Chapter Text
If Wonwoo had to describe London in one word, it'd be big. He’d only arrived at Soonyoung’s place—a three storey Victorian house squashed between two skyscrapers near the Thames—last night but he feels the grit and hubbub of the monolith city sinking back into his bones already. These feelings aren’t unfamiliar by any means, just unwelcome. Wonwoo likes the oxygen that seeps out of the ancient trees in his Cheshire backyard, or deep within the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts. He thrives on tranquility.
He doesn’t like being crammed into a glass capsule 443 ft in the sky, all in the name of experiencing a Muggle’s London.
“Are you okay?” Soonyoung says, nudging Wonwoo’s arm. Wonwoo takes a shuddering breath, stumbling a fraction even though Soonyoung had barely touched him.
“I really,” Wonwoo squeaks, “don't like heights.”
“You don't fly, boy?” Mr Kwon asks, from across the capsule, his nose stuck in a London Eye tourist brochure.
“I don't fly.” Wonwoo’s fairly sure the blood has drained out of his face.
Soonyoung pokes a finger into his cheek, muttering, “Wow, you’re white as a sheet,” but Wonwoo doesn’t hear him; he’s in his first Flying class again, trying to follow along to the chorus of up’s from his classmates around him. Madam Moonshine is saying something about gripping their brooms tight so they don’t slide off the end when they kick off from the ground. Wonwoo does slide off the end, and after a broken arm, his first trip to the Hospital Wing, and being called Chicken Boy (“Get it, because chickens can’t fly!”) every damn day for an entire year, Wonwoo decides he’s never willingly mounting a broom ever again.
Which is why he, someone who finds flying dreadfully overrated, has no idea why he accepted Soonyoung’s invitation to attend the Quidditch World Cup Final. Soonyoung was given two extra tickets as a gift for being appointed Gryffindor’s Head Boy by his father, the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Soonyoung told Wonwoo that he’d asked Seungkwan Boo from the year below first, but Seungkwan cancelled last minute, citing You-Know-Who and moral support as reasons for accompanying Hansol Choi and by extension, Chan Lee instead.
“He’s still going to be in the Top Box with us,” Soonyoung says the next day, rolling his eyes, “But you know how those three are. Anyway,”—he slings his arm across Wonwoo’s shoulders—“I’m glad I asked you instead.”
Wonwoo is probably not the most exciting of companions Soonyoung could’ve brought along, but he thanks Soonyoung again for asking him. Despite Wonwoo’s complete apathy towards Quidditch, and barely having stopped himself from puking on the London Eye yesterday, Wonwoo doesn’t regret saying yes. This is probably the most fun he’ll have all summer.
It’s currently half past five in the morning, entirely too early for anyone to be up and about on a Saturday—which is the reason why they’re walking briskly through the streets of London, again, making their way to one of the many Portkeys set up to transport them to the campsite. At this time, there are barely any Muggles around to see a bunch of wizards and witches inexplicably disappear into thin air.
At breakfast, Wonwoo had asked Soonyoung’s father what it was like to travel via Portkey. Wonwoo knew of them, sure, but being so used to public transport—the Muggle kind, not the Knight Bus he’d once read about in a book—the thought didn’t always occur to Wonwoo that he could, you know, magic himself places.
“You’ll be fine,” Mr Kwon reassures him, through a mouthful of bacon, “It’s a bit like cleaning out your belly button, the feeling.”
Wonwoo frowns, fingers absentmindedly trailing over his abdomen to ghost around his navel. That doesn’t tell him much.
“I don’t want to scare you, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung’s voice comes from the stairwell. He scrubs a hand over his face as he walks to the kitchen table. His hair is sticking up in every direction and the buttons on his silk pyjamas are unsymmetrical. “But it definitely does not feel like that. You’ll see. Anyway, where are the girls?” He points the buttered toast he picked up at his youngest sister, who’d opened her mouth to speak. “Not you, Junyoung, the others.”
“Oh, they’re Apparating,” Mr Kwon says cheerily. “They’re sleeping in now because they can just head straight to the grounds from here.”
Soonyoung’s face goes dark. “Is that so?” he drawls, plonking down next to Wonwoo. “I can’t wait to pass my test this year, it’s so unfair. You taking the test, Wonwoo?”
“Probably not,” Wonwoo answers. “Got more important things to worry about this year.”
Mr Kwon nods contemplatively. He then jabs his thumb at Soonyoung, who’d been groaning at Wonwoo to stop bringing up school. “I don’t know why he’s dead set on Apparition when he’ll probably end up splinching himself.”
Soonyoung winces. Junyoung slowly puts her toast back on her plate and pushes it away. Wonwoo sips on his milk tea, and hums.
“Last week, one of the chaps at Magical Transportation told me they had to fine three teenagers who’d left half of themselves behind because they tried to Apparate without knowing how to. Seems like they let anybody pass the test these days,” Mr Kwon tells them.
Soonyoung perks up. “So that means my chances are higher?”
“That’s the spirit,” Wonwoo says, laughing. The conversation is then steered elsewhere when Junyoung tugs on his baggy sleeve and asks if she may show him her photobook of Taeyong Lee, Bulgaria’s seeker.
So, they’re on the way to a Portkey, and Wonwoo is a bundle of nerves. He’d be happy just taking the train, honestly, but Soonyoung insisted. “If I have to suffer, you have to suffer with me,” Soonyoung says, pacing himself beside Wonwoo. They’re walking a good few metres behind Soonyoung’s family, less for privacy and more as an act of charity towards Wonwoo—saving him from continuing the conversation about Taeyong that Junyoung had persisted in dragging him into after breakfast.
“Plus, you’ll never get there in time,” Soonyoung continues. “This is going to be one hell of a game, you don’t wanna miss it. I’m placing my bets on Ireland, don’t look at me like that, it’s not just ‘cause I’m Irish. They slaughtered Peru in the semifinals, right, Dad?”
“Right,” Mr Kwon shouts back. “Bulgaria has Lee, but we’ve got an entire team of winners.”
“Seokmin’s rooting for Bulgaria,” Soonyoung tells Wonwoo. He jiggles the arm he has hooked around Wonwoo’s, whining, “He betrayed me, Wonwoo.”
“Seokmin’s going?” Wonwoo says. Whenever he has the chance to talk to Soonyoung at school, it’s always Seokmin this, Seokmin that, but Soonyoung hadn’t breathed a word about his best friend since Wonwoo arrived at his place.
Wonwoo has spoken to Seokmin Lee a total of five times since they’d entered Hogwarts in the same year, the first of which was a stilted conversation about The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle on the way to the Hospital Wing when Wonwoo broke his arm in Flying. They'd only continued their Mad Muggle discussion last year when Seokmin visited Wonwoo at the Hospital Wing after he sent a Bludger hurtling in Wonwoo's direction at a Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff game (Seokmin had brought him a bouquet of flowers, sickly sweet-smelling ones he'd clearly conjured up because they learnt how to only the week before in Transfiguration, and Wonwoo had taken them with grace, and an embarrassed, “Thanks, but it was only a small bruise.” Seokmin was shooed off by the nurse not two minutes after he’d stopped by, because it really wasn’t that serious, and he was being a little too emphatic about how Martin Miggs was more than just comic relief.)
In retrospect, he should’ve expected the third ticket to have gone to Seokmin. He and Soonyoung are best friends. “Right. ‘Course he is,” Wonwoo adds.
“What, you don’t like Seokmin?” Soonyoung asks, pouting.
“Don’t know him well, is all,” Wonwoo laughs, shaking his head.
Soonyoung hums. “Weird, he said you were really cool when I told him you were coming. You had Transfiguration together last year, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Wonwoo replies. Besides, he guesses, accepting Seokmin’s flowers, he doesn’t remember doing anything worth gushing over. Seokmin must say that about everyone. He was being polite.
“In any case, you’ve got aaaaaall of World Cup to get to know each other.”
“Looking forward to it,” Wonwoo says, in as enthusiastic a tone as he can manage at the prospect of being a third wheel in a friendship that’d blossomed without him. He met Soonyoung, and Mingyu, in a carriage on the Hogwart’s Express six years ago. They hit it off straight away but later, at the Sorting Ceremony, so did Soonyoung and Seokmin. Wonwoo never held a grudge, not when he had Mingyu, and not when Soonyoung and Seokmin were so attached to the hip it was like they were meant to be. But without a single owl from Mingyu all summer, and Soonyoung having reached out to him with a World Cup invitation, albeit as a second choice, Wonwoo can't help but wonder what it would've been like had he and Soonyoung become best friends too.
Up ahead, the Kwons take a left turn down an alleyway running along the side of what looks like a nightclub. The neon sign reading EQUINOX across the top of the building is grey and grimy in the watery daylight. Laughter spills out from the alleyway, along with a Seokmin Lee yelling, “No way! Have you got it with you?!”
When Wonwoo and Soonyoung round the corner, Junyoung is showing Seokmin her Taeyong photobook. The expression on Seokmin’s face is one of sincere interest, unlike Wonwoo’s had been this morning. Seokmin glances up when Soonyoung calls out his name, the grin on his face growing.
“Good morning,” Seokmin says, as Soonyoung hip-checks him in greeting. He gives Wonwoo a small smile. “Excited?”
Wonwoo tugs on the end of his knitted scarf, nodding. “I’m sure it’ll be an experience.”
Soonyoung rolls his eyes, and laughs. “He’s excited.”
The Kwons, and a man who must be Seokmin’s father (“This is my dad!” Seokmin announces), have circled around a faded red stiletto next to the dumpsters lining the end of the alleyway. “It’s the Portkey,” Soonyoung explains. He then gags from the smell that wafts their way. “Can we get out of here? This place is giving me hives.”
“Let’s,” Seokmin’s father agrees, checking his watch. “It’s almost time.”
Wonwoo hesitates to place his hand on the stiletto like everyone else. Squeezed in next to him, Seokmin nudges Wonwoo’s shoulder with his own, and whispers, “Go for it.”
“Alright,” Wonwoo breathes. He stretches out his hand.
There’s no warning. The second his fingers grip the ratty sides of the stiletto, a sensation unlike anything he’s ever felt suddenly overwhelms him. There is the vague recognition of movement, the flash of Seokmin’s teeth in his peripherals, and a tingling feeling in the centre of his core, as though someone is plucking every nerve in his body like piano strings.
“Quarter to six from Soho!”
Wonwoo groans, a sound immediately echoed from the mass of limbs beneath him that make up Soonyoung. There’s a slight ache right beneath his left eyebrow and his stomach belatedly lurches. Wonwoo spends a few moments breathing in the cool morning air, waiting for it to settle his motion sickness before finally opening his eyes. Slowly, he acclimates himself to his surroundings; a foggy moor stretches across his vision, and then, the unmistakable shape of Seokmin’s head resting on his thigh, dangerously close to Wonwoo’s crotch.
Before Wonwoo has a chance to make it weird, Seokmin pushes himself upright, bouncing on his feet like he’s making sure they still work. He smiles and offers a hand to Wonwoo, who takes it carefully and gives Seokmin an awkward grin of his own, one that lingers unsurely on his face even after he’s standing and Seokmin turns away. Soonyoung remains motionless, lying face-first on the grass, and the defeated whimper he emits when Seokmin kicks him unceremoniously in the ribs makes it clear that he’s not planning on going anywhere soon.
“Come on Soonyoung,” Seokmin says, bending down to ruffle the hair on the back of his head. “Don’t be such a pansy.”
Soonyoung rolls onto his back like a soldier who’s just been shot. “I fucking hate Portkeys,” he croaks, face pale.
From behind them, Mr. Kwon laughs. “Never been good with travelling that one,” he says. “Used to have snot dribbling down his face every time we had to Floo somewhere, crying ’Appa, can’t I just fly there on my broom instead!’”
“No one’s good with having their insides yanked to the depths of hell,” Soonyoung grouses, an arm around Wonwoo and Seokmin each as they help him up. “No one.”
Fortunately, once they’re past the gates of the camping grounds, Soonyoung seems to be in good spirits again. When Mr. Kwon had retrieved their reservation details, Wonwoo noted the dreamy gaze worn by the Muggle gatekeeper and realised he must’ve been cast with a memory modification spell. Walking through the numerous tents set up now, half of them with chimneys attached, Wonwoo understands why. But he’s hardly surprised, six years at Hogwarts have taught Wonwoo that ostentation comes as naturally to Wizards as magic does.
Because Soonyoung is an adult, a fact he was fond of emphasising, he, Wonwoo, and Seokmin were given a tent of their own. Soonyoung refuses to use magic to build the tent, insisting that if they were going to pose as Muggles, they should do so with authenticity. He then forces Seokmin to do it, since apparently he had spent summers as a child camping in the English countryside.
“I once told him that I went on an excursion to a cheese factory in Somerset when I was five,” Seokmin grumbles when Wonwoo has to intervene thirty minutes in, helping Seokmin out of the half of the tent that had collapsed on him.
“When I was five I lived in Ireland,” Soonyoung says nostalgically, lying on the grass a few meters away from where Wonwoo and Seokmin are doing their labour. “And now my homeland is going to win the Quidditch World Cup.”
“You were four when you lived in Ireland,” Seokmin corrects, “And if you keep saying that you’re going to jinx it. Bulgaria are in top form now, isn’t that right, Wonwoo?”
Wonwoo blinks. “Um…”
“Oh, don’t do that to Wonwoo, he doesn’t know the first thing about Quidditch,” Soonyoung says.
Wonwoo offers a meagre answer to Seokmin’s question anyway, some piece of trivia he’d snatched from the Kwons’ breakfast conversation for future small-talk use. “I mean, Bulgaria benefitted from easy match-ups, right?”
Seokmin shoots Soonyoung a smug grin and Soonyoung sticks his tongue out at him. “He basically said Bulgaria’s lucked their way to the finals, you dimwit,” Soonyoung points out.
Seokmin smiles at Wonwoo as he says, shrugging, “Whatever gets you to the end.”
The trek up to the Top Box is so mind-numbingly terrifying Wonwoo has to wonder if Soonyoung secretly hates him and/or is trying to scare him to death. The flights of stairs are seemingly never-ending, the metal grates underneath the purple carpeting of each step giving the impression of a flimsiness that makes the Hogwarts staircases seem like a childrens’ bouncy castle in comparison. Wonwoo wishes he were at Hogwarts. Sure, the stairs move but he’d take them over this any day.
“Christ,” Soonyoung yells, “We’re nearly in the sky!”
The crowd is at a fever pitch. A breathless exhilaration sets up camp beside the fear inside Wonwoo when he chances a peek to his left. He is met with the sight of a stadium bathed in golden light, purple fireworks bursting in succession across his line of vision. Wonwoo feels them in his chest.
Soonyoung reaches over to grab one of the enchanted lanterns suspended just past the railing of each level, and twists back to hand it to Wonwoo. Wonwoo hurriedly grasps the curly ribbon attached to the lantern, and not knowing what to do with it when he needs both hands to hold the railing, stuffs it between his teeth. Soonyoung grins, and says, “Best you don’t look down, eh?”
On impulse, Wonwoo’s gaze flickers down—his stomach drops a metre and turns into lead, and his knees nearly give out. Before his mind can begin to estimate how long it would take his body to hit the green and splatter like the yolk on Mrs Kwon’s sunny side up, there’s a hand at his elbow, drawing him away from the railing and thoughts of a gruesome death.
“Here Lies Wonwoo,” Wonwoo mutters to himself. The lantern floats out of his mouth, hitting the row of seats above them. “He was gone too soon.”
Behind him, Seokmin sing-songs, “Aren’t I your knight in shining armour, Wonwoo?” His fist curls around the lantern ribbon as he passes it.
Wonwoo doesn’t turn around to answer Seokmin, too scared to anyhow, but his mouth quirks in amusement. “Can you convince Soonyoung to let me bail and go back to the tent?” His voice is so muted he’s not sure if Seokmin had heard him, but the crowd rising up each level pauses to let around a dozen filter into their seats, and it turns out Seokmin is closer than Wonwoo had thought. Enough so that he can feel the heat Seokmin’s emanating, and strangely enough, Wonwoo wants to lean back into him. He’d been born and raised here, but his body never really managed to acclimate itself to the England cold.
“Do you really wanna go back down?” Seokmin asks, laughing. His breath sweeps over Wonwoo’s ear, smelling faintly of the Cauldron cake he had earlier.
Wonwoo grumbles, “We can supposedly do anything with magic but we can’t have elevators?” He feels Seokmin’s fingers tie the ribbon around one of the belt loops on his jeans. He glances down to see Seokmin’s added a tiny lopsided bow-tie too.
“Awful, isn’t it?” Seokmin says. “Still, don’t I get anything for saving your life?”
Wonwoo frowns, craning his neck back to ask, admonishing, are you flirting with me? but the words stick in his throat. Seokmin is grinning at him, all sincere. “Uh,” Wonwoo stutters. He smiles weakly. “I’ll think of something great.”
For the next four levels until Mr Kwon has to make a stop past the Minister’s Box, Seokmin’s palms hover around Wonwoo’s waist. He’s barely touching, and somehow that’s worse; Wonwoo’s skin tingles with the proximity. He stumbles into the Minister’s Box after Soonyoung, thankful for the open space, even if they’re only here for a moment.
Soonyoung points out the man his father shakes hands with as Bulgaria’s coach, Yeongsuk Jung. Wonwoo recognises the Minister. The third person in the Box is a guy standing behind the coach, hand at Yeongsuk’s elbow and the impatient look of a kid who wants their parents to stop prolonging small talk on his face. He looks around their age, tall and generically handsome. Not really Wonwoo’s type, but he can appreciate, especially when the guy looks over at them and breaks into a smile that softens his features. He shrugs, as if to say parents, you know?
There’s a small pained noise next to him. Wonwoo glances sideways to see Seokmin beet red in the face, staring holes into the rug.
Wonwoo isn’t the only one who noticed Seokmin’s flustered reaction. As they’re making the rest of the journey up to the Top Box, Soonyoung elbows Seokmin in the side, wagging his eyebrows and giving him a cheeky grin. “Fancy the coach’s son, do you?”
Almost instantly, Seokmin goes red. “N-no!” he stammers, “I just think he’s—well, he’s quite fit isn’t he?”
“Well, once Ireland wipes the floor with his Father’s team, you can seduce him under the guise of comfort.”
“He’s got a dimple, Soonyoung!” Seokmin whines. Then, he grumbles, “You know, when Ireland loses it’ll be all your fault.”
Ireland does not end up losing. Taeyong catches the snitch, but the game goes in Ireland’s favour 110 to 100. Soonyoung jumps up in his seat, mouth wide open. Wonwoo would guess he’s screaming, but half the stadium is yelling in celebration and Soonyoung’s voice is lost amongst the roars.
To the left of Soonyoung, Seokmin slumps in his seat. Wonwoo catches his eye, offering a sympathetic shrug of his shoulder. Seokmin jerks his thumb at Soonyoung, and says something Wonwoo isn’t able to hear. Wonwoo leans forward, and Seokmin tugs him closer by the scarf wound around his neck, Wonwoo almost losing his balance, so he can say, “We're not gonna be able to get him to shut up for the next week.”
Soonyoung makes a move to sit down, and Wonwoo lurches back. Immediately, he’s pulled in again, Soonyoung’s arm snaking around his and Seokmin’s necks. Soonyoung pats Seokmin’s head, smiling down at the both of them, before announcing, “What do you say we get smashed, boys?”
Their tent isn’t exactly what Wonwoo would define as a tent, but then, that goes for most things in the Wizarding World. The exterior is unassuming, made out of a beige-coloured canvas, and about the size of a regular two-person camping tent. Inside however is a living room, large enough to fit the cluster of couches and beanbags around a crackling fireplace; a couple steps leading down to a sleeping area which consists of three beds and a hammock overlooking the moor and the foggy woods beyond it. There’s a tiny kitchen they probably won’t use, and a door leading off into a bathroom. The colour scheme is warm and earthy, much like the Hufflepuff common room, Seokmin had pointed out when they first walked in.
Another thing the tent happens to stock is a wine rack, hidden by a Concealment charm Soonyoung had hastily casted when Mr Kwon walked in that afternoon to collect them. He’d done such a poor job that the rack shimmers in and out of view every few minutes.
“I’m telling you,” Soonyoung says as they enter the tent, “It’s my lucky year.”
“‘Twas the leprechauns, my friend,” Seokmin drawls, stretching out to ruffle Soonyoung’s hair.
Soonyoung ducks out from Seokmin’s reach, making his way over to the kitchen. He pulls out a bottle of champagne, inspecting the label. “Either of you know how to open one of these?”
It’s after a fruitless search for a corkscrew that the three of them remember wait, they’re wizards, they’ve got magic. As the tent’s resident Ravenclaw, Wonwoo feels sort of sheepish he hadn't thought up a spell in the first place, given he has a number of suitable ones memorised already, but some habits are hard to shake: his mind will always think first of the Muggle solution, and then, the Wizard equivalent.
In the end it’s Seokmin who places the bottle on the kitchen counter and points his wand at it. It’s a willow wand, and he holds it tight with his fist as though trying to keep it under control. His grip is similar to Wonwoo's, and Wonwoo surmises that the core of his wand is Veela hair too. Veela hair makes for a temperamental and unpredictable wand, and for Wonwoo, it’d resulted in one too many accidents (there was the time he’d jinxed Mingyu’s entire head of hair off when trying to turn a frog into a teacup in Transfiguration. Later, Wonwoo had gotten him a bag of nougat chunks from Honeydukes as an apology. He’d felt mildly terrible about the resultant feud between Mingyu and a popular Slytherin, Minghao Xu, when Mingyu was stuck next to the kid in the Hospital Wing for two hours until they were both kicked out) before he managed to get the hang of the thing in his fourth year.
So when Seokmin recites the incantation with a flick of his wrist, it only makes sense for the cork to fly out of the champagne bottle with a flash of orange light and a loud pop, ricochet off the wall next to the fireplace and then land smackbang in the centre of Wonwoo’s forehead. Seokmin is already rushing over and apologising by the time Wonwoo registers what had happened. He groans, sinking further into the beanbag he’d been sitting on. He bats Seokmin's hand away when Seokmin tries to inspect the bump on his forehead. It's throbbing like mad, and there's a blush creeping along Wonwoo's neck, and he’d just rather be left alone, and given some ice if possible. From the kitchen he can hear Soonyoung cackling, and the fizz of him pouring them drinks.
Wonwoo sits up, shaking his head. “Don’t worry,” he tells Seokmin, smiling a little, “At least it wasn’t a Bludger this time.”
Seokmin’s eyes widen and he shoves at Wonwoo’s shoulder, pushing himself up so he can flop onto one of the arm chairs. “That was an accident,” he retorts, his tone bordering on whiny.
Three glasses of champagne float over Wonwoo’s head to land on the coffee table, one tipping over precariously before righting itself. They are followed by more alcohol and a Soonyoung who collapses into a beanbag and says, “It took him three tries to get those flowers right. He was on the verge of tears, especially ‘cause we crushed Hufflepuff in the game.”
In response, Seokmin downs half his champagne glass at once. Wonwoo quietly follows suit, after muttering a perfunctory, “You really didn't have to go through the trouble.”
Soonyoung seems to get the hint, eyes darting between them. Or maybe he’d been bursting to change the conversation topic anyway. “So, you know how I said it was my lucky year?” he says, leaning forward in his beanbag and gesticulating wildly with his hands. Consequently, Wonwoo gets splashed with champagne. He shuffles sideways, dabbing his face with the sleeve of his sweater. “Weeeeell, Ireland winning the World Cup was only the beginning.”
“Yeah?” says Seokmin, leaning over to pour himself another drink, knee braced on the coffee table. He gestures for Wonwoo to hand him his glass as well.
“Something big is happening at Hogwarts this year,” Soonyoung elaborates, speaking slowly as if for suspense, “My dad told me all about it. I’ll give you a clue, he knows about it ‘cause of his job.”
“A game, then?” Wonwoo says, nodding at Seokmin in thanks. He has an inkling of a feeling he knows what Soonyoung is hinting at, something he’d read in Hogwarts, A History a few years ago.
“Yes,” Soonyoung says, smirking. He flexes a bicep. “I've got my sights set on being Hogwarts’ Champion. Got a good feeling about this year.”
Seokmin laughs. “You sure that feeling isn't dread, Soonyoung?”
Soonyoung pulls a face. “Don't remind me. Still haven't got my school list yet…”
The banter continues like that for a while, loudly and mostly between Soonyoung and Seokmin, with Wonwoo listening and occasionally pitching in when he can. They're halfway through their second bottle of Beetle Berry Whiskey when Soonyoung gets called away by his oldest sister.
She takes one look at them, Soonyoung sprawled across Seokmin’s back, trying to grab the last sugar mouse out of Seokmin’s hand by clawing his forearm, and rolls her eyes. Wonwoo shrugs when Soonhee looks over at him. He’d long since stopped trying to calm the two of them down. They were like a pair of toddlers, squabbling in a made-up language, an incomprehensible string of inebriated noises amplified by the sugar high when Wonwoo bust out the overpriced lollies he bought at a cart outside the Quidditch stadium. Instead he’d sat back, nursing his Butterbeer, and watching the two of them like they were a television sitcom.
Soonyoung gives up on his quest for the sugar mouse when Seokmin drags the flat of his tongue from tail to head—though he looked like he’d considered eating it anyway—and stumbles to his feet. He shakes a finger at his sister. “If you don’t snitch, I won’t tell Dad about the time you snuck out to see,” his voice goes squeaky, “Taehyun Nam. He’s a bad boy.”
“He’s not a bad boy. He just hasn’t got a trust fund. There’s a difference, Soonyoung,” Soonhee says, as she drags Soonyoung out of the tent by the ear.
The silence that permeates the air once they leave is awkward at best. Wonwoo’s body jerks slightly and unintentionally like it decided it needed to be anywhere but here without Wonwoo even thinking it himself. He glances over at Seokmin to see him sucking on the last remains of the sugar mouse, hands in his lap as his eyes roam around the tent. The only thing missing would be the sound of Seokmin whistling, but the folk tune someone’s playing on a guitar at one of the bonfires outside brings to fruition the entire picture; that he and Seokmin would probably not get to know each other over the World Cup like Soonyoung had hoped if Wonwoo did not say something to break the ice right at this very second.
“Do you play guitar?” Wonwoo blurts out.
Seokmin’s eyes slide over to regard Wonwoo, almost in slow motion. He shakes his head. “I sing though.”
What Wonwoo should say is something along the lines of could you sing me something? but he figures Seokmin gets that a lot. He nods, instead, and replies, “I know. I’ve heard you in choir.” Technically, yes, Seokmin is in choir but that only means Wonwoo has never actually heard his voice alone.
Seokmin seems to accept this answer regardless. “Does your forehead still hurt?” he asks.
Wonwoo had forgotten about it. He brings his hand up to his head, and presses into the bump with his fingertips. It stings a little but the bruise has gone down significantly over the last couple of hours. “It’s fine,” he assures Seokmin, who nods, and cracks open another bottle of Beetle Berry Whiskey.
Except it’s then that Wonwoo realises how stiff and achy his bones feel from sitting in the beanbag in the same general position for so long. He pushes himself up, arching his back slightly and sighing at the satisfying crack of his spine. Wonwoo stretches down to touch his toes, the world spinning before refocusing on the mess strewn across the coffee table and the floor underneath it. He frowns. “Seokmin,” he calls out, “Help me clean this up.”
Even without his partner in crime to enable him, Seokmin is a lazy slob of a drunk. Wonwoo is by no means as tidy as someone like Mingyu but there’s a line, and that line is red wine on a beige carpet and his mother grounding him for two whole weeks. During summer.
Seokmin just sticks out his bottom lip, and grumbles, “Can’t we do it later?”
Wonwoo, who’d made his way over to Seokmin’s side of the living room to pick up a trail of pumpkin fizz wrappers, is dragged down onto the armchair halfway on top of Seokmin by Seokmin’s ankle winding around his leg. “Oh my god,” Wonwoo mutters, shuffling off the rest of Seokmin’s lap. It’s a tight squeeze but if Seokmin wants him to sit here he’d rather a centimetre of butt room than the possibility of bringing about a proximity boner.
“I don’t know why I did that,” Seokmin says. He exhales noisily and Wonwoo can feel it on the back of his neck.
Wonwoo takes the whiskey bottle out of Seokmin’s hand and takes a swig. Again, Seokmin feels like a human space heater and this time, with alcohol making him drowsy and touchier than usual, he doesn’t bother stopping himself from leaning into him. They sit like that for a while, Wonwoo’s head resting on Seokmin’s shoulder, and passing the bottle between them until they’ve consumed every last drop. Then Seokmin begins to run his finger around and around the rim of the bottle.
“When do you think Soonyoung’s coming back?” Wonwoo finally says, at the same time Seokmin blurts out, “Can I ask you something?”
They laugh. Seokmin clears his throat, and tosses the bottle onto the rug. “Dunno, soon?”
“What did you want to ask me?” Wonwoo questions, sitting up.
“Um,” Seokmin starts, “Are you going out with Mingyu?”
Wonwoo blinks. “No, why would you think that?” he finally answers, slowly.
It seems as though Seokmin is deliberately avoiding eye contact with him, but in turn, he just ends up staring at Wonwoo’s mouth. Wonwoo smacks his lips, and Seokmin’s gaze snaps up. He looks dazed. “It’s just that—well, I've always wondered. You guys are really close.”
Wonwoo shakes his head, grimacing. “Nah. Like, would you ever want to date Soonyou—”
“Yes,” Seokmin says immediately. His face turns even redder, if possible, and he slurs his next words, “I—I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed, you get confused growing up, alright? Don’t you like lots of people for the sake of liking them?”
Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Not really.”
“He’s 99 percent straight, anyway,” Seokmin says.
“What’s the one percent?”
Seokmin snorts. “His crush on Taemin Lee.” Taemin is the Chaser who’d scored the last goal for Ireland. With this new piece of information, Soonyoung squealing every time there was a close-up of Taemin on the widescreen makes a lot more sense.
Wonwoo hums in response, and they fall silent again. He’s distantly contemplating getting another drink when Seokmin’s palm lands on his upper thigh, stiff and unmoving. Wonwoo looks up questioningly to see Seokmin’s staring at it, the expression on his face regretful.
“Seokmin,” Wonwoo says, placing his hand over Seokmin’s, “What are you doing?”
The lip Seokmin had been chewing on springs back. The air is strange, tense. There is, for some reason, a sickening scream outside. A shudder runs down Wonwoo’s spine.
“Did you think of something great?” Seokmin asks, his voice clearer than it’s been all night.
“Sorry?”
“Earlier you said you’d think of something great when I—”
“Oh, right,” Wonwoo interrupts. “Do you deserve anything after hitting me with that cork?”
“You’re right.” Seokmin nods seriously, and Wonwoo’s mind goes cute, and Seokmin’s saying, “But can we kiss anyway?”
Apparently Wonwoo had taken a second too long to reply because Seokmin is already backtracking, “If you want, I mean, what else can we do until Soonyoung comes back?”
Wonwoo can think of a number of options, sleep amongst them, but with Seokmin’s hand still on his thigh, warm and steadying, he realises there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than snogging Seokmin right now.
He stretches forward, cupping the side of Seokmin’s face, angling his head to press his mouth against Seokmin’s. Seokmin’s lips are a lot softer than his chapped ones, and it makes for a nice contrast. His hand gently squeezes Wonwoo’s leg as they make out. A balmy sense of drowsiness washes over Wonwoo, exhilaration fanning out beneath his ribcage like a sunflower.
And then two things happen at once: Seokmin’s tongue slips into Wonwoo’s mouth; and his hand slides up to grip his waist, startling Wonwoo into his losing his balance and finding himself on Seokmin’s lap again. He gasps, tightening his hold around Seokmin’s nape.
Wonwoo presses closer, at the same time Seokmin pulls back to take in a gulp of oxygen, and wipe the drool on his chin. He smiles, almost shyly, knocking his forehead against Wonwoo’s. “I’m so drunk right now,” he whispers.
“Me too,” Wonwoo says, laughing a little. There’s another shriek outside, followed by a couple more. From the bonfire, probably. He brushes his thumb over Seokmin’s cheekbone. “Please don’t stop.”
“Oh my god,” Seokmin mumbles under his breath. He sounds disbelieving, but mostly proud, and Wonwoo vaguely wonders if this is his first kiss.
His first kiss, first everything, had been Jeonghan Yoon during the Christmas of his sixth year, when they were stuck at Hogwarts after both their families had coincidentally decided to spend their holidays in warmer, sunnier places of the world. Wonwoo didn’t mind—he had an entire library of books to read and assignments to complete—but Jeonghan had been bored out of his mind. Though they barely knew each other, he roped Wonwoo, the only other upper year at the Castle, to get up to some fun. Jeonghan had gone on to apply for Auror training after graduating, and they haven’t talked since, the only reminder of their Christmas fling the Pavlovian hard-on Wonwoo gets anytime he’s near the Slytherin dorms now.
Anyway, Wonwoo doesn’t get to ask because Seokmin pulls him in again, his palms cupping Wonwoo’s face this time. At this point, Wonwoo feels more magma than human, like he’s melting into Seokmin. He’s got a hand bunched around the collar of Seokmin’s Bulgaria sweatshirt, his legs now braced around either side of Seokmin’s stocky thighs, and if he just shuffled forward a little he could—
“What in the name of Merlin are you two doing?!” The air in the tent is thick as molasses and the voice that cuts through is screechy, and unmistakably belongs to Soonyoung. Instantly, Wonwoo is pushed off of Seokmin. He grunts, glaring up at Seokmin who sort of looks like he wants to cry or throw up. Wonwoo twists back to see Soonyoung standing in the entrance, the tent flaps swaying around him. The wind outside is whistling, snake-like, and it’s the only sound to be heard. Soonyoung’s face is void of any colour.
“We were—” Seokmin begins. Wonwoo can see him dig the heel of his palm into his crotch.
“Nevermind that, we need to leave,” Soonyoung says, rushing forward to grab both of their wrists. “Quick, get your shoes on.”
Wonwoo’s shoelaces are barely tied before Soonyoung is pulling them out of the tent, and whispering, “Look up.”
There in the sky, larger than the moon, and hissing at them with its forked, green tongue, is the Dark Mark.