like a plucked flower across Wonwoo’s face. Before he can ask about it, Joshua’s voice cuts through from the other side of the store. 

“Wonwoo’s been really interested in Quidditch these days.”

Wonwoo turns pink. 

Seungcheol’s jaw falls open. “Oh really?”

“Well—”

He blurts it out before he can plan it. “You should come to our next match. Playing teams get to reserve special seats near the pitch, I’ll save you one. The seats are heated and everything, you won’t catch another cold.”

There’s a hush. For a moment, he thinks he’s spoken too much, too far. 

But Wonwoo’s face lights up like the sun cresting above a hill at dawn. A smile bursts across his mouth. Tiny. Pleased. Golden rays splay across his silhouette as he curls his hands together. 

Seungcheol feels something in his heart come alive again. That little thing called hope that had been dormant, now thawed into flame. 

“You’ll come?” he tries, softer now. 

“Okay.” Wonwoo fixes his glasses, bottom lip teased between teeth. “I’ll come.”

[a brief interlude: Wonwoo's pov]

The morning is young. A bar of sunlight creeps across Great Hall, and, perfectly on cue, a flurry of owls burst in through the open window. 

It’s magic. Letters and feathers, cascading down from the ceiling like tufts of snow. Wonwoo’s hands would itch for his camera if he wasn’t so preoccupied waiting for his own letter. He’s even pushed his oatmeal away so the envelope won’t fall in. 

Joshua spreads a thin layer of butter across his toast. “Are you expecting something?”

He hums. The initial storm of owls is thinning out now, fewer and fewer circling above. 

A letter lands on Seungkwan’s head. While he starts muttering something about incompetent birds, Wonwoo plucks the envelope away. Maybe Seungcheol’s owl has bad aim. 

For Boo Seungkwan. From Eomma. 

He gives it back to Seungkwan and fixes his gaze back above. Maybe Seungcheol’s owl is late. 

Joshua frowns, leaning in again. “Were you going to get something from home, Wonwoo-yah?”

The last tawny owl departs and the window slams shut behind it. Alright. He turns to his cooling oatmeal. 

The letter couldn’t have been meant for someone else, right? But Seungcheol had been trying to hide it from him. Or maybe he was trying to hide it from Minghao. Maybe the intended recipient is a Slytherin. Did he encourage Seungcheol to mail a love letter to a Slytherin?

Automatically, he looks at the Slytherin table. Yoon Jeonghan has a letter in his hands. He looks happy about it. All happy and smug. Stop it, don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe Seungcheol didn’t mail it. Or maybe it was meant for his family after all. 

Seungkwan seems to have come down from his rant about owls and audacity, now spooning honey into his tea. “Wonwoo hyung, I heard you rejected someone else yesterday.”

Wonwoo tries to be polite about it. He feels a little bad, to be honest, but this one had cornered him in the library and nearly spilled a coffee over his camera, so his conscience isn’t too bruised. 

Scoffing, Seungkwan continues. “Well, if you’re waiting for a special someone to propose, make sure they know about it. They’re far too comfortable if you ask me. Let them know that you’re a very desirable date and they’d better hurry up. You’re tall and fit and your visuals are top-notch.”

Yeah. He’s tall and fit and his visuals are top-notch. Even, apparently, when he’s sick, which Seungcheol had muttered about when he thought Wonwoo was asleep. He has no reason to think Seungcheol would ask some Slytherin. Especially after Wonwoo has given him so many chances. 

“Really?” he murmurs. “You think that’ll work?”

“Of course.” Flashing him a thumbs up, Seungkwan fixes on Joshua, who is rising to his feet. “Going so early? Got a lot of plans for today?”

Joshua smiles sweetly down at them. “Oh, nothing much. I’m going shopping with Seungcheol. Let’s see if I can convince him to get matching robes, couple-style.”

Couple-style.

Okay. 

“You can join us if you like. No worries if not.”

Wonwoo watches him leave, oatmeal untouched. 

Couple-style. 

Operation “Homecoming i.e. Get Seungcheol and Wonwoo to go to the Yule Ball together part 2”

Attempt #6:

The university is beautiful from above, long stretches of stone beneath crystal snow. Colorful dots of people scatter across the courtyard like rainbow gumdrops. Maybe one of them is Wonwoo. 

Westward, the sun is setting, that final beam of crimson light knocking across the frosted hills. It’ll be night soon. He needs to rest up. There’s more than one thing he’s banking on winning tomorrow. 

Exhaling, Seungcheol adjusts his goggles and dives for the pitch. 

~

Halfway into dinner, Wen Junhui looks around and frowns. “Was there a costume party? Why are you all still wearing your Quidditch uniforms?”

Seokmin’s mouth drops open. “The finals match is tomorrow? The thing everyone’s been talking about for weeks?”

“Oh, cool.” Jun blinks drowsily, holding his eyes open with strained fingers. “It’s not against Hufflepuff, right?

“What? No, that would be horrible.”

Apparently, the Hufflepuff captain was so dejected by his Yule Ball rejection that the team went and lost the semifinals match against Slytherin. It kind of worked out in his favor though, that Gryffindor isn’t playing Hufflepuff. This way, when the trophy is in his arms and he finds Wonwoo in the crowd, it won’t seem callous. 

This, of course, is dependent on two things: One, that Gryffindor wins the game. Two, that Wonwoo shows up. 

One of these, Seungcheol is confident about. The other…well. He’s been badgering Joshua, who keeps assuring him that Wonwoo is a really huge Quidditch fan and is certain to show up. And then proceeds to flash him a very cattish smile. 

But there are opposing opinions out there too. 

“I don’t know,” Hansol had muttered. “Magical Remedies has a pretty massive final project due soon, and it’s graded on a curve. Wonwoo hyung looked pretty serious about getting it done.”

Now, Mingyu squints. “Isn’t the big game, dance proposal thing a little cliche?”

“Too late,” he grumbles. “There’s already a banner.”

~

Game day. 

The locker rooms are cramped and sweaty, but this is a discomfort so familiar it’s almost sweet. Seungcheol clamps on his shoulder pad and fixes Chan’s grips, gritting his teeth all the while to mask the way his heart feels like it’s about to escape his rib cage.

One by one, they grab their brooms and line up near the entrance to the pitch.  

Mingyu nudges him. “Pep talk?”

“Aish, look at him, he’s too stressed.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Seungcheol mutters, raising a hand to quiet everyone down. “Okay, Mingyu, Dongjin, Seokmin, concentrate on scoring as many points as possible. Their seeker likes to feint and get us distracted from the Quaffle, but we know their game. Jaeho, we’ve been going over how they seem to prefer the last hoop to score in, but knowing Kwon Soonyoung, I bet they’ll shoot for the first hoop this time. Don’t get too comfortable near the edge. Chan—”

Chan makes a noise. “Don’t get cocky, I know.”

Seungcheol holds his gaze. “It’s your first finals match. You know you’re a good seeker, so don’t let the nerves get to you. And I’ll—”

“Not break any arms,” Seokmin says, very serious. “It’s not a great image to show Wonwoo hyung.” 

~

The pitch is all frosted over, but the sky gleams like a pale pink promise of the leaking dawn. Stepping onto the field never gets old. The dull roar of the stadium crowd rising like heat all around. Fresh air cutting across his cheek, sweeping through the buzz in his chest. 

Biggest campus game of the year. The bleachers swim with silver and green and red and gold, a sea of faces flushed and color-changing banners borne like seals of worship. If only he could see—

Before he can squint at the players’ section, Professor Na, Quidditch coordinator, has him shake hands with Slytherin’s captain. 

 Soonyoung grins at him, adjusting the collar of his emerald green quidditch hood. “Looking for someone?”

He raises his free fist, then thinks better of it when Professor Na glances over. “You won’t be so cheeky very soon.”

“Hey, as long as you don’t break anyone’s arms.”

“Merlin, can’t anyone let that go? That was one time. My first year, you weren’t even enrolled here. It was the bloody chaser’s fault, he flew right into it.”

“Exactly,” Soonyoung snickers. “If you were like that your first year—”

“Stop the small talk and prepare for flight,” Professor Na barks. 

Grumbling, he balances his club on his shoulder and lines up with the rest of his team at the center of his pitch. The grass crunches all soft beneath the soles of his cleats. Soonyoung stands across from him. 

“I know whether Wonwoo is here or not, you know,” he continues, resting his chin against the end of his broom with pout-mouthed confidence. “My 20/20 vision and all. Guess you won’t find out till the end of the game.”

“You—”

A brilliant globe of red explodes above them. Headmaster’s flare. The game has begun. 

Lifting off is an old habit. The stadium spins around him like a top. His feet escape the confines of earth, lungs filling with open sky. 

The Quaffle is released in the next moment. Mingyu dives for it immediately while Seokmin distances himself to prepare for a pass. Out of the corner of his eye, Chan is steadily climbing higher on his broom. 

A flash of black. 

Seungcheol swoops down and twists, catching sight of the Bludger that had been aimed at his head. Punk. Eyes narrowed, he flies after it. 

Air cuts like a cold knife past his ears. Mingyu and Seokmin are passing the quaffle so fast, it’s only a crimson zigzag of a blur across midair. The commentators, in the little glass box suspended near the posts, are yelling over each other. 

He slams his club into the Bludger and sends it spinning towards the Slytherin hoops. Their keeper, startled, swerves sharply to the side. 

And Mingyu tosses the Quaffle into the first hoop. 

“And the Gryffindors score an easy ten points! Number 9, Kim Mingyu, makes the shot.”

Mingyu’s fanclub, who buy out their own section at each Gryffindor match, start hollering like the game’s already been won. In their defense, their beloved idol is no better, doing a lap of the stadium and throwing aggressive air kisses. 

Sweat forms and cools in beads across the back of his neck.

Broomflight used to make him feel sick to the stomach. Now, the wind is a gentle hand on his back, swooping and swerving. He attacks the Slytherin keeper with another Bludger. Again, she dodges. Again, ten points for Gryffindor. 

The rest of the team will catch on eventually. He can already see Soonyoung separating from the other two chasers, peering in their direction. The faster they capture the Snitch and finish off the match, the better chances they have to win. 

Chan is still spinning above the pitch in circles, seeker’s cape billowing out behind him. 

“Come on, Lee Chan,” he mutters. 

“Ten points for Gryffindor! That makes thirty to zero!”

One of the Slytherin beaters has migrated up to where Soonyoung is hovering. They whisper to each other for a few moments. Then, the player—a burly second year Seungcheol doesn’t remember fondly from dueling class—dives towards him. 

Shit. He’s got a shadow. 

At the same time, a Slytherin chaser intercepts the quaffle between Mingyu and Seokmin and shoots towards the other side of the field. Their keeper doesn’t even get a chance to prepare. 

“Ten points to Slytherin! Their first score, but by the looks of it, it won’t be their last!”

Soonyoung rejoins the match, making off with the quaffle before Professor Na can even blow his whistle. He weaves through the Gryffindor chasers like they’re orange cones, doing a roll to avoid the other beater. 

“And another ten points for the Slytherins. Team captain Kwon Soonyoung makes a daring play.”

Matches usually fall into this pattern: a tug of war. Which side will tire out first? Whose seeker will get distracted by a mosquito, or a pretty looking cloud, and forget all about the snitch until there’s victory confetti spewing across the stadium? 

Time on the pitch is warped. Hours pass like minutes, honey poured thick over flies.  But Seokmin’s loops are becoming lousy. When a bludger hurtles towards him, it’s only a last-second spin that saves him from catching it in the stomach.  The crowd gives off a loud cheer. To them, it’s all showmanship. To Seungcheol, it’s a sign that they need to catch the snitch now.

“Come on, Lee Chan,” he mutters, shoulder checking the Slytherin guarding him. 

Chan stops circling. 

Then dives. 

Yes, yes—

Something goes after him. Not the Slytherin seeker. Something black. A blur. A Bludger. 

No, no.

The other Gryffindor beater is too busy fending off attacks on their keeper. 

Seungcheol inhales too fast, ice in his throat. Shit. Chan won’t even see it coming. He tries to move, but the Slytherin beater blocks him. 

No time to think. Gripping his broom, he makes a ninety degree drop towards the pitch. Grass blurs. Colors spin around him. 

He swoops up behind Chan. And hits the bludger away so hard he can’t see it anymore. 

The world spins. Bands of iron circle his chest like curses. 

Chan’s arm rises. Something gold glints through the leather of his glove. 

“The snitch has been captured by Lee Chan, number 13! Gryffindor has won the game, and the Quidditch Cup!”

Oh. His heart thunders in his ears, rattling from his stomach up to his throat. 

Seokmin shrieks, pumping his fist so hard his broom lurches. Mingyu flies victorious circles near the bleachers, high-fiving members of his fan club with his free hand. Confetti erupts out from the stadium like blooming flowers whose petals are carried in wayward swirls by the wind. 

Seungcheol touches down and sprints through the sea of red and gold. Chan gets to him first, smile broad and white, laughter escaping his lungs in sharp bursts when Seungcheol lifts him. 

Mingyu lands so hard he topples over into the grass, and Seokmin has to dig him out of a growing mountain of damp confetti. Chan laughs so hard he doubles over, and for a moment everything feels like victory, like drinking a hundred luck potions at once and watching the sunrise burst alive above you. Like having even the world spinning beneath him, and the sky so burning blue, is a little triumph made up just for him. Adrenaline and joy, hot in his veins.  

Adrenaline and joy and—

Wonwoo. 

Inhaling sharply, he extricates himself from the sweaty mess that is the rest of his team and stumbles over to the bleachers. 

Hansol is first onto the field, clapping his back and muttering something about thermodynamics. Jihoon, eyes rolling, hands two silver coins to a smug-looking Jeonghan. 

“Win-win situation,” Jeonghan drawls, when Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Either my team wins the game, or I win the bet.”

It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is if one person is here. 

He squints, stepping further, batting away the clouds of confetti. 

That’s—no, that’s Jun wearing glasses for some reason. His gaze darts farther up. 

And it’s him. Almost too beautiful to believe, mouth crooked into a smile, crowned by a streak of the pale winter sun. He came. To the game. Because Seungcheol asked him to. Maybe that’s a yes in itself. Maybe he has the right to own this little thing called hope, keep it tucked against his chest. 

“Wonwoo!” Seungcheol yells.  

Wonwoo looks up. Straightens. Waves back. 

Okay, okay, he’s got to do it now. He watches Wonwoo slowly step down the bleachers, steeling himself. All the redness can be played off as exertion from the game. So can his sweaty palms. He’s got a little bit of something memorized. 

Wait, rats. “Where’s the banner?” he demands, twisting around. 

Seokmin yelps. “Rats, the banner!” 

“I thought it was recycling!” 

“Hansol!” 

“Hey man, you have to save the trees.” 

Wonwoo walks up, eyes sparkling. “Yeah?” 

Seungcheol whirls back around, sweaty and wide-eyed and decidedly banner free. Hexes, what was he going to say again? “Uh. Thanks for coming. I know you have lots of other things to do, Wonu.”

 From this close, he can see that Wonwoo’s turtleneck is red, and the little gold lions gleaming from his ear. The striped bracelet wrapped around his wrung wrists. He came to root for Gryffindor. 

Seungcheol’s breath hitches on the next sentence. 

Seokmin grabs his arm.  “Hyung!” 

“What?” he hisses. Suddenly, the trophy is in his arms and he’s being carried away by his team and what, no, no—

Professor Na and a cohort of teachers are casting flares over the field, shouting for it to be emptied so they don’t get trampled. A sea of partying Gryffindors rushes in, and Wonwoo disappears into the crowd. 

Godrick, why is something always going wrong? When he has something good set up, he can’t find Wonwoo. When he can find Wonwoo, something is always pulling him away. Or carrying him away, in this instance. 

Seungcheol puts his face into his hands and groans. 

+1 Scene: "Piece of Cake”

It’s a lousy December morning when Professor Na calls him to his classroom after the bell.

“Choi.” He exhales through his nose, pinching the bridge as if to expel all his disappointment in one go. “For the first few weeks, I thought any meeting I had with you would be disciplinary. Headlocking classmates, practicing defense hexes in the back of the room instead of algorithms. However, you’ve actually been improving for the past month. It appears that you’re putting in an effort.”

Actually, he’d been terrified that Wonwoo was going to start tracking his test scores after the study session. But he bows his head and keeps his mouth shut. 

“There is something I want to show you.” Clenching his jaw so hard his face becomes a triangle, Professor Na slides a piece of parchment across the table. 

It’s the homework he’d done a month ago. He recognizes it. Agrippa’s theorem. <3

“Now, if you’d rather doodle like a lovesick fool than be in my class, Choi, just let me know. I’ll have you enrolled in remedial art.”

Seungcheol frowns, indignant. “Professor, that’s Agrippa’s theorem.”

“No, it most certainly is not.”

That’s rich. Wonwoo tops this class. If Wonwoo thinks it’s Agrippa’s theorem, then he’s willing to fight anyone over it, even the professor. “Yes, it—”

He stops short. Looks back down at the paper. Now that he thinks about it, the greater than sign and the 3 aren’t even separated. It’s a heart. Just a heart. Wonwoo had drawn a heart on his paper. Then blushed and passed it off as something else. 

Professor Na produces a long-suffering sigh. “You have to let go of these childish tendencies if you’re to succeed in Arithmancy. Nicholas Flamel couldn’t have forged the Sorcerer’s Stone if he was distracted by a passing bird or a pretty flower. Now—”

Eyes shot wide, Seungcheol stands. Grabs the paper. Bolts out. 

“Choi! Choi! Listen, Choi Seungcheol!” The professor stills behind his desk, lips pursed with something like begrudging respect. “Well. I didn’t know he was so motivated to improve his study ethic.”

~ 

He finds Wonwoo near the willow tree, feeding his striped stray little pieces of canned tuna from the canteen. It’s a scene so soft, as if sketched from one of Gandalf’s paintings. 

“Doesn’t the cat get cold?”

Wonwoo looks up and startles, breath stuttering as it escapes into the air. “Oh. Oh, no, it’s an emberkitten. They don’t, um, get cold.” The cat yowls for more, and he fumbles with his can. “They do have wings though. That’s how you tell them apart from regular cats.”

Seungcheol crouches down in the snow beside him. Together, they watch the furball roll around in the snow, crystals melting against rippling orange fur. “Don’t stay out too long,” he murmurs. “You’ll get another fever and miss the ball.”

Wonwoo fishes out some more tuna with his chopsticks and gently plops it down. “It can’t feed itself yet. It’s too young.”

“I’ll come and feed it.”

“But then you’ll get a fever.”

“I won’t.”

Wonwoo laughs, softly, as if to himself. His skin is almost the color of the snow, his mouth like a pale pink lily within a blanket of white. “I couldn’t tell you at the match. The bludger that you knocked away was headed for Chan’s head. Most of the audience couldn’t even see.” Sniffling, he sits back on his heels and folds his hands in his lap. “You’re a good captain.”

Clouds stretch across the sky like pulled cotton balls, thick and fuzzy. Yes, the winter is frigid. Yes, it strips the rowans and oaks of their emerald green leaves, and inks even their shadows an icy blue. Yes, it freezes still the lakes and the rivers, as if some furious wizard casted a stupefy across everything the eye could see. 

Still, the perseverance of the sun, which splays its honeyed fingers across the hills and valleys, casting them in its light like a blessing. Still, that familiar movement of empty branches swaying in a muffled breeze. There is no pattern that cannot be broken. 

“Remember, you said something about how easy it is, to forget how pretty things are when you really pay attention to them?” 

Wonwoo’s head whips up. Seungcheol chews the inside of his cheek and continues. 

“I don’t think I know what that feels like. Because I’m always thinking about you, and I can never really forget how pretty you are. Not just, like, your face. Everything about you. Even your thoughts are pretty. The things you create are pretty. The things you look at are pretty, baby rabbits and icicles dangling from trees and whatever else it is.”

Wonwoo doesn’t blink. Or shrink away. His face, too, seems to be spelled into stillness. So Seungcheol goes on, against the wind kissing his skin, the twenty thousand things that have stood between him and the next sentence. 

“Wonu.” He says the name like a prayer, something holy whispered at a chapel or upon a shooting star. “Should we go to the Yule Ball together?”

A beat. 

“Okay,” Wonwoo breathes, drawing his knees up, tucking his chin against them. “Okay, yeah.”

Air freezes in his lungs. 

“Wait, really? Really? Really?” 

Wonwoo smiles. 

And Seungcheol smiles back so hard it almost hurts. But Wonwoo has just said yes to him, so everything is beautiful and nothing in the world can hurt at all. 

Wonwoo rocks back and forth, cheek still pressed bashfully to his knees. Tufts of snow stick to his hair. “Okay.” He reaches down with a trembling finger and traces something into the snow.

<3

“Agrippa’s theorem,” Seungcheol snorts. Wonwoo beams. 

~

The Yule Ball is awfully pretty. He gets his robes—velvet red, starched at the cuffs with black lining and a little bit of an embroidered cape—delivered just in time for the evening. A large glass bubble sits atop the hill just behind the main campus castle. Inside it, they’ve melted away all the snow cover, so everything isn’t so damp, and charmed fake snow to fall from the ceiling. 

He picks Wonwoo up from the Hufflepuff dorms. The doors open, all magical, and it’s as if someone has painted the world rosy pink. 

His robes are black, with red lining. Couple-style. For whatever reason, Wonwoo had insisted. 

Almost too giddy to believe it, Seungcheol offers his arm. 

Eyes squinted into crescent moons, Wonwoo takes it. 

Two waltzes and a polka later, he gets Wonwoo a seat near the edge of the dome. “Need a drink?” 

Wonwoo peeks up at him. “Soda?” 

“Kay. I’ll be right—”

Wonwoo wraps a hand around the hem of his cape and tugs. Startled, Seungcheol stumbles into a hunch. 

A pair of lips lock onto his. 

A peck. Quick, soft. Warm.  

Gaping, he touches his hand to his mouth. 

Wonwoo grins, as if very pleased with himself, and leans back in his chair with his throat stretched back all smug. “Okay. Go, go.”

Dazed, Seungcheol makes his way to the refreshments table, where Jeonghan meets him with a low whistle. “I think I’m going to ask him to date me,” he blurts.

Jihoon’s eyebrows fly up. “What, like it wasn’t hard enough asking him to the ball?”

“What are you talking about?” He reaches for the jug of sparkling soda, smile breaking across his face before he can stop it. “It was a piece of cake.”

There’s a pause. Jeonghan clamps a hand over his mouth. Joshua is snickering into the collar of his robe. 

But Kwon Soonyoung raises his arm towards the light in a wide flourish. “Well, the trials of Nicholas Flamel—”

Seungcheol groans. “Yah, can we stop talking about Nicholas Flamel?”

Bonus Scene: “Proofread”

Mingyu squints. “What’s that?”

“Cheol hyung’s letter to Wonwoo hyung.” Vernon crosses out a line, shaking his head. “His owl delivered it to me by accident. And I’m glad it did, I’d hate for Wonwoo to see it. Forget imagery, there’s not even a good metaphor in here.”