Chapter Text
Now, in spite of his carefree attitude, Minho wouldn’t say that he’s careless with his health. In fact, he finds himself quite attentive to his wellbeing, and takes pride in his immunity to common illnesses or endemics within the student population. There are most definitely echoes of his general practitioner father in his everyday habits, and he makes it a point to give himself regular exercise and maintain a hearty diet. So, when rumours whisper through the halls of a new strain of dragon pox spreading in the school, Minho doesn’t pay it much mind, not even when his roommates scoot away from Daniel Woo when he erupts with an almighty sneeze on a Thursday night. He just curls up in his bed and lets the sounds from Youtube flood in through his headphones and drown out the conspicuous sniffles on the far side of the room.
The next day, Minho trudges into the dungeon after going through two oddly exhausting rounds of class. His foot drags against a protruding cobblestone and nearly sends him reeling into the student in front of him. Minho catches himself in time, though, and rights himself with a steely stiffening of his muscles. Curse him and his nocturnal routine; he’ll have to catch up on his slumber over the weekend.
Minho heaves himself onto the bench with more deadweight force than usual, so much that a few of the glass apparatus bump into each other with a soft clink . By his side, Seungmin hums briefly, a slight shade of concern bleeding into the short sound. Minho doesn't think too much about how he could discern that sliver of emotion; Seungmin's voice has always held a melodic quality to it that Minho has no fault in admiring. He focuses more on the fact that there should be five vials in front of him, when his eyes are telling him there are ten. Minho firmly squeezes his eyes shut until he sees kaleidoscopes beneath his eyelids, then flutters his eyelids open to see with relief that the count has halved itself.
"It's about time your eyes started failing you in your old age, Lee Minho," Seungmin says snidely.
"And I will make sure your eyes won’t be there to fail you in the future if you continue, Kim Seungmin," Minho says in retaliation, rubbing at his eyes, then his forehead, then his neck, then back to his eyes again. This particular strain of fatigue is more intense than he anticipated; it's nearly enough for him to give into gravity's especially strong pull whenever he tilts even a single degree to the side.
His partner evidently picks up on this. "Listen, if your intellect is really too deficient to soak in Potions theory, you can always choose to skip it for the hospital wing. I won't hold it against you for finally getting out of my way."
"I'm fine ," Minho grits out, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes to get rid of a brief spell of dizziness. "I just have an online social life, unlike your pathetic friendless outdated self."
"Oh yes, and that is bringing so many disadvantages unto my daily school life," Seungmin deadpans. "Come on, Slughorn’s beginning his yapping.”
Minho tries to focus, he really does. The previous two lessons had been tolerable, he had at least been able to scribble down every other sentence the professor said. But Slughorn’s booming voice seems to be twice as slippery in his eardrums, and words slosh around in his mind like muddy water, Minho’s brain the unabsorbent sponge. His hand trembles as he holds the knife even as he strains his muscles to halt it, insisting to himself that he has to get it together, what on earth is wrong with him today-
When his hand sways when he deposits the dragonfly wings and collides into the scalding edge of the cauldron, causing him to jerk back with a sharp hiss, he can feel the sincere concern that Seungmin is eyeing him with. Stop it. I’m fine. Stop looking at me like you actually care.
“Minho?” Seungmin tries tentatively, and the knot in Minho’s stomach tightens at the worry in his tone.
Minho opens his mouth to snap a reply, cradling his burnt hand, but his knees knock together, the roiling in his stomach gets stronger, and he barely has time to utter a “move” before his limbs go to jelly and the world goes to black around him.
Something soft caresses his cheek. Minho curls into it, relishing its cool smoothness, nuzzles into it like a parched traveller runs to a creek. He barely remembers his whereabouts. Where was he before this? It doesn’t matter; the comforting warmth blanketing him is the most important thing to him right now.
Then he hears a voice, and his brain instantly snaps into full consciousness.
“He’s ill?”
Minho exhales sharply with revelatory shock. It isn’t the fact that he is honest-to-goodness that shakes him to the core; it’s the person who is inquiring about his condition. His eyelids seem adamant on staying sealed shut, so he has to content himself with merely listening in on the ongoing conversation.
“I’m afraid so. He's down with the horrid thing that’s been spreading around the school lately. His sickness in addition to his fatigue must have been too much for his body to take, I’d imagine. He’ll be grateful to you for bringing him here as hastily as you did.”
Confusion colours the spaces between the cotton balls in Minho’s head.
Some awkward shuffling a considerable distance away from his bed. “Well… I couldn’t have him obstructing my Potions bench. Anyways, I need to get myself checked too. I could have caught it from him, after all.”
A warm chuckle. “Of course, my dear. Come over here."
Mentally, Minho gives a petty huff. Of course, that would be his sole motivation. The raw anxiety in his voice must have been a result of his delusional sick-ridden senses. He chases that thought down, grasping on with buttery fingers and internalising it in his psyche to cover up the fragments of hurt that reside in it, but sleep tugs unfalteringly at his string of thought, and drags him back into the abyss.
Butterfly giggles. Flowery gazes. A blossoming garden, whimsical, musical, taking root and spreading ever exponentially. Minho at the center of it all. He senses a presence behind him. He looks behind him, cheeks hurting from the grin, and whispers a name-
“Hyung! Hyung! Ooh, when you wake up, I’m going to jinx your sorry arse so bad-”
“Oh, do be quiet, he’s asleep!”
“Right, right.”
Minho summons the strength to let out an almost animalistic grunt, alerting his visitors to his conscious state.
“Minho hyung!” Feet rush to his bedside, frantic breaths rustle against his hypersensitive ears. Minho can barely force his eyes open, squinting blearily into the daylight glare at the two annoyances that dared to disturb his glorious dream.
A third person marches up to the bed, the matron, a cup of water in hand. Suddenly, Minho remembers how bone dry his tongue is. He reaches out for his source of respite, but his joints move like they’re being puppeteered, clumsy, jolting, imprecise and maladroit. He narrowly misses Jeongin’s pelvis by an inch.
Madam Pomfrey catches his arm with a sturdy nurse’s hand, and lays it to rest before bringing the rim of the cup to Minho’s lips. Minho drinks, and drinks, and drinks, until the dull rusty haze in his head feels more like a light morning fog. He barely has enough sense about himself to rasp out a “thank you” before he’s smothered by Jisung and Jeongin’s interrogating.
“Hyung! What the hell happened!”
“I thought your parents are doctors, how in the world did you manage to get yourself here?”
“You passed out in Potions, right? It must have been that blasted Kim Seungmin! What did he do to you, hyung? Do I have to kick his arse?”
Upon seeing Minho’s obvious distress, Madam Pomfrey shoos the duo back a few steps. “Give him some space!” she admonishes. “He needs to rest, not answer your incessant queries!” And, almost like an afterthought, she tags on, “And if you want to know so badly, Kim Seungmin was the one who brought your friend here in the first place.”
Jeongin’s eyes nearly bulge out in his shock while Jisung tries to shut his slackened jaw. “Come again?” Jeongin stutters.
Madam Pomfrey eyes the two critically. “You heard me loud and clear the first time: Seungmin was the dutiful student who hastened Minho here, and with a great deal of worry too! I don’t know why in the world you would think of punishing him instead; the poor thing was wringing his wand to pieces while I conducted the diagnosis.”
Now it’s Minho’s turn to gape incredulously. Seungmin? Worried for him? Then what in the world was the conversation that Minho overheard? It couldn’t have just been utter bullwash; Minho might be ill but his senses haven’t been dulled to the point of stupidity, but Madam Pomfrey is the dictionary definition of endearing frankness. Kim Seungmin is truly an enigma; so warm in his sentiment towards Minho yet never drawing close, a bipolar sort of attitude that causes a magnetic attraction in Minho and simultaneously repels him away. Yet when Minho was in a plight, he came swooping in like a superhero in his black sweeping cape and compassionate heart which Minho never knew existed.
He ascribes the palpitations in his chest to his illness; the irregularities must have put his organs in a disarray. Even the fluttering he feels in his stomach.
Log entry #71
Seungmin brought me to the medical bay today. How the hell is he still able to seem so wonderful and yet be so nasty at the same time? Make it make sense.
LMH
Very soon, Minho gets sent back to the dormitories as more invalids file into the hospital wing, overwhelming Madam Pomfrey to the point of needing to summon Hannah Abbott from St Mungo’s to provide an extra hand. He’s confined to the same room as Daniel Woo, still ill despite drinking several servings of remedy and recuperating for the past few days. If it weren’t for his ceaseless sniffles and coughs of misery Minho would even suspect he was faking it. However, Minho soon finds that Daniel does not make for fine company, seeing that his headphones are almost perpetually over his ears and his phone is glued to his hands, and forget about him being an avid conversationalist. It doesn't help that Minho finds himself fearing that he’ll go for a second round of sickness whenever Daniel releases a congested croak, even though medically he knows it makes no sense.
The final straw that broke the figurative camel’s back is Daniel Woo’s allergy to cats, typically suppressed with medication now negligible due to his present condition, which prevents Dori from keeping Minho company as he rots away in isolation. Aside from his conspicuous consumption of internet media Jeongin regularly sends up snacks and Jisung sends up books with all the dirty innuendos highlighted (his idea of entertainment), but without any real stimulation Minho can feel his cognition wasting away, and he’s almost willing to let it. He almost begs his friends to send up The Kim Seungmin Conspiracy, as he’s affectionately dubbed his well-worn notebook, for the sheer purpose of reliving the times when he actually felt his life had a real purpose.
Only one day, and Minho already wants to smack his head against the headboard until it splits just so he can feel something. He dreads what his mortal perils his mind will face in the coming days.
The next morning, Minho hears a loud thump against the window. He snuffles a bit as he rises to see the cause of commotion, imagining perhaps an errant Quidditch player or maybe a loose hippogriff flying by for a visit.
Instead, he finds a screech owl, talons barely able to wrap around a thick tube of neatly rolled scrolls, knocking unrelentingly at the glass despite the windows being open to provide ventilation. Minho retrieves the scroll quickly, feeling the solid weight of what must be countless sheets within the stack, and thinks to himself, the FBI has found me.
A voice that sounds suspiciously like Jeongin nags at him to quit the dramatics. Minho undoes the twine ribbon that binds the cylinder and, with a reluctant breath, starts undoing the roll.
The sheathe is surprisingly short, not even surpassing half a foot. Minho opts for that one out of convenience, which turns out to be the correct choice when he sees loopy handwriting spell out a formal greeting.
Hello
Minho Lee,
This is a set of notes I've been commissioned by Professor Slughorn to make for you, concerning all the theoretical and practical content that you have missed today and for the rest of your detention. I have taken the liberty to include History of Magic as well, so that you will not inevitably bother me once you are released from your cage. Slughorn wishes for you to get better quickly. I wish otherwise. The tranquility at the bench is otherworldly now that you are away. Do you feel more peaceful now without me around? You should.
Enjoy ten feet of unbridled torture,
Kim Seungmin
P.S. Please never pull your theatrical little fainting stunt again. It was a gargantuan headache to resolve, and terrible fright for the class.
Minho sets the introductory message down, stubbornly ignoring the tugging at the sides of his lips as he picks up the first scroll and starts reading. Seungmin's handwriting is a beautiful kind of messy, he thinks to himself, where one can see evidence of the true machinations of an intelligent person at work, yet appreciate the inherent humanity of the flaws in the divergent strokes. And the way he regards the subject… Minho would truly rather Seungmin teach Potions instead of Slughorn. For all the merits of the professor that Minho will concede, Seungmin exemplifies himself even more. In spite of his pureblood heritage he transforms Potions into a scintillae of micro-concepts and interactions in a way that Slughorn's archaic mind will never be able to convey to a Muggleborn brain, and it soaks into Minho's brain as water would a thirsty sponge. And the History of Magic annotations… pure genius. The way he breaks down every moment in the era, makes them seem like a conjoined timeline instead of a disorientating and disconcerting heap of vaguely coincidental events. As he reads and devours and consumes to his mind's content, Minho slowly realises he has uncovered a novel form of art, avant garde and beautifully abstract, and in the form of the most mind-numbing topic on this goddamn planet. What has quarantine reduced Minho to.
The notes themselves are enough to keep Minho occupied for the rest of the day, he barely takes his eyes off of Seungmin’s breathtaking work and astonishingly accurate diagrams, moreso admiring than actually absorbing. And from then onwards, the quarantine that Minho once dreaded in reality morphs into something resembling more of a relaxing vacation. Late night VPN-guarded video calls with Dori batting at the phone camera, courtesy of his two favourite annoying dongsaengs, and the legitimate storybooks Jisung has been sending to him from the library, keep Minho’s sanity at reasonable levels for the most part. Although... Minho is starting to notice that the first word of each title is starting to spell out something suspicious: Never, Going, To, Give, You. He can't wait to see what genre Jisung pulls to satisfy 'Up".
Throughout the entire affair, however, Minho cannot stop the subtle yearning tune that his heart has decided to sing. For a while, he cannot decipher what the yearning is for, but he figures it out soon enough; the witty tongue that always makes Minho laugh, the acerbic gaze that Minho can pierce right through, the rare childlike grins that Minho can uncover like diamonds in the rough…
Minho finds himself missing Seungmin.
It's an odd feeling, and entirely unwelcome; Minho opts not to think about it entirely in hopes that it's just a passing phase. Of course, he fails. The sentiment gnaws away at him, eating at his liver, chewing on his ribcage, making him feel like he's missing something crucial and tangible in him. And for this missing thing to be Kim Seungmin? Standoffish, arrogant, impetuous Kim Seungmin? He's fallen for the Slytherin's charms without even being conscious of it, and he's afraid he's starting to lose sight of the mission objective. Him! The mastermind behind this entire scheme!
Minho decides that this , whatever it is, has to stop now. He's been sucked into playing a dangerous game he, even Seungmin, isn't aware of. His own mind is his opponent, and he can't risk losing any further territory to it.
Coincidentally enough, the weekend is reserved for the grand match between Slytherin and Gryffindor's Quidditch teams, and in between making fun of Lord of the Flies for the tenth time and staring wistfully at a clip of Dori batting a stray thread on Jisung's robe and causing him to topple into Rowena's statue, Minho devises a plan to ensure that he can catch Seungmin in the act, and gather evidence to prove it. As soon as he escapes from quarantine, fully recovered and newly immunised to boot, he tells Jeongin of the plan. Jeongin, ever the skeptic, squints at Minho and says he's full of dragon dung, but Minho knows that, just like every other time, Jeongin will end up wholeheartedly approving his strategy. If he's being honest, Minho doesn't even need Jeongin's input; he just likes the sound of his own voice saying "I told you so" too much.
And so, on Tuesday, Minho strolls into the dungeon a new wizard, chatting amicably with one of his housemates before breaking off to walk to his bench. He gives Seungmin a hearty clap on the back, causing the Slytherin's broad shoulders to tense up for half a second before he's turning around with a slight scowl. “Mm. Turns out you were so ugly that even dragon pox decided it didn’t want you.”
“Ooh, that explains why it didn’t bother to even come near you,” Minho shoots back, sliding into his seat.
Seungmin sneers. “Bigger shame that the sickness didn’t take away your infuriating mouth.”
“Hmph.” Minho faces Seungmin and puckers his lips up, an annoying habitual reaction he picked up from Jisung. “On the contrary, I think you find my lips rather appealing.”
Seungmin backhands his face with his Potions textbook, ears tinged a brilliant pink from irritation.
It’s only halfway through the lesson that Minho remembers his main objective. He sidles up to Seungmin, who is currently slicing daisy petals into neat slivers, hears a stifled sigh and grins to himself. “Hey Seungmin,” he says, keeping his tone light and breezy.
The heavy sigh that follows is not suppressed. “What is it?”
Minho decides to be upfront about it. "I know you brought me to the hospital wing when I passed out."
Seungmin keeps a controlled look of neutrality on his face as he continues cutting. "And?"
Minho casts his gaze downwards, feeling uncharacteristically timid. "I was thinking, just so we're even... What say you to sitting together for the Quidditch match?”
He has imagined the different ways Seungmin could possibly react. Perhaps he would roll his eyes, perhaps he would outright snicker or aim his wand at Minho and make an Unbreakable Vow to never be seen in public with the likes of Minho. What he doesn’t expect at all, is the audible clatter of the knife on the chopping board as Seungmin clutches his hand in shock. Without a thought Minho drops all casual pretense and hovers over the Slytherin as he hisses in pain. When Seungmin’s hand shifts, Minho catches sight of a drop of crimson, and something in his brain reels. “Merlin, Seungmin!” he exclaims, more out of confusion than astonishment. “What- A simple no would have sufficed!” His head is a mess of white noise as he frantically scans the room for the familiar red cross. “Is there some sort of first aid kit in this stupid castle! God, do they not give any fucks about student welfare-”
“Shut up , will you?” Seungmin grits out, letting go of his injured hand enough to draw his wand out. He presses the tip gently at the cut, whispers “ Episkey ”, and the wound slithers closed, leaving behind only a pale slice crusted with rusted red.
Minho feels the tips of his ears heat up. He hadn't learnt that spell. "Oh, right. We can do magic."
Seungmin snickers lightly. "Do try and keep up, Lee." He dusts the roots into the potion as if he hadn't just ostentatiously paraded his overskilled proficiency in magic.
Minho bites back the resent bubbling in the back of his throat. He isn’t even that angry at Seungmin, he has a plan to resolve him at least, but instead he’s more frustrated with his dull Muggleborn instincts that always overcrowd his common wizarding senses. He owes his parents for raising him with survival skills since he was young, teaching him the rules and showing him how to play the game of life, but they equipped him through the eyes of a Muggle. In this whole new whimsical world, all the rules were redrawn right in front of Minho's eyes. What was once a tedious job of duct tape and nails became a simple Reparo . What once was grabbing the nearest fire extinguisher turned into an Aguamenti. And what once could be an injury that required immediate medical attention could now be fixed with an easy Episkey . Minho knows he's at a natural disadvantage even from his first step into the wizarding world, and it couldn't be helped, but sometimes he wishes the system was a bit more fair to those who had no prior clue to the existence of this entirely new system and society.
Perhaps that's why he felt so much indignance towards Kim Seungmin.
That being said, he turns to his Potions partner. "I'll give you something else to Episkey ," he grumbles, no venom in his voice.
Seungmin hums and gives the cauldron four stirs.
"By the way," Seungmin says five minutes later, "I'll do it."
Minho has the audacity to blink blankly as the words register in his head. "Do… what…"
"What you asked before." No one else would notice, but Minho detects Seungmin's voice growing a fraction softer. The Slytherin avoids his eyes staunchly, lips set firmly but gaze glittering with a new kind of vulnerability. "Sitting with you at Quidditch."
Minho blinks again, then shakes himself out of his dumb stupor. "Great! I'll… see you at the stadium, then."
"Yes," Seungmin agrees, almost as if to himself. "At the stadium."
(Minho makes Jeongin eat a box of chocolate cockroaches just to rub it in his face. And then he takes three shots of contraband Firewhiskey to make sure the churning in his stomach is from the burning alcohol.)
Log #85
This is it. I can finally catch Kim Seungmin, and put a stop to his atrocious, arrogant arse once and for all. For posterity, this isn’t a date.
LMH
The match rolls around with no obstructions, a nice change of pace from the typical Hogwarts pattern of at least one disruption per school year. (Last year it had been two students who tried snogging at the Whomping Willow and accidentally set a swarm of Acromantulas on school grounds, and, you guessed it, postponed the Quidditch match.) Minho arrives at the Great Hall expectantly, telling Jisung and Jeongin not to wait for him. Jeongin clasps Minho's hand solemnly and wishes him the best of luck on his special undercover operation. Jisung claps Minho's shoulder and tells him to use protection.
He halts in his steps and waits patiently by the side, scanning the throngs of enthusiastic students decked out in all sorts of shades. Minho himself had chosen a simple sweater complete with neatly alternating rows of indigo and jasper, overlaying a crisp sky blue blouse tucked into a pair of brown corduroy trousers. Perfect autumnal weather wear, if he says so himself. Soon he spots the head of jet black hair in the crowd and out from the faceless sea emerges Seungmin, and… oh . Oh . Minho has never seen him like this before.
In truth, there isn’t anything particularly breathtaking about Seungmin’s appearance, but it feels more like a gradual culmination of the sum of all its parts coming together to scheme against the air in Minho’s lungs. The Slytherin dons a dark juniper pullover held by simple jersey stitches, the V-neck cut exposing the pitch black dress shirt underneath, all of this paired nicely with black slacks. Altogether it’s a modest combination, but the plain set-up is a humble backdrop for the real centrepiece: a brilliant emerald brooch crowned with golden wing-like embellishments, barely larger than Minho’s thumb, nestled in the centre of Seungmin’s collar, resting right below his supple Adam’s apple. And that turns out to be the final blow; Minho simply cannot drag his eyes away from the enchanting glimmer of the jewel on Seungmin’s throat.
With an inhuman amount of effort he manages to meet Seungmin’s eyes. It’s almost as if this meeting were real, genuine, and not just another step in Minho’s grand plan. “Family heirloom?” He gestures to the adornment, putting in way too much effort than he should to keep his tone casual. “Purebloods seem to have a keen obsession with those.”
Seungmin shrugs nonchalantly. “I can settle for something like that.” He eyes Minho up and down appraisingly, and something in his gaze makes Minho squirm. He never imagined he’d be checked out by Kim Seungmin, of all students in this goddamn school. He seems very calm and collected for someone who is going to basically desecrate the altar to most highly esteemed sport in all of wizardom. “You look like one of those Muggles. The ones they always called ‘codgers’ in Muggle Studies.”
Minho squints at Seungmin, trying not to feel too cross at his jab. He had specifically charmed his navy blue sweater for this day, and he had come out of the dorms feeling rather chuffed about himself. Well, Jisung did laugh at him, but he assumed that was because of his misfortune of having to spend an entire day with his nemesis. “It’s the new fashion,” he says stiffly, “and it’s much less flamboyant than the mini-light display you’ve got going on for yourself. At least I’m not trying to hallucinate a claim to prissy wizarding royalty.”
He’s lying through his teeth, of course. The deep gleam in the emerald brooch just seems to complement the soft brown of Seungmin’s eyes in a certain way, not that Minho would ever say it aloud. He’s never held a particular affection for the colour green before, but after this day, he might have to make an exception.
Seungmin sniffs pretentiously, but Minho can tell it’s only a pretense. “Oh really? Is that why you haven’t called me ‘my lord’ yet?”
Minho’s throat tightens. He swallows hard, and forces a confident smirk. “Dream on, charlatan.”
A roar erupts from the field outside, and the stragglers in the Great Hall get a move on in a surge of hasty feet and excited chatter. An overexcited Gryffindor accidentally rams into Seungmin, causing him to stumble forwards, arms out and flailing. Immediately Minho rushes forward, preemptively holding his arms out to clasp Seungmin’s elbows and right his centre of gravity before the Slytherin can topple over. Seungmin’s hands fly up to cling onto Minho’s own forearms and Minho finds himself staring at the top of a head of soft midnight strands. He should loosen his grip. The warm, comfortable texture of the sweater persuades him otherwise.
The tight grip doesn’t detach from Minho’s forelimbs. He tries not to take notice of how Seungmin’s hands are nearly able to wrap around his arms, and fails. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Seungmin straightens and lifts his head up, and suddenly all Minho can see is his innocent, puppy-like expression, clueless and oh-so-gullible, gazing up at what must be the most wondrous thing in the world. Seungmin’s tongue runs over his lips. Minho subconsciously follows the movement.
The Gryffindors start a chant in the stands loud enough to permeate the towering glass windows. Seungmin blinks, then Minho blinks, and the two of them let go and stumble back to a distance that Minho can personally agree with. Since when were his lips this dry? He inclines his head towards the main doors, testing the silent waters of the unspoken agreement between the two to pretend the last thirty seconds did not happen. “Shall we?”
Seungmin clears his throat, mouth no longer gaping but pressed into a thin line. “Yeah…” He coughs again. “Yeah, yes, we shall.”
As they push their way into the bleachers, Minho remembers why he avoided Quidditch matches since first year. It's an entirely unpleasant experience, the feeling of being a packaging peanut crammed into a small box full of other noisy, jostling peanuts who all want to struggle to the surface. The ambience is too rowdy for Minho to hear himself think, and why animalistic screams would go up for a ball entering a hoop is beyond what Minho can fathom. Jeongin protested, and vehemently so, when Minho brought such opinions to the light, but the lad has much left to learn. Quidditch — or any sport in general, really — is entirely unreasonable to Minho.
And yet here he is, allowing himself to be elbowed around and deafened by surrounding yells. At one point a student almost spills an entire tankard of smuggled brandy onto Minho's sweater, which Minho nearly jinxes them for. Jeongin , he reminds himself, the value of his dear dongsaeng already deteriorating before his very eyes with each time he reminds himself of his cause, this is for Jeongin. Why am I doing this for him again?
In contrast with Minho's ruffled state, however, his counterpart seems perfectly at ease, not shoving back when he's shoved, not firing any hexes on anyone encroaching too close to his personal space. His face is the definition of stone. For what Minho knows he’s going to do, he has to admit that Seungmin’s performance of stolidness is remarkably impressive. At one point in time they're separated by the crowd, and Minho has to force aside a pair of over-excited Slytherin third year girls to reach for Seungmin's wrist. His senses tingle with deja vu as his fingers wrap around the limb he drags it closer, pulling the rest of Seungmin along too. Seungmin only lets out a breathless ‘thanks’, but moves to stay close to Minho’s side. Minho doesn't let go lest, Merlin forbid, he misses the golden opportunity to catch Seungmin red-handed, and determinedly pushes on through the writhing bodies to finally find a peaceful spot.
They end up near the back of the stands, away from the heat of the action. Minho’s half tempted to Summon a picnic blanket just to spread out and enjoy the sight of twirling people on oversized sticks from a safe distance, maybe even a nice cinnamon tea to warm up his toes. He realises he hasn't let go of Seungmin yet. Minho moves his hand, intending to let go, but his fingers slip and brush over Seungmin's palm. Over the thunderous rumble of the bleachers, Minho can almost hear his own breath hitch. It takes more self control than Minho deems acceptable for him to pull his hand away. In his flustered haste his gaze tears to the adjacent side of the field, where he finds Jisung clapping his hand and waving a red scarf, and beside him, Jeongin looking at him intensely. His dongsaeng gives him a meaningful look before looking away. Minho licks his lips, suddenly dry. Right. He has a mission to achieve.
Minho feels Seungmin settle down beside him, but despite the Slytherin catchers rallying with the Quaffle above their heads he hears no sign of cheers from him. He keeps a conscious track of Seungmin’s wand, surely tucked into his sweater sleeve, as he turns to him and makes side comments on the game, mostly jabs at mistakes from both teams, and predictions of the turnout of the match. If he’s going to have to wait out his ambush, he’s going to at least have some fun with it, and truly, the two houses are completely different flavours of competitiveness, and yet they come together to create the perfect medley of chaotic symmetry. Seungmin, in true Seungmin fashion, only ever responds to Minho’s remarks with soft hums and the odd reply, his mind evidently in a much different place.
As the point mark of both teams start racking up Minho decides to test the waters. “You seem a little pale,” he explains, injecting false sympathy into his voice. He isn’t lying, Seungmin’s skin could match a freshly pressed parchment. “Are you quite alright?”
“Hm?” Seungmin seems to shake himself from a daze. The tremble of the hand resting on his lap doesn’t go unnoticed; Minho’s heart wrenches with nerves. This is really it. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He avoids Minho’s gaze, a typical sign of guilt, Minho recalls from his mother’s psychological tutelage. “Actually,” the Slytherin pipes up after a short moment of terse silence, “I need to refresh myself. You wouldn’t mind saving my seat for a bit, would you?”
Minho nods a confirmation, moving aside to let Seungmin pass through, and while outside he might have an amiable smile on his face, internally he rejoices in cruel celebration. The puzzle pieces are all falling in place; just a little while longer, and he can relieve himself of the burden the masterplan has become on his shoulders, and forget that he ever considered Seungmin a friend.
He patiently counts to ten before shooting up from his own seat and edging his way out. From his higher vantage point Minho spots Seungmin hurrying away, conspicuously not towards the castle where the restrooms would be, but in the opposite direction. Minho traces Seungmin's trajectory and concludes his destination must be the only thing with a roof within that vicinity: the broom shed.
Minho dashes off, unheeding of the Prefects beseeching him to not run in the bleachers.
He can spot Seungmin's tall slim figure ahead of him as he forges forward, but he always has to remember to keep his cover. One wrong move and all his excessive effort up to this point would have gone to utter waste. Silently he glides over the uneven grass, then slips into the shed light on his feet. He spots Seungmin, huddled near the field entrance, and hunkers down in a musty spot behind a barrel of strong-smelling polish which… was not the best hiding place in hindsight. It's too late for Minho to move, however, as Seungmin is already drawing out his wand, and Minho still has to activate his Muggle handphone in order to capture video evidence. Curses , he grumbles to himself as he watches the icon swirl on screen, curses to the one stupid wizard who idiotically decided that modern technology was the third coming of Voldemort.
He silently wrangles with the device for a little while until he can finally level the camera, with the clear image of Kim Seungmin holding his wand up at the Seeker, and uttering to himself. Blatant, shameless cheating, clear as day in front of Minho and his phone camera, red icon and timer blinking vaguely to the left of Seungmin's head. But even with the evidence being captured second by devious second, Minho can't seem to scrounge up any real sense of victory, or satisfaction. He holds the fate of Kim Seungmin in a tiny rectangle in his palm, and he doesn't feel a sprig of happiness at his newfound power. What in the world happened to Minho?
Then a monstrous roar goes up in the stands, and Minho knows with a slight sink of the stomach that the Slytherins just won. Unfairly. The indignance rises up in Minho and yes , there it is, that serotonin-boosting, dopamine-releasing sense of triumph, that justice would soon be served and Minho would be able to best the best of his cohort-
His nose tingles, and he finds out why he instinctively thought hiding behind a barrel of broom polish was a bad idea. Panickedly he stops the recording, sets his phone down and pinches hard at his nose bridge, praying that the pressure would be enough to stave off any sudden violent motion-
" T-choo !"
Minho is so fucked.
Before he can even react, a shout echoes through the shed, fraught with fright and fury.
“ Levicorpus!”
Immediately Minho feels himself being whipped off the ground and dangled in the air by an invisible hand, too shocked to utter the counterspell fast enough to get away. It wouldn't have mattered; Seungmin would have stormed over to his collapsed body in two long strides as he does now, eyes ablaze with anger, then confusion as he peers closer at Minho's inverted face, and finally, it settles on hurt.
"Minho?" The quiver in Seungmin's voice stabs at Minho's heart like a jagged knife.
A being of lesser intelligence would have made a victorious declaration, about how Seungmin's plans were finally foiled, about how his name was about to be dragged through the dirt and how he would never be able to show his shameful face around Hogwarts ever again.
But, Minho is hanging upside down, and therefore, his IQ flows down to his brain to tell him that that isn't such a brilliant idea.
“I don’t believe this is the restroom,” he says instead, trying for a casual tone, which is a little difficult in his current predicament. It comes out more nasal than anything.
“What are you doing here?” Seungmin demands, wand aimed dangerously near Minho’s throat.
Minho swallows and decides it’s probably the clever option to play dumb.
"I was looking for you," he says faintly, his mind is running so fast he's surprised Seungmin doesn't detect the sound. "I… you were looking rather ill and I thought perhaps it probably wouldn't be the best if you passed out in my company, I’d be complicit."
Seungmin frowns fiercely. "Well, here I am, I'm well, aren't I?"
Minho takes in Seungmin's tense posture and taut jaw. "If you didn't want to watch the match with me, you could have just said so. My ego wouldn’t have been that sore about it,” he retorts, even though he’s quite literally in no position to. “Hiding out in the broom shed from a disaster date is a little drastic, don’t you think?”
Well fuck, there goes his conviction that this most definitely wasn’t a date.
Seungmin, meanwhile, has pinched his forehead together in some sort of panic and his words spill out in a hasty rush. “No, no, that’s not what I-” He presses his lips together, conflicting emotions battling on his face. Minho waits patiently, letting the Slytherin finish his train of thought, if only to soothe the little itching spark of hope growing in his chest. “Today…” Seungmin exhales, “was nice. I’m sorry if I didn't come across like that to you. It's just…" His voice trails off and his lips twist thinly into a puzzle Minho can’t solve, an oath-bound guardian of the secrets within.
Minho is starting to get a bit dizzy, but Seungmin has just unknowingly backed himself into a corner in the conversation, and who is Minho if not an opportunist?
"Just what?" he prompts softly. His tone comes out more nasal than he'd like. Right outside the shed the cacophony rages on as the two teams shake on it, but it’s all ambiance noise to Minho now. His gaze is trained solely on Seungmin, in his smart sweater and handsome green brooch, his eyebrows fiercely furrowed and eyes hardened into stone. A chill runs down (or up) Minho’s spine at the sight of the Slytherin looking upon with such an unfamiliar chilliness.
Seungmin takes a light breath. Minho holds his own breath in anticipation.
“ All Quidditch players, please proceed to their respective broom sheds for team debriefing. ”
Madam Hooch’s scratchy voice makes the both of them jump. Minho looks at Seungmin in a silent, helpless panic, and Seungmin looks back with an equal alarm. Sounds of equipment moving and footsteps crunching on grass gradually grow closer. And Minho is still dangling upside down, completely unable to move.
Seungmin's eyes have lost their previous stony quality, now they're glazed over and not quite focused. Minho can guess why; if he gets caught catching someone in the act of catching him cheating for Slytherin, it would spell disastrous consequences, not just for Minho, but for Seungmin himself too. Either way, right now only one thing makes sense to Minho: they have to get the hell out of there.
"Seungmin!" he hisses, hopefully sharp enough to pierce through the haze of Seungmin's thoughts. Sure enough, Seungmin's broad shoulders start with a jump, and Seungmin's vision finally concentrates on Minho's visible crisis. "Let me go," Minho instructs. "We can talk about this another time."
The Slytherin kneads his lip together, clearly uncertain. "You won't tell anyone you saw me here?"
"Of course," Minho replies, not quite sure what he's getting himself into. Then again, he supposes, it means he's now on par with the constructed reality he's fed Seungmin.
He doesn't expect Seungmin to accept such a simple answer as a legitimate promise, but impending doom tends to change one's priorities. " Liberacorpus ," Seungmin whispers quickly, and suddenly the invisible force clinging onto Minho's ankle disappears. Minho lands ungracefully on his head before crumpling into a human pile. His vision blinks with techno-colours, as one sees after an intense round of drinking.
"Ow," he deadpans, rubbing his head.
"Shut up , will you? Let's go!" Seungmin practically grabs Minho's wrist and drags him haphazardly to his feet. As they dash for it Minho can hear the jovial clink of the Quidditch trunk very, very close to the entrance. This will be a close one.
They scramble out the back right as the door behind them creaks open, and as they dash across the field, gasping on the fresh smell of new evening, Minho realises something that drops his heart right to his stomach.
He left his phone behind.