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It is the morning of the ceremony and Sungho is running late. Emphasis on running . He’s practically whizzing down the hallway, bumping into people as he frantically calls out apologies over his shoulder. A first year ‘puff goes flying out of his path, tripping over herself and falling down the shallow steps into the adjoining corridor
Curses , Sungho curses under his breath and jumps over the balustrade to jog over to her. He pats her head and soothes her at such a speed that it only serves to increase the panic in her eyes which soon begin welling up with tears. The older girls that gather around give him a disappointed look as he makes his hasty retreat, bowing in apology because he really does have to go .
He’d been perfectly confident that everything was in order earlier this morning as he inspected himself in the mirror. Shoes? Shined. Tie? Straightened. Socks? Pulled up to his shin. Hair? Not a strand out of place.
He’d even ironed his shirt and robe the previous night and hung the set on his wardrobe where it remained undisturbed despite his roommate’s proclivity for spilling paint all over the room in his latest pursuit of ‘abstract art’–some genre of painting he’d picked up from their Muggle Studies class.
Really, everything was fine until he’d been gathered with the other prefects in the entrance foyer and Riwoo had frowned at him, puzzled. Where’s your hat? He asked. Sungho blinked, then his hands flew up to touch his head where it should’ve been. All he got was fistfuls of his own hair, which was strange, because he’d been wearing it when he left his room, he’s sure .
No matter. He muttered some obscenities that made the ‘puff burst into startled laughter, and turned on his heel, promptly beginning the journey back to Ravenclaw Tower. It was only a short jog past a corridor of classrooms, up the infuriating Grand Stairs and up five more floors of spiral steps. By that time, Sungho had been so winded and frazzled, he’d almost flubbed the riddle and risked being locked out for the day.
All that effort and turning his room inside out only for the hat to be nowhere. He checked the clock on the wall. He had fifteen minutes before they were being called up. So he stood, letting the dust settle, catching his breath and tried to clear his head despite the piles of clean clothes in disarray on the floor that made his eye twitch.
Oh. Breakfast . He’d taken his sandwich at the Quad, wanting to enjoy a little snack along with the early autumn breeze before assembly started. As he recounts his actions over the course of another painstaking journey down his nth set of stairs that hour, he remembers laying down on a bench to watch the mist lift over the towers, before standing up to dust himself off and head on his way. Without his hat.
Thankfully, he spots the offending article of clothing as soon as he comes into view of the courtyard. It sits on the bench where he’d left it, seemingly untouched by any of the stragglers around that don’t pay him any mind as they leisurely make their way to the Grand Hall.
Sighing with relief, Sungho lifts the hat, making to place it on his head once and for all, when, to his surprise, he finds something underneath. Lying curled up under the wizard’s hat is a small black cat.
It is larger than a kitten, though not as big as the adults that roam around the kitchens territorially, waiting for their daily scraps. It seems to have made itself comfortable, shaded from the morning chill. Its eyes remain closed as it purrs softly, even as Sungho fits the hat back on his head. Watching it, his chest floods with warmth at the adorable sight.
The moment of reverie is interrupted, however, by the tolling of the belltower, signalling Sungho’s impending doom. At the same time, the cat jumps awake, eyes flying open to reveal large, brilliant topaz irises. Startling at the cacophony of sound and the presence of a flustered Sungho, it zips away, padding towards the other end of the Quad, and disappears down the corridor.
Equally in a panic, Sungho takes off, casting a curious look over his shoulder at the creature, before blundering on towards the first morning assembly of the semester. He makes it to the Grand Hall just in time to slot himself at the tail end of the line, beside Riwoo– Glad to have you join us, Park Sungho, he teases, receiving only a withering glare in reply–as they begin to file in, the Headmistress’ resounding voice introducing Hogwarts’ esteemed prefects.
✧
When Taesan had chosen this spot, he had expected to remain undisturbed for the rest of the day until Leehan would sneak up on him, poke his side and wake him in time for dinner. His last period was a free one, which essentially meant that he’d been let out of classes early for the rest of the day (because really, what did free periods even mean, only a week into the semester).
Heading back to his dorm was not his top choice, not when the weather was so lovely out at this time of year. So here Taesan lays, under the tree that shades half the courtyard, with reddening leaves falling around him. The sun filters through the branches in dapples of light, keeping his skin warm, though not enough for the muffler around his neck to feel stuffy.
He likes these days, early into the semester, when classes are still stuck in introduction and the air buzzes with something like excitement as students try to find their feet in the new school year. He’s got his head propped up against the swelling roots of the tree, and a novel in hand. It is looking to be a perfect afternoon.
So he’s not exactly thrilled when a shadow falls over him the moment class lets out for everyone else an hour later. A head of shaggy hair soon comes into his view from above, silhouetting against the light of the sun.
“Han Taesan?” Comes a voice like velvet and honey, posing a puzzling inquiry. Taesan sets the novel down at his side, feeling defeated, before looking up with his eyes squinted at the owner of the voice.
“I’m Park Sungho,” Park Sungho says, shifting on his feet. He wears a sheepish expression, his face lightly flushed, like he’s running a fever. He looks a little unsure of what to do– whether to continue standing over Taesan, or to join him on the ground.
“I know who you are,” Taesan says. He sits up, folding his legs in to a criss-cross position.
He eyes the Ravenclaw boy cautiously, because really, what business would newly-minted Head Boy, Quidditch team captain and Asian Union President Park Sungho have to do with himself, Han Taesan, who can only be spotted lying in the grass like the snake he is, when he’s not busy sneaking his way onto the Hufflepuff rooftop garden to smoke grass.
(Contrary to unpopular belief, Taesan doesn’t need to do much sneaking, because Kim Leehan invites him up there all the time.
And no–they do not smoke grass. But Leehan’s always bugging Taesan to accompany him while he tends to the glowing blue carp in the lily pond.
And for the record, they always end up smelling like grass when they head to dinner, because apparently magic carp like the taste of unprocessed cannabis, which they acquire monthly from the greenhouse under strict instruction from Professor Lovegood.
And maybe , they had tried to smoke it once, but it tasted so bad they ended up unrolling it and feeding the good bits to the carp anyway).
“See, I have a favour to ask of you. A pretty huge one,” Sungho begins, growing ever more agitated with every passing second. In an effort to calm himself, he chooses to sit, mirroring Taesan, maintaining a careful distance between them. He begins playing with the dried leaves around him, folding them and listening to them crunch between his fingers.
“Uh, okay,” Taesan replies, unsure, because whatever Sacred Twenty-Eight Families Park Sungho is about to ask him–middle-class, half-blood Han Taesan–must actually be important, otherwise why would he be risking his picture-perfect reputation by fraternising with a Slytherin wallflower? Taesan decides to hear him out.
“Would you consider tutoring me?” Sungho asks, his voice small. He keeps his head down in shame, and all Taesan can see is part of the smooth expanse of his forehead and the perfect bridge of his nose.
“What?” Park Sungho had been among the overall top of his class the previous year. Why would he need Taesan, a sixth-year’s, help?
“I only barely passed Potions last year,” Sungho continues, mumbling. Okay, fair . But–
“Why me?” Taesan asks, unable to wrap the request around his head. Sungho lets out an exasperated sound through his nostrils, looking up at him in disbelief. His hair is a cherry-brown in the golden sunlight. He looks positively radiant.
“Because you’re at the top of the advanced class, aren’t you?” The Head Boy asks, nerves wearing thin, much too aware that he’s beginning to sound a little desperate.
“Well.” Taesan can’t deny that. His father’s a medicinal chemist at St. Mungo's Hospital. He’s had every summer to get ahead in Potions since his first year and it’s paid off, apparently, because aside from being known as the resident Slytherin pothead, he’s also something of a potions master among his peers.
(His long list of accolades include: remedies for love potions and morning-afters, resident mixologist for House Cup after parties and tummy-ache soothers for those who couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed and walk to the hospital wing).
“Why not just drop it? You’re already taking enough subjects,” Taesan says. It’s a mistake, if Sungho’s surprised expression is anything to go by. How could Taesan possibly know about Sungho’s academic burden for the year?
Thankfully, the older boy doesn’t seem to ponder too long on this.
Sighing, he hangs his head dejectedly, saying, “Well, I’m already this far along. Might as well stick it out until the end.”
(Taesan thinks that it is a very Park Sungho thing to say. He wouldn’t be among the most respected students in the whole school if he gave up so easily.
Taesan has always admired his conviction, though if anyone were to ask, he couldn’t possibly have been observing Sungho closely enough to warrant such an opinion of the older boy’s character).
“Anyway,” Sungho continues, “Riwoo recommended you. And I trust his advice.” Right . Lee Riwoo: Sungho’s fellow prefect and the object of Kim Leehan’s every ardour and affection. He’ll have to slip his friend a laxative or two in secret at dinner.
Taesan sighs, massaging his neck that’s gone stiff. “Fine,” he breathes out.
The bright smile that curves into Sungho’s features could rival the sun, and Taesan thinks he wouldn’t mind seeing more of it.
✧
“A tutor, huh,” Leehan drawls, his fork sticking out thoughtfully from the corner of his mouth. He’s got a moony look in his eyes, and Taesan can already tell what he’s thinking; that Riwoo had actually taken his recommendation to heart, and it had produced positive results, which, in Leehan’s mind must count for something .
Leehan had admitted it outright–albeit a little too shamelessly for Taesan’s liking–that he had, in fact, recommended him, much to the Slytherin’s chagrin. But it is dinner now, and Taesan has just returned from spending half the afternoon going over a loose lesson plan with Sungho, which had turned out to be a much more enjoyable use of his free time than finishing up a novel he’s read twice over.
Seeing Leehan now, though, Taesan would much rather eat his own foot than admit it–that Park Sungho’s laugh is a thing like the chiming of bells, and the exposed skin of his throat, coupled with the shaking of his wide shoulders as he throws his head back to do so is more attractive than all the Beauxbatons students put together.
So instead, Taesan opts for picking at his lasagna and keeping his mouth shut.
“Are you going to the match tomorrow?” Taesan asks, his tongue getting the better of him. Leehan pauses and gives him a blank stare, a piece of roasted potato sliding off his fork and falling back onto his plate with a dry splat .
“It’s the first of the season. Do you even have to ask?” Leehan says, like he’s dumb or something.
(Or something).
Taesan nods, humming in contemplation, pretending (and failing) like this is the most normal conversation they’ve had today. Like Taesan doesn’t only ever slither out of the snake pit to watch quidditch when held at wandpoint, much less one of the most crowded matches of the season.
“Okay. Save me a seat, will you?”
Leehan’s eyes widen, suddenly glassy with emotion. Before he can say anything, Taesan messily stuffs the last of his pie into his mouth, crumbs flying every which-way. He then takes off, sprinting down the hall before the ‘puff can sink his paws into him, almost choking on the last bite as he narrowly escapes.
✧
The last time Taesan had gone for a season opener was in first year. It had, actually, been a positive experience– a positively horrible one.
But if he were to be completely honest with himself, Taesan would admit that it really wasn’t as bad as he’d made it out to be all this time. He had, at one point, been really enjoying himself– having joined in the cheering and especially the jeering. But he’d also been sucking on a lollipop.
Sufficed to say, after a near death-by-choking experience, he had vowed never to put himself in the middle of such a rowdy crowd ever again. Mid-season games were alright, though no quidditch at all was definitely preferable. But he’d allowed Leehan a quota of one game per term, barring openers– which he thought was rather generous on his part.
Well, up until now.
Taesan starts regretting his decision at around breakfast two days later, when he nearly has his brains blown out by the sheer noise of the horns the Gryffindor supporters tout about like it’s part of their uniform. Much to his dismay, Leehan shows up wearing two giant toadstool caps turned against either side of his head, shrugging uselessly when Taesan demands a pair of the earmuffs for himself.
To round up the early morning, a fight breaks out at the other end of the hall, but they’re seated far away enough that Taesan can’t make out what it’s all about (nor does he even care), instead choosing to continue shovelling breakfast before he goes on a half-day fast to avoid a repeat of first year. He ends up with a third-year’s blue arse in his beans and bread pudding in his face.
The sky is overcast by the time they head out to join the sizable trail of students towards the training grounds. Where Taesan would usually turn off at the greenhouses, today, he follows the rest of his fellow schoolmates instead. It is a larger crowd than what he remembers previously, or at least larger than he’s ever seen from the little glances he has taken through the library windows over the years.
When he asks Leehan what the special occasion is other than it being the first game of the season, the ‘puff fixes him with a (completely misplaced) look of pity, something along the lines of, you’re missing out on the most beautiful game, you poor unfortunate soul, you.
“It’s Park Sungho’s first game back after signing with the Magpies in the summer, of course,” Leehan says, like Taesan should know.
Taesan, who spends his summers in Muggleton where all there is, is a football club whose crowning achievement was third place at the FA Cup fifteen years ago. A club his pureblood father adores , despite being a seeker himself back in the day.
So no , Taesan wouldn’t know a thing about the current happenings within the world of youth or senior quidditch, for that matter. Even if Park Sungho is involved.
“Uh, remind me how good he is again? In like, two hundred words or less.”
Leehan’s lecture ends up lasting the entire twenty-minute walk to the grounds wherein he gives Taesan a detailed account of Park Sungho’s entire quidditch career (in a lot more than two hundred words). Taesan almost wants to ask how he knows all this, but if Leehan’s encyclopedic knowledge of magical creatures especially with regards to marine life is anything to go by, well, it isn’t all that surprising.
(Leehan pauses only briefly along the way to place a bet on Park Sungho, flicking three Galleons into the bookmaker’s waiting palm.
It is Riwoo. Lee Riwoo of Hufflepuff, resident bookmaker and game commentator, who looks far too pleased with Leehan’s more-than-generous contribution to his side hustle.
Taesan almost wishes for Leehan to continue his speech when the two begin spending many moments too long chatting about–of all things–the prefects’ bathroom, taking up valuable space in the middle of the narrow dirt path, forcing the other students to make way for them, like two rocks in a river.
As they part, the wistful glance Leehan throws over his shoulder is something Taesan hopes he never has to witness at such close proximity again).
Leehan’s rambling doesn’t stop even as they enter the stands, tiptoeing through the packed crowd. When they finally reach their seats–which are right next to each other at the border between blocks of yellow and green–Leehan concludes solemnly: And that is why Park Sungho’s name will be written in stone.
The crowd settles, and Riwoo’s amplified voice chirps through the air wishing them a Merry Matchday! thus finally relieving Taesan of Leehan’s invaluable service as quidditch loremaster.
Overall, what Taesan gathers is this: Park Sungho is the best chaser in the school’s recent history. Last year, he had almost single-handedly won the first of Ravenclaw’s games with a record-breaking highest number of individual goals scored in a match, totalling 14. It became a match Ravenclaw won on chaser points alone , despite Hufflepuff clinching the snitch.
(Taesan had spent that afternoon at the greenhouse, nursing a dying Mandrake. Even from that distance, he had heard the roaring of the crowd, but shrugged it off as just another mid-game rumble).
With a goal average of 50 points, he was also the top scorer at the biannual inter-school tournament. To top it all off, over the summer, he had signed a contract with the Montrose Magpies, thus becoming the youngest first stringer in the pro league in ten years.
When Riwoo introduces the Ravenclaw team to a deafening bout of thunderous applause and cheers, Taesan knows within the first ten seconds that he never needed to hear Leehan’s fanatic analysis in the first place.
Park Sungho, with a captain’s armband fitted tightly onto his bicep, is the arrowhead of the team, leading the formation with a grin on his face that shines so brightly it almost seems to have warded away the rainclouds that had been forming just minutes prior.
He takes his position at center field. The horn blows. The quaffle goes up. Park Sungho wins the bout against Gryffindor captain Myung Jaehyun and proceeds to score sixty points on his own by the time the match ends at an astounding 240-80 in favour of the Blues.
As the Ravenclaw ace makes a celebratory sprint over the stands, Han Taesan realises that he’s never witnessed a sight as overwhelming as Park Sungho.
Park Sungho, with his body bent so close to his broom, wisps of hair escaping from his headgear. Park Sungho, weaving through the narrowest space between beater, bludger and bat with his arm outstretched, reaching forward. Park Sungho, whose eyes are piercing as they sweep across the field, strategising his next play.
Park Sungho, who spots Taesan in a sea the colour of moss, and proceeds to wave at him with a smile.
✧
They meet at the library for their first session.
When Sungho arrives with an offering in his hands, he finds Taesan asleep at one of the work desks near the common fireplace with his face planted in the open pages of Alchemy for Arses. All he can see that indicates any sign of life is the steady rise and fall of Taesan’s back.
Sungho creeps closer, making to quietly slip into the seat beside the boy. But there’s a carpet that sabotages his desire for stealth. He trips on a folded corner of the Persian rug, and stumbles loudly.
Taesan startles at the dull thud of Sungho dropping his books, and the sound of a paper bag rustling, eyes fluttering open in confusion, before he jumps up at the sight of the Head Boy. Sungho produces a paper-wrapped sandwich from the bag, only nearly avoiding embarrassment.
Sorry I’m late. I brought you this– didn’t see you at dinner, he says, holding it out to the younger boy. Taesan stares at him, puzzled. But we can’t eat in the library. Sungho pushes the food into his hands. Prefect privileges. I’ll vouch for you, just be careful. Ducking under the table, Taesan hesitantly begins to eat.
Sungho watches him out of the corner of his eye as he settles himself into the next desk over, flipping through the pages of his exercise book for his assigned task: a set of equations. He’s left a couple blank, at a dead end on how to proceed.
“Wanna take a look?” Sungho asks, addressing the boy under the table. Taesan sticks his arm out immediately, palm open. With his half-eaten sandwich in one hand and the book in the other, he gives it a once-over, furrowing his brows as he runs the calculations in his head. With a firm nod, he hands it back to its owner.
“Honestly, if you didn’t have the basics you wouldn’t have gotten an O.W.L; all you actually need is practice.” There is a pause as Taesan takes a bite. Sungho hides his smile, turning away. “For the two you missed, you’ve got to convert the values before starting. The asterisks, you see?” The Slytherin continues, oblivious.
“Got it. Thanks.” Ten minutes go by as Taesan finishes his dinner, before finally coming up for air, reclaiming his seat beside Sungho. The elder feels him hovering at his shoulder, his eyes peeking over at the exercise book. Taesan doesn’t say anything, and proceeds to continue wherever he left off on Alchemy for Arses.
“You came, yesterday,” Sungho says after a time, disturbing the comfortable silence between them. Taesan’s eyes widen, and his ears begin to redden. Sungho is busying himself with scratching numbers on paper. Continuing, he explains calmly, “The game. I’ve never seen you at one.”
Taesan makes a noise in the back of his throat, his notes becoming scribbles. “Maybe you just never noticed,” he says with an air of indignance. Sungho hums thoughtfully.
“Are you one of those who only go to support their own Houses?” He asks, prodding, pushing. Taesan scoffs, not knowing when bait is being dangled right in between his eyes.
“No.”
Sungho shrugs, like he’s proven a point, “Well, then.”
Sniffing, Taesan counters, “A Slytherin game perhaps, but only when we’re halfway to winning. A season opener once in a while, maybe.”
Then Sungho turns to him, eyes bright and curious, and asks, “And what did you think of it?”
“It was fine,” Taesan says, gritting his teeth. But Sungho is nothing if not determined.
“Really? I do recall seeing you celebrating a goal or two.”
“Any enemy of Gryffindor is my–friend,” Taesan bites out, hastily crossing out a line of writing. The ink will bleed through several pages, he thinks and inwardly curses himself. Sungho laughs at that; the sound rings around Taesan’s head, knocking him off-kilter.
“Well, Jaehyun is a close friend, but I can respect that,” the Ravenclaw says, slightly out of breath, before turning back to his work. The fireplace crackles. Taesan almost begins mourning the death of the conversation, before Sungho is looking to him again with something like hope in his eyes.
“You’ll come again, won’t you?” Sungho asks, leaning forward, crossing the boundary between their desks, so unabashedly sincere that it makes Taesan want to hide back under the table. He thinks he’s beginning to understand Leehan a little better.
“Since we’re friends and all, as you say,” the older boy adds, some playful glint in his eye. It is hard to think straight with the full force of Park Sungho’s eager gaze waiting on him.
Taesan leans back, faking a yawn in an effort to escape, turning away to hide the heat in his face, and says, “Yeah, sure.”
✧
Patrolling the grounds is an essential duty of being a prefect. It entails a wide range of odd jobs along the way; from ensuring students’ accordance to the curfew, to breaking up clandestine rendezvous in quiet places, and even saving the odd sleepwalker from falling to their death.
Tonight, Sungho and a team of five others are tasked with the maintenance of Hogwarts’ protective barrier. At designated locations along the perimeter of the school grounds, they are to check up on the myriad of charms that have kept Hogwarts a sanctuary all these countless decades. Along the way, they are to comb the lesser-trodden paths and report any strange observations or occurrences.
No one ever travels alone at this hour, not even prefects, but the night’s team is spread out far enough that it feels like it. Sungho has never minded the dark, but the silence from being alone never fails to drive him a little mad. He misses Riwoo’s chatter; they’d split up after leaving the castle to patrol their assigned routes. He can see little orbs of light from his teammates’ wands in the distance, trailing up and down the vast, grassy hills. It brings him some measure of comfort.
A bizarre sensation passes between his legs. It is a warm, moving thing–a little fuzzy, and it makes his hair stand on edge. With a rather unbecoming yelp, Sungho jumps away, rolling onto his belly before pointing his wand at whatever dangerous creature has appeared to derail his nightly duty.
All he finds is a pair of topaz irises glowing up at him several feet away; the eyes belonging to a cat the colour of the starry sky. Its coat is so inky dark that it looks more like a blob of shadow rather than a living creature with its eyes unblinking, watching Sungho with its tail curling like a flag in the wind.
The Ravenclaw’s shoulders deflate. With a relieved sigh, he hauls himself up off the ground. His robe is now dotted with hundreds of sticktights. He waves his wand haphazardly, and they drop off as easily as plucking grapes.
“Gosh, you gave me a scare. Where did you even come from?” He asks, crouching by the cat, rubbing a knuckle underneath its chin, to which it responds with a contented purr, before curling around his ankles. Sungho rises, producing a map of his route from his pocket.
“Well, you can come along, if you want. I’d appreciate the company,” he says, already moving ahead to the path that crests up and over the hill, towards the forest beyond the broomshed. The cat pads after him with a small meow , quickly falling into step.
The canopy is thicker here where the wood is populated with tall, looming beeches that blot out most of the constellations above. The moon barely shines through as Sungho makes his way on foot, accompanied by his new creature-friend.
“You know, I thought we’d met before. You were sleeping under my hat the other day, weren’t you? I guess I should start feeding you, but Simba wouldn’t be very happy about that. Well, I guess he wouldn’t mind–he’s not here at Hogwarts anymore, you see. My brother’s brought him along to France, where he works at the Ministry…”
Sungho rambles on, feeling a lot less uneasy now that he has an ear to listen to him, no matter that the cat simply trods beside him, making little mews in response here and there. The deeper they travel into the forest, the denser it gets, until all they can see is the occasional flash of light from another wand in the distance.
“It’s a little dark, don’t you think?” Sungho asks his companion, flashing a toothy grin. He gets a mrrrp in response. “How about…”
Sungho pauses to clear his throat. Then, with a wave of his arm in a wide arc through the air, he calls out an incantation. Wisps of fluorescent blue appear from the tip of his wand, like smoke, twisting and unfurling to reveal a silver fox Patronus.
The fox jumps up excitedly, sniffing and curling around the black cat, before running ahead, lighting their path with every footfall. With a grin, Sungho follows, along with the cat at his heels.
They come to a stop at the edge of the forest, where the trees quickly disappear, giving way to a steep drop down a barren, rocky ravine. Sungho scans the length of the mountainside. Up on a low ridge ahead, Riwoo waves at him, with his own Patronus summoned; a golden otter swims at his side.
“Time to get to work, then,” Sungho says, smiling. Softly, he begins reciting every protective charm he knows; the ones they were taught back at prefect initiation camp, the ones he’s learned in class, and the ones his brother taught him over summer.
The spells whizz through the air, melding with the pre-existing barriers like pouring honey on glass. When Sungho casts a brief glance over his shoulder, he finds his little friend watching with its eyes wide, glowing with the light of Magic.
By the time they are done, and Riwoo’s waved him off before returning to his own route down the ridge, Sungho finds his furry friend fast asleep, curled atop a mossy boulder.
Smiling fondly to himself, he scoops the creature up in his arms and gently places it into the hood of his robe, where it remains peacefully cocooned the entire journey back.
Somewhere between the owlery and the south exit, the cat slips out, unbeknownst to Sungho, who reunites with Riwoo. Immediately, they get to discussing what they should present at the next meeting.
(The section of the barrier nearest to the edges of the Dark Forest have eroded at a faster rate than everywhere else, the vines along several routes are too touchy for comfort, and other little things that they end up agreeing isn’t worth bringing up at a major council).
Only when he finds himself treading heavily up the spiral staircase of Ravenclaw Tower does Sungho realise the absence of his companion.
By then, he is standing face-to-face with the grumpy old eagle, who, disgruntled at having being woken late, allows him in only after having answered a barrage of riddles. As Sungho falls asleep that night, he thinks about paying a visit to the kitchens first thing in the morning and bringing a gift of canned tuna along.
✧
Sungho catches Han Taesan staring a little too hard as the Ravenclaw captain presses his wand–frozen at the tip in favour of an ice packet–against the bruise blooming on the juncture between his neck and shoulder.
They are seated under a giant fir, overlooking the Great Lake. Between them are a shared pile of books from their classes that day. They had run into each other around the Beasts classrooms; Sungho–fresh from assisting with first-year flying lessons, and Taesan–appearing with a sachet of fresh cannabis tucked in his sleeve, courtesy of Professor Lovegood.
Although it was getting a little too cold to be out for long, they had opted for a scenic setting for the day’s tutoring session. Or rather, Taesan had insisted, as he flaunted the loaf of bread he told Sungho he nicked from the kitchens that morning. So Sungho had obliged, holding his tongue about thievery and school rules, because he didn’t actually witness the crime.
Half their session had already been spent with Sungho finishing up his homework from that morning’s class, and yelling out questions as Taesan stuck around the shore, baiting the Giant Squid.
Only when the bread had run out did he return to the shade to find Sungho nursing his injury. His tie had been loosened, and half his shirt was unbuttoned as he bent his head to the side, exposing the purpling bruise.
Taesan flipped through his Herbology notes to the lesson from that day, trying to keep his eyes on the text, and not on the salacious way the skin on Sungho’s collar bones shifted every time he moved.
“How’d you–get that?” Taesan asks, his voice catching from how dry his throat is. He coughs for good measure, watching as the bruise begins to fade from the older boy’s pale, supple skin.
“Bludger. The kids didn’t see it coming, so I had to, ah, step in, I suppose,” Sungho says, waving a hand abstractly in the air.
“So, would it be correct for me to assume that you’d take a bullet for me?” Taesan says, trying for a joke, though it backfires as Sungho turns to stare at him, blinking slowly, like an owl.
“I–what?” Right . Park Sungho of pureblood royalty probably wouldn’t know a gun or a bullet even if it hit him in the face. Taesan soldiers on, faking a crooked smile, because he’s already in too deep.
“A curse, I mean. You’d do that?” Taesan almost wants to run into the lake and sacrifice himself to the Squid when Sungho’s confused expression deepens.
“Will I be needing to, any time soon?” Sungho asks with a perfectly shaped eyebrow raised, slightly concerned, though the slight upturn of the corners of his lips betrays his amusement. Taesan continues floundering.
“No, I just wanted to know,” he mutters, before turning away to bury his nose in an early edition of Fantastic Beasts he waited two weeks to borrow from the library.
“Then–sure, Taesan, I’d do that,” Sungho says, biting his lip to stop a silly smile from creeping onto his face. He figures he’s already embarrassed the both of them plenty today.
“Thanks,” Taesan says, appearing inconsolable. Sungho flexes his arm and finds the pain gone for the most part. The sun has lowered considerably since their arrival two hours ago.
Placating, Sungho says, “Well then, would it be correct to assume you’ll be following me to the owlery after this?”
“What for?” Taesan counters, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the older boy over the top of his book.
“I’ve been waiting on a letter for some time now. If it arrives today, you’ll be the first to find out whatever it is,” Sungho says, hastily tidying himself up to look like the presentable Head Boy he should be.
Taesan can’t help but stare as the elder musses his hair back into place. The rosiness of Sungho’s cheeks is the only colour among the graying foliage around them. Swallowing, Taesan answers, “Alright, then.”
✧
Chichi–the golden Long-Ear belonging to Park Sungho–sits feeding in its owl hole when they arrive. A small scroll attached with a red ribbon is tied around its neck.
Sungho hesitates, his fingers carefully unfolding the parchment. The golden emblems of the National Quidditch Association and the Department of Magical Games and Sports are emblazoned at the top of the letter.
“Read it for me, will you?” He says suddenly, shoving it towards Taesan instead. Sensing his obvious distress, the younger boy gingerly relieves him of the letter. Clearing his throat, Taesan begins reading:
“To Sungho Park, may this letter find you in the pink. Following your completion of the Trials and Tribulations set before you throughout the selection process, the Panel has convened to–”
“Gosh, spit it out–not you, Taesan. Sorry, continue,” Sungho mutters to himself, pacing the cobblestone floor with an insistent click-clack ing of his shoes.
“We are happy to inform you of your official selection to the Senior Division of the National Team of Scotland–” Taesan is cut off by a startling force that wraps around him as Park Sungho jumps, latching on fiercely and causing the both of them to slip on the moist, moss-laden stone floor, falling backwards.
Park Sungho’s warmth is like a muffler on a winter’s day; it floods Taesan with a heady feeling, like settling down with a hot chocolate, except he is lactose intolerant and the butterflies in his stomach are his body warning him of its impending implosion.
That is to say, Park Sungho’s sudden close proximity is sending him in a loony loop.
Taesan can barely hear him apologise, the sound drowning out like listening and looking at someone speaking underwater. All he can see is Sungho’s mouth, ten inches away from his own, pink and glossy. His eyes are speckled with gold under the late afternoon sun peeking in through the surrounding owl holes, blown wide with excitement.
“Congratulations,” Taesan manages as the Ravenclaw helps him up, cleaning them of bird poop with a simple flick of his wand. His hand comes away blistering with imaginary heat where Sungho had touched him.
“Thanks.” Sungho is still smiling like a maniac. Taesan can’t help but feel a delirious tug at his own lips.
✧
“A bird on a boat. Any ideas on what it means?” Taesan asks, watering a bed of asphodels. Leehan, a few rows of peonies away, hums in thought, picking off dead leaves from a mature stalk.
“About as much of an idea as I’ve got about a horse-shoe and a frog,” the Hufflepuff responds distractedly.
They’d worked on tasseomancy in Divination that morning–a subject Taesan deeply regrets taking. He’d scored enough on his O.W.Ls the previous year to make the cut for the advanced class, but it had not been at the top of his list.
Too bad it was the only remaining subject that could help him make the minimum requirement for a possible internship at the Ministry. Leehan had decided to continue on with him for the fun of it. He didn’t need the internship; his mother worked in the Department of Mysteries.
Anyway, Divination–it often left Taesan’s head in a muddle. He’d always prided himself on being rational and seeking reason where there seems to be none. Divination, however, required rationality and reasoning on a different dimensional plane. It was alluring in its mysticism–after all, the Muggle world Taesan had grown up in had little of that–but not all things needed explanation nor interpretation.
Still, Taesan can’t help it that he spends the whole day thinking of birds and boats and all manner of beasts and marine transportation that could possibly have any influence in his life. He returns to the Slytherin dungeons and spends the rest of the evening staring out his window, counting the fish that swim by.
(If he had paid a little more attention to Leehan’s lectures about the fauna present in the Great Lake, Taesan would notice that he counts the same giant rainbow trout five times).
To make matters worse, Taesan falls into a fitful sleep and dreams of Park Sungho. Or rather, he falls into a memory from two years ago.
✧
“You shouldn’t be out so late. I’ll have to write you up for this,” calls a voice from behind him. Taesan turns away from the railings to see a Ravenclaw prefect stepping onto the deck from the spiral staircase below.
“I was sleepwalking,” Taesan says, rather unconvincingly. The older boy scoffs, his lips quirking up in a smile that is more amused than anything.
“No, you weren’t,” he says lightly. Taesan shrugs.
“No, I wasn’t,” he agrees. “Just wanted to see this–can’t see the moon down in the dungeons.”
Up ahead, the full moon hangs in the sky like a giant lightbulb against a mottled gray canvas. The Black Lake is still and dark as its monicker. The ridges of the mountain are white-capped and barren. From their viewpoint on the Clocktower, it is a sight out of a painting.
“It will snow soon,” the older boy says, coming to a stop beside Taesan, who looks at him, slightly startled.
Park Sungho glows like a lantern under the brightness of the moon. He is ghostly pale, but his eyes sparkle with all the life of a burning star. His features are kind and delicate; he is beautiful.
“How do you know that?” Taesan asks in a strained voice.
Sungho gives him a sideways glance, his eyes alight. “The clouds.”
Taesan turns away, blinded. After a time, he says, “So, are you going to write me up?”
Sungho hums in contemplation. “Yes, I suppose so,” he replies, smiling still. “Five points from Slytherin. Let’s go.”
✧
Taesan wakes in a cold sweat, blinded by the pale light of a frosty morning. When he surfaces for classes an hour later, the school is still settled with mist, well into the morning. The day passes with the usual hubbub, until it is time for quidditch. Taesan’s thoughts naturally turn towards birds and boats.
Leehan, on the other hand, doesn’t seem all too troubled by it; he ditches Taesan at the first sight of Riwoo waving to him from the commentator’s box, leaving the Slytherin to fend for himself in the biting winter wind. It takes a spell from the Headmistress to clear the fog, barely.
The game ends up lasting half the afternoon, with Ravenclaw barely clinching the win against the Badgers. It had been a close match, and the general consensus was that the ‘puffs had managed to save themselves from the embarrassment of last year’s game.
Taesan thinks it was a waste of energy; he could barely see Sungho through the smog. When he voices this sentiment to Leehan over dinner, his friend gives him a sort of dead-fish stare before bursting into howling laughter that draws the attention of everyone around them.
“You’re not serious. Han Taesan, are you–” Leehan wheezes, clutching his stomach. Taesan hangs his head so low his hair’s almost gotten into the pea soup.
“Stop it,” he hisses with all the venom that’s been passed down to him in the snake pit. Leehan merely giggles and spoons a helping of pasta into his mouth.
“Oh, speak of the angel,” he says, as Park Sungho walks into the hall, flanked by Lee Riwoo and Myung Jaehyun. Taesan lifts the bowl to his mouth and furiously drinks the last of the pea soup up.
✧
“You know, I dreamt about you last night,” Sungho says, his head on his arms, his quill threatening to slip from between his fingers. Taesan freezes–a dot of ink bleeds onto the page where his quill is pressed. The cozy warmth of the library suddenly feels like a sauna.
“Well, at least I think it was a dream,” Sungho continues, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. “You were watching me. I saw you and waved at you, but you turned away.”
Taesan leans back against his chair and swallows slowly. He places his quill into the ink bottle. There won’t be much studying tonight, it seems. He turns to the window at his shoulder. The moon looks exactly how it did in his own dream.
“It’s going to snow,” he says softly.
“Oh?” Sungho’s voice sounds far away. “How do you know?”
Taesan shrugs. “The clouds.”
Outside, the first snow of the year begins to fall.
✧
On the first morning back from Christmas break, Taesan finds a curious package on the dining table, where he usually sits. Leehan and Riwoo are seated opposite him, munching on cereal. Their shoulders touch as they dig into their breakfast; they look a lot more comfortable around each other than they did before the holidays.
“What?” Taesan asks with a questioning raise of his eyebrow, eyeing the two warily. They pause in synchrony to look up at him, puzzled.
“What, what?” Leehan parrots. When Taesan shifts his eyes between him and the prefect, Leehan shrugs.
“We spent the holidays together,” he says, like it should be obvious. Taesan would have half a mind to interrogate them because what in the world –
Instead, the gift wrapped in silk is a much more pressing issue. It is tied up neatly at the top, and when Taesan pulls it loose, it slides apart to reveal a black lacquerbox decorated with intricate patterns, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Carefully removing the wooden lid, Taesan finds finely-sliced cuts of marbled beef arranged in the shape of a lotus.
“Who’s it from?”
“I was asked to give it to you,” Riwoo replies, being rather opaque, his hands cupped around a steaming mug of tea. Taesan lets out a breath of exasperation.
“By who?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Han Taesan,” Riwoo says impishly, with a wide grin that exposes his fangs. Beside him, Leehan coughs into his fist in place of a laugh.
“He’s out for practice, if you want to see him,” the older boy says, seemingly goading him. Taesan thinks Leehan’s been rubbing off on him, and not in a good way. Riwoo had been a lot gentler before spending too much time in the younger’s company. Or maybe them being together just brought this side out of him.
Taesan grumbles something along the lines of later, maybe and settles in to breakfast.
By the time Taesan arrives at the training grounds, the Ravenclaw team has ended their practice. It is a particularly cold day. The spectator stands are heaped with snow, and all the hills are blanketed with it.
Sungho thinks it is a fine day for a weekend visit to Hogsmeade; he says as much as soon as he spots Taesan waiting around the broomshed. The captain’s hair is stiff from the shower, curling at his neck. His nose is runny and pink. Taesan suggests some Butterbeer to warm him up, and Sungho laughs, throwing his head back in delight.
As they walk to the village, packing snow beneath their boots, Sungho tells Taesan about his Yuletide activities which included helping his sister-in-law make wreaths and setting up an altar of candles in his grandmother’s living room.
(Sungho also admits sheepishly to having stolen the candles back to his dorm. Taesan vaguely notes the sent of sage on his skin).
“Uh, I wanted to thank you–for your gift,” Taesan says at Sungho’s mention of the designer baubles his brother had received from the French ambassador. The Head Boy turns to him with a smile Taesan realises he’d missed over the holidays.
“You’ve been helping me so much. It’s nothing,” he says, bowing his head modestly. Taesan scoffs, digging his fists deeper into the pockets of his coat.
“You don’t really need it,” he says. Sungho looks at him, his gaze softening with admiration as the younger boy blows out a breath that condensates into white vapour. Watches the snowflakes fall from his lashes everytime he blinks.
“But I want it,” Sungho says with a sincerity that makes Taesan stop briefly in his tracks, blinking.
“Okay. Sure.”
They arrive at the Three Broomsticks as Sungho questions him about his own Christmastime. So Taesan obliges, telling him about the farmer’s market his mother frequents during this season to sell her knitted wares, and the caroling his father insists Taesan partake in, even though he is by far the eldest of the group.
They chat for a long time, until their pints of butterbeer are drained. They leave swaying against each other, giggling even when there’s nothing to laugh at but themselves. It is dizzying, Taesan thinks, being around Park Sungho. It is easy.
✧
Somehow, they end up at the library, seated by the fireplace. Taesan finds himself splayed out on the rug with a book open against his stomach as Sungho hangs off the arm of his plush chair, rambling on about his experience during the national team selection camp.
“—and it was all wet, weighing me down like a dozen nifflers in my pockets. There’s no way we’d ever be playing a match on the ocean, so I don’t understand why–” Sungho throws his arms up in frustration.
“But you got the spot. That’s all it is, right?” Taesan mumbles, humoring the older boy. The spinning in his head is less now, though he suspects the feeling won’t be going away completely until the morning. Beside him, Sungho is propped up, staring listlessly into the flickering flame.
“I do like it when you come to watch me at quidditch,” Sungho says suddenly, his words mumbled by the hand under his chin. “Feels like I’ve got something to prove.”
Taesan frowns. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
Park Sungho is a galaxy and a world away. He is like a flame, and Taesan feels like a moth whenever they're together. Sungho’s pull is like a force of gravity; inescapable. Taesan thinks he never stood a chance.
“It’s not about having to. It’s about wanting , Taesan. I think I’ve said it plenty,” Sungho responds, an edge of frustration apparent in his voice. He picks at the weathered threads of the upholstery. The ember crackles in the momentary silence between them.
“Is this about your monthly assessment grades? You know those aren’t the best indicators against the N.E.W.Ts–” Taesan begins, anxious, because Park Sungho had asked him for his help, and if he feels like their sessions have been holding him back–
Instead, Sungho scoffs, and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
“No, not really. I think we’re past that,” the older boy says, his voice quieter now.
“We are?”
In the absence of a response, Taesan flips over onto his stomach–to find Park Sungho with his head slumped against the leather arm of the chair, his lips parted slightly, fast asleep.
With a sigh, he pushes himself off the floor. Grabbing the woolen throw from the unoccupied seat, he gently lays it over the older boy, tucking it behind Sungho’s shoulder where his neck is exposed.
For a moment, he watches the shadows dance across Sungho’s face; the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the golden glow of his brown lashes under the light of the flame.
Then, Taesan slips away wordlessly, burying the tug of wanting in his heart.
✧
Sungho wakes to a ticklish sensation brushing against his nose. His eyes flutter open, registering something warm and soft pressed up against his forehead; a ball of fur with its sleek black coat glistening with the glow of the fire. Ahead, the two windows framing the fireplace are dark with night, save for the brief glimpses of snowfall. The clock above the mantel reads a quarter past seven o’clock. Dinner will be ending soon.
Sungho sits up, trying as best as he can not to wake the creature sleeping on the coffee table by his shoulder. Stretching with a yawn, he takes a moment to find his bearings. His head hurts from all the mead, and his neck is stiff where it had been propped up against the arm of the chair. He seems to be the only person left in this section of the library.
He’d had a late lunch, and enough sugary pastries to keep him awake all night, so he isn’t planning to rush to the hall to grab the last piece of roast or anything. Instead, he turns to look at his furry companion, fast asleep with its chin resting on the arm of the chair, mimicking Sungho’s position. Slowly leaning down, he lowers himself until their noses are barely touching once more.
Gently, he caresses a finger under its jaw and delights in the subconscious purring he receives in response.
“It’s you again, huh,” Sungho whispers to himself, smiling, “You always seem to find me.”
As Sungho grazes his fingers across the cat’s forehead, it wakes slowly with a yawn, stretching languidly with its brilliant topaz eyes blinking into consciousness. It almost seems to drift off once more, rolling onto its back, before suddenly becoming aware of the wizard’s presence. Only then, does it jump up in surprise, weakly pulling away from his touch.
It slinks off the armchair, climbing onto the mantel, taking a seat between a framed photograph of the previous Headmaster and another of the Order of the Phoenix. Sungho watches fondly as the creature licks its paw, cleaning itself in the manner of all cats.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to join me for supper,” Sungho says, a tired smile quirking into his lips. The cat pauses in its movements and stares at him, eyes wide, before hopping off the fireplace and onto the floor. The prefect watches as it disappears behind a shelf with a final, fleeting glance back at him.
Sighing, Sungho pushes himself off the chair and begins making his way out of the library. He weaves through the cold, stone corridors of the castle, lit only by flickering oil lamps and moonlight. There aren’t many students in this wing, especially on a weekend. Sungho finds himself humming a tune as he walks back to Ravenclaw Tower for bed, seemingly alone.
If he notices something following him from a distance with intent, curious eyes, well, he makes no sign of it, choosing to go on his merry way.
✧
The hanbok from his mother arrives on the morning of Lunar New Year’s eve.
It is a sage green jeogori embossed with silver plum blossoms, with a pair of matching gray sokgui and baji. Taesan had not been planning on attending the banquet that was held annually by the Asian Union, at least not in any meaningful capacity. His New Year usually consisted of sneaking into the event with Leehan to steal treats and rice wine, and getting drunk under the moon and stars.
Well, not until he found an invitation slipped into his Potions textbook the weekend before, with a handwritten note in a familiar script that read:
Come. I want you there. - P.S.H
Neither of them mentioned it during their study sessions in the days between, but Taesan could feel an insistent plea in Sungho’s eyes everytime they parted ways. Lately, the older boy’s been doing that a lot; looking at him expectantly, like he should be doing something. Like he should be saying–or admitting something.
A low whistle over the dining table snaps him out of his thoughts. Leehan leans over, inspecting the garments curiously. His own set sits spilling out of an intricately carved wooden box; peach-pink and cream.
“I take it I’ll be flying solo tonight?” the Slytherin questions, a hint of dissatisfaction and envy in his tone. Leehan plays innocent, looking up at him with a puppy-like stare. Taesan rolls his eyes and wonders why he even bothered.
“That’s completely up to you,” the ‘puff says, breaking into a toothy grin.
The air in the Great Hall smells sweet. Flower petals drift down from the Enchanted Ceiling up above. It is early spring, and Taesan thinks his pollen allergy is already acting up.
✧
It is hours later at sunset, when Taesan finds himself staring at the budding, ancient cherry blossom looming in the middle of the Bell Tower courtyard. He considers the meaning of it, trying to apply whatever wisdom he’s gained from his years spent in the Divination classroom of the North Tower. Renewal, transcience–
“We’ll be running late if you keep gaping like that,” comes a voice like velvet, echoing against the ancient walls. Taesan blinks out of his thoughts, turning to find Sungho at the opposite end of the wide cobblestoned space.
He is a vision in teal and gold; pride is etched in his wide shoulders and graceful stance as he flaunts the colours of his House. Haloed by the slanted shadows of dusk growing ever longer, he cuts a princely figure, like something out of a story from The Tales of Beedle the Bard.
“Well?” Sungho calls out, cocking his head expectantly in the direction of the northern exit, towards Hogwarts’ outer grounds. Taesan nods in response, not trusting himself to speak as he jogs to catch up with the older boy, his stomach fluttering with each step.
They make their way towards a cluster of twinkling lights beyond the dense treeline. Taesan doesn’t take his eyes off Sungho’s back silhouetted against the dimming magenta sky a few strides ahead, not until they reach the thinning wood by the lakeside. Music filters through the air; the sweet notes of a chorus of mandolins and harps.
It seems the Asian Union under Sungho’s leadership have outdone themselves for this year’s festivities; rows of wooden platforms furnished with low tables and plush floor cushions are spread out around the space, shaded by luscious flowering dogwoods. Their sprawling, outstretched boughs are dotted with blossoms of every spring hue, bewitched to full bloom.
What Taesan had thought to be fireflies at first glance are instead yellow flats fluttering about in the dozens, their amber hindwings catching the light of the floating red lanterns. One comes to rest on his shoulder, while a few attach themselves to Sungho’s golden sleeves.
“This is your charmwork, isn’t it?” Taesan guesses, genuine wonder seeping into his voice as he inspects one butterfly that perches on the back of his hand. Upon further inspection, their wings flutter with a slight unnatural stiffness, like paper.
“I know they’re not perfect–” Sungho shrugs. Taesan interrupts him with a shake of his head, gently brushing the creature off, watching it drift away towards the light of a nearby lantern.
“They’re brilliant,” the younger boy admits. It is delicate magic; something crafted with care and patience. Something created with kind hands, through tedious practice.
(Taesan had seen it himself–Park Sungho, sitting with his legs crossed under a red maple. His eyebrows knitted in concentration and his lips pressed in determination. His hands busily working to fold yellow squares of paper. His fingers pressing the lightest of final touches.
The entire afternoon that Sungho had spent perfecting the charm, Taesan had spent watching him.
And maybe, even longer than that).
A look of surprise makes its way onto Sungho’s face before it immediately smooths out into a smile. He ducks his head for a brief moment, breathing out a small, measured sigh.
“Thank you,” he says, raising his head to look at Taesan with all the sincerity the younger boy thinks he’s beginning to learn to handle with the same care the older boy has always shown him.
“You should go. Eat, enjoy, laugh. We worked hard on everything else too.” Sungho points his chin towards one of the platforms, where Leehan and Riwoo are seated, waving him over.
The evening passes in a kaleidoscope of colour and music. These are the things Han Taesan remembers:
A taste reminiscent of his mother’s spicy homemade dumplings and the mellowing creaminess of red bean pudding. The coziness of the heat emanating from the charcoal brazier beneath the table, and the dreamy intoxication of warm rice wine. The sounds of his friends’ laughter, amidst the light melodies floating upon the lake breeze.
And most of all, Park Sungho’s soft gaze finding his through a crowd, gently pulling him into a world entirely of their own.
✧
In the final moments of the night, Taesan finds himself wandering the pebbled shore of the lake. The chill of a sudden draught sobers him up, chasing away the last remaining effects of the wine. It is then that he hears a pair of steady footsteps behind him.
“You’re a little flushed,” Sungho says, slowing to a stop where Taesan is crouched, the small waves lapping at the soles of his shoes. The Head Boy settles on his haunches beside him, hugging his knees close.
“Allergies,” Taesan says–it is half a lie. “Spring is not my favourite season.” This, at least, is a whole truth. Sungho hums in understanding, though the slight curve of his lips easily gives away his justifiable doubt. Whatever untruth he senses, however, he speaks nothing of.
“But isn’t it beautiful?” Sungho’s voice is as wistful as his gaze as it sweeps across the view before them.
Upon the rippling surface of the lake, the orange glow of the lanterns and the elegant boughs of the flowering trees are reflected like watercolour inked on parchment. Settled in the sky above is the thin, silver outline of the new moon, framed by the twinkling constellations. The receding din of the festivities are drowned out by the soft gurgling of water.
“Yeah,” Taesan breathes out, drinking in the sight of Park Sungho drenched in warm light, contrasting the cool spring breeze that washes over them, sending their hair aflurry.
Their shoulders brush as Taesan stretches out a hand to trace idle shapes into a flat rock at his feet. His arm feels hot where Sungho leans against him, pressing their sides together. With a slow inhale, the younger boy turns to meet the other’s gaze. Gravity begins to collapse unto itself, until–
Taesan’s nose begins to itch. Unable to stop himself, he jerks his head away and sneezes, falling backwards into the shallow water.
Right . Allergies.
Sungho doubles over on all fours, his knees and hands splashing into the lake, bursting out in hearty laughter. The pronounced syllables of his joy ring about, bouncing off the surrounding trees, and ricocheting straight into Taesan’s chest. His heart begins to ache with such a heady pain that it feels like he might just die.
(The curves of Sungho’s upturned eyes and the full-body shudders of his mirth make Taesan feel like he wouldn’t mind, if it means this is the last sound he hears, and the last sight he sees).
✧
It is the morning of the ceremony and Sungho is running late. Emphasis on running . He’s practically whizzing down the hallway, bumping into people as he frantically calls out apologies over his shoulder.
Your hat , Park Sungho, Riwoo had called out to him, rolling his eyes as soon as he saw him from across the Quad. With a great sigh, Sungho had turned on his heel and sprinted back towards Ravenclaw Tower.
He’d been perfectly confident that everything was in order earlier as he inspected himself in the mirror. Shoes? Shined. Tie? Straightened. Socks? Pulled up to his shin. Hair? Not a strand out of place.
He’d even ironed his shirt and robe the previous night and hung the set on his wardrobe where he was confident it would remain undisturbed. His roommate, in the months leading up to the N.E.W.Ts, had thankfully moved on to cramming for History of Magic and was lesser prone to making a mess in their shared room.
All that effort in returning to his dorm only for the hat to be nowhere. Instead, stuck to the oak door of his wardrobe was a note that read:
meet me at the clock tower.
With a scoff, Sungho had pocketed the torn piece of parchment in his robe and hastily taken off without a moment’s delay.
Now, as he ascends the final steps of the spiral staircase, breathless and giddy, he spots the offending article of clothing lying in the middle of the wooden deck. His heart is thumping in his chest. It is not only due to exhaustion–there is anticipation in every careful step he takes towards the hat.
Slowly, he lifts it, making to place it on his head once and for all, when, to his relief and amusement, he finds something underneath. Lying curled up under the wizard’s hat is a small black cat.
It is larger than a kitten, though not as big as the adults that roam around the kitchens territorially, waiting for their daily scraps. It seems to have made itself comfortable, shaded from the strong breeze of the lake. Its eyes remain closed as it purrs softly, even as Sungho fits the hat back on his head. Watching it, his chest floods with warmth at the familiar sight.
Gently, Sungho slides his hand under the cat’s belly and lifts it onto his lap as he lowers himself onto the floor, crossing his legs. Sighing, he leans back, closing his eyes, feeling the wind in his hair and the golden rays of the morning sun on his face. The weight on his legs grows heavier.
“Did you know?” Taesan’s voice is low and quiet. He makes no effort to move away. Sungho laughs, throwing his head back.
“Of course.”
“For how long?” The younger boy murmurs, like he’s about to drift away to sleep. Sungho hums in feigned contemplation.
“Since the beginning,” he replies. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that a smile curves its way onto Taesan’s lips. Doesn’t have to open his eyes when the weight eases off his lap.
Doesn’t have to open his eyes when Taesan leans in and presses a long, slow kiss–one that he’s been waiting on for a long while. One that sends warmth throughout his body, from the top of his head, down to the tips of his toes.
One that eases the pain of goodbye, and instead replaces it with a promise.
Only when they pull apart, does Park Sungho’s eyelids flutter, his gaze finding Taesan’s only inches away, watching him with those intent, curious eyes.
“You should get going. The boathouse is quite a distance away,” Taesan says, those lips that Sungho will be tasting for days quirking up into a smirk.
With a yawn, the Ravenclaw stretches languidly, before rising to his feet. He feels Taesan’s eyes trail on his back as he walks over to the railings. A beat later, the Slytherin boy stands to follow him.
“Goodbye, Han Taesan,” Sungho says, grinning with a flash of his teeth. Before the younger boy can reach out to him, he swings his legs over and jumps off the Clock Tower.
“Park Sungho–!”
✧
A Firebolt comes zipping through the air. Sungho’s joyful laughter rings in his ears as he circles the tower, before slowing to a hover where Taesan’s hands grip the railing, with half his body stuck out over the edge.
“I’ll see you soon,” Sungho says with a smile that rivals the golden sun behind him as he leans up to press one last kiss on Taesan’s lips.
✧
Han Taesan watches as the boats travel across the lake, disappearing into the horizon with a piece of his heart in Park Sungho’s gentle palms, waiting to be retrieved.