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If Minho has to listen to Kim Seungmin critique his chopping technique one more time, he’s going to shove him into a cauldron just to see what colour it turns.
“You’re cutting the velvet bean too thin. It says slice, not pulverise.”
Minho pauses, the silver edge of his knife hovering over his cutting board. He turns his head slowly, levelling a sideways glare.
At the workstation next to his, Seungmin is meticulously organising his ingredients, aligning phials and crushed shrake spines with sickening Ravenclaw precision. He looks entirely too smug for someone who is currently within stabbing distance.
“I’ll slice you,” Minho threatens.
“Not if you do it with the same sloppy technique you’re using on that bean,” Seungmin says, rolling up his sleeves and picking up his own knife. “Your Elixir of Euphoria is going to induce chronic depression at this rate.”
Minho’s eye twitches.
For the record, they have been dating for three years.
Exactly how they’ve lasted that long without one of them ending up in Azkaban for premeditated murder is a mystery that continues to baffle the entire student body. To any first-year passing by, it probably looks like they’re five seconds away from drawing wands and hexing each other into oblivion.
To the rest of the sixth-year N.E.W.T. potions class, it’s just another Tuesday.
“My potion is fine,” Minho snaps, sweeping his slightly-mutilated beans into his cauldron. It instantly lets out an angry hiss, the liquid swirling before settling into a questionable shade of mustard yellow instead of the textbook sunshine gold.
Seungmin pauses his chopping, leaning over slightly to peer into Minho’s cauldron. He sighs, shaking his head with an air of tragedy. “As your loving boyfriend, I feel it’s my duty to inform you that your potion is currently the colour of pixie vomit.”
Minho scowls, lowering the flame under his cauldron with a deft flick of his wand, tossing in a second pinch of crushed peppermint for good measure. “It’s transitioning,” he insists, squinting at the edges that he swears are beginning to brighten. “It’ll be gold in a minute. Mind your own business.”
Seungmin arches an eyebrow, glancing pointedly from Minho’s stubborn mustard concoction to his own potion, which has turned a flawless, simmering sunshine-yellow.
“If you want, I can salvage it for you,” Seungmin offers, his tone dripping with mock-generosity. “You just have to ask nicely.”
Ask nicely. Minho would rather eat bubotuber pus.
He narrows his eyes at Seungmin, who has gone back to stirring his cauldron with a look of absolute, untouchable serenity. The picture-perfect Ravenclaw golden boy completely in his element, sleeves rolled up, radiating smug competence.
God, he’s so hot.
No—Minho, focus.
Minho tears his gaze away and wills down the heat creeping up his ears. He clears his throat, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms casually, ignoring the thump of his heart against his forearms.
“You’re stirring counter-clockwise,” Minho lies smoothly.
Seungmin’s smug expression falters for a fraction of a second. His eyes dart down to his cauldron, a flash of genuine panic crossing his features—before he realises he’s very much still stirring clockwise.
Minho smirks, immensely satisfied. Got ‘em.
“I hate you,” Seungmin mutters as he resumes his stirring, though the corner of his mouth twitches a little.
“Yet you’re still dating me,” Minho reminds him, thoroughly enjoying the return of the upper hand. “What does that say about you?”
Seungmin doesn’t even look up from his cauldron. “That I have a saviour complex and terrible taste.”
A loud, exaggerated gagging noise comes from the workstation behind them.
“Get a room,” Jisung groans, prodding peevishly at his own sludge-green potion. “Some of us are trying to concentrate here. I’m blaming you for my potion.”
“I second that,” Jeongin deadpans from beside him, idly flipping a root of asphodel in his hand and not even pretending to be doing work. “Please keep your flirting to yourselves. The sheer toxicity of your romance is ruining my potion’s pH balance.”
Minho scowls at the younger Slytherins. “We are not flirting.”
“You are literally undressing each other with your eyes.”
Before Minho can suggest tossing Jeongin into the black lake to ease his suffering, the booming voice of Professor Slughorn echoes across the dungeon, cutting through the chatter.
“Excellent work so far, everyone! Now, leave your Elixirs to simmer. We’re going to move on to something a little more… potent,” Slughorn announces cheerfully. He steps up to the front of the classroom, gesturing to a small, ornate golden cauldron resting on his desk that Minho hadn’t noticed earlier. A heavy black cloth is draped over the top.
“Today, I have prepared something special for you to observe,” Slughorn continues, eyes twinkling. With a theatrical flourish, he pulls the cloth away.
Minho cranes his neck. There’s a pearly sheen across the top of the potion, with steam starting to rise in perfect spirals.
Then, he suddenly catches a whiff of something distinctly minty. Specifically, the mint chocolate ice cream Seungmin always insists on getting from Madam Puddifoot’s like the freak he is.
What the hell?
Minho glances down at his robes in confusion, twisting his sleeve to inspect it. Did Seungmin spill ice cream on him at Hogsmeade earlier? That little—
He shoots a suspicious glare at his boyfriend, but Seungmin is looking straight ahead, back straight and fully attentive.
“Can anyone tell me what this is?” Slughorn asks.
Seungmin’s hand, predictably, hits the air first. “Amortentia, sir. The most powerful love potion in the world.”
“Spot on, Mr. Kim! Ten points to Ravenclaw,” Slughorn beams. “And do you know its most notable characteristic?”
“It smells differently to each person,” Seungmin recites smoothly, sounding exactly like he’s inhaled the textbook. “According to what attracts them.”
Minho freezes, his nose still hovering above his own collar. He slowly straightens back up.
Oh?
“Spot on! Now,” Slughorn claps his hands together with enough enthusiasm to rattle the nearby vials. “Theory is all well and good, but I believe practical experience is the best teacher! If you’d all form an orderly queue, I’d like each of you to step up and experience the aroma for yourselves. Don’t be shy, now!”
A slow, devious smirk curls the corner of Minho’s lip.
Oh, this is too easy.
The dungeon fills with the clatter of stools and rustling fabric as everyone scrambles to their feet. Minho doesn’t hesitate. He slides into the front half of the line, immediately aware of Seungmin falling into step right behind him.
Minho glances over his shoulder, throwing Seungmin a razor-sharp smirk. “Try not to cry when you find out we’re true soulmates.”
Seungmin rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “If you embarrass me, I’m locking you out of Ravenclaw tower tonight.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Minho purrs.
A few students ahead of them take their turns, giggling and turning various shades of pink before hurrying back to their seats. Then the student in front of Minho steps aside, and he’s face-to-face with the golden cauldron. The spiralling steam wafts upwards in lazy loops, catching the flickering torchlight of the dungeon.
Slughorn gestures grandly with both hands. “Come right up, Mr. Lee! What does it present to you?”
Minho leans forwards and drags in a slow, deliberate inhale.
The scent hits him instantly—warm, rich, and unmistakably familiar.
“Mint chocolate,” Minho announces, projecting his voice so it rings off the stone walls. “Old library parchment. And whatever excessively expensive lemon soap the Ravenclaws keep in their prefect bathrooms.”
A chorus of stifled snorts and giggles immediately breaks out across the classroom. From further down the line, Jeongin lets out a loud, dry cough that sounds suspiciously like whipped.
Slughorn, ever oblivious, simply chuckles. “Ah, fascinating! A very studious, comforting profile, Mr. Lee. Excellent!”
Minho steps to the side with an exaggerated bow, his eyes never leaving Seungmin’s.
“Your turn, sweetheart,” Minho murmurs under his breath, voice dripping with honeyed smugness. “Let’s hear it.”
Seungmin doesn’t flush.
In fact, his expression doesn’t crack at all. He just stares back at Minho for one long, calculated second, his dark eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint that Minho really, really should have taken as a warning sign.
Seungmin steps in front of the cauldron. He stands with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, the picture of propriety and academic grace. Minho watches from the side, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for Seungmin to either stumble over his words or begrudgingly admit that he smells Minho.
Seungmin leans over the steam. He takes a delicate breath.
He pauses for a long, drawn-out second. Then he blinks, tilting his head with an expression of faintly pleasant surprise. He turns to Slughorn, wearing an expression of pure innocence, not even glancing at Minho.
“Dark chocolate,” Seungmin hums thoughtfully. “Freshly cut grass with a bit of rain. And… broomstick polish.”
Minho’s smirk instantly curdles.
Cut grass?
Broomstick polish??
A low ripple passes through the class. At the back of the queue, a few Ravenclaw chasers actually have the audacity to perk up, glancing at each other with sudden interest. Minho shoots them a withering glare, and they quickly duck back into the line.
Minho does not fly. Minho wouldn’t be caught dead on a broomstick if his life depended on it. He gets dizzy looking down from the third-floor railing, refuses to look out of the owlery windows, and views Quidditch as an utter suicide sport invented by people who lack basic self-preservation.
Which means.
That is not him.
Who the fuck is he smelling?
Minho’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache, fingers twitching towards the wand in his pocket as a murderous urge flares in his mind, that makes him want to march out to the Quidditch pitch and set every damn broom in the shed on fire—
And then Minho catches it.
The barest, most microscopic tilt at the corner of Seungmin’s lips.
The realisation hits him like a bucket of ice water: Seungmin is lying through his goddamn teeth.
He didn’t smell a Quidditch player. He probably didn’t even smell dark chocolate. He just concocted the one specific scent profile in the entire wizarding world that Minho could never embody, purely to watch Minho’s ego crash and burn in front of the entire class.
You little shit.
“Oho!” Slughorn chortles, completely unaware that a homicide is being plotted three feet to his left. “A Quidditch player! Well, well! Who knew our top scholar had an eye for an athlete, eh?”
From the back, Jeongin lets out a wheezing snort. He clearly knows that Seungmin is bullshitting, and is enjoying Minho’s near-aneurysm far too much.
Seungmin offers Slughorn a polite, model-student nod, then turns to walk back to his workstation. As he glides past Minho, he doesn’t say a word. He just casts a sidelong glance, arching a single, self-satisfied eyebrow that practically screams: gotcha.
Minho stares after him.
Oh, you think you’re so funny, don’t you?
Minho’s hands clench into fists at his sides. He slowly turns on his heel, watching the smug line of Seungmin’s back as he calmly settles back into his seat.
If Seungmin wants to play games, he’s about to find out exactly why Minho was sorted into Slytherin.
Minho’s eyes flick to the grandfather clock ticking on the dungeon wall.
Three minutes until the bell.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
In Seungmin’s humble opinion, watching Minho’s soul briefly leave his body in front of twenty witnesses was well worth whatever consequences are currently barreling towards him.
Packing away his brass scales and dried peppermint leaves, Seungmin can barely keep the self-satisfied smirk off his face. Across the table, Minho is shoving his silver knife into his satchel with enough suppressed violence that Seungmin is half-convinced the blade might puncture straight through the leather.
It had taken every ounce of Seungmin’s Ravenclaw composure not to burst into hysterical laughter at the front of the classroom. Watching Minho’s cocky smirk curdle into pure, homicidal jealousy the exact second the words broomstick polish left Seungmin’s mouth was easily the highlight of his month.
The bell chimes, signalling the end of the double period.
Slughorn waves them off with a booming farewell, and Seungmin casually slings his satchel over one shoulder. He offers Minho one last, saccharine-sweet smile as he steps past the desk, deliberately brushing their shoulders together.
“Have a good afternoon, jagiya,” Seungmin murmurs under his breath.
Minho doesn’t answer. He just stares at him with eyes narrowed into deadly slits, a faint pink visible on the tips of his ears.
Seungmin chuckles quietly to himself, stepping out into the bustling corridor. He starts leisurely walking towards the grand staircase, mentally congratulating himself on a flawlessly executed victory.
Then, he hears it: the quiet, echoing thud of dragonhide boots matching his exact stride, closing the distance far too quickly. A thrilling prickle of danger sweeps up the back of Seungmin’s neck.
Suddenly, a hand wraps around the leather strap of his satchel and yanks him backwards with alarming force.
“Ah—!”
Seungmin stumbles, his heel catching on the hem of his robes. Before he can regain his balance or reach for his wand, he is hauled violently off the main corridor. The heavy, moth-eaten wool of a tapestry brushes past his face as he’s shoved straight through a slit in the stone wall and into a cramped alcove.
His back hits the cold wall with a dull thud.
Seungmin barely has time to blink before Minho steps into the shadows with him, letting the tapestry fall shut and plunging them into near-darkness, instantly cutting off the chatter of the corridor. Minho crowds him further back against the wall, chest heaving slightly, that intense, cat-like stare firmly in place.
Seungmin’s heart does an unhelpful flip in his chest, but he forces his face into a mask of pure, angelic innocence. He blinks up at Minho through his lashes with polite bewilderment.
“You know,” Seungmin says mildly, adjusting his rumpled collar. Minho tracks the movement with unnerving intensity. “If you wanted to walk me to Arithmancy, you could’ve just asked. The kidnapping feels a bit excessive.”
“Shut up.” Minho plants a flat palm against the stone right beside Seungmin’s head, caging him in. He leans in closer, his voice dropping into a low, menacing rasp in Seungmin’s ear. “Broomstick polish, Seungmin? Really?”
“What about it?” Seungmin asks, feigning innocent confusion as he leans his head back against the stone and offers a faint shrug. His heart begins to beat faster in his chest, thumping so hard he’s afraid Minho might hear it. “It’s a very grounding aroma. Refreshing and outdoorsy.”
“Outdoorsy?” Minho repeats with a scoff, his eyes narrowing into slits, making him look even more like an affronted cat. “You complain if the library window is open half an inch. You’ve never been into outdoorsy.”
“People can evolve, you know.”
“You’re so full of shit.” Minho’s other hand hits the wall on Seungmin’s other side, trapping him completely. The heat radiating off him in the cramped space is intoxicating. “Tell me what you actually smelled.”
Seungmin lets his gaze drop deliberately to Minho’s mouth, then slowly trails back up to his eyes. He lets a tiny, maddening smirk curl his lips, leaning directly into the fire.
“The heart wants what it wants,” Seungmin purrs. “Are you questioning the ancient magic of Amortentia? Maybe I’ve just developed an appreciation for an athletic build. Broad shoulders, windblown hair… someone who doesn’t get dizzy on the moving staircase.”
Minho’s jaw twitches. For a second, Seungmin thinks he might actually snap and hex him.
Instead, Minho’s expression darkens. The furious scowl smooths out into something more predatory, the way a cat’s pupils dilate when it locks onto a mouse.
“The heart wants what it wants, huh?” Minho repeats softly. “How very poetic of you.”
Before Seungmin can register the shift, Minho’s hands push past the folds of Seungmin’s open robes, blunt fingers finding the thin knit of his Ravenclaw sweater and digging straight into the sensitive hollows just above his hip bones.
A sharp, undignified squeak tears from Seungmin’s throat.
His back arches off the wall instinctively, only to collide flush against Minho’s chest.
“Minho—wait—fuck—” Seungmin’s warning disintegrates into a breathless laugh as Minho’s thumbs dig in with ruthless precision. He immediately folds, twisting violently to escape, but the alcove is far too narrow—and Minho is far too strong.
“Just saying what you smelled, huh?” Minho taunts. His hands don’t let up for a second, fingers dancing mercilessly against Seungmin’s ribs until Seungmin is writhing in his grip. “Tell me what you really smelled, Seungmin. Say it.”
“I—hahaha! I told you—it was—ah—” Seungmin wheezes, hands shooting down to clutch at Minho’s wrists, his leg kicking out as he tries to stomp on Minho’s foot. “Yah, stop, you bastard—hah—”
“Can’t hear you over the sound of your lies,” Minho whispers, dodging easily. His thigh slots firmly between Seungmin’s legs, pressing high and unyielding, pinning Seungmin’s hips flat against the stone.
Tears prick at the corners of Seungmin’s eyes from laughing so hard. He kicks out again, trying to dislodge Minho’s knee, but Minho just presses higher and keeps him pinned effortlessly, digging into a particularly lethal spot just above Seungmin’s hip bone. “Ah—Minho, I swear to Merlin—”
“Oh? What about Merlin?” Minho teases, his thumbs pausing for just a split second to let Seungmin catch a desperate gasp of air. “Going to hex me? Hard to do when you can’t talk. Just tell me the truth, and I’ll stop.”
Seungmin sets his jaw. “I swear—I smelled—broomstick polish,” he gasps out, glaring defiantly. “And grass—lots of—fuck—outdoorsy grass.”
Minho’s eyes flash. “Stubborn brat. Guess you’ll just have to be late to Arithmancy.”
Minho slides his hands under Seungmin’s sweater, his warm palm pressing against Seungmin’s fluttering stomach for a second before dragging lightly across the ultra-sensitive dips of Seungmin’s lower ribcage.
Seungmin lets out an embarrassing, full-bodied shriek. He thrashes, trying to buck Minho off, but the wall behind him offers zero escape. “You’re—you’re an absolute—hahaha—I swear—”
“Keep threatening me. It’s cute,” Minho breathes, leaning down so his lips brush the shell of Seungmin’s burning ear, breath hot, even as his fingers keep up their vicious tickling. “Confess, Seungmin. What did you smell?”
Seungmin’s fingers automatically abandon Minho’s wrists, flying up to fist tightly in the front of Minho’s Slytherin robes, pulling him closer instead of pushing away.
“Ah— okay, Minho, please—” Seungmin’s voice breaks, dropping into a hitched whine as he jerks weakly.
Minho finally relents, but only just.
His fingers stop their merciless attack, flattening instead into a heavy grip that anchors Seungmin’s hips flush against his own.
“I’m waiting,” Minho murmurs, his mouth hovering a mere millimetre above Seungmin’s parted lips. “Tell me.”
Seungmin’s head falls back against the stone wall with a light thump. His hair is a dishevelled mess, chest rising and falling in violent, shuddering breaths, his collar pulled askew and tie half-undone. He tries to scowl, tries desperately to summon even an ounce of his usual icy pride, but it’s no use.
He gulps down a mouthful of air, his knuckles white where they’re still fisted in the front of Minho’s robes.
“Pudding,” Seungmin bites out, making sure he sounds like he’d rather be swallowing glass.
Minho’s thumbs press firmly into the bare skin just above his waist, a silent, demanding prompt.
“Custard pudding,” Seungmin repeats, louder this time, glaring up at Minho with all the venom of a wet cat. “Cinnamon. And… and cat fur, you absolute psycho.”
Minho’s eyebrows twitch upwards, a slow, insufferably pleased smirk beginning to curl his lips. “Custard pudding, cinnamon, and cat fur, hm?” Minho whispers. “No grass? No broomstick polish?”
“Shut up,” Seungmin wheezes, his voice trembling with a heady mix of exhaustion and heat. He tugs weakly on Minho’s robes. “Shut the fuck up and—”
Minho doesn’t let him finish.
He surges forwards and crashes their mouths together.
It isn’t gentle. Minho’s teeth graze Seungmin’s lower lip in a sharp, possessive nip before his tongue sweeps in to soothe the sting, drawing a soft whine that vibrates straight down Seungmin’s spine. His hand leaves Seungmin’s hip, sliding up his chest and tangling firmly in the hair at the nape of Seungmin’s neck, angling his head back against the stone to steal every scrap of air Seungmin just fought to get back.
Every scent Seungmin had just confessed to wraps around them in the dark: the faint spice of cinnamon radiating from Minho’s skin, the warm smell of fur on his robes, and the faint traces of pudding lingering on his tongue.
Minho shifts his weight, the solid line of his thigh flexing slightly, eliciting a shuddering gasp that Minho promptly swallows whole. Seungmin’s fingers knot tighter into the heavy wool of Minho’s robes, completely abandoning any remaining pretence of resistance as he arches up into the contact.
When Minho finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch.
Seungmin slumps forwards against Minho’s chest with a shuddering breath, completely wrung out. His forehead thumps against Minho’s collarbone as he drags lungfuls of air into his burning chest, hands still tangled in the front of Minho’s robes.
Above him, Minho’s own breathing is rough and uneven.
With a firm, unyielding tug, the hand in Seungmin’s hair tilts his head back against the stone wall.
Seungmin’s eyes flutter open, slightly dazed, eyelashes still damp from laughing. Minho’s thumb gently brushes against Seungmin’s reddened bottom lip, his gaze dark with smug satisfaction.
“Next time you want to make me jealous,” Minho whispers, his voice thick and husky in the air between them, “pick something more believable than outdoorsy.”
Seungmin lets out a raspy, disbelieving laugh against Minho’s thumb. His pulse is still fluttering wildly against his ribs, his legs feeling embarrassingly close to jelly.
“More believable?” Seungmin murmurs, lifting his eyes to meet Minho’s, a faint grin tracing his swollen lips. “I don’t know, it seemed to work pretty well. You still lost your mind.”
Minho scoffs, but the telltale flush staining his ears betrays him entirely. His thumb presses a little firmer against Seungmin’s lip.
“Shut up,” Minho mutters, his grip on Seungmin’s hair tightening as he surges forwards to steal whatever breath Seungmin has left.
Slughorn was right, Seungmin thinks dizzily as he melts against the stone. Practical experience really is the best teacher.