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Chapter Text

The hat hovered above his head, held steady in Professor McGonagall’s firm hands. Euijoo had never felt so tense in his life. His fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his knuckles pale as he sat on the stool, heart thudding wildly in his chest. The Sorting Hat’s voice filled his ears, thoughtful and ancient, sifting through the corners of his mind.

Not Slytherin, Eujioo begged inwardly, a desperate whisper echoing in his thoughts. Please, anything but Slytherin.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat bellowed.

A wave of sound crashed over him—cheers, claps, and whistles rising from the Gryffindor table. The roar of approval was deafening, but all Euijoo could hear was the whoosh of relief in his ears. His legs wobbled as he slid off the stool, stumbling slightly. His eyes searched the sea of scarlet and gold until he spotted Maki, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling with pride.

Euijoo’s face split into a smile, breath hitching in his throat. He hurried over, practically collapsing onto the long wooden bench. Maki scooted over to make room, their shoulders brushing.

“Perfect! Now, what’s for dinner?” Maki asked, rubbing his hands together.

Euijoo turned to look—and gasped.

The feast stretched endlessly before him: golden platters brimming with roasted meats, glistening vegetables, creamy mashed potatoes, warm, buttery rolls stacked high. Steam curled lazily upward, carrying the rich scents of spices and freshly baked everything. He stared in dumb wonder, and then, as if a dam broke within him, memories surged—of every dream he had about Hogwarts, of every page he’d read and reread in Hogwarts: A History, of the countdowns, the letters, the hopes.
Grabbing his fork with a laugh, he began shoveling food into his mouth.

“It’s all so good!” he mumbled through a mouthful of treacle tart.

And it was good.

Hogwarts was everything he’d hoped for, and more. Staircases shifted and creaked as they moved of their own accord. Portraits chatted and chuckled as he passed, offering riddles, gossip, and occasionally the right password. Ghosts drifted lazily through stone walls, trailing whispers and cold air. The castle itself felt alive—breathing, watching, and welcoming.

Even the difficult parts glimmered with a strange kind of magic. Homework came in unrelenting waves—scrolls upon scrolls of parchment filled with wand techniques, potion ingredients, and historical dates—but there was something satisfying in the late-night study sessions, the shared groans, the ink-stained fingers. Complaining about Professor Flitwick’s endless essays became a badge of honor.

“Oh, Flitwick’s always giving us essays,” Euijoo would sigh dramatically, and his friends would nod in solemn agreement before bursting into laughter.

Not everything was perfect, of course.

Nicholas Wang and his self-declared “ratpack” roamed the corridors like they owned the place. Their smug faces, whispered taunts, and cruel sneers were like gnats—annoying, ever-present, and just out of swatting reach. But Euijoo learned to brush them off. He reminded himself, again and again, I’m better than him. He said it to Maki, too, quietly but firmly. And Maki always nodded.

Back in the Gryffindor dormitory, tucked away in warm red and gold, Euijoo found peace. There, Nicholas couldn't reach him. There, he was free—free to laugh with his friends late into the night, to ask Fuma for help in subjects that made his brain ache (which was, admittedly, more than a few), and to feel like he truly belonged.
For once in his life, everything was just as he imagined it would be.

Hogwarts was home.

“What a wanker,” Maki snarled through clenched teeth as they stormed away from Transfiguration, his voice low but shaking with fury. “No wonder he’s in Slytherin. I can’t believe they let people like him in here—he should be… I don’t know, anywhere but here!”

Euijoo trailed just behind him, frowning as he tried to match Maki’s furious stride. “He’s a show-off,” he muttered, chest still tight with anger.

“Exactly!” Maki nearly shouted, spinning around briefly. “Always acting like he owns the castle. Like the rest of us are just here to admire him or something.”

Both of them were boiling with frustration, but Maki’s rage blazed brighter, louder. Nicholas Wang and his obnoxious little gang had struck again—this time during Transfiguration, using some ridiculous potion to dye Maki’s spellbook a violent, embarrassing shade of pink. The moment Maki opened it, his cheeks had flushed to match, and the entire class had erupted into laughter. The humiliation burned hot and raw on his face.

Euijoo had felt his own fury rise like fire in his throat. He hated Nicholas for it. Hated the way he smirked from across the room, like he'd just performed a clever trick and expected applause.

They were just about to round the corner, the castle’s torches casting flickering shadows on the stone floor, when a familiar voice rang out behind them—sharp, oily, unmistakable.

“Oh yeah!” Nicholas called, his voice laced with mockery. “Still whining about it? I don’t know why you’re so surprised. I do own this place.”

He strolled up beside them, his robes too crisp, his smirk too smug, his accent curled like a sneer on his tongue.

Before Nicholas could finish his sentence, Maki let out a low growl and lurched forward, dropping his books to the floor with a loud slap. His fists were already half-raised.

“Maki, no—” Euijoo said quickly, grabbing the back of his friend’s robes and yanking him back. The corridor was watched by a trio of ghosts drifting nearby, their semi-transparent forms already pausing mid-conversation to observe. He knew they would report it to McGonagall if Maki got into another fight.

Euijoo stepped forward instead, placing himself directly in Nicholas’ path, eyes narrow and voice low.

“Leave him, Maki,” he said, teeth clenched. “He’s not worth it.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “Aren’t worth it, am I, Byun?” His lip curled. “That’s rich—coming from you. Pretending to be cool when you’re just another loser trying to fake it.”

Euijoo tilted his head slightly, his glare unwavering. “I don’t have to pretend anything, Wang. Unlike you, I’m not a complete poser.”

Nicholas took a step closer, his pale eyes gleaming like frost. “Clever. But it’s such a shame you’ve sunk to hanging around with trash like this one,” he nodded toward Maki. “Then again, I guess rubbish attracts rubbish.”

“You’d know all about that,” Euijoo replied instantly, his voice so calm it made Nicholas’ sneer falter.

For a moment, silence stretched like a drawn bowstring.

“You can look tough all you want,” Maki said, breathing heavily. “But you’re still pathetic on the inside.”

“Yeah,” Euijoo added, his tone colder than the dungeon floors. “Like we’d ever want to hang out with a Death Eater kid. No one likes you, Nicholas. Not even the snakes.”

“Like I’d want to hang out with you!” Nicholas spat, his voice cracking slightly.

Euijoo’s eyes narrowed. “Well,” he said softly, with a half-shrug, “you tell me.”

Something shifted in Nicholas’ face—his bravado cracking like ice underfoot. His jaw clenched, his skin gone ashen. Without another word, he turned abruptly and shoved open the nearest bathroom door, slamming it behind him so hard the frame rattled.

“Ha!” Maki burst out, a crooked grin spreading across his face. He turned to Euijoo, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good one, mate.”

Euijoo forced a smile, but his stomach twisted.

He should’ve felt victorious, triumphant even—but something about the look on Nicholas’ face wouldn’t leave his mind. That fleeting crack in his expression, the way he’d gone pale… It didn’t feel like a win.
As they walked on towards the Great Hall, Euijoo’s footsteps slowed, his thoughts heavy. Maki was still grinning, still venting, but Euijoo was quieter now. Something inside him—it wasn’t guilty, exactly, but something close—gnawed at the edges of his anger.

***

During dinner, a scream broke across the Great Hall like a glass shattering—someone shouting about a fire near the dungeons. Chaos bloomed in an instant. Teachers tried desperately to restore order, shouting over each other, herding students back toward the long tables, urging them—no, ordering them—to stay where they were until the fire was handled.
It was strange, Euijoo thought distantly, how quickly even a place like Hogwarts could descend into panic. Magic could fix so much—what was it doing letting things burn?

Unless... it wasn’t an accident.

And then he realised.

“Maki,” Euijoo said suddenly, his face going pale. “Maki, Wang didn’t come to dinner.”

Maki groaned, immediately annoyed. “Yeah, so?” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “Why are we talking about him right now?”

“He doesn’t know about the fire,” Euijoo said, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard. “He might try to go back to the Slytherin common room, and that’s— that’s right in the dungeons. He’ll run right into it.”

Maki’s face twisted with irritation, then something sharper—anger, maybe fear. “Oh, great,” he muttered. “Fine. Come on. Hurry!”

The teachers were too overwhelmed with panicked students to notice two boys slipping through the crowd, ducking past prefects and sliding through corridors thick with smoke and confusion.

When they found Nicholas, he was exactly where Euijoo feared he’d be—trapped, coughing violently in a half-destroyed bathroom, the fire licking hungrily at the walls. His wand was out of reach. Green flames curled and spat like something alive, and Nicholas was caught between them, wide-eyed and gasping, arms over his head like they might protect him.
Maki didn’t hesitate. His wand was out, his voice shaking as he shouted spell after spell—half of them mispronounced, most of them weak, using the few spells they had learned during their first months at Hogwarts. Euijoo joined in, heart thundering, because however much he wanted to hate Nicholas Wang, he couldn’t watch someone burn.

It was a miracle—luck, really—that one of the spells worked and the fire finally hissed away into steam and smoke.
Nicholas was left standing, filthy and trembling, eyes rimmed red, face streaked with tears. He coughed violently, doubled over, then slowly lifted his head.

“Don’t say ‘thanks for saving my life’ or anything, will you, Wang,” Maki panted, hand still clenched tight around his wand.

Without warning, Nicholas snatched a shard of porcelain from a shattered sink and hurled it at Euijoo.

“Shut up!” he screamed, as if Euijoo had said something. “Shut up!”

“Nicholas!” Euijoo yelped, ducking. The shard shattered on the wall behind him.

“SHUT UP!” Nicholas roared again, picking up more rubble and hurling it like a boy possessed. Maki stood frozen beside him, mouth half-open in disbelief.

“How dare you!” Nicholas shouted, grabbing something that might have once been a soap dish. “You’re a horrible, terrible boy—and—and—and my mother says you’re just mean!”

“Alright—stop, Wang!” Euijoo shouted, backing away. “You’re hurt!”

Nicholas let out something between a laugh and a sob, then threw what looked like part of a toilet at Euijoo’s head. He barely dodged it. Maki ducked too, flinching.

“You were meant to be my friend!” Nicholas screamed, his voice raw. “I hate you!”

“I—it’s complicated,” Euijoo said, weakly, dodging another piece of tile. “You’ve been horrible since the term started!”

“Oh, sorry I didn’t come crawling back to you like everyone else,” Nicholas snapped, voice thick with rage. “Not after you dropped me on the train, you utter berk—”

“I didn’t—!”

“And you ignored me all summer!”

“Nicholas, please—”

“Oh, I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t let me burn to death!” Nicholas shrieked. “You are the worst!”

And then, suddenly, he was right there, and Euijoo barely had time to blink before Nicholas headbutted him square in the forehead.

“Ow!” Euijoo stumbled back, dazed, clutching his face. He reeled into the wall, stars bursting behind his eyes.

That was when the door burst open and Professors McGonagall and Snape stormed in, wands drawn, eyes blazing. Seconds later, the fire was out, the room frozen, and all three boys were being dragged away with a week of detention hanging over their heads.

Back in the corridor, as they were marched in opposite directions, Maki glanced over at Euijoo, wide-eyed.

“You were friends?” he whispered, like it was the strangest thing he’d heard all year.

Euijoo grumbled, rubbing the lump on his forehead. “It’s complicated.”

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Chapter Text

He’d been about to turn nine and was thoroughly annoyed that they couldn’t just stay in England to go camping with Maki’s family—or if they had to go abroad, why not somewhere fun, like Rome, where his uncle was spending the summer? Joon had told him, winking, that Italy had mopeds everywhere and “even little squirts like you” could drive them. But Mum overheard and shut that idea down fast. So instead, they went to France and the stupid countryside, and there weren’t any kids for miles to play with. His parents wanted to do awful, slow, boring grown-up things, like hiking and rowing and having picnics where they smiled at each other like they were in love. It was unbearable.

Until he’d wandered off alone one day, climbed a tree, and found a treehouse—and inside it, a boy with the poshest voice imaginable who blinked and said:

“I say, you shouldn’t have been able to find this, Muggle.”

“I’m not a Muggle,” Euijoo replied, affronted. “I’m Euijoo.”

The boy looked him over like he wasn’t sure.

Euijoo sighed. “My mum and dad are magic.”

“Oh,” said the boy. “Well, all right then. I’m Nicholas. Aren’t you having the most miserable summer of your life?”

“Yes,” Euijoo said, with the passion of someone truly suffering.

And that was it—they shook hands like gentlemen, then sat cross-legged to complain about their parents. Nicholas apparently had a brilliant house back in England and loads of pets, and all his friends had gone to some camp, but his parents said that was too common.

“My parents say summer is for family,” Euijoo muttered. “And that we have to stick together. But then all they want to do is boring things.”

“Adults are so stupid,” Nicholas said, like a little professor. It made Euijoo laugh out loud.

Nicholas frowned. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” Euijoo said, grinning. “You’re right.”

From that day on, the summer wasn’t miserable at all. Euijoo snuck out to the treehouse nearly every day—unless one of their parents got a bright idea about the seaside. But even then, Euijoo had the distinct impression his parents were a little relieved he’d found something to do. A local friend, no less. Charming.

The next year, when his parents started planning again, his dad asked, “You’re not going to fight us on staying in England again, are you?”

“No,” Euijoo said. “Well… we could go back to that French house. If you wanted.”

They went. And the moment they arrived, he ran for the treehouse. Nicholas leaned out the window and said, “Thank Merlin. I thought you’d never show up.”

That summer was even better. Nicholas was snobby, weird, and ridiculously bossy—but he was funny, and full of ideas, and he stayed up talking as long as Euijoo could. They had packed picnics and imaginary duels, dared each other across Muggle roads, and chased invisible Snitches around the forest. Nicholas had an unending stash of magical toys, and they spent long days racing toy brooms under the trees, then laying side by side, arms raised, admiring how brown Euijoo’s skin got next to Nichola's soft brown hair, which went all golden from the days of sunlight. They lay drowsily side by side and held up their forearms, admiring the contrast.

“See you next year, I expect,” Nicholas said drowsily as summer wound down.

“Yeah,” Euijoo said. Then hesitantly, “And… and you’ll go to Hogwarts, after that?”

“Of course,” Nicholas grinned. “Maybe we’ll be in the same house.”

“Probably,” Euijoo said. “You’re one of my best friends. Top three. After Maki, maybe.”

“Maki’s a stupid name,” Nicholas sniffed. “It sounds like a hamster.”

“Be nice,” Euijoo said, and nudged him.

Nicholas smirked. “Fine. I’ll give you my address. You can write to me all year.”

“All right,” Euijoo said, even though he wasn’t much of a letter writer. But Nicholas was so certain—the way he was about everything.

And his letters were brilliant: chaotic, hilarious rants against various injustices (mostly committed by house-elves), long dramatized replays of parental arguments, and wild ideas for games they’d play next summer. Euijoo’s parents thought it was adorable.

“You’ve got such a good friend,” Mum said one day. “Just like your dad, huh?”

“Yeah,” Euijoo had said, proud, already scrawling out another letter in crooked handwriting. Nicholas always filled his with questions, which made it easy to reply.

But one day, just as Euijoo was tying a letter to the owl’s leg, his mum glanced at the envelope and froze.

“Wang Manor?” she said.

“Yeah,” Euijoo said cheerfully. “Hey, how come our house isn’t named after us?”

“I—is Nicholas a Wang?”

“Uh-huh. Nicholas Wang. He said he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters." he grinned, "like me.”

Mum’s face changed. She took the letter carefully from the owl.

That night, his parents sat him down.

They explained about the Wangs—how they’d followed You-Know-Who. Someone he didn't know about, someone they said that was mean, terrible, even. How they thought people like Mum weren’t as good, just because she wasn’t a “pureblood," whatever that meant. How they didn’t think he should even be allowed at Hogwarts. How the Wangs had wanted his parents—and the Order—to lose.

Euijoo whispered, “But I don’t think Nicholas is like that…”

His parents looked at each other. Then said, gently, that even if he didn’t seem like it, Nicholas probably wasn’t a good person to be friends with.

They made him promise to stop writing. That summer, he camped with Maki instead.

He told himself they were right. His parents were heroes, after all. They’d saved the world. If people like Nicholas Wang had won, they’d be dead.

So when Nicholas found him on the Hogwarts Express, beaming, and asked, “Why’d you stop writing?”—it was easy to sneer and turn away.

“Like I’d ever write to Death Eater scum like you.”

Maki snorted. Nicholas’s face crumpled. And it felt… right. His parents would be proud, he thought.

But now, lying awake, that moment kept playing in his head—how Nicholas’s smile had faltered, how his voice tonight, caught in the fire, had cracked near tears. Like he’d really been upset. Like he’d actually missed him.

In detention, Nicholas was sullen and furious and wouldn’t look at him.

Until Euijoo shoved between him and the cauldron and said, “All right, look. I’m sorry. But you have to be nice to Maki.”

“What?” Maki said flatly.

Nicholas narrowed his eyes. “Why would I want to? Why would I be friends with Gryffindor losers?”

“Because—because—” Euijoo stammered. “Because…” But nothing came.

He just looked at Nicholas, feeling small and stupid and a little bit like he’d betrayed something important.

Nicholas looked up, then. His eyes narrowed. “Do you have a ball?”

“Yeah?” Euijoo said, confused.

“Well,” Nicholas muttered, “wanna go flying after this?”

“Maki’s coming too,” Euijoo said.

After a long moment, all three of them shook hands.

Chapter Text

They never ate together. After all, having a Slytherin sit at the Gryffindor table felt wrong. Awkward. Euijoo didn’t even want to think about sitting at the Slytherin table. So while everyone ate in their assigned spots, he could only stare.
Nicholas was still mean. Still sharp and cutting. His little Slytherin ratpack wasn’t much better. Euijoo couldn’t stand Nicholas’ friends—the way they sneered at people like Maki, the way they laughed too loud and always seemed to be in on something cruel. So when he saw Nicholas chatting carelessly with them, it all came rushing back. The Nicholas Wang he’d been warned about. The kind of person he might become. A Death Eater.

“He’s fun, I’ll give you that,” Maki said as they walked toward their next class. “But I can tell he only wants to hang out with you.”

“Well,” Euijoo said, matter-of-fact, “if he doesn’t want to hang out with you, then I won’t hang out with him, either.”

Maki sighed and nudged Euijoo’s arm gently, both of them breaking into honest, lopsided grins.

But after dinner, it always happened the same way: the three of them drifting together for a while. And when Nicholas laughed—really laughed—Euijoo could almost see the little boy from the treehouse again. The one who’d smiled every time Euijoo climbed the ladder. Who’d asked if he was coming back next summer before the current one was even over.

And in those moments, the other version of Nicholas—the cruel, arrogant one—just... disappeared.

“We should have fun,” Nicholas said one evening, draping his arms over both their shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Like, real fun.”

“What do you mean?” Maki asked, skeptical, one brow arched.

Nicholas rolled his eyes. “You Gryffindors are so uptight.”

Euijoo scoffed, but the grin tugging at his lips gave him away. “Then what do you suggest, Wang?”

“Oh, you know Byun,” Nicholas said, with that familiar mischievous spark that now felt almost comforting. “We should prank someone.”

Maki immediately looked horrified. “What? What if we get caught?”

“Detention,” Nicholas said, shrugging. “So what?”

“I don’t want to,” Maki groaned, slipping out from under Nicholas’ arm. “Why don’t we just play Quidditch outside?”

“That’d be great,” Euijoo muttered, “if we could actually leave the castle.”

Nicholas sighed dramatically, shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes. “Oh, come on. Aren’t you two supposed to be brave and reckless and all that Gryffindor junk?”

“But—”

“Hear me out,” Nicholas said, stepping back and flashing them both a rare, crooked grin. “It’ll be harmless. Just a bit of fun. I need a laugh. Don’t you?”

Maki gave in—just like he always did. Because somehow, Nicholas’ ideas had a way of sounding ridiculous right up until they weren’t. Right up until they turned into brilliant memories.

They ended up in the library—despite Maki’s muttering and dragging feet—and got completely absorbed in their hunt. They pulled out advanced charm books, enchantments way above their year, flipping pages with the kind of giddy determination that only bored, clever kids could summon.

“This is so hard,” Maki whined, stretching and yawning. His knee bumped Nicholas’ under the table. Nicholas frowned but didn’t move it.

“He’s right,” Euijoo said, yawning too as he shut the book. He leaned over, voice low and conspiratorial. “What if we do something less complicated. Like, blowing up the girls’ loo?”

Nicholas rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Typical Byun.”

Euijoo didn’t rise to it, but Maki perked up, suddenly curious. “How?”

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, tapping his chin. “We could make a color bomb. Nothing dangerous—just dramatic. Use brown. Make it look like… you know.”

“Oh, aren’t you charming,” Euijoo laughed.

Maki yawned again, but he didn’t object. Just grinned sleepily and said, “Let’s go to the dorms. We’ll figure it out tomorrow night.”

They were more tired than they’d admit. Even Maki, though he did nothing to hide it. They wandered the corridors together, voices hushed, already spinning the next night’s plan. It was something to look forward to—something fun in the monotony of classes and rules.

Then, right as they were about to split off into their separate common rooms, Euijoo felt a hand on his shoulder, warm.

Nicholas.

“So,” he said, his voice gentler than usual, “tomorrow night?”

Euijoo blinked, caught off guard by the softness. “Yeah,” he murmured.

Nicholas nodded once, then turned sharply toward the dungeons, walking like he always did—shoulders high, chin tucked, like the world owed him a favor. Classic Nicholas Wang.

That night, while Maki snored peacefully in the next bed, Euijoo lay awake, guilt gnawing at him. Was this really okay? Would his parents be angry if they knew? Would Mum understand?

Eventually, he got up and scribbled out a letter to the only person who wouldn’t scold or sigh.

That morning, his owl dropped off a reply. Uncle Joon’s handwriting was as messy as always, but comforting in its own way:

Your father wasn’t the little angel he always says he was, believe me, kiddo. Having fun—so long as you don’t hurt anyone—is a good part of your school years.
Now, tell me everything about that little prank of yours!

Euijoo grinned.

Uncle Joon always knew what to say.

***

The next night came too quickly.

Classes dragged, meals felt endless, and by the time curfew was crawling near, the excitement buzzing between the three boys was almost unbearable. They had spent the afternoon tucked into a back corner of the library again, whispering over parchment like seasoned criminals. Maki had even drawn diagrams.

“Maki, are you seriously doing math right now?” Nicholas asked, watching him scribble numbers on a corner of the parchment.

“It’s trajectory, not math,” Maki muttered, defensive. “We need to know where to place the charm so the color bomb bursts just right.”

“You are… distressingly a weirdo,” Nicholas said, leaning back in his chair with an amused smirk. “Byun, can’t you rein him in?”

Euijoo just grinned. “Hey, it’s impressive. This is what happens when you prank with someone who reads ahead in Potions.”

“And Arithmancy,” Maki added helpfully.

Nicholas sighed dramatically. “Merlin help me.”

By the time the castle was quiet and the common rooms were starting to dim, they snuck out.

Nicholas had no trouble leading them through the halls—he claimed he knew every hidden passage in the school. Euijoo suspected he wasn’t lying. Maki, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected McGonagall to materialize behind them.

“Stop being nervous,” Nicholas whispered, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not nervous, I’m cautious,” Maki whispered back.

They reached the corridor just outside the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. Moaning Myrtle wasn’t in this one, thankfully—Nicholas had checked. The coast was clear.

Euijoo unpacked the tiny pouch they’d filled with color dust, enchanted feathers, and the charm Maki had designed—"just a gentle propulsion spell," he’d insisted, “nothing harmful.” Nicholas handled the detonation timer.

“I still think brown is too much,” Maki said, staring down at the murky powder.

“Too much?” Nicholas said, almost gleeful. “It’s perfect. Chaos. Confusion. That’s the goal.”

“Embarrassment,” Euijoo added, stifling a giggle.

They snuck into the empty bathroom, Maki holding the door while Nicholas and Euijoo knelt by one of the middle stalls. The plan was simple: plant the charm just under the toilet lid, charm it to go off at exactly 9:17 the next morning—right when the first class break happened. The resulting explosion wouldn’t damage anything, but it would look like someone had an explosive reaction to the school’s shepherd’s pie.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Maki whispered.

“I can’t believe you’re the one who calculated the blast radius,” Nicholas replied.

Maki blushed, but didn’t deny it.

With everything in place, Euijoo did a final check and stood back. “All right,” he whispered. “We done?”

Nicholas nodded. “We’re legends.”He sounded even proud.

As they slipped out of the bathroom, Nicholas turned to Euijoo, eyes gleaming.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

Euijoo blinked. “What?”

“You’re smiling, Byun. Like a proper Slytherin.”

Euijoo laughed. “You wish.”

But there was something soft behind Nicholas’ grin. Something that made Euijoo pause for a second, then shake his head.

“C’mon,” he said. “Before Maki dies of anxiety.”

They made it back to the dorms just before a prefect could spot them. Maki dove into bed like he’d escaped a warzone, mumbling about how they were definitely getting expelled. Nicholas flopped onto the couch back in his common room, still grinning to himself.

And Euijoo… he stood by the window for a moment longer, looking out over the quiet castle grounds.
The prank would go off tomorrow. They’d probably get in trouble. Or maybe not. But for the first time in a while, he felt something that wasn’t stress or pressure or rules pressing down on him.
He felt alive.

And maybe—just maybe—he had missed Nicholas Wang.

Chapter Text

The look on Yunah's face was priceless — sheer devastation laced with confusion. The prank had worked better than they could have hoped. Maki nudged Euijoo’s shoulder as they ducked behind a corridor wall, both of them barely containing their laughter. Euijoo bit down on his knuckle, trying not to burst into giggles, but it was over the moment Nicholas strolled past and flashed them that look — that smug, victorious glint in his eye, like a master thief admiring his own masterpiece.

They had done it. They had smeared brown paint across the stalls of the girls' loo, made it look horrifyingly realistic, and left no trace behind. Now Yunah stood in front of a baffled professor, frantically explaining that none of the girls had anything to do with it, her voice getting more shrill by the second. Euijoo leaned against the wall, laughing silently, his shoulders trembling with the effort to keep quiet.

It was glorious. Euphoric. Like standing on top of the world with a firework exploding in his chest.

By the time class ended, Nicholas had rejoined them, his sharp features lit up with a wide grin that gleamed with mischief. “Good one, boys,” he said, clapping both of them on the back. His voice was smooth, proud. The kind of voice that made you feel like you'd just won something — even if that something was just detention.

Maki, usually the most anxious of the three, looked surprisingly pleased. His face, still pale from the stress of the previous night, had relaxed into something close to satisfaction. As if the near panic attack he’d had while sneaking out of the common room was worth it. They didn’t even complain when, after a week of whispered rumors and painfully long interrogations, they were each handed detention slips.

It didn’t matter. They had each other. And somehow, that made even punishment feel like a shared victory.
But then, like a snowstorm crashing over their good spirits, exam season arrived.
Suddenly, their world was buried in parchment and ink-stained fingers. There were essays to finish, spells to revise, and professors piling on the pressure like it was a sport. Christmas break hovered just out of reach, and Euijoo found himself floundering.

Eventually, he had no choice. He turned to Fuma.

“Which subject again?” Fuma asked flatly, not even glancing up from the thick tome balanced on his lap as he flipped the page with the grace of someone who lived among footnotes.

“Er…” Euijoo scratched the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing. “Any of them, really.”

Fuma sighed, finally lifting his gaze. His expression said it all — You should’ve asked sooner.

Euijoo had never been good at studying. He didn’t see the point, not when there was a broom waiting for him outside or some prank waiting to be hatched in the shadows of the castle halls. Books felt like cages. But he knew what his parents expected, and more than that, he didn’t want to fall behind while Nicholas and Maki soared ahead. So he dug in, dragging his mind — kicking and screaming — into spellwork and potion theory.

And Fuma, well… Fuma was a different breed. Sharp, patient, a bit sarcastic — but beneath the dry wit was someone who genuinely knew his stuff. If professors were maps, Fuma was a compass: clear, focused, and always pointing Euijoo in the right direction.

“I still don’t get this,” Euijoo groaned one evening, tapping his feather quill at a spell etched onto the page. “How do you say it again?”

“Leviosa,” Fuma said, enunciating it with the bored precision of someone who’d said it too many times.

“Laviosa?”

“Le-vi-O-sa.”

“…LLevios.”

Fuma didn’t respond. He just stared at Euijoo, blinking slowly.

But over the days that followed, something shifted. The words started to make more sense. His wandwork began to tighten up. He didn’t panic as much during lessons, and though he’d never admit it aloud, he actually started to enjoy the feeling of getting something right.

Still, he couldn’t help thinking — if he’d started earlier, if he hadn’t wasted so much time goofing off, maybe he’d have more time now. More time to hang out with Maki and Nicholas, to laugh under blankets in the common room or sneak snacks from the kitchens.

Christmas break arrived with a sudden hush. Sooner than Euijoo expected.

The castle, once buzzing with spells and exam panic, had gone quiet overnight. Snow blanketed the grounds in thick, perfect layers, and inside the castle, it smelled like cinnamon and burning logs. Most students had left for home, but a few remained—Euijoo among them.

He had wanted to go home, but after convincing his parents he needed the extra time to study—and catch up, finally—he’d stayed behind. Fuma had stayed too, claiming his parents were traveling and wouldn’t be back in time. Maki didn't stay, he was going on a holiday with his family to Spain, he said, he didn't look excited at all.

Nicholas, however, had stayed because “Home is boring and full of rules.”

That first morning of break, Euijoo found himself alone in the Great Hall, spooning porridge into his mouth with one hand and flipping through Fuma’s handwritten spell guide with the other. His hair was a mess. His eyes were half open. He was trying to figure out the difference between Lumos Solem and Lumos Maxima when Nicholas dropped onto the bench across from him with two pieces of toast in his mouth and snow still in his hair.

“You look like a fifth-year,” Nicholas said through the toast.

“You sound like one,” Euijoo mumbled.

Nicholas grinned. “Come on. You’re not seriously gonna spend the holidays studying, right?”

Euijoo glanced down at his book, then back up at Nicholas. “…I promised Fuma.”

“And Fuma’s not here right now,” Nicholas said, his grin turning sly. “Jo and I are going to the courtyard. I want to try a freezing charm on the fountain.”

“I don’t want to get frozen,” Euijoo said, frowning slightly at the mention of Nicholas' friend.

Nicholas leaned forward, voice dropping. “You know it’s more fun when you come along.”

Euijoo hated how easily he caved.

***

He tried hard not to let a tear escape as he sat cross-legged by the Common Room fireplace, the soft golden glow flickering across his face. His hands trembled slightly as he read and reread the letter attached to the Christmas present from his parents — written in their familiar, looping handwriting that carried the scent of home. He missed them more than he'd ever admit out loud. Especially not to Maki. Not with how often they teased each other.
He sniffled quietly, blinking hard before folding the letter with gentle care, as though creasing it too harshly might sever the connection it held to his family.

Then, another parcel caught his eye — small, wrapped in a crumpled blue paper with an excessive amount of tape clumsily slapped over the seams. A crooked label was scribbled across the front in messy handwriting:

To: Juju
From: Maki
P.S. Mum forced me to!

Euijoo couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips. He rolled his eyes, letting out a chuckle that caught in his throat as warmth filled his chest. It was so very Maki.

Tearing through the tape, two slightly scratched Bryan Adams CDs tumbled into his lap. The titles shimmered faintly under the firelight. His eyes lit up. The world seemed to quiet around him for a moment as he clutched them close, the kind of joy that settled right into your bones.

Without hesitation, he bolted up the stairs to his dorm, heart thudding, almost childlike in his excitement. He rummaged through his trunk, tossing aside robes and quills until his fingers curled around the familiar shape of his CD player. With hands trembling in anticipation, he popped open the case and slid the disc in. The first chords washed over him like a wave — soft, soulful, comforting.

He flopped back onto his bed, arms spread wide, eyes closed. His feet began to bump lightly to the rhythm, the melody filling the dorm like a lullaby from another world. It was magic, the Muggle kind.
And then, suddenly, a thought sparked through him.

I have to show Nicholas.

Still in his pajamas — oversized flannel pants and a jumper too loose around the wrists — he barely paused to consider what he was doing. Hogwarts was mostly deserted anyway, students gone home for the holidays. Clutching the CDs protectively to his chest, he slipped out of the Gryffindor tower and made his way through the winding corridors toward the dungeons, breath fogging slightly in the colder air.

By the time he reached the Slytherin Common Room entrance, his pulse was thundering. The door loomed before him, ancient and cold, like something out of a gothic novel.

What was he even doing? Nicholas would probably sneer. Maybe laugh. Maybe worse — ignore him altogether.
He was just starting to second-guess everything when the door creaked open and Nicholas appeared, nearly colliding with him.

“Euijoo?” Nicholas blinked, raising an elegant brow. “Why are you standing here like a statue?”

Euijoo turned, panic flooding his cheeks with color. His grip tightened on the CDs as embarrassment rose in his throat.

He’s going to hate this. This is Muggle, he's going to—

But then Nicholas’s eyes drifted downward, to the objects in Euijoo’s arms. Curiosity sparked in that usually impassive expression. Wordlessly, Nicholas stepped aside and motioned him in.

The Slytherin Common Room was everything Euijoo had imagined — dark stone walls, emerald-hued carpets, flickering green torchlight reflecting off silver snakes carved into pillars. It was intimidating, cold in its elegance. Yet Nicholas, flopped awkwardly onto one of the velvet couches, looked a little unsure of himself, like even he didn’t quite belong there.

Euijoo’s nerves settled. He smiled softly and sat beside him.

“Fancy listening to some?” he offered, though his hands were already moving to slide the CD into the player.

Nicholas tilted his head. “What are those?” he asked, voice crisp, accent a little too posh for someone sitting in bunny slippers.

“Music,” Euijoo said simply, leaning back as the first few chords filled the quiet room.

Nicholas stared ahead, expression unreadable. But slowly, something shifted — his eyes widened, his shoulders relaxed. The music unfurled between them, gentle and nostalgic, and then Euijoo spotted it: Nicholas’s foot tapping ever so slightly against the floor.

Euijoo laughed.

Nicholas immediately scowled. “What?”

“Merry Christmas, Nicholas,” Euijoo said, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

Nicholas huffed, rolling his eyes as he looked away. “...Merry Christmas, loser.”

Euijoo knew he probably looked ridiculous, grinning like an idiot, his face all lit up with that kind of joy that made your heart feel too big for your chest.

But he didn’t care. In that moment — in that dim, snake-decorated room, with Bryan Adams crooning in the background and Nicholas pretending not to enjoy it — it felt like the best Christmas he’d ever had.

Chapter Text

As the last candle flickered out with a puff of smoke, Euijoo shut his eyes and made his wish — not that he needed to. He already knew what he wanted.

A new broom.

Nothing else had occupied his thoughts quite like that lately. He was finally twelve — finally old enough to try out for the Hogwarts Quidditch team. Just the thought made his pulse race with excitement. He had already started writing to Maki about it — long, rambling letters that trailed off the page, full of misspelled words and doodles of brooms and golden snitches. He didn’t care what position he got. Keeper, Seeker, Beater — it didn’t matter. He just wanted to fly.
Fly in the air, dressed in that sharp team uniform the older students wore with such pride.

He wanted to hear the crowd cheering his name, feel the wind whip through his hair as he dove after the snitch or blocked a goal. He could already hear it now — the roaring applause, the shrill whistles echoing from the stands, a sea of students chanting for their team. He grinned, eyes unfocused, lost in the fantasy.

That daydream was gently broken by the sound of his father’s voice cutting through the noise, calling for him to come cut the cake. The clapping he’d imagined faded into real applause — from his family around the table — and it wasn’t quite the same. But it was enough. For now.

Still, something tugged at him.

He hadn’t written to Nicholas all summer.

And that left a strange, aching pit in his stomach.

He told himself it was fine. He’d promised his parents he wouldn’t spend time with Nicholas anymore, and even being friends with him now was already pushing the limits. If his parents found out… well, they’d lose their minds. Just like Nicholas’s would. The tension between their families was the kind that burned slow but dangerous — quiet, bitter, and ancient. A feud too old for either of them to understand, but too strong to ignore.
So, maybe it was better this way — the silence. The distance.

And Nicholas had always been good at hiding things. Their friendship was one of them. Sometimes, it almost felt like a secret he was ashamed of, and that stung in ways Euijoo didn’t like to think about.
He sighed, lying back on the warm grass, the sun casting lazy rays over the backyard. The summer heat clung to his skin, heavy and drowsy. Maki was sitting nearby, now fully immersed in his latest hobby — origami.
Euijoo blinked at the tiny paper cranes and frogs and stars lining the blanket beside him. They looked stupid. Too perfect. Too peaceful.

He had the sudden, irrational urge to squash one under his thumb.

“Hey! Be nice,” Maki scolded, catching the look on his face and quickly moving the paper creatures to the other side. He went back to talking, rambling about his day at the market, how a pigeon stole his sandwich, and how he was learning to fold a dragon next.

Euijoo barely listened. He let Maki's voice fade into the background, a low murmur against the hum of cicadas and the rustle of trees. His thoughts drifted again.

What is Nicholas doing right now?

Was he flying somewhere, alone, wind in his hair and no one telling him who he could or couldn’t be friends with? Was he thinking about Euijoo too?

He closed his eyes again, letting the sun warm his face, and wished — for the second time that day — not for a broom, but for something he couldn’t ask for out loud.

Then, just before the last weeks of summer rolled in, his uncle and aunt returned from Rome.

Euijoo lit up at the sight of them — bounding across the garden to hug them both. His uncle Joon swept his wand dramatically, making little sparks dance across the sky like fireflies.

“You’re not allowed to use magic outside school!” his mother shouted from the kitchen window.

Uncle Joon gave her a sheepish grin, then leaned in to wink at Euijoo, lips curved in mischief. The boy giggled.
Euijoo loved his family. He truly did. His mother’s warm scolding, his father’s quiet strength, his auntie’s wild storytelling, and Joon’s reckless jokes. And Maki — though he’d never say it out loud — Maki was like a brother. A twin, even. Always there. Always annoying. Always reliable.

That summer passed in flashes of golden sunlight and sticky fingers from picnic treats. They hiked through the woods behind their house, picked wild berries until their hands were stained, and played card games by lantern light. Once, Euijoo even spent a full week at Maki’s house — a whirlwind of noise, chaos, and shrieking siblings. He loved it. Every minute of it.

And still, in the quiet moments, that ache remained.

He hoped — truly hoped — that Nicholas was having fun too. It didn’t feel fair otherwise. The summer had been too long not to share it with him.

So when Euijoo started counting the days until Hogwarts again, it wasn’t just for the broom, or the Quidditch trials, or the feasts in the Great Hall.

It was because, somewhere in the shadows of that castle, he’d get to see Nicholas again.

Even if it was only from a distance.

“Eager to start classes?” Maki had murmured one night, watching him scribble in his journal by candlelight. “That’s rather odd. Even for you.”

Euijoo had only smiled.

He didn’t say why.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts wasn’t nearly as safe as his father had promised.
It had barely been a week since the start of term, and already the castle felt darker — heavier. Whispers twisted through the corridors like smoke, curling around corners and into ears. First years huddled close together at night, their voices hushed and trembling with fear. Rumours crawled out from under beds and between pages of textbooks. Stories of something ancient lurking beneath the castle.

A monster. A snake. A secret chamber.

Of course, Euijoo hadn’t believed a word of it. He’d laughed it off. How could there be a massive snake hiding in the bowels of the school? Hogwarts wasn’t some haunted dungeon — it was a place of learning, of magic, of wonder.

That was before he saw the wall.

Cold stone, damp with condensation. And streaks of something red — thick, sticky, and unmistakably real — trailing down its face like a warning written in blood.

The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir… beware.

Euijoo’s breath caught. His stomach turned. For a moment, he thought he might be sick right there in the corridor. His legs felt like jelly beneath him. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t a ghost story to scare the new kids. This was real. And it was terrifying.

The teachers reacted fast. Patrols doubled. Curfews enforced. Ten o’clock became an unbreakable rule — no one outside the Common Rooms. Even laughter felt quieter, thinner. Hogwarts had never felt so hollow.

“This year’s already starting to suck,” Euijoo muttered as he dropped onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow.

“Cheer up, mate,” Maki called from his own bed, casually tossing a ball in the air. “Tomorrow’s Quidditch try-outs.”

Euijoo groaned. “Is that supposed to cheer me up or make me puke from anxiety?”

“You’ll get in,” Maki said, like it was obvious. “You’re brilliant.”

Euijoo didn’t respond. He just rolled onto his side, staring at the flickering shadows on the ceiling as the clock ticked on. 11:13 p.m. It was going to be a long night.

And it was.

He made it through breakfast the next morning only by sheer force of will, fighting off yawns and blinking against the haze in his eyes. His nerves about the try-outs had been replaced by sheer exhaustion. His spoon kept drifting toward his cheek before he snapped back to reality.

“You look like absolute rubbish,” Nicholas said as he passed by, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Euijoo shot him a look. “Thanks. I’m aware.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the curt reply. His eyes flicked toward Euijoo’s face, catching the dark circles beneath his eyes — but before he could say more, a sudden surge of noise pulled their attention away.

A crowd had gathered.

A wall. A message. Again.

But this time… this time, there were sobs.

Euijoo pushed through the crowd, his heart thudding harder with each step, until he saw Yunah — pale and trembling — crying beside another girl, a younger Hufflepuff who stood stiff and cold.

Petrified.

Her skin was pale as marble. Her expression frozen in some half-formed scream, eyes glassy and wide.

A terrible chill ran down Euijoo’s spine. He could feel it now — something ancient and cruel breathing just beneath the castle floors. Something watching.
After the teachers arrived, ushering the students back and lifting the girl carefully away to the Hospital Wing, the hallway fell into a stunned, uneasy silence.

“She’ll be okay,” Euijoo whispered, as if saying it out loud would make it true. “Madam Pomfrey will fix her up.”

Beside him, Maki nodded stiffly. But his hands were clenched in his robes.

“So… um…” Maki murmured, voice unsteady. He had been worried, a lot, since the attacks and messages started. Euijoo couldn't blame him. He was worried too, it was written all over his face, actually. Enemies of the heir, beware. They were starting to get it now.

The only students that were being petrified were muggleborns. And, well, Maki was a muggleborn. Euijoo didn’t answer. He bit his lip hard enough to hurt, scared that if he spoke, he’d make it real.

“Don’t worry,” Nicholas said, stepping beside them, his tone unusually serious. “This school is full of brilliant witches and wizards. They’ll figure it out.”

Euijoo turned to him, blinking at the calm certainty in his voice. Maki let out a slow breath, nodding again. Somehow, Nicholas made it sound like a fact. Like a spell already cast.
Everything would be okay.

Euijoo clung to that hope.

But it wasn’t okay. Not even close.

And nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw days later: Maki — his best friend, his almost-brother — lying stiff and cold on the floor. His eyes wide, filled with fear and frozen in place, and yet… empty. As if his soul had paused mid-thought.

Euijoo’s world cracked in half.

The pain was unbearable. He could barely breathe as he knelt beside Maki’s body, his throat tight, his chest caving inward. No one could touch him, talk to him, or pull him away.
Afterward, Euijoo stopped going to the Quidditch pitch. He skipped the try-outs. The dream that had once lit him up now felt distant — pointless.

Every evening, he sat beside Maki in the Hospital Wing, his books spread across the table, pretending to study. Pretending not to be waiting.

But really, he was waiting for nothing.

Just silence. Just stillness. Just hoping.

***

It had been nearly a week since Maki was petrified.

The castle felt colder now. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere — every whisper echoed too loud, every shadow stretched too far. Students kept their heads down, rushing to classes in tight groups, flinching at creaks and flickers of torchlight. No one smiled anymore. Not really.

Euijoo had barely spoken to anyone. His shoulders were always tense, his face pale and drawn. He ate little. Slept even less. Most nights, he ended up back in the Hospital Wing, fingers curled tightly around his books, pretending he was just keeping Maki company. But the truth was heavier: he was scared to be anywhere else.

So when Nicholas found him, alone in the Astronomy Tower, wind tousling his hair, staring out across the pitch-black grounds, he approached quietly.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Nicholas said, voice low, almost casual.

Euijoo didn’t move. “I know.”

They stood like that for a moment — one still, one unsure.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Nicholas asked, stepping closer, leaning on the stone railing beside him.

Euijoo shook his head. His voice came out hoarse, worn thin from the week’s silence. “Not really been doing much of that lately.”

Nicholas glanced at him. “Me neither.”

More silence. The wind howled past the tower, rattling the edges of their robes.
Euijoo’s fingers tapped against the stone. He didn’t look at Nicholas when he said it — not directly.

“You ever think about how… it could be anyone?”

Nicholas frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The heir,” Euijoo said quietly. “Of Slytherin.”

There it was — the crack in the ice.

Nicholas tensed just slightly. “Right…”

Euijoo still wasn’t looking at him. “I mean, no one knows who it is. They just keep attacking muggleborns, and—” He paused, then added, more softly, “Maki was one of them.”

“I know,” Nicholas said, his voice tight.

“And the messages…” Euijoo continued, each word trembling more than the last. “They say the heir’s from Slytherin. That it has to be someone in your house.”

There was another pause. This one longer. Thicker.

Nicholas slowly straightened. “You think it’s me.”

Euijoo’s eyes flicked toward him — guilty, caught, and afraid all at once. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Nicholas’s voice had gone sharp now, precise, each word a blade. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d—what, petrify your best friend for fun?”

“No—Nicholas, I—I didn’t mean it like that—”

“But you did.” Nicholas laughed, coldly. “You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m afraid of everything right now!” Euijoo snapped, the emotion cracking through. His voice trembled. “I’m afraid of losing more people. I’m afraid it’s someone close. I don’t know who to trust anymore, Nicholas! Everyone’s pointing fingers, and I—”

His breath caught, eyes wide now. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

Nicholas took a slow step back. “But you did.”

The space between them stretched, unfamiliar now.

“I trusted you,” Nicholas said, quieter. “I let you in. I thought—I thought ….”

Nicholas voice died in his throat, quickly turning his gaze, somewhere else but Euijoo's face.

“I’m not thinking straight, and Maki, he—" Euijoo murmured, looking desperate to justify himself, "he’s not even breathing, and I sit next to him every night pretending like he’ll wake up and tell me to shut up, and—”

His voice broke entirely. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping it tight, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Nicholas didn’t speak. His jaw was clenched, his eyes shining with something that wasn’t quite anger — not anymore. Maybe disappointment. Maybe hurt.

But he turned, slowly.

“Get some sleep,” he said, not looking back.

And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the stone stairwell, leaving Euijoo alone under the stars.

The wind howled again, colder this time.

Euijoo stood there for a long time, too long — and for the first time in weeks, he cried for something other than fear.

Chapter Text

You always end up getting used to it — the loneliness, the disappointments. They stop stinging after a while, dulling into the quiet, heavy sort of ache that feels almost normal. Days passed like that for Euijoo, slow and grey, until the world finally tilted back into color the morning Professor McGonagall delivered the news. Good news.

Maki had woken up.

Euijoo barely heard the rest. His legs moved before his mind could catch up, bolting through the stone corridors and bursting into the Hospital Wing. His heart hammered against his ribs, so loud it drowned out every other sound.
And there he was. Sitting up, pale and blinking against the soft daylight streaming through the tall windows. Alive.

"Maki!" Euijoo's voice cracked as he all but launched himself at his friend, arms wrapping tight around him in a desperate, relieved hug.

"Careful, dear!" Madam Pomfrey scolded sharply from her desk, eyeing them over her spectacles. "He's still recovering, mind you."

Euijoo pulled back, sheepish but grinning so wide it almost hurt. “Right. Sorry.”

Maki's voice was groggy when he finally spoke, rough from weeks of silence, but still undeniably his. "What’d I miss?"

His brow furrowed in that familiar way, eyes bright despite the dark circles beneath them. That look — that spark — told Euijoo everything he needed to know. He was still there. Still Maki.

Euijoo dropped into the chair beside him, trying to play it cool, but his fingers drummed restlessly against the armrest, buzzing with leftover panic and relief.

“Eh, nothing much,” Euijoo said, forcing a light tone, “boring classes, a lot of students freaking out — same old Hogwarts.”

Maki stretched, wincing as his muscles protested, stiff and unused. His face scrunched for a moment, then he let out a soft, tired chuckle. “I feel like shit.”

Euijoo huffed a laugh, the tension finally slipping from his chest as the two of them sat there, smiling like fools, like the world hadn’t just come undone and stitched itself back together. For the first time in weeks, it felt like everything might actually be okay.

The warmth of the moment settled between them like the last glow of a dying sunset. For a little while, they just sat there — Maki half-propped on pillows, Euijoo perched on the edge of his chair, the easy quiet filling up the space that had been hollow for too long.

But then Maki tilted his head, eyes still sharp despite the lingering haze of recovery.

“Hey,” he mumbled, voice lower now, a little more serious. “Where’s Nicholas?”

The question hit Euijoo like cold water. His stomach clenched, and for a second, he couldn’t find his voice. The name hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

He forced a shrug, trying to smooth out the stiffness in his throat. “Dunno,” he lied, gaze flicking away toward the hospital wing windows. “Haven’t seen him much.”

Maki didn’t press — maybe too tired, maybe too grateful to be awake — but Euijoo felt the lie burn all the same. That bitter twist of guilt had been crawling up his chest for days now, ever since that night in the Astronomy Tower when fear had gotten the better of him. The way he’d looked at Nicholas, the words he hadn’t meant to say, had hung there between them like frost on glass.

The heir of Slytherin.

He hadn't said the words directly, but his silence had. The suspicion. The distance. And Nicholas had understood it, clear as day.

Ever since, Nicholas had been... gone. Not literally, of course — Euijoo caught glimpses of him in the halls, lounging against the stone walls surrounded by his usual Slytherin crowd, that polished smirk firmly in place. But the moment Euijoo got too close, the wall of voices and bodies around Nicholas would thicken. His so-called "friends" — sharp-eyed boys with pressed robes and mouths full of clever cruelty — would swallow him whole, as if Euijoo had never belonged there in the first place.

Every time Euijoo worked up the nerve to walk over, to call his name, to say I’m sorry, the gap between them only stretched wider. Nicholas never looked at him. Not once.

So it was just the two of them again, as it should have been.

Maki and Euijoo slipped back into old rhythms — lazy afternoons at the library (Maki half-studying, Euijoo half-napping), quiet evenings at the Common Room playing wizard chess with pieces that argued louder than either of them. And Euijoo laughed, he did, but the laughs always felt slightly out of sync. Like a song played on the wrong key.
The weight of it all — the almost-friendship that now sat cracked and unsaid — followed him like a shadow.
And more than once, as he watched the Slytherin table during meals, eyes searching for Nicholas' sharp profile in the crowd, Euijoo wondered if he’d already lost him for good.

***

The corridor was half-empty, only the faint echoes of shoes tapping against stone breaking the silence as Maki and Euijoo made their way toward their next class. The castle’s cold draft curled around them, making Euijoo pull his cloak tighter, his thoughts adrift somewhere between yesterday’s unfinished homework and the dull weight still pressing at his chest.

Then, without warning, two boys swept past them, brushing hard against their shoulders, shoving them aside as though they were nothing but furniture in the hallway. The careless force of it sent Euijoo stumbling a step back, his arm brushing against the wall. The sharp edge of irritation cut through the fog of his thoughts.

“Watch it,” Euijoo muttered, under his breath but loud enough.

The pair halted.

One of them — tall, sharp-featured, his expression painted with casual arrogance — slowly turned on his heels, eyebrow raised in deliberate offense. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Excuse us?” he repeated, voice dripping with mock politeness, though the threat beneath it was clear as glass.

Euijoo’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. He didn’t need to look twice to recognize the broad shoulders, the perfectly knotted Slytherin tie, and the voice laced with that biting charm. It was one of Nicholas’ friends — the kind who always hovered around him like vultures, the kind that never spoke unless it was to sharpen their words into knives.
And standing right behind him, hands tucked into his robe pockets, was Nicholas.

His gaze met Euijoo’s, cold and sharp, but there was something else flickering at the edges — something tired, something wounded, buried too deep for anyone else to see.

The moment stretched, thin and brittle.

Euijoo swallowed hard, the words tangling in his throat. He hadn’t meant to — not really — but he had accused Nicholas, doubted him, let the fear and the whispers convince him that his friend might be capable of something awful.

“Nicholas,” he said quietly, the name feeling heavier than it should. His voice wavered, but he pushed through. “I... I shouldn’t have — I was wrong.”

For a moment, Nicholas just stared at him, as if measuring the weight of the apology. His friend was already snickering under his breath, like it was all some joke. But Nicholas didn’t laugh. His eyes flicked from Euijoo to Maki, and back again.

He tilted his head slightly, his mouth quirking up — not quite a smile, not quite forgiveness, just something caught halfway between.

“Yeah,” he said softly, almost too soft for the others to hear. “You were.”

"I'm sorry" Euijoo quickly said, causing Nicholas' harsh expression to flatter. He could hear Nicholas' friend smirk, he could feel the way he was staring at them as if they were something useless, worthless. But then Nicholas spoke, making his friend's smile to flatter as well.

"I know you are," Nicholas said, voice softer than before, as if he had just been waiting for Euijoo to admit it.

Euijoo stood there, the words lingering in the air between them, heavier than he thought an apology could ever feel. Nicholas' voice had softened, but his eyes still held that quiet distance — like a window cracked open, but not wide enough to step through.

For a heartbeat, none of them moved. The corridor stretched around them, cold drafts sneaking through the stone walls, muffled voices of other students brushing past like waves against a shore.

Nicholas’ friend shifted beside him, clearly uncomfortable now that the sharpness had been dulled. The smirk he’d worn like armor was gone, replaced by a flicker of confusion, maybe even awkwardness, as if the script had suddenly changed and he hadn’t been told.

Nicholas lowered his gaze for a second, his hands still tucked loosely into his pockets. “I figured you’d come around,” he added, quieter still — not a boast, not a scolding, just a simple truth. “You always do.”

And before Euijoo could say anything else, before he could ask for forgiveness properly, Nicholas turned, walking away, his friend trailing behind without another word.

Euijoo stayed frozen, feeling Maki’s hand brush his sleeve.

“You okay?” Maki asked, watching Nicholas disappear around the corner.

Euijoo nodded, though the knot in his throat said otherwise. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

But the truth hung there, unspoken — guilt still rooted deep, even after the apology. He wondered if Nicholas had really forgiven him, or if some things, once cracked, never fully pieced back the same way.

“Come on,” Maki said, nudging him lightly, “Let's go before someone takes our spot.”

And as they walked, Euijoo glanced over his shoulder once, half-hoping to see Nicholas looking back.

But the hallway was empty.

Chapter Text

It didn’t happen all at once.

Nicholas didn’t just show up one morning at breakfast or slip into the seat beside them in class like nothing had ever cracked between them. No — it was quieter than that, slower, like the way winter melts into spring, so gradual you almost don’t notice until the air feels lighter.

At first, it was small things.

A passing comment from Nicholas when they crossed paths in the corridor — not sharp, not distant, just casual. Then it was him lingering a little longer outside the library when Maki and Euijoo were there, flipping through pages for some dull essay neither of them wanted to write.
Maki, sharp-eyed as always, noticed it before Euijoo dared to believe it.

“You realize he’s hanging around more,” Maki mumbled one afternoon, his voice low as he folded a paper crane at the edge of their table. “Nicholas.”

Euijoo had looked up from his textbook, trying not to let the flicker of hope show too plainly. “Yeah,” he said, brushing it off with a shrug, but inside, his chest felt lighter. As if something that had been knotted tight was finally loosening.

And then came the day Nicholas sat down beside them without a word.

It was on the courtyard steps, the sun stubbornly clinging to the last edge of the afternoon sky. Maki had been complaining about an upcoming Herbology quiz, his hands waving around like usual, while Euijoo listened — or at least tried to. And then Nicholas had dropped into the space beside him, stretching his legs out like it was the most normal thing in the world.

No one said anything about it, not at first.

Maki had glanced at Euijoo once, eyebrows raised, but didn’t push it. Euijoo didn’t question it either. He just let it happen.

Because some things didn’t need to be talked about. Forgiveness didn’t always arrive wrapped in perfect words. Sometimes it came in the silence between old friends sitting shoulder to shoulder, in shared glances during class, or in the quiet way Nicholas started joining them in the library again.

And Euijoo accepted it — no questions, no hesitation.

He held onto it like a thread pulling him back to something steady, something safe, and for the first time in weeks, the world didn’t feel as heavy on his shoulders. Maki laughed more, Nicholas’ sharp wit returned, and Euijoo, though he still carried the guilt in small places, let himself be pulled back into that easy orbit they’d once shared.
It wasn’t perfect — but it was enough.

***

It had been a few weeks since things had settled into something close to normal again. The castle felt less tense, the whispers about the Chamber had quieted, and Euijoo found himself breathing easier. Maki was back, his usual self — and Nicholas, though the road back had been silent and unspoken, had returned too, slipping back into their little world like he'd never left.

That afternoon, the three of them had squeezed into one of the library’s quieter corners, books and scraps of parchment spread across the table. Maki was deep into folding another one of his paper cranes, while Euijoo focused on scribbling a birthday card for his dad — the kind of handmade thing his mother insisted on, no matter how old he got.

Nicholas reached casually for a green pen, uncapping it with a soft click.

“Nicholas!” Euijoo hissed, eyes narrowing. “No green!”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oh, come on. Your dad’s not going to guess we’re hanging out just because I used green ink on a card.”

Euijoo wasn’t so sure. He eyed the growing, suspiciously Slytherin-looking snake border that Nicholas had already sketched around the edges of the parchment. Subtle was not Nicholas’ strong suit.

But before the argument could stretch into something more, Madam Pince’s sharp voice cut through the aisle like a whip.

“Out — all three of you! This is a library, not the Great Hall!”

They scrambled to gather their things, snickering under their breath as they hurried out, guiltless and light-footed. The sun had started dipping behind the towers when they found themselves on the third-floor staircase, and, without a second thought, they dumped their bags against the cold stone and started sliding down the bannisters.

The castle echoed with the sound of their laughter, bouncing off the old walls, filling spaces that had felt too heavy for too long. For a moment, Euijoo let the card and the world and all his worries drift away, carried off in the same breathless wind that rushed past them as they slid down.

Later, when the sun was gone and the castle was quieter, Euijoo sat cross-legged on his bed, the half-finished birthday card resting on his lap. He picked up the pen, glancing at the faint snake border Nicholas had left behind — and instead of tearing the page, or starting over, he simply smiled.

Chapter Text

Summers weren’t the same now that Euijoo was at Hogwarts. The long, easy months of vanishing away for the whole season — off to the coast, or wandering across the countryside with his parents — had quietly slipped into something smaller, something more ordinary. There was always unpacking now, trunks that barely got settled before it was time to fill them up again, and truthfully, Euijoo didn’t mind. He liked being home. He liked the slow rhythm of Godric’s Hollow, the way the house smelled of old books and sun-warmed wood, and how his room — worn and familiar — never seemed to change, no matter how much he did.

Most summers were broken up by small things: a week at the seaside, where the days were all salt-sprayed hair and sandy shoes; endless afternoons spent in Maki’s garden while his parents nattered away over tea; evenings where Joon and his sharp-tongued, easygoing aunt would swing by, his laugh filling the house as if he belonged there. Sometimes Maki would even come to stay for a stretch, filling the spare room with his things like a second brother.

Still, there was always that quiet, nagging wish — the one Euijoo never voiced — that Nicholas could come too. It wasn’t as though he’d ever asked, or expected it, but he imagined it sometimes, the three of them sprawled out on his bedroom floor, cards and Chocolate Frog wrappers scattered everywhere. But two summers ago, Euijoo had made the quiet, unspoken decision to keep his and Nicholas’s friendship tucked away, a little half-secret. It was easier that way. Safer, maybe. He wasn’t sure what his parents would say, and honestly, he didn’t want to find out.

When his parents went out, it usually meant one of two things: either Euijoo would be dropped off at Maki’s house, which always felt more like visiting cousins than friends, or Joon would turn up at the doorstep, ruffled as always, with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“I’m not as good at appearances as your mum and dad,” Joon would say, tugging playfully at Euijoo’s hair or tweaking his nose, like he’d been doing since Euijoo was little. He always let Euijoo stay up later than he should, and if the night stretched long and the air was clear, sometimes he’d even take him for a spin on his motorbike — the hum of the engine, the stars overhead, the quiet thrill of feeling like the world was just theirs for a moment.

But about a week before third year was due to begin, his mum surprised him.

“You can come with us tonight if you like, Euijoo,” she said, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve as she passed by his bedroom door. “There’ll be other children there, I think. Yunah Roh, Takayama Riki at least.”

Euijoo glanced up from the mess of books and folded letters scattered on his desk. “All right,” he said without thinking twice. He liked the nights when his parents took him along, even if it meant enduring the itchy stiffness of dress robes and the eternal battle of trying to tame his hair into something presentable.
Later, in front of the mirror, he made a horrified face at his own reflection as his mum fought the war of comb versus curls, and across the room his dad chuckled, buttoning the high collar of his own formal achkan.

“Why don’t I get to wear achkan like Dad?” Euijoo complained, tugging at the stiff sleeves of his robes. “They’re cooler than these stupid robes. I want the bits of gold—”

“You’re just not as cool as me, champ,” his dad teased, winking at him through the mirror.

His mum gave his dad a look, the kind she always used when she thought both her boys were being ridiculous. “We had to buy you dress robes for Hogwarts anyway,” she reminded Euijoo, smoothing down the collar for the third time. “And you don’t need two sets of formal clothes. Just hold still, I think I can get it to sit flat—”

“Mum,” Euijoo whined, voice stretched into a dramatic wail, but the battle was already lost. At last, after much adjusting and a last-minute polish to his shoes, they stepped out the door and climbed into the carriage, the night air cool and crisp against his face as they rode to the Ministry’s annual summer ball.
The ballroom was every bit as glittering and grand as Euijoo remembered from the year before — soft golden lights swimming across polished floors, fairies hovering like floating stars beneath the high arched ceiling, and a feast table so packed with sweets it looked like something out of a dream. His eyes went straight to it.

“One round with us, honey,” his mum said, slipping her hand into his, “and then you can hide under the table and eat as much as you like.”

That was more than a fair deal, so Euijoo let her steer him through the sea of adults, accepting the usual head-pats and polite, slightly awkward small talk. He caught sight of Yunah across the room and gave her a small, shy wave; she lifted her chin in return, looking as polished as ever. And there, a little further off, was Taki — standing stiffly in place while his grandmother kept an iron-clad hold on his wrist. The look on his face, all trapped frustration, was so painfully familiar that Euijoo couldn’t help but grin.

There were other Hogwarts faces dotted around too, a quiet promise of company once the grown-ups were distracted enough to let them wander. The night stretched ahead, glitzy and strange, and Euijoo let the sound of clinking glasses and the faint hum of music wrap around him, knowing that soon enough, the real fun would begin.

Just as Euijoo was craning his neck to get a better look at a massive floating fountain — an impossible, glistening swirl of what looked suspiciously like ice cream, glittering under the fairy-lit ceiling — he felt his father’s hand close firmly around his own. The grip was tighter than usual, almost stiff, and when his dad spoke, his voice was colder, sharper, edged with something Euijoo had never quite heard before.

“Wang.”

Startled, Euijoo blinked and tore his gaze away from the fountain, following his father’s line of sight. Standing right in front of them, dressed impeccably in dark, high-collared robes that fit him like he’d stepped straight from a formal portrait, was Nicholas. His parents stood on either side of him, tall and severe, like sentries.

Euijoo’s stomach gave a small, uncomfortable flip.

“Byun,” his dad added, voice still flat and clipped.

For a second, Nicholas looked perfectly composed, his expression smooth and unreadable — but then his eyes flicked to Euijoo’s, and he waggled his eyebrows in exaggerated, mischievous arches. The corner of Euijoo’s mouth twitched, barely stopping himself from snorting. Both boys widened their eyes at one another, the silent message clear as day: Shhhhh.

“How funny to see you here,” Euijoo's mum said, her voice smooth and polite but cool, the same careful tone she used around Euijoo’s aunt, the one no one really talked about much. “I didn’t think this was your sort of scene.”

Nicholas’ father let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “No, Muggle-loving do-gooders aren’t, usually. But the Minister extended a personal invitation. You know how these things are.”

As he spoke, Nicholas’ eyes darted toward the far corner of the ballroom, then snapped back to Euijoo, flicking subtly in silent suggestion: Later. Euijoo straightened his shoulders in response, throwing a practiced, mildly defiant face back at his parents. His chest felt tight, like his dress robes had shrunk a size.
Nicholas let out an exaggerated, heavy sigh — too loud, too pointed — and both sets of parents shifted their attention back to him.

“Euijoo Byun,” Nicholas’ father said next, dragging out his name with a slow, sneering emphasis. “You look just like your father.”

Euijoo blinked, caught off guard, and answered without thinking. “Most people do.”

His dad’s hand squeezed his, not painfully, but hard enough that Euijoo knew that reply had earned him a mental note.

Mrs. Wang tilted her head slightly, peering down at Euijoo. She was striking, with the kind of sharp, perfect beauty that didn’t seem real, like she’d been carved out of frost and glass. Beautiful — but cold, and not the warm, soft kind of beautiful Euijoo associated with his own mum. As he stared, he noticed her mouth twitch, the faintest curve pulling at the corner, so small it might not even have been a smile.

Nicholas’ father hadn’t moved. His voice curled with disdain. “How very clever,” he sneered. “I see you’re just like both your parents — never know when to shut your—”

“Euijoo,” his mother interrupted lightly but firmly, “why don’t you go find Takayama Riki? He’s about somewhere.”

Euijoo didn’t argue. “All right,” he said quickly, ducking out from beneath his parents’ lingering glances. As he moved, he could still hear Mr. Wang’s voice trailing behind him, low and sharp as ever.

But Euijoo didn’t go find Taki.

Instead, he snatched the nearest silver dish — a ridiculously tall one piled high with pudding — and darted for the wide, sweeping staircase at the edge of the ballroom. He climbed fast, two steps at a time, until he reached the iron-laced balcony overhead, where he dropped to the floor and slid his legs through the ornate railing, letting them dangle freely over the grand room below. From there, the clatter of glasses and music felt distant and safe.

A little while later, Nicholas showed up, his dark robes slightly rumpled, and flopped down next to him without a word. He dropped an enormous golden tray of chocolates onto the floor between them. Euijoo pushed the dish of pudding toward him, and they swapped — no words needed — and ate side by side in a silence that felt easy and familiar.

It was Euijoo who spoke first, his voice thoughtful, like he was still puzzling out the thought as it left his mouth.

“Your dad’s very mean.”

Nicholas paused, a piece of chocolate half-raised to his mouth. His brow furrowed, and he looked at Euijoo, puzzled. “What d’you mean?”

Euijoo shrugged, poking at the pudding with his spoon. “I dunno. He’s... kind of scary.”

At that, Nicholas straightened a little, his chest puffing up ever so slightly, and he said with mock grandeur, “Yes, well. I expect so. We’re Wangs, you know—”

Euijoo snorted. “You’re not scary. You’re just a big wet blanket.”

Nicholas made a wounded noise. “I’ll kill you, Byun,” he announced dramatically, launching himself sideways in an ungraceful tackle. The chocolates scattered across the floor as the two of them wrestled, laughing too hard to put up much of a real fight, until they collapsed in a heap, breathless and red-faced, their hair sticking up in wild directions.

Lying back against the cool marble of the balcony floor, Euijoo tilted his head toward Nicholas.

“I don’t think my parents like yours very much.”

Nicholas was quiet for a beat, his expression flickering with something that wasn’t quite surprise. “Um,” he mumbled. “Well. We knew that.”

“Yeah,” Euijoo said softly, exhaling a long sigh. He let his gaze drift across the glittering expanse of the ballroom below. “Pity you can’t come to my birthday party this week, that’s all.”

Nicholas didn’t miss a beat. “Pity you couldn’t come to mine,” he shot back. “It was brilliant. I had hundreds of presents, and we all got to ride on a dragon.”

Euijoo turned his head, unimpressed. “You did not.”

“We did!”

“You didn’t,” Euijoo said firmly, grinning now. “Yuma wrote me, remember? Said it was just a balloon shaped like a dragon, and it couldn’t even get that high off the ground. Like a kid’s toy.”

He didn’t add the rest, though it lingered on the tip of his tongue — the part where Yuma had written that the whole thing had been amazing anyway, that the food had been better than any Hogwarts feast, that the guests had stayed up all night exploring the Manor, sneaking through its endless halls on midnight raids and daring each other into the kitchens. He’d lain awake until morning, stomach twisting with jealousy so fierce it made him ache.

“There was another dragon,” Nicholas said, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the cool iron of the balcony rail. His voice was as offhand as he could make it, but there was a little too much smugness tucked under the words. “After Yuma went home.”

Euijoo snorted, half-laughing through a mouthful of pudding. “Sure, Wang. Whatever you say.”

Nicholas scowled, cheeks flushing slightly. “It was cooler than your dumb party’s going to be, anyway,” he grumbled, snatching the pudding dish back with a sulky clatter of silver against porcelain.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft buzz of music from below and the occasional clink of their borrowed sweets. Then Nicholas spoke again, quieter this time, eyes fixed somewhere out over the crowd.

“Thanks for the present, though.”

Euijoo glanced sideways at him, his face going a little warm. “It’s all right,” he mumbled.

He had saved for weeks — every spare Knut tucked away, every trip to Honeydukes skipped — because he knew perfectly well his parents wouldn’t buy a gift for Nicholas Wang, not without an awkward conversation he wasn’t ready to have. He’d done it himself, tracked down the little two-way mirror set so that no matter which tower they were in, they could talk like they were still side by side. The note he’d written to go with it had been scrawled and smudged and self-conscious, and he’d nearly thrown it out twice before stuffing it into the envelope.

“I’ve got you something too,” Nicholas said after a moment, sitting up straighter. “But I’ll bring it to Hogwarts. Your birthday’s too close to term starting. Bit annoying, really.”

“That’s okay,” Euijoo said, and meant it.

Nicholas stretched his arms over his head, the confidence rolling back into his voice like he was slipping on a favorite jacket. “It’s really good, though. You’re lucky you’ve got me as a friend.”

Euijoo gave him a sidelong look, the kind that only two years of knowing someone well could sharpen. “All right, Nicholas,” he said, drawing the words out, fond but exasperated.

Down below, the orchestra finally struck up in full, the music unfurling through the great, gold-draped ballroom like a ripple of magic. Euijoo leaned forward, chin resting on his knees, and watched as the floor came to life. Robes fanned and twirled, swirling like petals on the polished marble. His mum spun past in his dad’s arms, her coppery hair flaring behind her like a bright silk ribbon. She was laughing, head thrown back, and for a moment Euijoo had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning too wide.
Beside him, Nicholas had gone quiet, watching too — his sharp little face softer, eyes bright.

“Cool, isn’t it?” he said under his breath. “I can’t wait till we can do that.”

Euijoo wrinkled his nose, not entirely convinced. The idea of being out there, under all those bright lights, spinning around in front of everyone, made his stomach flip.

“Oh, come on,” Nicholas said, bouncing to his feet and wiping his pudding-smeared hands on the front of his dress robes. “Me and Minju have lessons, I’ll show you.”

Euijoo hesitated, but Nicholas was already reaching for him, bossily grabbing Euijoo’s hand and tugging him up. Nicholas planted one of Euijoo’s hands on his shoulder and placed his own, slightly sticky palm on Euijoo’s waist. Their other hands clasped in the air, overly formal, like they’d seen adults do.

The first few steps were clumsy and stiff, the two of them fumbling around the little curve of the balcony like wind-up toys with mismatched gears, bumping into each other’s toes and snorting with laughter.

“Step-step-step-step—watch it, Byun! That’s the third time you’ve stomped on me,” Nicholas scolded, mock-affronted, and without warning, he spun Euijoo under his arm.

The twirl nearly sent their foreheads crashing together, Euijoo being taller and Nicholas being, as usual, an overconfident idiot. But even as they fumbled, the music and the motion carried them along, and Euijoo found himself laughing until his sides ached.

“You’re actually kind of good at this,” Euijoo admitted, breathless and slightly surprised.

Nicholas practically preened at the praise, standing up a little straighter — or as straight as he could, given Euijoo still had a couple of inches on him.

“Obviously,” Nicholas said, then started humming along loudly to the music, steering them around the balcony like he owned the place.

A sudden burst of bright white light made Euijoo stumble mid-step, blinking against the afterimage. When the spots cleared from his eyes, a sharp, trilling voice cut through the music.

“Well, isn’t this just darling.”

Standing before them, all curls and lacquered nails and a too-wide smile, was a woman Euijoo didn’t recognize — but the name clicked the second she said it.

“Hello, boys. Rita Skeeter. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

Nicholas, never one to miss an opening, tilted his head and said, almost sweetly, “My mother says you write absolute rubbish. But my father reads your column secretly. In the loo.”

Rita’s painted smile twitched at the edges, her bright eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Ms. Wang always did think rather highly of herself,” she said, her voice sugary and sharp all at once. “No matter. A Wang and a Byun, hmm? How terribly unexpected. Tell me — how did you two become such charming little friends? Hogwarts, I assume? Different houses, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Nicholas answered grandly, seizing the moment with the self-importance of a politician. And then, as if a switch had flipped, he launched into an elaborate, ridiculous tale about a fire and a daring rescue, and all their shared “adventures” that grew taller and wilder with every sentence.

Euijoo leaned against his shoulder, half-listening, half-trying not to yawn as Nicholas basked in the attention.

When at last Rita Skeeter swept away, Nicholas looked utterly pleased with himself.

“Bout time someone noticed the next Wang generation,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. “Mother always says not to talk to the press, but honestly — I can hardly be blamed for that.”

Euijoo was grounded for a week.

The punishment didn’t exactly put his parents in a better mood, especially when the Hogwarts Express pulled into the station and Nicholas bounded toward him, cheeks pink with excitement, practically vibrating as he thrust Euijoo’s birthday present into his hands.

The Firebolt gleamed, even through the wrapping.

And it was worth it. Every single second.

Chapter Text

Care of Magical Creatures had begun sneaking up on Euijoo as one of his favorite subjects — not that he’d ever admit it out loud. Not to Maki, especially. According to Maki, it was a girl’s subject, all soft hearts and silly creatures. But no matter how hard Euijoo tried to tell himself he didn’t care, he couldn’t stop the way his face warmed, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, every time the Care Creature's Professor called his name for attendance.

It was foolish, he knew that. And still, he found himself looking forward to it more than anything else on the timetable. Better than Transfiguration, which always made his head ache from trying to picture something into being that just wouldn’t take shape. Far better than Divination, which was a nightmare all its own — dark, stuffy rooms, clouds of incense that made him sneeze, and predictions so ominous they left his skin prickling with unease. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever passed an exam in that class. Probably not. Definitely not.

The late afternoon sun hung low and warm over the sprawling lawn just beyond the creature paddocks, the air soft with the scent of grass and the distant sounds of magical beasts settling in for the evening. Maki sat slouched against the thick trunk of an old ash tree, legs stretched out, a well-thumbed book propped on his knees. Beside him, Nicholas lounged lazily, idly flicking a golden Snitch into the air and catching it again, over and over, just to irritate Maki as it fluttered past the pages of his book.

Euijoo dropped onto the grass beside them with a heavy sigh, flopping backward and throwing an arm across his face.

“Each year’s harder,” he sighed, voice muffled and dramatic.

Maki didn’t even look up, turning a page with the barest flick of his finger.

Nicholas snorted without sympathy, his sharp, lizard-like eyes glinting as he turned his head lazily toward Euijoo. “Well, no shit,” he drawled. “That’s the bloody point, genius.”

Euijoo groaned and rolled onto his side, swiping the Snitch from Nicholas' hand in a single smooth motion. For a second, there was silence — and then Nicholas lunged, knocking into him as they both wrestled for it, hands scrambling and laughter bubbling out of them in fits and starts. The little golden Snitch zipped away for a brief moment, wings buzzing furiously, before Euijoo caught it again and the two of them finally surrendered, flopping onto their backs, breathless and flushed from the scuffle.

Maki flipped another page, unbothered by the chaos, his voice cutting through the quiet in that calm, matter-of-fact way of his. “Did you know Rousseau had a thing for his step-mother?”

There was a pause as Euijoo and Nicholas both turned to stare at him, matching expressions of disbelief and mild disgust twisting their faces. They exchanged a glance, the corners of their mouths twitching.

“What are you even reading?” Euijoo asked, curiosity tugging his gaze downward to the open book balanced on Maki’s lap. The title on the worn cover read: Things You Didn’t Know About the Greatest Thinkers.

Euijoo let out a soft scoff and shook his head. Another one of those strange, thoughtful little gifts from Maki’s mum — the kind of muggle books she always brought home after late shifts at the museum, her clothes still smelling of dust and old paper.

Nicholas yawned then, long and exaggerated, stretching his arms above his head until his back popped, and then flopped onto the sun-warmed grass, folding his hands behind his head. The bright blue sky stretched wide overhead, dotted with lazy clouds drifting past like ships on a slow, endless voyage.

Euijoo slid down beside him, the soft press of the earth beneath him easing away the last of his complaints, and for a long, easy moment the three of them said nothing at all. They simply lay there in the sun, heads tipped back, eyes tracing cloud shapes in the endless sky.

The late afternoon stretched on, heavy with golden light, the kind that made everything feel softer, slower, like the world had exhaled and settled into its bones. The breeze stirred the tall grass, carrying with it the low hum of distant chatter from other students lingering by the paddocks, and the occasional sharp cry of some restless magical creature being coaxed back into its pen.

Nicholas lay sprawled out, hands pillowing his head, eyes fixed on the sky like he was trying to pin down a thought that kept floating away with the clouds.

“Have you guys noticed Nora?” he said suddenly, voice light but edged with something curious, almost uncertain.

Maki glanced up from his book, arching a brow. The worn spine of Things You Didn’t Know About the Greatest Thinkers rested against his knee as his fingers idly kept his place. Euijoo, on the other hand, didn’t even open his eyes, the sun warming his face, his arms folded behind his head.

“Yeah, what about her?” he asked lazily, voice half-lost to the breeze.

Nicholas gave a little shrug, still watching the clouds drift overhead like pale ships in an endless sea. “She’s changed.”

That pulled Maki’s attention fully, the corner of his mouth curling up as he closed his book with a soft thump and rested it on his chest. His dark eyes gleamed with quiet mischief.

“Right,” Maki said, stretching out the word like he was savoring it. “Not just changed, though, yeah mate?”

Nicholas tilted his head slightly, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks even as he tried to look casual.

“She’s gotten prettier over the summer,” Maki finished, his smirk sharpening.

“Oh,” Euijoo murmured, the thought slotting into place like a puzzle piece. He kept his eyes closed, but his mind wandered further, away from Nora and the conversation spinning around her. He couldn't even picture her face without trying hard.

“Yeah, that,” Nicholas added, pushing himself upright, brushing stray blades of grass from his sleeves as if the admission had left a weight on his shoulders.

Maki sat up too, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still glinting with the thrill of teasing. “Don’t tell me you fancy her,” he said, voice bright and eager, as if the very idea amused him to no end.

Nicholas snorted, shaking his head, trying hard to look indifferent. “Fancy? Nah. Just think she’s good to look at, you know?”

Maki raised his brows, and then started laughing. Nicholas joined, nudging each other, the sound light and easy. But Euijoo didn’t laugh. He lay still, the conversation rolling past him like water around a stone. His thoughts had wandered far from the field and Nora’s summer makeover, settling instead into quieter, murkier corners he couldn’t quite name.
His fingers plucked absently at the grass, twisting a blade between his thumb and forefinger, the breeze ruffling his hair as if encouraging him to speak — but he didn’t.

The other two quieted, Nicholas tossing a small twig into the air and catching it, Maki flipping his book back open with a soft, absent hum. For a moment, it felt like the spell of summer was about to break.

But then Euijoo sat up, brushing the grass from his robes, and stretched his arms behind his head.

“Come on,” he said, standing and shading his eyes against the dipping sun. “If we don’t head back now, we’ll be late for dinner.”

Maki groaned and pushed himself upright with his usual, deliberate slowness, slipping the book back into his bag. Nicholas stood last, spinning the twig between his fingers, his thoughts still lingering on something unsaid.

They walked back toward the castle together, the long shadows of the towers stretching over the grass like silent sentries. The warmth of the sun lingered on Euijoo’s skin, but his chest felt a little cooler, a little heavier. Just before they reached the stone steps leading up to the courtyard, Nicholas nudged Euijoo with his shoulder.

“You ever think about that stuff?” he asked suddenly, eyes flicking sideways. “You know — girls. Dating.”

Euijoo didn’t answer at first, kicking a small stone along the path.

“Not really,” he said finally, voice light but a little too practiced. “It hasn't really crossed my mind.”

Nicholas gave him a look — sharp, knowing, but didn’t push it. “Oh, boring," he said, smirking lightly.

And the conversation drifted away again, carried off by the wind, just like the last of the summer sun sinking behind the castle walls.

Chapter Text

There was always something about Hogsmeade weekends that felt like freedom, even if it was carefully fenced in by rules, permission slips, and the looming shadow of whichever professor had drawn the short straw that afternoon. The air smelled different once you passed beyond the castle grounds — sharper, crisper, like the scent of woodsmoke mixed with the promise of mischief. The cobblestone paths were still damp from the morning frost, and the hills rolled away in soft folds, dotted with the dark silhouettes of bare trees and the occasional flash of distant owls wheeling overhead.
But it was never quite the same when Nicholas wasn’t with them. More often than not, he peeled away before they even reached the gate, pulled like clockwork into the orbit of his usual pack of Slytherin boys, sharp-tongued and sharp-eyed, always walking like they owned the place even if their feet barely left the ground. Sometimes, though, when the mood struck him — or maybe when his conscience caught up — he’d drift back toward Euijoo and Maki, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the old cocky swagger softened into something almost normal.

Euijoo never asked why, and Nicholas never offered. That was just how it worked.

“Can’t believe we still need a teacher following us around,” Maki muttered, scowling as they trudged down the winding path. His winter coat hung slightly crooked on his narrow frame, as if he’d rushed to pull it on after the last bell. “Like we’re still little kids.”

They almost couldn't make it because Maki's mother had forgotten to sign the papers, allowing Maki to visit Hogsmade, and now they were walking hurriedly through the Highlands.

“You keep forgetting we’re only thirteen,” Euijoo pointed out, adjusting his scarf against the cold as he matched Maki’s quick pace, both of them eager to make up for lost time.

“So what? We’re teens now,” Maki argued, his voice pitching higher with the kind of righteous indignation only a boy just past twelve could truly muster.

Euijoo let out a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes, but there was a softness to it. The sort of laugh you gave your oldest friend when you couldn’t quite admit they had a point.

They crested the hill, and the town of Hogsmeade stretched out below, a perfect picture of winter charm — crooked chimneys curling smoke into the pale sky, signs swinging gently in the wind, and shop windows glowing gold against the early dusk. Even from a distance, they could hear the faint jingle of shop bells, the low hum of chatter, and the occasional burst of laughter from older students already crowding into Honeydukes and Zonko’s.
For a moment, Maki slowed, and the sour mood slipped off his shoulders. His dark eyes flicked from the rooftops to the sloping streets below, and the corners of his mouth twitched up.

“Bet Nicholas is already in the back room at the Three Broomsticks,” he said, nudging Euijoo with his elbow. “Think he’s trying butterbeer for the first time?”

“Knowing him, he’ll say he drank firewhisky,” Euijoo replied dryly.

They walked the last stretch in companionable silence until the pebbled path turned to cobblestones, and their boots echoed softly between the rows of shops. As they passed by Gladrags and the old post office, a figure darted out from between two narrow alleys — black robes scuffed and wind-tossed hair sticking out at odd angles.

Nicholas.

He jogged to catch up, slightly out of breath, though he masked it with his usual slouch. Hands jammed into his pockets, he fell into step beside them, looking anywhere but at their faces.

“You ditched your lot?” Maki asked, eyebrows raised.

Nicholas shrugged, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Got bored.”

“Or you got tired of pretending to like them,” Euijoo said before he could stop himself.

Nicholas glanced at him, sharp-eyed, but for once didn’t rise to the bait. His smirk softened into something smaller, more genuine, and he gave a shrug that seemed to speak more than words.

They drifted toward Honeydukes, drawn by the pull of sugar like moths to a flame, and spent a solid hour elbow-deep in glass jars and paper bags, arguing over whether Exploding Bonbons or Acid Pops were the superior pick, pooling their knuts and sickles for a shared haul.

Later, as the sky began to purple at the edges and the streetlamps flickered to life, the three of them found themselves perched on the cold stone wall near the Shrieking Shack, trading sweets and watching the house sit hunched against the hills, dark and unmoving.

The wind picked up, rattling dry leaves along the ground, and for a moment none of them spoke.
Nicholas tossed a Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean into the air and caught it between his teeth, grimacing immediately.

“Soap,” he muttered.

Euijoo leaned back on his elbows, staring at the Shack’s crooked outline, his voice quiet but certain. “One day, we should go inside.”

Maki gave him a sharp look. “You’d be the first one to freak out.”

Euijoo grinned, eyes flicking toward the dark windows. “Maybe. But I’d still go.”

Nicholas chewed thoughtfully, the night settling in around them, and said softly, “We all would.”

And for once, not even Maki protested.

Chapter Text

The hills around Hogwarts had turned the color of old copper, soft and dull under the pale sweep of the autumn sun. The air smelled of brittle leaves and woodsmoke, and the sharp wind that came in off the lake was the kind that crept under collars and sleeves no matter how tightly you wrapped your scarf. The grounds were littered with leaves — some gold, some brown, and plenty still clinging to the last green of summer, stubborn and sour.
Euijoo always liked this part of the year best, usually. There was something steady about it. Predictable. But this autumn had felt different.

The exam period hung over the school like a damp curtain, and the castle had grown quieter, as if the stone walls themselves knew better than to disturb a stressed-out student. Library tables were crammed with parchment and ink bottles, and the fireplaces were always surrounded by muttering second-years trying to cram the basics of potion properties into their heads.

Euijoo had thought — assumed — that nothing about that part would change. That even if everything else kept shifting, some things would stay rooted. Like him, Maki, and Nicholas taking over the same old table in the library, heads bent low over books, whispering insults at each other instead of studying properly.

But this term, Nicholas hadn’t shown up.

Not once.

He’d drifted, instead, toward his other friends, Slytherins — the ones who lounged around the halls like they owned them, sneering at anyone too young or too soft. He’d started walking with them between classes too, hands shoved deep in his pockets, smirk sharpened like a blade. There was a new kind of swagger in his step, like he’d been practicing it in front of a mirror.

The worst part was that Nicholas didn’t even seem to notice.

Euijoo tried not to care. He and Maki still met up at the library like clockwork, still claimed their favorite corner table by the window where the dying sunlight always slanted across the pages like a warm hand. But there was a hollowness to it this time. The space across from him stayed empty.

“Don’t look like that,” Maki muttered one afternoon, flipping lazily through his notes while balancing a sugar quill between his teeth. “It’s just Nicholas. He’s always doing this.”

“Doing what?” Euijoo asked, sharper than he meant to.

Maki shrugged, the sugar quill bobbing slightly. “You know. Pulling away. Acting like he’s too cool. He’ll come crawling back when they get bored of him. Don't forget he's-”

"I know," Euijoo cut off before Maki could finish, voice distant.

That Saturday, with exams looming so close they could almost hear them breathing down their necks, Euijoo and Maki had snuck out to the orchard to study. The leaves there had turned to brittle paper, and the apples hung overripe, skin puckered and soft, some already fallen to the ground and rotting sweet into the grass. The sour scent still hung in the air, but now it was mixed with decay.

Maki sat against the base of a crooked tree, long legs stretched out in front of him, flicking through his Herbology guide as if he weren’t worried at all. Euijoo, sprawled on his stomach, was only half-reading his Care of Magical Creatures notes, more aware of the empty space beside them than the words on the page.

“Bet you he’s at The Three Broomsticks,” Maki said offhandedly, not looking up from his book. “With that ratpack of his, throwing pumpkin fizz around and pretending they know everything.”

Euijoo didn’t answer. He’d passed the pub earlier, heading back from the post office, and seen Nicholas through the window. Laughing. Elbows up on the sticky old table, his Slytherin tie loose and lopsided, surrounded by his new crowd.
Euijoo had stood there for a long moment, just watching. Nicholas hadn’t noticed him. Or maybe he had. Either way, he hadn’t waved.

The bitterness crept up slowly, like the cold did, settling somewhere behind Euijoo’s ribs.

When Maki noticed the silence, he looked over and tilted his head, studying him the same way he might study a puzzle he hadn’t solved yet.

“You’re too soft, you know,” Maki said quietly. “That’s why it stings.”

Euijoo turned the page in his book without looking up, pressing his thumb hard into the corner until the paper creased.

“Doesn’t sting,” he lied.

The sky was bruising darker, pulling its pale lavender edges into deep indigo, when Euijoo and Maki finally left the orchard. The chill had grown sharper, biting through the thin gaps between scarf and collar. They wandered down the hill, books under their arms, boots kicking stray pebbles and crumbling leaves along the path, minds already heavy with the looming exam schedule.

The two of them were cutting across the courtyard — cold wind curling off the stone — when the sound of sharp laughter caught Euijoo’s ears. He didn’t have to turn to know who it belonged to. Wang.

Sure enough, he and the usual Slytherin crew were sprawled across the steps leading to the castle entrance like they owned the place — Asakura Jo, Koga Yudai, and that smug, sharp-faced Nora Prince, her arms folded tight and a too-sweet smile curling at the edges of her mouth.

Euijoo slowed, stomach tightening. Maki squared his shoulders out of instinct, already bracing for the kind of encounter they’d had before.

“Well, look what the wind dragged in,” Jo's voice rang out as soon as they were close enough, mockery already dripping from every word. “If it isn’t Maki and the Gryffindor charity case.”

K snorted, sharp and mean. “Studying so hard won’t help if you don’t have the brains to start with, Byun.”

Maki felt the flush rise hot in his ears, but he kept his mouth shut, staring hard at the scuffed toes of his boots. Euijoo, ever more defiant, lifted his chin.

“Rather be a charity case than a snake’s tail,” Euijoo shot back, his eyes falling sharply on Nicholas, voice dry as a dead leaf.

The laughter that followed wasn’t friendly. Nicholas stood at the edge of the group, hands deep in his pockets, expression unreadable. For a moment, Euijoo thought — hoped — Nicholas would say something. Just one word. But he didn’t.

He looked away.

The cold bit harder than before as Euijoo and Maki walked past, silent. The warmth they’d built in the orchard, the ease of old friendship, drained out like water through a cracked jug.

It was hours later, the castle finally sunk into its deep, late-night hush, when Euijoo heard the soft tap of knuckles against the library window. He looked up from his half-finished notes, surprised to see Nicholas standing on the other side, hair tousled from the wind, tie half-loosened, and the usual arrogance gone from his face.

He slipped inside a few minutes later, after sneaking in through the side door, looking like he hadn’t quite figured out what to say.

“Hey,” Nicholas muttered, rocking on his heels. His voice didn’t have its usual sharp edge, just the bare bones of it, stripped down and plain.

Maki, slumped across from Euijoo with his face half-buried in his sleeve, didn’t look up. Euijoo didn’t either, letting the silence stretch long enough that it felt like a punishment.

Nicholas shifted again, then finally sat down — not in his usual sprawl, but stiff, like a boy waiting for a scolding.
“I didn’t say anything earlier,” he started, and then stopped. Picked the words apart. “I should’ve, though.”

Maki’s eyes flicked open, watching him without saying a word.

Nicholas let out a long breath, shoulders sinking a little. “I didn’t mean for them to — I mean, it wasn’t funny. They’re just—” He broke off again, scowling at himself.

Euijoo finally looked up, his throat tight, the sharp ache of unsaid things pressing against the back of his tongue.

“I don't give two shits about them,” he said, voice flat but firm, his gaze steady even as the sting of it lingered.

Nicholas didn’t argue. He just sat there — silent, small, the usual sharpness in his posture dulled, as the cold draft from the window ghosted around their table. For once, he had no words to hide behind, no half-hearted joke to offer. Just quiet.

Euijoo dropped his gaze back to his parchment, the smudged ink from his half-written notes staring back at him like proof of how little he’d managed to focus all evening. His quill hovered, but he couldn’t bring himself to write. The sour knot in his chest was still there — sharp and unspoken — but the part that stung more was the way Nicholas had looked, standing there in the dark, trying to say something that wouldn’t fix anything.

"I'm sorry," Nicholas said at last, the words barely more than a whisper, too soft, too small, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to say them at all. His eyes stayed fixed on the table. "I’ll talk to them."

Euijoo’s sigh was heavy, almost exasperated, and he turned slightly in his chair, facing Nicholas fully. “No, don’t. Just—” He hesitated, swallowing the rest, “don’t ignore us that much, that’s all.”

Nicholas blinked, almost surprised by the plainness of it. A moment passed, then a lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Did you miss me?”

Before Euijoo could answer, Maki nudged Nicholas’ shoulder with his own, deadpan. “I didn’t,” he quipped.

Nicholas let out a quiet laugh — part relief, part something else — and gave Maki a playful shove back. His smile softened, and when Euijoo finally let the smallest ghost of a smile slip free, Maki rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” Maki muttered, voice dipped in dry sarcasm, though it lacked its usual bite. “Now if you’re done being a prat, Wang, help me sort out this bloody Herbology question before I fail and my mum disowns me.”

Nicholas let out another breath — half a laugh, half a silent apology wrapped in relief — and shuffled his chair closer, leaning over Maki’s parchment.

The castle beyond the frosted windows had grown quiet, the kind of deep, bone-settling silence that only came once curfew had wrapped the halls in stillness. Euijoo rested his chin on his palm, watching the two of them fall back into their usual rhythm, bickering softly over plant names and potion ingredients like nothing had ever frayed.

Chapter Text

For his birthday, Euijoo had been given tickets to the World Quidditch Cup — the best gift he could ever remember receiving. His parents had clearly hoped it would lift his spirits, knowing how much he obsessed over Quidditch, even though luck had never favored him enough to make the Gryffindor team. Ever since second year, with everything that had happened — all the terrible things best left unspoken — Euijoo had been quietly postponing the trials, too tangled up in other worries to even try.

But this? This was different. This was the Cup.

He’d been determined to take Maki with him, and the two of them had bounced on the balls of their feet the moment Euijoo pulled the tickets from his pocket, grinning so wide his cheeks ached. The stadium itself was colossal, towering and glittering under the setting sun — the biggest place Euijoo had ever set foot in, far beyond anything he’d seen on the tiny muggle television in his living room. The air crackled with excitement, thick with the scent of buttered popcorn and roasted nuts; fireworks burst from wand tips overhead, scattering the sky with bright, spinning shapes that vanished into the deepening night. Wizards and witches from every corner of the globe wove through the crowd, their robes in all colors and patterns, their voices raised in languages Euijoo couldn’t even place, all of them buzzing with the same restless energy.

As they weaved through the maze of stands, searching for their section, Euijoo’s gaze snagged on a familiar dark-haired figure threading his way up the wooden steps.

“Nicholas!” he called, voice sharp with surprise.

Nicholas whirled around at once, slipping neatly from beneath his mother’s guiding hand, and bounded up the last few steps two at a time. His face lit up when he spotted them — the same crooked, half-defiant grin Euijoo knew too well.

“Hey, Euijoo,” he greeted, cheerful as ever. “And Maki. Where are you sitting? We’re up in the Minister’s box, if you want to come join—”

But before Euijoo could answer, a heavy hand came down on his shoulder, anchoring him in place. His father’s fingers tightened, the weight of them sharp with silent warning. Euijoo didn’t even need to look to feel the cold disapproval radiating from both his parents as they stared down at the Wangs, sharp-eyed and unyielding. Maki glanced sideways at Euijoo, swallowed an exaggerated gulp, and let out a nervous laugh, shuffling his feet against the worn wooden planks.

“Better not,” Euijoo said quickly, and then, trying to sound light, “How’s your summer been?”

“Euijoo,” his mother’s voice cut in, crisp and clipped. “We’d better get to our seats.”

Nicholas seemed to clock the tension at once, rattling off his words as though hoping to cram in as much as possible. “Fine, fine. We went to France — Euijoo, they knocked down the treehouse—”

“What? No!” The news hit like a jab to the ribs.

Nicholas shrugged, though his grin was soft with shared understanding. “Yeah. I know. But I probably wouldn’t have fit in it anymore, anyway.”

Euijoo scowled. “Still. Who’d have done that?”

“Bastards,” Nicholas muttered, the word sharp and low. “Proper bastards. Anyway — what’ve you two been up to? Back to Spain, Maki?”

Maki wrinkled his nose. “That was a once-in-a-lifetime trip, mate. Our lot went camping in Cornwall this year — my little sister tried to smuggle Taki into her tent, if you can believe it — and we only found out in the morning.”

“She never.” Nicholas looked scandalized. “She’s only thirteen!”

“She’s a live wire, Mum says,” Euijoo added with a smirk. “And she keeps smirking about it, but I’m pretty sure they were just playing cards—”

“Course they were,” Nicholas snorted. “It’s not like Takayama has any moves. Big lump couldn’t flirt his way out of a paper bag.”

“Euijoo.” His father’s voice this time was colder, aimed like a spell between them, sharp enough that Euijoo flinched.

“Right,” Euijoo murmured, throat tight. “I’ll — maybe we’ll see you later.”

Nicholas looked like he might say more — his weight shifted forward, as if a hug might slip into place by accident — but at the last second, his eyes flicked to Euijoo’s parents. The moment vanished. With a roll of his eyes and a sharp turn on his heel, he shouldered his way back down through the crowd.

“Euijoo,” his father said again, low and dangerous. “We’ve told you before. Stay away from that boy.”

The words were flat but furious. Euijoo’s stomach twisted. Beside him, Maki shrank under the glare, mumbling, “I don’t think my parents would be too happy, either.” His voice was barely a whisper.

Euijoo shot him a dirty look. “He’s our friend.”

His mother sighed, soft but heavy, as though the words hurt her to say. “You know I love your loyalty, Euijoo. But Wangs are not good friends to have. Someday you’ll see it. He’s going to do something terrible — and you’ll be caught in it.”

Euijoo didn’t answer. His throat felt too tight, his heart hammering against the unfairness of it all. They didn’t know Nicholas. Not like he did.

Later that night, when the stadium’s electric buzz had turned to panic, Euijoo thought of those words again.
The chaos had burst out of nowhere — masked witches and wizards in dark hoods, laughing cruelly as spells sent streaks of fire ripping through tents, igniting the campgrounds, and scattering people in every direction. Euijoo and Maki had gotten separated from his parents, running through the smoke, trying desperately to find someone, anyone, when a hand suddenly closed around his wrist.

Nicholas’s face emerged from the shadows, pale and tense, his eyes sharp with worry. “What are you doing?” he barked, yanking Euijoo closer.

“Nicholas!” Maki gasped. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Nicholas said, barely glancing at himself. “Are you two okay?”

“We’re all right,” Euijoo managed, though his voice shook — just as another jet of fire tore across the sky, lighting the treetops in blinding orange. The three of them bolted for the tree line, clinging to each other’s sleeves, hearts hammering like snare drums.

“What’s going on?” Euijoo gasped.

Nicholas hesitated, his usual sharpness dulled by fear. “I — I don’t know. We need to get out of here.”

“How?” Maki’s voice cracked, panicked. “We can’t find anyone!”

Nicholas glanced around, weighing something invisible, and then said, “I’ve got a Portkey home. Don’t you?”

Euijoo and Maki both shook their heads, wide-eyed. Nicholas’s mouth twisted with brief disgust. “Ugh. What are your parents even thinking?”

“Uhm — they don’t treat us like giant babies, Wang,” Maki snapped back, and Nicholas made a face.

“Well — I suppose you can come with me, then,” Nicholas said, voice slow, careful. “If we use the Portkey, we’ll be safe.”

The three of them exchanged a long look. Euijoo already knew nobody’s parents would be thrilled — his own least of all. But standing there under the crackle of distant spells, Euijoo couldn’t bring himself to care.

He’d never been to Nicholas’s house. It felt like the smallest of rebellions. “All right,” he said.

Nicholas’s grin flickered into place, quick and mischievous despite the chaos. He fished a small velvet pouch from his pocket and tipped its contents into his palm: a tarnished silver ladle. He dropped it onto the forest floor, and the three of them knelt around it, breathless and bracing.

“On three,” Nicholas said, voice steady despite the fear crackling in the air. “One — two — three—”

***

The Portkey landed them hard in a dark gravel courtyard, the sky overhead bruised with the last traces of night, dawn still hours away. For a moment Euijoo just lay there, dizzy and breathless, the sharp scent of wet stone filling his nose. When he finally pushed himself upright, the first thing he saw was the house.

Wangs Manor stood looming in front of them, half-swallowed by fog. Its tall, narrow windows gleamed faintly like watchful eyes, the sharp angles of its gabled roof cutting into the dark like jagged teeth. It wasn’t the kind of grand, sprawling estate Euijoo had imagined — not like the ones in wizarding postcards — but tall and lean, built of blackened stone that looked older than time itself, like the cliffs it was carved from. The iron gates behind them swung shut with a soft, final click that prickled at the back of his neck.

“Welcome to the Wangs’,” Nicholas muttered, dusting off his sleeves, his voice dry but a little strained around the edges. “Try not to stare too hard. She doesn’t like visitors.”

“She?” Maki echoed, glancing warily at the manor as though the house itself might answer.

But Nicholas didn’t explain.

The front doors opened before they even reached them, as if the house — or someone inside — had been expecting them. An elderly house-elf with sharp, bony fingers and a sour expression ushered them in without a word, taking their soot-streaked coats and thrusting hot mugs of tea into their hands before vanishing down the dark hall.

The manor’s interior was even stranger than the outside. High ceilings stretched overhead like a cathedral, lined with old portraits whose eyes seemed to follow their every step. The wallpaper had long since faded, patterned with what might have once been gold and black cranes, their wings now dulled and peeling. The air smelled faintly of incense and old books, like a place permanently stuck between seasons, and the silence pressed in tight around them.

They sat together in a heavy, overstuffed armchair, the three of them squashed awkwardly into the same seat, too shaken to bother finding their own. The tea warmed Euijoo’s hands, but did nothing for the cold knot in his chest.
The manor was safe, but the world wasn’t. Not anymore.

“They’ll be fine,” Nicholas had said, voice steady but too thin to convince anyone, least of all himself.

And though the owl eventually brought back scribbled, hurried notes from their parents — alive, unharmed, frantic with worry — the relief didn’t fully settle in. Their world had tilted. Euijoo could feel the difference in his bones.

But Nicholas, restless and stubborn, wasn’t one to let the dark linger. Hours later, when the silence became unbearable, he’d leapt to his feet, eyes gleaming with determination more than excitement.

“Come on,” Nicholas urged, his voice cracking through the gloom like a spell, and he took off at a run.

Up narrow staircases they climbed, breathless and barely keeping pace, until they stumbled into the attic — a room so crammed with strange, forgotten magic that the dark felt less like fear and more like adventure. Sparks burst from old objects when brushed, and a tiny, enchanted globe latched onto them with glowing affection, spinning circles around their feet like an overeager pet. Euijoo nearly lost a finger to a malicious-looking toaster.

“Probably ‘cos of your Muggle blood,” Nicholas said, matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

Somewhere between the magical chaos and the house elves appearing out of nowhere with ice cream that changed flavour on every spoonful, the fear began to loosen its grip. The laughter came easier, though Euijoo could still feel the ache of it in his chest — the leftover weight of the night pressing in when he stood still too long.

They found Nicholas’ old bicycle tucked behind an armoire, and suddenly the manor wasn’t so grim. With Euijoo on the handlebars, Nicholas clinging close behind him, and Maki balanced wild and grinning on the back pedals, they careened through the winding, polished halls, portraits shouting scandalized warnings after them. The speed, the wind in their hair — it was the first time since the World Cup that the night air felt like something other than smoke.

“If you like that, you should try the bannisters,” Nicholas had said, and that was all the invitation they needed. One by one they hurled themselves down the grand bannisters, sliding so fast the world blurred, whooping and laughing, until the house echoed with noise that wasn’t screams.

And it was there, wild-haired and red-cheeked, hearts finally hammering from something other than terror, that Ms. Wang found them — her voice sharp, fraying with relief as she called for Nicholas.

When all three of them poked their heads around the corner, she barely hesitated. She pulled Nicholas into a hug, fierce and uncharacteristic, and then without pause, pulled Euijoo and Maki into the embrace too. Euijoo felt Maki go stiff beside him, burning red with surprise. He understood the feeling. The cool, poised woman with her perfect robes and sharp eyes was gone — replaced by a mother who had been just as scared as they were.

“I had to find your father,” she murmured, vague and raw, “oh, I’m very glad you’re safe. Are you quite all right? Have you eaten?”

Before Euijoo could answer, Maki’s foot found his, sharp and warning, and with surprising boldness he declared, “Chocolate’s good for shock, Professor Lupin says.”

“Not that Professor Lupin knows anything,” Nicholas muttered, trying for his usual careless tone, though the hitch in his voice gave him away. “But, uhm…”

Ms. Wang arched one perfectly unimpressed eyebrow, lips twitching at the corners. She rolled her eyes in that dry, fond way only mothers could manage and said briskly, “Come along then, boys.”

The dining room of Wang Manor was cavernous, lit only by the soft golden glow of floating lamps and the silvery gleam of moonlight pouring through the tall, arched windows. The table stretched long enough to host a royal feast, but it felt strangely cozy as Ms. Wang busied herself at the sideboard, lifting an enormous silver teapot that gleamed like a polished suit of armor. She filled three delicate porcelain cups with steaming hot chocolate, the rich scent curling through the air like a charm.

The first sip melted across Euijoo’s tongue — thick and velvet-smooth, sweet but edged with a dark, spicy warmth that sent a comforting glow straight through his chest. It was the kind of chocolate that made the world slow down, heavy and safe, like pulling a blanket up over your head.

Nicholas, of course, had to make it weirder. He reached out and gave a sharp flick of his fingers, and a small silver dish slid across the polished wood toward him, almost like the manor itself had been listening. From it, he pinched a fine sprinkling of what looked like ordinary salt and dropped it into his cup.

“It adds to the flavour,” he declared, matter-of-factly, before taking a smug little sip.

Euijoo snorted. “That’s the most ridiculously posh thing I’ve ever seen.”

But when his laughter died down, curiosity won out. He added his own dash of salt, swirled the spoon, and raised the cup for another taste. Nicholas was right — the chocolate deepened, the flavors sharper and somehow more magical than before. Euijoo glanced sideways at Nicholas, who caught the look and gave him a little self-satisfied smirk.
The warmth in the room stretched, but the spell was broken when Ms. Wang, always sharp beneath her calm, asked

“Have you boys told your parents where you are yet?”

Euijoo and Maki shared a guilty glance, the silence loud enough to answer for them.

She clicked her tongue softly. “Children,” she sighed, not unkindly. “Well — it’s very late. You should all be in bed. I’ll write to them and let them know. Nicholas, would you show them to the guest suites?”

For a moment, Nicholas looked stricken, his face falling as though she’d just sentenced him to exile. “Oh, but — Mum—”

Ms. Wang’s expression softened. Her voice gentled too, though her words stayed as dry as ever. “Yes, fine. I should’ve guessed.”

And so, instead of polished guest rooms with crisp white sheets, all three of them ended up dragging mattresses onto the dark wooden floor of Nicholas’ vast, high-ceilinged bedroom. The space easily could have fit ten more, but they pressed the mattresses close, shoulder to shoulder, as if the dark corners of the room might swallow them up if they strayed too far apart. Nicholas had his bed to himself if he wanted it, but he shook his head firmly.

“Too lonely up there,” he mumbled, flopping onto the mattress beside them.

Above them, the enchanted ceiling flickered to life, the velvet black stretching out into a perfect night sky. Stars glimmered and blinked, constellations wheeled slow and majestic overhead, and a belt of tiny, silver meteorites chased each other across the darkness like a lullaby in motion.

Nicholas lay on his back, voice soft and a little drowsy, and told them the stories behind each star, the same ones his mother had whispered to him when he was small. His words filled the room like the last glow of the fire, gentle and safe.
It was the best sleepover Euijoo had ever had. Better than all the ones at Hogwarts. Better even than the nights he spent before the world went sideways at the World Cup.

But the morning came, as mornings always do, sharp and unwelcome.

Euijoo padded down the grand staircase, still blinking sleep from his eyes, only to freeze at the sight waiting in the sunlit parlor. There, perched stiff-backed on the embroidered velvet sofas, sat his and Maki’s parents, faces pale and set in tight, furious lines. Mr. Wang lounged on the opposite couch, looking equally wrung-out but with no intention of hiding his sneer, while Ms. Wang sat poised and unbothered, as if she were only discussing the weather.

The moment Euijoo and Maki appeared, the scolding began, sharp and swift and inevitable. They were whisked away, lectured, and promptly grounded for the remainder of the summer — again.

Still.
Even with the sting of disappointment sharp in his chest, Euijoo knew one thing for certain.
It had been worth it.

Chapter Text

Euijoo had grown taller over the summer, though it wasn’t something he’d really noticed until he returned to Hogwarts. Standing in the dorm room again, everything suddenly felt... smaller. His bed, once a cozy fit, now seemed to pinch at the edges, the frame less forgiving against his stretched-out limbs. It was a quiet reminder that time had moved on — and so had they.

But he wasn’t the only one. Nicholas, too, had changed. His face had lost its soft, boyish roundness, the angles sharper, his jaw more defined, and his mouth set in an older, more bitter line that hadn’t been there before. Even his eyes — those sharp, sea-glass siren eyes — seemed deeper, quieter, watchful in a way that made Euijoo's stomach twist uncomfortably. He hated the way his gaze kept wandering there, sneaking glances when he thought no one was paying attention. Nicholas had noticed, of course. He always did. One dry scowl was all it took to snap Euijoo out of it, though the mock glare usually earned a soft laugh from him afterward.

This year, more than ever, Euijoo could feel it. The difference. The shift. As if the walls of Hogwarts, the whole world even, had tilted just slightly under their feet — and things would never go back to the way they’d been.
After the last of the Sorting Hat’s songs and speeches, the school year’s official welcome faded into the usual buzz of conversation. Excitement bubbled through the Great Hall as news spread that the abroading schools were arriving — Beauxbatons, Durmstrang.

Maki had spent most of dinner slack-jawed, ogling the elegant girls from Beauxbatons in their sky-blue silk uniforms. Euijoo didn’t have to say a word to know what was going through his friend's head. Nicholas, on the other hand, had gone stiff and awkward, his face warming pink whenever one of the French girls caught his eye — especially when one of them smiled at him from across the hall. Euijoo couldn’t help but snicker into his pumpkin juice.

But his own attention had snagged on something else entirely. Or rather — someone. Viktor Krum.
Even across the room, Krum’s presence was magnetic, the quiet kind of cool that didn’t need to be loud to command attention. Euijoo had idolized him for years. His dorm walls back at home had the posters to prove it, his battered Gryffindor lion hanging proudly beside his Bulgarian National Quidditch team's picture, holding proudly the prize. Seeing one of the players, only a few tables away, felt surreal — like the posters had peeled off the wall and walked into real life.

It already felt like the year had thrown open its gates, rushing headlong into something wild.

“Ugh, I wish I could join,” Maki muttered beside him, as they headed back toward the Gryffindor common room, his voice low with envy. “I'd be great, you know? The games sound anything but dangerous.”

Euijoo raised an eyebrow, smirking sideways at him. “You say that now, but there’s an age restriction for a reason, genius.”

Maki only rolled his eyes and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

The castle hallways were quieter now, the excitement of the feast leaving only hushed voices trailing behind them as they climbed the stairs. When they finally reached the dorms, the scent of old wood, parchment, and the lingering smoke of the common room hearth wrapped around them like a familiar blanket.

Their dorm — always the same, always waiting — were occupied by their usual roommates. Taki, already lounging at ease, glanced up as they entered, flashing a toothy grin.

“Hullo,” he greeted lazily. Maki grunted in reply, barely managing a nod before flopping onto his bed with a groan. Taki stretched, folding his arms behind his head. “Bit scary, the Quidditch Cup this year, oi?”

Euijoo let out a quiet sigh, the weight of the whole mess pressing down on his chest like it hadn’t really hit him until now. He perched on the edge of his bed, fingers drumming against the worn trunk at his feet.

From the bathroom, Harua leaned out, toothbrush still wedged between his teeth, foam clinging to the corners of his mouth as he paused mid-scrub, his dark eyes sharp and curious.

“Yeah, hella scary,” Maki mumbled into his pillow, his voice muffled but thick with something heavier than fear. It wasn’t the Cup itself they were worried about. Everyone knew that.

Taki lowered his voice. “I’ve heard it was…Death Eaters……you know,” he said, glancing at Euijoo, careful — too careful — not to linger, but Euijoo felt the weight of the look all the same.

He’d known. Of course, he’d known. The whole castle had heard the whispers.

Euijoo’s hands tightened around the latch of his trunk, the metal cool and sharp under his fingertips. His voice came out dry, almost hollow.

“Yeah. We heard.”

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. He could feel Taki’s eyes on him, and Harua’s too, even as the latter retreated back into the bathroom, the soft sound of running water breaking the silence. The knowledge hung there between them, heavy and unspoken: the Death Eaters had attacked the World Cup. People had died.

Euijoo unpacked slowly, folding his robes with mechanical precision, but his mind wasn’t on the neat stacks. It was still caught on the memory of the dark sky above the Quidditch pitch, the green skull, the panic, the running — and the fact that the adults still hadn’t told them everything.

***

Maki’s interest in joining the games had died a swift, spectacular death the moment the dragon’s roar split the sky.

"A bloody dragon!" His voice still cracked with disbelief, hands flailing as if trying to shake the memory out of his head. His face was pale, the usual warm color drained away entirely, and his eyes were wide, still reflecting the image of smoke, scales, and fire. "A bloody dragon, Euijoo!"

Euijoo stood beside him on the stone steps leading back from the stadium, the sharp November wind tugging at the ends of his scarf. His own stomach still knotted, the sounds and sights of the First Task echoing behind his eyes — the flash of flames, the low, awful thunder of wings, the way even the bravest champions had looked small and fragile against something so old and merciless.

He grimaced, the edges of excitement and dread tangled up tight inside him. "Yeah," he muttered, voice dry, "it’s bollocks."

The two of them lingered there, neither moving, as students filed past in loud, chaotic clusters, most still riding the high of the spectacle. Laughter and shouts filled the air — people re-enacting the narrow escapes, some still marveling over Viktor Krum’s cool, calculated maneuver with the Horntail. Euijoo barely heard them.

Maki shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders still hunched high around his ears.

"I thought it’d be all... I dunno, spells and tricks. You know? Like some fancy wandwork or clever little hexes. Not—" He waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the stadium, where smoke still curled faintly into the sky. "Not real dragons."

Euijoo let out a short, humorless laugh. "Guess the age limit wasn’t just for show."

They started walking back toward the castle, feet crunching through the frost-dusted grass, neither one saying much. The warmth of the Great Hall glowed in the distance, windows golden against the encroaching gray of evening, but the warmth didn’t reach them yet.

"Imagine if it was one of us," Maki muttered after a while, quieter now, the words almost lost to the wind. "They just chucked some kid in there. Just another name from a cup, and suddenly it’s you, standing there, wand out, facing a dragon."

Euijoo’s throat tightened at the thought. He couldn’t shake the image — his own feet rooted to that arena floor, a dragon towering above him, breath hot enough to burn the air itself. His fingers curled slightly at his sides.

"Yeah," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve been imagining it."

They reached the stone archway of the castle, the warmth finally washing over them, but the chill hadn’t quite left Euijoo’s bones. The world outside was changing, faster than he could keep up — and now he knew, dragons weren’t the scariest thing waiting for them.

Not by a long shot, Euijoo thought.

The warmth of the castle’s stone halls had barely started sinking into Euijoo’s skin when a familiar voice broke through the din of returning students.

"There you two are!" Nicholas’s voice, sharp and bright, cut through the air like a spark. Euijoo and Maki barely had time to turn before Nicholas slid in beside them, cheeks flushed, hair wind-tossed, and eyes gleaming with something fierce and alive. "Did you see it? Merlin’s beard — the way Krum handled that Horntail!"

He didn’t wait for an answer, already half out of breath from talking too fast, hands gesturing wildly as if the words alone couldn’t contain the rush of excitement. His usual cool detachment had been shattered entirely by the spectacle.

"That dive — the broom control! The dragon nearly clipped his wing and he just—" He mimed the sharp, downward swoop with his hand, the grin on his face stretching wide. "Clean dodge. Not even a scratch."

Euijoo blinked at him, a little stunned by the sheer difference in tone. His mind was still stuck on the roaring flame and the raw terror of it all, but Nicholas looked like he’d just witnessed the most thrilling match of his life. He always had that way of looking at danger — like it was something to outrun, not something to fear.

Maki, still pale, shook his head slowly. "You’ve gone mad, mate. That wasn’t Quidditch out there, that was suicide."

Nicholas snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what makes it brilliant."

His sea-glass eyes flicked to Euijoo, catching his expression — the way his hands were still half-tensed in his pockets, the stiffness that hadn’t left his shoulders.

"Scared you too, huh?" Nicholas’s voice softened, not mocking, just knowing.

Euijoo forced a half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Well, it could have gone very wrong."

"Yeah," Nicholas said quietly, but the excitement didn’t fade from his face. "But they beat it. That’s the difference."

The Great Hall loomed just ahead, doors propped wide as the flood of students rolled inside. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread floated on the air, mingling with the sharper tang of pumpkin juice.

Nicholas clapped Euijoo on the shoulder, light but firm. "Come on. You’ve got that ‘thinking too hard’ look again. Let it go, yeah? No one's sending us into the ring."

For now, Euijoo thought. The unspoken words hung at the back of his throat, but he followed Nicholas and Maki into the Hall, the roar of a different kind — laughter, chatter, cutlery clinking — swallowing the last echoes of dragonfire from his ears.

For now.

Chapter Text

Nicholas shouldered his way into the narrow space between Euijoo and Taki, ignoring the sharp look Maki shot him as if it bounced clean off. With an easy, practiced motion, he propped his chin lazily on Euijoo’s shoulder, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur.

“Well,” Nicholas said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, “this should be a laugh.”

Euijoo tilted his head slightly, catching his friend's grin out of the corner of his eye, and replied under his breath, “You ought to be careful. She’ll pick on you next.”

Nicholas barely blinked, unfazed. “No, Maki's her next victim,” he said brightly. “He’s been staring out the window like a lovesick ghost and humming the Chudley Cannons anthem for the past five minutes. At this point, he’s practically begging for it.”

Before Euijoo could answer, the sharp, unmistakable voice of Professor McGonagall sliced through the air like a well-aimed spell.

“Mr. Hirota,” she called crisply from the front of the room. “Why don’t you come up here and help us demonstrate how the Yule Ball waltz is done?”

Maki’s distant, absent stare cracked in an instant — like glass under pressure — replaced by sheer, dawning horror. His face blanched as though the mere suggestion had physically knocked the breath out of him. Euijoo had to shove his fist against his mouth to stifle the snort bubbling in his throat, while Nicholas’s quiet snickering practically buzzed in his ear.

When the lesson finally let them go, the three of them sloped out of the hall, the fading winter sun throwing long shadows across the stone corridor as they trudged toward the courtyard.

“Could’ve warned me, Wang,” Maki groaned, dragging his hands through his hair as if trying to erase the memory. “If you had the faintest inkling she’d call me up—Merlin. I had my hand on her waist, Euijoo. McGonagall’s waist. I think my soul’s left my body. I’m never going to touch another girl again — it’s ruined me. I’ll never be able to disassociate.”

Nicholas gave a wolfish grin, slinking his hands into his pockets as they walked. “Oh, I don’t know. I think if a certain brown-haired pureblood invited you to the Yule Ball, you might just find a way to recover.”

Maki elbowed him hard in the ribs, his face going pale for the second time that afternoon. “Shut it, she’s right there,” he hissed, darting a panicked glance down the corridor.

Euijoo, who’d been following their exchange with quiet amusement, nodded toward the far end of the hall. “She’s talking to Harua. You’re safe, for now.”

Nicholas, as relaxed as ever, tilted his head, watching Colette's conversation with the practiced ease of someone utterly unbothered by the whole business. “Probably planning their survival strategy,” he mused dryly. “I mean, let’s be honest — every year there’s some new monstrosity waiting to off half the student body. Though if anyone’s going to make it out alive, it won’t be the poor girl who gets stuck dying of boredom while some Hirota fumbles through asking her out.”

“I really hate you,” Maki muttered, his voice heavy with feeling.

Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder, unrepentant. “Easy enough to prove me wrong, mate.” His grin softened, turning almost genuine. “Just ask her. Worst she can do is say no.”

Maki's gaze dropped to the stone floor, watching his own scuffed shoes shuffle along. His voice was quieter, smaller. “I’m going to. I am. I’m just... working up to it. Krum’s always hanging around her, though. Hardly fair competition.”

Nicholas made a thoughtful noise, then with a wicked glint in his eye, offered, “I’ll ask Krum if he’d like to go with me, if it’d help thin the herd.”

Euijoo let out a laugh, caught off-guard. “What?”

Nicholas only stretched, arms folding lazily behind his head. “Joking,” he said smoothly. “I’m taking Nora.”

Maki whipped his head around, staring at him. “You’ve already sorted it out?”

“It’s not difficult, Maki,” Nicholas drawled, as if explaining something painfully obvious. “You just imagine — crazy thought, I know — that a girl is an actual person. Then, and here’s the revolutionary bit, you start talking to her. You’d be amazed what that can achieve.”

Maki scowled and muttered something unintelligible under his breath, his gaze still trailing longingly after Colette, who was disappearing through the courtyard archway.

A pause.

Then Nicholas’s elbow nudged Euijoo’s ribs lightly. “And what about you?” he said. “When are you going to ask Yunah out?”

Euijoo flushed, feeling the heat crawl up his neck. “Soon,” he mumbled. “I’m working up to it.”

Nicholas threw his hands up, mock-exasperated. “Hopeless. Both of you. You’re lucky I’m around to balance out your tragic lack of charm.”

Maki shot him a sidelong glare. “And why’s that?”

Nicholas flicked open his wristwatch, the gold glinting in the low light, and swore under his breath. “I’m late for Charms,” he announced, already turning on his heel. As he strode away across the courtyard, he threw a final parting shot over his shoulder.

“It’s because when you two muppets inevitably crash and burn, I can always set you up with some Slytherin girls!”

Euijoo stood watching him go, the corners of his mouth tugging into an unguarded smile.

Maki gave him a long, pained look. “I really blame you for him, you know.”

Euijoo shrugged. “I know you do.”

Euijoo stood there a moment longer, hands stuffed into his pockets, watching Nicholas’s retreating back as the boy cut across the courtyard, all easy swagger and sunlit confidence. The dying afternoon light stretched long shadows across the flagstones, the air sharp with the early bite of winter, and for a moment neither he nor Maki spoke.
It was always like this with Nicholas. He breezed through the world as if everything bent to his timing, his charm a kind of armor that no teacher, curse, or awkward social moment could seem to crack. Euijoo sometimes wondered what it felt like to carry that kind of effortless bravado — to move through life as if it were a game designed with you in mind.

Maki let out a heavy sigh beside him, breaking the silence. “You know,” he muttered, “I used to think Gryffindors were the reckless ones. But Nicholas is something else entirely. He’s like… chaos dressed up in a nice watch.”

Euijoo huffed a quiet laugh, still staring after him. “That’s about right.”

The moment drifted for a beat longer before his eyes flicked toward the far side of the courtyard, where Yunah had appeared, standing in the shadow of the arched cloisters. She was half-hidden behind one of the ivy-clad stone pillars, talking to Harua — her gloved hands moving expressively as she spoke, face alight with animation.

The sight twisted something warm and uncomfortable in Euijoo’s chest. He’d been telling himself for weeks now — soon. He’d ask her soon. But 'soon' had a way of becoming later.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Maki’s voice was low but knowing.

Euijoo startled slightly. “What?”

Maki tilted his head, following Euijoo’s gaze. “Yunah,” he said, a bit softer this time. “You’ve got the same look I probably had when McGonagall called my name.”

Euijoo rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Maybe. I don’t know. She’s always just… been there, you know? We talk, but I can’t seem to—” He gestured vaguely, searching for the right word. “—cross the line.”

Maki nodded, his expression gentler than before, stripped of his earlier self-pity. “Yeah. I get it. Feels like if you say the wrong thing, it’ll mess everything up.”

Euijoo offered a faint smile. “Exactly.”

For a while they stood there, two boys lingering on the brink of bravery, each wrapped up in their own quiet wars. The castle loomed tall around them, windows glowing like watchful eyes against the darkening sky, and somewhere faintly, the bell for the next class tolled, distant and indifferent.

“Still,” Maki said, starting toward the archway, “maybe Nicholas has a point. If we don’t do something soon, he’s going to end up setting us both up with Slytherins, and honestly, I don’t think I could survive the shame.”

Euijoo laughed under his breath and fell into step beside him, the weight in his chest easing just a little.

“Next time,” Euijoo said, his voice quiet but certain. “Next time, I’ll ask her.”

Maki glanced sideways at him, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Hold you to that.”

And as they stepped out into the cold, the castle rising tall behind them and the world ahead still uncertain, Euijoo found himself hoping that, for once, ‘next time’ might actually mean something.

Chapter Text

"When you walk into the room,
You pull me close, and we start to move,
And we're spinnin' with the stars above,
And you lift me up, in a wave of love!"

Euijoo was fairly certain Nora's sister was going to hex him before the night was over — and honestly, he wouldn’t have blamed her. He’d done his best when the music started, trying to lead her through the waltz, but every time he caught sight of Yunah, all soft curls and flushed cheeks, spinning gracefully in the arms of some braver boy, his steps would falter. The more he tried not to look, the more his eyes betrayed him.

It wasn’t just Yunah, though. Every glance toward the other end of the hall left his stomach sinking lower. Nicholas and Nora were tearing across the floor like a pair of dueling hurricanes, laughing loud enough to draw glances, nearly mowing down anyone too slow to dodge. It was the kind of chaotic, reckless fun Nicholas excelled at, and watching it only seemed to make Euijoo’s own awkwardness swell tenfold.

Across the room, Maki didn’t look like he was having much luck either. He and Minju shuffled stiffly in a slow circle, her expression blank and steadily darkening the longer they danced. Euijoo suspected Nicholas had paired them off on height alone — Maki could barely get a joke past her, and Minju's sense of humor, from what little Euijoo had seen, seemed to exist solely in slapstick and sarcasm. The more Maki tried, the worse it seemed to get.

Feeling the weight of the night pressing down on his shoulders, Euijoo made the only noble offer he could muster: he turned to Imogen and asked if he could fetch her another glass of punch.

“That’s all right,” she’d said, her voice polite but distant. “I’ll get them.”

She vanished into the crowded crush around the punch bowl and, predictably, never came back. Euijoo sat alone for a while, nursing the growing certainty that he deserved it.

A familiar figure dropped into the seat beside him, all flushed cheeks and windswept hair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re so pathetic,” Nicholas announced, stretching his legs out and tilting his head back with theatrical satisfaction. “I’m sure I’ve messed up my hair, haven’t I?”

Euijoo glanced at him. His hair was indeed a little disheveled, the usually precise, sleek strands now flopping over his forehead in a way that made him look older, rougher around the edges — rakish, even. Somehow the sight made something in Euijoo’s chest tug.

“You’re fine,” Euijoo said lightly, though his voice came out softer than intended.

Nicholas snorted, catching the lie. “You’re a terrible liar, Byun,” he muttered, eyes glinting. “You’re just trying to make me feel better, but it’s pointless. Everyone here’s already seen what an exceptional dancer I am — and you barely shuffled around for two minutes before your date did a runner.”

Euijoo rolled his eyes. “I think that third-year girl you bowled over might still be crying.”

“Details,” Nicholas waved a hand lazily. “Collateral damage.”

His gaze drifted over to Maki and Minju, who had finally retreated to a quiet corner of the hall, looking more resigned than romantic.

“You know,” Nicholas mused, “I actually thought those two might hit it off. Maybe she could help him get over that French bird.”

“You’re hopeless,” Euijoo said, shaking his head. “You have no judge of character at all.”

“Fair,” Nicholas conceded. “I am closer with you, after all.”

Euijoo grinned despite himself, and after a heartbeat, Nicholas tilted his head slightly and offered a crooked smile in return.

They didn’t say it aloud — they never did — but the truth of it sat between them anyway. Nicholas was his best friend. A sharp-edged, bright, and complicated secret that didn’t fit neatly into any of the expectations Euijoo’s world had set for him.

His parents had made their feelings clear long ago. After the Rita Skeeter Ball Incident, his mother’s voice had been cold and biting, the words still burned into his memory: “His father’s son, Euijoo. They don’t think we’re worth anything.”
And maybe she wasn’t wrong. But when Euijoo had shown up to school still raw from the fight, Nicholas had turned up with that Firebolt — all bright-eyed and grinning, practically vibrating with excitement to see Euijoo unwrap it. In that moment, Nicholas hadn’t looked like someone who thought Euijoo wasn’t worth anything.

Later, when Euijoo had tried to bring it up, fumbling the words, Nicholas had only shrugged. “Yeah, mine aren’t too fond of you either.”

“It’s not — it doesn’t...” Euijoo had started, the weight of it sitting heavy on his tongue. “It doesn’t matter, right?”

Nicholas' eyes, sharp and sure, had met his, steady as stone. “No,” he’d said simply. “It doesn’t. Not at all.”

The memory lingered, soft and steady, as Nicholas fanned himself now with exaggerated flair.

“Come on,” he said, rising from his seat and offering Euijoo an easy grin. “I’ll take pity on you. I need some air anyway.”

Euijoo blinked, startled. “What?”

“Come on.” Nicholas tipped his head toward the doors, already moving.

And so they wandered out into the cool night air, the castle gardens lit by floating lanterns and distant music drifting from the Great Hall, the sounds muffled by the ivy and stone.

Euijoo felt strange walking beside him, the stiff collar of his dress robes suddenly tight, his hands awkwardly stuffed in his pockets. He couldn’t shake the thought of his parents’ voices, of Yunah’s smile as she danced with someone braver, or of the strange, quiet ease that always seemed to settle around Nicholas when they were alone.

As if sensing the storm in his head, Nicholas let out a short, dry laugh. “I’m sure she’ll come around.”

Euijoo glanced at him, caught off guard. “What?”

“Yunah,” Nicholas clarified, spitting the name out like it tasted bitter. “That boy she’s dancing with — he’s cool and all, but too old for her. Probably.”

Euijoo snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause girls just hate older guys.”

Nicholas' mouth twitched, the usual smirk faltering for half a second. “He’s not as good as you.”

Euijoo shrugged, trying to brush off the warmth that bloomed in his chest. “You have to say that. You’re my mate.”

“Right,” Nicholas said, voice quieter now. “Right.” He looked away, his lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line.

Euijoo let the silence sit for a moment, the night cool against his skin, before murmuring, “Thanks, though.”

Nicholas bumped his elbow against Euijoo’s, the gesture rough but fond. “Any time, Byun.”

The night air had softened a little, losing its sharp winter bite, and the garden was thick with the scent of damp earth and frost-bitten roses. Lanternlight flickered off the stone paths, catching the pale gleam of Nicholas’ cufflinks as he walked, hands tucked into the pockets of his dress robes like he hadn’t a care in the world.

They strolled in companionable silence, but it wasn’t the easy kind Euijoo was used to. His mind kept looping, stuck somewhere between Yunah’s bright laugh across the dance floor, and the way Nicholas had looked at him just now — like the words had cost him something.

“You know,” Nicholas broke the silence eventually, his voice lighter but the rhythm of his steps slower, more deliberate, “if you don’t ask her soon, someone else will.”

Euijoo’s stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. “I know.”

“She’d say yes,” Nicholas added, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not exactly hard to look at, Byun.”

Euijoo huffed out a quiet laugh, surprised. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight.”

“Just the truth,” Nicholas said with a shrug, though the corner of his mouth quirked, the hint of a smirk trying to return. “I’ve got to remind you now and then. You forget it too easily.”

Euijoo kicked at a loose stone on the path, watching it skitter off into the hedges. “Yeah, well. Some things aren’t that simple.”

Nicholas didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head back, staring at the sky like the stars might offer better advice than he could. “Nothing ever is,” he said finally. His voice was lower now, stripped of its usual easy charm. “But you’ll regret it if you don’t try. You always do.”

Euijoo looked at him then, really looked — at the cut of his jaw, the faint flush still clinging to his cheeks from dancing, and the faintest crease between his brows, like he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying.

“What about you?” Euijoo asked quietly. “You ever regret anything?”

Nicholas let out a soft, dry laugh. “Plenty,” he said, but his eyes didn’t meet Euijoo’s. “But it’s easier not to think about it.”

The words settled between them like a weight. Euijoo didn’t press. Nicholas never volunteered more than he wanted to. And they kept walking, side by side, the garden stretching out before them like a quiet, unspoken promise.

Chapter Text

20th June, 1995

Dear Euijoo,

How’s summer treating you? Mine’s already driving me mad. My parents haven’t let up for a second — always telling me what not to do, and then the next day changing their minds and telling me to do the exact thing they scolded me for. It’s exhausting, honestly.
Maki wrote me the other day, said you’ve been having a boring summer. Let me guess — it’s because I’m not there to entertain you? (Joking. Sort of.)
Wish I was there, though. At least then I’d have someone to annoy, instead of being stuck in this house all day. My mum says it’s too dangerous to go out, which I half believe. Things are definitely getting stranger, even if she keeps trying to pretend everything’s fine.
Anyway — tell me about your day? Done anything remotely fun? And please, for Merlin’s sake, tell me you haven’t started on the homework yet. Maki sent me one of his long-winded questions and I haven’t even opened my trunk since the term ended. I don’t plan to, either.

Cheers,
Nicholas Wang

23th June, 1995

Nicholas!!
My summer’s fine — just a little dull. And don't talk me about homework, I don't think I even packed the proper books.
My parents are on the same paranoia streak, won’t let me leave England either. Can’t blame them, I guess, but it’s getting old.
I do wish you were here. It’s always better when we’re all together, you know that.
Mum’s been baking, and I tried to help... turns out kitchens and I don’t get along. At all. Almost broke the mixer.
Miss you,
Euijoo :)

25th June, 1995

Dear Euijoo,

You? Cooking? Now that I’d pay to see. Did the kitchen catch fire? More importantly — is your mother still alive and well?
And yeah, I know what you mean. Summer feels off this year. Too hot, too quiet. Even the air feels heavier somehow.
Anyway, tomorrow’s Jo’s birthday. I know you don’t like him — you’ve made that pretty clear — but I’m still going to the party. He’s alright, really. Says stupid things sometimes, but he’s a good friend when it counts. I’m actually looking forward to it.
What about you? Doing anything with Maki? Write soon, I’m dying of boredom here.

Cheers,
Nicholas Wang

27th June, 1995

Hey Wang,
Mum’s fine — thanks for your concern. No fires, though I did break a spoon. And yeah, I still don’t like your stupid friend, but I hope you have fun anyway. You better tell me all about it.
Maki’s here for the week — we’ve been flying and playing a lot of Quidditch. After that, we mostly just sit around being bored together. Same as always.
Have fun at the party! Looking forward to hearing about it.
Euijoo :0

1st July, 1995

Dear Euijoo,

Still playing Quidditch, huh? I wonder if you’ll ever get tired of it. Speaking of which — when are you finally trying out for the Gryffindor team? You’ve been talking about it for years. I’ve got a feeling this year’s your shot.
And the party? It was brilliant. I’m still a bit hungover, but no regrets. Nora was there — nothing happened, but she kept looking at me all night. We danced, played some ridiculous games. The usual mess.
My birthday’s coming up soon. Wish you could be here for it.

Cheers,
Nicholas Wang

6th July, 1995

Nicholas,
Sorry it took me ages to write back — I didn’t even know where to start. I’m glad you had fun at the party, though. I’ll send you a gift, so you don’t forget me while you’re off having fun with your other friends.
And about the trials—I know I've been procrastinating it a lot, but maybe you're right, this'll be my year.
How’s the rest of your summer been? Can’t lie, I’m counting down the days until it’s over.
Sorry again for the late reply,
Euijoo ;)

9th July, 1995

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
So, how does it feel to blow out fifteen candles? Hope you made a proper wish.
Euijoo.

13th July, 1995

Hey,
Maki’s grounded for the week — nearly crashed his dad’s car. Now I’m definitely going to die of boredom. How are you? I’ve got your birthday gift ready — I think you’ll like it. You won’t guess what it is.
Go on, try.
Euijoo.

4th September, 1995

Nicholas,
Is everything alright? I had my birthday party the other day. It was fine, I guess. Would’ve been better if you were there.
Hope you’re okay. Write back soon, yeah?
Euijoo.

10th September, 1995

Nicholas,
Has something happened? You’re not answering Maki’s letters either. Please — if you can, just write back. Let me know you’re alright.
I miss you,
Euijoo.

Chapter Text

Nicholas was different when Euijoo saw him again on the Hogwarts Express. Not just the usual end-of-summer awkwardness — something quieter, something sharper.

It had been a terrible summer. The kind of summer that made the world feel tilted, like the ground under his feet wasn’t quite solid anymore. Letters from Nicholas had stopped without warning, like a door had shut somewhere between them, and the silence had stretched on so long it almost didn’t hurt anymore — just left a dull, persistent ache.
And the silence wasn’t the worst of it. Not after the games from last year had ended in that cold, sick silence, the castle tense with rumors that had been too wild to believe at the time — until Euijoo got home, and his parents had told him, voices grave, no longer shielding him from the truth: the Dark Lord was back. Not just stories. Not just history. Real, and now, and close.

He’d stood there in their living room, small and helpless, the walls closing in around him as the words sank in.

“I don’t want to go back,” he’d told them, voice cracking in the middle of the sentence, surprising even himself. “I don’t want to leave you.”

His parents had only exchanged that look — the kind that made him feel even younger than he was — before his mother rested her hand on his shoulder, her voice calm but not convincing.

“Hogwarts is still the safest place.”

And then they were gone again, whisked away to another Order meeting, leaving him standing in the hallway, mouth still open around words he couldn’t make himself say — I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you.

So when September finally came, and he stepped onto the train, it wasn’t the same easy return it used to be. The air inside the compartments felt heavy, as though the train itself already knew the world outside wasn’t the same. And when Euijoo spotted Nicholas standing there, half-shadowed in the corridor, it only confirmed what he’d known all summer but hadn’t dared to say out loud.

Nicholas looked at him, eyes a little darker than Euijoo remembered — not the soft brown they usually were, but clouded, guarded. His hair was different too; he hadn’t bothered slicking it back like he always did. It hung loose and soft around his face, a little too long, the kind of careless look that would have made Euijoo laugh once. Now it just made something twist in his chest.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed him. Not until right that second, standing in the narrow corridor, with the din of students shoving past them like the world hadn’t changed at all. The urge was stupid and sharp — to walk right up and grab Nicholas, to hold on, just to be sure he was real. Just to make sure nothing had shifted too far, not yet.

Nicholas didn’t say anything, just watched him in that quiet, strange way — like he was both relieved and waiting for something. For Euijoo to break the silence, maybe. For him to decide whether things were going to be the same or not.
So he did the only thing that felt right. He stepped forward and knocked his shoulder lightly against Nicholas’, like they were back to the beginning, like the summer hadn’t stretched out between them like some great, unspoken thing.

Nicholas smiled, quick and easy, like the sun breaking through overcast skies. Just like that, Euijoo could breathe again.

“We’re much too young to be invested in politics yet anyway,” Nicholas said, voice light and dry, but his eyes still too serious for the joke to land all the way.

Euijoo didn’t answer, just nodded, and together they turned down the corridor, heading off to find Maki. Like nothing had changed. Like everything hadn’t.

Chapter Text

Umbridge changed everything, of course.

From the very first moment she’d opened her mouth, with that syrupy sweet voice barely masking the steel underneath, Euijoo had loathed her. There was something about her — the smug little smiles, the pink cardigan stretched over her broad, hunched frame, the way her eyes gleamed like a cat cornering a mouse. He hadn’t even needed a reason at first. But it hadn’t taken long for her to give him plenty.

The first real crack had been Taki.

Taki, who had always tried to act like he wasn’t bothered by much, had been one of the few who couldn’t hide how the news of the Dark Lord’s return had shaken him. Euijoo had seen it — the way Taki got quiet during meals, the way his jokes died half-finished, how his hand would fidget at the edge of his sleeve like he was gripping for a wand even when there was no danger near.

And Umbridge had sniffed that fear out like a bloodhound. She singled him out during lessons, baiting him with thinly veiled scorn, dressing her words in politeness so clipped and proper it made Euijoo’s stomach twist.
And when Taki finally snapped back one day — voice tight, too loud, too defensive — Umbridge had pounced. She handed out a detention so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it made Euijoo's blood boil.

He hadn't been able to stop himself. The words had left his mouth before he'd thought them through. He'd stood up, called her out — not rudely, but clear and sharp enough for the room to go quiet. And just like that, he'd earned himself her full attention, that saccharine smile sharpening into something colder.

The detention had been worse than he imagined. The quill. The words carved into his skin, over and over until the sting of it seemed burned into the bones of his hand. When it was finally over, his head buzzing with anger and exhaustion, he’d stormed out of her office, her smug, pink-swathed figure still lurking behind his eyes.

It was late when he finally found Nicholas — slouched on a bench near the greenhouses, his tie loose, looking as unbothered as ever. Euijoo had barely opened his mouth when Nicholas caught sight of him, grinning.

“She’s brilliant, isn’t she?” Nicholas said, as if they were talking about a Quidditch match. “Pulled me aside after class. Said I showed ‘great promise.’ Told me she knew Father — said any son of his was practically a friend of the Ministry. She’s starting some little club, a student rep thing, Ministry liaisons or whatever. I was thinking — we should join. Be clever, yeah?”

Euijoo stopped dead, still holding his sore wrist, blinking at him like Nicholas had started speaking Parseltongue.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said flatly.

Nicholas’s smile faltered, confusion knitting his brow. “What?”

“She’s a toad, Nicholas. A real one. She’s cruel, she’s punishing everyone for breathing too loudly, she’s treating Taki like dirt just for speaking the truth, and she’s not teaching us anything useful. You-Know-Who’s back and we’re sitting here memorizing Ministry-approved rubbish. How are we supposed to fight him like this?”

For a moment, Nicholas didn’t say anything at all. His mouth pressed into a thin, unreadable line. And then, his voice cooled:

“Takayama’s always running his mouth. Someone had to teach him a lesson. Not every teacher needs to go easy on him just because he’s scared.”

The words hit harder than any hex. Euijoo stared at him, the back of his throat tightening, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away.

It was the worst fight they’d had since first year — and they’d had plenty. A week of silence grew into two, then three, and before Euijoo realized it, the weeks had blurred into months. The distance hardened into something neither of them tried to bridge.

Maki, ever the peacekeeper, watched the cold war unfold without saying much, but the nervous way he kept glancing between them told Euijoo everything. Nicholas, meanwhile, had drifted straight into Asakura Jo and Koga Yudai’s orbit, the pair of them and their little ratpack more than happy to fold him in. He fit too easily with them, laughing in all the wrong places, wearing that sharp-edged smile Euijoo had learned to hate. Nicholas ignored him so thoroughly it almost felt like an art form.

Euijoo had never known he could be so angry at someone and still miss them at the same time.

When Taki and Harua had pulled them aside weeks later, voices low and eyes darting around the common room like spies, Euijoo already knew what they were going to suggest before the words left their mouths: the Room of Requirement.

It was Maki who hesitated, glancing sideways at Euijoo before he even finished the sentence.

“Nicholas might want in—”

“No.” Euijoo’s voice cut sharper than a spell. “He’s one of Umbridge’s now. There’s no use in him.”

So it was settled.

***

The DA gave Euijoo something solid to hold onto, at least.

When everything else felt like it was splintering — the world, the school, his friendships — the Room of Requirement became an anchor. A secret tucked between stone walls and whispered passwords, safe and real in a way that lessons, prefects, and even Quidditch no longer were.

It wasn’t about the rules anymore. It wasn’t even about the grades or house points. It was about being ready, about finally learning the spells that might actually save someone’s life when the world outside caught fire for good.
At first, it felt like shedding skin, that first night standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a patchwork of students — Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, even a few Slytherins who seemed to realize, like Euijoo, that blood status wouldn’t shield them from what was coming.

But Nicholas wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t. Euijoo wouldn’t let him be. And he told himself, stubbornly, that it was better this way. Nicholas had chosen his side, after all. Smiling at Umbridge, playing along, cozying up to her and her Ministry-endorsed lies. If Nicholas could stand there and pretend everything was fine, then let him pretend.

Even so, when the door creaked open one evening — late, after the rest of them were already in the middle of disarming drills — Euijoo’s stomach dropped in the same way it did before a fall. His head snapped toward the sound, wand half-lowered, breath stalling.

But it wasn’t Nicholas. Just one of the Creevey brothers, red-faced from running. Relief tangled itself into something bitter before Euijoo could stop it.

Maki noticed. Maki always noticed. He didn’t say anything, but his glance lingered long enough to sting.
And even though Euijoo buried himself in the practices, in the jinxes and counters and shields, every night when he lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, he kept wondering: if Nicholas had been there — would he have still looked at him the same way? Like he did on the train, like nothing else mattered for a second but being seen.

But Nicholas stayed away. And so Euijoo forced himself to stop waiting.

Until the night before the first real frost, when he found Nicholas alone in the courtyard.

The sky was all heavy clouds, swollen and gray, and the wind had started to bite properly, cold enough to make Euijoo’s fingers ache. Nicholas sat on the stone bench beneath the old, gnarled ash tree, arms folded, his tie loose and his shirt untucked — a little more unpolished than usual, but still unmistakably him.

For a moment Euijoo just stood there, watching him.

Nicholas didn’t even glance up when he spoke. His voice cut the silence like he’d been expecting him.

“You’re so bloody childish,” he said, soft but sharp, like the words had worn themselves out from sitting too long inside his chest.

It wasn’t the sneer Euijoo had expected. That almost made it worse. His throat tightened. He forced out a brittle laugh, sharp around the edges.

“Childish?” he echoed, bitter. “You’re one to talk, Wang.”

Nicholas finally lifted his head. His eyes weren’t cold, the way Euijoo had braced for — just tired. Tired and distant, like he’d been standing at the wrong end of a long fight and didn’t have the strength to swing anymore.

“You think freezing me out is going to fix anything?” Nicholas asked quietly, like it wasn’t even really a question. “You’ve done it before. You always do.”

Euijoo felt his stomach twist, hot and sour. The words stuck against his teeth.

“There’s nothing left to fix,” he managed, low and flat. “Not this time.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as wire. Nicholas looked away first, kicking the toe of his shoe against the stone path. The smallest, most careless gesture — but Euijoo saw it for what it was. The same old defense: retreat before anyone could see the cracks.

“Of course,” Nicholas murmured, more to himself than to Euijoo. His mouth quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “You always liked the part where you get to be the hero.”

The words hit harder than any shouting could’ve. Euijoo flinched, but said nothing. He couldn’t. Not without sounding just as hollow.

The cold pressed in around them, but neither of them said another word. The air between them stayed sharp and heavy, a quiet that had grown too wide to cross. So, they started to drift away.

Chapter Text

The courtyard was mostly empty, the sky pale and cloudless, the sharp edge of early autumn just beginning to bite at the air. Euijoo lingered by the old stone well, fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of his sleeve, waiting for the courage he kept swearing was just about to show up.

Yunah had always been easy to spot, even in a crowd — all quiet grace and soft-spoken certainty. She moved like the world couldn’t touch her if it tried. And now, walking toward him across the flagstones with her scarf loose around her neck and her hair falling out of its tie, she looked so effortlessly at home that Euijoo felt, for a brief and burning second, completely and utterly out of place.

She stopped a few feet away, her hands tucked into her sleeves, head tilted just slightly.

“Hey,” she said, light and even, like it wasn’t the most impossible thing in the world to say.

Euijoo opened his mouth. Nothing useful came out.

“Hey,” he echoed, too fast, too stiff. His throat went dry, and his brain, ever loyal, chose this moment to abandon him entirely.

Yunah smiled — small, polite, and just a little curious. “You wanted to talk to me?”

Right. Right, that was why he’d asked her here. To talk. He could do that, couldn’t he?

“Well— yeah,” Euijoo said, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I just— I thought— I mean, I was hoping—”

His voice trailed off into nothing. The words had sounded easier in his head. He hated how clumsy they felt out loud, all tangled and wrong and obvious.

Yunah waited, patient but quiet. There was no teasing in her face, no sharpness, which somehow made it worse.
Euijoo scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks burning.

“I just thought maybe we don’t talk much. And maybe we should.”

A beat passed. Then Yunah’s mouth quirked, not quite a smile but not unkind either.

“Maybe,” she agreed softly.

The silence that followed was thick and awkward, but not unfriendly. Euijoo stared down at the scuffed toes of his shoes, willing himself to come up with something else to say, something easy, something smart.

“I like your scarf,” he blurted.

Yunah glanced down at it, amused. “It’s the same one I always wear.”

“Right,” Euijoo mumbled. “Yeah. I know.”

She shifted her weight slightly, looking at him with that quiet sort of calm that always made him feel a little exposed.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” she said, voice so gentle it almost didn’t sting.

Euijoo let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh, shaky and embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, neither of them saying anything more. The wind tugged at her hair, and she turned her face slightly into it, her expression soft and distant. He wanted to say something else, something meaningful, something that wouldn’t sound stupid — but all the words stayed stuck behind his teeth.

When she finally turned back to him, her eyes crinkled just a little at the corners.

“See you around, Euijoo,” she said, and with that, she walked away.

Euijoo stood there long after she was gone, heart still knocking clumsily against his ribs, wishing the conversation had been easier, wishing he’d said the right thing, and knowing he’d probably still feel the same way even if he had.

***

"At least you exchanged some words!"

Maki’s voice was light, teasing, as he jogged to keep pace with Euijoo. They ducked beneath a low-hanging arch, both moving quickly, heads down and steps sharp — always careful, always glancing for the wrong pair of eyes. Umbridge’s pets were everywhere these days, and neither of them felt like earning another detention.
But Euijoo wasn’t really listening. His mind was still stuck in the courtyard, in the too-short conversation, the words he hadn’t managed to say.

"I made a fool of myself," he muttered at last, the words heavy and sour in his mouth. His cheeks still burned with the memory of how awkward he’d been, how his tongue had tripped over every sentence. "I couldn’t even ask her the one thing I actually wanted to say."

His frown deepened, and he kicked at a stray stone on the path, watching it skitter away. The memory clung to him, bittersweet and sharp — the moment had come and gone, and all he’d done was stand there, choking on silence.
Maki fell into step beside him, stuffing his hands into his pockets, casting Euijoo a sidelong glance. His voice softened, just slightly, the edge of teasing replaced by something steadier.

"Don’t torture yourself, mate. The year’s just started. You’ll find another moment, yeah? No need to rush the world."

The words were meant to be comforting, and maybe they were — but they sat heavy in Euijoo’s chest all the same. He gave a small nod, more to convince himself than to answer.

When they slipped into the Room of Requirement, it was already alive with light and movement. Spells buzzed faintly through the air like static, bright bursts of silvery shapes flickering into half-formed animals and fading just as quickly. The others were deep in concentration, all chasing fragments of happiness, trying to anchor their Patronuses with memories bright enough to keep the dark at bay.

Euijoo drifted toward his usual corner, dropping his bag beside Taki and Fuma with a soft thud.

"You keep doing it wrong," Fuma was saying, his tone dry and flat, barely masking his boredom. He watched Taki’s wand movements like a professor twice his age, shaking his head as Taki tried — and failed — once more to coax light from his wand.

"Lift your chin a bit more. Like this," Fuma instructed, demonstrating with the kind of ease that suggested he'd done this too many times already.

Euijoo was about to pull out his own wand when a shadow shifted behind him. A figure approached, taller by just a margin, and cleared his throat lightly before speaking.

"Need a hand?"

Euijoo glanced over his shoulder, startled. The boy was a sixth year, Ravenclaw robes neat, dark hair slightly disheveled in the way that looked intentional rather than accidental. He had an easy smile, not the fake, too-bright kind, but something quieter, practiced.

Euijoo nodded once, polite but guarded, offering a faint smile in return.

"Name’s Logan," the older boy said casually, tilting his head slightly. "You must be Byun, yeah?"

That pulled Euijoo up short. His eyebrows lifted, and for a second, all the awkwardness from earlier flooded back. He was sure he’d never seen this boy before.

"Uh— yeah. How’d you know?"

Logan shrugged like it was nothing, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"My parents know your parents. From the Order, you know."

The words hung in the air, heavier than they had any right to be. Euijoo’s polite smile faltered. His parents had never talked to him much about the Order — not directly, anyway. Just whispers and warnings, glances exchanged across the dinner table when they thought he wasn’t listening. Hearing it from someone else, so casually, left him feeling both small and strangely exposed.

"Right," Euijoo mumbled, nodding, though the knot in his stomach tightened.

Logan didn’t seem to notice the shift. He stepped closer, lifting his wand, offering a few pointers with a kind of effortless confidence that Euijoo couldn’t help but envy. His instructions were clear, his tone friendly, but Euijoo barely heard half of them.

As they practiced, the distant chill of reality crept back in — the war, the truth that even here, surrounded by friends and warm light, it lingered just outside the walls. The thought settled cold and sharp against Euijoo’s chest, a reminder that no matter how many spells he learned, or how much he tried to be normal, the world was changing.

And it wasn’t going to wait for him to catch up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Euijoo caught a flicker of movement — or maybe it was just the way the light shifted around her. Yunah stood a little apart from the others, her wand resting lightly in her hand, her eyes closed in quiet concentration. The soft fall of her hair framed her face, catching the glow of the scattered Patronus light, and for a second Euijoo felt like he was seeing her properly for the first time.

She’d always been beautiful. Since first year, even. But back then he’d been too busy chasing Quidditch scores and homework deadlines, or tangled up in Nicholas and Maki and everything else that had seemed so important — and so simple — once. Now, the sight of her hit differently. It caught him off-guard, settled heavy and bittersweet in his chest.

He tore his gaze away, fixing it on the tip of his wand instead, willing himself back into the moment. The task at hand. A good memory. That’s all it was supposed to take.

A good memory. Just one.

He had plenty, didn’t he? Laughing until his stomach ached at Maki’s eleventh birthday party, the first flight on his new broom, his mother’s cookies still warm from the oven, the scratchy old treehouse where he’d first met Nicholas. That first Christmas together — Nicholas, grinning ear to ear, shoving a poorly wrapped gift into his hands, calling him his best friend.

His fingers curled tighter around the wand, knuckles pale.

Stop. Shut up. Focus.

But the memories wouldn’t listen. The cold, clear imprint of Nicholas’ eyes pushed to the surface, uninvited and sharp. Over and over, like a cracked record.

Nicholas, trying to teach him how to dance hidden from their parents — his hand warm at Euijoo’s back, steady. Nicholas, handing him a Firebolt like it was nothing, like the sky had always belonged to him. Nicholas’ handwriting, neat and sharp-edged, scrawled across the margins of letters he used to reread long after the ink had dried.
The warmth in his chest flickered, snuffed out.

His grip faltered. The spell fizzled.

"—Oh, fuck this."

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, cutting through the quiet hum of spellwork like a sharp note.
Logan, who’d been standing just off to his side, blinked in surprise, lowering his wand as his brow lifted.

"What?" he asked, voice curious but cautious.

Euijoo rubbed at his temples, trying to will away the ache blooming behind his eyes. His throat was tight. Embarrassment pooled hot beneath his skin, but the weight in his chest was worse.

"Sorry," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "I’ll be back."

Before Logan could say anything else, Euijoo turned on his heel and slipped out of the Room of Requirement, the door sealing itself behind him like it couldn’t be rid of him fast enough.

The hallway was cooler, the air sharp against his skin, but it did little to clear his head. He could still feel it — the tangle of memories, the ache of words left unsaid, the raw edge of things that had once felt easy.

And as he walked away, his heart still racing, he realized something else: Yunah had been watching. She’d looked at him, really looked, when he’d first stepped through the door that evening.

And he hadn’t even been brave enough to meet her eyes.

The hallway was colder than the Room had been, but Euijoo barely noticed. He leaned back against the stone wall, head tilted up toward the high arched ceiling, letting out a breath that felt sharp-edged and useless. His wand hung loosely at his side, forgotten for the moment.

Pathetic. That’s what he felt. Utterly, stupidly pathetic.

The words he hadn’t said to Yunah circled through his head like they were mocking him. All the ones he’d rehearsed in his mind a dozen times, soft and simple, but never quite right. Now they sat like stones in his throat.

Why did it have to be this hard?

And worse, why did it feel like no matter where his thoughts wandered, they always ended up back in the same place? Back to Nicholas. To the tight ache that came with the space he’d left behind. To that sharp, frozen moment where things had gone so wrong he still didn’t know how to name it.

Euijoo pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, trying to force the thoughts away, trying to be anywhere but here, stuck inside his own head. But the hallway offered no real refuge. The castle had grown too quiet, the air too still, the kind of silence that made the walls feel like they were listening.

Footsteps broke the stillness — sharp, easy, unhurried — echoing along the stone corridor.
Euijoo’s stomach dropped even before he heard the familiar voice.

“Well, look who’s having a quiet little sulk.”

Nicholas. Of course.

Euijoo straightened instinctively, but didn’t look at him. Not right away. The sound of more footsteps told him Nicholas wasn’t alone — that ratpack trailing after him, as usual: Asakura Jo, lounging with his hands stuffed into his pockets, and Koga Yudai, a smirk already forming on his face like he’d been born with it.

Nicholas stepped a little closer, hands in his robes, head tilted slightly, studying Euijoo the same way he might a chess piece he hadn’t decided whether to knock over or spare.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asked smoothly. “Don’t tell me the famous Byun charm’s wearing thin.”

Euijoo stayed silent, jaw clenched, staring at the opposite wall.

Nicholas clicked his tongue, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. “Or maybe you’ve been too busy with… other things.” His gaze sharpened. “I hear Dumbledore’s Army is making quite the name for itself. Getting bold, aren’t you?”

Euijoo’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Nicholas’ tone was light, casual, but the undercurrent wasn’t hard to catch — the kind of calculated, sharp-edged curiosity that wasn’t curiosity at all.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Euijoo muttered, voice flat.

Nicholas let out a low chuckle, but it didn’t sound like amusement. “No need to play dumb, Byun. You always were a terrible liar.”

For a moment, Euijoo looked at him properly — and there it was, the same cold calculation behind Nicholas’ eyes, masked just well enough to fool anyone else. Anyone who hadn’t spent years knowing him, trusting him.
Jo and K lingered close, watching with faint, lazy interest, like wolves waiting for a signal. But Nicholas wasn’t giving them one — not yet. He seemed content to let the silence stretch between them, watching Euijoo like he was waiting for him to crack.

Euijoo swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “You never cared about the truth before. Why start now?”

Nicholas’s expression darkened, the faintest twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth — not a smile, not even close. His eyes, once familiar and warm, were now glassy and sharp, like all that was left behind was a stranger wearing his old friend’s face. The boy from the treehouse — the one who used to share secrets under the summer rain — was nowhere to be found.

“Watch your mouth, half-blood,” came that sharp, venom-laced reminder from Nicholas' lips. K’s voice, lazily amused, trailed the words like a whip crack. Jo’s soft, hollow snickering followed, the sound curling around Euijoo like smoke, choking the air. "Don't forget where you stand."

Euijoo’s jaw tensed, his teeth pressing tight enough to ache. His fists coiled into tight knots at his sides, knuckles pale, trembling with the effort not to lash out. He stared at Nicholas, the one person who had once sworn he’d never stand on the other side of a line like this. Now he did — with both feet.

“I don’t,” Euijoo muttered, voice low but sharp as flint, locking eyes with Nicholas. “I like to remind myself I’m not a filthy bully like you.”

A shift — only slight — flickered across Nicholas’s face, but before it could settle, K took a step forward, cutting in.

“Oh, enough with that shit,” K snapped, looming over him. The older boy's face was carved from stone, eyes empty, all amusement drained now. “Where are the others?”

Euijoo raised a brow, forcing his features into something careless, a half-scoff tugging at his lip. “Why should I know?” he replied, every word dipped in mockery.

K’s lip curled, a slow and deliberate smirk spreading. “Cos you’re all alone,” he said simply, that same cold superiority bleeding through every syllable. His gaze flicked once toward Nicholas, as if sharing a silent joke at Euijoo’s expense. “Where’s the pet?” he added, the words landing like a slap, taunting.

Euijoo’s stomach tightened, but he stood his ground, his voice sharpening as the heat crawled up his throat. “Why don’t you all get lost?” he hissed, “I’m sure Umbridge is waiting somewhere to lick your boots clean—"

He barely had time to blink before K shoved him hard against the wall. The back of Euijoo’s skull grazed the cold, rough stone, and his face smacked against it with enough force to bite his tongue. The sharp, metallic taste of blood spread across his mouth.

“Don’t be so cocky,” K growled, teeth clenched, voice low and poisonous.

Euijoo could feel Jo’s empty, hollow-eyed stare drilling into him from behind, the quiet laughter like nails scraping glass. His muscles ached as he tried to push K off, but K was stronger — older, heavier — pressing down like a stone lid on a coffin.

His fingers twitched at his side, fumbling and desperate, until they finally curled around the familiar shape of his wand. His palm wrapped around the wood so tightly the grain creaked under the pressure, his knuckles pale and bloodless. The second K’s grip eased, even slightly, Euijoo yanked his arm free, breath ragged and wild, and raised his wand — the spell already sparking at the tip of his tongue, sharp and vicious, a hex ready to fly.

But the words never left his mouth.

A voice cut clean through the air, low but slicing — like a dagger slipping between ribs.

“Expelliarmus!”

In an instant, the wand was wrenched from his grip, clattering against the flagstone floor with a hollow, final-sounding crack. Euijoo’s breath hitched, his chest hollowing as his wide, disbelieving gaze snapped to Nicholas.
For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. Time stretched thin, holding them there — Nicholas, wand still lazily lowered at his side, meeting Euijoo’s eyes with an expression that wasn’t cold, wasn’t smug, just... empty. Like there was nothing left of the boy who once shared his secrets, his summers, his childhood.

Euijoo had never felt fury this deep. It wasn’t the wild, burning kind — it was cold, sharp, and heavy, anchoring itself in his bones, sinking in until it felt like part of him.

Nicholas’s voice broke the silence again, quieter this time, almost casual.

“Let’s go. He’s not worth it.”

K let out a snort, but not before shoving Euijoo one last time, hard, slamming him back against the stone wall like punctuation. He turned on his heel and followed after Nicholas, Jo trailing behind — still grinning, still silent.
And just like that, they were gone.

The corridor seemed to stretch wider in their absence, the shadows longer, the cold deeper. Euijoo stayed there, back against the wall, his body still trembling from the adrenaline that hadn’t quite burned out. His heart slammed against his ribs, a rhythm wild and uneven, while anger and shame tangled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

But beneath all of it, there was something worse. Something deeper. Something that didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Yunah’s hand rested lightly in his — warm, soft, the kind of warmth that should have settled into his bones and thawed the cold out of him. But it didn’t. He felt the shape of her fingers, the gentle squeeze whenever she looked his way, the comfort of her nearness — and still, beneath it all, the strange, hollow chill nestled deep in his chest refused to leave.

He couldn’t remember exactly how he’d gotten here, walking beside her through the snow-blanketed path to Hogsmeade, her hand folded neatly into his like they’d always belonged this way. Maybe it had started with the words he’d fumbled out weeks ago, or the way he’d stood up for her when Umbridge had sharpened her claws and dragged Yunah’s name across the stone-cold walls of detention, the scars of that cruel quill still faintly marked on his skin. Maybe it was that. Maybe she just pitied him.

Because Yunah was warm. And yet, Euijoo had never felt colder.

The village came into view through the misty afternoon, roofs heavy with snow, windows glowing amber with early winter light. They walked in slow, quiet steps, their conversation coming in soft, halting bursts — like the world between them had shrunk, but the space inside his head only grew louder.
Yunah tugged her golden and red scarf higher each time the wind tried to unravel it, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her lashes dusted with snowflakes that hadn’t yet melted. She looked beautiful, and Euijoo knew it.

When they finally sat inside the Three Broomsticks, the butterbeer arrived warm and foaming, the clinking of glasses and easy chatter of other students filling the cozy, firelit room. Euijoo sat close — so close their thighs pressed together beneath the worn wooden table, his knee bumping softly against hers every now and then.

Yunah’s voice was quieter here, softer, and when she smiled, it reached her eyes. Euijoo found himself watching her more than he listened, memorizing the curve of her lip, the flick of her hair behind her ear, the way her fingers curled around the mug, absorbing its heat.

And then, without thinking, his hand reached out — his thumb brushing away the thin cloud of foam that clung to her upper lip. His fingers lingered there for just a second longer than they should have. Her skin was warm, and he could feel her breath catch, see the faint pink bloom across her cheeks.

It should have felt perfect. A small, sweet moment. The kind people remembered.

But inside, Euijoo felt the weight of it all press against his ribs, a creeping, suffocating ache. Like he was borrowing someone else’s happiness — like this wasn’t quite his, like it didn’t fit.

And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.

The rest of the afternoon passed in soft fragments. Yunah’s laughter — light and real — would drift over the table now and then, and Euijoo would smile, and nod, and answer. On the surface, it was the kind of day most people would hold close, the kind that should be replayed over and over when the nights grew too cold, or the war too near.

But the more her warmth curled around him, the colder he seemed to feel.

When they finally left the pub, the sky had already dimmed, the sun a weak amber glow sinking behind the frost-covered rooftops. The walk back to the castle was quiet, but not the comfortable kind. Yunah’s hand slid into his again — and though he let her, his grip was loose, distracted.

She talked about classes, about how the DA practice was getting easier, about the look on Umbridge’s face when some troublemaker had set off another round of enchanted fireworks in the Great Hall. Euijoo laughed at the right moments, but it all felt distant, like the sound was coming from someone else’s mouth.

When the castle gates came into view, Yunah slowed her steps, her mitten-covered hand still wrapped around his. The wool was soft, her fingers warm against his, and for a moment, Euijoo wished he could feel it properly — wished the warmth could sink in.

She turned to him, her gaze gentle and searching, as if she were looking for something unspoken in his face.

“I had fun today,” she said softly, her voice barely a breath against the cold air. “…I’m glad we did this.”

Euijoo swallowed the knot lodged in his throat and pulled together a small, careful smile. “Yeah,” he answered. “Me too.”

And part of him wanted to believe it. But another part — the part buried somewhere deeper, the part that always stayed quiet — knew it wasn’t entirely true.

They lingered there, neither moving, the fading sun painting the snow with soft orange light. Euijoo felt his body lean in before his mind could stop it, his hand lifting, brushing a stray lock of her hair from her cheek with a hesitance so sharp it almost hurt.

Yunah tilted her face toward his, her lips parting slightly, her breath visible in the cold. She leaned closer, slow and uncertain, and he didn’t pull away. Their lips met — fleeting, clumsy, and new. A soft press, a brief spark, and then it was over. But Yunah smiled as she pulled back, her cheeks dusted with pink, her eyes glowing in the dying light.

"I'll see you around, Euijoo," she whispered, the words almost hopeful.

"Yeah," Euijoo said, voice breathy as he cleared his throat, his lips still tingling with the short moment of warmth, "See ya."

She gave him one last bashful smile before turning, her scarf trailing behind her like a thread of red and gold as she walked away, disappearing through the heavy oak doors.

Euijoo stayed rooted to the spot, the cold air tightening around his lungs. The courtyard, once full of soft chatter and footprints in the snow, now lay empty, the last streaks of sunset bleeding out behind the castle towers.

Silence pressed against him, heavy and sharp. He leaned back against the frostbitten stone wall, tilting his head to the darkening sky, watching as the first stars blinked into existence. His chest felt tight, knotted with something he couldn’t name.

This was supposed to be the moment. The one people talked about. The kind that filled your chest with lightness, the kind that left your thoughts tangled with excitement.

But there was no warmth. No glow. Only the hollow, creeping cold that had never left.

And when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t Yunah’s face that lingered in the quiet dark.

It was Nicholas.

The sound of his sharp, knowing laugh. The soft, offhanded way Nicholas used to rest his head on Euijoo’s shoulder when no one was looking. The tilt of his voice when he said his name.
Even now, even after the distance and the damage, Nicholas still lived in the corners of his mind, like a ghost that wouldn’t leave.

Euijoo shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, his throat tight with something that felt dangerously close to grief. He hated this. He hated the way Nicholas still owned so much of him.

And most of all, he hated Nicholas.

His boots crunched through the snow as he turned back toward the castle, retracing the same path they’d walked together just hours before. But now, the path felt longer.
And this time, he walked it alone — his soul heavy with guilt and disgust.

Chapter Text

It's high to be wanted
But haunted is higher
And the change require
Desire

After that fateful encounter, between the cold corridors walls, the next time Euijoo spoke to Nicholas was outside Madame Puddifoot’s, under a cold drizzle that painted the cobblestones silver and sent little rivers chasing one another down the alleyways. Euijoo stood there, soaked through the seams of his robes, trying — and failing — to piece together what had gone wrong with Yunah this time. The rain blurred the world, but the sharp sting of her words earlier still rang clear in his head.

And of course, it was typical — just typical — for Nicholas Wang to waltz into his misery at a moment like this. Slytherin to the core. Classic Wang. His parents had always warned him, and now he could practically hear their voices in the rain.

Nicholas sauntered up the street with the easy arrogance of someone who owned the pavement, his gang of Slytherins fanned out behind him like dark, smirking shadows. His head tilted, raindrops sliding off his hair as he fixed Euijoo with a mock-sympathetic sneer.

“Your girl doesn’t look very happy, Byun,” he drawled, voice slick with scorn. “What, aren’t the rumours about Gryffindors true?”

The other Slytherins burst into snide, practiced laughter, their voices cutting through the rain like knives. Euijoo’s jaw tightened. His glare was sharp, but the ache behind it dulled the edge.

“Shove off, Wang,” he snapped. “No one wants to talk to you.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, and offered an elaborate, almost lazy middle finger before strolling past like Euijoo’s miserable afternoon wasn’t even worth his time.

When Yunah found him later, she was in tears again — not the soft kind that begged for comfort, but the sharp, angry kind that warned against it. She stood there trembling, her expression pulled tight between frustration and heartbreak.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” Euijoo said, his voice a little sharper than he meant. He hated when she cried; it made him feel helpless, like he was always saying the wrong thing. “I told you — I was meeting my parents—”

Yunah’s voice cracked like thunder. “Yes, run off to your parents! Wouldn’t want to introduce them to me, would you?” She let out a bitter laugh, blinking hard against the rain. “Honestly, Euijoo Byun, you’re one of the most insensitive people I’ve ever met.”

Euijoo blinked, stunned, her words sinking like stones. “They’re just my mum and dad,” he said quietly, confused. “Why would you want to meet them?”

For a moment, Yunah just stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, as if she’d never seen him before. And then, with a sharp pivot and a cutting impersonation of Nicholas, she flipped him off and spun on her heel, vanishing into the rain.

Euijoo stood there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, scowling at nothing in particular. “Right then,” he muttered to the empty street. “Fucking brilliant.”

The rain accompanied him all the way to the Three Broomsticks, turning puddles into moats and his thoughts into heavier, muddier things. By the time he reached the pub’s warm glow, his self-pity had grown large enough to swallow him whole.

The familiar scent of butterbeer and wood smoke curled around him as he stepped inside. His mum was already halfway out of her seat the moment she spotted him.

“Euijoo!” she exclaimed, pulling him into a hug before he could protest. He let her, half-heartedly, before swatting away his dad’s hand as it reached out to ruffle his rain-flattened hair.

“All right, all right,” he grumbled, sinking into the chair like a deflated balloon.

“Not a good time?” his dad asked, amused, as he slid a butterbeer across the table. Euijoo wrapped his fingers around the mug, letting the warmth seep into his cold hands, but it did little to thaw the ache in his chest.

“Fine,” he muttered with a heavy sigh. “How are you guys?”

His parents exchanged the kind of knowing smiles that irritated him to no end — the ones that said they’d decided everything would be fine, even if it wasn’t. They launched into cheerful chatter, talking about his mum’s sister’s latest antics and Joon’s most recent, and predictably disastrous, motorbike accident. Euijoo let their voices wash over him as he drained one butterbeer, then another, feeling the dull edge of hunger prick at his thoughts.

For a moment, the world felt almost manageable — until the front door swung open, and Nicholas Wang, dripping wet and uninvited, arrived like the last straw.

Nicholas slouched over to their table, rainwater trailing from his cloak in small, accusing puddles. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and his eyes glinted with that signature Wang blend of mischief and malice.

“Oh, hello,” Euijoo’s mum said, lifting her gaze with a tight, cautious smile.

“Byun, you are the worst,” Nicholas announced, his voice light but laced with mock indignation. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a painting: vivid, rain-drenched, and annoyingly at ease. “Did you really dump Yunah just to spend the day hanging out with your parents?”

Euijoo froze, his stomach flipping. His dad blinked, curiosity piqued. “Yunah? You’re dating Yunah now?”

“Clearly not. He’s broken up with her,” his mum chimed in, her eyes alight with a mix of surprise and sharp interest. “Euijoo. You haven’t told us anything!”

“Wang,” Euijoo ground out through clenched teeth, “what are you—”

But Nicholas only smiled, the picture of polished manners, and leaned across the table with his rain-dampened hand outstretched.

“I’m so sorry, I’m being terribly rude,” he purred in his most refined, posh voice. “It’s lovely to meet you properly. I’m Nicholas Wang.”

For a heartbeat, Euijoo could do nothing but gape. His parents hesitated, their smiles slipping into something more guarded, but finally extended their hands to shake his, as if Wang were nothing more than a perfectly polite boy they’d just met.

The entire afternoon caved in on Euijoo. He regretted — bitterly — never telling them about the fallout with Nicholas, the cold war that had defined the last six months. He hadn’t wanted to give them the satisfaction of being right, hadn’t wanted to admit how much Nicholas had mattered.

Now, it was all unraveling.

Nicholas, unbothered as ever, slid into the seat beside him, settling in like the past six months of silence had never happened. And for one brief, horrible moment, Euijoo almost leaned toward him, the way he used to — before everything went wrong.

“Up at Hogsmeade for the afternoon?” Nicholas drawled, still wearing that insufferably smarmy grin. “You’ve picked a miserable day for it. This weather’s dreadful.”

Euijoo rubbed at his eyes, half-hoping that by the time he opened them again, Nicholas Wang would have vanished — preferably into the nearest puddle. No such luck.

“You’ve clearly been outside,” his dad observed, eyeing Nicholas over the rim of his butterbeer. “Maybe it’s not so bad after all.”

“Oh, I’ve just been putting out fires everywhere,” Nicholas replied, adjusting his tie with that irritating little flick he thought made him look important. “Prefect duties, you know. Someone’s got to keep the place from falling apart.”

“Euijoo doesn’t seem to see his duties that way,” his mum said dryly, lips twitching.

Nicholas leaned forward, voice soft and conspiratorial. “Euijoo has — I hope you don’t mind me saying — a somewhat... conflicting relationship with authority.”

Euijoo’s mum let out a laugh, light but genuine, and even his dad’s stern mouth softened at the corners. Traitors. Both of them.

Euijoo glared. “Wang loves authority. He’s practically Umbridge’s lapdog.”

Nicholas only shrugged, perfectly unbothered. “My mother says Umbridge’s star is still rising in the Ministry,” he said smoothly. “No need to make enemies when you can keep your head down and stay useful. She says Umbridge weeds out anyone who challenges her, so better to be quiet — and make sure there’s someone strong left to stand against her when the time’s right.”

His mum hesitated, her fingers curling around her mug. “Your mum might have a point. Euijoo, I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Euijoo cut in, voice rising. “By ‘oppose her,’ he means his parents are Death Eaters. Umbridge is still Ministry, but—”

“Volume, Euijoo,” his dad said sharply, casting a quick glance around the room. “And it’s nice to hear you finally starting to see it our way.”

“Yes, Euijoo, volume,” Nicholas echoed, like he’d been invited into the family. Then, outrageously, he winked at Euijoo’s dad. “Anyway, I’m far too young to sell my soul to any dark wizard. Let me have a legal drink first.”

Despite himself, Euijoo’s dad let out a reluctant chuckle.

“Dad,” Euijoo said, incredulous.

“Honey,” his mum murmured, shaking her head with a sigh.

“I can’t help it,” his dad muttered, eyes still lingering on Nicholas, “he reminds me of—”

“I know,” his mum finished quietly, her smile fading.

“Frightfully sorry,” Nicholas drawled, voice light as silk. “But I don’t think I can remind you of anyone — I’m quite singular, you see. Very impressive.”

They laughed at that — his mum, his dad, even Nicholas himself — and the sound of it made something tighten painfully in Euijoo’s chest. They kept laughing, warm and easy, as if Nicholas belonged there, as if they hadn’t spent years teaching Euijoo exactly what kind of boy Nicholas Wang really was.

Nicholas kept talking, smooth as polished glass, the words flowing as if he and Euijoo were still best friends, as if nothing had ever gone sour. His shoulder brushed against Euijoo’s more than once, lingering like it was the most natural thing in the world, and the scent of him — rain, expensive cologne, a faint trace of something sharp and minty — wrapped around Euijoo like smoke.

And beneath it all, Euijoo’s stomach coiled tighter and tighter, until the fury was so sharp he thought it might burst straight out of him.

The moment his legs remembered they could move, he shot upright, his voice clipped and shaking with the effort it took not to scream.

“I should be going back to school.”

His mum’s crooked smile held just the barest hint of something knowing. “So soon?”

He could barely stand to look at her. “Bye,” he muttered, and gave them both the sort of stiff, obligatory hug that felt more like a formality than affection. His bag was slung over his shoulder before they could say another word, and he practically stumbled out of the Three Broomsticks, lungs burning for air.

Outside, the rain had finally stopped. The world looked freshly wrung out, everything damp and shining like it had been scrubbed clean — but Euijoo couldn’t shake the feeling of being dirty, like Nicholas' words were still clinging to him. The clouds were beginning to peel back, slow and heavy, revealing tattered strips of blue sky, and the grass along the path glinted like a thousand sharp little knives.

He was barely out of Hogsmeade’s main road when he heard it — footsteps pounding the slick cobblestones, and that unmistakable voice calling after him.

“Hey! Hey!”

Euijoo didn’t turn, didn’t slow down. His fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. “Fuck off.”

But Nicholas wasn’t the type to take the hint. He ran to catch up, barely out of breath, that same infuriating grin still ghosting his lips.

“What!” he called, half-laughing. “Why are you being such a prick?”

Euijoo stopped so suddenly Nicholas nearly collided with him. His voice came out flat, brittle.

“Why are you pretending like we haven’t spent the whole year on opposite sides? What was that back there — that little performance?”

Nicholas blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and offense. His cheeks were still pink from the cold, his eyes bright and sharp like cut glass. “I haven’t really met your parents before,” he said. “Just because you’re a berk doesn’t mean I wanted to leave a bad impression.”

Euijoo let out a bitter laugh, the sound scraping against his throat. “They already hate you. You can stop acting now. I don’t know what the hell you think’s changed.”

Nicholas tilted his head, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, Byun, your moral outrage is as inspiring as ever,” he said lightly. Then, out of nowhere, he said, “Hey, why’d you break up with Yunah?”

Euijoo froze. The words hit him harder than any hex.

Slowly, he turned to look at Nicholas, and all the anger inside him crystallized into something cold and sharp. “I can’t believe you.”

Nicholas lifted his hands, palms out, as if he couldn’t see the line he’d just crossed. “What?”

“You’re awful,” Euijoo said, voice filled with suppressed feelings, but unshaking. “No wonder you’re in Slytherin.” He shook his head, the last of the fight draining from his chest. “Fine. Follow me around, sneer at me, play your stupid games. I never trusted you, anyway.”

Nicholas’s smile flickered, eyes darkening, glittering like he’d just found the one part of Euijoo he could break. “You’re lying.”

“Why do you care?” Euijoo snapped, voice cracking under the strain. “She dumped me, all right? It was a terrible date. Barely said two words the whole time. That what you wanted to hear?”

The confession hung there, brittle and sour, suspended in the cold afternoon air. For once, Nicholas didn’t fire back. No smug quip, no smirk. Just silence — a rare, foreign thing on him.
Then, before Euijoo could flinch away or armor back up, Nicholas reached for him — fingers twisting tight in the front of Euijoo’s robes, yanking him forward with more force than finesse.
For a split second, Euijoo braced, his muscles locking up, certain a punch was coming. He saw Nicholas’s face twist — not with anger, but something else entirely. And then Nicholas’s mouth was on his.

Cool and uncertain at first, but steady, the pressure both startling and deliberate. Euijoo went rigid. His mind blanked, his whole body locking up under the weight of it, and then, without realizing when the shift had happened, he was kissing back. His hands scrambled upward, fists knotting instinctively in Nicholas’s robes, his head spinning with the shock of how natural it felt.
Nicholas tasted faintly of butterbeer foam and rain, sweet and sharp all at once. His height — something Euijoo had never paid much mind to — pressed down around him now, impossible to ignore, the curve of Nicholas’s body leaning in close, the brush of dark hair against his cheek.

His chest heaved, his fingers tightened, the world shrinking to just this one moment.
When they finally broke apart, it was as if the air around them had shifted. Euijoo staggered back a step, blinking hard, his breath coming too fast, unsure where to look — the ground, the sky, anywhere but at Nicholas.

Nicholas stood still, wide-eyed, as if the kiss had knocked the wind out of him. Slowly, he lifted a hand to his mouth, fingertips resting against his lips like he wasn’t sure they were still his.

“I—” Nicholas started, but the words stumbled. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t planning—”

“No?” Euijoo said hoarsely, his throat dry and raw. “Then why did you?”

“I don’t know!” Nicholas’s voice cracked, all of his usual control slipping away. His hands raked back through his damp hair, frustrated and breathless. “You pissed me off — and then you didn’t, and I— I just did.”

Euijoo’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “I didn’t—” he blurted, too fast, too defensive, and Nicholas’s head snapped up, stung. “I mean— I didn’t think I— you surprised me, all right?”

Nicholas let out a short, sharp laugh, but there was no real humor in it. “Yeah,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His voice was quieter now, almost dazed. “That makes two of us.”

Silence stretched long and strange between them, full of all the things neither of them could untangle. Then, against his own will, Euijoo let out a short, shaky laugh — the kind that felt too brittle to be real.

“I’m getting that,” he said.

And for once, Nicholas didn’t have anything clever to add.

“Shut up,” Nicholas muttered, but his lips tugged against the pressure of a half-swallowed smile. “You’re the one who got dumped after a few dates. What even happened?”

Euijoo’s heart gave an odd little stutter, like it wasn’t sure whether to ache or soar. The last hour — the entire miserable day — had been knotted up with anger, loneliness chewing at his edges like a slow-burning fuse. But now, standing here with Nicholas, the world felt sharper, steadier. Less empty. It was ridiculous, probably, but he'd missed this. Missed Nicholas, even if he’d never have admitted it out loud.

His mouth still felt warm, too. He wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“It was awful,” Euijoo said finally, his voice quieter, more honest. “She kept crying about... things. And then getting mad at me for not inviting her to lunch with my parents. I don’t get it. Why would she even want that? Parents are boring.”

Nicholas blinked at him like he was some half-baked assignment in need of serious correction. “She probably wanted you to introduce her,” he said dryly. “You know. As your girlfriend. You complete idiot.”

“Oh.” Euijoo’s cheeks prickled with heat, and the realization hit him a second too late. “I didn’t... I didn’t think of that.”

“Yeah.” Nicholas gave an exaggerated eye-roll, but his voice softened around the edges. “No surprise there. You’re absolutely useless with women. Honestly, you’re lucky to have me around.”

There was a pause — a ripple in the air between them — and Euijoo stared at Nicholas, the weight of those words sinking in oddly. After what had just happened, after that kiss, the words hung there, off-kilter and strange. Euijoo couldn’t even manage a joke, just an awkward, uncertain: “Er.”

And Nicholas, as if catching the same unspoken thought, froze. The usual smugness slid right off his face, leaving something raw and unguarded beneath. His eyes widened slightly, and for a breathless second neither of them moved, caught between the next moment and the last.
Euijoo could feel his pulse racing, each beat like a drumroll beneath his skin, and the urge to close the space between them twisted through him so sharply it almost hurt. His fingers twitched at his sides, desperate to reach out.

Nicholas was the first to break, voice faint and stumbling. “Right. I — should get back. Loads to do. Prefect things. You know. Important, busy.”

But Euijoo shook his head slightly, stepping in before Nicholas could retreat, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Nicholas.”

And that was all it took. As if they’d both reached the same decision at once, they leaned in, the gap between them collapsing easily, naturally. Euijoo’s hand slid up, curling around the back of Nicholas’s neck, fingers brushing damp strands of hair, drawing him closer. Nicholas met him halfway, his long fingers cupping Euijoo’s jaw, tilting his face upward.

The kiss this time was different — slower, less frantic, full of careful, searching weight. Euijoo couldn’t think about Yunah, or about Nicholas’s sharp tongue or what any of this meant. His mind had emptied completely, all thought stripped away by the warmth of Nicholas’s mouth on his, the quiet, tentative press of lips that made his whole body spark and shudder, like his chest could barely contain the sensation of it.

When they finally pulled back, neither moved far. Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the cool air, Nicholas’s eyes shut as though he couldn’t bear to open them and have the moment end. Euijoo’s stayed wide open, watching — memorizing. Up close, Nicholas’s face looked different, more delicate, the sharp angles softened. His lashes, impossibly long for a boy, cast faint shadows on his cheeks.

Euijoo couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t quite bring himself to look away.

And for once, Nicholas didn’t tell him to.

“I—” Nicholas began, voice quiet and thin, but the rest of the words never came. His mouth snapped shut, and the silence that followed stretched out, taut and heavy.

Euijoo couldn’t stand it. His heart was still thrumming, his mind still caught in the echo of that kiss, the warmth of it like a ghost on his lips. So before he could second-guess himself, he leaned in again, closing the space between them and kissing Nicholas once more.

This time, there wasn’t any confusion, no panic or clumsy surprise. Just certainty. Nicholas kissed him back, and it wasn’t soft or polite — it was hungry, grounding, the kind of kiss that chased all other memories of kissing from Euijoo’s mind. Those awkward, fumbling moments — Yunah near the lake, too wet and too cold; a rushed game of Spin the Bottle that left nothing behind but the taste of cheap pumpkin juice; Maki, that one ridiculous accident in second year, when they'd both jerked away so fast Maki had nearly fallen off the bench, coughing in horror.

None of it had been this. None of it had been Nicholas, hands gripping Euijoo’s robes tight enough to wrinkle them, mouth coaxing and certain, the world narrowing down to the point of contact between them. Euijoo wanted it to last forever. He wanted to drown in it, to push away every sharp thought and question that followed Nicholas around like shadows.

And somewhere, in the corner of his mind, the strange, floating thought: maybe this would finally quiet the ache, the obsession he’d been dragging around for months. Maybe now he could breathe.

But Nicholas pulled away. Slowly, reluctantly, he stepped back, and Euijoo felt the chill of the distance as sharply as if someone had thrown a cold bucket of water over him. Nicholas’ expression flickered, nerves clawing at the edges, his bravado crumbling.

Euijoo couldn’t bear it. His voice rushed out before he even thought: “I hate not talking to you.”

The effect was immediate. Nicholas’ whole face softened, like the tension had been cut loose from his shoulders. He let out a shaky laugh, small and almost disbelieving. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I—yeah. It’s been awful.”

“This is... a good idea,” Euijoo said, though the words came out clumsy and uncertain, like he was still convincing himself.

Nicholas’ mouth quirked, and the familiar gleam of mischief slid back into his eyes, the way it always did when he was getting comfortable again. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you congratulating me for kissing you, Byun? Merlin, you really are the worst.”

Euijoo flushed but held his ground. “I kissed you back, you know.”

“Yes,” Nicholas replied, his voice low and sharp with amusement. “I’m painfully aware.”

And then they both stood there, staring at each other like a pair of absolute idiots. Euijoo could feel it creeping up his face — that wide, uncontainable grin that always betrayed him, the one that made his friends groan and Maki call him a dork.

Nicholas gave him a lopsided, fond smile, catching it immediately. “You look like an idiot, Byun.”

“Whatever,” Euijoo muttered, ducking his head and scrubbing at his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, feeling sheepish and bright all at once. “So... you want to walk back to Hogwarts? There’s a DA meeting tonight. You should come.”

The offer hung between them, warm and uncertain, and Nicholas’ face tightened, the smile fading like a light being switched off. His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I mean...” Euijoo hesitated, already sensing the shift in mood, “if we’re — if we're good again — you can’t stay with the Inquisitorial Squad. You’ll have to quit.”

Nicholas scoffed, sharp and defensive. “Why don’t you quit the DA, then?”

Euijoo blinked, caught off guard. “What? Because — the DA’s the right thing to do. You know that.”

Nicholas' expression darkened, all humor draining away, replaced by something brittle and scalded.

“Why is it always the right thing when you do it? Why is it always me that’s supposed to bend? Be a good Slytherin, swallow it down, smile at fucking Takayama like I don’t know what he says behind my back — like I haven’t seen the way people look at me.”

The sudden, sharp turn left Euijoo speechless, the space between them crackling with something new — not the giddy rush of earlier, but raw, wounded pride.

“I’m sorry,” Euijoo said, voice tight with disbelief, “are you actually mad at me because I'm not letting you be a bully?”

Nicholas sneered, but there was no real fire behind it, only exhaustion and frustration. “You don’t let me do anything, Byun. You don’t control me, even if you walk around like the world’s yours for the taking. Like Dumbledore put the crown right on your head.”

Euijoo stared at him, thrown. “What are you talking about? I’ve barely even spoken to Professor Dumbledore.”

Nicholas faltered, eyes going distant, like he’d lost track of the argument halfway through. But then he scowled, building the wall back up.

"Whatever. Doesn’t matter. You’re still so fucking full of yourself.”

The words hit harder than they should have, and something inside Euijoo snapped. His voice came out sharp and cold. “You know what, Wang? Why don’t you just go running back to Umbridge? Nobody here needs you.”

Nicholas’ lip curled, and his voice was a snarl. “Go to hell.”

“After you,” Euijoo fired back, the heat of his own anger propelling him forward as he turned on his heel and stormed off toward the castle, his chest burning and hollow all at once.

Behind him, the quiet stretched out, heavier than before.

Chapter Text

If anything, Euijoo hated Nicholas more after that.

It wasn’t the clean, righteous sort of hate he’d always imagined — the kind you could hold steady and sharp like a wand pointed at a target. No, this was the kind of hate that felt messy, unmanageable. The kind that turned his stomach every time he smelled the sharp, expensive thread of Nicholas' cologne lingering in the corridors, mixed with rain and ink and that stupid, warm note that had been pressed against his mouth.

The kind that left him awake at night, glaring at the ceiling, heart aching in his chest in a way he refused to name.
And Nicholas had the audacity to pretend nothing had happened. Worse — he leaned into it. Became even more insufferable than usual. Smirking, posturing, tossing his prefect badge around like a weapon. Worse still, he’d made himself Umbridge’s shadow, hunting down DA meetings like he enjoyed the chase, eyes bright and cheeks flushed every time he dragged some unlucky third-year out by the collar and handed them over to her like a cat presenting a dead bird.

The night Dumbledore left — the night the castle seemed to hold its breath as if some vital piece had just been yanked out of place — Euijoo had sat at his desk, scribbling a furious, ink-blotted letter to his parents.

You were right, he’d written, scrawled so hard the quill nearly tore the parchment. Wangs can’t be trusted. Should’ve listened. Should’ve known.

But no amount of ink could burn the thought of Nicholas' mouth out of his head.

Yet, the worst part — the part that made him grind his teeth at night and twist his sheets into knots — was that Nicholas didn’t ignore him anymore.

If at the start of the year they'd avoided each other like rival magnets — always orbiting, always tense — now Nicholas showed up everywhere. Like he was tethered to Euijoo by some invisible string neither of them could cut. At breakfast, standing too close behind him in line. In the corridors, leaning lazily against the wall, arms folded, that sly, amused look sharpened into a dare. And every single time Euijoo so much as thought about breaking one of Umbridge's rule, Nicholas was already there, waiting, as if daring Euijoo to make the first move.

“You sure you want to do that?” Nicholas would murmur, voice pitched soft and low, just for him. “Bit risky, even for Gryffindor’s second-string golden boy.”

And that was always all it took for Euijoo to throw himself at Nicholas.

Sometimes it was wands — sharp and fast, spells rattling off stone walls. But more often it was bare hands. Euijoo's fingers knotting into Nicholas' robe collar, shoving him backward until his spine hit the cold stone, Nicholas' hands digging into his shoulders, twisting hard as they grappled, breath coming short and ragged with the effort.

It wasn’t about Umbridge anymore. It wasn’t even about the DA.

It was about the way Nicholas looked at him — like a challenge, like a puzzle half-solved — and the way Euijoo couldn’t stop reacting. Like his body had betrayed him completely.

After one of those fights — a vicious, silent brawl behind the greenhouses that had left Euijoo with scraped palms and Nicholas' lip bleeding slightly, the taste of iron still sharp between them — Maki had found him slumped on the Gryffindor common room couch, knuckles raw and red.

“Mate,” Maki said, crouching in front of him. “What the hell is going on?”

Euijoo didn’t answer, staring at the fire until the flames blurred.

“You’ve been in detention three nights this week,” Maki pressed, his voice going soft, almost careful. “And you keep showing up looking like you’ve fought a bloody werewolf. This isn’t... this isn’t normal, Euijoo. Even for you.”

Euijoo let out a humorless breath, jaw locked tight. His throat burned with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He couldn’t tell Maki about the kiss, about the mess he’d let Nicholas make of him. About the way his heart kicked hard against his ribs whenever they got too close, as if it hadn’t gotten the memo that Nicholas was the enemy.

“It’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low. “Wang’s just being a dick, that’s all.”

But Maki kept watching him, brow furrowed with something too close to concern.

And that just made Euijoo angrier. Because Maki didn’t know. None of them knew. And it was Nicholas' fault, too — that he had to lie. That his whole world felt off-balance, like one step wrong and it would all crash down.

Their friendship — if you could even call it that anymore — had rotted into something ugly. Sharp-edged and mean, like chewing glass. It had turned into lies, into bitter silences and too-long glances and the kind of anger that lived just under the skin. It wasn’t fun or easy like it used to be. That effortless banter and shared glances across the library, the way Nicholas used to lean into his space like it was second nature. Now it was nothing but fights and snarled words and bruises, the thrum of too many things left unsaid curling around Euijoo’s ribs like vines.

He should have listened to his parents from the start.

He should have known better.

Wangs couldn’t be trusted.

***

It was one of those nights again. The kind where sleep wasn’t just elusive — it was impossible.

Euijoo lay in bed, tangled in his sheets, staring up at the shadowed ceiling while the dormitory breathed softly around him. His mind wouldn’t shut up. Every time he closed his eyes, Nicholas was there. The sharp cut of his smile, the glint of his eyes right before he said something cruel or — worse — right before he kissed him.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair, the way Nicholas could fold himself into every corner of his thoughts, until even the silence tasted like him. The frustration burned hot beneath Euijoo’s skin, coiling tighter the longer he lay still. His hands ached to hit something — the wall, his pillow, the sharp-tongued, perfect image of Nicholas in his head.

With a sharp exhale, Euijoo shoved the covers off, sitting up and scrubbing his palms over his face. His heart felt like it had been racing for hours. He needed out. Out of this room, out of this castle, out of his own head. Grabbing his cloak with restless fingers, he slipped it around his shoulders, feet moving on muscle memory alone as he crept past his sleeping roommates and slipped out of the Gryffindor Tower, like the troublemaking kid he’d once been.

The corridors were silent, drowned in darkness save for the faint glow of torches, their flames low and sleepy. He wandered aimlessly, footsteps muffled against stone, hoping the cold would clear his head. But it didn’t. If anything, the quiet only made his thoughts louder.

This year had gnawed at him like nothing else — like the whole world had tilted sideways. He’d grown sharp-edged, restless, angry at everything and nothing at once. But Nicholas... Nicholas had always been the sharpest part of it. The difference was, he didn’t just miss him. He craved him. Like an itch that lived under his skin.

Before Euijoo even realized it, his feet had carried him deep into the lower levels of the castle. The dungeons. The cold air there felt heavier, damp with old stone and secrets, and the moment he saw the familiar curve of the hallway, his chest tightened painfully.

This place — this cursed stretch of cold rock — was where it had all begun. He could still remember the only time he’d set foot inside the Slytherin common room, years ago, just an overeager eleven-year-old with wide eyes and new CDs, clutching his Christmas present and practically bursting to show Nicholas. Before everything had gotten complicated. Before he'd known what it meant to ache for someone who would always twist the knife.

The guilt that settled in his throat now was sharp and sour.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t even be thinking about him.

And then — the voice. That unmistakable, cold-edged voice that snapped through the darkness like a whip.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Byun.”

Euijoo’s heart stalled in his chest, and he turned slowly, already knowing who he’d see.

Nicholas stood there, half-swallowed by shadow, arms folded loosely across his chest, that same sharp smile curled on his lips — the kind that had always made Euijoo’s stomach twist, once for affection, now for something far uglier.

“Aren’t you supposed to be an example, Byun?” Nicholas added, voice low and dripping with mockery. “Out wandering after curfew. What would Dumbledore say?”

The smugness radiating off him made Euijoo’s skin crawl. His fists curled tight at his sides, the heat rising fast and unchecked. He’d thought he’d run out of anger for Nicholas, but it seemed there was always more.

“You’re in the wrong part of the castle,” Nicholas went on, stepping forward with that same predator’s grace. “Brave little Gryffindor, straying into the snake’s den.”

Euijoo’s voice came out flat and sharp as a blade. “Shut up.”

Nicholas tilted his head slightly, eyebrows raised — like Euijoo had just amused him. Like it was all a game.

“Touchy,” he murmured. “Why so tense, Byun? Could it be —” he leaned in, his voice soft and taunting, “— that you were looking for me?”

Something inside Euijoo snapped.

He lunged before he’d fully registered moving, shoving Nicholas back hard against the stone wall. The sound of the impact echoed in the empty corridor, sharp as a crack of thunder.

Nicholas didn’t flinch. His hands shot out, gripping Euijoo’s wrists, twisting them back hard enough to sting, but Euijoo didn’t let go. They struggled, grappling like two wild animals, breath coming hard and uneven. The tension that had built between them for months spilled over, every shove and clutch sharp and desperate, a fight that wasn’t about winning — it was about trying to make the feeling stop.

Nicholas' voice came low, biting, breath hot against Euijoo’s cheek. “You’ve got a funny way of handling rejection, Byun.”

“Shut up,” Euijoo hissed through gritted teeth, trying to shove him again, but Nicholas' grip only tightened, pulling him closer.

They scuffled, feet sliding against the cold flagstones, shoulders slamming into the walls. Nicholas’ expression flickered between a sneer and something darker, almost unspoken, and Euijoo hated the way his body still noticed everything — the heat of Nicholas’ skin, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his breath hitched when Euijoo managed to twist his arm back.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Nicholas spat, his voice sharp and bitter. “A team. You’ve always been obssesed with doing the right bloody thing.”

Euijoo pushed against him harder, chest heaving, his voice rough and raw, “I just want you to leave me the hell alone.”

But neither of them moved away. Neither of them backed down. It was like their bodies didn’t know how.

They stood there, panting, hands still locked around each other, faces inches apart. The fight had stopped, but the war hadn’t. It just hung there between them, hot and heavy and unresolved.

The silence stretched, thick as fog.

And then Nicholas let go, shoving Euijoo back with one final, hard push, like he couldn’t stand to touch him anymore.

“You’re pathetic,” he said, voice cold, but his expression was anything but steady. There was something fraying around the edges, the same as Euijoo felt under his own skin.

Euijoo swallowed hard, throat raw, but his voice came out steady: “At least I’m not a coward.”

Suddenly, the weight of it all crashed down on him — the stupidity of crawling out of bed, the way he’d let his anger steer him like it always did, and worst of all, the fact that he had been looking for Nicholas even though he kept insisting, lying to himself, that he hadn’t.

And with that, he turned on his heel, walking away, though every nerve in his body screamed to stay.

***

Euijoo had started drifting closer to Taki and Harua, the two of them naturally folding into the little circle he and Maki had carved out for themselves. It wasn’t hard to see why. Nicholas was gone now — or rather, still there, haunting the same halls, but the space where his friendship used to be had hollowed out, sharp and aching. Nobody said his name. Not even Maki. Euijoo suspected they all felt it, though: that quiet, stretched absence.

The days crawled by, gray and suffocating, as the castle itself seemed to curl inward under Umbridge’s rule. Taki, ever the one with his head held high, was the first to break the silence between them.

“We can’t just sit around anymore,” he’d said one late afternoon, voice flat but eyes alight with determination, like a wick had caught deep in his chest. “It’s getting worse. And nobody — not the teachers, not even our families — are doing anything about it.”

Maki had looked away, fidgeting with the strap of his bag, his voice small but heavy with bitter experience. “What could we do? We’re nothing, Taki.”

“That’s still something,” Harua had added, quietly, but with an odd sort of weight behind it. The kind of weight that came from seeing too much, too soon. His words hung in the air, quiet and sure, and Euijoo hadn’t stopped thinking about them since.

That same evening, everything splintered. Taki had shot up from his desk in the middle of a Charms lecture, pale as moonlight and wide-eyed with something more than fear — certainty.

“She’s in danger,” he blurted, breath catching. “My grandmother. The Department of Mysteries — I don’t know how I know, but I can feel it. We’ve got to go. Now.”

It had only taken moments for Umbridge to close in. Her office had become a place of whispered threats and tightening knots, her soft, girlish giggle the most terrifying sound Euijoo had ever heard. Maki had described, with an almost grim sort of precision, what might happen to them behind that closed door — the blood-quill, the Cruciatus curse, worse.

But they didn’t get that far. The DA’s lessons had stuck better than Euijoo ever thought they would. Spells that once felt like distant, half-remembered theory came sharp and clear now, burned into his muscles and tongue. That training was the only reason they managed to break free. But freedom was fleeting.

They hadn’t made it more than two corridors before the Inquisitorial Squad cornered them. Wand tips glinted in the low torchlight like teeth. Euijoo’s stomach dropped. And there, of course, was Nicholas — standing right at the front.
His face was unreadable, sharp-edged and pale, but his wand was steady. His voice wasn’t.

“Don’t even try it,” Nicholas said coolly. “You're boxed in, Byun.”

The familiar ache twisted in Euijoo’s chest, hot and impossible to swallow. The same ache that had driven him into the dungeons that night. The same one that sent him, stupidly, toward Nicholas, again and again, no matter how deep the wounds got. He couldn't keep pretending they didn't know each other.

He stepped forward, his voice cracking. “Nicholas, please.”

For a second, just a heartbeat, Nicholas’ hand twitched. His knuckles went white around the wand.

“Shut up, Byun.” His voice came out hard, sharper than before — but it didn’t sound steady.

“You don’t understand,” Euijoo pressed, the words rushing out before he could stop them. “Taki’s grandmother — she’s all he has. And now Death Eaters, the Ministry — it’s real. Nicholas, please, I know you don’t like him, but this isn’t about school anymore.”

Nicholas flinched like the words physically hit him, and Euijoo thought, for just a second, that maybe he’d cracked through. But then Nicholas’ face hardened.

"Nicholas—"

“I said shut up!” his voice snapped like brittle glass.

Euijoo inched forward, each step deliberate and unsteady, as though the floor beneath him might shatter with the wrong movement. The air between them pulsed, heavy and suffocating, stretched taut like a wire pulled to its breaking point. Every breath sounded too loud, every heartbeat thundered in his ears, and he could feel the sharp gaze of everyone around him, holding their own breath.

He stopped when the cold, unyielding tip of Nicholas’ wand met his chest — a single point of pressure, light as a finger, but carrying all the threat of a drawn blade. The distance between them was razor-thin now, close enough for Euijoo to see the flicker of something uncertain beneath Nicholas’ hardened expression.

His voice cracked, soft but desperate.

“Please,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’ll do anything—just let us go.”

Nicholas’ fingers tightened around his wand, knuckles whitening, the tip wavering slightly as though the weight of the choice was too much to steady. His face was pale, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might splinter. For a moment, it seemed like he might lower it — like he might let Euijoo’s words reach him.

Then, his expression hardened, snapping shut like a locked door. His wrist jerked sharply, almost on reflex, as the spell burst from the tip of his wand in a streak of red light.

“Stupefy!” he barked, the word cutting through the air like a slap.

But the spell wasn’t aimed at them.

The red flash struck Koga Yudai squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards, limbs flopping gracelessly as he hit the stone floor with a heavy thud. For one suspended second, the room held its breath — and then chaos shattered it.

Maki and Harua were the first to move, instincts sharp as blades. Harua’s wand carved the air with deadly precision, sending Jo skidding across the floor, while Maki’s hex snapped Nora backward so fast her wand flew from her fingers.
Euijoo stood frozen only for a heartbeat, the panic fizzing under his skin, and then his body moved before his mind could catch up. He turned to Yuma, who was raising his wand in a shaky, wide-eyed defense — and Euijoo whispered, breathless and almost sick with guilt, “Sorry.”

His wand flicked, the Petrificus Totalus locking Yuma’s body stiff mid-motion, like a puppet with its strings cut.
And then — silence.

Only Nicholas was left standing, his chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts. His face had drained of color, his eyes wide and unfocused as if he didn’t quite understand the wand still clenched in his hand, or the fact that he’d actually fired. He blinked once, slow and disbelieving, like the world had gone off-script.

“What now?” he asked, voice hoarse and furious, as if daring them to make him regret it.

Euijoo’s throat was dry. “Death Eaters,” he managed to say. “At the Ministry.”

Nicholas swallowed hard, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might say something cruel — but he didn’t. He only nodded, jaw tight.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The five of them sprinted, feet pounding through the castle like a heartbeat. Down staircases, across cold stone floors, and out onto the dark, open grounds. At the edge of the forest, Taki and Harua were waiting, white-faced, trembling, and yet determined.

Taki lifted his wand and summoned them. The thestrals. Black, winged, bone-thin shadows that stepped from the night like living ghosts.

Nicholas stared, his throat working, taking a full step back. “No,” he muttered. “No, I am not getting on an invisible horse.”

Euijoo almost smiled, but the heat under his ribs was too sharp. “Good. It’s going to be dangerous.”

Nicholas glared at him, but the glare didn’t hold. His voice dropped lower, closer to the person Euijoo used to know.

“I’m not leaving you, either!”

The words knocked the air right out of Euijoo’s lungs. His mouth opened, then closed again, then opened once more.

“Well,” he mumbled, cheeks burning, “you can share with me. I can see them. I won’t let you fall.”

Nicholas’ gaze flicked away, his face unreadable, but after a long, breathless pause, he stepped closer. “Yeah. Fine.”

Euijoo climbed up first, steadying himself on the creature’s cold, leathery back, and Nicholas settled in behind him, his arms tightening awkwardly around Euijoo’s waist as the thestral lifted into the sky.

The cold air rushed past them, but all Euijoo could feel was the pressure of Nicholas’ hands at his sides, grounding him more than the beast’s wings ever could.

As Hogwarts shrank into a speck behind them, Nicholas’ voice cut through the night, quiet and uncertain.

“How can you see them?”

Euijoo swallowed, his throat tightening. The answer tangled behind his teeth. But before he could speak, Taki shouted over the wind, urging them south, and the thestrals surged forward, the question slipping away into the sky like so many others between them.

***

The Ministry was terrifying — not just because of what they were about to do, but because of how foreign it felt. It was cold in a way that didn’t come from the air, and vast in a way that seemed purposefully meant to disorient. Euijoo had expected something more official, maybe marble floors and hushed voices, like a government building. But this — this was something else entirely.

They were standing in a cavernous chamber known as the Hall of Prophecies. It stretched on in all directions, dimly lit by a bluish glow that seemed to come from nowhere. The shelves were packed close together and soared up into the dark, each one stacked with hundreds — maybe thousands — of delicate, dust-covered glass orbs. They shimmered faintly as the group moved through them, as if aware of their presence. Euijoo didn’t know what any of them were for, only that each orb seemed to hum with quiet power, like it was holding a breath that might never be released.

He felt uneasy, a pressure behind his eyes like a building headache. The long rows of forgotten prophecies seemed to exhale something ancient and oppressive, and he kept expecting the ground beneath them to shift, to trap them. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t meant to be here.

Taki, walking ahead, looked just as shaken — his face pale and slightly damp with sweat, his movements sharp and twitchy. The rest of them weren’t faring much better. Harua moved with forced calm, his hand never straying far from his wand. Maki walked silently, his eyes darting from shelf to shelf, wide and glassy. Nicholas was dead quiet, lips pressed into a hard line, his steps deliberately measured as if any sudden movement might set something off.

Finally, Taki stopped. His hand hovered over one particular shelf, as if he could feel something calling to him. And then, almost reverently, he reached up and took a single orb — the one they’d come for — from the shelf. The moment his fingers closed around it, the silence deepened into something more dangerous.

“Ah, finally,” said a voice.

It wasn’t loud, but it sliced cleanly through the stillness like a knife. The tone was cold, polite, and clear — disturbingly so, as if the speaker had been waiting with infinite patience just for this moment.

“Thank you, Mr. Takayama.”

Euijoo turned sharply. His heart was already beating too fast, but the sight that met him made it spike.
A group of dark figures had stepped into the aisle behind them, emerging from the shadows like they belonged there. Robes dark as midnight. Wands already drawn. One man stepped forward — tall, with hard eyes and a mask that had been pushed back — and Nicholas, beside him, stiffened like he’d been slapped.

“Dad?” Nicholas said, his voice cracking under the weight of disbelief.

But there was no time for answers.

A flash of red light burst from one of the wands.

“DUCK!” someone screamed.

Everything exploded into chaos.

The first curse — a Cruciatus, Unforgivables, Euijoo realized in a jolt of terror — ripped through the air above them, barely missing his head. Without thinking, he grabbed Nicholas by the arm and yanked him down. Another curse followed, and another. Spells were flying. Shelves shook. Glass cracked. The quiet library of whispered futures became a war zone in an instant.

“We have to run!” Harua shouted, throwing up a shield that barely held back a barrage of hexes.

Nicholas and Euijoo dragged Maki out of the way of a collapsing shelf — but they stumbled directly into something worse. One of the massive tanks that lined the edge of the room had shattered, and thick cords of glowing, tentacle-like brain matter had spilled out, writhing on the floor like they were alive. One of them had latched onto Maki’s arm, sizzling where it touched skin. Euijoo shouted his name and, alongside Nicholas, pulled him free, ripping the tendrils away as fast as they could, ignoring the burns now bubbling on his wrist.

Taki and Harua had thrown themselves at the door, slamming it shut and sealing it with a flurry of spells, while Euijoo clutched the prophecy against his chest and tried not to drop it.

He turned to Nicholas, still panting, and demanded, “Was that your father?”

“I don’t know!” Nicholas’s face was wild with fear, eyes darting between the barricade and Euijoo like he couldn’t make sense of either. “I don’t know! I thought maybe — maybe it was, but he — he fired at me too, the spells—”

“You’re with us,” Euijoo said, his voice sharper than he meant, his heart hammering. “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Nicholas said again, softer this time, the words breaking as he said them. His body sagged suddenly, like the fear had drained all the strength from him. He reached out blindly, grabbed a fistful of Euijoo’s sleeve, and pulled himself close. His face pressed into Euijoo’s shoulder, hot with shame or grief or fear — Euijoo couldn’t tell.

They sank to the floor beside Maki, who was still barely conscious, his breathing shallow and ragged. Euijoo wrapped his free arm around Nicholas’s shoulders, holding them both up.

And then the door groaned. The spell-locked barricade was splintering.

From the other side came laughter — high-pitched, cold as ice water down the spine. A woman’s voice, cruel and musical, echoing through the cracks in the door. Euijoo could see her now, just barely — a figure cloaked in darkness, her mask pale and empty-eyed, her presence somehow larger than the room. She looked like a nightmare given form.

Taki stood between her and the others. His wand was raised, but his eyes — they weren’t afraid. They were burning. Like he recognized her. Like something had just snapped into place.

Maybe Nicholas didn’t know the truth. Maybe he’d never wanted to believe — or understand — the truth behind his family's side on this shattering world. But when they had to run — when it mattered — Nicholas ran with Euijoo.

And Euijoo would remember the way he moved. Three times, he was sure Nicholas shielded him. Three times, he turned into danger to push Euijoo back.

They carried Maki between them, half-limp, both boys gripping him tightly as they pushed forward into unknown halls and spells and blood and flame. Taki’s voice called ahead, hoarse with urgency, searching for his grandmother.

And then — everything stopped.

There was a stillness, like breath being held by the world itself. And then, a presence.

He was there.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Suddenly, the world tilted.

A wave of nausea swept over Euijoo, as if gravity itself had shifted. The floor didn’t seem steady beneath his feet anymore — or maybe his legs had simply given up, buckling beneath the pressure of what had just happened. He fell without realizing it, his knees hitting the cold stone hard. There was something wrong in the air. It was like the oxygen had been yanked out of the room, replaced by something colder, heavier.

Something real. Something terrible.

He was here. He was really here.

Next to him, Nicholas collapsed too, his body sagging as if his strings had been cut. He hit the ground heavily, with none of his usual grace, and clawed at Euijoo’s arm. His face was streaked with panic, his breath coming in high, stuttering gasps.

“Please,” Nicholas whispered, almost broken. He tugged at Euijoo’s sleeve, desperate. “Euijoo, please, we have to go, please—”

Euijoo couldn’t remember standing, but somehow they were moving — scrambling, crawling, half-dragging each other away from the epicenter of the horror. The world was shattering around them.

To their right, Maki’s limp form was slung awkwardly over Harua’s shoulders. Harua staggered under the weight, pale with exhaustion and pain, but still pressing forward. And ahead of them — Taki.

Taki was dueling.

He stood alone, wand raised, his face a mask of cold fury. Across from him, laughing like this was the best game she’d ever played, was that woman — Bellatrix Lestrange — her wand snapping through the air with cruel, precise flicks, her hair wild, her eyes burning with mania. They circled each other like wolves, Bellatrix with a grin sharp enough to cut, Taki with his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap.

“This isn’t right,” Euijoo gasped. His lungs couldn’t get enough air. “Taki can’t—he can’t manage it, not alone—”

“You can’t manage it either!” Nicholas snapped, grabbing his arm, his voice rising in panic. “We’ve got to get help!”

And as if he’d summoned them with those words, they arrived.

The Order of the Phoenix burst through the chaos like a second wave of reality. A wave of sound and color and reinforcements — spells blasting through the shadows, bright cloaks swirling, the unmistakable presence of trained, battle-hardened adults. It was everything Euijoo hadn’t realized they were missing.

And then — there they were.

His mother. His father. And behind them — Joon. His uncle.

He hadn’t expected them. He hadn't dared hope. But suddenly the world felt a fraction safer.
Euijoo and Nicholas dragged Harua and Maki behind one of the golden statues lining the room, taking what little cover they could. Behind them, the battle raged — spells screamed through the air, ricocheting off stone and statue, casting wild shadows.

Taki’s voice cracked like a whip as he shouted, “Dumbledore!” — and there he was.

And suddenly, it was almost over.

Euijoo slumped to the ground, half-collapsed and still holding onto both Nicholas and Maki. Maki trembled violently, his hand locked around Harua’s like he’d drown without it. Nicholas didn’t say a word, just pressed in close beside Euijoo, his face bloodless, hollow-eyed.

Euijoo wanted them all to go home.

He wanted his mum to come to him like she used to when he was small — to press her hand to his forehead, check if he was feverish, stroke his hair and tell him it was all taken care of. He wanted warm soup and thick socks and everyone sitting on the couch again like none of this had happened. He wanted Nicholas there, too, always — in his bed, beside him, safe where Euijoo could reach out and know he hadn’t disappeared.

But he didn’t have time to want that.

Because the statue shattered.

The explosion hit like a bomb. Stone fragments tore through the air like shrapnel, slamming them apart, knocking the wind from Euijoo’s lungs. He hit the ground with a cry and looked up into a nightmare: Mr. Wang was standing above him, his Death Eater mask half-tilted, his dark eyes full of rage. And beside him — Barty Crouch.

Barty didn’t hesitate.

“Avada—” he said, wand raised.

“Dad!” Nicholas cried out — a raw, instinctual sound — and threw himself over Euijoo.

The green light burst from Barty's wand, but Mr. Wang jerked sideways just in time, and the curse flew wide, striking something off to the side. A glass orb shattered with a horrible, metallic shriek, casting shards and sparks through the air.

“Get up, Nicholas,” Mr. Wang growled, fury rising in his throat. “I’ll deal with you when I’m home—”

Nicholas flinched so hard it looked like he might collapse again. He grabbed Euijoo’s sleeve like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“No,” Nicholas said, breathless. “Father, listen, please—”

“You stay away from my son,” came a voice like ice.

“Stupefy!”

The blast struck Mr. Wang in the chest. He crumpled instantly, the force slamming him to the floor.

Euijoo looked up, heart still thudding in his throat — and there she was.

His mother.

Her face was unreadable. Her eyes locked on his with a clarity that stilled everything inside him. She crossed the wreckage without fear, stepped right over fallen enemies and twisted spells, and knelt beside him. Her hand slid into his hair, gentle but sure, just the way he remembered, and she said, voice soft and steady,

“It’s over, Euijoo. It’s done.”

Nicholas was still trembling. His body wouldn’t stop shaking, like the adrenaline had nowhere left to go and was just burning through him uselessly. His face was streaked with tears and sweat and dust. Slowly, he lifted his head — like it weighed too much — and stared directly at Euijoo’s mother.

She stared right back. Her eyes were sharp but not unkind, steady in a way that made the chaos around them feel briefly still.

After a long pause, she said, voice quiet but resolute, “Thank you, Nicholas. I owe you a great deal.”

Nicholas flinched like she’d struck him. “What did you do to my father?” he asked. His voice was thin and tight, shaking with barely-contained panic.

“He’s just unconscious,” she said gently. But Nicholas didn’t hear the reassurance. He had already scrambled to his knees, crawling across the debris-littered floor to reach the motionless figure lying nearby. He dropped to his side beside Mr. Wang and reached out with trembling hands.

“Father—Dad,” he said, voice cracking. He gripped his father’s shoulders and shook him slightly. “Wake up—come on—wake up—” He fumbled for his wand, held it shakily over his father’s chest. “Ener—”

But before he could finish the spell, a hand closed gently but firmly around his wrist.

Dumbledore.

“I can’t let you do that, Nicholas,” the Headmaster said. His voice was calm, as always, but sorrow threaded through it.

Nicholas stared up at him, his face stricken. “What?” he breathed. “What? What?” His voice was rising, unhinged. “What are you doing—?”

And then Aurors were appearing — not just one or two, but many. All around them. Some of them stepped in to restrain Nicholas, holding his arms gently but firmly, pulling him back as others began lifting Mr. Wang’s limp body into the air alongside the other captured Death Eaters. Their wands glowed, their faces grim, and the prisoners began to rise like ghosts, levitating silently across the shattered floor.

“Dad!” Nicholas roared. He fought against the Aurors with all the strength in his body, twisting, kicking, yelling like he could force reality to rewind if he screamed loud enough. “Dad! No! Bring him back—bring him back!”

“Nicholas—” Euijoo moved toward him, instinctively, alarmed by the desperation on his friend’s face. He reached out a hand, wanting to calm him.

But Nicholas spun on him like a cornered animal. His fist came up fast and clumsy, and it hit Euijoo square in the stomach. Not hard enough to do real damage — but enough to knock him back a step, winded, surprised.

“Don’t touch me!” Nicholas spat. His face was gaunt, his eyes wild, hollowed out by shock. He looked like someone who had aged years in the last hour, like someone who didn’t know what part of his life was still intact. “What have you done?” he whispered, voice breaking. “What have you done? Dad!”

That night, Euijoo went home. Just like he’d wanted. His parents were quiet, comforting. He had warm food and familiar blankets. He lay in his childhood bed and tried to pretend the world wasn’t falling apart.

But Nicholas wasn’t with him.

Nicholas had been taken back to Hogwarts. He’d had no choice. The next morning, Euijoo saw him in the corridor near the Great Hall — the same Nicholas, but not. His skin was pale, almost gray, like he hadn’t slept. His eyes were wide and haunted, glassy with something Euijoo couldn’t name.

When Euijoo stepped toward him, cautiously, hopefully, Nicholas just stared at him. As though he were a stranger. As though Euijoo were something Nicholas couldn’t recognize anymore — or didn’t want to.

“Nicholas,” Euijoo said softly, reaching out. His fingers brushed Nicholas’s wrist.

And something snapped back into place.

Nicholas flinched violently and tore his arm away, retreating as though burned. His face twisted in a grimace of revulsion, and his eyes — his eyes — were black with something close to hatred.

“Stay away from me, Byun,” he said. The name dropped like a stone between them.

Euijoo blinked. “Look,” he said slowly, carefully, “I know. I know it’s—awful. It’s shit. But you can’t—what your dad did—”

“He’s my dad,” Nicholas hissed. His mouth trembled with rage. “And—and you’re dead.”

And with that, he turned his back.

He walked away, head high, posture stiff, Jo and K flanking him like guards. They didn’t look at Euijoo. They didn’t look at anyone. Just three shadows, moving together.

And in that moment, Euijoo knew — deep in his chest, like something breaking — that Nicholas had been wrong back at the start of this long, brutal year.

They weren’t too young for politics.

And they would never be too young again.

Chapter Text

He'd always loved the attention his parents gave him.

For as long as he could remember, there had been gifts and praises flowing his way — new shoes polished until they gleamed, hand-carved wooden toys, mountains of sweets wrapped in shining papers. It had always been easy to feel special, to believe that he was good. When his father’s temper flared, or when punishments came sharp and sudden for mistakes he didn’t fully understand, Nicholas never dared complain. He had been raised better than that. A good son didn’t question, didn’t falter.

He listened.

He obeyed the rules, trusted the authorities, kept his head high and his gaze steady. If he stumbled, he apologized. If he erred, he learned. And because he learned quickly, because he tried so hard to be everything they expected of him, he was rewarded with their pride — with the approving weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder, the rare and precious curve of a smile on his mother’s lips.

Nicholas remembered the night his father first showed him the tattoo, rolling up his sleeve: a living snake coiling and shifting across the pale skin of his forearm, dark as ink, alive with promise. Nicholas had stared, wide-eyed, heart hammering with a fierce, wild kind of admiration.

I want that, he had thought, almost trembling with it. I want to be like him. Strong. Powerful. Someone who matters.

He would sit at his father's feet when he returned to the Manor, watching the way his father spoke — his voice low and commanding, measured, like every word could carve stone. Nicholas drank it in like a spell, eager, eyes gleaming with excitement.

His mother, though — his mother was something softer. She shielded him from the outside world, wrapped him in warm arms and whispered reassurances. Nicholas sometimes overheard things he wasn’t supposed to: conversations in hushed tones behind half-closed doors, his mother’s voice smoothing over tensions, murmuring about the future — about something coming, something Nicholas was never told enough to understand. Only that it would be glorious. Only that he would have his place in it, one day.

He had been happy, mostly. Maybe a little lonely sometimes, wandering the cavernous Manor halls that smelled of old stone and wood polish and the heavy, comfortable weight of tradition. The darkness didn’t frighten him. It smelled like safety. It smelled like home.

He could still remember, clearer than anything, the day he earned his place — the day his father saw him in his Hogwarts uniform for the first time. The silver and green tie knotted proudly at his throat.

“Well done, son,” his father had said, voice low and almost tender, the grey of his eyes softening for a fleeting second.
Nicholas had never felt so proud. So seen.

That night, he hadn’t even taken the tie off before crawling into bed, clutching it against his chest like it could anchor the feeling inside him forever.

Except the fantasy had started to crumble the moment Euijoo spat those words at him — words that Nicholas had only ever heard whispered behind closed doors, in the darkened study of the Manor:

"Like I’d ever write to Death Eater scum like you.”

At first, Nicholas couldn’t make sense of it. He turned the words over and over in his mind, trying to fit them into the world he knew — the world where he was good, where he had done everything right. What was wrong with it? What was so wrong with him?

But Euijoo didn’t look at him the same way anymore. He sneered, he turned away, and each time their eyes met across the common room, Nicholas felt something small and fierce break inside him. He told himself it wasn’t his fault — it couldn’t be. It was Euijoo who had changed, Euijoo who was full of himself, walking around with that stupid grin, like he thought he was better than everyone else, like he was waiting for people to grovel just for a smile.

Still, it hurt.

It hurt in a way Nicholas didn’t know how to name, watching Euijoo laughing with his new friends, easy and open in a way he never was around Nicholas anymore.

So he found another way to make Euijoo look at him.

He started picking on Maki. It was easy — Maki was quiet, a little awkward, never quick enough with a comeback. And when Nicholas cornered him, pushed him, said things he barely even thought about, Euijoo would turn. He would see him again. Even if it was with anger in his eyes, at least it meant Nicholas was real again.

“You can look tough all you want,” Maki said, breathing heavily. “But you’re still pathetic on the inside.”

Nicholas barely had time to react before Euijoo added, his voice like cold steel against Nicholas' skin,

"Like we’d ever want to hang out with a Death Eater kid. No one likes you, Nicholas. Not even the snakes."

He was supposed to be tough. He had been raised to be tough.

But hearing Euijoo say it — hearing him say it like Nicholas was something dirty, something lesser — it tore through the last fragile scraps of armor Nicholas had left. The tears came before he could even stop them, hot and furious, blurring everything.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

He clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his palms, trying to grind down the way his chest ached, the way his father's voice rang in his ears — Don’t show weakness. Don’t.

But he had, and no matter how hard he tried to shove it down, the betrayal sat heavy and bitter in his mouth.
And yet — when the fire broke out in the dungeon corridor that same fateful day, and he saw Maki and Euijoo waving their wands frantically, faces tight with fear as they tried to extinguish it — Nicholas felt something he wasn’t prepared for. Relief. Safety.

As if some hidden part of him had known Euijoo would never truly leave him behind.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, this secret, fumbling kind of friendship — but somehow, it did. Nicholas found himself drifting closer to Maki for Euijoo's sake, watching the way he cared without needing to be asked, the way he worried over others more than himself. Slowly, painfully, Nicholas began to understand why Euijoo had protected him.

And it made something heavy and unspoken grow inside Nicholas’ chest, stretching across the places that had been hollow for too long.

One day, hesitantly, Nicholas tried to apologize — really apologize — for everything he had done to Maki.

"Water under the bridge," Maki said with an easy shrug, not meeting Nicholas' anxious gaze. "Euijoo looks happier now."

And somehow, hearing that made Nicholas' heart lift in a way it hadn’t in a long, long time. He smiled, small and uncertain, but real.

It wasn’t until his parents stumbled upon the Rita Skeeter article — a glossy, garish thing that clumsily captured a moment that was never meant to be seen — that everything began to unravel. The photograph was unforgiving: Nicholas, laughing too hard, arms slung casually around Euijoo’s waist as they spun, too awkward to be graceful, too real to be ignored.

The conversation that followed was not the explosive argument Nicholas might have feared.

No, it was worse — chilling in its dullness, mechanical in its cruelty. It was the worst conversation he'd ever had with his parents.

Not because they screamed.

But because they didn't.

For the first time, his father's gaze — always sharp but warm, always proud — turned truly cold.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Nicholas," his father said, the word 'disappointed' dragged through clenched teeth, laced more with disgust than sorrow. He stood ramrod straight behind his heavy oak desk, fingers curled loosely into fists. "Since when have you been lowering yourself to them?"

Nicholas swallowed hard, but his throat was dry, and the words came out brittle, breaking on his tongue.

"We were just bored," he said, voice small, almost childish, "We're not even friends."

The lie felt disgusting in his mouth, but he clung to it, desperate.

His father scoffed, standing straighter, shoulders squared like a general surveying a battlefield.

"You looked rather pleased for someone who's bored," he said, and Nicholas flinched at the disdain thick in his voice. "Don't you know what they are? What they stand for? The Byuns would see everything we’ve fought for fall apart — everything your grandfather bled for — and you parade yourself with them like a common fool."

Nicholas' face burned, hot and humiliated, not because he regretted anything he'd done — but because he hadn't even thought about it. Hadn't weighed it the way he was supposed to weigh every choice, every step, every word, just like his father had taught him.

He hadn’t thought about politics. About responsibilities. About bloodlines and battles older than himself.
He had just liked being near Euijoo, laughing with him. Feeling lighter than the heavy weight of the Manor's walls pressing in on him.

"You must stop associating with people like him," his father finished, voice final, leaving no room for argument. "Before you shame us any further."

Nicholas nodded mutely, just like he has been raised.

But when he got back to his room — past the portraits that glared at him from the walls, past the ancestral faces he'd never even met but somehow still disappointed — he felt challenged, rather than scolded.

And for the first time in thirteen years, Nicholas didn’t obey.

The next weekend, under the heavy warmth of a late summer sky, Nicholas found himself waiting at the station, his parents already mixing with the crowd of Muggles and hidden witches and wizards. His coat hung open, sleeves brushing his fingertips, as he held something rather big — a gift he’d picked out with more care than he’d ever admit.

When he spotted Euijoo standing near the platform, laughing easily with a group of Gryffindors, Nicholas froze for a moment, heart hammering against his ribs. The sunlight caught Euijoo’s hair, made his smile seem almost too bright to look at, and Nicholas thought — not for the first time — how unfair it all was. How effortless Euijoo seemed to live, how he belonged to the world in a way Nicholas never quite had.

It was Jo who saw him first.
Of course it was.

Jo broke from the group, bumping into Nicholas' shoulder hard enough to make him stumble slightly. Nicholas straightened up fast, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.

"You've changed," Jo said, voice low, almost casual, but there was something tight behind it, something cracked.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow, pretending not to understand, even though he knew exactly what Jo meant.

"What do you mean?" he said, voice sharp, defensive, his body still half-turned away, ready to flee.

Jo snorted — bitter, but not cruel.

"You used to come with us more. Don't you pretend we haven't noticed" His eyes flickered toward Euijoo and the others, the corners of his mouth pulling downward. "Now those Gryffindors seem to have stolen my best friend," his voice stayed soft, the way it always did when it was Nicholas he was speaking to.

Nicholas rolled his eyes, a practiced, dismissive gesture, but he couldn’t quite hide the way his chest twisted painfully, as if he was betraying someone — or rather something — that has always guided his life.

Of course, not everything was perfect with Euijoo and Maki. Sometimes Nicholas found himself staring at them, feeling the hollow space between their words, a silence he couldn’t cross.
Maybe he couldn’t understand them — or maybe, deep down, he didn’t want to.
Maki had grown quieter, his brow perpetually furrowed like he was carrying a burden Nicholas could never quite see. And Euijoo... Euijoo still smiled, still tried, but there was a sharpness beneath it now, a whisper of worry he couldn’t hide.

"It doesn’t matter, right?" Euijoo said again one night, his voice nearly lost to the cold breath of the gardens. They wandered aimlessly, the world around them drenched in silver moonlight, hedges towering like silent guards. "Our parents are... well, different. But it doesn't matter. Yeah?"

Nicholas didn’t answer at first. He was tired of these reassurances — tired of pretending that everything was fine when the air between them had begun to crack. It wasn't in the words, not exactly. It was in the way Euijoo’s eyes tightened whenever Nicholas laughed a little too freely with K. In the way Maki’s glances sharpened, wary and edged, when Nicholas spoke about his future — about all the things he was supposed to want.

Sometimes Nicholas caught a flicker in Euijoo’s expression — something cold, something painfully familiar — the same look his father had worn after that Ministry ball, when Nicholas had danced with the wrong people and laughed a little too loud.
It was exhausting, to carry the weight of all the things they weren’t saying.

To pretend it didn’t matter.

To swallow down the leaden guilt each time the conversations back home twisted toward the Order, or bloodlines, or the right side of the war.

And it was worse with Jo — sneering in that easy, familiar way that twisted around Nicholas' ribs — and with Takayama, who watched him sometimes like he was something dangerous, something broken.

But even that exhaustion paled when the news arrived.

Nicholas knew before they even said it.

He felt it in the walls of the Manor — the magic humming, shifting — ancient and heavy and triumphant. The Dark Lord was back.

His parents were nearly gleeful, though they tried to disguise it behind measured words. Yet, Nicholas could still see that hint of hesitance, that glimpse of regret in his mother's stoic eyes. Nicholas tried to tell himself it didn’t change anything.

But it did.

The letters from Euijoo started to pile up on his desk, unopened. He couldn't bring himself to read them — couldn't summon the strength to pick up the quill and write back.

The knot that had been forming in his throat for months now finally tightened, cutting off the words before they could leave.

He was tired of faking it.

Tired of pretending that he wasn’t sinking.

One evening, sitting in the study with the fire casting long, cruel shadows across the floor, his father spoke.

"It's almost there, son," he said, voice low and sure, staring into the red flames like he could see the future dancing within them. "We’re almost at the top."

Nicholas sat rigid in his chair, his hands curled into fists in his lap, his stomach twisting with something thick and nauseating. He understood now — the weight of their ambitions, the cost of loyalty.

And what terrified him most was not that he would lose Euijoo.

It was that Euijoo would leave first.

He would look at him with that same coldness, that same disgust, and realize — this was who Nicholas truly was. A Wang.
A Pureblood.

The son of Death Eaters.

The world was changing—quicker than Nicholas could hold onto—but he had always been quick on his feet, quick to adapt. He was a fast learner, raised in a house where the rules shifted like shadows, and survival meant listening between the lines. So when things started tilting, bending into something darker, colder, heavier… Nicholas didn’t flinch. He adjusted.

As soon as Umbridge called him aside, her smile saccharine and cruel, and told him she saw potential in him—real potential—he didn't think twice. It felt like praise. And Nicholas had always lived off praise like it was air. Her words were sharp-edged but sweet to him, thick with approval. For once, someone in power looked at him and saw not just a child of the Wang name, not just a son molded by his father’s ideology, but someone capable of carving his own space in this crumbling world.

It had been so long since anyone spoke proudly of his father. So long since anyone had looked him in the eye and spoken with conviction about legacy—about strength. He'd forgotten how intoxicating it was.

Too intoxicated to notice the shift in Euijoo’s expression.

When he told Euijoo, expecting even a flicker of pride, maybe a smirk, maybe even a mocking "Of course you would," what he got instead was silence. A cold, hollow silence. And a stare that felt like a slap. Euijoo didn’t yell. He didn’t argue. He just looked at him, eyes dull and dead, and something in Nicholas cracked.

That was the moment he realized that whatever they had—whatever had been slowly blooming between letters and fights and midnight apologies—was beginning to wither. Like flowers left in a windowsill too long, forgotten once the bloom dulled and the water dried up. No longer worth tending to.

Nicholas didn’t cry this time, he ran. Fury in his fists, heat in his throat. The ache inside his chest needed somewhere to land. So he found K and Jo, already waiting, already suspicious. Maybe they'd seen it coming, maybe they’d been waiting for him to return to his place. Nicholas didn’t say anything at first—he didn’t need to. His anger spoke for him. They didn’t comfort him, didn’t ask questions. They welcomed him back with a smirk and a nod. As if the prodigal son had finally realized what side he was meant to stand on.

Joining the Inquisitorial Squad felt right. It gave him shape again. A role to play, rules to follow, orders to obey. It gave him something to do with his hands, with the mess in his chest. It made him feel like the child he used to be—the good son, the obedient heir, the boy who followed commands and made people proud.

And it gave him power.

Not the kind of power his father had, no. This was smaller, pettier. But it was his.

Without Euijoo's laugh echoing in his ears, without the burn of Maki’s quiet disapproval beside him, Nicholas found satisfaction in sharper things. He watched Euijoo shrink when he walked into the room. Saw his shoulders tense. Caught the flicker of hurt, of rage, of regret—all tangled up in those soft, infuriating eyes.

He started to relish it.

Every glance Euijoo threw his way was like a thread tightening around Nicholas' heart, and he pulled on it, over and over, wanting it to hurt both of them. He wanted Euijoo to feel it—to know that Nicholas was gone. That whatever warmth they’d built in secret, whatever care had lingered, had turned to ash.

So he smirked. He let it fester. He let it rot.

And in the quiet, twisted part of his soul, Nicholas convinced himself he was doing the right thing. That this was strength. That this, finally, was who he was supposed to be.

“I hate not talking to you.”

The words left Euijoo before he could pull them back, raw and breathless, floating in the narrow hallway like a secret that had been waiting too long to be said.

They were chest to chest, tangled in the mess of an argument that had started over nothing and spiraled into everything—hands fisted in robes, breath hot, cheeks flushed with something neither of them could name without cracking. The corridor was cold, but their bodies burned, sweat sticking to the fabric between them. Nicholas had Euijoo pressed against the stone wall, and still, his fingers trembled.

He hated not talking to him too. Of course he did. The silence had been gnawing at him like something alive, feral, sleepless. And yet, there he stood—caught in the act of hurting the person he couldn't bear to lose.
There was still something about Euijoo’s presence that undid him. Even in moments like this, when they were supposed to be enemies, when the world had already pushed them to opposite sides, Nicholas remembered what his lips tasted like. He remembered the calm that used to fall over him in Euijoo's orbit, the way it used to feel like pressing pause on everything that made him afraid.

But Nicholas had made his choice. Hadn’t he?

He chose his father’s voice, stern and full of destiny. His mother’s quiet encouragement. He chose Jo’s sarcasm, K’s laughter, and the cold comfort of purpose in the cause he was born into. He chose the path they carved for him—the one that promised power, safety, legacy, belonging.

And Euijoo didn’t belong in that path. He never had.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Nicholas could see the shape of his life, like a puzzle completed by the Dark Lord’s vision, but Euijoo was the piece that didn’t fit. The missing piece that didn’t belong to the picture, yet somehow made the whole thing feel incomplete.

That was why he hesitated, again and again.

Why he couldn’t bring himself to land a proper curse. Why the weight of his wand grew heavier the closer Euijoo stood. Why the sharp tip trembled when it hovered near his chest. Why the spell meant for Maki veered and hit K instead. Why Nicholas didn’t scream when he should have, didn’t attack when the moment called for it.

Because it was Euijoo.

It had always been Euijoo.

So when the fighting erupted and the smoke thickened and the line between sides blurred into chaos, Nicholas didn’t think. He grabbed Euijoo’s wrist and ran. Clutching him like salvation. Like a lifeline. They ran breathless, hearts pounding not from fear, but from the unbearable truth that even now—after betrayal, after silence, after the ache of everything unsaid—they still sought each other.

He needed him. Needed him to be okay, to be alive. Even if he hated him.

Especially if he hated him.

Because when the dust settled, and his father was gone—dragged away, imprisoned in a place where even magic couldn’t soften the cold—Nicholas was left with nothing but guilt, and rage, and that look in Euijoo’s eyes. Not victory. Not satisfaction, but something worse.

Pity.

And Nicholas wanted to scream. To spit. To strike back. Because that pity told him everything he didn't want to hear: that he had lost. That he had bent and broken, again and again, only to end up here—shattered, confused, and more alone than ever.
It wasn’t fair.

Because it was Euijoo who had weakened him. Euijoo, with his gentle voice and firm convictions. Euijoo, with his stupid kindness, and even stupider forgiveness.

Euijoo, who never had to hold the knife, but somehow still had all the power.

Between Two Points

"Be careful the environment you choose for it will shape you; be careful the friends you choose for you will become like them"

Chapter Text

Euijoo didn’t sleep much that summer.

Most nights he lay awake until the sky paled, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, his thoughts circling the same image over and over again: the Ministry in ruins, smoke curling from shattered walls, screams echoing through the corridors. It would’ve taken so little—a misstep, a second’s delay—for it all to end. His mum. His dad. Joon. Maki. Harua. Himself.

Or Nicholas.

That flash of green light—Avada Kedavra, pulsing like a heartbeat at the tip of Barty Crouch’s wand—was burned into his memory. He saw it every time he blinked. And just before it hit, the blur of Nicholas hurtling toward him, a shield made of panic and recklessness and something else Euijoo couldn’t name. If Mr. Wang hadn’t ripped Barty’s wand off course in time—if Nicholas had hesitated even for a breath longer—

You’re dead, Nicholas had whispered, hoarse and frantic, and Euijoo had woken up gasping, drenched in cold sweat, clutching his chest like he could feel the spell burning through him.

The nightmares came in waves. When they didn’t, the silence was worse.
He took to wandering the house late at night, the floorboards cool beneath his feet. The windows were always dark, the garden empty. He roamed like a ghost, never turning on the lights. Sometimes he ended up in the kitchen, sitting at the table until sunrise, arms folded around himself like armor.

He read the Prophet in dull silence, watched names appear in the obituaries and vanish again. He wrote letters to fill the empty hours. Mostly they were to Nicholas—long ones at first, then shorter, messier, bitterer. June passed. July crawled by. There were no replies. Eventually, he stopped writing.

One night, as he sat hunched at the kitchen counter, turning an old letter over in his hands, his mum appeared in the doorway. She didn’t speak at first—just looked at him, something hesitant in her expression, like she wasn’t sure she had the right to be there.

“I’m sorry, Euijoo,” she said at last, her voice soft. Not rehearsed, not cold—real. “I know this is hard for you.”

He stared at her for a long moment, blinking like he was trying to wake up.
“I don’t get why he—why he…” Euijoo started, but the words tangled in his throat. His voice broke, and he looked down, biting the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to cry. His chest felt hollow. His hands were shaking.

Nothing made sense anymore. And worse—he couldn’t even bring himself to hate Nicholas properly.

“It’s hard,” his dad said one evening, voice quiet, like he was afraid of disturbing something fragile. “It’s hard for some kids to pick. You should… talk to your Aunt Crystal.”

So Euijoo did, hesitantly at first. Crystal spoke with the smooth certainty of someone who had lived through the same storm and learned to stand still in the eye of it. She told him what it meant to grow up in a house where expectations were not spoken but woven into the walls. A house where obedience wasn’t just encouraged—it was a currency. Where love came with conditions, and meeting them brought reward: warmth, safety, praise. If you did what was expected, you were adored. Treasured. Privileged.

Euijoo listened in silence, nodding when it felt right to. He understood. He really did. Every word Crystal said resonated like an echo in his own chest, something he hadn’t quite been able to name before. It made sense—the way Nicholas behaved, the weight he carried like a second spine. The impossible choices.

But even as he nodded, Euijoo couldn’t stop the ache building behind his ribs. He stared past Crystal, past his dad, through the polished window to where the garden lights flickered like far-off stars. And in that stillness, all he could think of was Nicholas kissing him in Hogsmeade—rough, rushed, like a secret too precious to say aloud. The way Nicholas had clung to his arm at the Ministry, his grip not gentle, but urgent, dragging him through smoke and chaos like he mattered more than anything else in that moment.

That was real, too. Wasn’t it?

And yet, here they were—on opposite ends of the line that had been drawn long before either of them was born.

It wasn’t fair, Euijoo thought, swallowing down something sharp and bitter. None of it was.

He spent most of the summer holed up in quiet rooms with Maki, Harua, and Taki, the four of them forming a quiet, fraying circle of shared anxiety. They didn't talk much, not really. Sometimes they'd pass around the newspapers, pages trembling in their hands, the headlines bleaker each day. Other times, they'd sit in weighted silence, eyes flicking toward the windows whenever someone walked past, as if expecting the worst.

Their conversations, when they happened, spiraled quickly. What could they do this year? Where could they be useful? How much were they willing to risk? The questions never had answers—only more questions. Every plan they tried to piece together unraveled before it even reached the edges.

Everything felt fragile. Uncertain. Like the world was crumbling just beyond their doorstep.

Taki sat with his elbows on his knees, shoulders slumped forward like the weight of everything had finally become too much. He barely blinked, dark circles etched beneath his eyes like bruises from sleepless nights. He spoke only when necessary, and even then his voice was hoarse, hollow, like he hadn’t had a real conversation in weeks.

No one said it aloud, but they all knew: they were scared. And the year hadn’t even started yet.

And then came September, thick with the scent of autumn and something far more bitter. In Diagon Alley, through the swirl of back-to-school shoppers and the distant hum of restless tension, Euijoo saw him—Nicholas—again for the first time in months.

He looked different. Not older, not taller. But thinner. Tighter. Like something inside him had shriveled and hardened. He was walking beside his mother, too close, like a lifeline, his eyes darting like he was waiting to be caught.

“Nicholas!” Euijoo called out, startled by the sound of his own voice.

Nicholas flinched. A sharp, physical reaction, like the name itself had struck him. But he didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just kept walking, faster now. Euijoo followed, weaving through the crowd, dodging witches with heavy robes and floating shopping bags, until he saw Nicholas slip inside Borgin and Burkes, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the shopfront.

Euijoo waited. Watched. And when Nicholas finally emerged, he couldn’t help himself. He stepped into the path, face burning with equal parts confusion and dread.

“Nicholas,” he said, catching him by the sleeve. “What are you doing?”

Nicholas yanked away as if scalded, his face drained of all warmth. “Mother,” he said quickly, without sparing Euijoo a glance, his voice trembling and strained. “Let’s go. Please.”

Mrs. Wang’s gaze lingered. Her eyes were cold and assessing, like frost sliding over glass, and for a second Euijoo wondered if she was going to speak. But she didn’t. She simply linked her arm with her son’s and swept them both away, robes trailing like stormclouds behind her.

Euijoo stood rooted to the cobblestone street, fists clenched. He didn’t know if it was fury or heartbreak rising in his throat—maybe both—but when he returned to his own mother, the emotion burst out.

“He’s up to something,” Euijoo choked, voice wild. “I—I know it.”

“Euijoo,” his mum said gently, her fingers resting lightly on his arm. “He’s a sixteen-year-old boy. I know the Wangs have… affiliations we’re worried about, but even You-Know-Who isn’t desperate enough to be recruiting teenagers—”

“But you don’t get it,” Euijoo interrupted, breath ragged. “You don’t understand what Nicholas is like when he loves someone. He’s not logical, he’s not safe—he’s desperate. He’d do anything to get his father back. Anything. We need to stop him. We need to send Aurors to Wang Manor now—”

“We’re already at war, Euijoo,” his dad said, stepping closer, voice soft but heavy. He reached out, brushed Euijoo’s hair in that familiar, half-worn gesture of comfort. “Three Auror teams have already gone. Two never came back.”

Euijoo’s breath caught.

He looked up at his father, face pale, throat tight with disbelief.

“I… really?” he whispered.

And when his dad nodded, slowly, solemnly, the world tilted—just a little—and Euijoo realized that for all his fear, for all his righteous anger… this war had already claimed more than he knew.

“Skirmishes on the border,” his mum murmured, voice barely carrying over the busy murmur of people buying new uniforms and brooms. “Nothing concrete. Nothing that can be pinned directly on the Wangs. Not yet.”

She leaned back, her fingers drumming softly against her purse, eyes fixed on the dancing sea of heads like they might reveal something more useful than the Ministry’s latest intelligence reports.

“But the Ministry’s in a precarious position,” she continued, her voice tight with something between caution and fatigue. “They’re treading carefully. They haven’t even uninvited Ms. Wang from Ministry functions. It’s as though everything is on standby—like the whole world is holding its breath. No one knows who’s going to emerge with power in the next few months. So we do what we’ve always done. We try our best. We prepare.”

Euijoo shook his head, his mouth dry with disbelief. “But Nicholas—”

“Is not a priority,” his dad said, his tone cutting through the conversation with finality. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The way he shook his head—slow, deliberate—said more than words could.

“Not with the Lestranges resurfacing,” he added, “and Greyback out there with his pack again. We’ve already lost too many Aurors. Too many families are in hiding. Nicholas Wang is one boy, and whether he’s gone dark or just lost, he’s not the Order's concern right now.”

Euijoo’s hands balled into fists at his sides. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks—not from anger, but from helplessness. From that burning, awful feeling that he knew Nicholas better than anyone else and no one would listen. He could still see Nicholas’ eyes, hollow and frantic, in the alley. That wasn't just a boy following orders. That was someone unraveling. And no one else seemed to care.

“Better if you just leave him be,” his father repeated, softer this time, almost like a plea. But to Euijoo, it felt like abandonment. Like letting a hand slip beneath the surface without reaching in after it.

He didn’t answer. He just stared at the dirty ground, jaw clenched, knowing full well that leaving Nicholas alone might be the last thing he could ever bring himself to do.

Chapter Text

Euijoo couldn’t leave Nicholas be. The very idea of stepping back gnawed at him like a splinter buried too deep. It wasn’t just obsession—it was dread wrapped in memory, laced with guilt. So he made plans.

He pulled Harua, Taki, and Maki aside during one of their first late-night meetings in the dorms, the lamplight flickering over maps and half-finished assignments, their whispered voices tense and low. They agreed, mostly out of loyalty or weariness, to help keep an eye on Nicholas now that they had returned to school. But Euijoo noticed the way they exchanged glances when he brought it up, the hesitance in their nods. Taki had frowned but said nothing. Harua shrugged. And Maki’s silence was almost louder than a refusal. They weren’t invested, not really. Not the way he was.

So Euijoo took it further. He stole the Marauder’s Map—snatched it quietly from a distracted prefect’s bag in the common room—and it quickly became a fixation. Every spare moment, every pause in class or lull between patrols, he unrolled it beneath his cloak like a sacred document. He watched the ink shift, reform, footsteps threading across the parchment like veins. And always, always there was Nicholas: never alone, never still. Flanked by Asakura Jo, Koga Yudai, and Nora. Their names like ghosts circling him, insulating him from everything Euijoo couldn’t reach.

It drove him mad. The more Nicholas eluded him, the more Euijoo needed to understand what he was doing, who he was becoming.

But in the end, fate moved faster than paranoia. He hadn’t needed to wait long.

It was only the second weekend back at Hogwarts when his parents dragged him along to another Ministry Ball. This time, he wore his own achkan, dark red and stiff with embroidery, something tailored and formal that itched against his skin. He’d barely stepped into the vast, echoing ballroom—light spilling from a hundred floating chandeliers, laughter curling under strings of distant violins—before he caught a glimpse of dark, slicked-back hair and everything inside him seized.

The crowd blurred, the music dimmed. His whole focus narrowed to a single marble strip of the room, the space between two towering columns where the Wangs stood: Ms. Wang, poised and statuesque, and Nicholas, rigid and unreadable at her side. Time folded in on itself.

“Back in a minute,” he said tightly to his mum, already moving before she could reply. She called something after him—something soft, worried—but he didn’t hear. He was already weaving through the swirl of dress robes and golden goblets, eyes locked on the boy who had once kissed him like nothing else in the world mattered.

And who now wouldn’t even look at him.

“Nicholas,” Euijoo said, stepping into his path like a drawn blade.

Nicholas recoiled as if struck. He looked brittle, worn thin around the edges. The sharp lines of his face had hollowed, shadows carved beneath his eyes like bruises that hadn’t healed. His black dress robes clung stiffly to his frame, buttoned all the way to the chin like armor, but they only emphasized how pale and sickly he looked—like someone slowly disappearing into himself.

“Byun,” Nicholas snapped, voice low and bitter. “They’re letting just anyone in these days, are they?”

Euijoo ignored the jab, watching the slight tremble in Ms. Wang’s hand where it gripped her son’s shoulder. She leaned in, voice soft and taut like piano wire.

“Nicholas, don’t cause a scene—let’s just—”

“Yeah, Nicholas,” Euijoo interrupted, a flare of something ugly and warm twisting in his gut when Nicholas’ jaw tightened and his eyes went dark. “Why don’t you just, er, come with me and have a chat?”

The suggestion was thinly veiled, bristling with tension neither of them could name aloud. Nicholas stared at him like he’d spoken another language, his lip curling.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he said. And to Euijoo’s horror, a slow flush crept up his neck, heat blooming beneath his collar. It was the wrong tone, too sarcastic, too transparent. Stupid.

And then—of course—fate struck with uncanny precision.

“Well,” came a familiar, syrupy voice, “isn’t this a lovely little reunion.”

Euijoo turned, every muscle stiff with dread. There, to his left, stood Rita Skeeter, resplendent in robes of blinding emerald, her nails lacquered to match. Her expression was that of a cat spotting two mice mid-squabble: delighted, predatory, eager.

Hands clasped theatrically beneath her chin, she beamed as if she’d just walked into a scandal gift-wrapped with a bow.

Euijoo could feel the weight of eyes beginning to turn toward them, drawn by her voice like moths to flame.

“How lovely that you two boys are still such good friends,” Rita Skeeter cooed, her smile a polished weapon. “Even with all the — well — unpleasantness of late!”

Her eyes sparkled behind the glint of jeweled spectacles, the kind of gleam that meant she already smelled a headline.

“You know, that story about the two of you when you were children? One of my biggest ever scoops. Promoted me to the Daily Prophet’s Premiere Party Presenter, no less.”

“How wonderful,” Ms. Wang said coolly. Her voice didn’t waver, didn’t sharpen — but there was a sharpness to the way she stood, like a figure cut from obsidian. Her grip on Nicholas’ shoulder remained, quiet but firm, like a tether.

Rita swept on, oblivious or uncaring. “I don’t suppose — oh, it would be lovely — if we could reprise it! Just a little waltz?” Her voice tilted sweetly upward, like a trap springing shut. “There are so many nasty little rumors these days, you know — but a Byun and a Wang dancing together?” Her eyebrows rose, almost mockingly. “That would surely go a long way toward clearing the air.”

“Uh,” Euijoo stammered, caught in the undertow of horror. “I don’t think I—” He stopped. Swallowed.

A waltz with Nicholas. In front of half the wizarding elite. With Rita’s beady eyes and notebook nearby and a camera no doubt already warming up. And Nicholas — furious, rigid, unreadable. No way to escape. No way for Nicholas to run this time.

“I mean…” He forced the words out through a dry throat, heat blooming in his ears. “If… you want to?”

He couldn’t look up. His gaze locked on the polished marble floor, distorted reflections wobbling beneath his feet. He hated the way he sounded: unsure, fourteen again. He hated how the room felt like it was tipping around him.

When he did dare glance up, Nicholas was sneering — a slow, disdainful twist of the mouth that made Euijoo’s stomach twist in response. “I think not—” Nicholas began, cold as stone.

Except—Ms. Wang’s hand tensed, fingers pressing down through layers of fabric and skin. It was the barest movement, but Nicholas went paler still, eyes flicking toward her face. Something passed between them, invisible but loud.

His lips barely moved. “Fine,” he muttered, as if the word had to be dragged out of his ribs.

Rita’s hands clapped together with a delighted squeal. “Wonderful!” she sang, and gave Euijoo a little shove — not hard, but enough to make him stumble forward into Nicholas’ orbit. “Well then, you boys just get started — I’ll fetch our photographer. Pretend we’re not even here, darlings…”

But there was no pretending. The chandelier above them cast a sharp, golden halo that made everything too vivid. The music in the ballroom had turned soft, a dreamy, lilting waltz that felt out of place — like a lullaby in the middle of a battle.

Euijoo reached for Nicholas’ hand, fumbling. The contact barely lasted a second — Nicholas jerked his hand away like he'd been burned. Then, after a glance toward his mother — a subtle, nervous flick of his eyes — he reached out again, but with the cold precision of someone handling something distasteful. Two fingers caught the edge of Euijoo’s sleeve, guiding him across the marble floor toward the space where other couples turned in gentle, practiced circles.

His grip was barely there. Like Euijoo might shatter, or worse — contaminate him.

“I’ll get you for this, Byun,” Nicholas hissed through gritted teeth, low enough that only Euijoo could hear.

The words were a blade; still, Euijoo swallowed them like water. “I didn’t do anything,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I just wanted to talk—”

“I am not talking to you,” Nicholas snapped, his tone sharp and immediate, like a slap. Then he stepped closer, rigid as a statue, and added coldly, “Put your hand on my shoulder, you horrible lump.”

Euijoo obeyed, jaw tight, and prayed Nicholas couldn’t feel the sweat on his palm. He flinched anyway when Nicholas seized his other hand — not like a dance partner, but like a captor forcing compliance.

They began to move, unevenly at first. Euijoo tripped over a beat and Nicholas’ body stiffened in response, his irritation radiating off him like static.

“Follow me,” he said tersely, jaw clenched. “We’re only doing this for the cameras. You may as well make it look good.”

The music swelled, a romantic, gliding waltz that felt wildly at odds with the tension between them. Euijoo tried to find the rhythm, to match Nicholas' stride — but it was hard to concentrate with Nicholas’ hand digging into his waist, his touch clinical and cold. All of it felt wrong. Too much space between them, and yet nowhere to hide.

Around them, the crowd watched with smiles too fixed to be real. Euijoo could see Rita Skeeter hovering nearby, quill already twitching, the photographer’s flash preparing to bloom. Somewhere behind them, Ms. Wang's gaze lingered like ice on glass.

And through it all, Euijoo couldn’t stop thinking of Hogsmeade, of Nicholas’ hand clenched tightly around his sleeve in desperation, of the way he’d said you’re dead like it meant I would never let it happen.

Now, that same hand barely touched him. Like he was nothing.

Euijoo felt stupid — miserably, achingly stupid — and just a little bit small. But he did what Nicholas asked. He followed his lead, awkward and tense in the sweep of music and the watching eyes of the room. His grip adjusted, tentative, as though he could still salvage something from the wreckage between them.

He remembered, painfully, another version of this — a twelve-year-old Nicholas with laughter in his voice, humming some old ballroom tune and half-singing the steps as they fumbled around. Step-step-step, step-step-step — watch my toes, Euijoo! That Nicholas had smiled at him like the world wasn't so heavy. That Nicholas had tugged him around the room like it was a game. Like he liked him.

Euijoo drew in a breath, raised his eyes to meet Nicholas’, and said, quietly but steadily, “I’m worried about you.”

Nicholas didn’t flinch. But his jaw went tight, his expression sharpening with the brittle precision of a splinter ready to break. “How good of you,” he said, each word frosted over with something jagged. “I hope you choke and die in your sleep.”

Euijoo blinked. It didn’t sting — not really. He was used to Nicholas’ armor by now. Still, his voice cracked a little when he said, “Nicholas—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Euijoo hesitated. “You’re my best friend,” he said, too quickly. It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.

Nicholas’ expression didn’t shift, but his eyes did — sliding away like he couldn’t quite look at Euijoo anymore. “We’ve barely spoken in a year,” he said flatly, as if that proved something.

“We were fighting,” Euijoo said, nearly stumbling as he pivoted with Nicholas, his voice rising. “You drive me insane, you always have— But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, alright? That doesn’t just disappear!”

Nicholas went still. Not a full pause in the dance, but his rhythm faltered — just slightly, just enough for Euijoo to notice. A slow, furious pink rose to his cheeks, high on his cheekbones and crawling down to his collar.

Euijoo stared at him, heart pounding against his ribs like it might break through, and for a second — a single second — it felt like the two of them were alone again. No ballroom. No politics. No sides.

“Shut up,” Nicholas said, his voice brittle and frayed at the edges. His fingers tightened just slightly on Euijoo’s waist, the kind of reflex that came from anger barely leashed. “You got my father locked up.”

Euijoo felt his pulse spike. “Your father tried to kill me!” he shot back, ducking beneath the arm Nicholas had lifted for a turn. His voice rose despite himself, too raw to control.

“Keep your voice down,” Nicholas hissed, his eyes darting nervously around the ballroom. “I’m only doing this because it makes my mother look good — do you have any idea what it takes for her to even be here? What it costs her to maintain appearances—”

“My parents say something bad is going on,” Euijoo interrupted, breathless, his grip firming on Nicholas' shoulder. “They think the Ministry’s compromised. That it’s all just for show. That there are things happening at Wang Manor that no one will talk about, but—”

Nicholas laughed, but the sound was broken, as though it had cracked on its way out of his throat. His eyes were glossy in the ballroom light, and for one terrible, flickering moment, he looked impossibly young — just a boy trying not to drown in a sea of masks and shadows.

“Nicholas,” Euijoo said, softer now. He wasn’t sure what he was asking. Just that he wanted to reach him — really reach him, through the fog of pride and grief and rage. “Please—”

The violins drew their final note in a perfect bow, graceful and slow, and Nicholas yanked his hand away like it had been scorched.

“Bye, Byun,” he spat, venom slipping back into his voice like armor. “I’d watch your back, if I were you.”

Then he turned sharply, cutting through the crowd like a blade through silk. Euijoo didn’t follow. He just stood there, breath caught in his throat, as Rita Skeeter clapped her hands and chirped about “young diplomacy” and “hope for the future,” her voice syrupy and false.

Euijoo turned away from the dance floor, his chest tight with something sour and aching. He wove numbly through the glittering crowd, past diplomats and old schoolmates and the gleam of floating chandeliers, until he spotted his parents near the refreshment table, their heads tilted toward each other in quiet conversation.

His mother saw him first. Her face softened instantly. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, and wrapped her arms around him, firm and warm, the scent of her perfume familiar and grounding.

He didn’t say anything, just leaned in. Her hug felt like safety, and guilt bloomed sharp in his throat. He hadn’t meant for the dance to become so humiliating, so sharp-edged. He hadn’t meant for Nicholas to look like that — cornered, brittle, furious, like the edges of him were splintering just to hold his shape.

“You’re going to be okay,” his dad said quietly, brushing a hand through Euijoo’s hair in a gesture that had not changed since Euijoo was five.

“Yeah,” Euijoo said hoarsely, blinking rapidly. He nodded once, as if that might make it true.

But his eyes slid back toward the crowd where Nicholas had vanished, and he couldn’t help wondering — quietly, painfully — whether Nicholas would be okay, too.

Because it didn’t look like he would be.

And that was the part that scared Euijoo the most.

Chapter Text

The year weighed down like a curse — not loud, not violent, just constant. Like wearing shoes filled with stones, each step slower than the last. The corridors of Hogwarts, once chaotic with teenage hexes and shouting matches, had turned eerily calm. Not peaceful — nothing about it felt like peace — but quiet, the kind of quiet that made the hairs on your arms stand up. Prefects no longer patrolled with urgency. Teachers rarely raised their voices. It was as if the entire school had been put under a muffling charm.

It felt like an asylum, Euijoo thought, and not the healing kind.

"You’ve got to stop."

The words broke through the haze like cold water. Euijoo looked up, slow and exhausted, from the Marauder’s Map splayed in front of him, its surface ink-stained and soft from overuse. His eyes were ringed with shadows, his mouth slightly ajar like he’d forgotten how to close it.

"What?" he rasped.

Maki stood across from him, his brow furrowed, voice low but firm — the kind of careful tone he used when he was worried and already bracing for Euijoo to ignore him.

"You’re obsessed, mate," Maki said gently. "You’re on that map every free minute, scanning every hallway, every tower, every hidden corridor like you think he’ll suddenly appear and explain everything. What are you waiting for, honestly? To bump into him? For him to... what? Say sorry? Tell you you were right?"

Euijoo didn’t answer. He stared back at the map as though it might offer him an excuse. But it was just parchment now, silent and unhelpful.

Maki sighed and pulled out a chair, dragging it close. “I’m not saying you’re wrong to care, okay? I get it. But this—” he gestured to the map, the dark hollows under Euijoo’s eyes, the untouched plate of food nearby, “—this isn’t helping you. And it’s not going to help him either.”

Euijoo blinked slowly. “If something happens... and I’m not paying attention...”

“Then something happens,” Maki said, not unkindly. “But you can’t hold the whole war in your hands, Euijoo. You’re sixteen. You’re not a general.”

“I’m not trying to be a general,” Euijoo muttered. “I’m trying to stop a friend from becoming something he can’t come back from.”

Maki looked at him, and for once didn’t try to argue, so he simply said, “I know.”

Euijoo closed the map slowly, fingers trembling at the edges, and looked up at Maki with eyes that were sharp and dull all at once — worn down, too tired to spark but still flickering with a stubborn kind of fire.

"I'm fine," he said, flat and dismissive.

But none of them believed that. His friends could feel it — the twitch of his shoulders when footsteps echoed down the corridor, the way his eyes darted whenever a crowd shifted, the constant vigilance. It wasn’t focus anymore. It was paranoia.

“He cares.”

The words came a few days later, quiet, nearly lost under the whistle of wind as Maki and Euijoo trudged together across the frosted grounds. Their coats were buttoned up to their necks, hands jammed into their pockets. Winter was arriving hard and fast, biting through wool like teeth.

Euijoo didn’t look at him. His voice was frayed, bitter with exhaustion. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know—” Maki hesitated, then pressed on, “I used to know Nicholas. And I don’t believe he’d really hurt anyone. Not fully. Not where he couldn’t come back from.”

Euijoo shook his head, jaw tightening. “This isn’t about school anymore, Maki. This isn’t about pranks or fights in the corridor. There’s something going on. I know it — I can feel it, and it’s real. And if we just sit back—”

He broke off, his breath clouding in front of him.

Maki didn’t interrupt. He just looked at Euijoo with quiet concern, and not for the first time, it felt less like he was arguing and more like he was watching someone unravel — a friend slipping into the space between determination and delusion.

And Euijoo, for all his certainty, could feel it too — the unsteady edge of something he couldn’t name.

Exams had started to lose their meaning.

What once loomed with anxiety and pressure now felt like a distant, almost absurd concern. More and more students were skipping classes. Some had already dropped out. Maybe their parents had pulled them from school; maybe they'd left of their own accord — to prepare for the real world, the one that didn’t come with marks or House Points or N.E.W.Ts. The world where war wasn’t an abstract fear but a pressing certainty.

Euijoo knew the truth no one wanted to say out loud: the war wasn’t on the horizon anymore. It was already here, inching its way into every shadowed corridor, every owl post full of bad news, every empty seat in the Great Hall.
And they were just kids. The adult world was still out of reach, but the consequences weren’t waiting.

One night, as he buttoned his pajama shirt with slow fingers, Euijoo glanced around the dormitory, quiet with the hush that came after curfew.

“Oi, where’s Fuma?” he asked, casually at first.

There was a beat of silence before Taki, sprawled on his bed, rolled onto his side to look at him.
“I think he’s not here.”

Euijoo frowned. “What? Not here as in... not in the dorms?”

Taki shook his head. “Not at Hogwarts.”

“What?” Euijoo blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Lots of seventh-years have left,” Taki said softly, like the words might carry too far. “They’re of age. They’re worried more about staying alive than passing Transfiguration.”

It struck Euijoo like a punch, that hollowing kind of clarity. The space where Fuma used to read, always sitting near the fireplace; the absence of his laugh in the common room — they weren’t temporary. They were deliberate. Permanent.

He stood frozen, his hands still on the last button of his shirt, as Harua entered from the bathroom, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel.

“They’re scared,” Harua added quietly. “Their families want them home. Some of them want to fight."

Euijoo didn’t know what to say to that. There was nothing to say. Just the soft rustle of the castle breathing around them, and the distant sense that things were shifting beneath their feet — like the stone foundations of Hogwarts itself had started to crack.

Hogwarts is the safest place, Euijoo kept telling himself, the safest place.

But even those words had started to feel empty.

One night, lying in bed with his back against the headboard and his wand casting a faint glow, Euijoo stared down at the Marauder’s Map. His eyes, bleary and rimmed red from too little sleep, blinked in disbelief. Nicholas was alone. More than that—he was outside the Slytherin common room. Wandering.

Euijoo didn’t think. He just moved.

He didn’t offer Maki an excuse, didn’t pause to explain where he was going. He could feel Maki’s eyes on his back as he slipped out the dormitory door, robes thrown over his pajamas, footsteps quick and quiet against the stone floor. The map guided him steadily, the flickering ink of Nicholas’ footsteps pulling him down corridors and staircases until—

The prefects’ bathroom.

Euijoo hesitated, his hand on the door. Then he pushed.

Nicholas was standing at the sink, gripping its edges like they were the only things anchoring him to the earth. He was murmuring to himself—low, unintelligible words that echoed off the tile. Euijoo saw him first in the mirror: tousled hair, dark circles, a look of careless exhaustion that didn’t suit the Nicholas he remembered.

It hurt, somehow, how far gone he looked.

“Why are you here?” Nicholas’ voice, hoarse and sharp, sliced through the air. He hadn’t turned, but somehow, he’d known.

Euijoo stepped in, cautious, keeping distance between them. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

Nicholas turned to face him, his sneer brittle, almost automatic. Up close, he looked worse. Washed-out. Unmoored. Like something had come loose in him and he didn’t know how to fix it.

“Nicholas…” Euijoo breathed, the name coming out quiet, laced with a concern he no longer had the strength to hide.

“Stop,” Nicholas said flatly.

Euijoo swallowed. He was suddenly, viscerally aware of the reason he’d come. Nicholas was hiding something. He had to be. Something important. Something dangerous.

But now, standing in front of him—Nicholas looking like a storm barely holding its shape—Euijoo felt the weight of doubt settle in his chest.

“I know you’re hiding something,” Euijoo said, voice steady and stern, though his insides twisted. “I’ve been watching you—”

Nicholas flinched. His hands twitched at his sides. For a moment, Euijoo thought he might reach for his wand—but he didn’t. Instead, Nicholas looked away, jaw clenched, as though weighing the weight of his own silence. When he turned back, his eyes were guarded, fortified behind walls Euijoo recognized all too well.

“You have no idea,” Nicholas murmured, voice low and raw. “You have no fucking idea.”

Euijoo winced at the venom in his tone, but didn’t back off. He bit the inside of his cheek and held Nicholas’ gaze. The tension between them was suffocating. Hatred, grief, longing—it all pressed in, heavy and invisible, choking the air between words.

“Then tell me,” Euijoo said, voice softening. “Tell me what’s going on. I—”

“No,” Nicholas hissed, fists clenching tighter. His whole body was trembling now. “…no.”

But Euijoo, stubborn as ever, stepped forward again. He never knew when to shut up, probably his worst trait. Nicholas twitched at the motion, flinching ever so slightly, and Euijoo saw the shake in his hands.

“You’re afraid,” Euijoo murmured, reading him like a map, like he’d always been able to.

Nicholas’ face twisted—anger, or something dangerously close to grief. “You think this is fear?” he snapped. “You think I’m just wandering the halls having some sort of emotional episode?”

“I think you’re in over your head,” Euijoo said, calm despite the tightness in his chest. “And I think you don’t want to be.”
Nicholas scoffed, bitter, exhausted. But he didn’t deny it.

“My mum says the Ministry’s watching your family,” Euijoo went on. “Says Aurors have died. This isn’t just about your father anymore. It’s bigger than him. Bigger than you.”

Something cracked, quiet and terrible, behind Nicholas’ eyes. His hand twitched again, and Euijoo instinctively braced—but Nicholas didn’t draw. He didn’t lash out.

Instead, his expression crumpled in some private, devastating way.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” he whispered, and his voice was grave, low, and laced with something close to despair. “Do you think I sleep at night? Do you think I’ve got choices? You don’t know what they’ve done, what they’re doing. You don’t know what they’re asking of me.”

Euijoo’s breath caught in his throat.

“Then tell me,” he said again, desperate now. “Let someone help you.”

“I can’t.” Nicholas shook his head, and now he was trembling—barely, but enough. As if holding everything in had started to crack him open. “You don’t understand. If I tell you—if anyone knows—my father—”

Euijoo stepped closer again, and this time, Nicholas didn’t flinch.

“And after that, what?” Euijoo said quietly. “Will your father be okay? Will you be okay?”

The question hung heavy in the air between them, weighty and sharp. Nicholas met his gaze, eyes wild and bloodshot, and for one terrible second, Euijoo thought he saw tears—just a glimmer, just a moment. But then Nicholas blinked, and it was gone. The moment slammed shut, like a door he’d never meant to open.

“Go back to bed,” Nicholas said, voice flat, cold, as practiced and lifeless as a memorized spell. “You don’t want to be part of this.”

“I already am,” Euijoo replied, steady despite the ache rising in his throat. “You made me part of it the moment I met you.”

They stood there, locked in that moment, the silence stretching out between them. Somewhere beyond the walls, the castle groaned with the wind, old stone shifting like a breath in the dark.

Then Nicholas turned his back.

“Just get out. Please.”

Euijoo stayed a moment longer, unsure if he wanted to scream or reach out. But then he turned, footsteps slow and echoing, and left.

His heart thudded in his chest all the way back to the dorm, and the image of Nicholas trembling at the sink followed him like a shadow that wouldn’t let go.

Chapter Text

The hills were now blanketed in thick snow, the Highlands transformed into a winter wonderland. The usual scent of baked cookies and gingerbread filled the cold castle walls, and sweet, nostalgic carols drifted through the air—decorating the silence, but offering no warmth. It all felt stifling. Euijoo wasn’t even excited for Christmas. No one seemed to be.

This year, he’d chosen to stay home, unwilling to spend another minute inside those suffocating stone corridors. He’d promised Maki he’d leave the Marauder’s Map behind—for his own sanity—and take the holiday to rest. To focus on his parents, his cousins, his relatives. On spending time with Maki. Even Taki and Harua. Just to give himself a break from the cruel reality that seemed to press in from every side.

On the 23rd of December, at around two-thirty in the morning, Euijoo sat slumped in his room, staring blankly at one of the Transfiguration texts he was meant to read over the holidays. He was barely halfway through the first chapter and already struggling to concentrate. He rubbed at his eyes, tried again to focus on the page. It was hopeless.

The words blurred. He felt foolish, heavy, restless. Like something was building under his skin and he couldn’t read fast enough, couldn’t sit still enough to outpace it.

It was snowing outside. Every now and then, Euijoo found himself staring blankly at the white blanket covering the ground. Sometimes, if he wasn’t paying attention, he’d catch himself idly imagining being out in the cold, building snowmen like his mum had taught him when he was little.

He sighed and leaned closer to the textbook. The words looked like blurry ants crawling across the page.

There was another sound—a thump this time—and instinctively, Euijoo turned toward the window. He froze. Nicholas Wang was staring back at him, his face blurred and distorted behind the frosted glass. Then Nicholas raised a hand and knocked again.

Euijoo scrambled across the room. He threw the window open, and a gust of snow rushed in with Nicholas stumbling off his broom. Snow scattered across Euijoo’s bed as he reached out, catching Nicholas with an arm around his waist and hauling him inside. He slammed the window shut against the cold, and Nicholas collapsed into him, wet and shivering, his head dropping onto Euijoo’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Euijoo whispered; it felt wrong to speak aloud. “Are you okay? What happened? How did you get here?”

“F-flew,” Nicholas said. His teeth were chattering, his robes soaked through and heavy.

“From the Manor?”

Nicholas let out a shaky, breathless laugh and turned his face against Euijoo’s neck.

“What’s going on?” Euijoo asked again, more urgently now. “Are you hurt? Is someone after you?”

“Oh, it’s bad,” Nicholas said. His voice teetered on the edge of something that might have been hysteria. “So, so bad. Really—just not a great day, Byun. How’s yours been?”

“Pretty shit,” Euijoo admitted.

“I’m very sure,” Nicholas said, still trembling violently, “that I could give you a run for your money.”

Euijoo hesitated, then said, “You’re—you're freezing. You’re going to get sick. Let’s get you out of these—” He turned away slightly, trying to hide the flush rising in his face.

Nicholas followed without protest, though he seemed dazed—like he didn’t quite register what Euijoo was doing when he fetched a dry long-sleeved shirt from his drawer. He just stood there, blinking slowly.

After a pause, Euijoo stepped forward and gently tugged at the hem of Nicholas’s soaked jumper. Nicholas lifted his arms obediently, letting Euijoo pull it off, along with the drenched shirt underneath. Then he was suddenly bare-chested in the middle of Euijoo’s bedroom, blinking back at him, pale skin goose-pimpled from the cold.

Nicholas had never been in Euijoo’s bedroom before.

Euijoo became painfully aware of everything at once: the worn Chudley Cannons posters peeling slightly at the corners, the clutter, the heap of laundry threatening to spill out of the basket, the trail of socks and robes across the floor. In the corner were pinned photos—some moving, some still—of family and friends. Nicholas was in more of them than Euijoo cared to admit. He avoided looking at those.

“What,” Nicholas said, voice rough and tired.

Euijoo didn’t answer. He just looked away, face warm, and helped him into the sweatshirt—one of Euijoo’s favourites, soft and stretched from years of wear, deep navy blue. It hung slightly loose on Nicholas, the sleeves a little long, the collar dipping low on one side.

As soon as it was on, Nicholas dipped his head, pressing his nose to the shoulder and breathing in deeply.

“Is this yours?” Nicholas asked, his voice rough, eyes still wide and untethered. Euijoo, flushed and suddenly very aware of the way Nicholas was curled into the oversized sweatshirt, nodded.

Nicholas stared at him like that answer had meant more than it should have.

“You want some, uh, pajama pants?” Euijoo offered awkwardly, trying to ground them both in something normal.

“Oh,” Nicholas said vaguely. “Are we going to sleep?”

“I don’t know,” Euijoo admitted. “I—what do you want? What do you need?”

Nicholas began to shiver again, harder this time, his hands fisting in the fabric of the sweatshirt like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His voice cracked: “I can’t go back. I can’t, Euijoo, I can’t.”

Euijoo stepped forward without hesitation, gripping Nicholas firmly by the elbows. “No,” he said, low and steady. “No, I won’t let you. I promise.”

“You—you gotta,” Nicholas said, voice breaking, teeth chattering. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand what he’ll do.”

“I don’t care,” Euijoo said fiercely, even if he didn’t fully understand yet. “You’re here. That’s what matters. I’ve got you.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He guided Nicholas gently toward the bed—his stupid bed with its red-and-gold covers and cluttered nightstand. Nicholas kicked off his shoes and trousers in one stumbling movement, and they both climbed under the duvet like it was a shield from everything outside. They curled in close, close enough to feel each other's breath in the dark, the silence stretching between them warm now, heavy with something unnamed.

Euijoo couldn’t remember the last time they’d been this close. He wasn’t sure they ever had. He pressed his face into Nicholas’ hair and held on tight, like anchoring them both would somehow keep the rest of the world out.

After a long while, Nicholas rasped, “Water.”

Euijoo reached for the glass on the bedside table and handed it to him. Nicholas propped himself up on one elbow and drank in deep, desperate swallows until the glass was empty.
They lay back down after that, a little space between them now, each on their own pillow, staring at one another in the dim light.

Nicholas licked his lips, like he was steeling himself, and said, “He’s trying to make me—do something terrible.”

“Who?” Euijoo asked, then his stomach dropped. “Oh.”

“I can’t do it,” Nicholas said. His voice cracked, thick with fear. “I—Euijoo, I can’t. But if I don’t, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill my parents.”

“I won’t let him,” Euijoo said without hesitation, his voice fierce.

Nicholas gave a dry, bitter laugh. “And what are you going to do?”

“We’ll stop him. We’ll protect you. Me, my parents, the Order, Dumbledore—”

“Merlin,” Nicholas whispered, and his whole body seemed to shudder.

Euijoo moved without thinking. He slid closer and wrapped himself around Nicholas, holding him like he could keep him from falling apart. It was instinct, not bravery. Nicholas twitched once in his arms—then stilled, breath ragged against the mattress.

Euijoo clung tighter. His skin was burning, heart frantic, but he didn’t pull away.

“Do you trust me?” Euijoo demanded. “Are you—are you going to stay?”

“Yeah,” Nicholas said. “Yes. Yes. Yeah.”

“Will your mum be safe?”

“I told them I was going to Jo’s,” Nicholas muttered. “He’ll cover for me. Just a couple of days—”

“Okay,” Euijoo said. He pushed Nicholas’ hair aside with a rough hand and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It felt awkward, unsure—stupid, even—but he didn’t care. He just needed to touch him, to be close. “Okay. Fine. Good. Then I’ll tell my parents, and the Order, and—”

“Not now,” Nicholas said quickly, voice cracking. “Not—not—don’t leave me.”

Euijoo pulled him closer, tighter.

“No,” he said. “No, I won’t. Not ever.”

And so they held on to each other, wrapped together in the shivering lamplight of Euijoo’s room, the cold world outside pressing in. They stayed awake as long as they could, vigilant, wordless, until the weight of sleep finally dragged Euijoo under—and he couldn’t remember the breath between then and the next morning.

***

He slept late the next morning for the first time in what felt like months. No alarm in his chest, no tension riding up his spine like a drawn bowstring. Just warmth. A dense, quiet warmth that anchored him deeply into the bed.
At first, Euijoo didn’t even remember why. His body felt heavier than usual, but in a good way—like being wrapped in a thick quilt of safety. His face was pressed into the pillow, breath slow and even, and then it registered: Nicholas was curled up behind him.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just let the realisation settle.

Nicholas' breath was soft against the nape of his neck, each exhale tickling his skin. One of his arms was looped tightly around Euijoo’s chest, palm flat against his heart. A leg had found its way across Euijoo’s hip, drawing him back into the heat of his body. Their position was close, intimate—closer than anything Euijoo had ever dared to imagine, and yet, now, it felt inevitable. Right.

His skin flushed, heart stammering beneath Nicholas’ hand. He hadn’t dared to dream of this. Not like this.

Slowly, he pressed back into Nicholas, just enough to feel the give of his hips, the almost involuntary twitch that followed. A soft, gravelly hum escaped from Nicholas’ throat—somewhere between contentment and protest.

Euijoo reached for the hand curled against his chest and found it easily, fingers cold but familiar. He raised it, eyes still closed, and brushed his lips gently over the knuckles. Nicholas didn’t stir, but his hand relaxed in Euijoo’s grip.

Then—

A cough. Deliberate. Throat-clearing.

Euijoo's eyes flew open.

Standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with arms crossed and a face far too unreadable for comfort, was his mum.

“Euijoo,” she said, voice low and carefully controlled, “would you mind coming to talk with us for a moment?”

Time stopped.

In that instant, Euijoo became entirely aware of everything—his tangled limbs with Nicholas, the shared body heat, the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, the red covers they were half buried in. His entire life compressed into a single humiliating, surreal heartbeat.

He was sure he’d died. Or was about to.

But the world didn’t end.

After a breath that scraped his ribs on the way out, he cleared his throat and whispered, “Sure.” His voice cracked like old parchment.
He moved slowly, carefully, as though trying not to disturb the peace he’d just shattered. Nicholas murmured something incoherent and whined softly when Euijoo slipped from his grip. Still fast asleep.

Panicking slightly under his mother’s gaze, Euijoo grabbed a pillow and gently placed it in Nicholas’ arms. Nicholas immediately clung to it, a small frown tugging at his brow, and buried his face in the fabric.

Euijoo’s heart twisted.

He stood, finally, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, and followed his mum out of the room—his pulse thudding with every step.

“Um,” Euijoo said, standing awkwardly in front of his mum, his entire face burning. He could barely meet her eyes. She gave him a long look—half exasperation, half concern—then sighed and jerked her head toward the hallway. He followed her quietly into the dining room, where the soft clatter of mugs and the warm scent of tea filled the air.

His dad stood by the counter, stirring a pot with a casual air that didn’t match the situation at all. When he glanced over and saw Euijoo, he gave a bright, amused grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Er,” Euijoo said, voice small as he took the cup his father handed him. The warmth seeped into his fingers, but did nothing to cool the flush in his cheeks.

“Well,” his mum said, folding her arms, eyebrow raised. “I’m assuming that the Nicholas Wang currently sleeping in your bed is the same Nicholas Wang you’ve been insisting for months the Ministry should be hunting down and interrogating?”

“I—" Euijoo took a quick sip of tea, nearly burning his tongue. “For his own good, I— I wanted that for his own good. And now he, uh... he showed up.”

“In the middle of the night,” she said flatly. “At your window. Half frozen. For a cuddle. And now he’s incapable of evil?”

Euijoo’s mouth opened. Closed. He turned helplessly toward his dad.

“Don’t look at me,” his dad said, turning away just in time for his shoulders to start shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

“Seriously?” Euijoo muttered.

When his father turned back, his face was almost convincingly neutral—except for the glint in his eye. Euijoo glared at him.

“Sorry, sorry,” his dad said, chuckling openly now. “It’s just—he showed up on a broom, in the snow, and you just—what? Bundled him into bed?”

“He’s really upset,” Euijoo snapped, his voice rising. “He’s scared, he’s not safe—he didn’t know where else to go! I didn’t know what to do.”

The humor drained a little from the room. His mum exhaled, some of the steel in her gaze softening.

“You should have come to us last night,” she said gently.

“Er,” Euijoo said again, fumbling for a foothold in the conversation. “Well, it was really late. And he was all—upset, and—”

“Right,” his dad said, his voice dry. He laughed under his breath again, but the sound didn’t last. His expression sobered, and he leaned forward slightly, the weight of the moment settling into his features. “All right. Do you know what’s happening?”

Euijoo hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “Not exactly. I think—” He swallowed. “I think You-Know-Who’s forcing him to do something. Something really awful. And I think it must be about Hogwarts, or else—why else would he need a schoolboy?”

His words fell heavy between them. His parents exchanged a look—quick, dark, full of things Euijoo didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to interrupt.

“Probably punishing Mr. Wang too,” his mum murmured. Her hands were wrapped around her mug, knuckles white with pressure. “For what happened at the Ministry. He failed. There’s a cost.”

Euijoo blinked. “Punishing him how?”

There was a beat of silence too long to be comfortable.

“By setting Nicholas up for...” His mum’s voice trailed off as the implications landed. Cold dread began to creep into Euijoo’s spine.

“For what?” he asked hoarsely. “Azkaban? Or—” He couldn’t even finish the thought.

His mum didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

But his dad leaned forward, steady and certain. “The important thing,” he said, his voice softer now, more sure, “is that Nicholas came here. He came to you. That means he still has choices. And we’ll do everything we can to help him.”

Euijoo nodded, though his stomach was a knot of nerves.

“I think you’d better go wake him up,” his dad added, patting his shoulder. “See what he can tell us. The sooner we understand what he’s caught in, the better we can keep him—and his mum—safe.”

Euijoo stood, gripping the still-warm mug in both hands, the gravity of the moment pressing into his chest. He didn’t know what Nicholas would say. He wasn’t sure Nicholas could say it. But he had to try.

“Right,” Euijoo said, setting his cup of tea down with a soft clink. His fingers lingered around the ceramic, seeking comfort. “And—and you’ll both be nice to him.”

His parents exchanged a glance across the kitchen table, a silent conversation passing between them. His mother’s expression softened first. “Of course,” she said, her voice low and calm.

Euijoo hesitated. “Because you haven’t... before—”

His father leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “We understand that things are different now,” he said. There was a weight in his voice, as if each word had been carefully measured. He glanced toward the hallway, then back at Euijoo. “Before you wake him up... is there anything else you want to tell us?”

Euijoo frowned, not quite following. “What?” he asked, the word sitting flat in his mouth.

His mother reached out, laying a hand lightly over his. Her smile was tentative, but kind. “About Nicholas. And you. And—”

“Oh my god,” Euijoo muttered, feeling his face go up in flames. He pulled his hand back, eyes darting away. “No.”

His dad gave a dry chuckle, though his tone was gentle. “No, there’s nothing, or no, you don’t want to tell us?” he asked. “Because I’ve got to say, bud—when a boy shows up and sleeps in your bed, and the two of you are curled up like spoons—well, your old man starts wondering.”

“Dad!” Euijoo groaned, practically sinking into his chair.

“It’s fine, sweetheart,” his mum said smoothly, brushing off the awkwardness with practiced grace. “Honestly. You know we couldn’t care less. We just want to know if you're bringing your boyfriend—”

“I’m going to die,” Euijoo muttered, burying his face in his hands. “I’m going to die, and I’m glad, because at least then I won’t be having this conversation.”

His dad let out a laugh, warm and teasing. “Yes or no, champ,” he said, grinning. “Then you can make your dramatic escape—”

“No!” Euijoo yelped, voice cracking under pressure. “No, okay? Nicholas is my best mate, and we’re not dating. And we’ve only kissed that one time—!”

A low, appalled voice cut through the kitchen air like a blade. “I’m sorry,” Nicholas said, dry and mortified. “I appear to have stumbled into an actual waking nightmare. I’ll just... let myself out.”

Euijoo whipped around, his face going incandescent. Nicholas stood frozen in the doorway, blinking in the warm morning light, looking like he’d been caught mid-dream. His hair was a fluffy mess, his frame swallowed by Euijoo’s oversized shirt and worn sweatpants, and two vivid spots of pink bloomed on his cheeks.

“Um,” Euijoo said, voice squeaky. “Hi.”

“Nicholas,” Euijoo’s mum said, the picture of calm kindness. “Are you hungry, sweetheart? Come sit down and have some tea.”

“Oh,” Nicholas said, bewildered, eyes flicking to each adult in turn like he’d wandered into a trap.

“Heard you might be in a bit of a muddle,” Euijoo’s dad said, more gently now. “Come on, lad. Have a cuppa and some breakfast. We can talk it all through.”

Nicholas opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it again. “Oh,” he repeated weakly, pale beneath the flush, his gaze flicking helplessly to Euijoo.

Euijoo, still red enough to ignite, moved in instinctively, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed. His presence was both a shield and an apology. He nudged Nicholas forward, and Nicholas finally moved, sitting stiffly at the table like an animal unsure if it had been offered shelter or a snare.

He perched on the edge of the chair, back straight, jaw tense. A mountain lion in borrowed clothes, deciding whether to bare its teeth or bolt.

Euijoo set a steaming cup of tea in front of him with trembling hands, avoiding his gaze. His mum followed with a plate of buttered crumpets, placing them down as if nothing unusual was happening at all.

Nicholas blinked at the plate as though it might explode.

“There,” she said gently, taking her seat. “Now, why don’t you tell us everything?”

Chapter Text

Everything unfolded in a rush after that. Nicholas, pale and shaking, recounted a story that left the kitchen frozen in silence. He spoke of how Wang Manor had fallen—overrun by Death Eaters, werewolves, and mad, loyal relatives clawing for favor with the Dark Lord. He told them how he and his mother had spent the summer under constant threat, never certain whether each new day would be their last, waiting for the punishment for Mr. Wang’s failure.

And then, when the summons finally came, Nicholas admitted that at first, it had almost felt like relief. At least it was a task, something clear and defined, something that might earn back their lives. He could endure anything, he thought, if it meant keeping his mother alive. But the relief twisted into dread when he learned what the task was: kill Dumbledore—and worse, get rid of Takayama. It wasn’t redemption. It was a death sentence by another name. Because how could a sixteen-year-old boy ever kill someone, and ruin another boy's life.

Euijoo sat stiff with horror, his mouth dry. But his parents remained calm, already moving into action.

“Yes,” his dad said firmly. “I think we’d better get Dumbledore.”

He dispatched Owls at once and reassured Nicholas, promised him they would find and protect his mother. And they did. Not long after, the house began to fill. First a few members of the Order arrived, then more, until the kitchen felt like it was pulsing with quiet magic and watchful eyes. Dumbledore came too, grave but kind, and when he heard Nicholas' story, he placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder and told him he’d done the right thing—that the courage it took to come forward was no small thing.

Nicholas nodded numbly, but it wasn’t until his mother was brought into the room—pale, rigid, her eyes moving restlessly—that he showed a real reaction. His breath caught.

“Mother,” he said, and for a moment looked more like a lost child than anything else. He stepped toward her, then faltered, unsure if he was allowed to touch her, to speak. “I’m—Mum, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know what to do—”

“Nicholas,” she said, her voice cool and steady, like glass over flame. “You have done exactly the right thing.”

And then, without warning, she pulled him into her arms. He collapsed into her shoulder, clutching her in a way that made everyone else instinctively look away. It was too raw, too private. Too full of pain.

Dumbledore’s voice broke the silence gently. “Of course we will keep you safe,” he said. “Ms. Wang, there are many safe houses I can offer—”

But she was already shaking her head.

“I don’t want a safe house,” she said clearly, her chin high, her grip still tight on her son. “I want manpower.”

The Order stared at her. No one spoke.

“The Dark Lord has not chosen to set up court in Wang Manor on a mere whim,” Ms. Wang said, her voice as unyielding as steel. “It is an old and ancient house, steeped in legacy, brimming with irreplaceable magical artifacts and ancestral tomes. I will not be driven from my home. And I do not think,” she added coolly, “that you would enjoy watching the Dark Lord tear through it unchecked.”

Euijoo’s dad raised an eyebrow. “You want us to take your house back for you?” he asked, skeptically, like he wasn’t sure if this was bravery or madness.

Joon groaned and scrubbed both hands through his hair. “Don’t like to admit it, mate, but she’s right,” he muttered, already exasperated. He and Ms. Wang locked eyes again, trading one of the venomous, silent arguments they’d been exchanging since sunrise. “We don’t know what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is hunting in there, but if he finds it, it won’t be good. We’ve got to act while he’s still settling in, before they think to tighten security. And if we move quickly—use Ms. Wang as a keyholder—maybe we can make it look like a legal repossession. A sanctioned reentry.”

“Yes,” Ms. Wang said, her eyes hard. “The house’s wards are blood-bound. They’ll recognize me. They’ll work with us.”

At that, the adults rose, tension crackling in the room like a brewing storm, chairs scraping back and boots stamping the ground. The mood had shifted—no more talk, now it was action.

“I can help,” Euijoo said quickly, stepping forward before he lost his nerve. Nicholas immediately mirrored him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough that their arms brushed. “We both can.”

The answer came like a thunderclap.

“Absolutely not,” said Ms. Wang and Euijoo’s dad in perfect unison, both cutting the boys down with sharp looks. Euijoo’s mum reached out and gently ran her fingers through his hair in a soothing, motherly gesture, the kind that made him feel twelve again.

“This will be fine,” she said softly. “Stay here, Euijoo. Stay where it’s safe.”

Joon grinned, flashing his teeth like a wolf scenting blood. “Really,” he said, clearly delighted, “I think this is going to be fun.”

Euijoo and Nicholas both opened their mouths, tried to argue, but their protests were brushed aside like gnats. The adults were already moving, gathering cloaks and wands, communicating silently with looks and gestures honed by a hundred missions.

And then, as the door opened and closed behind them, Euijoo watched as the protective wards shimmered briefly at the threshold—thin curtains of pale gold that pulsed once, then snapped shut like a lock.

He stood frozen in the silence that followed, the glow still lingering faintly in his eyes.

He had a terrible, certain feeling: if he and Nicholas tried to follow, the house itself might rise against them.

Nicholas lingered in the doorway like a shadow, his posture slumped as though still tethered to the image of his mother being led away. He wore Euijoo’s borrowed clothes—too big in all the wrong places. The sleeves of the shirt drooped past his fingers, which were knotted in the fabric, clutching it like a lifeline. The sweatpants rode too high on his shins, revealing pale skin that looked even thinner in the cold morning light.

“It’ll be okay,” Euijoo said quietly, the words feeling thin in his mouth, like paper that might tear if breathed on too hard.
Nicholas didn’t answer. His eyes were distant, unfocused, as though he were trying to see through the walls to wherever his mother had gone.

“I’m—” Euijoo hesitated, then pressed on. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. Should I have not told them?”

“No,” Nicholas said after a long pause, his voice distant and dislocated, like he was speaking across a great chasm. “No, I—I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t. I suppose this is…” He faltered, shook his head slightly, like the rest of the sentence had scattered beyond his reach. “Can we just go sit outside?”

“Yeah,” Euijoo said. He glanced out the window. The sun had climbed higher, casting sharp golden angles across the frost-kissed backyard. The snow from the night before was beginning to melt, glinting like broken glass.

“Bring a snitch,” Nicholas murmured, and the familiarity of the request—like it was just another lazy day—caught Euijoo off guard. He retrieved it, and together they went out to the back porch of Godric’s Hollow, wooden steps creaking beneath their feet. They sat side by side, knees nearly touching, shoulders brushing now and then with the movement of breath.

The snitch flickered gold in the pale light as they took turns tossing it into the air, catching it just before it could dart away.

It felt like a lifetime since they’d last been alone together, just the two of them, not surrounded by war or whispered names or looming decisions. Even longer since they’d sat without speaking, without fighting, without fear pushing between every word.

Euijoo kept sneaking glances at Nicholas, whose face was still too pale, too drawn. He didn’t know what to say—wasn’t sure anything would be right. He felt the weight of the house behind them, and the weight of the battle his parents had gone to face, and the ache of waiting. It crawled through his chest like a second heartbeat.
He threw the snitch again, higher this time, and snatched it mid-flight like it might slip away if he didn’t act fast enough. And then he did it again, and again, trying to keep his hands busy, trying not to let the silence between them stretch too far.

“Well,” Nicholas said at last, voice low and tentative, like he was testing the weight of his own thoughts before letting them go. He dragged his hands down his face, as though trying to scrub away exhaustion, memory, fear.

Euijoo stuffed the snitch into his pocket, its wings folding with a soft whirr, and turned toward him, alert. “Yeah?”

Nicholas didn’t answer right away. He sat with his elbows on his knees, spine curved under invisible pressure. He looked older than sixteen, like fear and grief had weathered him into something brittle and unfinished.

“I don’t know,” Nicholas said slowly. “I guess we should stop fighting now.”

Euijoo blinked. “Uh—well, yeah. I kind of figured we already had.”

Nicholas turned his head to look at him, giving him a long, narrow stare, skeptical and edged with dry amusement. “Even though you got my father incarcerated.”

The words hit like a rock skimming across still water—quick ripples, sudden quiet. Euijoo opened his mouth, then closed it again. There wasn’t anything to say that would make it less true.

But Nicholas only sighed, a heavy breath that sagged his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

A silence fell between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was full—tight with things unspoken. The kind of silence that quivered with all the weight it was holding. Euijoo felt his heart quicken, aware of Nicholas turning toward him with a look he couldn’t quite read.

“Euijoo, I—” Nicholas started, voice soft but charged, electric with something half-formed.

And then the wards came down.

The shimmering gold veil that had cloaked the house winked out in a flash of light and cold air. Magic fizzled in the air like ozone. Euijoo was on his feet in an instant, heart slamming against his ribs.

“My parents,” he said hoarsely, panic cracking his voice.

Nicholas didn’t hesitate. He surged upright, eyes flashing. “Come on.”

They were already moving, neither one needing to ask the other where they were going.

They took the Floo, now that the wards had dropped and the connection reestablished, and whirled out into chaos.
The drawing room of Wang Manor exploded around them in light and sound—curses shrieking through the air like lightning bolts, the sharp scent of smoke and ozone stinging their noses. Nicholas landed and froze, wide-eyed in shock, just as a jet of green light shattered a mirror inches above them.

Euijoo didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Nicholas by the forearm and yanked him down hard, both of them hitting the floor as spells blazed overhead. Heat scorched the air. Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming.

“Come on!” Nicholas barked, voice snapping into focus as he glanced wildly around the room—one clearly filled with witches and wizards neither of them recognized, many dueling or ducking behind overturned furniture. He pulled Euijoo to the side, hauling him behind a thick, ancient tapestry embroidered with phoenixes in flight.

“I don’t think this is going to work for long—” Euijoo started, but Nicholas was already pulling at something hidden in the wall.

A panel creaked open in the stone, revealing a narrow, dark passage.

“Come on,” Nicholas said again, grimly. “It’s an old house—full of secrets. We can use this to spy on them, for a bit. But once they realize the wards are down—”

“They’ll know we came,” Euijoo finished, his voice quiet now. He caught Nicholas' hand in the dim space, clutching it tight.

They slipped into the hidden corridor, shadows pressing in around them. It was barely wide enough for two, and they moved quickly, stumbling over uneven flagstones. At intervals, Nicholas led them to spyholes—small round knotholes in the stone—and together they crouched to watch scenes from the battle unfolding in fragments, like glimpses through a shattered mirror.

Through one peephole, they saw Joon, laughing like a man on the edge of madness as he deflected curse after curse from Bellatrix Lestrange, their spells sizzling with dangerous energy. Through another, Maki’s father was locked in a brutal duel with a masked Death Eater, fire and stone and blood flying between them.

But Euijoo didn’t see his parents. He didn’t see Nicholas’ mother. Dread twisted in his gut, and before he could say anything, Nicholas tugged him down another tunnel, moving faster now, urgency bleeding into every step.
They emerged at the far edge of the manor, where the secret corridor spilled out into the open air behind a false wall. Light hit them at once—cold, pale morning sun washing over the gravel courtyard.

And there—kneeling on the ground, arms shaking—was Euijoo’s dad.

His mother lay sprawled across his lap, unmoving.

Euijoo surged forward without thinking. “Mum!” he shouted, lunging for the hidden door, heedless of Nicholas hissing behind him.

“Euijoo—wait!”

But Euijoo was already outside, bursting through the concealed exit in a spray of gravel and panic. His dad looked up, startled, then gave him a tired, exasperated look that didn’t quite hide his relief.

“Ah,” he said wryly. “The wards must have gone down.”

“Mum—” Euijoo choked, falling to his knees beside them, hands fluttering uselessly toward her.

“She’s fine,” his dad said, gripping Euijoo’s arm firmly. “Just a stray Stupefy. She’ll wake up in a few minutes.” He gave his son a pointed look. “You, on the other hand, are in trouble.”

But he was smiling.

Nicholas skidded out behind Euijoo, tense and breathless, eyes darting for danger—but it was ending. Around them, the battle was drawing to a close. Members of the Order emerged one by one, dragging stunned or bound Death Eaters, their robes tattered and faces streaked with soot and victory.

And then Ms. Wang descended the manor steps, her heels crunching against the stone, gaze sweeping over the scene. She stopped beside Nicholas and laid a firm, steady hand on his shoulder. He flinched—then leaned into it, just slightly.

For the first time in months, Wang Manor was theirs again.

***

It took a long time to go home—if home was even the right word for where they ended up. After the battle, everything felt untethered, like the house had been knocked off its foundation and was still quietly spinning.
Euijoo and Nicholas drifted aimlessly through the vast, quiet halls of Wang Manor, the adrenaline long burned off, leaving them hollow and heavy-limbed. The fires were still burning low in the sconces, but the manor felt colder now—emptied out, like it was exhaling after centuries of holding its breath.

Eventually, they found themselves in the kitchen.

The house-elves, still trembling from the battle, pressed sandwiches into their hands without a word, bowing and wringing their hands. Euijoo sat heavily at the long wooden table, chewing without tasting. Nicholas took the bench across from him, hunched, his fingers picking at the crust of his bread more than eating it.

The adults passed in and out of the room like shadows—Order members, relatives, healers, all wearing identical expressions: tired, angry, and vaguely disapproving. Every time they caught sight of Euijoo or Nicholas, their mouths tightened, as if they were one whisper away from being sent packing.
Nicholas looked more than just tired. He looked misplaced, like he didn’t know how to inhabit his own body anymore. His eyes were distant, bloodshot, his knuckles pale from where he gripped the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?” Euijoo asked, his voice quiet in the still room.

“Sure, yeah,” Nicholas said, flatly. Then, bitterly added, “Worst year of my life, but as long as you show up and fix everything, perfect fucking Byun—"

Euijoo blinked. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, more stunned than hurt.

Nicholas froze. Then he looked at Euijoo, eyes wide for a moment before he exhaled a sharp, shaky breath and let his head hang.

“No,” he said. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Euijoo let the silence hang for a beat. He shifted, watching Nicholas closely, then said, “That was a shit year.”

“Yeah,” Nicholas said, eyes still on the tabletop. “It really was.”

Their knees knocked under the bench.

It was such a small thing—accidental, meaningless—but neither of them pulled away.

Nicholas glanced up, eyes meeting Euijoo’s. There was something raw there, some wordless thing that hadn’t been allowed to surface until now. The kitchen, despite its warm hearth and the quiet murmur of elf voices, felt suddenly airless. The air between them shimmered with heat that wasn’t fire—thick and heavy with tension, fragile as spun glass.
Euijoo couldn’t look away.

He’d known Nicholas forever, hadn’t he? He knew the sound of his laugh, the way he chewed on quills, the way he got defensive when he was wrong. He’d seen Nicholas with gunk in his hair and covered in grass stains and once with a transfigured beak for a nose, but somehow, this felt different. Like Euijoo was seeing him for the first time and didn’t know what to do with it.

Nicholas’ eyes were dark and serious, his mouth a careful line—but trembling faintly at the corners, like he was on the edge of saying something or breaking.

They were leaning in.

Not intentionally, not dramatically—just inching closer, as if gravity itself had shifted slightly, as if whatever had kept them apart for so long was no longer enough.

Euijoo didn’t understand why his heart was pounding, why his breath had gone shallow, why the shape of Nicholas’ mouth felt like a discovery.

And he wasn’t closing his eyes.

“All right, kiddo.”

Euijoo flinched, startled, as his dad’s voice broke the silence. He jerked back, the air between him and Nicholas vanishing like a popped bubble. His father stood in the doorway, rubbing a weary hand across his face. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue, his robes singed at the hem, but his voice stayed calm and steady.

“We can go now,” he said.

“Oh,” Euijoo said, his voice catching. “Right.”

As the space between them expanded again, Euijoo cast a glance at Nicholas, whose shoulders had gone taut, his expression unreadable. Euijoo's dad turned his gaze to him next—tired but kind, something gentle softening the hard lines of his face.

“You too, Nicholas,” he said. “Your mum thinks it’s best if you stay with us until term starts again. We’re still working through the Manor—safety checks, lingering hexes, that sort of thing.”

Nicholas stiffened slightly. His hands curled into slow, deliberate fists at his sides.

“I don’t want to leave my mother alone,” he said, and there was something raw in the way he said it—like the words had been scraped out of his throat.

Euijoo's dad nodded, meeting him with quiet understanding. “She’ll have a full team of Aurors with her.”

The faintest flicker passed over Nicholas’ face—uncertainty, perhaps, or disbelief. Then, jaw set, he stood. His movements were precise, like he was trying not to let anything inside him spill over.

“I want to talk to her,” he said.

“Of course,” Euijoo’s dad said, stepping back with a slight incline of his head. “We’ll wait for you.”

Nicholas nodded once and slipped silently from the room.

Euijoo followed his father down one of the manor’s long, dim corridors, the quiet broken only by the echo of their footsteps. They found his mum in the front hall, perched on the edge of a velvet bench, one hand pressed to her temple while a pair of harried Healers tried to ply her with potions and poultices. Her hair was a mess, one sleeve torn at the elbow, and she looked—Euijoo thought with a strange, aching relief—completely and utterly herself. She spotted them instantly.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, batting at the Healers with the air of someone brushing off an inconvenient breeze, then rounded on her son with familiar fire in her eyes.

“You are in so much trouble,” she said, standing up unsteadily and immediately pulling him into a hug that crushed the breath out of him.

Euijoo let her hug him, arms stiff at first, then slowly folding around her as his dad chuckled under his breath. His mother smelled like smoke and something sweetly medicinal, like burn balm.

“I told you to stay put,” she said, squeezing him tight. “You could’ve been—what were you thinking, running after us like that?”

“I wasn’t,” Euijoo muttered into her shoulder.

“Clearly,” she said, but her voice was wet now, and her hand tangled gently in his hair, pulling him close one last time before letting go.

“Gryffindors,” Nicholas said, with a sniff of disdain that didn't quite land—too tired, too brittle. Euijoo turned to look and saw him standing stiffly beside his mother. The two of them looked like something out of a portrait: sharp-edged and untouchable, their posture precise, their expressions cool. Nicholas had a small, worn bag slung over one shoulder, and despite everything, Euijoo's heart lurched.

“You’re coming with us?” he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful, too relieved.

“If the invitation still stands,” Nicholas replied, all cool politeness, like they were strangers exchanging pleasantries instead of boys who had, hours ago, run into a war together. His voice didn’t waver, but he didn’t quite meet Euijoo’s eye, either.

Ms. Wang gave a small, elegant nod. “It’s very kind of you,” she said, her tone clipped but not ungrateful. Her hand hovered above Nicholas' shoulder—almost touching him, never quite—and then settled gently for the briefest moment. “I’ll have his trunk sent directly to the Hogwarts Express. Nicholas—be good. I’ll come and see you soon. And please, for once, don’t make trouble.”

Nicholas' face twitched. “Okay, Mum,” he said tightly, and something in his expression made Euijoo instinctively glance away. It felt private—too raw. A moment later, when he dared a quick look back, Nicholas was in her arms, his face pressed to her shoulder. Ms. Wang’s eyes were closed, her hand cradling the back of his head, her poise faltering in a way Euijoo had never seen before.

He looked away again, this time with purpose. It seemed like the right thing to do.

A soft throat-clearing behind him made him turn. His dad stood there with a subtle smile, and Nicholas was now by their side, clutching the strap of his bag tightly, his face pale and guarded.

“All right,” Euijoo’s mum said, her voice full of uncomplicated warmth. “Let’s go home.”

Home.

It didn’t fully hit Euijoo until they tumbled back into the kitchen at Godric’s Hollow, the Floo fire leaving sparks on his sleeves, the comforting chaos of the house enveloping them again. The lights were low and golden, the floor a little muddy from everyone’s boots, and the air smelled faintly of ginger and smoke.

Euijoo’s stomach gave an audible growl. He blinked, startled to realize he couldn’t remember the last time he’d properly eaten—maybe breakfast? That felt like years ago.

His dad grunted something about “starving boys,” tossed a battered old pot onto the stove, and dumped in a tin of beans with a practiced flick of his wand. Euijoo headed for the bread, slicing through thick, crusty sourdough with slow precision. His mum bustled around the kettle, setting out mugs with the clink of ceramic and the soothing scent of strong black tea.

Nicholas stood in the corner like a piece of misplaced furniture, shoulders slightly hunched, expression dazed. His eyes were darting around the room as if trying to map its corners, to understand what kind of place this was and whether he was really allowed to be in it.

“Sit,” Euijoo’s mum said gently, not unkind, and nudged him toward the table with the same ease she might herd a stray cat. Nicholas blinked, then obeyed, as though unsure what else to do. A steaming mug was placed in his hands. He wrapped his fingers around it automatically.

The table creaked as Euijoo sat across from him. Their knees brushed again, just lightly.

No one said anything for a while.

And that, somehow, made it feel even more like home.

“You must be absolutely exhausted,” Euijoo’s mum said, voice warm but edged with concern. She leaned slightly against the counter, tea in hand, studying Nicholas with a quiet attentiveness that Euijoo recognized—maternal, fierce, measuring.

“Tough year, huh?”

“I—yes,” Nicholas said after a beat, his voice hoarse, as if he’d only just realized how tired he was. His posture sagged slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You should be very proud,” she said gently. “You’re a brave kid. You did exactly the right thing, coming here.”
Nicholas looked startled. “Oh,” he said, blinking, and Euijoo could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. He didn’t blame him. Only twenty-four hours ago they’d been hiding under his blankets, unable to speak truths, afraid of breaking that moment of vulnerability, afraid of facing reality.

His father clapped his hands together. “Let’s eat,” he said, like they hadn’t just lived through a small war. “We’ll talk about it all later.”

He served generous heaps of beans on thick slices of toast, the kind that soaked up butter and heat and comfort. The kitchen filled with clinking forks and the faint pop of a self-stirring spoon, and Nicholas—who once had sniffed at a Hogwarts feasts and said, “frightfully underwhelming”—was eating like he’d never seen food before. He barely looked up, cheeks hollowed with hunger, elbows on the table, etiquette forgotten.

Euijoo snuck him another slice of bread.

When they’d finally eaten their fill and leaned back, full and quiet, the dishes began levitating toward the sink in an easy, practiced rhythm, scrubbing themselves with cheerful enthusiasm.

“Right,” Euijoo’s mum said, and this time her tone had shifted. It wasn’t unkind, but there was something cool and final in the way she pushed up from her chair and straightened her spine. “I’ll just get the guest bedroom ready for you, Nicholas.”

“Oh,” Nicholas said for what felt like the twentieth time that evening, and Euijoo’s heart sank as his head jerked up.

“Er,” Euijoo started, fumbling. His cheeks flushed with heat. “I mean—”

“Yes?” she asked, a brow arched, her expression unreadable. Across the table, his dad chewed slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I just—there’s the, uh, the air mattress?” Euijoo said, not quite looking at her. “So he could... you know. Sleep on the floor. In my room.”

Nicholas was going pink, the tips of his ears betraying him, and Euijoo knew he was being ridiculous but he didn’t want Nicholas across the hall. He wanted him here—within reach. Close enough to see him breathing.

“Hm,” his mum said, drawing out the sound, gaze weighing him like a potion she wasn’t sure was safe to drink. “Bedroom door stays open, Euijoo.”

“Mum,” he groaned, mortified.

“Merlin,” Nicholas muttered, voice cracking. “The—guest room is fine, thank you, Mrs. Byun.”

She smiled at that—softening, but only slightly. “Of course, Nicholas. Whatever helps you settle in. Come along, I’ll get you a towel and some things. We’ll find you something decent to wear to bed.”

Nicholas shot Euijoo a brief look, a twitch of gratitude or apology—it was hard to tell—and followed her out of the room.
Euijoo stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“Nice try, kiddo,” his dad said, still chewing. “Points for subtlety.”

Euijoo shoved his chair back and stalked out without a word.

“Sleep well!” his dad called after him, laughter in his voice. “Big day tomorrow!”

Chapter Text

Euijoo slept restlessly, drifting in and out of uneasy dreams until the sky had already begun to pale, a soft grey bleeding in through the curtains. It wasn’t real sleep, not the kind that healed anything—just the tired flutter of a body too worn out to stay conscious. When true sleep finally came, it dragged him down hard, like he was six years old again, wrapped in too many blankets and clinging to shadows.

Then—too soon—he was tugged back awake.

The morning light filtered in at a sharp angle, warm and gold against the posters on his walls, the bookshelf stuffed with years of clutter. Nicholas’ face was inches from his, close enough that Euijoo could make out the faint scar on his eyebrow, the rumple in his hair, the soft swell of sleep still in his expression. He was crouched by the bed like he’d been watching Euijoo for a while.

Euijoo blinked blearily, his mind heavy and slow. He resisted the sudden, almost aching urge to reach out—to wrap his hand around Nicholas’ wrist and pull him down into the warmth of the blankets. He wouldn’t have to reach far.

“Time to wake up, Byun,” Nicholas whispered, grinning like an idiot. His voice was low, rough from sleep but full of something twitchy and bright. “I’m hungry.”

Euijoo groaned. “Time s’it?”

“Six,” Nicholas said, far too cheerfully for a war-traumatized sixteen-year-old.

Euijoo made a noise of protest and shoved his face into the pillow. “No. Sleep more.”

Nicholas laughed quietly, that breathless sort of laugh he had when he knew he was being a menace and liked it. “Up you get.”

Without lifting his face, Euijoo reached out and grabbed for Nicholas’ wrist. His fingers curled lazily around bone and skin. “Come here and sleep more,” he mumbled. He tugged, half-hearted.

“No, no,” Nicholas said, pulling back with a chuckle. “I’m scared of your mum. If she finds me in here—”

“She’ll kill us both,” Euijoo muttered, eyes still closed.

“Exactly. Come on.”

Euijoo let out a long, suffering sigh, the kind that came from the soles of his feet. With great effort, he shoved the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The chill of the floorboards against his bare feet made him shiver.
He didn’t stand right away. Instead, he sat hunched on the edge of the mattress, hands dangling between his knees, while Nicholas crouched beside him. Without thinking, Euijoo leaned—slowly, heavily—until his forehead dropped onto Nicholas’ shoulder.

They stayed like that for a moment, the silence soft and slow between them. Nicholas didn’t move, didn’t tease. He only let out a quiet laugh, a tiny exhale of breath, and lifted one hand to the back of Euijoo’s neck. His fingers threaded lightly through the messy hair there, brushing gently, grounding him.

“Can you make breakfast?” Nicholas asked, trailing behind Euijoo as they padded into the kitchen, the early morning light catching on dust motes in the air. Euijoo made a sleepy beeline for the kettle like it was a life raft.

Nicholas followed close, mostly because Euijoo still hadn’t let go of his wrist. His fingers were warm, a little clammy, but steady. Nicholas didn’t mind.

“Mm,” Euijoo murmured, voice still hoarse with sleep. He yawned wide enough to make his eyes water. “What d’you want?”

“Pancakes,” Nicholas said promptly. “And bacon. And more tea.”

“Haven’t even made the first cup yet,” Euijoo muttered, reaching for the kettle.

Before he could turn back, Nicholas stepped in close and gently rested his hand on Euijoo’s hip, steering him around with surprising care until they were face to face. The shift startled Euijoo awake more effectively than any cup of tea would. His eyes widened slightly, blinking Nicholas into focus.

“What?” Euijoo asked, voice wary.

“Just having a look at you,” Nicholas said softly, almost wonderingly.

Euijoo’s stomach flipped. His face burned like the stove had turned itself on. “Oh.”

Nicholas smiled faintly, eyes dancing. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

Euijoo blinked again, as if time had skipped ahead without telling him. “Oh. Right. Yeah. You too.”

“I didn’t get you a present,” Nicholas said, eyes on him carefully, as though measuring how it would land.

“Okay,” Euijoo said, chest tight.

“I wasn’t sure,” Nicholas added after a beat, “if I was still going to be angry at you.”

Euijoo swallowed. “I mean… I didn’t get you a present either.”

“That’s true,” Nicholas said, and something in his voice lightened. “You owe me.”

“Yeah,” Euijoo said. And he couldn’t help it—his gaze flickered to Nicholas’ mouth, quick and unsure.

Nicholas caught it. He flushed, disbelieving, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening, and for a second he looked like someone trying not to laugh in a church. Then he did laugh, quiet and breathless, eyes crinkling, and stepped back like he’d just remembered where they were.

“Breakfast, Byun,” he said, and his voice was warmer than the stove ever could be.

Euijoo flicked on the radio, needing something—anything—to fill the silence between them. Without sound, the quiet seemed too loud, too expectant, a breath held between two not-quite-decisions. It felt like a moment he could ruin by leaning in and biting Nicholas’ lip.

Instead, a jaunty Christmas song came through the speakers, tinny and bright, and Nicholas—of course—responded by going instantly, absurdly theatrical. He slipped across the kitchen tiles in his socks, arms thrown dramatically above his head like he was on stage at the West End. When the chorus hit, he spun, pointed at Euijoo, and belted out a line with total confidence and absolutely none of the right lyrics.

Euijoo doubled over the mixing bowl, laughing so hard he nearly dropped the ladle.

“You’re ridiculous,” he gasped as Nicholas tried to moonwalk and collided with the edge of the kitchen table.

“I am a gift,” Nicholas declared, regaining balance and pointing skyward like he’d just solved climate change.

Euijoo managed to fry the pancakes through peals of helpless laughter, the butter sizzling in the pan and the smell of bacon thick in the warm air. Nicholas ducked behind him to snatch a piece before it even hit the plate, and Euijoo elbowed him in the ribs with affectionate precision.

When his parents came down, they found Nicholas mid-cabbage-patch-dance, still in his borrowed pajamas, singing—badly—to a song that had transitioned into something vaguely jazzy. His mum blinked, his dad froze. And then both of them started laughing too, bemused and already a little fond.

For one suspended moment, Euijoo had worried it might feel wrong—having Nicholas here, tangled into a place that had always been just his. But it didn’t. It felt like Nicholas belonged here, had always belonged, sliding right into place beside him like a long-missing puzzle piece.

They ate pancakes crowded around the kitchen table, tea steaming from mismatched mugs. Wrapping paper crinkled under the table as his parents handed over presents and Nicholas thanked them with stiff but sincere politeness.
And through it all, Nicholas’ knuckles kept brushing over Euijoo’s knee, soft and steady under the tablecloth—like a quiet question neither of them had yet dared to answer, but one Euijoo found himself leaning into, over and over again.

After breakfast, the house settled into the kind of slow, comfortable quiet that only seemed to happen on winter holidays. They drifted—Euijoo and Nicholas—from room to room, both too wired to sit still but too tired to do anything of consequence. At some point, they ended up in the living room, where the old upright piano stood under a thin film of dust and years of disuse.

Nicholas cracked his knuckles, cast Euijoo a smug look, and started playing. Loud, silly, theatrical nonsense—marches that turned into waltzes, scales that dissolved into jazzy little flourishes. He was surprisingly good, clearly showing off, but with a kind of lightness that made it hard not to smile. Euijoo slouched on the couch and let the sound fill the room like warmth.
His parents passed through occasionally, half-laughing, half-shaking their heads, clearly delighted to see that everything seemed more normal, more like it used to be.

By late afternoon, the light had dimmed to a soft gray and the windows fogged at the corners. When the doorbell rang, Euijoo had almost forgotten what day it was. The sharp voice in the hall—Maki’s unmistakable enthusiasm—snapped everything back into focus.

His head whipped toward Nicholas.

Nicholas had gone completely still, his face white and taut around the mouth.

“Is it—” Euijoo started, then winced. “It’s just the Gryffindors. And, um, Yuma. They wanted to come—just to celebrate, you know. Together.”

Nicholas’ expression didn’t shift. “Gryffindors,” he said flatly. “And you’ve stolen my Slytherin.” His voice was dry but faintly hollow, like he wasn’t entirely joking.

Euijoo frowned, confused. “He’s not your Slytherin,” he said, though it came out more defensive than he meant. “What do you mean? You don’t like—”

But then Maki was in the doorway, bright and loud as ever, his scarf still half-unravelled from the wind. “Nicholas!” he beamed. “What are you doing here?”

Nicholas looked up, startled, his composure cracking into something softer. “Hello, Maki,” he said, trying for careless and only just missing it. “The usual. Switched allegiances. Betrayed a cause. You know.”

Euijoo watched as his friend’s expression shifted from surprise to something deeper. “You’re such a twat,” he said, half-joking. “But in a cool way now, I guess.”

“You can’t betray the wrong side,” Euijoo said gently, eyes still on Nicholas.

Nicholas looked down at his hands, now resting lightly on the piano keys. “I’d love to believe that,” he said, voice tight. “But I doubt the Dark Lord is the type to go, ‘Ah, well. Sorry it didn't work out for you. Best of luck in your future endeavours.’”

There was a short pause.

“Blimey,” Maki said, stepping further into the room and glancing between them. “You two’ve had a more exciting week than I did.”

Euijoo didn’t respond—just quietly reached out and brushed the back of his hand against Nicholas’ where it still rested on the piano. Nicholas didn’t pull away.

Yuma stepped into the room with his usual effortless swagger, shaking a dusting of snow from his shoulders and glancing around until his gaze landed on Nicholas. The moment stretched—just a flicker of something complicated and wordless passed between them: old schoolyard wariness, maybe, or recognition hard-earned. Then Yuma smirked, easy and familiar. “Merry Christmas, y’all,” he said, dropping his satchel with a thud beside the couch like he belonged there.

“Merry Christmas, mates,” Maki echoed brightly, ruffling Euijoo’s hair as he passed. He offered Nicholas a quick, surprisingly warm smile. “Oh, Euijoo—mum’s got you more broom shit. Something about carbon polish or enchanted string wax or... something.” He shoved a lumpy, poorly wrapped parcel into his hands.

“Oh, wicked,” Euijoo said, grinning as he peeled off a corner. “I’ve got your gift downstairs, I just forgot—”

Nicholas looked scandalised, arms folded as though he was about to deliver a formal lecture. “This is not how you give presents on Christmas. Where’s the ceremony? Don't you know anything?"

Maki barked a laugh and swung himself up to perch on the coffee table, his boots dangling just above the floor. “You wouldn’t like it if we did it right. You’d have nothing to complain about, and then what would you do with all your posh, wounded dignity?”

Nicholas opened his mouth, clearly about to argue, but Yuma cut in with a theatrical groan, flopping backwards into the nearest armchair. “Ugh, this is adorable. The dream team’s back together. Maybe now you can stop freaking out, huh, Maki?”

Maki’s cheeks flared crimson, and he whipped his head toward him. “Shut up, Yuma.” He sounded embarrassed—worse, cornered—and that was when he turned, sharp as a blade. “Is Harua here yet, Euijoo?”

Yuma narrowed his eyes in exaggerated suspicion and punched Maki in the shoulder—hard enough that he winced and shoved him back, muttering something venomous under his breath that made Yuma laugh. Then, the front door burst open again, slamming against the wall with a thud, and the rest of the Gryffindors flooded in like a tide. Taki and Harua entered side-by-side, snowflakes still tangled in their hair, cheeks red from the cold. Taki's voice was loud and cheerful, cutting through the hum of voices like sunlight through mist. Harua, more subdued but smiling faintly, caught Euijoo’s eye and lifted a hand in greeting.

His dad waved his wand casually, levitating a spread of snacks through the hallway and onto the living room—bowls of roasted nuts, charmed popcorn that crackled faintly with cinnamon spells, and a steaming basket of little mince pies. Joon passed around frosted bottles of Butterbeer with a grin too knowing to be innocent, and winked at Euijoo as he handed him one.

“Great,” Euijoo muttered. “Definitely spiked.”

They ended up sprawled around the big fireplace, picnic blankets under them for not damaging the wooden floor, like Euijoo's mum had warned. Warmth was humming from the fireplace inside. The winter light was silver and low, and laughter rose like smoke into the air. Everyone clustered around Nicholas in a loose orbit—not interrogating him outright, but talking to him too often, too brightly, too much. Like they were skirting the edges of the things they really wanted to ask.

Nicholas didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Euijoo could see the faint glint of pleasure in his eyes, like he was basking in the attention while pretending to be above it. He tossed off lazy answers and arched his brows with theatrical disdain when Maki teased him about his “very soft, very posh” post-rebellion recovery.

“He’s practically moved into our house,” Euijoo said before he could think better of it, and immediately regretted it when Nicholas’s ears went pink.

But no one commented—Taki just grinned, and Maki snorted. Even Harua laughed quietly, though Euijoo caught the glance he gave Nicholas, unreadable and lingering.
Euijoo shifted where he sat, leaning back on his hands. The floor was cool through the blanket, the flames crisp against the tip of his nose—but Nicholas, beside him, was warmer, a slow-burning presence at his side. Their shoulders were brushing lightly, and when Euijoo adjusted, his pinkie grazed Nicholas’s for half a second.

Nicholas didn’t flinch. He leaned a fraction closer.

Euijoo could barely breathe.

His heart thudded behind his ribs, fluttering like a trapped thing, and for a moment he couldn’t hear anything else—not the laughter, not the crackle of fire, not the wind rustling outside through bare branches. Just the hum of Nicholas next to him, alive and absurdly close, like gravity was working differently today.

“So you can’t go back to the Manor?” Yuma asked, frowning as he leaned forward to peer at Nicholas through the firelight. The shadows from the flames flickered over his face. “What was the point of saving it, then?”

Nicholas gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes, but there was a trace of tiredness under the gesture. “It is saved,” he said, voice lighter than his expression. “But I suppose it’s not the safest place to be at the moment. There’s still… cleanup. Lingering curses. My mother’s overseeing it.”

He shifted slightly, brushing crumbs off his knees, the movement neat and controlled. “She thinks it’s best if I stay here for now. With the Byuns.”

“Until school starts again?” Maki asked, his tone hovering between genuine curiosity and envy.

“Or until the Byuns remember they don’t like me and quietly evict me in the dead of night,” Nicholas said with a dismissive shrug.

“They’re not going to do that,” Euijoo said quickly, the words slipping out before he could think. His voice was soft but certain. He glanced at Nicholas, just for a moment—and caught Nicholas looking back at him with something small and unreadable in his expression.

Maki caught the look, too. His eyebrows lifted. “Well,” he said slowly, and smirked. “Okay, then.”

The moment passed, swept away by the hum of conversation and the soft rustle of wind. The sky dimmed from silver to navy, stars blinking, the only thing illuminating the room besides the dying fire. The firepit crackled steadily, casting their faces in a warm glow as the last of the mince pies were finished off.

The adults had vanished indoors somewhere, and with them, the last traces of restraint. Euijoo, grinning wickedly, revealed a few well-hidden bottles of firewhiskey, and cups were passed around with exaggerated nonchalance.

“I can’t believe your mum lets you get away with this,” Harua said, shaking his head as he took a cautious sip and grimaced.

“Only because it’s Christmas,” Euijoo replied, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. “And she wants us to cheer up, I think. After everything.”

He trailed off. For a moment, no one said anything.

“But,” he continued, voice lighter now, “this would be even more entertaining if we were back at Hogwarts.”

“Oh?” Nicholas said, raising a brow and cradling his drink. “What heights of depravity would we reach within those hallowed halls, Byun? A round of Exploding Snap in the common room? A daring late-night raid for leftover pudding?”

Euijoo laughed and swatted him lightly in the chest. “Shut up,” he said, but there was no bite in it. Nicholas smirked, eyes gleaming with amusement, and smacked him back with gentle precision.

They were all mostly lying back now, sprawled in a messy constellation across the blankets and frost-kissed floor. The stars above them glimmered cold and brilliant through the big windows, and breath steamed in the air as they laughed and talked about nothing. Euijoo rolled onto his side and gave Nicholas a playful shove at the hip, just enough to jostle him.
Nicholas turned his head to look at him. The firelight caught on his cheekbones, his lashes, the soft curve of his mouth. His eyes were wide, a little startled, like he hadn’t expected the touch to linger.

Euijoo grinned, helpless, warmth blooming in his chest like a second fire—and then, without thinking, he dropped his head onto Nicholas’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

Nicholas didn’t move.

His body was tense for a heartbeat, then slowly softened, his shoulder settling under the weight of Euijoo’s head. Euijoo could feel Nicholas breathe beneath him, a steady rhythm that matched the flickering light and the muffled laughter of their friends around them.

Nicholas smelled warm—like cedar and the faintest trace of something spiced, and Euijoo was trying very hard not to think about it. Not to think about the steady rise and fall of Nicholas’s chest beneath his cheek, or the way Nicholas hadn’t moved an inch, letting Euijoo doze on him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His heart was skittering like a rabbit in tall grass.

“Ah, yes,” Nicholas said dryly, voice barely above a murmur. “Napping on me. Truly, you are a menace to society.”

Euijoo grunted, half-heartedly. It came out muffled against the soft wool of Nicholas’s jumper. Across the circle, someone whispered something—probably Yuma—and the immediate giggling that followed only deepened the blush rising behind Euijoo’s ears.

He didn’t lift his head.

The second bottle of firewhiskey had just begun to make the rounds again when the door slid open and Mrs. Byun’s voice cut through the murmur of conversation: “All right, how many sleeping bags am I setting up?”

There was a collective shuffle and general pretending-to-be-sober as heads turned. Maki was the first to answer, springing up a bit too quickly. “Me, please,” he said, voice just a shade too casual.

Harua followed with a polite smile. “Oh, would you mind? It’s tricky to get back to Muggle London this late.”

Euijoo, still tucked against Nicholas, didn’t need to look to know that Maki’s face had lit up with a mix of surprise and something unmistakably fond.

Taki, naturally, was staying. And after a bit of coaxing—and Nicholas loudly demanding “some proper house representation, for Merlin’s sake”—Yuma reluctantly agreed to stay as well.

Mrs. Byun clapped her hands together, her eyes dancing. “All right then,” she said. “Mattresses in Euijoo’s room. You lot can figure out how to share them. I’m going to bed.”

As she walked towards the stairs, she turned to add:

“Some of us have work in the morning,” she warned. “Try and keep it down, won’t you?”

“It’s okay,” Euijoo said without thinking, “they’ll cast a Muffliato.”

She turned on him instantly, finger raised in mock scolding. “Don’t get cheeky with me, young man.”

Euijoo laughed, flustered, and nodded. “Night, Mum.”

“Night, sweetheart.” She paused at the foot of the stairs, her expression softening as she took them all in—messy and half-drunk, tangled in blankets and laughter. “Goodnight, all of you.”

“Night!” came the chorus, overlapping.

As she disappeared upstairs, Maki snorted and elbowed Euijoo, who was still resolutely not sitting upright. “Sweetheart,” he whispered.

Nicholas batted his lashes extravagantly, clearly making fun of Euijoo, who buried his face deeper in Nicholas’s shoulder as he murumured something unpleasant.

“Where’s all your music?” Taki said then, crouched near the old record cabinet. He flipped through the sleeves with increasing glee. “We should dance.”

Nicholas let out a low groan. “I beg you not to,” he said.

“Oh, come on,” Maki grinned, stretching his arms over his head. “This is basically a victory celebration. And it’s Christmas.”

“There’s funk back there,” Euijoo said helpfully, lifting his head just enough to breathe.

Taki found the sleeve in question and pulled it out like a treasure, holding it high. “Excellent taste,” he declared. “Funk it is.”

“Merlin help us all,” Nicholas muttered, but didn’t move as the music started—a bright, bouncing rhythm that clashed hilariously with their sleep-heavy limbs and secondhand blankets.

Maki, already standing, offered Harua a hand. “Come on. Just one dance.”

Harua rolled his eyes. “One,” he said, but let himself be tugged to his feet.

Yuma started clapping in time with the music, and soon enough, most of them were up or half-up, making a ridiculous show of pretending to be coordinated. Taki twirled Maki in too many spins until they both crashed into the sofa in a heap, laughing breathlessly.

Euijoo stayed where he was, heart still pounding, Nicholas’s warmth beside him like an anchor. Their pinkies brushed.
Nicholas looked over at him through his lashes, as if testing the weight of a thousand unspoken things, and then leaned a little closer and said, “I hope you know I’m blaming you for all of this.”

Euijoo smiled, slow and warm. “You can. I don’t mind.”

And Nicholas—who once might have been too proud to say anything in return—just nodded, like maybe he didn’t mind either.

***

Euijoo’s mum had left four sleeping bags rolled neatly at the end of his bed, and Maki immediately pounced on the camp bed like a cat claiming the sunniest spot. “Bags it,” he said smugly. “Someone’ll have to share with Euijoo.”

“Um,” Euijoo said, awkwardly, trying not to look at Nicholas.

Maki misunderstood. “You can’t have a double bed all to yourself, mate, even if it is yours. There’s room—you’ll survive.”

Taki yawned dramatically. “Well, I don’t mind.”

“No,” Euijoo said, too quickly, and three heads turned to stare at him. Heat rushed up his neck like wildfire. “I mean—uh—just—” He fumbled uselessly for a reason.

“He means I’ll be cross if I have to sleep on a bed on the floor,” Nicholas said, saving him. He curled his lip at Taki in the same way someone might regard a dungbomb. “And he’s very correct. I’m— I’m just going to brush my teeth.”

With the air of a man announcing his exit from a royal court, Nicholas turned and swept out of the room. The grandeur might have been more effective if he hadn’t been wearing striped flannel pyjamas that were unmistakably too short—his ankles stuck out, pale and bony, with the sad dignity of someone recently betrayed by a growth spurt.
Euijoo stared at the spot where Nicholas had disappeared and thought that he'd never seen more beautiful ankles in his life. Which meant that he had definately gone mad.

Taki and Harua exchanged eye-rolls and muttered among themselves.

“Don’t know how you put up with him,” Taki mumbled, pulling off his socks.

“Oh,” Euijoo said weakly, fingers twitching as he busied himself fluffing his pillows. “You get used to him.”

Maki was watching him. Not in the obvious way—he wasn’t smirking, or teasing—but something sharper flickered in his gaze, as if he'd pieced something together and was still deciding what to do with it.

“I’m getting water,” Euijoo mumbled, standing too fast.

Maki stood up too. “I’ll come.”

They padded down the hall in silence, the house dim and quiet now, lit only by the soft orange glow from the living room where someone had forgotten to turn off the fairy lights. In the kitchen, Euijoo turned on the tap and filled a glass. Maki leaned against the counter, arms folded.

“So,” Maki said casually. “Are you and Nicholas—?”

Euijoo froze. “What?” he blurted, like someone caught mid-crime.

Maki just hummed, unfazed, and filled his glass from the tap. “Mm-hmm. Okay. Just—don’t do anything gross when I’m in the room, I’m begging you.”

“Oh my god,” Euijoo muttered, burning all over, and bolted from the kitchen before Maki could say anything else—though he didn’t need to; Euijoo could feel the smirk trailing behind him like smoke.

Upstairs, everything was dim and too quiet. The bedroom lamp cast a honeyed glow, throwing long shadows across the floor. Nicholas was already tucked under the covers, arms folded behind his head, looking absurdly relaxed for someone.

He was mid-argument with Harua, voice low and a little thick with sleep, “I’m just saying, if Wimbourne could sort out their Keeper, they’d actually have a shot. That kid’s a disaster.”

“Mm, that’s rich coming from someone who’s barely watched a full match this season,” Harua said, but he was losing interest, already shuffling toward his sleeping bag.

Nicholas didn’t look at Euijoo right away. The lamplight caught on the soft edges of his hair, and there was a faint flush high on his cheeks—maybe from the firewhiskey, maybe not. He looked infuriatingly composed. Ridiculously, murderously attractive. He was wearing those too-small pyjamas again, all buttoned up like he thought it would protect him, and still Euijoo thought he might combust.

Euijoo’s mind was fogged. He was aware of too many things at once: the distant laughter from downstairs, the scratch of Harua’s pillowcase, the space in the bed—a perfectly decent stretch of mattress—and yet it felt magnetic, like his skin was already aware of Nicholas' proximity even without contact.

“All right, Euijoo?” Harua asked from the floor, eyebrow lifted. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“What? No. Fine,” Euijoo said quickly. “Just—tired, you know.”

He climbed into bed carefully, like it might betray him with a squeak or rustle. The sheets were already warm from Nicholas. There was a solid, careful gap between them, but the air between their shoulders still felt too charged. He lay stiffly on his side, facing away. He could feel Nicholas breathing.

He didn’t turn. He couldn’t.

The conversation blurred at the edges. Euijoo couldn’t quite follow it anymore—someone still mumbling about Quidditch, or maybe Herbology, or both. He caught snippets of Taki’s voice, soft and fading, and then there was only the occasional rustle of a sleeping bag and a symphony of gentle snores.

Euijoo stayed completely still in the dark, acutely aware of every point where the blankets touched his skin, where the bed dipped with Nicholas' weight. He held his breath until he couldn’t anymore.

“Are you awake?” Nicholas whispered.

Euijoo’s heart lurched. “Yeah,” he said, rough-voiced.

Nicholas didn’t speak right away. The quiet stretched. Euijoo rolled onto his side carefully, his eyes adjusting to the dim light leaking through the curtains. He could just make out the sharp lines of Nicholas’ face, the sweep of his pale hair, the sliver of his throat. His eyes were open—dark, fixed somewhere past Euijoo’s shoulder. He looked unguarded, almost young.

“Good Christmas?” Nicholas asked, his voice low and uncertain.

Euijoo nodded, even though he wasn’t sure Nicholas could see it. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah. You?”

There was a pause before he whispered, “I don’t…” Nicholas shifted, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. He exhaled hard, like the words hurt on the way out. “I don’t know how to be around you anymore.”

Euijoo’s fingers clenched in the sheets. “What do you mean?”

Nicholas finally looked at him—directly, this time. His eyes were too wide, his mouth too tense. “I mean—” He made a frustrated noise, barely louder than a breath. “We’re not fighting. Not exactly. So I guess that means we’re friends again. Right?”

The question hung there, fragile.

"Why?," Euijoo almost breathed out. “Do you want us to be friends?” he asked, and the way it came out made something ripple through the air—quiet, aching.

Nicholas stared at him. The silence stretched long enough that Euijoo thought maybe he wouldn’t answer, or maybe he couldn’t. Then, just as Euijoo’s lungs started to feel tight with waiting, Nicholas whispered, barely audible:

“…No.”

It was so quiet Euijoo thought he might have imagined it. But Nicholas was still looking at him like that—like it had cost him something to say it. Like he was scared.

Euijoo leaned in on one elbow, hand finding Nicholas' shoulder, and tugged him in with a quiet urgency. Nicholas turned toward him—uncertain, lips parted—and Euijoo kissed him before he could speak. It was clumsy at first, but fierce, landing right on Nicholas' surprised mouth.

Nicholas made a startled noise, sharp and breathless, and his hands flew to Euijoo’s shoulders, gripping hard—then slid down, pulling him closer, fingers curling around his hips like he didn’t know how to let go. Euijoo groaned into the kiss, heart thudding like it was trying to break free from his chest, and kissed Nicholas again, and again, until their mouths moved in tandem, messy and frantic.

Nicholas’ hands were tight enough to bruise. Euijoo didn’t care. He kissed like he was starved—like this had been waiting just under his skin for months, probably years. Most likely years.—and Nicholas gave it right back, gasping, biting back a moan when Euijoo pressed their bodies flush.

“Fuck,” Nicholas whispered, shaky and almost reverent, and Euijoo surged forward at the sound, kissing along his cheekbone, down the line of his jaw, his throat. Nicholas tilted his head, gave him space, shuddered when Euijoo mouthed at his pulse, first soft, then not at all soft.

He couldn't stop. Couldn’t think. The heat, the weight of Nicholas beneath him, the way Nicholas clutched at him like he was afraid he'd disappear—none of it felt real, except it was, it was happening, it was now.

“I—I can’t,” Euijoo murmured, voice muffled where his mouth pressed to the warm skin of Nicholas’ throat. His breath caught there, uneven. Nicholas exhaled, shaky and soft.

“We can’t,” Nicholas echoed, though his voice wasn’t convincing—it sounded wrecked and wanting.

Euijoo dragged a hand down Nicholas’ side, slow and reverent, fingertips brushing the edge of his ribs. Nicholas sucked in a breath, spine arching slightly, and grabbed at Euijoo’s back like he could anchor them both.

“Maki asked us not to do anything gross while he was in the room—” Euijoo said, trying to laugh, trying to breathe.

Nicholas groaned, and shoved at his shoulder with no real force. “Now you’ve ruined it,” he whispered, voice raw with frustration and heat. “Please, don’t bring up Maki while we’re—ah—ah, Euijoo—”

Euijoo kissed him again, fast, to shut him up, to chase the sound of his name falling from Nicholas’ mouth like that. His fingers threaded into Nicholas’ hair, and Nicholas’ hands curled at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate and quiet.
Their kisses slowed but deepened, lingering. Every breath between them was hot and laboured, trembling in the stillness.

The others were asleep just feet away. It made the silence louder, every tiny sound impossibly intimate.

Euijoo felt like he was burning up from the inside out.

Nicholas’ lips were swollen, his eyes dark and searching when Euijoo finally leaned back just an inch. He didn’t say anything—he just stared, and Euijoo stared back, everything in him aching with the weight of it.

“We can’t,” Euijoo said again, breath catching, and Nicholas made a small, frustrated sound — more anguish than anger — before pushing him back. The blanket slipped half off in the motion, baring Nicholas in the faint light from the window. His chest rose and fell too quickly, a couple of buttons undone at his collar, pale skin and sharp collarbones catching shadows. Euijoo hadn’t even realized he’d done that. It made his throat feel dry.

Nicholas looked wrecked. Beautiful, furious, and wrecked.

Still, when Euijoo reached out again, fingers aching with the need to touch, Nicholas batted his hand away with a sharp slap.
“No,” he hissed, voice taut with barely restrained emotion. “I—I'm not—” He cut himself off, exhaling hard through his nose. “I'm not doing this for the first time while trying to stay quiet, with bloody Gryffindors snoring ten feet away.”

Euijoo froze, heart hammering, and then asked—quiet, stunned, needy—“Doing...what?”

Nicholas shoved him down, looming over him in the dark, face intent and hungry. “I’m going to fuck you, Byun,” he hissed, “I’ve spent a year hating you and thinking about it—" and Euijoo made a rough, helpless noise, reaching for him. They kissed again, desperate, urgent, and then Nicholas broke the kiss, “for fuck’s sake,” he breathed out before he rolled to the side.

“Merlin,” Nicholas muttered faintly, turning over so his back was to Euijoo. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”

Euijoo huffed out a soft, stunned laugh, heat still coiling low in his stomach. “You don’t wanna cuddle?”

“Shut up,” Nicholas said, sullen and muffled in the dark. But after a pause, he glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed, speculative. “Well. All right.”

“What?”

Nicholas grabbed his wrist without warning, tugging him forward until Euijoo was pressed flush along Nicholas’ back. Euijoo’s breath caught at the heat of it—skin and cotton and the faint tremble in Nicholas’ shoulders. He couldn’t hide anything, and he was momentarily embarrassed over how hard he was. Then Nicholas made a soft, startled sound, like he’d surprised himself, and pushed back a little against him, rolling his hips, and Euijoo had to muffle a shout against Nicholas' neck.

“Don’t do that,” Euijoo whispered, but his lips were already brushing against the side of Nicholas’ neck, hot and slow.

Nicholas twitched, breath stuttering, and Euijoo grinned into his skin.

“You’ve definitely got a thing for this,” he murmured, smug, and Nicholas shushed him, flustered—but didn’t deny it.

“Go to sleep,” Nicholas muttered instead, voice frayed. “When can you get rid of the Gryffindors tomorrow?”

“I'm kicking them out after breakfast,” Euijoo said instantly, almost reverent.

Nicholas laughed, barely audible, and caught Euijoo’s hand where it was resting over his waist. He brought it to his mouth and kissed the knuckles—light, deliberate. It stole Euijoo’s breath. He buried his face against the back of Nicholas’ neck, overwhelmed by the sheer, impossible realness of it: Nicholas in his bed, warm and stubborn and heartbreakingly soft.

“I’m never going to be able to sleep like this,” Euijoo whispered, half-laughing, half-desperate.

“Try,” Nicholas said.

It took Euijoo a long time. But eventually, in the hush and the want of it, with Nicholas’ steady breathing under his hand and the warmth of his body pressed to his own, he did. And even then, he knew Nicholas wasn’t asleep either.

Chapter Text

I'm the next act waiting in the wings,

I'm an animal trapped in your hot car,

I'm all the days that you choose to ignore.

They spent the rest of the Christmas holidays wrapped around each other, side by side at every possible moment, sneaking away whenever they could. Kissing became second nature—an easy, instinctive punctuation to their slow, golden days. At first, Euijoo had braced himself for awkwardness, for that fragile tension that sometimes followed a line once crossed. But the morning after Christmas Day, as soon as the house emptied, Euijoo had all but launched himself into Nicholas’ arms. And Nicholas had caught him—had held him with the same fierce hunger, the same breathless need that had been building between them for what felt like forever.

Euijoo still couldn’t believe any of it. Not the way Nicholas looked at him now, like he was something precious and known. Not the way he kissed him—confident, claiming, like Euijoo was something he’d waited too long for.

The days blurred. Euijoo moved through them dazed, lightheaded, like he was half-dreaming. The world had narrowed to just Nicholas and the dizzy, brilliant newness of what they were learning to do together—touching, teasing, talking in low, laughing whispers that never seemed to run dry. With Euijoo's parents gone to work most of the day, Godric’s Hollow became theirs alone. Sometimes they didn’t even leave Euijoo’s bedroom, not for hours, tangled in bedsheets and sunlight, learning each other’s mouths and edges and breath.

When they did venture out, it was like sneaking through a wonderland. They’d lie in the backyard wrapped in blankets, sipping hot chocolate or black coffee from mismatched mugs, eating stolen bread and cold leftovers they never quite finished before Nicholas was in Euijoo’s lap again, kissing the steam off his lips. Other times they slipped into the winter woods behind the house, flying low through the copse of white trees, ducking branches, laughing breathlessly as they wove past Muggle eyes. They always returned flushed and windblown, boots muddy and fingers red with cold, racing through the back door and falling over each other in the hallway like they couldn't wait another second.

It felt reckless. It felt electric. It felt like falling in love in real time, with the volume turned all the way up.

When his parents were home, Euijoo tried to be careful. Tried not to brush too close, not to let his fingers linger on Nicholas’ wrist, not to look too long when Nicholas grinned at him across the dinner table. But they weren’t exactly subtle. And the truth was, neither of them were especially good at pretending.

His parents noticed—of course they did—but met the whole thing with a kind of tolerant amusement. They were endlessly warm to Nicholas, always including him, asking about his family, making sure he had second helpings at every meal. And they clung, gently but insistently, to the fiction that Euijoo and Nicholas were sleeping in separate rooms. Even when it was obvious they weren’t.

Sometimes, before dawn, Euijoo’s dad would pad down the hall and quietly knock on the door, or worse, open it without knocking at all. And if he found them curled together—Euijoo half-draped over Nicholas, both boys flushed and tangled—he would simply sigh, shake his head, and mutter something about “privacy” and “pushing your luck,” and then nudge Euijoo out the door before his mum caught wind of it.

One morning, bleary and half-dressed, Euijoo stumbled back into his own room clutching his shirt and hoping the hickey blooming just above his collarbone wasn’t as bright and damning as it felt.

“You are playing with fire, kid,” his dad said, standing in the hallway with his arms folded and one eyebrow raised like he couldn’t decide whether to lecture or laugh.

“What?” Euijoo mumbled, collapsing onto his bed with a groan. “Sorry, Dad. I’m—I don’t know—”

His dad let out a soft, knowing hum, a sound caught between affection and exasperation. “It’s okay,” he said after a pause. “I’ve been there.”

“Ew,” Euijoo replied automatically, face buried in a pillow.

His dad just rolled his eyes and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Euijoo lay still for a while, listening to the sound of the shower running, his mum clattering dishes in the kitchen, and the quiet murmur of their conversation before the front door opened and closed—once, and then again.

Then his bedroom door creaked open.

Nicholas stood there, rumpled and blinking against the morning light, hair a soft mess, his pyjama shirt barely buttoned. His voice was sleep-rough and a little hoarse as he said, “I think you’ve made me gone mad,” and crossed the room like he was drawn by a string.

Euijoo opened his arms without thinking, and Nicholas tumbled into them like he belonged there—because he did.

"Do you remember," Nicholas whispered, their bodies curved toward each other on the bed, the ceiling above them a still stretch of shadow, "during fifth year… before my dad… well, before everything?"

"Yeah," Euijoo murmured, one arm slung loose around Nicholas' waist. In the hush of the room, his eyes had adjusted enough to trace the lines of Nicholas' face—his brow, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth. Even in darkness, he knew them.

Nicholas exhaled slowly, his voice barely audible. "You were able to see the horses. The thestrals."

Euijoo’s gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, his mind drifting toward memory like it was a distant sound. “Thestrals,” he said quietly, “they scare most people. All bone and black wings and too many shadows in their skin. But they’re just… there. Not evil. Just seen.”

He paused. The silence in the room pressed gently against them, like thick blankets in the dark. And Nicholas didn't have the need to voice his question.

“When I was a kid, I saw my grandpa die.” His voice was thinner now, almost reverent. “It was quick. A fall, I think. I don’t remember much—I was too small—but I remember how quiet everyone went. Like the whole world held its breath.”

Nicholas didn’t speak. His hand shifted slightly, brushing against Euijoo’s arm, grounding them both.

“They started showing up a few years later,” Euijoo said. “The thestrals. I didn’t know what they were at first. Just these creatures no one else could see, always just watching.”

Nicholas turned his head then, his eyes finding Euijoo’s profile in the low light. Euijoo felt the gaze before he saw it, the weight of it steady, serious. Nicholas’ face looked older in the dark—cut from softer lines but held taut with things he never said aloud.

Neither of them looked like boys anymore.

Not like before, at least.

***

Just a few days before classes were set to begin again, Nicholas' mother had appeared—unannounced, impeccable, and quietly insistent. The Manor was safe now, she said. He could come home.

Euijoo had smiled, polite and tight-lipped, even as disappointment bloomed cold and ugly in his chest. Nicholas didn’t seem particularly fazed—just nodded, like it made perfect sense—and that, more than anything, made Euijoo’s jaw clench. He would never admit it aloud, not even under Veritaserum, but it pissed him off. Nicholas should have hesitated. He should have looked back.

Now Nicholas was packing. Methodically folding clothes into stiff, perfect squares, arranging them into his trunk with obsessive precision. The guest room looked emptier with every motion.
Euijoo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, hair a mess from where he’d raked his fingers through it too many times.

“You could stay, you know,” he said, trying for casual but hearing the crack in his own voice.

“I know,” Nicholas replied, not looking up. His fingers moved too carefully over a wool sweater. “But I don’t want my mum to be so... alone.”

Euijoo made a sound in the back of his throat—something between a scoff and a sigh—and pushed off the frame. He stepped forward, brushing his hair out of his face, and held out a hand like it might hold the rest of the room together.

“So I guess I’ll see you at the train?”

The words came out flat, but the question underneath them pulsed with something raw. The fear was there—Euijoo didn’t try to hide it anymore, not really. It lived in his chest like a second heartbeat.

Sometimes, he could touch Nicholas all day—pressed close on the couch, shoulders bumping in the kitchen, hands brushing on stairs—and still not quite bear to meet his eyes. Because when he did, it was too much. Nicholas was too much. Looking at him was like opening a box too full of light, like something would shatter if Euijoo let himself feel it all.

Too often, when he finally risked a glance, Nicholas was already watching him. Eyes molten, burning through him like wildfire. And then they’d end up pressed against a wall or under a blanket or hidden in the orchard behind the house, kissing like they’d been starving for years.
But now it felt like something solid was being ripped from beneath Euijoo’s feet. A comfort he hadn’t realized he’d started depending on. It was stupid—he knew it was stupid—they’d see each other in just a few days. Hogwarts would be waiting. Their shared lessons, their secret places, their quiet smiles. And next year too. Of course next year too.

But.

But what if Nicholas left again?

What if he didn’t come back next time?

Euijoo couldn’t even finish the thought. It ached.

Nicholas finally looked up, and his expression softened. He reached out and took Euijoo’s hand briefly, gave it a squeeze like he knew—like he felt it too, even if he wouldn’t say it.

“’Course,” he said quietly.

The words were too simple, too easy. But Euijoo held onto them like they meant everything.

So when they finally saw each other again, crammed into the narrow space of a Hogwarts Express cabin surrounded by the usual back-to-school chaos—trunks banging in the corridor, owls hooting irritably, students shouting greetings over one another—Euijoo felt like he could breathe again.

Nicholas looked up as Euijoo hesitated in the doorway, his hair slightly tousled from the wind on the platform, one hand curled around the edge of the window. For a second, everything else dropped away—the noise, the movement, the restless shuffle of the train preparing to leave the station. Nicholas blinked once, then gave a soft half-smile and wordlessly shifted over on the bench, patting the empty seat beside him.

That was all it took. Euijoo sat down, and Nicholas scooted just close enough that their knees brushed. Close enough that their shoulders touched in that easy, familiar way Euijoo had missed more than he’d admitted to anyone. More than he’d even admitted to himself.

Nicholas was warm beside him. Solid. Real.

And just like that, the coil of anxiety Euijoo had been carrying—tight and unrelenting since the moment Nicholas walked out of his bedroom that morning with a packed bag—finally loosened. He didn’t realize how tense he’d been until it left his body all at once, like someone had opened a window in a sealed room.

They didn’t say anything at first. They didn’t need to.

Outside the train, families were waving their last goodbyes. A whistle shrieked. The compartment jolted as the train began to move, pulling them back into the rhythm of their second home. Hogwarts.

Nicholas leaned in a little, just enough for his temple to brush against Euijoo’s, subtle and fleeting.

“I was hoping you'd find me,” Nicholas murmured quietly, his voice almost lost in the rattling hum of the train.

Euijoo turned to look at him, his chest tight in a different way now. “You didn’t think I would?”

Nicholas gave a faint laugh under his breath. “You worry too much.”

“I wonder why,” Euijoo muttered, but the sarcasm had no edge. He smiled, looking down at their knees where they still touched, and he didn’t pull away.

Outside the window, the countryside began to blur into greens and golds, sun flickering through the leaves as the train picked up speed. Euijoo rested his head back against the seat, feeling Nicholas relax beside him, their arms brushing, their breaths syncing up without even trying.

And in that cabin full of loud voices, laughter, and the distant squeak of the snack trolley wheels, Euijoo finally believed it—really believed it—that everything was fine.

“There you are!”

Euijoo grinned instinctively, the sound of that voice tugging something warm and familiar in his chest. Maki appeared at the door, half-wrestling his overstuffed trunk through the narrow opening, his face lit up with a broad, exasperated smile.

“Geez, man—took me forever to find you two. It’s good to have you back.”

Nicholas, still pressed close to Euijoo on the bench, looked up. And then, to Euijoo’s surprise, he smiled too—softly, genuinely. The kind of smile that didn’t always come easy to him, but when it did, it lit his whole face.

“Yeah. Good to be back,” Nicholas said, voice low.

Maki dumped his trunk in the corner with a groan and flopped onto the bench across from them, oblivious to the quiet intensity between the two boys on the other side. Euijoo leaned back, shoulder still against Nicholas’, and felt something deep inside him settle.

The train thundered on toward Hogwarts, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly where it should be.

Chapter Text

People rarely talked about what had happened nearly two years ago. It felt both far away and uncomfortably close—like a shadow always just behind them, stretching long through the corridors of their lives. No one questioned Nicholas’ return, not openly. Perhaps it was because most didn’t care to stir the dust, or perhaps it was because Euijoo, silently and stubbornly, made it clear that questioning Nicholas meant questioning him, too. And no one really wanted to do that.

So, life resumed. Mostly. The rhythm of classes, of exams and breakfast chatter and Quidditch matches filled the days. But not everything was as it had been. The war—though mostly unspoken—lingered in the air like an enchantment gone stale. The castle felt older than usual, its shadows longer, its corridors darker, as if they were swallowing secrets no one was brave enough to name.

It was getting harder to pretend nothing had changed. Kept changing.

At the start of the year, Professor McGonagall had sat them down in her usual brisk way to discuss their futures—careers, apprenticeships, N.E.W.T. prospects. Maki, unsurprisingly, had it all figured out. His grades were impeccable, his dedication steady as clockwork. One night, as they sprawled across a common room couch and shared a tin of slightly stale biscuits, Maki admitted, a little shyly, that he wanted to be an alchemist.

It made perfect sense. The discipline, the patience, the desire to make sense of things that didn’t always want to be understood. Euijoo had smiled, genuinely proud.

Later that same evening, as the library emptied out with quiet yawns, Nicholas had looked up from his books and whispered that he wanted to become an arithmancer.

Euijoo blinked, “A what?”

“Arithmancer,” Nicholas repeated, a touch amused.

Euijoo shifted, leaning slighty closer across the table. “You’re going to have to say that, like... three more times.”

Nicholas laughed softly, the sound barely audible over the sound of pages being turned and the distant wind outside the tower. “Arithmancer. It’s like magical theory, mixed with logic. Numbers. Symbols. Precision.”

Euijoo stared at him for a long moment, then leaned back against his chair, grinning at nothing in particular. “You would pick the one thing that sounds like homework and nightmares.”

“I like it,” Nicholas said simply. “It makes sense. It’s quiet.”

Euijoo didn’t say anything to that—not then. But he thought about it long after they left the silence of the library. About the things that made sense. About the things they were still trying to make sense of.

“So, what about you?” Nicholas asked, his voice low as it echoed faintly down the quiet corridor.

They were walking side by side, slowly, their footsteps soft on the stone floor. It had become a quiet ritual between them—Nicholas walking Euijoo back to Gryffindor Tower at the end of each night. A gentle, unspoken thing that neither of them ever missed.

“Me?” Euijoo blinked, caught off guard. The question felt too big, too heavy for how softly it was asked. “I dunno,” he said after a pause, attempting a laugh. “I’ll have to pass the course first.”

“You will,” Nicholas said easily, with a warmth that made Euijoo’s chest ache a little. Their fingers brushed—just once, barely there, like a secret—and neither of them moved away. “And then, what?”

Euijoo exhaled through his nose, gaze falling to the floor. He hated that he didn’t have an answer. Everyone else seemed to know. Maki had mapped out his whole life by now, and Taki—despite McGonagall’s exasperated sighs—had committed himself to becoming an Auror. Harua wanted to teach. Even Yuma, who always seemed like he was floating through life, had a plan to travel east and study magical creatures.

But Euijoo? Every time he tried to picture his future, it came to him in pieces. Like fogged glass. A shape here, a sound there. Blurry edges. No details.

Just one thing—he never saw himself alone.

Not even in his darkest moments, not even in the dreams that left him sweating and shaken—he was never alone in them. Nicholas was always there. Sometimes just a presence, sometimes laughing, sometimes reaching for him through the noise. But always there.

He didn’t say any of that out loud.

“I keep trying to imagine it,” Euijoo said instead, his voice softer now, as if afraid to disturb the quiet. “Ten years from now. Me, somewhere. Older. I dunno. It's all… blank."

Nicholas didn’t answer right away. Just the steady sound of their footsteps.

Then, “That’s alright,” he said finally. “Everyone starts with nothing in mind.”

Euijoo gave a small, helpless laugh. “I guess.”

They turned a corner, the corridor growing narrower, the torches flickering in their brackets. For a moment, Euijoo thought about Fuma—how he’d left last year, just vanished, even though he was smart, even though teachers had expected him to go far. He’d walked away from it all. Said he needed to prepare. Said there were bigger things coming, things no one wanted to talk about yet. Things that still waited at the edge of their conversations, like a storm sitting just beyond the horizon.

Euijoo remembered how quiet the common room had been that night. How angry he’d been when he found out. Not because Fuma left, but because he understood why he had.

“I dunno, I’ll do something,” Euijoo said at last, giving a half-hearted shrug as he tried to brush off the weight of Nicholas’ words.

Nicholas stopped walking. Euijoo nearly kept going, confused, until he noticed where they were—right in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait. They’d reached Gryffindor Tower without even realizing it, without a single word about turning back.

Nicholas turned to face him, his brows raised in that infuriatingly perfect way that made Euijoo feel both exposed and fond at once. “How come you’re so sure about everyone else’s future but not your own?” he asked. His tone was light, teasing—but there was something real underneath it. A note of worry, or maybe hope.

“We’ll be adults soon,” Nicholas went on, softer now, “you should have something to—”

“Oh my God, not you too,” Euijoo groaned, half-laughing, half-pleading, and he stepped forward, catching Nicholas’ hand and tugging him close.

Their fingers laced easily—like they always did, like they had learned each other’s shapes long before they ever met—and Euijoo squeezed them gently. “I’ve still got time, don’t I?” he asked, leaning in so their foreheads brushed. “A whole damn year.”

Nicholas let out a soft exhale, not quite a laugh, but close. “Yeah,” he said, though it sounded more like reluctant agreement than true belief. He rolled his eyes, but didn’t let go. He never did.

They leaned into each other in the quiet shadow of the corridor, hidden from the watchful eyes of the portrait, and stole a kiss. Just a brief press of mouths, warm and lingering in the hush of stone and candlelight. It was soft, familiar, and still somehow dizzying. Euijoo wanted to stay there forever, in that small stillness, where nothing needed deciding and the world outside couldn’t reach them.

“Night,” Nicholas whispered against his lips, his breath warm and close.

“Night,” Euijoo echoed, not moving, not yet.

They stood there for one more second, two, maybe three. Then Nicholas pulled away, his hand sliding out of Euijoo’s like it didn’t want to leave either. He turned without another word, disappearing back down the corridor with the slow, confident stride Euijoo had memorized by heart.

Euijoo watched him go, the ache of the moment settling behind his ribs. He turned to the Fat Lady, who was now conveniently pretending to be asleep.

“Password?” she asked, not bothering to open her eyes.

“Sweetfire,” Euijoo muttered.

The portrait swung open, and Euijoo stepped through, already feeling the loss of Nicholas’ hand in his. He didn’t know what he’d do yet. What he’d become. The future felt like a heavy coat he wasn’t ready to put on.

After that, the thought became almost obsessive: Fuma, and all the seventh years who had vanished into the war like smoke. The whispers of the Dark Lord’s movements, never confirmed but always felt. The letters from home—short, clipped things that said everything and nothing at once. His mother’s handwriting looked tight, rushed. His father’s never even made it to the page anymore. And in every letter, without fail, the same refrain echoed like a curse:

Stay alert.

It circled around his mind like a hawk. At meals. During class. In the dead hours of the night when everyone was already asleep across the dorm room and Euijoo lay awake, staring up at the stone ceiling, listening to the wind howl against the tower walls.

He started slipping—missing deadlines, zoning out in Divination, handing in essays with scribbled, half-hearted conclusions. Professors frowned. Maki had asked if he was okay, once or twice, but Euijoo had brushed him off. He didn’t feel like explaining the thrum of panic and pressure in his chest that never fully went away.

So when Professor McGonagall summoned him to her office a few weeks before the first round of exams, Euijoo was sure he was about to get a very sharp reminder of his responsibilities. He walked up the spiraling staircase to her office with dread in his stomach and excuses already forming on his tongue.

But when he stepped through the door, McGonagall didn’t scold him. She didn’t even look particularly angry. Her expression was something far more dangerous: calm, expectant.

“Sit down, Mr. Byun,” she said gently, gesturing toward the chair in front of her desk.

Euijoo sat, stiff and unsure. The portraits of past headmasters watched him from their frames with various degrees of curiosity and boredom.

McGonagall folded her hands. “Tell me,” she said, “what do you want to do after Hogwarts?”

He blinked at her.

The question hit him like a gust of cold air. That question again. The same one that haunted him when he tried to fall asleep. The same one that hovered in the quiet moments with Nicholas, unspoken but alive in the spaces between them. The same one you ask a four-year-old at a family party, expecting answers like dragon tamer or Quidditch star.

But he wasn’t four. He was seventeen, and the world was burning.

Euijoo swallowed hard, his palms damp against the fabric of his trousers. McGonagall had watched him grow up—through first-year nerves, through heartbreaks, detentions, and house cup wins. She had always seemed immovable, a fixture of the castle itself. And now, standing in her office, Euijoo was struck by the strange comfort in knowing that neither of them had really changed. Not where it counted.

“I want to fight,” he said at last, the words trembling at the edges but steady at the core. “I want to go to war.”

The room went still.

For a moment, Euijoo thought he might be asked to repeat himself. McGonagall’s gaze was fixed on him, sharp and unreadable, her lips pressed into a tight line as though she were waiting for the punchline. But it didn’t come. And he didn’t take it back.

Her expression didn’t soften, but it did shift—just slightly. She removed her spectacles, folding them slowly as she leaned forward over her desk.

“There has to be something else, Mr. Byun,” she said quietly. “That’s not a foundation. That’s not a life.”

Euijoo bit the inside of his cheek, feeling the familiar swell of stubbornness rise in his chest. “But I want to be useful,” he insisted. “I want to fight—for my future, for everyone’s.”

“No,” McGonagall said firmly, and her voice cracked like a wand against stone. But there was no anger in it. No cold dismissal. Only concern. Fierce, maternal concern.

Euijoo opened his mouth, but she was already moving. From a drawer beneath her desk, she pulled out a thick, folded sheet of parchment, and slid it across to him. He looked down. It was a list—long, dense, hand-lettered in ink. Careers. Paths. He barely recognized some of them: spell architect, curse-breaker, broomsmith, magical ecologist. Others he’d heard in passing but never given a second thought. Each job had a small chart beside it listing the N.E.W.T. subjects and grades required.

“Take this,” she said, folding her hands once more. Her voice was still stern, but softened at the edges. “Look at it. Think about what comes after. Because there will be an after, Euijoo. After the war. And you’ll need more than a reason to fight. You’ll need a reason to stay.”

His throat felt tight. But something warm bloomed unexpectedly in his chest—hope, maybe. Or gratitude. He reached out and took the parchment carefully, as though it might burn.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Thank you, Professor McGonagall.”

He stood up, still clutching the paper like it meant something more than it should. And as he turned to leave, he felt her eyes following him—not in judgment or fear, but in quiet, unwavering care. Like she was holding him up just by seeing him clearly. Like a mother would.

Outside her office, the corridors felt a little less heavy.

It was an April morning

When they told us we should go

And as I turn to you, you smiled at me

How could we say no?

Oh, the fun to have

To live the dreams we always had

Oh, the songs to sing

When we at last return again

He met up with Maki and Nicholas in the library again. Maki was deeply engrossed in a thick, advanced textbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. Nicholas, on the other hand, looked like he was losing a quiet war with his essay—parchment half-filled, ink smudged on the side of his hand. The library buzzed softly with the sound of quills scratching, hushed whispers, and the occasional creak of shifting chairs. Seventh years filled the tables, all consumed with the pressure of upcoming exams, desperate to leave behind more than just grades—wanting to be remembered, to matter.

Euijoo sank into the seat beside Maki, facing Nicholas across the table. His limbs felt heavier than usual, as if the conversation with McGonagall had physically aged him.

“Hey, mate,” Maki said, glancing up briefly, his voice low so as not to disturb the surrounding quiet. “How was it?”

Euijoo let out a long breath, scrubbing the back of his neck with one hand before answering. “I told her what felt right.”

Maki didn’t press further. He simply nodded, like he understood that ‘what felt right’ could mean a dozen different things. Maybe he did.
Across from him, Nicholas arched a brow, setting down his quill mid-sentence. He didn’t speak—he rarely did when it came to things like this—but his eyes lingered on Euijoo, steady and searching. It was a look Euijoo had come to know too well.

Nicholas always seemed to know more than he should when it came to Euijoo. As if he could see past the words, straight through to the storm underneath. And Euijoo, under that gaze, felt both seen and unraveled.

"I'm going to war."

The words hung in the air. Maki’s eyes widened slightly, his head lifting as he stared at Euijoo in disbelief. But beneath the surprise, there was something quieter in his expression—acceptance. Deep down, he'd known this was coming.

"This is our last year of school," Euijoo continued, his voice steady but low, eyes fixed somewhere on the edge of the table. He didn’t dare look at either of them, especially not Nicholas. "We’ll be of age soon. The war’s going to come for us no matter what. And we’ve been training for this, haven’t we? Since fifth year, with Dumbledore’s Army."

He paused, taking in a quiet breath. Then finally, he lifted his gaze and looked at them. Looked at him.

"I want our efforts to mean something."

Silence fell over the table again, the kind that wasn’t awkward but heavy—thick with unspoken thoughts. The library continued on around them, but it felt distant now. Faded.
Euijoo didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t even sure he should’ve said it out loud. He couldn’t decide if he should be looking at Nicholas the way he was now—like he was searching for a response behind those dark, unreadable eyes. Trying to read a mind that never gave itself away easily.

And yet, Nicholas didn’t look away.

"Geez, man," Maki finally sighed, closing his book with a quiet thud. He leaned back in his chair, then forward again to place a hand on Euijoo's shoulder. "I'll go with you, then. Can't let you have all the fun."

Euijoo turned to him, blinking in surprise. "What about your studies? And—your plans?"

"They can wait," Maki replied, giving Euijoo a tired but sincere smile. "Besides, I can't exactly work if the dark side wins, can I?"

Euijoo let out a soft breath, nodding. His lips curved into a small, grateful smile, though there was a trace of something careful in it—something protective. He was glad. More than glad. Maki offering to go with him brought a quiet sense of comfort, the kind he’d never dared ask for, not even in his most desperate moments. But it also unsettled him.

It meant more risk. More people he loved stepping into danger. It meant he wouldn’t be alone—but he wouldn’t be the only one paying the price, either.

"You're both stupid," Nicholas cut in, his voice sharp but wounded, his eyes fixed on them. "Are you even listening to yourselves?"

Maki stayed quiet, jaw tight. Euijoo opened his mouth to say something, but Nicholas didn’t let him.

"You can't always be the fucking hero," he snapped, eyes burning as they landed on Euijoo. "You’re… we’re..." His voice faltered, the sentence unraveling between anger and something far more fragile.

"You don't have to come," Euijoo said quietly, gaze dropping as he noticed a few heads turning their way. The weight of attention, the pressure of it all, made his voice softer than he meant it to be.

"Oh right, because that’s why I’m worried," Nicholas shot back, bitter but unmistakably protective. He scoffed, shaking his head, "You're hopeless, Byun."

But even as he said it, the words didn’t sting. They settled somewhere between affection and fear, as if Nicholas wasn’t angry at Euijoo, but terrified of what he might lose.

"You told me yourself," Euijoo murmured, his hazel eyes locking with Nicholas'. "We’ll be adults soon."

Nicholas let out a quiet huff, shaking his head as he frowned, staring down at his half-finished essay. Ink stained his fingers, a small mess compared to the storm in his expression. "Nothing’s gonna change your mind, huh?" he asked, his voice lower now, eyes flicking back up to meet Euijoo’s.

Euijoo didn’t answer, didn’t need to. The silence between them was thick with unspoken understanding. Maki glanced between them, watching the tension build like static in the air.

"I'll go too," Nicholas said suddenly.

Euijoo’s head snapped up. "What?"

"You heard me." Nicholas raised his chin, that signature aristocratic defiance settling over his features like armor. "Someone has to make sure neither of you idiots gets yourselves killed."

"But—" Maki started, but hesitated, the words catching in his throat. He looked between the two of them. "Your parents… your father—"

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, his smile bitter and tight. "Yeah. I’m not going to fight him. I don’t think I could." His voice softened just enough to betray the truth beneath it. "But I sure as hell won’t let him touch either of you."

For a moment, the weight of that settled over them.

Maki arched a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Since when did you develop such strong feelings for me?"

Nicholas rolled his eyes, already regretting the vulnerability. "Bugger off."

And Euijoo smiled—small and real—but somewhere beneath it, guilt tugged quietly at his chest. As much as it warmed him to know they’d come with him, part of him wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

Because now, it wasn’t just his fight.

It was theirs, too.

Slipping off a glancing kiss

To those who claim they know

Below the streets that steam and hiss

The devil's in his hole

Oh, to sail away

To sandy lands and other days

Oh, to touch the dream

Hides inside and is never seen, yeah

Chapter Text

The first weekend after N.E.W.T.s was marked by a tense and thrilling Quidditch match: Slytherin versus Gryffindor. The stands roared with energy, waves of gold and silver, red and green clashing and blending together as players soared across the pitch, each fighting to score.

Euijoo watched with wide eyes, fingers digging into Maki’s shoulders as the crowd erupted with every pass, every goal attempt. The tension was electric, contagious. Around him, students shouted and jumped, their voices hoarse with house pride.

Everyone was there—well, mostly.

Euijoo’s gaze scanned the crowd until it landed on Nicholas, who stood across the pitch in a sea of green, perched high on another tower. Their eyes met. Nicholas smiled. Euijoo smiled back, an unspoken conversation shared between cheers and distance.

Each of them rooted for their team, but Euijoo wasn’t just watching. He was living it—feeling it in his bones. In his head, he was the one on the broom, cutting through the air, dodging Bludgers, clutching the Quaffle with determination, perfectly balanced and utterly in control.

The Gryffindor team scored, and half the crowd erupted in cheers. Euijoo shouted along with them, forgetting the pressure of exams and every creeping anxiety that had plagued him. In that moment, nothing else mattered. He stayed on edge, eagerly waiting for the next move, heart pounding with every pass.

But then—suddenly, almost silently—the Slytherin Seeker caught the golden snitch.

Just like that, it was over.

Euijoo froze, breath caught in his throat, his wide eyes fixed on the pitch. The Gryffindor team sagged in the air and on the ground, the crowd around him deflating in disbelief. Disappointment sank in, thick and heavy. He felt it too. But still—despite it all—the thrill of the match buzzed in his veins, like static under his skin.
He groaned and shook Maki’s shoulders, his frustration half-serious, half-playful. Maki just laughed, the sound light and infectious. And in that laugh, the tension broke—just a little.

"We’ve lost the Cup to the filthy snakes," Maki groaned, trudging beside Euijoo as they made their way out of the packed pitch. The noise of the crowd still echoed behind them, but out here, it was just the two of them—and their shared disappointment. Euijoo let out a laugh, light and resigned, and Maki joined in a second later.

“Oh, man,” Maki added with a shrug, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I mostly wanted to win for the after-party, honestly.”

Euijoo smirked, bumping shoulders with him as they slipped into the celebratory chaos of the Slytherin crowd, green and silver everywhere, their cheers still ringing like victory bells.

Before Euijoo could say anything more, Nicholas appeared out of nowhere, practically glowing. His dark eyes sparkled with something wild and joyful, and without warning, he grabbed Euijoo by the shoulders.

“Did you see that?! Oh god, you saw that, right?” Nicholas’s grin was breathless, radiant. “I could—kiss you right now!”

Euijoo’s brain short-circuited. Heat rushed to his face so fast he barely registered Nicholas pulling him into a hug. Maki burst into laughter beside them, nearly doubling over as he clutched his stomach.

“You’re so obvious,” Maki managed between laughs.

“Yeah, yeah,” Euijoo muttered, patting Nicholas' back with an awkward fondness. “We still lost, though.”

Nicholas leaned back, his hands still on Euijoo’s shoulders. His smile softened, just a fraction, enough to take the edge off his usual stormy energy. But he still looked like he could take on the world—and win. And God, Euijoo felt like he loved him. Really, really loved him. Not the way you say you love a friend. He really, truly loved him.

So he smiled—big, unfiltered, probably dumb-looking—and Nicholas laughed again, eyes crinkling with warmth.

“Dork,” Nicholas said, but his voice was fond, and Euijoo swore the world blurred just a little around the edges.

Later that day, the Gryffindor Common Room felt like a graveyard of deflated dreams. A heavy fog of disappointment clung to the walls, muffling the usual buzz of chatter and movement. Some students still clung to the high of the match, voices raised in lingering excitement—but most sat in quiet clusters, slouched and brooding, mirroring the dejection of their team.

Euijoo sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, sighing. Being locked inside on a Saturday night felt inherently wrong—especially after a match like that. The rain had started just an hour after the final whistle, pounding against the castle windows like a cruel joke, trapping everyone inside. His thoughts drifted to the Slytherins, probably raising glasses and howling with laughter in their dim-lit, echoing dungeons. Euijoo imagined Nicholas at the center of it all, grinning like he owned the school.

And he envied him. Deeply.

He remembered the walk back to the castle, just after the stands had emptied and the skies had started to darken. Nicholas had lingered beside them, his expression still carrying the glow of victory, though his steps slowed to match Euijoo’s.

“You should join us,” Nicholas had said offhandedly, but there was something behind the casualness—a quiet invitation folded within the words.

“Hell no,” Maki had muttered instantly, scoffing like it was the most absurd suggestion in the world. “I’d rather die of boredom.”

Nicholas didn’t argue. He only rolled his eyes and gave Maki a glare, the kind he’d perfected over the years. Maki, of course, met it with his usual immunity.

But then—Nicholas had turned back to Euijoo.

Without a word, he’d reached for his arm, a quiet touch that didn’t draw Maki’s attention. His fingers slid down, slow and deliberate, until they brushed against Euijoo’s, catching them in the softest grip.

Nicholas’ voice dropped, softer than before. “What about you?”

The question still echoed in Euijoo’s mind now, louder than the rain. Euijoo nibbled at his lower lip, his thoughts spiraling back to the way Nicholas had looked at him—eyes steady, voice low, the weight of the unspoken hanging between them.

“I’ll think about it,” he had murmured then, trying to sound casual, even as his heart thudded against his ribs. “Don’t stay waiting for me, though.”

Now, curled up in the warmth of the Common Room, that reply felt hollow. He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion settling into his bones as Maki began resetting the chessboard for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I swear,” Euijoo muttered, watching the pieces clink into place, “if we don’t stop playing chess, boredom might kill me before the war even gets a chance.”

Maki scoffed, already halfway through organizing his side. “And what do you suggest, then? Strip poker with the ghosts?”

Euijoo smirked, slow and teasing. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, though. Inside, he was buzzing with nerves, and something else—something dangerously close to desire. “How about we go down to the dungeons?”

Maki paused mid-move, a bishop hanging between his fingers. He blinked once, then let out a disbelieving breath, part amusement, part horror.

“You’ve gone mental, mate.”

Euijoo’s smile widened just slightly. “Have I?”

The storm outside raged on, wind battering the windows with wild, howling force, as if echoing the storm quietly building inside him.

***

Euijoo found himself walking alone the dim, echoing hallways that led to the dungeons.

Traitor.

The word rang sharp and unforgiving in his head. He shook it off, but the guilt still coiled in his stomach like a restless serpent.

His nerves climbed with each step, transporting him back to that distant Christmas night six years ago—when he'd summoned all the courage he had to seek out Nicholas amidst the quiet, nearly-empty common rooms. Back then, they were just eleven, and the castle had been silent, bathed in the hush of holiday snow. Now, he was older, and this wasn’t quiet. This was walking straight into the serpent's den.

And yet, he didn’t stop.

The closer he got, the louder the music became—low and pulsing, each beat making the stone floor tremble faintly beneath his shoes. Laughter echoed down the corridor, sharp and bright, drunk on the night and the victory. They were lucky it was a Saturday; nights like this, though not exactly permitted, were tolerated. Celebrations were tradition—especially Slytherin ones.

Euijoo had heard plenty of stories: how Slytherin parties were intense, seductive, and burningly alive, where lines blurred quickly and secrets were currency. Not like Gryffindor’s reckless, sprawling chaos, where noise was king and nothing truly mattered.

Now, standing in front of the slightly ajar dark doors, Euijoo hesitated. Music spilled out, heavy and alive. People brushed past him—some flushed and laughing, others pale and sick, clearly on the losing end of too much firewhisky. A couple staggered out, tangled up in each other, eyes half-lidded with need as they disappeared around a corner.
His heart beat faster. His palms felt clammy. And still, he stood there—one foot in his house, in his rules, and the other stepping into something he didn’t quite understand but desperately wanted to.

He took a breath.

Then stepped inside.

The moment Euijoo stepped inside, the air hit him like a wall—thick with sweat, spiced liquor, and that distinct smokiness that always clung to Slytherin corners. Music pounded through the stone walls, vibrating in his chest. The Outfield was playing—loud, off-key from the speakers, and yet somehow perfect for the wild energy of the room. Bodies moved in a blur of green and silver, the rhythm pulsing through them in messy, fevered waves.
Euijoo hesitated just past the threshold, already feeling like he’d made a mistake. He didn’t belong here. Not just because of the red and gold tucked around his neck like a target—but because the entire space felt like a world that had kept its door shut to him for years. Still, he swallowed the lump of uncertainty in his throat and took a few careful steps in.

The crowd was thick and disoriented—shoulders bumping into him, drinks sloshing too close to his shoes, someone shrieking with laughter in his ear as they passed. He tried to keep his head down, grateful that most were already too far gone to notice the Gryffindor intruder weaving through their celebration. His house colors were mostly hidden by his coat, but not completely. Some people looked. A few stared. But none stopped him.
He took a breath—slow, steadying—eyes scanning the dim, flickering lights and shadow-drenched corners for any trace of Nicholas.

But with the sheer press of bodies, the haze of firewhisky, and the blur of limbs tangled together across every couch and wall, Nicholas was nowhere to be seen. And for a moment, Euijoo stood there, utterly adrift—just another outsider in a room full of belonging.

Nowhere to run when I'm in trouble

You know I'd do anything for you

“You came.”

Euijoo flinched at the voice, his heart catching in his throat. He turned quickly, half-expecting to see a prefect ready to drag him back up seven flights of stairs.

Instead, it was Nicholas.

His narrow eyes glinted beneath the lights, a slight flush on his cheeks and collarbones that suggested firewhisky had already found its way into his bloodstream. His hair was messier than usual, a few strands falling over his forehead in a way that made Euijoo feel unsteady.

"Yeah," Euijoo said, forcing a smile, his voice soft under the music, "I couldn’t survive another chess match with Maki."

Nicholas smirked, a glimmer of mischief in his expression as he stepped forward and slipped his fingers through Euijoo’s. His hand was warm—confident—and the gesture, though casual, sent a current down Euijoo’s spine.

“Come.”

There was no asking, no hesitation—just trust. And so Euijoo followed, letting Nicholas pull him through the blur of dancers and haze of pulsing lights. The crowd parted just enough for them to pass, Nicholas navigating effortlessly while Euijoo kept close, the pressure of their joined hands grounding him.

They stopped at a wide, low table pushed against the wall, its surface crowded with glass bottles, empty cups, half-eaten cauldron cakes, and an enchanted bowl of fizzing sweets glowing a faint violet. Nicholas released his hand only to reach for a cup and pour a generous amount of firewhisky, the golden liquid sloshing as he held it out.
He didn’t say anything. Just offered it with a raised brow and that same boyish grin that made Euijoo feel both protected and entirely out of his depth.

“Before the rain caught up—we went to Hogsmeade,” Nicholas said, his words laced with a tipsy lilt, lips tugged into that crooked grin of his—the kind he only ever wore when he let the world fade out. He was still looking at Euijoo like there was no one else in the room, like none of the blurred figures or pulsing music existed beyond them. “Thanks for coming.”

Euijoo let out a soft, incredulous laugh. There was something almost surreal about seeing Nicholas like this—unguarded, warm in a way that wasn’t laced with sarcasm or cool detachment. “How much have you drunk?” he asked, trying to stifle a grin.

Nicholas only shrugged with the barest smirk, like the answer didn’t matter. And then—without a word—he took Euijoo’s hand again, fingers slipping perfectly between his, and pulled him toward the center of the dungeon floor where the music hit hardest and the air was thick with heat and magic.

They disappeared into the blur of moving bodies, all shadows and light, hips brushing, laughter echoing beneath the bass. The rhythm of the music throbbed through the stones under their feet, and for a moment, Euijoo forgot what it meant to feel nervous. There were too many limbs, too many voices, too many dizzying flashes of green light—and yet Nicholas was the only constant. Laughing. Holding him. Spinning him around in a way that was clumsy and chaotic, but never careless.

The firewhisky burned on its way down, curling in Euijoo’s chest like a second heart. He winced on the first sip, but Nicholas was already tipping his own cup back with practiced ease, eyes twinkling with mischief. The second sip came easier, and the third made him laugh harder than he meant to.

They moved together like they’d done this before—like the war wasn’t hanging over them like a sword.

And for that one stretch of song, Euijoo let himself forget everything else. He let himself smile wide and loud, Nicholas’ hand warm in his, his head light, his body aching from laughing too much.

Nothing had ever felt so temporary.

Try to stop my hands from shakin'

'Cause somethin' in my mind's not makin' sense

It's been a while since we were all alone

I can't hide the way I'm feelin'

Nicholas reached out, fingers slipping into the unruly curls at the nape of Euijoo’s neck. They were both grinning now—lopsided, tipsy, and flushed with the warmth of firewhisky and something much more dangerous. Their laughter had faded into a hush, the kind only two people locked in orbit share. Slowly, inevitably, they leaned in until their foreheads touched, the rest of the dungeon melting into a blur of green light and distant music.

Nicholas exhaled a warm breath into the crook of Euijoo’s neck, nuzzling there like it was the only place in the castle that made sense.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, voice barely audible above the throb of music and heartbeats.

Euijoo let out a breathy laugh, one part amused, one part overwhelmed. Of course Nicholas was drunk—drunk enough to say things sober Nicholas might never admit, at least not like this. But the words still hit somewhere deep, somewhere soft. He smirked to cover the way his chest tightened and reached out, cupping Nicholas' jaw with a steadying hand.

"Hey," he said gently, tipping Nicholas’ face up so their eyes could meet.

What Euijoo saw nearly unraveled him. Nicholas looked so bare in that moment—no sharp smirks, no sarcastic barbs, just soft eyes and something fragile flickering behind them. And it undid Euijoo, because the look said everything neither of them had dared to.

God, it would be so easy.

Too easy.

It was in moments like these—surrounded by noise and sweat and the fleeting illusion of safety—that Euijoo remembered. That night. That Christmas. Nicholas’ hissed promise, sharp and quiet like a spark in the dark, as they lay tangled together in Euijoo’s narrow dorm bed, trying to stay quiet under layers of blankets and forbidden warmth.

I'm going to fuck you, Byun.

The memory ghosted along Euijoo’s spine now, raising goosebumps in the heat of the dungeon. It clung to him like the sweat slicking his shirt, impossible to shake off. He could still feel the weight of that promise curling around him, intoxicating and maddening.

His skin prickled. His thoughts scattered like spilled ink. And he wondered when he'll fulfill it.

Hormones, he told himself.
Clearly, his hormones had staged a full-blown coup.

"Oh, there you are," Jo said, slipping fluidly through the crowd, his fingers hooking onto Nicholas’ shoulder with casual familiarity.

Euijoo stiffened slightly. Jo’s eyes landed on him, lingering. There was a flicker of disapproval there—subtle but unmistakable. Not hatred, not disdain. Just… judgment, clean and quiet, like someone closing a book they never planned to finish. But instead of sneering, or tossing some typical Slytherin jab, Jo said nothing. He simply returned his attention to Nicholas, as if Euijoo didn’t matter enough to provoke. Somehow, that felt worse.

"We’ve been looking for you," Jo continued, his voice just loud enough to cut through the music.

Nicholas turned, his eyebrows lifting lazily, fingers still drifting down from Euijoo’s hair, trailing along the side of his neck and settling low at his waist. It was an intimate touch—deliberate, possessive in that way Nicholas rarely admitted to.
Euijoo felt the heat bloom in his cheeks again, but he didn’t move.

"What is it?" Nicholas asked, only half-interested, his body angled protectively between Euijoo and Jo, as if already bracing for whatever intrusion was about to unfold.

Jo’s eyes dipped briefly to Nicholas’ hand, then back up to his face. He didn’t comment. Not directly.

“We’ve found Nora’s old flask,” Jo said coolly. “The one from sixth year. Still got that firewhisky-meets-unicorn-tears mix in it.”

Nicholas blinked, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” Jo replied, now finally allowing a smirk. “Yuma nearly coughed out his lungs trying it. Said he could see through time for a second.”

Nicholas let out a short laugh, but didn’t move away from Euijoo.

“I’ll come by in a minute,” he said, tone dismissive but not unkind.

Jo lingered a beat too long, then gave a slight nod. His eyes flicked back to Euijoo again—not quite a threat, not quite a warning. Something quieter. More dangerous, maybe.

“Don’t take too long,” Jo said, and then he was gone, swallowed by the music and bodies.

Euijoo exhaled slowly. Nicholas still hadn’t pulled away.

“He doesn’t like me,” Euijoo muttered beneath the noise, not bitter—just honest.

Nicholas grinned, lowering his forehead to brush gently against Euijoo’s for the briefest second. “You don’t like him.”

Euijoo rolled his eyes with theatrical exaggeration, not even bothering to deny it. He didn’t need to. Nicholas already knew. That was the thing about them—knowing each other too well, too deeply, in ways that made everything complicated and impossibly simple at once.

“Yuma’s there too,” Nicholas added, almost cautiously.

Euijoo let out a groan, but Nicholas was giving him that look—that quietly pleading, half-soft gaze that made Euijoo’s resistance falter like melting snow. His lips curved into a reluctant smile. “Fine.”

They moved together, Nicholas still guiding him by the hand as they slipped from the overheated press of dancers. The music dulled behind them, like thunder rolling far off in the hills. Euijoo’s steps grew slower as they neared a small alcove tucked behind a cluster of stone pillars and broken furniture—a makeshift hideaway claimed by the self-appointed royalty of Slytherin.

Nicholas’ people.

Euijoo’s stomach twisted a little. But the firewhisky still buzzed in his veins, and Nicholas’ touch was grounding—gentle, solid, warm.

“Yo, Euijoo!” Yuma called out as they arrived, his smirk wide and sharp. He stood with one foot propped against the stone wall. He clapped Euijoo on the back hard enough to jolt him slightly. “You got a death wish? How the hell are you here?”

Euijoo laughed softly, but his nerves prickled under the surface. “Figured I’d spice up my evening.”

Euijoo could feel the judgment thick in the air, hidden behind raised brows and half-sipped drinks. That sharp, quiet kind of disapproval you could only find in old houses and older bloodlines. It was mutual. He didn’t like them either. But he wasn’t here for them.

“I invited him,” Nicholas said casually, collapsing into one of the old green leather armchairs. The cushions let out a dramatic sigh beneath his weight. Nora, already seated beside him, leaned into his shoulder without a word, her eyes drifting lazily over Euijoo.

“Where’s the flask?” Nicholas added, voice half-lazy, half-impatient.

K grinned wolfishly, elbowing Jo, who produced the flask from inside his robes with a flourish. He extended it toward Nicholas—but before the exchange could happen, K chimed in, his tone dripping with mischief.

“Your Gryffindor should try it first,” he drawled, his eyes glinting like sharpened glass. “Don’t be a bad host, Nicholas.”

Nicholas scoffed, rolling his eyes in that slow, aristocratic way that only made his discomfort more visible. “You don’t have to—” he started, voice quieter as he turned toward Euijoo.

But Euijoo had already stepped forward.

He wasn’t about to let K get the satisfaction. That smug little look on his face made Euijoo's blood warm—not just from pride, but from something more primal. Maybe foolish. Probably.

He snatched the flask with quiet confidence and tipped it back. The burn was instant. Vile. Like molten copper mixed with ash. His throat clenched in protest, and his eyes watered as the liquid scorched its way down. The bitterness hit his head like a hammer wrapped in velvet.

Euijoo coughed—hard. His chest rattled as he doubled slightly, hand on his knee. Laughter burst out around him, K's sharp and Jo's rough and amused. It wasn’t cruel, exactly—but it wasn’t kind either.

“Easy there,” Jo said between chuckles, clapping Euijoo on the back in a rare gesture of camaraderie. “Tastes like shit, oi?”

Euijoo wheezed a laugh, voice thin. “Yeah,” he rasped, still blinking against the heat in his skull. “Like someone bottled regret.”

That earned another ripple of laughter—even from K, surprisingly. Nicholas gave him a look, half exasperated, half impressed, and reached out to take the flask from Euijoo’s hand.

“You’re such a Gryffindor,” he said under his breath, but his voice carried warmth.

“Someone’s gotta keep up with your messed-up hospitality,” Euijoo muttered back, his lips twitching into a grin despite the lingering bitterness on his tongue.

Nicholas huffed, lifting the flask to his nose and immediately recoiling, a grin tugging at his lips. “What the fuck is in this?”

Nora laughed, her voice velvet-smooth as she plucked the flask from his fingers. “We mixed it together, remember?”

Nicholas blinked, his expression blank for a heartbeat before it shifted into something wearier—more distant. His brows lifted slightly as he tried to recall the memory, one tucked away beneath the fog of a turbulent sixth year. That year had been...a blur, heavy with things unsaid and days he’d rather forget.

“Oh. Right,” he said, voice dry, a low, tired chuckle humming in his throat. “What a horrible idea.”

Their laughter rippled through the low-lit room, easy and familiar. It echoed like something from another world—a world Euijoo was still on the edge of. He stood there, the only one still upright, rubbing the taste of the god-awful liquor off his tongue with the back of his hand. The warmth of the fire crackled across his skin, but it couldn’t quite chase away the vague unease coiling in his chest.

"Where’s Maki?" Yuma asked suddenly, leaning close enough that Euijoo could feel the warmth of his breath over the thrum of music and chatter.

Euijoo gave a small laugh, shaking his head. “Where do you think?” he replied, amused and just a little bit wistful. “It’d be weird if he was here with me.”

Yuma smirked knowingly, eyes flicking across the room before returning to Euijoo. “You’re right,” he said, slinging a casual arm around Euijoo’s shoulders.

Euijoo tensed, not out of fear, but from uncertainty. He could feel Nicholas' eyes on him again, sharp and unreadable from the armchair. Euijoo didn’t need to look to know he was watching.

Yuma’s voice dropped a note lower. “Still, brave of you. Most people wouldn’t walk in here wearing red and gold. Let alone hold your hand.” His gaze flicked meaningfully toward Nicholas.

Euijoo met that look without flinching, though something in his chest gave a quiet stir. “Most people aren’t me.”

The flask made its rounds, drawing out coughs, grimaces, and bursts of laughter with each unlucky sip. Some refused entirely, waving it off with theatrical grimaces or exaggerated shrugs. Others tried to prove something—only to end up doubled over and choking, setting off more laughter that rolled like smoke through the room.

Bit by bit, Euijoo felt himself begin to ease into it all. The edges of his discomfort softened, dulled by the firewhisky and the warmth radiating from bodies and voices packed too close together. He found himself laughing—genuinely—at something Yuma said, though he hadn’t entirely caught the joke. It didn’t matter. Yuma's presence grounded him, an unexpected buffer in a room full of Slytherins who hadn’t quite decided what to do with the fact of him yet.

Still, unease prickled at the back of his neck.

K’s eyes kept flicking toward him—sharp, unreadable, barely restrained. And then there was Nora. Leaned against Nicholas like she belonged there, her fingers absently curling at the edge of his sleeve, her eyes on Euijoo more often than not. Not overtly hostile—but curious, assessing, like she was cataloging flaws. Testing his limits.

It was pissing him off.

Euijoo didn’t say anything, of course. What could he say? There was no rule against this—no clear line she had crossed. But it gnawed at him, the way Nicholas didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just thought it didn’t matter.
Nicholas still gave him those soft smiles across the space between them. Still let his eyes linger on Euijoo like he was the only one worth looking at. Still brushed his knee lightly against Euijoo’s when no one was paying attention.

But it wasn’t enough.

Euijoo wanted more. Wanted something solid. Visible. Wanted to be claimed, not just acknowledged in subtle glances and private looks. He wanted to know that when Nora leaned on Nicholas, Nicholas would shrug her off. That when K smirked at him, Nicholas would say something.

But Nicholas didn’t.

So Euijoo sat quietly, nursing the aftertaste of firewhisky, trying to catch the threads of the conversation swirling around him. But most of it made little sense—inside jokes, old stories from shared dormitories, private chaos spun from years of knowing each other in the way only housemates can.

He wasn’t part of any of it. Not really.

And that truth—small, sharp, unavoidable—settled low in his chest. He smiled when he had to. Laughed when he should. But he couldn’t shake the quiet feeling blooming beneath his ribs: that no matter how close Nicholas sat, he was still an outsider here.

A lion among snakes.

And no amount of firewhisky could burn that away.

As you're leaving, please, would you close the door?

And don't forget what I told ya

Just 'cause you're right, that don't mean I'm wrong

Nicholas’ glances had grown more frequent, more pointed, as the party wore on. They weren't careless anymore. They were searching—purposeful. And the second a gap in the crowd gave him room to breathe, he seized Euijoo’s hand and pulled him out of the dense, alcohol-heavy Common Room.

The door shut behind them with a thud, leaving the music to pulse dimly through stone walls like a heartbeat too far away. The hallway was cooler, quieter—though the air between them still buzzed with something hot and unspoken.

Nicholas tugged Euijoo closer, his fingers still laced loosely with his. He noticed the shift in Euijoo’s face right away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, not sharply, but carefully—his voice low, brows slightly raised as he searched Euijoo’s expression with eyes still glassy from the firewhisky.

“Nothing,” Euijoo said too quickly, too defensively. Then added, “You’re just… very close, aren’t you?”

Nicholas tilted his head, a smile curling lazily on his lips. “What? Us?” He stepped even closer, now barely inches between them. “We could be closer.”

That made Euijoo flush, a slow, creeping warmth coloring his cheeks. But he didn’t fold—not yet. His mind was still tangled in everything he’d been holding back all night. “Nora.”

Nicholas blinked, visibly surprised by the name. “Oh,” he murmured. “She’s my best friend.”

There was a beat. A hesitation. Euijoo looked down, suddenly unsure whether he felt petty or perceptive.

“She’s a bit annoyed,” Nicholas added, a little softer now. “With me drifting toward you.”

Euijoo’s brows furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“You know,” Nicholas began, voice quieter now, more thoughtful, “it feels like I’m ditching the group every time they catch me with you and Maki.” His hand found its place at Euijoo’s hip, thumb brushing in slow, lazy circles. “Doesn’t matter, though.”

Euijoo’s eyes dropped slightly to the side, his chest tightening with something like guilt. Of course he understood. He’d feel the same way if Maki started drifting toward another group—especially one from a rival house, built on decades of quiet disdain. He’d feel abandoned too.

“Okay,” he said simply, finally meeting Nicholas’ eyes again.

Nicholas gave him a smirk in return, lopsided and unreadable.

“What,” Euijoo asked, narrowing his eyes just a bit.

“Nothin’,” Nicholas replied with a low chuckle, the kind that always made Euijoo’s heart skip.

Euijoo rolled his eyes, nudging him playfully in the side. “Come on. What’s so funny?”

Instead of answering, Nicholas hooked his arm a little firmer around Euijoo’s waist and tugged him closer—so close their lips almost touched. His breath smelled faintly of firewhisky and something sweeter, and Euijoo could feel his pulse everywhere.

Nicholas didn’t respond with words. He leaned in, brushing his lips over Euijoo’s in a slow, deliberate kiss. It was gentle at first, barely more than a whisper of contact. But then Nicholas tilted his head, deepened it—his tongue teasing along Euijoo’s lower lip, asking a question Euijoo didn’t need time to consider.

He parted his lips, and the kiss grew heavier, more desperate in its quiet urgency.

Without warning, Nicholas pushed forward, and Euijoo’s back hit the wall—cool stone meeting warm skin through layers of uniform. The sound of the party had faded into a background thrum, just a low pulse of distant music. The only real noise now was the uneven rhythm of their breathing and the soft, urgent sounds of mouths meeting, pulling apart, meeting again.

Another shoulder to cry upon

I just wanna use your love tonight, yeah

I don't wanna lose your love tonight

Yeah, I just wanna use your love tonight

Euijoo’s fingers curled into Nicholas’ shirt, anchoring himself as everything else around him slipped into irrelevance. All the tension from earlier—the stares, the quiet judgment, the sense of not belonging—faded beneath Nicholas’ hands, beneath the way his body pressed so easily into Euijoo’s.

It was messy and aching and utterly consuming.

They barely made it back through the Common Room, the pulsing music now feeling like a distant echo compared to the urgency between them. Nicholas guided Euijoo through the crowd, slipping past familiar faces, ignoring curious glances. The brief contact of their lips on the stairs turned clumsy and rushed—hands wandering, gasps shared between kisses that barely broke before the next began.

By the time they stumbled into Nicholas’ dorm—thankfully empty—the air between them felt charged, thick with anticipation and something quieter, more fragile.

They fell into the bed in a tangle of limbs, laughter breathless, kisses lingering with more intent. The mattress dipped beneath them, grounding the moment. For the first time that night, they paused. Euijoo looked up, his hazel eyes locking onto Nicholas’ with something uncertain, exposed.

Nicholas slowed, cupping Euijoo’s jaw with a gentleness that made Euijoo's chest tighten. He pressed a kiss to the curve just beneath Euijoo’s ear, then trailed down his jawline with such tenderness it barely felt real.

“Should I stop?” Nicholas whispered, his voice rough at the edges, lips ghosting across Euijoo’s throat.

Euijoo’s breath hitched. He tangled his fingers into Nicholas’ hair, tightening his grip as if afraid to be left alone in that sudden stillness.

“No,” he whispered back, voice hoarse, certain.

Nicholas exhaled against his skin, a breath of relief, of want. Then he kissed him again—slower this time. Deeper. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise, or maybe a quiet question neither of them quite knew how to ask yet.

Euijoo had been nervous—so much so that his skin prickled with it, every brush of Nicholas’ hands magnified. Nicholas, for his part, tried to mask his own nerves with teasing remarks and half-hearted jokes, but somewhere between a trembling laugh and a too-long pause, Euijoo realized something surprising:

Nicholas was just as nervous. Maybe more.

That revelation made something ease inside Euijoo, like a knot slowly unwinding. It didn’t make the moment less daunting—but it made it real. Honest. And suddenly, it wasn’t so scary to feel exposed.
It was messy at first, a little awkward, fumbling with limbs and breathless instructions between kisses. But then—something clicked. Something fell into place.

Euijoo moved slow and deliberate, straddling Nicholas with uncertain grace, his hands braced against Nicholas' chest. He felt open, entirely seen—skin flushed, breath catching—but nothing compared to the expression in Nicholas’ eyes. Wide. Hungry. Reverent.

And then Nicholas was inside him, and Euijoo could only gasp, head falling back as the sensation overwhelmed him. Every nerve lit up. The slow drag of movement, the burn in his thighs, the heat between them—it was dizzying. He felt weightless and too full all at once, like the world had dropped away and only this existed: Nicholas beneath him, hands gripping his hips like he was something precious, something sacred.

Euijoo trembled as he leaned forward, forehead pressing to Nicholas’, their breaths mingling in the sticky warmth of the storm-heavy night. It smelled like rain and sweat and something sweeter—something like surrender.

Their rhythm was slow, tender, intense. Not perfect, not polished—but deeply, achingly real. They clung to each other, riding the waves of it, breath to breath, hearts pounding in shared silence.

Afterward, the room was quiet, save for the distant pulse of music still echoing from the Common Room. Rain tapped steadily against the dorm windows, soft and persistent, like a lullaby trying to pull them under.

Euijoo lay curled against Nicholas’ chest, their legs tangled beneath the sheets, the air between them thick with warmth and exhaustion. His skin felt too sensitive, like everything had been stripped down—his body, his thoughts, even his defenses. Every place their skin touched felt like it might spark again.

Nicholas’ fingers traced idle circles along Euijoo’s back. Neither of them spoke. Not at first.

Chapter Text

25th November

The first snowfall came early that year, layering the castle grounds in a thin, fragile white that melted under the sun by afternoon. The air was crisp, and every corridor seemed colder than usual, the enchanted torches along the stone walls flickering with more urgency.

Inside the Great Hall, breakfast carried on as it always did—spoons clinking against bowls, owls fluttering down with the morning post, the low hum of chatter. But there was something off. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but it hung in the air like smoke—lingering, bitter.

The Daily Prophet was more inked with fear than facts these days. Students glanced at its front page, lips pressed into tight lines. Another attack. Another family missing. Whispers ran through the Hufflepuff table like cold water. Even the Slytherins—normally smug or dismissive—seemed quieter, more watchful.

Euijoo sat beside Maki, buttering a slice of toast without appetite. The paper lay between them, a headline in bold:

Muggle-Born Registry Tightens Grip — Ministry Denies Overreach

"That's bullshit," Maki muttered, scanning the article with a hard stare. "You'd think they'd at least pretend to care about appearances."

"Careful," Euijoo said under his breath, eyes flitting to the prefect at the end of the table. But Maki just rolled his eyes and folded the paper in half.

Later in Charms, Professor Flitwick’s voice was thinner than usual. He cast a silencing charm on the door before starting the lesson—an unusual precaution. And midway through their lesson on Protective Wards, he paused, eyes darting across the classroom.

“If... if any of you receive troubling news from home,” he said carefully, “please don’t hesitate to come to me. Or any professor you trust.”

No one said anything. Euijoo felt his heartbeat in his ears.

At lunch, people gathered in tighter circles, huddled in corners of the courtyard despite the cold. The gossip had changed—it wasn’t about who was snogging who or who got detention anymore. Now it was, “Did you hear about the attack on Diagon Alley?” or “My cousin’s not coming back after the holidays. Their mum said it's too dangerous.”

Yunah walked past the Gryffindor table with a letter clutched tightly in her hand. Her face was pale. Her eyes red.

"Her brother’s in the Order,” Taki whispered. “Got hit last night.”

That evening, Albus Dumbledore addressed the school. His voice rang through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall.

“These are uncertain times,” he said, “but we will continue to learn, to think, and to protect one another. That is not only what Hogwarts does—it is what Hogwarts must do.”

There was a beat of silence, heavier than applause.

When Euijoo lay in bed that night, the Gryffindor dormitory was quieter than usual. The fire crackled, and someone was crying softly behind a bed curtain.

And far in the distance, over the Forbidden Forest, faint thunder rolled.

But no storm came.

27th November

The castle had settled into a strange kind of rhythm—half-normal, half-waiting. The snow was thicker now, crunching under boots as students made their way between classes, scarves wrapped tight around their necks, breath curling in clouds as they laughed too loudly or said too little.

Euijoo sat on one of the wide stone windowsills near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, legs curled up and a half-eaten Honeydukes bar balanced on his knee. Beside him, Nicholas leaned back, eyes closed, arms folded as if nothing in the world could touch him.
They weren’t even talking, really. Just existing beside each other—like they used to.

“Well,” Nicholas finally said, opening one eye, “I failed that History of Magic quiz on purpose. Just to see Binns get angry.”

Euijoo snorted. “Binns doesn’t get angry. He just looks... more dead.”

Nicholas grinned. “Exactly. I’m studying the art of subtle chaos.”

Euijoo smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stared out at the snowfall drifting lazily down onto the courtyard below. A group of first-years were bundled up in mismatched hats, trying to build a snowman and getting into some kind of lighthearted wand-duel with their professor over it. From up here, it looked almost peaceful.

“Did you hear about what happened in Ottery St. Catchpole?” he asked quietly, voice low.

Nicholas didn’t answer right away. He stretched his legs out instead, gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling now. “No,” he said after a pause. Too quickly.

Euijoo turned toward him. “Nicholas.”

“We’re not talking about that right now,” Nicholas said, calm and light, as if he'd just waved off a particularly dull homework assignment.

“But we should talk about it.”

“No.” Nicholas sat up straighter. “We’re sitting here, eating chocolate, freezing our asses off, and not thinking about the end of the world. That’s what we’re doing.”

Euijoo blinked at him. “Is this your grand strategy? Just pretend it’s not happening?”

Nicholas didn't reply, he didn't need to. Euijoo studied his face—the forced grin, the slightly trembling fingers around the wrapper of a chocolate frog, the way he kept tapping his foot like he was afraid if he stopped moving, something would catch up to him.

“You’re scared,” Euijoo said, not accusing—just understanding.

Nicholas didn’t look at him. “Aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Euijoo replied. “That’s why I want to talk to you.”

Nicholas’s jaw twitched. He finally turned, meeting Euijoo’s eyes, and for a second—just a second—the mask slipped. There was a rawness there, sharp and flickering like a snuffed-out flame. Then it was gone.

“I don’t want this to change anything,” he said. “You and me. I don’t want this war to ruin that too.”

Euijoo’s shoulders slumped slightly, his anger deflated by the vulnerability. He shifted closer, their legs touching.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Not right now.”

Nicholas nodded, swallowing whatever else he might’ve said. He leaned his head onto Euijoo’s shoulder, and they sat there in silence, the world spinning too fast outside the windows, as they held still just a little longer.

30th November

Nights later, they slipped out after curfew, cloaked in long coats and woolen scarves, their breath curling like smoke in the brittle winter air. In Euijoo’s pocket rattled a stolen handful of Honeydukes’ toffee, and tucked beneath Nicholas’ arm was a bottle of contraband Butterbeer, warm from being carried too long. The castle behind them loomed in silence, towers spiked like ink against the star-soaked sky. Hogwarts looked like it had been pulled from the pages of a forgotten fable—beautiful, haunting, and a little too still.

They reached the edge of the Astronomy Tower and leaned over the ledge, wind tugging at their sleeves, the scent of frost sharp in their lungs. Below, the snow blanketed the grounds in pale silver, softening the world like a held breath.

Euijoo had watched Nicholas all evening. He smiled in the right places, laughed at all the wrong times. The way he dodged questions—quick, seamless, habitual—was almost graceful. Euijoo let him have the illusion of normalcy, for a while. But he saw the cracks. In the way Nicholas rubbed the tie around his neck when he thought no one was looking, in how he looked exhausted even while laughing. How his face would go still sometimes, and he’d stop looking like a boy at all.

“So,” Euijoo said, angling the Butterbeer bottle with a crooked smile, “how did you get this again?”

Nicholas shot him a sideways glance, smirking like he was about to share a great secret. “Contacts, Byun.”

He dropped back into the snow like a stone into water, arms spread, letting it soak through his coat. It was freezing, but Nicholas didn’t flinch—just stared up at the stars with his brows faintly drawn, the bottle resting on his chest like a second heart.

Euijoo followed suit, easing down beside him, wincing at the cold that immediately bit through his clothes. The sky above was vast and cruelly bright, stars scattered like sugar over ink. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Their pinkies brushed once. Then again, slower, more deliberate. Euijoo turned his hand just slightly until Nicholas twined their fingers together.

“The stars are so loud tonight,” Euijoo whispered, his voice barely above the wind.

Nicholas gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Yeah,” he murmured, but it sounded far away, like he was already drifting somewhere Euijoo couldn’t follow.

The silence held, stretched thin, until Euijoo broke it without thinking—words tumbling out like they’d been waiting too long. “Your dad’s name was in the Prophet today.”

He felt Nicholas flinch. Not much—just a tight pull of the shoulders, a sharper intake of breath—but it was enough.

Euijoo pressed on, unable to stop now. “They’re saying he’s escaped Azkaban.”

Nicholas didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed pinned to the sky, unblinking. The stars reflected in them like pinpricks of something sharp. The wind tousled his hair, and he let it happen, body still.

“So?” he said, his tone flat, brittle.

“So?” Euijoo echoed, his voice climbing with disbelief. “That’s all you’ve got? Nicholas, they said he was seen near Lancashire. Near the raid. Do you even understand what that means?”

Nicholas finally turned to him, just slightly. Not enough for full eye contact, but enough for Euijoo to see the tension in his jaw, the way he was swallowing hard.

“I know exactly what it means,” Nicholas said, voice low. “Better than you ever could.”

Euijoo blinked, startled by the venom behind his voice, but it wasn’t anger directed at him. It was grief. Old and festering.

“Then why won’t you talk about it?” Euijoo asked, quieter this time. “Why do you keep pretending like none of this is happening?”

Nicholas snapped before he could stop himself. “Because you still don’t get it!” The words cracked the night like lightning. “You and your stupid, perfect little Gryffindor morals—your neat lines between good and evil—you think that’s how this works? You think it’s that easy?”

Euijoo flinched. Not because of the volume, but because the words struck somewhere close to a bruise that had not yet healed. He pushed up on one elbow, breath catching like a hook in his chest. Nicholas’s voice had knocked the breath out of him more than once.

“I never said it was easy,” he replied, quieter than before. “But you’re not the only one who’s scared, Nicholas.”

The name sat heavy in the air between them. Nicholas blinked, lashes trembling in the starlight. His anger began to cool, burned out by exhaustion and something else that looked a lot like grief.

“I didn’t choose this,” he said, hoarse now. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” Euijoo said. His tone was warm but firm. “But you get to choose now. Every day. Who you are. And you keep choosing to push me away.”

Silence fell between them, thick and cold. Nicholas turned his head sharply, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer an answer. His jaw worked, clenched tight, as if holding something dangerous back.

He looked like he wanted to speak. The words trembled visibly in the hollow of his throat. But whatever they were—an apology, an explanation, something softer—they never came. He swallowed them whole.

"You're not alone in this, you know?"

Nicholas finally met his gaze, and for once, there was no mask. Just a boy who looked far too tired to be seventeen, holding tight to the one warm thing left in his life.

“I know,” he whispered. “That’s what scares me.”

1st December

That night, rumors moved through the castle like smoke in a crowded pub—thick, choking, impossible to escape. They threaded between corridors and over dinner tables, bleeding into every whispered conversation and nervous glance. Euijoo heard before he even meant to—caught by the urgent shuffle of feet and the way the world had suddenly fallen quiet around him.
It was Takayama who found him first, breathless, his robes askew and eyes wide in a way Euijoo had never seen. Harua followed close behind, pale and silent, his face tight with the effort of not falling apart.

“He’s coming,” Taki said. The words came fast, too fast, as though just saying them might keep them from being true. His hands shook. “Tomorrow. I—my parents, they—”

He didn’t finish. Couldn’t. The breath stuttered in his chest, then left him all at once in a cracked sob that bent him in half. Euijoo reacted without thought, his stomach lurching as he moved, his arms out before he even realized he was crossing the room. Maki was there too, drawn by instinct, by loyalty, and together they caught Taki as he broke, holding him up like scaffolding, like it might keep him from collapsing entirely.

Taki's cries weren’t loud. They were worse than that—quiet, choked, desperate.

It wasn’t until much later that Euijoo saw the headline.

Muggle-Born Couple Tortured in Lancashire Raid.

The Prophet didn’t bother softening the truth. The word Cruciatus was printed like inked fire—hot, horrifying, permanent.

Crucio.

The Unforgivable Curse.

Euijoo had seen it once in class—just a memory projected from a Pensieve—but even in that faint echo, the screams had made his blood run cold. You didn’t forget the sound of someone losing themselves to pain.

The curse didn’t kill quickly. That wasn’t the point. It was meant to break you slowly, to hollow you out until the only thing left was a scream. Most people didn’t die of it—they died after it. From what it left behind.

Taki’s parents had been kind. The sort of people who sent polite letters on parchment that smelled faintly of cinnamon. His mum baked over holidays. His dad wore awful socks. They’d smiled like they meant it.

Euijoo sat in silence long after the common room had emptied, the paper still clutched in his hands, edges torn slightly from the way his fingers had dug into it. Something inside him was unraveling.

He thought of Nicholas.

He thought of the quiet way he’d said, “I didn’t choose this.”

And Euijoo wondered what it would mean—what it would cost—if someone he loved chose not to stand on the right side of this.

2nd December

Just as Taki had warned, the attack began not long after—swift and merciless, like a storm that had been brewing just out of sight.

Alarms rang through the castle in shrill, unnatural tones. Spells cracked like thunder against stone. Shadows darted through torchlight as Hogwarts turned into a battlefield.
Maki and Euijoo had sprinted through corridors slick with fear, breath catching in their throats as they yelled for professors, for Dumbledore—anyone who would listen. Panic clung to every step. Maki’s hand was bleeding from where he’d tripped on the stairs and refused to stop. Euijoo’s heart thudded too loud, too fast, each beat like a countdown.

They regrouped with the remnants of Dumbledore’s Army—older students, shaken but determined, grim with resolve. Some hadn’t even grabbed their wands before rushing into place. There were no uniforms now. Only defiance.

The castle braced itself: professors reinforcing barricades, older students shepherding the young to the hidden alcoves behind moving walls and beneath floorboards only a few knew existed. The bridge was guarded. The Great Hall’s great wooden doors spelled shut. They were buying time—for the first years, for the ones that were too scared to fight.

And still, Euijoo ran.

He shoved past a group of terrified Hufflepuffs near the moving staircases, scanning every face. Fear made his vision blur. He turned a corner—and there. Nicholas.

“Nicholas!” he cried, relief and desperation bleeding into each syllable.

Nicholas turned at once, breath catching in his throat. He was already moving.

“Are you okay? Is everything okay?” he asked, too fast, grabbing Euijoo’s arms like he needed proof he was real.

“Yes, yeah—” Euijoo said, heart racing. “They’re coming. Come with us. Please.”

Nicholas didn’t hesitate. He nodded once and followed without question.

They tore through the chaos together, down the staircases, past portraits yelling in alarm, through halls thick with smoke and voices and the scent of burning parchment. They met Maki and Harua by the bridge where the others gathered—wands drawn, eyes wide but steady.

It hit Euijoo then—like a crashing wave—that this was really happening. This wasn’t practice. This wasn’t something happening somewhere else.

This was now. This was them.

He stood at the edge of the bridge, wind tugging at his hair, and felt the world tip under his feet. He thought of his parents. Of their quiet lives in the countryside. Of his mother’s letters, always folded with care. Of his father’s awkward jokes.

He prayed they were safe.

He didn’t say it aloud, but he reached for Nicholas’ hand. And this time, Nicholas took it without looking away from the horizon, where the night waited heavy with the oncoming dark.

“Something doesn’t feel right…” Maki murmured, his voice barely audible over the restless wind curling through the cracks of the old stone bridge. His eyes were fixed on the treeline of the Forbidden Forest, black and endless before them. The trees stood too still, the night too silent—like it was holding its breath.

“What?” Nicholas turned sharply toward him, voice tight. “What do you mean?” His hand was trembling where it gripped his wand, fingers twitching just slightly, betraying the fear he was trying to bury beneath the surface.

Something sharp twisted in Euijoo’s gut, dread rising like cold water in his lungs. He scanned the group, his gaze catching on the empty space they hadn’t noticed until now. “Where’s Taki?”

Harua stepped in quickly, the words tumbling from his mouth in a low, urgent whisper. “He’s in the Astronomy Tower. Helping Dumbledore and McGonagall. They’re hiding relics—dark objects that can’t fall into Death Eater hands.”

“What?” Maki’s eyes snapped to Harua, his brow creasing. “Why him? Why send him up there alone?”

Harua hesitated—but it was already too late.

A sharp whistle pierced the air like a blade. Then—like the sky split open—came the shrieking, metallic scream of an explosion. The kind of sound that vibrated in your bones before your brain could even name it. The shockwave hit seconds later, rattling the stones beneath their feet, sending birds shrieking from the forest.

And then—screams. Terrible, human screams.

Euijoo didn’t remember deciding to move. His legs were already carrying him, heart hammering against his ribs, lungs burning, the world narrowing to one single thought: Taki.

But then—just as his foot left the bridge—something yanked him back.

A hand. Nicholas.

“No!” Nicholas shouted, gripping his arm like a lifeline. “You can’t! You don’t know what’s up there—Euijoo, wait!”

Euijoo twisted in his grip, breath ragged, eyes wild. “He’s up there—Nicholas, we don’t have time!”

“We don’t know what they hit,” Nicholas said, voice cracking. “It could be a trap—it could be—”

He didn’t finish. Another boom split the sky, this one more distant, but the light it cast—green and wrong—was unmistakable.

The Dark Mark.

It rose like poison smoke above the Astronomy Tower, curling into the sky with slow, sick satisfaction. Euijoo’s breath caught in his throat.

No one said anything. Not Maki, not Harua. The bridge had gone deathly still, the wind now carrying the scent of burning wood and scorched stone.

And beneath it all, one name pounded like a war drum in Euijoo’s mind.

Taki.

“Where do you think you’re going?!” Nicholas shouted, his voice cracking as he caught Euijoo’s arm. His eyes were wide, panicked, flicking between the rising smoke curling above the tower and the look of reckless resolve on Euijoo’s face.

“We have to help! I don't care if it's a trap, we—we can't leave them!” Euijoo shot back, his chest heaving, adrenaline screaming through his veins. The castle loomed ahead, lit strangely by firelight and spellflashes—its windows no longer glowing with the warm safety they once held, but flickering like the eyes of something wounded and alive.

Nicholas opened his mouth again, as if to argue. Maybe to tell him not to go. Maybe to ask him to stay. But what came instead was a faltering breath—and then a single, reluctant nod.

So he ran too.

Even though his legs were slow with fear, even though the smoke was getting thicker and the screams louder, Nicholas ran beside Euijoo, keeping pace as best he could down the broken steps and through the blasted entrance of the castle.

The moment they crossed the threshold, chaos swallowed them whole.

Smoke clawed at their lungs. Ash drifted like snow. Somewhere nearby, a girl sobbed uncontrollably against the wall, robes burned at the edges, while a second-year crouched beside her, arms protectively around her shoulders. Debris littered the floor—bits of stone, shattered portraits, a smoldering broom.

“Nicholas—!” Euijoo called out, but he didn’t hear his own voice, not over the ringing in his ears, not over the distant echo of another blast somewhere deep in the castle’s gut.

Nicholas yelled something in return, grabbing the sleeve of a dazed student and guiding them toward the courtyard. But Euijoo wasn’t listening—his mind had narrowed to a single, pulsing thought.

He moved on instinct, wand clenched in a white-knuckled grip against his side. Faces blurred past him. Time stretched and warped. His boots pounded over ancient stone and blood-slick marble, heart hammering so loud it drowned out the chaos.

Up the main staircase. Down the west hall. Toward the tower.

He passed a shattered statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, her head cracked clean off. Smoke curled from the ceiling in twisting shadows. There were scorch marks on the wall, the kind only left by dark spells.

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Taki was somewhere in this storm, and Euijoo would find him—no matter what was waiting at the top of that tower.

Each step up the spiral staircase felt like an eternity. The stone beneath his feet was cold, slick with condensation, and the air grew thinner with every breath. By the time he reached the final step, his whole body was shaking—not just from fear, but from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Clutching his wand in a white-knuckled grip, he pushed open the heavy wooden door, its hinges groaning like the sigh of some ancient beast.

Then he saw it.

The room was vast and dimly lit, the air thick with the stench of damp stone and something more sinister—burned cloth, perhaps, or spilled blood. Hooded figures loomed in every corner. The Death Eaters. Their masks hung haphazardly over their faces, as if secrecy no longer mattered. They wore their identities like armor now, emboldened, reckless.

To the left, half-shrouded in shadow, Taki stood frozen—his limbs stiff, his expression locked in silent terror. A full-body bind. Euijoo’s breath caught in his throat.

And then, near the iron railings overlooking the drop below, stood Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster—his Headmaster—renowned through generations as the greatest wizard who had ever lived. But now, he looked almost spectral. His robes hung from him like they’d lost their shape, and his hands trembled at his sides, empty of a wand. The silver of his hair glinted weakly in the torchlight, and his eyes, once so piercing, were dulled by exhaustion.

A wand was leveled at Dumbledore's chest.

The man holding it stepped into view only slightly, but it was enough. Euijoo could barely make out his features—sharp, angular, almost inhuman in their cruelty. His profile was narrow, his smile thin and twisted. He radiated a cold malice that chilled the very air.

Euijoo’s lungs forgot how to breathe.

And then, cutting through the suffocating dread, came the Headmaster’s voice. Soft. Measured. Still laced with the wisdom and calm that had carried Euijoo through so many storms before.

"Severus… please..."

The words were barely more than a whisper, yet they rang with weight. Not fear. Not surrender. But something deeper—an understanding. A plea forged from trust, heavy with meaning only the two of them could fully grasp.

Euijoo watched, frozen, as time seemed to grind to a halt. The man holding the wand—tall, pale, his expression carved from stone—hesitated. For the briefest moment, a flicker passed between him and Dumbledore. Their eyes locked. No words exchanged, only a silent communion. A fraction of a heartbeat where everything might have changed.

But then—cold, unforgiving.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light tore through the gloom like a knife of poison through flesh. Euijoo’s body moved on instinct, feet stumbling forward, wand clutched uselessly in his hand. His mind screamed, but his voice barely broke the air.

“No—!”

The curse struck with devastating finality. The impact lit up Dumbledore’s chest, throwing his thin frame backward like a marionette whose strings had been violently severed. For a heartbeat, he hung in the air—weightless, almost serene—before gravity reclaimed him.

He fell.

Euijoo’s breath caught as he watched the Headmaster's lifeless body plummet from the tower, robes billowing behind him like tattered wings. It was a fall that seemed to last forever. And then, like a candle snuffed out, he vanished into the darkness below.

Far beneath, the faint green glow of the Dark Mark lit the night sky, casting an eerie pall over the schoolyard where the greatest wizard of their age now lay still—alone beneath the stars.

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the wind outside the tower seemed to pause, as if the world itself was stunned by what had just occurred.

Euijoo couldn’t move. His mind screamed at him to fight, to run, to do something—but his limbs felt heavy, his breath shallow and uneven. Dumbledore was gone. The man who had seemed unshakable, eternal, had fallen. And now—

Rough hands seized him from behind.

He was yanked backward, his wand clattering to the stone floor as a Death Eater pinned his arms behind his back. Another grinned beneath his half-lowered mask, his face slick with sweat and madness.

“Well, look what we’ve got here,” one sneered, pressing the tip of a wand to Euijoo’s throat. “Too late to be playing hero, boy.”

Taki remained frozen, still locked in the full-body curse. The Death Eaters moved confidently now, circling, their laughter echoing off the tower walls like the cawing of vultures. It was over.

Everything felt over.

Then, without warning, a sharp crack split the air.

Another. Then another. The sound of Apparition—dozens of them—bursting like thunder all around the tower.

Chaos erupted.

Red bolts of light ricocheted off the stone. Shouts filled the chamber as Aurors flooded in from the stairwell, robes flying, spells already flying from their wands. The Death Eaters scattered, snarling, some disapparating into the shadows, others forced into duels against the sudden wave of magical enforcers.

Euijoo dropped to the ground, choking on the smoke and screams. The grip on him had loosened; someone had fallen—he didn’t know who. A stray blast of energy cracked the floor beside him. Sparks rained down.

Through the haze, he saw an Auror reach Taki, murmuring the counter-curse with trembling urgency. Taki's body jolted, then slumped, eyes blinking rapidly in confusion and terror.
A firm hand gripped Euijoo’s shoulder. A voice—distant and muffled—asked if he was hurt. He couldn’t answer. Everything felt far away now, like he was watching it from underwater.

Because the truth was settling in, heavier than grief.

This wasn’t the beginning.

This chaos, this violence, the light of Dumbledore's fall shining beneath the twisted grin of the Dark Mark—this was not how it all began.

The war hadn’t started tonight.

It had begun long before they were born.

Chapter Text

The battle—and the death of Albus Dumbledore—sent a seismic shock through the wizarding world.
The only wizard Voldemort had ever truly feared, the man who had stood as the last great barrier between the Dark Lord and complete domination, was gone. Just like that. The aftermath came not in silence, but in chaos, in disbelief, in grief that clung like ash in the air.

Hogwarts, the school long considered the safest place in Britain, had fallen to invasion. Death Eaters had breached its walls with terrifying ease. A student had let them in. A professor had allegedly betrayed them. Rumours kept appearing, but none of them dulled the sensation of betrayal. It was too great, the loss too staggering. No one knew who to trust.

There was open talk among staff about whether the school would even reopen. Whispers turned to reluctant agreement: Dumbledore would remain on Hogwarts grounds, entombed in the only place that had ever truly been his home. No other headmaster had been honored that way. But then again, no other headmaster had ever stood so tall or fallen so hard.

Some parents arrived within hours, sweeping their children away without waiting for details. Others lingered in Hogsmeade, torn between fear and duty, until the funeral was over and the mourning had settled into something more bearable.

Through it all, Euijoo moved like a ghost.

He barely registered the warm hand of his mother resting on his shoulder. It grounded him only slightly, like an anchor that struggled to reach the ocean floor through the storm in his chest. He felt everything and nothing at once. The world had tilted. The man who had once promised safety, guidance, hope—was gone.

After the battle, both he and Taki had been taken aside by Aurors. Question after question poured out, sharp and fast and unrelenting. Who had fired the fatal spell? Where had he been standing? Had you seen the face of the killer?
But Euijoo’s ears were still ringing from the final scream, from the crash, from the shattering of a life that had once felt untouchable. He couldn’t speak. Not clearly. Not when his mind replayed the moment again and again like a broken charm.

Taki sat beside him, quieter than usual. Paler, too. But his posture was straight, composed—he answered what he could, and avoided what he couldn’t. Whether he was truly calm or just better at hiding the storm inside, Euijoo couldn’t tell. All he knew was that neither of them had seen enough. Or perhaps, too much.

As the funeral ended and people slowly dispersed into the dark, someone tugged gently at Euijoo’s robes.

"I'm leaving."

Euijoo lifted his head. His brown eyes met that familiar dark gaze—softer now, muted in the shadow of grief. It only softened like that when it was looking at him.

"My mother wants me home. And… well, you know our reputation with Death Eaters—"

"I know," Euijoo cut in gently.

Silence settled between them like fog. Heavy. Lingering. Neither could quite look at the other.

"I'm sorry I wasn’t there," Nicholas murmured after a long pause, his voice barely audible. He didn’t look at Euijoo, just stared off into the distance, watching the dim outlines of mourners vanishing into the night.

"We still wouldn’t have been able to stop anything."

"Euijoo…"

Euijoo exhaled sharply, brushing his hair out of his face. He turned toward Nicholas—only to find Nicholas already watching him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were clear: wounded, searching, pleading for something neither of them could name.

"Don’t torture yourself," Nicholas said, voice low. "This… this is beyond our reach."

And Euijoo bit the inside of his cheek, hard—trying to will away the ache rising in his chest. But the pain couldn’t match the hollow weight inside him. Because as much as he hated to admit it, Nicholas was right.

This time, there was nothing either of them could have done.

They hugged each other tightly, burying themselves in the silence and comfort of shared grief, as if hoping it could delay the inevitable. Slowly, reluctantly, they began to drift apart.

"Write me, okay?" Nicholas said, his voice soft—almost fragile. His hands lingered on Euijoo’s arms, a silent plea behind his lowered gaze. He nodded once, slowly, unable to look up, like even eye contact would be too much to bear.

Euijoo said nothing. He couldn’t. His throat had closed up the moment Nicholas touched him, and the words, no matter how desperately he wanted to say them, simply wouldn't come.

A moment later, Euijoo saw Ms. Wang appear from the shadows. She reached for Nicholas, gently, their hands intertwining without a word. Together, they turned toward the path away from the castle, disappearing into the cold, mourning night.

Euijoo stood still, staring after them. It felt like the night had swallowed them whole.

What a horrible, horrible night.

Chapter Text

Classes had officially been suspended for a week. But everyone knew—whispered in corridors, wrote in letters, said over cold cups of tea—that this was only the beginning. Hogwarts was no longer just a school; it was a battlefield. And no one was coming back to it anytime soon.

Euijoo hated being stuck at home. The walls felt too close, the rooms too quiet, the ticking clock louder than it had ever been. Worst of all, he was under constant scrutiny. His mother, already frayed with worry, hovered like a stormcloud. Her warnings were daily, sharp and cold, often slipping into thinly-veiled scoldings.

She hadn't forgiven him—not really. Not for staying in front, not for risking his life, and certainly not for climbing the Astronomy Tower the night everything fell apart.

“I already told you, Mum,” Euijoo said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He stood in the hallway, fists clenched. “I couldn’t just leave Taki. Or—or Dumbledore. I couldn’t.”

Her lips pursed, the lines around her eyes deepening as if she were holding back a thousand words. Words of fear, of fury, of heartbreak. Instead, she turned away, muttering something about recklessness under her breath.

His father, ever the peacemaker, tried to ease the tension. He’d place a calming hand on her shoulder, speak softly to her when Euijoo wasn’t listening—or when he pretended not to. But Euijoo saw it, saw how both of them were quietly breaking. They weren’t okay. None of them were.

By Wednesday, a letter arrived. A single parchment, folded and sealed hastily. It was from Nicholas.

Euijoo tore it open with too much force.

Euijoo,
Mother says it’s not safe to keep writing.
Someone could intercept the letters. You know how it is now.
I’m sorry. Please be careful.
—Nicholas.

That was all. No warmth, no reassurance, not even a joke at the end like he used to add when things got too heavy. Just a cold, clipped warning—and a farewell, temporary or not.

Euijoo stared at the parchment long after reading it, the words already committed to memory. He knew Nicholas was right. The war was spilling into every shadow now. But that didn’t make the silence easier to bear.

He needed to know Nicholas was okay. He needed connection, something solid, something familiar.

Now, even that had been stripped away.

It was utterly, completely ridiculous. And so damn lonely.

Then, by Thursday, the quiet in the house was shattered. It began with a knock—firm, deliberate—and then a steady stream of cloaked figures stepped over the threshold of their home in Godric’s Hollow. Wizards and witches, many of them strangers to Euijoo, moved through the rooms like shadows. Their voices were low, their expressions tight with concern. His parents had mentioned them before, in cautious tones: the Order of the Phoenix.

Now, apparently, the meetings were being relocated to their home.

Euijoo wanted to be part of them. Desperately. To understand what was being whispered behind closed doors, to feel less like a child being shielded and more like someone who could do something. Anything.

But his mother had other plans.

“No,” she said firmly the moment he asked. “This is not for you, Euijoo.”

He was about to protest when Uncle Joon stepped in, placing a steadying hand on Euijoo’s shoulder, his eyes meeting his sister’s with quiet defiance.

“Come on, he’s big enough to know what’s going on,” Joon said. “He’s lived it. He probably knows more than we do.”

There was a silence. Sharp and immediate.

His mother didn’t speak, but the glare she gave Joon was enough to silence the room for a moment. Then, with a reluctant sigh and a final searching look at Euijoo’s face, she nodded.

“Fine,” she said, voice clipped. “But not a word leaves this room. Not a whisper, not a breath. I mean it.”

“I promise,” Euijoo said, heart already pounding. It felt like stepping into something bigger than he could grasp, but also something he needed to be part of.

The living room had been cleared and bewitched for privacy. Candles flickered, casting shadows on the walls as more people gathered. Names flew in murmurs—strange ones, some he had only heard in fragmented conversations: new Death Eater movements, spy networks within the Ministry, missing witches and wizards whose names sparked fear.

And then, as he adjusted his eyes to the dim light and the serious faces, he saw him. Taki.

He sat quietly at the far end of the room, partially tucked behind two taller witches, his face pale but composed. His hands were folded in his lap, and his gaze was distant, focused on something far away—or maybe nothing at all.

"What are you doing here?" Euijoo whispered, his voice barely audible beneath the hum of hushed voices. He had crossed the room without thinking, drawn to Taki like gravity.

Taki didn’t look at him right away. His eyes remained fixed on the center of the meeting, where two older witches were discussing a new ambush tactic.

“McGonagall took me,” he replied, his tone low and even, though something in it felt older.

“You remember how she asked us at the start of the year what we wanted to do after Hogwarts?”

Euijoo nodded slowly, following Taki’s gaze. “You told me you wanted to be an Auror.”

Taki’s lips twitched, something between a grim smile and a ghost of the boy he used to be. “I told her I was going to fight. First.”

Their eyes met for a brief second. A current passed between them. Understanding. History.

No surprise in Euijoo’s face—just a heavy, silent acknowledgment. Of course Taki would do this. Of course he would throw himself into the storm. Just like he had planned to do too.

“So… you’re here to join the Order of the Phoenix?” Euijoo whispered again, glancing around them to make sure no one was listening.

“Yeah.” Taki shifted, barely. “I’m dropping school this year.”

That hit Euijoo harder than he expected.

It felt like the air had thinned around him, the room suddenly quieter even as the conversations continued. His chest tightened, a dull ache forming just beneath his ribs.

Dropping out. Just like that.

And not because of grades, homesickness, or rebellion. No, Taki was leaving because the world was breaking open at the seams, and he had chosen to plant his feet at the edge of that unraveling. To stand between it and everyone else. And somehow, that simple truth shattered something inside Euijoo too—something soft, uncertain, and waiting.

Because this was it.

The moment. The turning point.

And he didn’t hesitate. His voice came out quiet but firm, carried by something older than fear.

“Let me go with you.”

Taki turned, not wide-eyed or surprised—just steady, as if he’d always known Euijoo would say it, eventually. He met his gaze, and they didn’t need to say another word. That one look held more than any explanation ever could.

It was decided.

As the old grandfather clock struck midnight and its chimes echoed through the walls of the house in Godric’s Hollow, the Order members slowly trickled out, cloaks brushing against wood floors, voices fading into the wind outside. Plans had been whispered. Lines had been drawn. The war wasn’t waiting for anyone.

Euijoo had convinced his parents—though his mother had put up a weary fight—to let Taki stay for the night. “He has nowhere else to go,” Euijoo had said softly, which wasn’t entirely true, but also wasn’t a lie. Taki’s grandmother, the only family he had left, was now in a wizarding residence. And the shadow of what had happened to his parents lingered in the silence after every sentence. No one dared to mention them.

A mattress was rolled out on the floor of Euijoo’s room. The air between them was warm, heavy with the remains of everything unsaid. The soft flicker of the floating lanterns cast long shadows on the walls, dancing with the wind.

Lying side by side, their voices were no more than whispers, muffled by the dark and the safety of the quiet.

"You’ve got a plan," Euijoo said, not as a question, but a quiet confirmation. His voice was steady, and he shifted on his bed to face Taki more directly, the covers rustling softly in the silence between them.

Taki didn’t deny it. Instead, he gave a half-scoff, something between amusement and weariness, and mirrored the shift—sitting a little taller on the edge of the mattress, closer to Euijoo now.
Then, wordlessly, he reached beneath the collar of his pajama shirt and tugged out a necklace. A thin chain, delicate but not fragile, with a small, nondescript golden circle resting at the center.

"Do you know what this is?" Taki asked, his voice lower now—conspiratorial.

Euijoo leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he inspected the pendant. At first glance, it could’ve been anything. A family heirloom. A simple trinket. But then, with a faint click, Taki opened the pendant, revealing a small, crystalline core with softly pulsing runes etched into it.

Euijoo’s lips pulled into a grin of disbelief. “A bloody tracker?”

Taki smirked, a flicker of pride glinting behind his usual calm. He tucked the pendant back against his chest, letting it vanish beneath the folds of his shirt again.

“My father gave it to me,” he said, voice tinged with something Euijoo couldn’t quite name—reverence, maybe, or grief carefully buried beneath resolve. “Before everything happened. He always suspected this was going to happen.”

Euijoo’s brows lifted, intrigue prickling down his spine. “So...?”

Taki nodded, gaze sharpening. “Yeah. Harua lied to you.”

There was no bitterness in his voice—just quiet certainty.

“Dumbledore didn’t ask me to be at the Astronomy Tower that night. He didn’t even know I’d be there.”

Euijoo’s expression shifted, the pieces beginning to fall into place in his mind like a long-unsolved puzzle finally revealing its picture. “Then why—?”

“I was tracking them,” Taki interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Or trying to. That pendant—whatever magic’s in it—it reacts. I don’t know who exactly it follows, but when the group of Death Eaters entered Hogwarts, it lit up. Like it knew.”

There was a pause. Thick with implication.

“Maybe…” Taki hesitated, then pushed forward. “Maybe it tracks the one who… the one who did that to Dumbledore.”

Euijoo swallowed. His mouth had gone dry.

The room was suddenly too still, too quiet. Outside, wind rustled through the trees of Godric’s Hollow, and somewhere far off, an owl cried.

Neither of them slept. Not truly. They lay in the dark, wrapped in their own thoughts, the weight of everything that had happened—and everything that was coming—suspended between them like fog. The room around them felt cavernous, as if it had grown in size just to swallow the silence, heavy and thick with unspoken fears.

Still, they pretended. Eyes closed, breaths measured. But the illusion was thin.

Euijoo stared up at the ceiling, heart pounding in time with the clock ticking on his nightstand. His chest ached with the kind of restless energy that demanded movement. Action. For the first time since the funeral, he felt purpose settle into his bones like a second heartbeat.
He couldn’t stay here. Not when every newspaper headline screamed of disappearances. Not when the world outside his window was unraveling thread by thread. Not when people he loved were at risk simply for existing.

He wouldn’t let fear paralyze him. Not when there was still something—anything—he could do.
They didn’t need words. When the first light of dawn crept pale and cold across the floorboards, Euijoo and Taki moved in quiet coordination, like they'd rehearsed this moment in their heads a hundred times.

Taki packed light—he always did. Euijoo grabbed his Firebolt, brushing his fingers over the polished wood as if grounding himself with the touch. Then he turned to his desk and scribbled a short note for his parents.

Just a few lines. A soft lie wrapped in truth.

Don’t worry. I’ll be back before midnight.
—E.

He didn’t say where they were going. He couldn’t. Not because he didn’t trust them, but because he wasn't even sure what would happen, where they would go.

By the time the village stirred awake, the two figures were already disappearing into the clouds, the wind tugging at their robes, the horizon stretched wide and uncertain before them.
There was no map for what they were about to do.

But there was courage. And the echo of Dumbledore’s voice, somewhere in the back of Euijoo’s mind:

“It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

And so—they chose.

“We should get Maki and Harua first.”

“No,” Euijoo said, sharper than he meant to. “We’re going for Nicholas.”

Taki grabbed a handful of Euijoo’s robes as the broom angled steeply through the early morning sky, their flight hidden beneath a protective charm from Muggle eyes. The wind stung their faces, and below them, the landscape stretched out in fields of grey and green—still, silent, unaware.

“Look,” Taki muttered, frowning, “I admire your passion for him, really.” His tone was dry, bordering on sarcastic, but there was no malice behind it. “But flying straight to the bloody Wang Manor? That sounds like a suicide mission.”

Euijoo’s fingers clenched tighter around the broom handle, jaw locked. Of course Taki was right. He always was when it counted.

“I know,” Euijoo said quietly, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

“We don’t even know if his father’s back with them, or—”

“He isn’t. Alright?” Euijoo snapped, eyes still fixed forward.

Taki sighed, the sound quickly carried off by the wind. For a moment, they said nothing, only the whisper of air and the occasional creak of the broomstick filling the space between them.

“If we’re more of us,” Taki said eventually, quieter this time, “it’ll be easier to get Nicholas. And safer.”

Euijoo pressed his lips together and gave a slight nod, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Taki wasn’t trying to stop him. He was trying to keep him alive. And that was something Euijoo couldn’t ignore, no matter how much his heart screamed to turn east instead.

“Fine,” Euijoo muttered.

With a tug, he angled the broom southward, toward Maki’s countryside house, where the mist curled over the hills like ghostly fingers and a quiet hope began to unfurl beneath the thrum of the wind.

The countryside unrolled beneath them like a painted memory—drowsy fields, hedgerows trembling in the breeze, and rooftops veiled in soft, early mist. The sun had barely risen, casting long shadows across the landscape as the broom cut through the chill morning air.

Maki’s home came into view slowly—a modest cottage nestled between tall oaks, ivy creeping up the stone walls, smoke curling faintly from the chimney. The house looked peaceful. Untouched. As if nothing terrible had ever happened in the world.

Euijoo slowed the broom and descended carefully, his feet crunching against the gravel path that led to the front door. Taki hopped off behind him, glancing around warily, his hand already near his wand.

“You sure this is a good idea?” he murmured.

“No,” Euijoo admitted. “But it’s the right one.”

He stepped up to the door and knocked three times, sharp and quick. They waited.

A shuffle from inside. Then a pause. Then the door cracked open just enough to reveal a sliver of dark hair, a wary brown eye.

“Maki—” Euijoo started.

The door flung open fully. Maki stood there in pajama pants and a Quidditch sweatshirt, a wand gripped tightly in his hand, his expression shifting instantly from shock to disbelief to alarm.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed. “It’s barely six—what happened? Are you both okay?”

“We’re fine,” Euijoo said quickly, stepping in, Taki close behind. “Sorry for showing up unannounced, but we need your help.”

Maki blinked. “With what?”

“Something big,” Taki said, crossing his arms. “We need to get Nicholas.”

Maki’s brows lifted slowly. “From the Wang Manor?”

Euijoo nodded. “But we’re not going there yet. We came for you—and Harua.”

Maki exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Gods, you two really are insane. You know that, right?”

“Probably,” Taki said with a grin.

The wind still clung to them as they soared through the morning sky, London’s sprawl growing larger beneath their feet. Maki trailed behind, his old broomstick wheezing with every gust, a sharp contrast to the smooth glide of Euijoo’s Firebolt. He kept asking questions—half out of curiosity, half out of nerves—but Taki fielded them all with clipped, practical answers. Euijoo stayed quiet, his eyes locked on the city skyline ahead, trying to retrace the hazy path he’d memorized years ago when Harua had casually invited them to his family's Muggle apartment.

His chest tightened the closer they got to the city. Tall buildings stacked like glass and concrete sentinels, and a dull gray morning light bathed the streets in a cold hush. The three finally descended behind a tall, rust-colored warehouse that loomed beside a narrow alley. The bricks were chipped, old graffiti peeling off the walls. A faint scent of oil and wet asphalt filled the air.
Euijoo touched down first, landing softly between two industrial dumpsters, the Firebolt’s handle still warm under his palm. Maki landed last with a thud and groaned, stretching his back as he clumsily dismounted.

“We shouldn’t go in there with the brooms,” Maki muttered, yawning as he scratched at the back of his unruly hair. “Too many Muggles. Way too risky.”

He glanced meaningfully at Euijoo, who was already moving to stash his broom behind a pile of old crates.

“Euijoo… do you mind…?”

Euijoo let out a quiet sigh, but his tired smile softened the sound. “Yeah, yeah.” He rolled his eyes and nudged Maki’s shoulder as he gathered Maki’s broom along with his own, carefully nestling them in the darkest shadow of the building, behind an old iron door.

"I'll stay and watch," Taki said as he adjusted the collar of his coat, pulling it up to cover the small golden pendant hidden beneath his shirt. “But be quick, you both. This street gets busy early. One wrong move, and someone’s going to report floating boys in robes to the Daily Mail.”

Euijoo gave him a short nod, already edging toward the sidewalk. The city was slowly waking—distant hums of traffic, footsteps echoing in alleyways, the clink of someone opening a shop gate nearby.

“Harua’s block is four streets down,” Euijoo murmured, glancing back at Maki. “You remember the one with the teal balcony?”

Maki huffed a breath, pulling his hood up. “I remember the curry shop under it. Let’s go.”

And with that, they melted into the thinning shadows of London, walking fast, heads down, as the day began to stir around them.

By the time they reached the apartment building, the sky was still clinging to the last threads of night. Maki pressed the doorbell with a wince, the shrill chime slicing through the silence like a knife. It was far too early for such noise, and the look on his face said he knew it.

A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing Harua’s mother in a worn robe, her hair slightly askew from sleep, her eyes narrowed with irritation.

“Boys,” she sighed, her voice low and groggy. “Don’t you own clocks?”

Euijoo dropped his gaze to the floor, guilt rising in his chest. He started to mumble an apology, but Maki stepped forward, his voice quiet yet firm.

“We need to speak with Harua. It’s important.”

There was a pause—one heavy with maternal suspicion and fatigue. But before she could respond, Harua appeared behind her in the hallway, already dressed, wand concealed beneath the folds of his coat. His eyes met theirs with quiet resolve, as if he'd known they would come. As if he’d been waiting.

He gave his mother a small nod, barely more than a gesture, before brushing past her without a word. The chill of dawn followed him as he stepped outside. Maki and Euijoo exchanged a glance, then fell in behind him.

Harua paused only once—at the threshold.

He turned back to look at his mother. She stood there in the doorway, puzzled and worried, unable to see the battle unfolding behind her son’s calm demeanor. She couldn’t know the weight he now carried, the truths too dark for a parent to fully understand.

And Harua didn’t expect her to. He didn’t blame her.

Not even a little.

They rose into the sky once more, night air whipping around them like cold fingers. Taki and Euijoo shared a broom, flying in tight formation as Harua and Maki followed closely behind. The darkness was vast above them, but the world below felt even more uncertain.

"Is there a plan?" Harua called out over the wind, his voice taut. "Or are we just going to knock on his door?"

"We could do that," Maki replied, squinting into the distance. "Wang Manor is supposed to be safe."

Euijoo nodded, clutching the broom tighter. It was all they had. Or so he thought.

But Taki's voice cut through the air, sharper than the wind. “Yeah, maybe it used to be. You know the Manor was one of their old rendezvous points, right? Just like your house is the Order’s meeting place now.”

The words hit like a gut punch.

Euijoo swallowed, his voice thin. “We still gotta try.”

Taki didn’t respond immediately, but when he did, there was steel in his tone. “Yeah, we do. But maybe we should also start planning things that matter. Like our plan.The plan.You know, the reason why we—”

Euijoo turned sharply, glaring. “What the hell do you mean? We can’t just leave him. Nicholas is one of us.”

A heavy silence followed. Then Taki said, too calmly, “Are you sure about that?”

Euijoo’s breath caught. “Of course I am,” he snapped—but even as he said it, something in their expressions chilled him. He looked back. Maki’s face was pale, lips pressed thin. Harua looked away.

“What?” Euijoo asked, his heart thudding faster. “What is it?”

Taki exchanged a look with Harua before speaking, his voice low. “Euijoo… this might mean nothing. But—”

“But what?” Euijoo cut in, anxiety rising like a tide. “What?”

Taki hesitated only a moment before answering.

“The day before the attack at Hogwarts… whoever this tracking charm is following—it pointed straight at Wang Manor.”

The air grew colder as they flew, and even the stars above seemed to retreat into silence. Euijoo’s grip on the broom tightened, his thoughts racing—not with suspicion, but with concern. Nicholas. Was he safe? Was he hurt? Was that why he had stopped writing? The unanswered questions clanged like bells in his head. Perhaps that worry explained why Taki had gone quiet, curling inward against Euijoo’s back, while Maki and Harua increased their speed, their silence mirroring the unspoken dread that hung among them.

As they approached the looming silhouette of Wang Manor, time seemed to stretch and stall. The manor stood as it always had: stark and immovable, its windows black, its great bulk cloaked in shadow. The four descended silently, veering toward the treeline where tall, skeletal trees offered cover.

"What now?" Maki whispered, crouching as the others formed a tight circle around him.

"Check your pendant first, Taki," Harua said, his voice low.

Taki nodded and pulled the small charm from beneath his collar. It glowed faintly, but not enough.

"He isn’t here," he said.

A long breath slipped from Euijoo’s lips, the relief almost dizzying. For the first time since they took flight, he let his shoulders fall.

His eyes drifted to the manor.

It stood there in silence, tall and weathered, yet unchanged. The sight brought back a wash of memories—himself at fourteen, wandering its halls with Maki and Nicholas, laughter bouncing off the old walls. It felt impossibly close, like a memory that hadn’t had time to fade.

"Okay," Euijoo whispered, "I remember Nicholas' room has a big circular window. We could check if he's in there before risking going inside the Manor."

The others exchanged glances but nodded. It wasn’t much of a plan—but it was a start, and right now, that was enough.

Harua handed his broom to Taki and followed Euijoo from behind, the two of them cloaked under a hastily-cast hiding charm as they rose quietly into the air. The wind brushed their cloaks back as they flew toward the high window, just as Euijoo remembered it—tall, round, and framed by ivy.

To their quiet relief, there he was.

Nicholas sat inside, tucked comfortably beneath the golden pool of candlelight, a book open in his lap. His hair was slightly longer than before, and his posture relaxed, head tilted as he read. Peaceful. Completely unaware.

Without thinking, Euijoo knocked on the glass as a wide grin tugged at his lips, warm and instinctive. In that moment, Taki’s warnings faded from his mind like mist.

Nicholas looked up.

For a breath, his eyes widened—then softened. His face lit up with a smile so genuine, so real, it made something deep in Euijoo’s chest unravel. Because in that instant, he knew.

Taki was wrong.

If Nicholas had wanted to betray them—betray him—he’d have done it long time ago. But he hadn’t. He had made mistakes, sure. They all had. But not when it mattered. Not when it truly mattered.

Nicholas quickly pushed open the window. "What the hell are you two doing here?" he hissed, barely above a whisper—but he was smiling. And that was what mattered.

"We came for you," Euijoo said, guiding his broom until he was hovering right in front of Nicholas. "Hop on. We’ll explain on the way."

"On the way where?" Nicholas asked, his gaze flicking past Euijoo to Taki, eyes narrowing slightly at the boy’s sharp, unreadable expression.

"Taki's got a plan," Euijoo said, his voice steady, the spark in his eyes growing. "We've got something now, Nicholas. We're going to fight back. No more waiting. No more sitting around."

Nicholas didn’t answer right away.

His expression shifted—something caught between fear and the fragile pull of hope. His eyes were dark but not cold, wide but not afraid. Something in them shimmered—something old and hurt and tired—but also something alive.

"I..."

The words never finished.

Footsteps echoed from the hall. Someone was approaching the door to Nicholas' room. Maybe it was his mother, but Taki didn’t wait to find out.

"Ride or die, Wang," he snapped, fast and sharp, like the slam of a door behind them.

Nicholas’ expression turned somber, his hesitation growing heavier by the second. From the other side of the door, his mother’s voice called his name—soft, unaware—and something inside him splintered.

“I can’t,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on Euijoo. “I just... I can’t leave her with—”

And something cracked in Euijoo’s chest. Even though he understood. Even though it wasn’t betrayal—it still hurt.

Taki’s voice cut in, low and urgent. “We have to go. Now.”

But just as Euijoo was about to pull away, Nicholas grabbed his wrist. The sudden tug made him stumble slightly on his broom, breath hitching before he even registered the weight behind him.

“Go! Before she sees you!” Nicholas whispered harshly, arms wrapping tightly around Euijoo’s waist.

And just like that, Euijoo felt warmth flood through him. Relief, overwhelming and dizzying, as he kicked off the ledge and followed Taki back toward the others.

“What’s gotten into you?” Euijoo asked breathlessly, the wind rushing past them.

“I don’t know,” Nicholas muttered, his voice right by Euijoo’s ear, his heart thudding against Euijoo’s back like a war drum, hoping he wouldn't regret his impulsive action later. “You’ve made me go mental. Mental about you.”

And Euijoo wasn’t just flushed from the flight anymore.

Chapter Text

“Oh my—”

Euijoo didn’t even have time to fully land before his mother rushed forward, throwing her arms around him with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of his chest. She clutched him tightly, burying her face into the crook of his shoulder, her breath shaky and uneven, as if she’d been holding it in for hours.

Her grip said everything her words couldn’t—panic, relief, fury, and that primal kind of love that doesn’t care about explanations, only that you’re home. Then, without hesitation, she pulled Nicholas into the embrace, and the others too, folding them all into a cocoon of trembling arms and crumpled fabric, as if shielding them from everything that had gone wrong. When she pulled back, her eyes were glistening and sharp. She fixed Euijoo with a look that burned.

“You’re grounded,” she said, voice taut, trying to disguise the way it cracked. Her expression trembled somewhere between anger and heartbreak.

It wasn’t unexpected. After all, they had vanished without a trace—no explanations, no goodbyes. Just a torn scrap of parchment, hastily scribbled with slanted handwriting that barely said anything at all. A rushed message that read more like a warning than reassurance. That piece of paper must’ve landed in her hands like a curse.

She’d probably held it in the kitchen with shaking fingers, rereading the words again and again, trying to decode where her son had gone. His dad must’ve been pacing the floor, checking the window every time it creaked, looking like he was ready to storm out and find him himself.

The moment Euijoo, Nicholas, and Taki landed on the forest floor, they didn’t linger. The five of them weaved between tangled roots and tall undergrowth, moving quickly away from the Wang Manor. Early mist still clung to the air, curling like ghostly fingers between tree trunks. Birds quieted at their arrival. Everything felt too still.

They didn’t stop until they reached a narrow glade tucked between a ring of black pines. There, under a canopy of shadowed green, they finally exhaled.

Taki stepped forward first. He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out the pendant—the golden circle barely catching the dim light filtering through the leaves. The forest held its breath with them.

“This tracks one of the Death Eaters from the Astronomy Tower,” he said, his voice low but clear.

Nicholas’s face twisted, confusion and disbelief bleeding into sudden anger.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“Nicholas—” Euijoo stepped forward, voice strained, “You already knew. You told me you’d be there with us—”

“I know what I told you,” Nicholas interrupted, his tone sharp, his eyes not meeting Euijoo’s. “But this?” He gestured at the pendant, then to themselves. “This is insane. You don’t even have a plan!”

His voice echoed slightly in the glade, startling a few birds from the nearby branches. Maki and Harua exchanged a glance, standing just behind the others, their silence uneasy.

“We do,” Taki said, his voice calm but steel-edged. “This is our plan.”

Nicholas blinked at him, then scoffed, stepping away just slightly as he motioned around them—to the trees, the mist, the silence.

“Oh, of course,” he muttered, arms crossed, voice laced with biting sarcasm. “Right. The brilliant master plan. A glowing pendant and five schoolkids hiding in the woods. That’s how we’re going to defeat Lord Voldemort, right, Takayama?”

“Don’t—” Taki snapped, the word cutting through the chill in the air like a blade. His jaw tightened as he looked right through Nicholas, leaves shifting overhead. “Don’t say his name.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes, but his tone shifted, losing the edge of mockery. “It’s suicidal,” he said quietly, bitterly. “Whoever that pendant is tracking... it’s not just some recruit or low-level Death Eater. We can’t face them. Not alone.”

“That’s why we came to get all of us,” Euijoo said, stepping forward with his voice steadier than he felt. He looked around the circle—at Harua, who was silent but attentive, wand half-raised at his side; at Maki, chewing the inside of his cheek, clearly restless.

“But it’s still not enough,” Nicholas said, voice low and thick with something heavier than doubt. “You know it. I know it. We barely know what we’re doing. We’re kids—”

“No, we’re not,” Taki cut in. He didn’t raise his voice, but it came down like iron—measured, deliberate, and unshakable. The weight of it hung in the air, silencing even the wind for a moment. “Not anymore.”

The trees above shivered, their leaves rustling like whispers from ghosts long buried. Dappled shadows danced along the forest floor, shifting with the breeze, cloaking them in uneasy silence.

“It was a mistake coming here,” Taki added, his gaze locked on Nicholas. His words came out like a low hiss, controlled but seething. “We should’ve left you behind.”

Nicholas didn’t respond right away. His eyes dropped to the ground beneath them—to the soft, uneven dirt, to the twisted roots jutting like bones from the earth. It was as if he hoped the forest floor might swallow him whole. Or offer him an answer he didn’t have to say aloud.

“Mates…” Maki’s voice broke through, tentative and unsure. He glanced between them, rubbing the back of his neck like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Maybe we chill out for a sec—”

“There’s something else I wanted to ask you,” Taki said, cutting him off. He stepped forward, his body taut like a drawn bow, every movement deliberate. His eyes didn’t leave Nicholas. “The day before the Astronomy Tower was attacked… where was your mother?”

Nicholas stiffened.

It was so slight—barely a blink, barely a breath—but Euijoo saw it. And judging by the stillness around them, so did the others.

“Taki,” Euijoo said quietly, trying to intervene, “now’s not the time—”

“Shut up.” Taki didn’t even look at him. His voice cracked like dry ice, and he brushed aside Euijoo’s attempt to defuse. He took another step forward, now only a few feet from Nicholas. “Answer me, Wang.”

Nicholas didn’t answer. Not with words. He turned his face away, jaw locked, fists trembling at his sides. His entire frame was rigid, as if holding back something dangerous. And that—his silence, the way he looked almost cornered—was worse than a confession.

Because it meant he knew.

He knew someone had been there. At his house. Someone who had stood beneath the broken arch of the Astronomy Tower. Someone who had watched it burn.

What else did he know? Euijoo wondered, staring at Nicholas, his own thoughts frozen, dulled. He couldn’t even feel anger—just a strange, stifled void.

“You shut up,” Euijoo said suddenly, stepping between them, placing a firm hand on Nicholas’ arm. His voice was sharp but calm, almost pleading. “We can talk about that later, alright?”

Taki stared at him like he’d gone mad. “What? Look at him!” he barked, voice cracking. “He knows. He’s hiding something—maybe he knew about the attack too!”

“That’s not true!” Nicholas finally exploded, his voice hoarse and shaking. His eyes blazed, red-rimmed and wet, not from tears but from fury. “Oh bloody hell—why did I even come if none of you trust me?!”

His voice echoed through the trees, then fell into silence again, the forest listening as if it too held its breath.

“You’ve never liked me after all,” Nicholas continued, his voice breaking through the tension like the crack of a brittle branch. He gently peeled Euijoo’s hand off his arm—slow, almost apologetic—before stepping forward. Closer to Taki. “I’m too bloody pathetic for someone as perfect as you, right, Takayama?”

His words weren’t loud, but they cut clean—raw with sarcasm and something deeper, something long-buried.
Taki didn’t flinch. He held his ground, though the flicker in his eyes betrayed the heat building beneath his skin. His lips curled, more sneer than smile.

“Can you blame me?” he spat, voice sharp as splintered glass. “You’ve always been a filthy person. Too easy to manipulate.” He leaned in just slightly, enough that Nicholas could see the sneer take root, the twisted disdain etched into his features. “So easy to change.”

The air between them seemed to crystallize, heavy with every unspoken grudge and history they hadn’t dared to touch until now. The forest stood silent around them, the trees looming like old witnesses.

Nicholas didn’t react—not with a flinch, not with a blink. He stayed motionless, frozen yet burning, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—they locked on Taki’s with a clarity that cut through the fog of accusation. Cold. Unrelenting. Like the first bite of winter wind.

“You know I’m not behind your parents’ death,” Nicholas said quietly, his voice devoid of anything but chill. “Right?”

There was no plea in Nicholas's tone. No desperation. Just a stillness so sharp it could’ve sliced the air between them. It drew no blood, but it cleaved something just as fragile—memories. And for Taki, that was one cut too many.

He surged forward, raw pain twisting his features, a guttural cry of rage tearing from his throat. It wasn’t a sound meant for Nicholas alone—it was for every ghost still clawing at his ribs. His fists came down like judgment, knocking Nicholas to the ground, cold dirt against his back. But before the blow could land again, hands pulled him back—Maki's arms locked tight around his chest, Harua’s voice cracking with desperation, a pleading call that barely reached through the storm.

Euijoo's vision blurred as he intercepted Taki's fist mid-air, his own heart lurching at the sheer force behind it. But he held fast. Still, what struck him harder was not the physical struggle—but the truth that bled out through Taki’s clenched teeth and broken breath. Pain that hadn’t healed. Memories still rotting beneath the surface. And the sheer force of everything Taki had tried, and failed, to bury.

Afterward, Euijoo knew they weren’t going anywhere—not like this. Not as they were: cracked pieces of a team pretending they hadn’t shattered. His own desire to press forward suddenly felt small. Useless. What good was a plan, a mission, a cause, when the people meant to fight for it couldn’t even look at each other without breaking?

They needed Taki. They all knew it. But watching him now—his shoulders shaking as he curled into Harua’s arms, sobs muffled against a chest that tried and failed to calm him—Euijoo felt something twist inside. The hatred in Taki’s eyes wasn’t just for Nicholas. It was for everything. And Euijoo had no idea how to hold that weight.

“What’s wrong with you?” Maki finally said, once the storm had ebbed and they’d managed to pull Nicholas to the side. His voice was barely above a whisper, but every syllable struck with quiet precision. “Why on earth would you bring that up?”

Nicholas didn’t answer at first. His eyes were distant, glassy, like he hadn’t quite come back down to the ground. His breath trembled, and when he finally spoke, it was barely audible.

“But I'm right, aren't I?” he whispered, disoriented, bruised in more ways than one. “He’s blaming everything on me.”

Euijoo turned to him and Nicholas' lips parted like he meant to say something more—but nothing came. The words were there, somewhere, buried beneath guilt and exhaustion and a pain he couldn’t name. His gaze dropped, and his lips pressed together as he turned away, ashamed.

“This won’t work.”

Everyone turned at the sound of Harua’s voice. It was quiet but steady, like a stone tossed into still water. He stood with Taki just behind him—Taki’s face a canvas of pain, eyes swollen from crying, his jaw clenched with the remains of fury barely contained. The forest around them seemed to still, holding its breath.

“Yeah,” Maki murmured, stepping forward beside Harua. “We need to go back.”

The words fell into a silence so heavy it felt sacred. No one moved. No one dared speak. It was as if the entire forest was waiting—watching—for Taki.

He stood frozen, shoulders trembling, but when he finally spoke, his voice was rough and cracked, like it had been scraped raw on the inside. “We either wait for this war to reach our doorsteps,” he rasped, “or we move. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s stupid.”

A wind stirred through the trees, stirring the branches like uneasy thoughts.

“It’s not stupid,” Euijoo said, stepping closer. His voice carried a kind of quiet steel—words forged not in confidence, but in sleepless nights, clenched fists, and whispered fears. “We’ve already chosen. We can’t back down now.”

Another silence. Longer this time. The trees groaned above them, a low creaking sound like the forest itself was considering their words. Somewhere above, a lone bird broke into flight, wings slicing the stillness. The sound faded as it flew off, leaving only the breathless hush of decision.

Nicholas stood apart from the rest, staring down at the leaf-littered earth. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Eventually, he raised his eyes, locking gazes with each of them one by one. The bitterness in him hadn’t gone—but now it looked worn, tired. Not surrendered, but softened by truth.

His jaw shifted. He exhaled, quiet and long, like something inside him was finally giving way.

“Let’s go back,” he said at last, voice barely louder than the wind. “And show this to the Order.”

***

Everything happened so fast. Everyone was already there—his uncle Joon, his sweet aunt Crystal. Even some of his old professors from Hogwarts had made it, their presence a blur of short glances, polite smiles, and handshakes that didn’t quite reach the eyes. Somehow, despite the familiar walls and familiar faces, Euijoo’s house no longer felt like home. It felt like a memory he had outgrown without noticing.

Harua was quick to ask for a phone call. He stepped aside, speaking low into the landline. Euijoo assumed it was his mother, or maybe not. He realized, with a quiet pang, that he didn’t know. They’d shared a dormitory for years, stolen midnight snacks and studied under the same flickering lamp—but he still knew next to nothing about Harua’s family. Just that they were Muggles. That had always seemed like enough of an explanation, as if it answered every question without needing any real answers at all.

Shame crept up on him, bitter and dry.

Maki’s parents were there too. His mother, tearful, clutched them both—Maki and Euijoo—into a fierce hug, full of warmth and scolding and breathless promises of consequences that no one would enforce. The kind that only came when someone had been deeply worried.

In the corner of the room, apart from it all, stood Taki and Nicholas. They weren’t speaking. Their eyes hovered in the same direction as the crowd, but they didn’t seem to be looking at anything at all.
Just two shadows caught in the glow of too many reunions.

The messy murmurs quieted down as they all sat around the table, Taki holding out his pendant with both hands, his voice steady despite the heaviness in his words. He spoke of what he’d seen during the attack on the 2nd of December, of what he'd seen before, at Wang Manor, the fragments before it all fell apart. As he finished, the room didn’t erupt—it collapsed into silence. Glances flicked between faces, words caught behind lips.

Everyone was looking at Nicholas. Euijoo could feel it.

"Sweetheart," Ms. Byun spoke gently, her voice breaking through the hush as she handed Euijoo an extra pillow, "is your mother okay?"

Nicholas looked at her, eyes tired, as if the weight of that question sat heavier than it should. Her expression was kind, open. That made it harder. He hesitated. “She is.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“She probably has that figured out already.”

Ms. Byun nodded, then glanced between the two boys, her fingers brushing her son’s shoulder in passing. “Get some rest,” she said. “Tomorrow’s going to be rough.”

Taki, Harua, and Maki took the guest room. There was no debate. Euijoo and Nicholas ended up in Euijoo’s room—no questions, no objections. Taki looked faintly relieved, as if he couldn’t take the tension of sharing space with Nicholas just yet.
It was late. Too late for anything but unspoken thoughts and restless sleep.

Nicholas and Euijoo lay awake in the quiet dark, Euijoo staring up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, while Nicholas lay curled away from him, back turned. The silence between them was thick, filled with the soft hum of passing cars outside and thoughts too heavy to speak.

"Nicholas?" Euijoo whispered, barely audible, "Are you awake?"

Nicholas shifted slightly, then rolled onto his back. "Yes."

The silence returned, heavier now. Words hovered, waiting for one of them to find the courage to speak.

“C’mon,” Euijoo murmured, nudging him gently, voice light, “I can hear the mechanism of your brain creaking.”

Nicholas let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh, but the sound carried no amusement. It was quiet again.

“Goodnight, Euijoo.”

Euijoo turned to look at him. Nicholas had curled up again, eyes closed too deliberately. It was enough to know—he didn’t want to talk.

Still, Euijoo reached out slowly, wrapping an arm around Nicholas’ torso in a tentative backhug. He closed his eyes, pretending, just for a moment, that it might help him fall asleep. It didn’t. And when his eyes fluttered open again, a mark on Nicholas’ neck caught his attention. Something raw and red.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t think. Carefully, he tugged down the collar of Nicholas’ shirt.

“What are you—?”

Nicholas stopped mid-sentence as he turned, catching the look on Euijoo’s face—shock and worry, no judgment, just alarm. He shoved Euijoo’s hand away, face tense.

“What’s that?” Euijoo asked, sharper than he intended. “Who did that to you?”

“It’s nothing grave,” Nicholas muttered, eyes avoiding his as he turned back over.

But Euijoo didn’t stop. His hands moved again, lifting the edge of Nicholas’ shirt without hesitation. The red marks stood out stark against his pale skin, harsh lines across his back like slashes of memory no one should carry.

“What the hell, Euijoo?” Nicholas hissed, sitting up abruptly, the movement ragged—unsteady. His breath caught in his throat as if it physically hurt to speak, the words shaking loose from somewhere deep.

Euijoo didn’t recoil. He sat there, frozen in place, eyes locked onto the raw red slashes painted across Nicholas’ back like cruel brushstrokes.

“Who was it?” he asked again, quieter this time. His voice had lost all its edges—just a whisper now, thick with dread, as though speaking the truth aloud might make it more real.

Nicholas’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, lips parting slightly but no sound escaping. He kept his gaze downcast, lashes low, as if eye contact would splinter him completely.

“Nicholas,” Euijoo pressed, softer now, a plea tangled in his tone. His fingers remained curled in the hem of Nicholas’s shirt, not pulling anymore—just holding, as if trying to anchor both of them.

Nicholas’s hands trembled at his sides, clenched and unclenched, until finally—finally—he lifted his gaze. His dark eyes met Euijoo’s, and the fear in them felt like something sacred being broken. In Euijoo’s hazel eyes, there was no judgment, only devastation and care that ran too deep for words.

“My father visited us,” Nicholas murmured.

The sentence was like a dagger between ribs—quiet, sharp, devastating in its simplicity. Euijoo’s stomach turned, bile rising like a second heartbeat in his throat. His lungs tightened.

Nicholas didn’t stop. “He was disappointed,” he said, and there was something hollow in the way he spoke—something cold and brittle, like an old wound picked open again. “You know… for betraying my whole family and shit.”

Euijoo stared at him, blinking slowly, too full of emotion to decide what to feel first. Grief. Rage. Horror. An unbearable ache. He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or hold Nicholas so tightly that nothing could ever hurt him again. Most of all, he wanted to make sure Mr. Wang never lifted a wand again.

He looked down once more at the marks. Angry. Deliberate. Clean strokes with no compassion behind them. They weren’t random. They were a message.

His eyes widened in recognition.

“The Laceration Curse…” he whispered, almost in disbelief.

He had only seen it described in books—spells used not to kill, but to humiliate, to wound with elegance and control. Painful. Silent. Legal, if cast with just enough restraint.

He looked back up at Nicholas. His breath caught.

“How long has this been happening?” Euijoo asked, barely above a whisper. But Nicholas was already curling in on himself again, shoulders hunched, as if his body could somehow fold small enough to disappear.

And Euijoo didn’t let go.

They didn’t sleep—not really. The night stretched on in oppressive stillness, thick with unspoken words and slow, aching breaths. Euijoo held Nicholas close, his arms wrapped tightly around him like a shield, as if proximity could somehow undo what had already been done. As if the weight of his embrace could press the pain out of Nicholas’s bones.

But the pain lingered.

Euijoo felt it in the way Nicholas flinched in his sleep, in the way his fingers twitched as if caught in the echo of a memory he didn’t want to revisit. Every small sound—the passing cars outside, the wind against the windows, the creak of wood settling—felt like it might shatter the fragile peace they’d found in the dark.

The hours dragged on, painted in cold blues and silvers. The comfort of his bed, of warm sheets and shared breath, should’ve offered solace. But everything felt wrong—misaligned. Like the world had tilted just slightly, and nothing sat where it used to. Even with the person he loved most in the world lying in his arms, Euijoo felt untethered.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Mr. Wang. The curses. The bruises hidden under silence and shame.

Euijoo clenched his jaw, the rage humming beneath his skin like a second pulse. It didn’t make sense. It never would. How could someone hurt Nicholas—Nicholas—with such calculation? And not just him. Maybe Mrs. Wang too. That thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.

He wanted answers. But more than that, he wanted vengeance.

The sunrise crawled across the room in thin golden ribbons, casting long shadows that bled over the tangled blankets and quiet bodies. In the hush of dawn, guilt settled like dust on Euijoo’s shoulders. He thought back to all the times he believed he knew Nicholas through and through—every smile, every sigh, every habit.

He had been wrong.

There were entire chapters in Nicholas’s life Euijoo had never read. Pages soaked in pain and written in silence. And now, lying here in the gentle light of morning, Euijoo realized just how much he didn’t know—and how much more Nicholas had survived than he'd ever let on.

Quietly, as if apologizing without words, Euijoo buried his face into the crook of Nicholas’s neck. The scent of him—faintly herbal, familiar—grounded Euijoo more than anything else could. He pressed his lips gently to the skin there, not a kiss, just contact.

“I’m here,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he said it out loud.

It was sometime around six in the morning when the house stirred awake. The air felt too still, too heavy for such an early hour—like the world itself was holding its breath. Euijoo blinked against the dull grey light filtering through the curtains, every muscle aching from a night spent more in grief than in rest.

When they emerged from the bedroom, the living room was already full. Adults gathered in tight clusters, their voices low and faces drawn. Some clutched warm mugs with trembling hands, others sat with their eyes unfocused, as if they hadn’t slept at all. It was as though the house had been quietly invaded overnight, filled with people who had crept in and anchored themselves into its corners—silent sentinels of a war still unfolding.

But even with all the bodies occupying the space, Euijoo had never felt the house so hollow.

Every familiar piece of furniture now felt foreign. The pictures on the walls—once warm memories—seemed like ghosts watching from behind glass.

Breakfast was simple. Toast, rice porridge, a few soft-boiled eggs. The kind of food that filled the stomach without demanding attention. They sat around the table, a few too many for comfort, their plates barely touched. No one seemed particularly hungry.

It was his dad—stern, too composed—who finally broke the silence. His voice was steady, but it held a tension, like a spell pulled taut. “It’s time,” he said. “We bury him. Once and for all.”

There was no need to ask who he meant.

The Dark Lord.

His name hung unspoken in the room, heavier than smoke. For so long, his presence had lingered like a shadow at their backs, too dangerous to face head-on. But now, something had shifted. Maybe it was Taki’s tracker. Maybe it was Nicholas’s wounds. Maybe it was simply that they had no choice anymore.

Euijoo watched the adults nod in grim agreement, their faces set with resolve and fear all at once. Plans were drawn quickly, efficiently—transportation, locations, spells that needed reinforcement, alliances they could still call on.
In the middle of it all, Euijoo looked down at his half-eaten toast, fingers clenched so tightly around the edge of the table that his knuckles turned white.

This was it. The final movement of a symphony written in blood and silence.

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

Chapter Text

Despite the sun's relentless rays scorching the earth by day—making even a place like England sweat under their weight—the nights remained immune, untouched by warmth. Darkness arrived like a cold curtain, cloaking the world in stillness and cold wind. The contrast was jarring. Days burned, nights froze. And it had been six months of this—six long months since the world began unraveling at the seams, and the weight of it all started to leave marks that wouldn’t heal.

At first, everything was chaos. Orders shouted over noise, spells flaring without aim, people moving too quickly without knowing where they were going. Desperation settled into the lines of every face, exhaustion anchoring itself deep into bones. But slowly, almost painfully, a rhythm began to form. A fragile order built out of necessity. Plans were made. Tasks assigned. Because tasks gave people something to hold onto. They gave you purpose, they distracted you. And maybe most importantly, they helped you forget—if only for a while—that the world was falling apart.

Euijoo had been given one of those tasks. Alongside Taki and the others, he’d been assigned to the wounded—to care for the aftermath of violence, rather than be in the thick of it. Wounded witches and wizards. Children missing limbs. Mothers sobbing over unrecognizable bodies. Shattered people, broken in more than one way.

It was noble work, but it didn’t feel like enough.

Euijoo had argued against it. So had Taki. Both of them had stood firm, defiant, their voices raised in frustration. Not because they didn’t want to help. They wanted to help more. To be out there. To fight. To stand alongside the others at the front lines and stare down the heart of the storm.

But it was decided for them. No negotiation. No room for pride.

And so, they stayed. Bound to the aftermath. Holding hands slick with blood, whispering comfort to dying mouths, pretending not to hear the sounds of distant battles just outside the safe zone.

They didn’t want to look away while the rest of the world burned.

But they weren’t allowed to look directly at it, either.

They moved quietly through the narrow, dim-lit streets of Dartmouth—a once-sleepy seaside town now transformed into a sanctuary, its soul fraying at the edges from housing too much pain. The salt-kissed wind bit at their skin, carrying with it the scent of seaweed and fire-smoke. Lamps flickered weakly overhead, offering little comfort from the dark. Harua and Maki trudged ahead, pushing a rickety trolley stacked high with crates of food, potions, and tightly bound bundles of bandages. Taki and Euijoo walked behind, shoulders tense, eyes scanning the shadows as if danger still stalked them, even here.

They didn’t speak. None of them did. There was nothing left to say on nights like this—only the sound of footsteps against cracked pavement, and the soft creak of the trolley wheels echoing between abandoned buildings.
The shelter came into view, its outline softened by the haze of mist and fatigue. The door creaked open before they reached it.

Nicholas was there, just as he was every night—waiting like a lighthouse keeper during a storm. A pale glow emanated from his wand tip, casting gentle arcs of light across his face as he knelt by a cot near the entrance. He murmured healing spells in a voice just above a whisper, his hands steady as they hovered over the mangled leg of a young boy who barely stirred beneath his touch.

"Just in time," Harua panted as he came to a halt, sweat sticking his fringe to his forehead. Maki climbed into the front of the cart, angling it to fit through the narrow door as they maneuvered it inside.

"Not exactly," Nicholas replied, his tone light but laced with weariness. He carefully shifted his hands under the boy’s small frame, cradling him like something fragile. "Five minutes late, actually. I was starting to worry."

"You always worry," Taki muttered with a wry expression as he stepped inside, already unfastening the twine from a crate of salves. "We were hunting for more bandages. Lost track of time."

He moved to help Harua and Maki unload the supplies, their movements practiced, almost mechanical. Bottles clinked softly as they were set down, and the scent of sterile herbs mingled with salt and sweat.

Euijoo lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, his eyes following Nicholas as he gently laid the child on one of the few remaining beds. The boy didn’t wake. He just curled instinctively toward the warmth of the blankets, his breathing shallow, but steady.

There were too many nights like this now—nights that bled into one another, filled with faces they didn’t know and wounds they couldn’t forget.

"How’s your mum?" Nicholas asked gently, his voice barely rising above the low hum of murmured spells and shuffling feet. He approached slowly, careful not to startle Euijoo, who had been staring into nothingness, lost in thought.

The question pulled Euijoo back to reality. He blinked, shoulders shifting in a slight shrug. “Busy. I don’t know,” he murmured, voice tinged with weariness. His hazel eyes met Nicholas’s, dull beneath the dim light. “They’re planning something new. A different strategy this time. Maybe catch them off guard instead of always playing defense.”

Nicholas gave a small nod, though it felt more like a gesture of politeness than agreement. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the bleak sight: rows of creaking metal beds, makeshift cots, and the quiet suffering of those who filled them. The air was heavy with disinfectant and grief. Hope felt like a ghost no one had seen in days.

“I don’t think I should leave, Euijoo,” Nicholas said, his voice low, almost to himself.

Euijoo rubbed his face with both hands, as if trying to wipe away the exhaustion buried deep in his bones. When he looked back at Nicholas, his expression had softened, but his eyes were hollow. “There’s more people coming, Nico. Every day. And they need someone to meet them there.”

Nicholas’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled at his sides as he turned slightly, watching a nearby healer replace a bloodied bandage on a teenage girl’s arm. Her whimper barely pierced the silence of the room.

“They’ll die,” he whispered.

Euijoo bit down gently on his bottom lip, the skin there already raw from nights just like this. He hadn’t known—not really—what they were getting into when they were first assigned to the shelters. He’d thought it would be manageable. Stable. Safe. A far cry from the front lines. He’d thought it would be easier, that tending to wounds would be less harrowing than creating them.

But he’d been wrong. So painfully, irreversibly wrong.

The worst moments came after the raids. Always after. The shelters would be flooded with bodies—some barely breathing, others already still. They would restock shelves, prep the beds, and organize what little they had. And it would never, ever be enough. And Nicholas was right. Without his healing spells, many wouldn’t make it through the night. Not the children with shattered limbs. Not the elderly coughing up blood. Not the fighters who dragged themselves in with more burns than skin.

Euijoo reached out without fully thinking, his fingers brushing against Nicholas’s wrist with such a featherlight touch it was almost painful in its intimacy.

“We can’t save everyone,” he said, his voice hushed, breaking slightly at the edges.

For a heartbeat, silence fell between them.

And Nicholas wanted to laugh. A bitter, exhausted laugh that would catch in his throat and never quite come out. He remembered the boy Euijoo used to be—the one who believed in peace with his whole chest, who smiled through pain and held onto ideals like they were shields. That boy had vanished somewhere between bloodstained linens and the sound of the dying.

Buried months ago.

“Yeah,” Nicholas whispered back, "I know."

Once everything had settled—beds filled, wounds dressed, spells cast, and silence reclaimed—everyone drifted into their private corners of the night. These were the hours that stretched endlessly, when time slowed to a crawl and each breath felt heavier than the last.

Maki gravitated toward the supply shelves, as always. He perched cross-legged by the potions rack, counting the bottles in an endless loop. His fingers danced along the glass vials like they held some kind of answer. It wasn’t about inventory anymore—it was a ritual. A way to avoid thinking. Like a child flipping through the same picture book every night, tracing the lines of drawings to keep from having to read the sorrow between the words.

Nicholas stayed close to Euijoo. And Euijoo stayed close to Nicholas. They barely spoke. Words had started to feel too small for the things they carried. Most nights, they simply lay side by side on an unused mattress tucked into a quiet corner, bodies turned toward each other, not touching, yet tethered by something invisible and unspoken. Shared exhaustion. Buried grief. The ghost of who they used to be.

Sometimes Nicholas would close his eyes and pretend he was elsewhere—anywhere—but Euijoo always stayed awake longer, staring into the rafters, listening to the sounds of distant thunder and his own heartbeat.

Taki wandered restlessly through the shelter, his boots scuffing softly against the floor. Driven not by nerves, but by a gnawing hunger to do something. Anything. He wasn’t built for stillness, not when vengeance sat so sharp in his chest. He kept inventory, straightened beds, whispered with the few awake. But it was never enough.

And Harua missed London. The chaos. The smell of burnt coffee on the sidewalks, the sound of music from windows, the low hum of city traffic. The shelter was too quiet. Too still. It left too much room for memory.

"Where are you headed?" Harua asked softly, his voice cutting through the quiet as he watched Taki pulling on his coat by the entrance.

Taki paused, his fingers lingering at the collar, eyes flicking up to meet Harua’s. "Um… nowhere exactly," he muttered, the lie half-formed, crumbling on his tongue.

Harua stood, not needing much more than that. "Sounds like a good place to go," he replied, already slipping on his own jacket, like it had been waiting for this moment too.

They stepped outside into the cold night, the world damp with salt air and silence. The streets of Dartmouth stretched before them, dimly lit and mostly asleep, the fog curling low around the lampposts. They didn’t speak much—just walked, side by side, boots tapping out a rhythm that wasn’t quite peace, but wasn’t war either.

Some nights, when the silence inside the shelter grew too suffocating, Harua would join Taki on these midnight walks. And it was only on these nights—when the ache of loneliness felt like it belonged to someone else too—that Taki found enough courage to walk past the old stone wall and broken gate that led to his childhood home.

His feet would hesitate at the edge of the driveway, his breath catching in his throat as the sight of the hollow house appeared like a ghost. The windows were dark. No light. No laughter. No scent of soup drifting from the kitchen. Just the shell of a place that used to mean something.

He never stayed long. Just a glance. Just enough to prove he could. Because when he was alone, Taki feared he’d crumble. That if he stepped across the threshold, he might not come back. That he’d fall into memory and never leave.
But with Harua a few steps behind, hands buried in his pockets and eyes turned upward to the stars, Taki found the strength to look.

And then to turn away.

“Would you mind if we…?” Taki asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, raw around the edges.

Harua didn’t need the rest of the sentence. He simply hummed in quiet understanding, offering a small nod as he fell in step beside him. There was no need for explanations between them anymore. They moved like twin shadows through the streets—silent, steady, and always there for each other.

The town slept around them, buildings hunched in the fog like forgotten sentinels. Only the sound of their footsteps, muffled by damp earth and crumbling leaves, accompanied them as they walked deeper into the stillness.

Taki’s steps slowed as the iron gate of the graveyard came into view. It creaked faintly as they passed through, the noise cutting the hush like a sigh. Harua’s hand found its place on Taki’s shoulder, a simple gesture—firm, warm, familiar. It kept Taki from spiraling inward.

They walked past headstones that leaned with time, names fading into stone like memories slowly eroding. Some graves bore weather-worn bouquets, others nothing at all. A field of the remembered and the forgotten, standing together in eternal quiet.

Then they reached it.

A plain grave, modest and unadorned, the stone damp from the evening mist. Two names, carved cleanly into its surface, stared back up at them beneath the moonlight. A woman. A man. Both carrying the name Takayama.

Harua's lips twitched in quiet recognition, his eyes softening. It never got easier—reading those names. Names of people who had once pulled him into their home like a second son. Names of voices he still sometimes heard in dreams, warm and full of laughter.

It wasn’t the first time he’d stood there with Taki. But it ached all the same.

Taki knelt in front of the stone, brushing away a few stray leaves with the back of his hand. His fingers lingered over the engraving like it could bring them back. Harua stayed beside him, silent and still, sharing his best friend's loss.

The following morning broke fast and bitter, like black coffee on an empty stomach.

Nicholas moved from cot to cot in swift silence, his hands steady but his mind elsewhere. He murmured healing incantations with soft precision, sealing shallow wounds and checking on lingering fevers. The air was stale with sweat and sickness, but he moved through it like it was airless water, each step a small swim toward a surface that never arrived.
Meanwhile, Euijoo and Maki moved through the narrow aisles between makeshift beds, handing out clean cloths, adjusting bandages, and offering spoonfuls of the thinned broth they had left—barely enough to be called food. But it was warm, and that had to count for something.

No one spoke much. Words had become a rare currency, and they spent it only when absolutely necessary.

When it was time to leave, all of them stepped out into the brittle morning air. The cold slapped at their faces as if reminding them that comfort, even the fragile illusion of it, was gone now. They mounted their brooms, and without fanfare, pushed off into the pale blue sky.

None of them looked back—except Nicholas.

Hovering a moment longer than the others, his dark eyes settled on the battered door of the shelter, half-splintered and hanging slightly askew. It looked more like the entrance to a forgotten shack than a refuge, but for those inside, it had become a thin line between life and death. His gaze lingered until the building shrank into a smudge of grey on the horizon.

Only then did he turn and follow.

They left Dartmouth behind, flying southward toward the latest devastation. Another raid. Another pile of wounded and terrified survivors waiting for whatever help could still be scraped together.

Nicholas kept his focus forward, but the ache in his chest wouldn't subside. It always returned when they left one of the shelters—as if a piece of him stayed behind, tethered to the place like a ghost.

He couldn’t tell what month it was anymore. Time had bled into itself. Days passed like fog, one after another, indistinct. But he didn’t need to ask. No one marked the seasons anymore. Even the earth seemed to have forgotten how to turn gently.

And Nicholas knew, in that silent shared numbness they all carried now, he was far from alone.

Chapter Text

July welcomed England with a chilling breeze, the kind that slipped beneath cloaks and into bones despite the deceptive clarity of the sky above. The heavens stretched wide and unbroken, a deep sapphire canvas untouched by clouds, as if the world itself held its breath. Yet the silence in the air was not peace—it was the stillness of something dreadful settling in.

The news spread faster than wildfire, though few were surprised when it arrived. On the very day that Scotland’s hills sweltered under an uncharacteristically hot sun, the Ministry of Magic collapsed into Voldemort’s grasp. The coup d’état was described in whispers as swift, almost bloodless, an insult to the decades of order that had once reigned within its walls. Only one man fell resisting—a lone minister whose defiance was stamped out in an instant.

The rest? They had been hollowed from the inside. Senior officials stood glassy-eyed under the Imperius Curse, puppets dancing to a rhythm that wasn’t their own. At the helm of this grotesque charade was Pius Thicknesse, appointed as the Minister for Magic in name, though everyone knew the truth: his strings were clutched tightly in Voldemort’s pale hands. Whether Death Eaters had stormed the Ministry in person or manipulated events from the shadows was a matter of speculation. What was certain was that resistance had been an illusion from the beginning.

The new regime wasted no time in tightening its claws. The Muggle-Born Registration Commission was established within days, a grotesque masquerade of justice. Witches and wizards of Muggle parentage were accused of “stealing” their magic, dragged from their homes under false pretenses, and thrown into prisons that whispered of horrors untold. Fear rippled through the magical community like poison in the bloodstream.

The shelters that had once been scattered havens began to overflow. More and more people appeared on their doorsteps each night—frightened families, gaunt children, strangers with wild eyes who had walked for miles with nothing but desperation in their pockets. Rooms grew cramped, food scarcer, privacy a luxury none could afford. What had once been hiding places now felt like suffocating cages of grief and hope colliding.

And then came the final decree, the one that seemed to cut deepest of all: Hogwarts, once a sanctuary and beacon of magic, no longer belonged to the children. The castle’s doors were chained by the Dark Lord’s will. Attendance was now mandatory. No child could escape the regime’s grip. For those who had called its halls home, it felt as though the very stones had betrayed them, standing silent as their beloved school became a prison.

“They’ll train them into soldiers,” Harua said one night, voice low but sharp, while Taki tried to rest beside him. “That’s what this means. Children shaped into weapons before they’re old enough to fight back.”

Taki remained in silence.

And as usual, rumors came with the new arrivals, carried on lips cracked from wind and hunger. Hogwarts wasn’t a school anymore, they said. It was a training ground. Carrows stalking the corridors, forcing curses on students who refused to comply. Detentions that ended with screams echoing through stone walls.

Euijoo listened in silence, his stomach knotted. He remembered the castle as home: laughter in the common room, sleepless nights in the Astronomy Tower, the warmth of friendship. To imagine it desecrated into something cruel, mechanical, it was all unthinkable.

“What is the Order even doing?” a man muttered bitterly, his voice low but sharp. His hands shook as he cradled a chipped mug of lukewarm tea, the steam curling faintly upward before vanishing into the stale air. “We haven’t heard from them in weeks.”

And he wasn’t wrong. It had been too long since Euijoo and the others last visited the Order’s safehouse, too long since they’d received new supplies or news of hope. Silence had become its own kind of enemy, settling into their bones, thickening the air until every word felt heavy, distrustful. Even when no one dared to speak of it, Euijoo could feel it pressing on them all: that quiet, suffocating tension that made the walls of the shelter seem narrower with every passing day.

That evening, Taki’s frustration seemed to crackle like static in the air. He moved with restless sharpness, his boots echoing against the uneven floor as he crossed the room. Without a word, he stopped at the small desk crammed into the corner — their makeshift command post — where Euijoo sat hunched beside Maki and Harua. The three of them had been poring over the same yellowing newspapers, the same crumpled letters, eyes scanning headlines and scribbles as though a different truth might reveal itself if they looked hard enough.

But it never did.

The same stale ink. The same stories of disappearances, crackdowns, and silence. The same hollow ache of trying to read between lines that had already been erased.

Taki’s fist slammed onto the table, the crack of skin against wood, drawing all their eyes to him. The newspapers and letters scattered like startled birds. His voice followed, fierce and trembling with barely contained rage.

“So we’re supposed to just sit here? Patch them up after they’ve been broken? That’s all we’re good for?”

“Keep your voice down,” Harua hissed, though his own tone was more plea than command. His eyes, however, betrayed him — alight with the same restless fire, the same hunger to do something, anything, beyond waiting.

“We’ve been here long enough,” Taki spat back, his gaze sweeping over them like a challenge. His eyes burned, two sharp, unyielding flames, too bright to be ignored.

Across from him, Maki had gone pale. His hands — hands that never faltered when mixing potions, hands that were always steady even amidst blood and chaos — trembled now as he set the crumpled pages down. Letters. Reports. Dead ends. “I… I’m not sure what to do anymore,” he whispered, his voice thin, unraveling. His eyes drifted to the abandoned scraps of parchment. “Now that Hogwarts is truly lost…”

The name hung in the air like a gravestone. Hogwarts.

Once a sanctuary, now a prison.

None of them spoke. Silence filled the corner of the shelter, heavy as smoke, broken only by the groaning wind that pressed against the shutters, making them rattle as though the night itself wanted in. Euijoo felt everyone’s eyes flicker to him for a moment, as though waiting for him to say something, to fix it. But the words lodged in his throat.

Later that night, long after the lanterns were dimmed, they overheard two older wizards talking near the entrance. Their voices were sharp, urgent. Something about a tracker, a golden pendant.

Euijoo glanced at Taki, who was already on his feet, his jaw set. And in that moment, Euijoo knew the war was about to pull them out of the shadows.

“Euijoo.”

Taki’s voice was firm, but soft enough not to disturb the restless sleepers around them. A whisper sharp enough to slice through the fragile quiet of their corner.

Euijoo didn’t need more. He knew Taki too well. The look in his eyes, the way his body leaned on his left foot like a soldier on the edge of desertion — Taki was leaving. And nothing, not reason nor restraint, would hold him back.
The faint rustle of fabric broke the moment. Harua pushed himself upright, sleep still clinging to his face, eyes puffy and red. But the intensity in his gaze burned through the remnants of drowsiness as he fixed it on Taki, who stood like a shadow carved from stubbornness.

Euijoo curled his fists in his lap. He could already hear the words before Taki spoke them.

“I need to go,” Taki whispered again, this time with an edge of desperation. His voice cracked like a man pressed against the walls of his own restraint.

“Don’t tell me,” Euijoo whispered back, his tone heavy with fatigue, but not indifference. His hazel eyes lifted, meeting his friend’s in the dim light. “Just do what you think is right.”

A silence fell between them, deafening, suffocating. In the dark, Euijoo caught a flicker in Taki’s pale eyes, something rare and raw. Regret. For leaving? For asking? For knowing he’d already chosen? Euijoo couldn’t tell.

And then, Harua moved. He rose from his crumpled sleeping bag, shoulders squaring as though bracing against the tide. “I’m going with you.”

For a heartbeat, the air shifted. Taki turned to Harua, and his expression softened — so briefly, so vulnerably, Euijoo almost doubted it was real. But the shine in Taki’s eyes betrayed him, a glimmer that looked suspiciously like gratitude. Or relief. Or maybe even something more.

“What about you?” Taki asked at last, turning back to Euijoo. The question landed like a blow.

It hurt. Because beneath the words was another layer. Euijoo’s chest tightened. He had wanted this: the fight, the chance to do something, to stop rotting in the shadows. But the doubts coiled around him like chains. Would they make a difference? Could they help more beyond these walls than within them? Or would they simply throw themselves into the fire for nothing?

He didn’t know. And the weight of that uncertainty pressed down harder than anything else.

“I’d like to talk to the rest first,” Euijoo murmured, the words tasting like betrayal on his tongue.

It didn’t take long to find Maki. He was curled awkwardly in the corner, trapped between the thin walls and his crumpled sleeping bag, tossing and turning as though sleep itself had turned hostile. His restlessness was almost rhythmic — a hand twitch here, a muffled sigh there — the portrait of someone carrying too much weight in silence.

When Euijoo crouched beside him and whispered the truth — what Taki intended to do, and that Harua had already pledged to follow — Maki stilled. His breath caught, his body pausing mid-shift. For a moment, Euijoo thought he might protest, that he might cling to the fragile safety of their shelter. But instead, Maki pushed himself upright.

His dark, coffee-colored eyes found Euijoo’s, and in that look Euijoo already had his answer. He didn’t need words. He saw it in the way Maki’s fingers wouldn’t stay still, fidgeting with the hem of his blanket. In the way his gaze darted away after only a few seconds, as though staring too long would betray too much. But more than that, Euijoo saw the sharp set of his brows, the quiet ferocity that burned beneath the exhaustion. Determination written into his posture, despite the weariness carved into his features.

“I can’t stay either, mate,” Maki murmured, his voice rough, almost sickly, as though the words themselves weighed too much to carry. And maybe they did. “I— I’m sick of not knowing.”

Euijoo stared at him helplessly, his chest tightening with every syllable. Because he understood. He did. He’d always wanted this too, to step out of the shadows, to do something. So why now, when the chance was finally before him, did it feel impossible to choose?

Why did the thought of it terrify him?

It wasn’t just fear of death, though that haunted him like a constant shadow. It was the fear of losing them. Of losing everyone. His friends, his brothers in everything but blood.
He had always hated the sight of lifeless bodies, always dreaded the silence that came after a final breath. And yet, for months, he had treated them, carried them, burned their images into his memory until he couldn’t look at his own hands without seeing blood that wasn’t there.

Maybe this was no different. Maybe this was simply the next step toward the inevitable.

And yet, standing here, with Maki’s raw determination before him, Euijoo’s courage felt like it was crumbling from the inside.

He heard it all as if through a veil . The soft rustle of coats being pulled from hooks, the creak of worn floorboards beneath hurried footsteps, the groan of the front door opening to the night. He didn’t need to look to know. He could picture it: Harua hovering close, steady as always, and Maki standing half in the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on Euijoo’s back with that sharp, wordless plea.

Euijoo’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails biting crescents into his palms. His heart pounded so hard against his ribs he thought it might give him away, thought it might echo in the silence and shatter what fragile resolve he still had.

Damn this.

He turned on his heel before his courage faltered, snatching his jacket from the back of a chair with a sharp tug. The weight of it over his shoulders felt heavier than it ever had before, like a mantle he wasn’t sure he was ready to wear. But his feet carried him anyway, steady, purposeful, each step dragging him closer to a choice he could no longer avoid.

As he crossed the porch, he let his hand fall on Maki’s shoulder in passing — brief, grounding, a promise pressed into the silence. He didn’t linger. He couldn’t. His gaze was already forward, toward the dark night, toward the one last person he needed.

Nicholas.

The night swallowed him in its brittle silence. The air bit at his cheeks, sharp and damp. For a moment, he let his eyes adjust to the dark, to the skeletal shapes of trees bending under the breeze, to the faint shimmer of wards flickering like distant fireflies along the perimeter.

And then he saw him.

Nicholas stood a little ways ahead, his back to the house, wand drawn and angled loosely at his side. He was pacing slow, deliberate steps along the boundary, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot barely audible. Every now and then, he glanced toward the dark horizon, his profile etched pale in the moonlight.

It struck Euijoo how lonely he looked. How still.

“Nicholas,” he called softly, not wanting to startle him.

Nicholas turned, brows furrowing just slightly at the sight of him. “What are you doing out here? You should be inside. It’s late.”

Euijoo swallowed, stepping closer until the glow of Nicholas’s wand spilled faint light across his face. His chest felt too tight, every word heavy before it even reached his tongue.

“They’re leaving,” Euijoo murmured. “Taki, Harua, Maki… they’ve already decided.”

Nicholas’s eyes darkened, the muscle in his jaw flexing. He didn't look surprised “And you? Where do you stand?”, he said, voice low, clipped.

The question hung in the cold air between them, sharp as a blade. Euijoo clenched his fists, searching Nicholas’s face — the faint exhaustion under his eyes, the bruised look of someone carrying far too much — and felt the weight of his own choice pressing in on him.

“I don’t want to stay behind if you’re not with me,” Euijoo whispered, the words spilling out like a confession, raw and unguarded.

Nicholas’s gaze softened for the briefest heartbeat, but no answer came. He turned away instead, eyes tracing the distant line of trees where the wards shimmered faintly, fragile lights against a sea of darkness. For a moment, it seemed as though he was listening to the night itself, searching for wisdom in the cold wind or in the muted cries of owls hidden in the branches. Only then did he look back at Euijoo.

“But what do you want?”

The question sounded simple, almost harmless. Yet it carried a weight that settled between them like a stone.

Him.

What do I want?

Euijoo’s mind scrambled for an answer, but another voice rose inside him. His father’s determined resolve, his mother’s quiet strength. He remembered his own dream, buried beneath months of bandages and whispers in the dark: the fierce longing to raise his wand against the shadows, to stand tall in defiance, to avenge every face erased by this nameless war.

This time, when the words came, they were sharp, certain.

“I want to fight. I want to join them.”

The silence that followed was taut, fragile as glass. Then Nicholas bowed his head in the smallest of nods. He showed no joy, no disappointment — only quiet inevitability, as though he had known this moment would come long before Euijoo found the courage to admit it.

“Then I’ll go with you,” Nicholas said, his voice steady but heavy with unspoken weight.

And in that moment, Euijoo felt the crushing burden resting on Nicholas’s shoulders. He saw not only the man beside him now but the boy Nicholas once was. The boy who had wanted nothing more than to finish school, graduate, and bury himself in the safe order of Arithmancy. Euijoo remembered laughing at that dream once, teasing him about numbers and calculations. Now it felt like a relic from another life, one that had been stolen from both of them.

The sorrow in Nicholas’s eyes pierced Euijoo’s chest. It left him both grateful and guilty, because love meant sacrifice, and Nicholas was offering his without hesitation. Euijoo parted his lips to speak to apologize, to thank him, to beg him not to follow him and to implore him not to ever leave him . But the words never came.

Something shifted in Nicholas’s expression, his attention snapping over Euijoo’s shoulder.

Euijoo turned, pulse quickening.

Maki was sprinting toward them, his face pale under the moonlight, breath ragged as if he had been running for far longer than the short distance from the shelter. His wide, frantic eyes locked on Nicholas.

“Nicholas—” he gasped, skidding to a halt, bending forward with his hands braced on his knees. He sucked in a breath, chest heaving, before forcing out the words. “It’s Jo.”

A cold, rotten dread unfurled in Euijoo’s stomach, spreading like poison through his veins.

***

The moment they pushed through the shelter’s doors, Nicholas hardly spared a glance at the crowd that stirred awake at their entrance. His eyes locked on the figure Harua guided toward the floor, and his breath caught in his throat.

Asakura Jo.

Nicholas dropped to his knees before him, his pulse racing. For a fleeting second, the years seemed to collapse — Jo’s face, even under the grime and the wounds, was still the same boy he had known, the boy who used to run across the Hogwarts courtyard with him, chasing laughter instead of shadows.

“Long time no see,” Jo rasped, lips twitching in an attempt at a smile. It was thin, broken, almost grotesque. His voice was hoarse, gravel dragging against stone, so unlike the warmth Nicholas remembered.

Nicholas’s heart clenched, a fragile bloom of hope rising in his chest only to wither the moment his gaze traced downward. Scars carved across Jo’s skin like cruel handwriting, raw wounds staining his tattered clothes dark with blood. Every mark told a story Nicholas didn’t want to imagine.

The smile on Nicholas’s face vanished, his throat tightening. “What… what happened to you?” His voice was paper-thin, trembling as his hand reached forward instinctively. Jo flinched at the touch, a wince flashing across his features.

“Don’t—” Jo muttered, his breath ragged, “it’s pointless.” His cracked lips parted in a plea. “Just… water. Please.”

Nicholas froze, torn between panic and the desperate urge to help. He turned sharply, eyes sweeping the room until they landed on Maki. No words were needed — Maki was already moving, his hands quick but shaking as he poured water into an empty cup. He pressed it into Nicholas’s palm with a firm nod.

Nicholas guided the cup to Jo, his own hands trembling as Jo drank. The sound of his gulps was raw, almost animal, each swallow like a man clinging to life itself. Nicholas could only watch, his chest aching with every sip Jo took.

When Jo finally lowered the cup, Nicholas’s grip tightened around his wand, his voice breaking with urgency. “Let me stop the bleeding.” It came out almost as a plea, as though the very act of healing could undo all that Jo had endured.

Jo sighed, a sound heavy with weariness, but he didn’t resist. His lips curved faintly, bitter and mocking. “You’ve grown too soft,” he muttered, coughing, his words torn apart by the rasp in his throat.

The familiarity in his voice, even veiled by pain, made Nicholas’s heart twist. Soft. Perhaps he had. But Nicholas could feel the weight of the wand in his hand, the fire in his chest, and he knew softness was the only thing left keeping him human.

Nicholas’s fingers worked with a precision that bordered on desperation. The wandlight flickered over Jo’s blood-slick skin, catching on the glint of crimson that refused to wash away. He murmured the incantation again, voice low, controlled. Slowly, the bleeding began to ebb.

Euijoo knelt beside him, silent but steady, moving like a shadow at Nicholas’s side. He passed cloth after cloth, fresh water, the bandages that were running out too quickly these days. Their hands brushed once, briefly, and Euijoo caught the tremor in Nicholas’s grip, the kind of trembling that wasn’t from exhaustion, but from restraint.

Outside, the night was restless. The wind toyed with the trees beyond the porch, their branches whispering secrets to one another. Taki, Harua, and Maki sat out there in silence, the glow of a single lantern washing their faces in dim gold. No one said it, but they all knew they wouldn’t stay there for long.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of blood and antiseptic potions. Jo’s groans gradually faded into shallow, uneven breaths. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful but brittle, like glass waiting to shatter.

Nicholas stayed by his side long after the bandages were tied, his knees pressed into the wooden floor, his hands refusing to let go of Jo’s. It had been years since he’d held that hand, not since they were schoolboys, nervous for their first day of classes. Now, Jo’s hand was cold. Too cold.

A ghost of a smirk played on Jo’s cracked lips. “You’ve changed,” he rasped, his voice raw and fraying at the edges. “And stop giving me that look. I’m not dead. Not yet.”

The chuckle Nicholas might’ve given died before it reached his throat. His gaze fell to their joined hands, to the way Jo’s thumb twitched weakly against his skin. His pulse was shallow, barely there.

“What happened to you?” Nicholas asked, his voice soft with something closer to grief.

Jo tried to move, to prop himself up, and a sharp hiss of pain escaped him. His face twisted, pale and strained, before Nicholas caught his shoulder and gently pressed him back down.

“I got hit,” Jo muttered after a pause, his voice thin and fraying, “because I wasn’t fast enough to strike back.”

Nicholas stilled. The words were simple, almost careless, but there was something beneath them, a weight that didn’t belong to the wound alone.

Jo’s breath hitched as he tried to shift again, the bandages around his ribs tightening with the motion. Nicholas didn't stop him this time even as he winced. Yet, he pressed on, as if the act of speaking was more painful than the injury itself. “Then I got into a bad argument with the others,” he said, a bitter curl tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They didn’t like hearing the truth. So they left me there. Just like that. It’s funny, isn’t it?” He let out a dry, humorless laugh that caught in his throat. “All the things I did for them — and they couldn’t even bother to finish the job.”

The words lingered like smoke between them.

Nicholas watched, silent. His frown deepened, his jaw tightening as Jo’s face twisted not just with pain, but something more fragile. Something close to shame.

Jo leaned back, exhaling sharply, his body sinking into the thin mattress with the sound of fabric brushing against sweat-damp skin. The room seemed to shrink around them. The candle on the bedside table flickered, throwing the barest light across Jo’s pale, hollow face.

“I’m glad I got to see you again, though,” he murmured after a moment, his voice suddenly soft. Too soft. His dark eyes flicked toward Nicholas, and for a heartbeat, the years peeled away. He wasn’t the broken man before him, but the boy who used to sneak out with him after curfew, who used to laugh too loudly in the common room. “Shame your little magic can’t save me.”

Nicholas scowled faintly, the words striking him like an echo of every argument they used to have. Only this time, there was no real fight left in either of them. “Shut up,” he said quietly, his tone harsher than he intended. “You don’t know that.”

Jo gave a weak hum of amusement, a hollow sound that barely reached his lips. He didn’t look at Nicholas again. His gaze drifted upward, unfocused, tracing the cracks on the wooden ceiling as if he could read something in them.
The silence between them thickened, leaving so many things unsaid. And in that silence, Nicholas caught the faintest shimmer of movement beneath Jo’s sleeve. Something that pulsed once, dark against pale skin.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Jo murmured, noticing the way Nicholas’s gaze had frozen on the mark carved into his arm. He lifted it slightly, letting the candlelight catch on the black serpent that slithered beneath his skin. “A curse for life.”

Nicholas’s stomach twisted. The words cut through the silence like glass.

Jo’s voice carried no pride, no venom, only something hollow and resigned. And Nicholas knew exactly what it meant to bear that mark. The weight. The burn. The way it tethered you to something you swore you’d never be again.

His own wrist itched at the thought, hidden beneath layers of sleeves and denial.

Jo’s eyes softened, though his expression didn’t. “I don’t know how you did it,” he went on, gaze tracing the tired lines of Nicholas’s face. “But it bloody hurts how you left us. How you just walked away.”

Nicholas exhaled shakily and let go of Jo’s wrist, the contact leaving a phantom sting on his fingertips. He buried his face in his palms, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he could erase the years between them.
He could feel Taki’s stare drilling into his back sharply, mistrusting. Maki’s quiet whispers like static behind him. And Euijoo — he could feel him, even without turning. The warmth of his presence lingered, steady and real, like a pulse he could always find in the dark.

Nicholas spoke through clenched teeth, his voice low. “But you know why I chose this.”

Jo didn’t answer at first. His attention drifted to the doorway, where shadows lingered still, but alive. The others stood there like ghosts trapped in indecision, their silhouettes outlined by the faint glow of the corridor torches.
Then Jo’s eyes slid back, catching on Euijoo. His lips parted, and something like understanding — or mockery — crossed his face.

“Him?” Jo asked, voice soft but cutting.

Nicholas lifted his head slowly, exhaustion dragging at his features. He met Jo’s gaze and shook his head once.

“Myself.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, gradually, a thin, weary smile curved Jo’s mouth — not cruel, not kind. Just knowing. “Ah,” he breathed, the faintest tremor in his voice. “Typical Wang.”

The words lingered, fragile and bitter as the last breath before a storm.

Nicholas exhaled shakily, the sound barely audible above the creaking of the floorboards and the whisper of the wind pressing against the shelter walls. His shoulders sagged, exhaustion pooling in every bone, as Jo reached out — his dirty and trembling fingers brushing over the faintly shifting ink on Nicholas’s wrist. The touch was light, but it burned like a brand.

“Make it home,” Jo murmured, voice hoarse, frayed at the edges. “Okay?”

It was barely a whisper, a fragile sound that seemed to dissolve into the air and yet, to Nicholas, it thundered. It echoed inside him, filling every hollow part with a dread he couldn’t name. His lips parted, ready to ask what do you mean?, but the look in Jo’s eyes stopped him.

There was no malice there, just guilt.

Then Jo turned his head toward the others. His voice, when it came again, was louder. Sharper.

“Yo, Byun,” he called.

Euijoo froze mid-step. Everyone turned.

“You have to leave,” Jo said. His tone trembled now, but there was no mistaking the urgency. “All of you.”

“What?” Taki’s voice cut through the still air, cold and suspicious. “What are you talking about?”

Jo’s expression shifted — the thin composure he had been clinging to finally cracking. His jaw tensed, his breathing quickened. For the first time since he arrived, he looked afraid.

“They’re coming,” he said, his eyes darting toward the door as though he could already hear the distant footsteps, the rustle of dark cloaks in the night. “Death Eaters. They’re attacking the shelters. All of them. Finding every one across England.”

Maki took a hesitant step forward, his face pale. “How do you know that?”

Jo didn’t look at him. Instead, he swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the door, the candlelight casting deep shadows across his face.

“Because,” he said quietly, his voice splintering under the weight of it, “I came here because it was part of the plan.”

The fragile calm that had clung to the shelter shattered in an instant. The air turned thick with shouting and fear: boots scraping against the floorboards, furniture toppling, the sharp cry of a mother clutching her child as though her arms alone could ward off death. Panic spread like wildfire.

“Grab what you can!” someone yelled, though their voice was quickly drowned out by the chaos. People were tripping over one another, fumbling for wands, for coats, for the little pieces of their lives they could still carry.

Taki’s eyes darted toward the window — toward the moving shadows beyond the treeline — and something raw and furious sparked behind them. “Let’s get out of here,” he hissed, grabbing Harua and Maki by the sleeves. There was no time for questions.

But Nicholas couldn’t move.

He was still kneeling beside Jo, frozen in place as the walls seemed to close in. His heart hammered against his ribs — a heavy, unsteady rhythm that drowned out the rest of the noise. The truth of it all hit him like ice water: They really had to leave. Now.

“Nicho!”

Jo’s voice cut through the storm of sound, rough and desperate. Gone was the calm, the sardonic ease — what remained was panic, guilt, and something almost tender hidden beneath it. “Nicholas, just go!”

Nicholas’s breath hitched. He hadn’t even realized Euijoo was beside him until he felt his hand — firm, urgent — gripping his arm. “Nicholas,” Euijoo said, voice strained, “we have to move!”

But Nicholas didn’t. He couldn’t. His gaze stayed locked on Jo, on the trembling, broken figure lying against the blood-stained mattress. Jo’s hand reached out one last time — not to hold, not to beg, but to push him away.

The next moment blurred.

Euijoo pulled harder, dragging him back toward the door. Nicholas fought it , thrashing, his voice cracking with fury and heartbreak. “No! Get off me—get off!”

Jo’s fingers brushed the air where Nicholas had been. Then the light flickered and the first explosion shook the ground.

Chapter Text

Not a single night passed without Jo finding him.

Nicholas dreamed of him every night in fragments, in echoes. Sometimes it was a memory, half-erased by time but clung to desperately: laughter under the castle’s roof, late-night dares, the glint of mischief in Jo’s eyes before the world went dark. Most nights, though, it was that night.

He could still hear it — the screaming, the splintering wood, the high-pitched wails of children swallowed by fire and fear. The acrid sting of smoke in his lungs. The explosion that turned shelter into ruin. And always, at the end of it, Jo’s pale face. The way his hand, trembling and cold, had pushed Nicholas away.

The memory stung like salt on an open wound. It was too easy to hate, and too hard not to mourn.

After that night, they walked.

At first, aimlessly . Ghosts adrift in the aftermath, moving only to survive. Then, slowly, a plan took shape. A direction.
London.

They would return to the heart of the storm — to what was left of the Order, if anything still breathed there. It was a mad idea, suicidal by any measure. But hope was the last narcotic they had, and they were already addicted.

To Nicholas' surprise, the first one to mention Jo was Taki. The sun had barely risen. Their stomachs were hollow, their faces worn thin by hunger and sleeplessness. The world around them was gray and endless, a stretch of dead fields under a pale sky. They got lucky. Too lucky. The only thing Nicholas remembers was running, as fast as he could, Euijoo tugging at his arm as he guided him. Then, he only recalled crying and darkness, until the sun rose up.

Taki’s voice was rough when it came. “Asakura…”

Nicholas looked up, startled, and met his gaze. Taki’s eyes were red-rimmed, whether from exhaustion or tears, Nicholas couldn’t tell.

“If it weren’t for him,” Taki muttered, his gaze dropping back to the dirt, “we’d be dead. Most likely.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the wind to move between them. Then Taki added, quieter:
“I won’t ever forget that.”

After that morning, no one mentioned him again.

***

Seeing lampposts working again was almost disorienting. Their dim yellow light hummed softly against the dusk, spilling warmth over cracked pavement and empty shopfronts. After months of darkness, of firelight and wandlight, it felt almost unnatural to see a town still breathing.

Harua had said they were two days from London, maybe less if the roads stayed clear. They’d stumbled upon the small village at sunset, tucked between the hills, hidden from the world. Here, the air smelled of rain and rust, and windows still glowed behind curtains. For a moment, it was easy to pretend the war hadn’t touched this place.

Euijoo had convinced Nicholas to join him for the night watch.

They walked side by side through the still streets, their boots crunching softly against gravel. The silence between them wasn’t heavy, jus full and familiar. Every so often, their shoulders brushed, a quiet reminder that they were still together.

The wind was crisp, the kind that carried the scent of water. Somewhere close, Euijoo could hear it — the steady, rhythmic murmur of a river. He stopped, tilting his head to listen, then turned to Nicholas with a faint, boyish smile.

“Let’s follow it.”

Nicholas hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “We should stay close to town—”

“It’s fine,” Euijoo interrupted gently, his voice barely above the whisper of wind through the leaves. “We could use the water. For washing up, maybe even refill the canteens.”

After a pause, Nicholas nodded, though his eyes swept the shadows out of instinct before following.
They traced the sound through a narrow path behind the houses, where moss covered the fences and the air grew cooler. And then, through the last stretch of trees, the world opened up.

The river lay before them, wide and glassy, catching the sunset in a thousand orange ripples. Tall trees arched above like sentinels, their branches swaying softly in the evening breeze. The grass glowed faintly green, untouched, pure, as though the war had never dared to set foot here.

Euijoo stepped closer to the bank, his breath visible in the cool air. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Beside him, Nicholas exhaled — a long, quiet breath that seemed to drain months of exhaustion from his shoulders. He didn’t speak, but Euijoo could see it in his expression — the relief of stillness, of quiet that didn’t mean danger.

“We should tell the others,” Nicholas said at last, his voice low but steady, the kind of tone that suggested he was trying not to think too much.

“Wait—”

He stopped mid-step when he heard Euijoo’s voice. Turning, Nicholas found him standing a few paces behind, half-illuminated by the sunrays. There was something uncertain about the way Euijoo held himself with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn jacket, shoulders drawn in slightly, eyes flicking from Nicholas to the river.

Nicholas raised a brow, suspicion and curiosity mixing in his tired gaze. “What is it?”

Euijoo hesitated, his breath fogging lightly in the cool air. “Do you know what day it is today?”

Nicholas blinked. Then he gave a short, incredulous scoff, shaking his head. “How the hell am I supposed to know what day it is? Haven’t seen a bloody calendar in—”

“Alright, alright,” Euijoo interrupted with a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. The sound came out awkwardly — thin, a little forced — but it carried a warmth that cut through the still air.

When Nicholas turned back toward him, Euijoo’s lips curved into a smile. Not the weary, polite kind he’d worn for months, but a small, genuine grin that caught Nicholas off guard, the kind of smile that once used to make bad days bearable.

Nicholas blinked, looking almost horrified by the sight of it. “What?” he asked, his voice sharp with confusion, though his lips twitched as if fighting not to smile back.

Euijoo only shook his head, the faintest trace of mischief glimmering in his hazel eyes. Then, softly, he said, “It’s the ninth of July.”

Nicholas frowned, his mouth parting slightly — ready to argue, to ask how the hell Euijoo could know that — but before he could, Euijoo’s expression gentled.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

Nicholas let out a soft scoff, but there was no bite in it, only exhaustion threaded with something gentler. His expression shifted, the faintest flicker of sorrow ghosting over his features before he hid it behind a crooked, bittersweet smirk.

“And how do you even know?” he asked, voice low and weary, though there was a trace of teasing beneath it. “Have you been counting the days since the start of the year?”

“No,” Euijoo replied with a small laugh, shaking his head. “I actually have no idea if it’s today.” He looked up, meeting Nicholas’ dark eyes — eyes that had once been full of sharp wit and restless life — and felt the air leave his lungs. He had to glance away, quickly, before that look burned him. “But I’m sure it’s July,” he added, with a helpless shrug. “So… close enough.”

For the first time in weeks, Nicholas laughed. It wasn’t loud or bright — it came out cracked, uncertain — but it was real. And it was enough to make Euijoo grin in return, something soft and boyish tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Then, without overthinking it, Euijoo reached out and took Nicholas’ hand. His fingers were cold, rough with old scars and days without rest. He gave them a small squeeze before pressing something into Nicholas’ palm.

“So,” Euijoo murmured, his voice dropping to a quiet warmth, “happy birthday.”

Nicholas blinked, glancing down. Resting in his hand was what looked like a bouquet — if one could call it that. Wildflowers, unevenly picked and clumsily tied together with a piece of thread. Some petals were bruised, some stems broken, yet it was painfully sincere.

“I know,” Euijoo said quickly, cheeks coloring faintly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I tried.”

Nicholas’ breath caught, just for a moment. His hardened features softened, the sharp lines of his face gentled by something almost tender. The sight of those uneven flowers, their fragile beauty, hit him harder than he expected.
He brought them closer, breathing in their faint, earthy scent, and a broken smile tugged at his lips.

“Merlin,” he muttered, his voice rough with emotion he couldn’t quite disguise, “you’re horrible.”

Euijoo chuckled. “I know.”

Nicholas’ gaze lingered on the bouquet, on the careful way Euijoo’s hands had tied the thread, and then he whispered, “Thanks.”

Euijoo smiled, though his chest felt tight under the weight of Nicholas’ gaze. His hand lifted before he could stop himself, fingers brushing through the stray locks that clung to Nicholas’ forehead. His touch was gentle, hesitant, the tips of his calloused and bandaged fingers grazing the pale skin there, a fleeting moment of calm against all the noise of the world.

“How…?” Nicholas asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The ground,” Euijoo replied with a small shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “I would’ve stolen a decent one if we’d found a shop, but—”

“Oh, god, just shut up.”

Euijoo’s laugh broke through the quiet like sunlight through clouds, warm, genuine, and a little breathless. He could tell, from the faint edge in Nicholas’ voice and the way he looked away, that he was nervous too. It felt almost new — this small, human awkwardness — after so many months of war.

Then came the silence again. The kind that didn’t ask for words. Only the steady murmur of the river filled the air, its soft rhythm weaving between them. The last rays of daylight brushed over their faces, setting their skin aglow in hues of amber and fading gold.

“And… thank you,” Euijoo said quietly, his voice barely disturbing the stillness.

Nicholas turned his head slightly, confusion flickering in his dark eyes.

“For sticking with me,” Euijoo added, and his smile wavered into something rawer, heavier. “I know how difficult it must have been for you. Or, rather…” His voice caught for a moment. “It still is.”

Nicholas stared at him for a long second, the air between them thick with unspoken things — the kind that lingered in sleepless nights and broken dawns. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

“No,” he murmured, his voice low but firm. His gaze dropped to the little bundle of flowers in his hand before finding Euijoo’s again. “Thank you. For not giving up on me.”

He swallowed, the words trembling at the edges. “I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if I hadn’t had you — to give me courage when I couldn’t find it myself.”

Euijoo’s fingers tightened gently around Nicholas’s hand — a quiet language that needed no words. There was something grounding in the way their palms met, something that spoke of years spent surviving side by side. Nicholas had changed so much since the war began; the sharpness in his gaze now tempered by weariness, the once-reckless warmth dimmed but not gone. And Euijoo couldn’t help but wonder — in Nicholas’s eyes, had he changed too?

A soft breeze drifted between them, cool and clean, brushing across Euijoo’s lips until they felt almost numb. Nicholas’s warmth, by contrast, was tangible. He had always been warmer. Always the one to burn while Euijoo merely reached for the light.

Without thinking, Euijoo tugged on Nicholas’s hand, just a small, instinctive pull. Nicholas stepped forward, and suddenly they were close, so close that the air between them seemed to vanish. For a heartbeat, the world around them stood still: the quiet murmur of the river, the trembling leaves, the faint scent of damp earth.

Then Nicholas closed the distance.

The kiss was unsteady, hesitant at first, as though neither could quite believe it was happening. But then it deepened, slow and desperate, a collision of breath and trembling hands. It was unfairly messy — full of the weight they both carried — but Euijoo didn’t care. He exhaled into it, lungs aching, the taste of Nicholas filling him completely.

His hand found Nicholas’s cheek, thumb brushing the hollow beneath his eye. The other slid around Nicholas’s waist, gripping tightly. Holding on, as if the world might tear them apart again the moment they let go.

Nicholas’s hand came up to Euijoo’s neck, cold fingers threading through the back of his hair. The warmth between them blurred the line between pain and solace

Nicholas never let go of the flowers. They were crushed a little now, petals trembling in his grasp, a fragile thing caught between their hands. Even then, he managed to tug Euijoo closer, his fingers curling into the fabric of Euijoo’s sleeve until there was no space left between them.

Their lips met again, deeper this time. Their tongues brushed in a slow, remembered rhythm neither of them had forgotten how to follow. It was breathless and clumsy and real. For a fleeting heartbeat, it felt like living again.

But then Euijoo tasted it — the salt. Not from the river’s air, but from Nicholas himself. The bitterness on his lips gave way to something raw, human. Nicholas was crying.

Euijoo froze, just a little, confusion flickering across his face before the weight of it sank in. He tried to pull back, searching Nicholas’s eyes, but Nicholas refused to let him. Instead, he clutched the front of Euijoo’s jacket, dragging him back into the kiss, desperate, aching, as if he could drown whatever pain he carried in the warmth of Euijoo’s mouth.
So Euijoo stopped resisting. He let Nicholas lead. His grip softened, and his thumb found Nicholas’s cheek, brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. Their breaths came ragged between kisses. Small, broken sounds swallowed by the stillness of the night.

And then, slowly, the world around them began to dissolve. Their names faded, like whispers carried off by the wind.
There was only the river now, murmuring quietly beside them, and the smell of grass heavy with dew. They were two shadows on the riverbank, holding on to something that might have been love, or might have been grief disguised as it.
The stars appeared, one by one, faint and trembling in the deepening sky. But even they had lost their names.

The night didn’t need them anymore; not when everything that mattered was happening here, in the space between a broken heart and a trembling hand.

Chapter Text

I said "baby,

You know I'm gonna leave you"

I'll leave you when the summertime

Leave you when the summer comes rollin'

Leave you when the summer comes along.

1st of May, 1998

It was already dark when they reached the city. The orange glow of streetlamps bled into the pavement, casting long, restless shadows that swayed with the rush of Muggles weaving through the streets. Nothing here had changed: the honking cars, the hurried footsteps, the smell of petrol and damp concrete. Life went on around them, oblivious.
Or so it seemed.

Most Muggles remained blissfully detached from the war unraveling just beyond their sight… Most, but not all.
Ahead of them towered the entrance to their world disguised perfectly, yet unmistakable to those who knew where to look. The heavy doors loomed like something ancient, carved with faint patterns only visible in the right light. After whispering the key words, the doors groaned open, the city noise muffling instantly as magic folded around them like a curtain.

Inside lay the Order’s safehouse — once crowded, loud with debates, plans, and the chaotic energy of hopeful rebels. Now it felt like an abandoned lung, exhaling its last breath. The air was thick with dust and exhaustion. A few witches and wizards moved about in weary silence, shrinking the room with their hurried packing.

Euijoo’s heart tightened.

His eyes darted frantically from corner to corner, searching for his parents, for any familiar silhouette, any voice, any reason to breathe easier. But all he saw were strangers: tired faces he didn’t know, people he’d never had the chance to meet during the better, braver days.

“Euijoo!”

Before he could react, two strong arms wrapped around him, squeezing so tightly he nearly lost his balance. Joon — his uncle — held him as if trying to anchor him back into the world. His embrace had that same warmth Euijoo remembered from childhood, safety pressed into his ribs.

Euijoo collapsed into it without hesitation, burying his face in the rough fabric of Joon’s coat, just as he used to when he was five and the storms outside their windows had terrified him.

“Are you okay? Hurt anywhere?” Joon pulled back only enough to cup Euijoo’s face, his thumbs brushing dirt from his cheeks. His gaze flicked toward Nicholas and the others, concern deepening the lines carved into his aging features. “You’ve heard, haven’t you?” he murmured.

The softness in his voice frightened Euijoo more than any raised alarm ever could.

Then Joon told them.
Told them everything.

How the battle had soured beyond prediction. How their numbers dwindled faster than reinforcements could arrive. How the casualties had begun to blur into lists too long to read in one sitting. How every stronghold had fallen but one.
Their final hope — their last foothold — was Hogwarts. And even that fortress was trembling beneath the weight of what was coming.

“Where’s everybody?”

Euijoo’s voice cracked despite his best attempt to keep it steady. The question felt enormous, as if the room itself held its breath, bracing for whatever answer would fall.

“Safe,” Joon replied. His hand landed gently on Euijoo’s shoulder, grounding him. “At Hogwarts. They left this morning.”
Relief hit Euijoo so fast it left him unsteady — a rush of warmth, of breath returning to his lungs, of purpose stitching itself back together inside him. His parents, the others… alive. Not here, but alive.

“We—” Euijoo began, already stepping forward.

“I know,” Joon interrupted with a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked older now. Not in the way time ages a person, but in the way war polishes away their youth and replaces it with burden. Seeing it hurt more than Euijoo expected.

“We can’t do it without you,” Joon added, nodding toward them — Nicholas, Harua, Maki, Taki. A gesture halfway between pride and desperation. “Go.”

And it was enough.

They left within minutes, and by the time night truly settled, they were standing before Hogwarts.

The castle loomed in the darkness, its silhouette familiar yet different, as though the war had shifted its bones. Only one entry remained — the secret passage behind Ariana Dumbledore’s portrait, Albus' deceased younger sister, a relic the Order had protected ever since Albus Dumbledore fell. Safeguarded for the day the world might need it again.

That day had come.

Euijoo stood before the portrait, breath uneven, eyes tracing every painted stroke of the young woman. Ariana’s face was soft, timeless, touched with the same melancholy his Professor had worn like a second skin. For a moment, Euijoo wondered if portraits could sense fear, because she seemed to look at him with quiet understanding.
Then, as if recognizing the urgency, Ariana’s painted fingers tightened around her dress. She turned and began to walk, stepping out of her frame and into the painted tunnel beyond. Her figure grew smaller, dimmer, until she disappeared entirely into the darkness.

A heartbeat later, someone emerged from the tunnel — stumbling out onto the mantelpiece with a groan. It was Yuma.

His face was cut in several places, bruises blooming across his cheekbones, but he was grinning — breathlessly, wildly — as if Euijoo’s arrival alone had lessened the weight on his shoulders.

“I knew you’d make it!” Yuma shouted, practically leaping forward despite the obvious pain. “Told everyone — said it was only a matter of time before you lot showed up.”

His enthusiasm cracked through the tension like lightning. But then, just as quickly, he sobered.

“You won’t recognize the place,” Yuma said, voice lowering as he led them into the tunnel. “Hogwarts… it’s different now. Everything’s changed under the new administration.”

His tone carried the tremor of someone who had seen too much and was about to show them the same.

They followed Yuma into the painted tunnel — a narrow, sloping passage that seemed to hum with old magic — and before any of them truly registered the transition, they were stepping out into Hogwarts.

Not the Hogwarts they remembered.

A small group of students stood gathered in what looked like an abandoned classroom, desks pushed aside, parchment stacked in makeshift piles, candles burned down to stubs. Judging from the tense semicircle they formed, they’d been in the middle of a meeting.

They looked just as battered as Yuma, hollow-eyed, dirty and bruised.

Euijoo’s chest tightened as recognition bloomed. Yunah was there, her hair shorter and uneven as if cut with trembling hands. Logan stood next to her, thinner than Euijoo remembered, but wearing the same stubborn determination he’d always carried. There were Slytherins too — more than Euijoo expected — and among them, to Nicholas’ utter shock, stood Nora.

It took only a heartbeat before Nicholas launched himself at her, pulling her into a desperate hug that nearly knocked her off her feet. Nora, normally so guarded, melted instantly, wrapping her arms around him with equal ferocity. Months apart had felt like years. Years had felt like lifetimes.

As Euijoo stepped farther into the room, a wave of emotion crashed into him; relief, grief, disbelief, something warm and painful twisting together. So many familiar faces. And yet so many gone.

Then, among older students he barely remembered, he saw Fuma.

He stood near the back, leaning against a desk, watching them with a tired posture that didn’t belong to someone like him. This wasn’t the sharp, composed prefect who used to help Euijoo with his essays, guiding him patiently through Charms theory during their first year. This boy — this young man — looked carved from exhaustion. His skin was pale, his cheek split, and war clung to him like a second skin, refusing to let go.

But when their eyes met, Fuma grinned; a real grin. Crooked and worn at the edges, as if smiling hurt, but genuine all the same. And Euijoo thought that, maybe, he was seeing the same deterioration Euijoo saw in him.

“How went the NEWTs?” Fuma asked, as casually as one might comment on the weather. His hand landed on Euijoo’s shoulder with the same familiar weight it had carried years ago.

For a moment, the room blurred. He had spent so many nights convincing himself he’d never see Fuma again, that the boy who once explained wand movements with patient precision had vanished into the fog of this war. Yet here he was, solid and warm beneath Euijoo’s trembling fingertips.

“It went… alright,” Euijoo managed. His voice cracked embarrassingly, breath hitching as he looked up — no, across — at him. They were the same height now. Somehow that detail felt like the cruelest proof of lost time.

Fuma huffed a laugh. “Good. I knew you’d make it, even with your absolutely horrific study habits.”

Euijoo barked out a laugh of his own , short and brittle. It cracked open along the edges, both nostalgic and unbearably sad.

Around them, the room pulsed with quiet recognition and rekindled bonds. Students — survivors — exchanging embraces, clasping hands, brushing tears away as if ashamed of them. These were the remnants of something old, something stubborn, something forged in secrets and fear years ago.

Dumbledore’s Army.

Born in a lonely corridor in 1995. A handful of teenagers learning to fight because no one else would teach them. Now, they stood together again — older, scarred, exhausted, but united — prepared at last for the war they had spent their youth training for. And Euijoo felt it down to his bones: they were no longer children learning spells, they were soldiers coming home.

Logan told the group that the DA had been hiding here for almost two weeks, since neither the new director nor the Death Eaters roaming Hogwart's corridors could enter. Yuma told them how he had gathered everyone, using the galleons to communicate with every member of the DA, and of course, with old students that still wanted to protect Hogwarts.

They exchanged information, hushing words in a hurried circle. Taki told them about his parent's pendant, and how they believed tracked the person that murdered Dumbledore and his parents. Then, they informed them about the Order of the Phoenix,wizards and witches coming here to fight. They all knew what this meant, the Dark Lord was approaching this place, everyone could feel it in the castle's cold stoned walls.

Logan stepped forward, running a hand through his dust-matted hair as he addressed the reunited group.

“The DA’s been hiding here for almost two weeks,” he explained, voice low but steady. “The new Headmaster can’t get in. Neither can the Death Eaters patrolling the corridors.”

Yuma picked up the thread. “I used the Galleons,” he said, tapping the one that hung from a frayed string around his neck. “Same way we used to in Umbridge’s year. Called everyone in the DA who was still alive —” his voice trembled for half a second, “—and anyone who ever swore they’d protect this castle. Old students came too. Some traveled days to get here.”

The room shifted, bodies leaning in, forming a tight, urgent circle. Words began to overlap — hushed, hurried, but sharp with purpose.
Taki stepped forward, shoulders tense as bowstrings, and he explained everything about their first clue, his parent's golden pendant.

“We think it can track… the one who murdered Dumbledore. And my parents.”

A silence rippled outward, solemn and heavy. Even the portraits seemed to lean closer. Then Euijoo and the others told the DA about the Order regrouping, about witches and wizards already on the march toward the castle, about the rising tide gathering outside these enchanted walls.

A fragile breath of relief passed through the room. Shoulders eased. Hands unclenched from wand holsters. Even the air seemed to loosen, as if the castle itself exhaled.

Help was coming.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the idea didn’t feel like a childish dream. It felt possible. Tangible. A flicker of light in a tunnel that had only ever narrowed.

They could do this.

They had to.

A few students exchanged tired smiles, the kind forged in long nights and shared fear. Someone laughed under their breath shakily, but bright. Logan clapped Yuma on the back; Harua leaned into Maki’s shoulder. Even Taki’s rigid jaw eased by a fraction.

Hope.

Yet, everyone knew what that meant. The Dark Lord was coming.

The thought still pulsed through the room, humming beneath the stone floor, carried by the very walls of Hogwarts. The castle felt colder, as if bracing itself. As if listening.

***

“Hogwarts is at risk! Cover the edges — protect us — do your duty to the school!”

McGonagall’s voice tore through the corridors like a bell of war, clear and unwavering, echoing off the ancient stones. Her words carried a magic of their own, something older than spells — authority, devotion, and a fierce, unbreakable loyalty to the castle she had guarded for decades.

Under her command, the statues stirred. The armors rattled awake. Suits of metal raised their swords, stone knights bent at the waist like waking giants. The Piertotum Locomotor charm pulsed through the castle, animating everything once thought lifeless. They marched down the hallways in thunderous unity, the floors trembling beneath their synchronized steps.

Hogwarts — beloved, ancient Hogwarts — was rising to defend itself.

The moment the Order struck, a wave of movement tore across the castle. The Headmaster’s monstrous, loyal underlings were dealt with swiftly, and the few Death Eaters stationed within the walls — overseers masquerading as protectors — fell in quick, brutal bursts of spellfire. Once the smoke settled, it was Professor McGonagall who stepped forward, wand raised, eyes sharp with a determination that brooked no argument.

“Positions,” she commanded. “Anyone who can stand, stand. Anyone who can protect, protect.”

She moved like a general on a battlefield rather than a teacher, her robes sweeping behind her, barking orders that the castle seemed to obey even before the students did.

Within minutes, as the tension thickened and the air itself hummed with impending violence, she redirected the living flow of survivors and fighters. Students poured into the Great Hall in frantic clusters, clutching wands and each other’s hands.

There, beneath the floating candles and shadowed rafters, Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt stood at the front, their silhouettes tall against the trembling light.

“Students of age — you may stay and fight if you wish,” Kingsley announced, his deep voice steady, though his eyes flickered with worry as he surveyed the young faces before him. “Those younger will be evacuated through the Hog’s Head passage.”

Madam Pomfrey was already ushering terrified first- and second-years forward, her voice firm but gentle. Filch, pale and shaking yet stubbornly resolute, limped beside her as though daring anyone to call him unfit to help.

Some students stepped forward immediately: fierce Gryffindors, grim-faced Hufflepuffs, surprisingly defiant Ravenclaws, even a handful of Slytherins who refused to bow to the Dark Lord’s shadow. Others hesitated, trembling, torn between fear and duty.

The professors and members of the Order worked in swift, coordinated movements, casting layer after layer of protective enchantments around Hogwarts. Brilliant arcs of magic streaked across the night sky, weaving themselves into a shimmering dome above the castle. Defensive charms crackled against the stone walls; runes ignited along battlements; ancient wards, long dormant, shuddered awake like dragons disturbed in their sleep.

But everyone knew — every professor, every Order member, every student who dared look toward the dark horizon — that these protections were only temporary. A delaying wall. A final effort to buy time. Because the Dark Lord would break through. He always did.

Euijoo helped guide the younger students toward Madam Pomfrey and Filch, urging them gently but firmly, trying to steady the little hands trembling in his. The corridor felt too narrow, the air too thin; fear swelled thickly around them like a rising fog.

But beneath that fear, something else churned inside him — a desperate, clawing need.

Where were his parents? Where was Joon?

Joon had promised. They’re safe. They’re at Hogwarts.

So where? Where in this sea of frantic bodies, tear-stained cheeks, and shaking wands?

Euijoo’s gaze darted across the hall, searching for familiar faces, for silhouettes he could recognize even in chaos.

Too many people. Too much noise. Too much everything.

Then, he felt a warmth on his side. A hand.

It landed on his shoulder with the gentleness of someone who knew him far too well.

“We’ll find them later,” Nicholas said, voice steady in a way Euijoo didn’t understand — a certainty that felt impossible, ridiculous, a fantasy spoken aloud in the middle of a nightmare. But Nicholas had always been like this: speaking impossibilities as though they were facts, holding storms in his chest like they were nothing.

Euijoo swallowed, his throat tight.

“Later,” he echoed. Even though later felt like a fragile word, a thin thread he was clinging to with white knuckles.

By then, the castle’s defenses were set. Orders began to fill the corridors, sharp and loud, passed from one witch or wizard to another. Groups formed quickly — some assigned to the courtyards, some to the battlements, others to the forest line or the interior halls. Everyone was being pushed toward a position, toward a place where they would stand and wait for the darkness to arrive.

Euijoo, Maki, and Nicholas ended up together on the move, heading toward the grounds. Their footsteps echoed against the stone, swallowed by the distant rumble of spells and shouted commands.

Euijoo knew he should be grateful they weren’t separated. But all he could feel was the pounding in his chest, an ache so fierce it felt like his ribs would splinter around it. Beside him, Maki held his wand so tightly his knuckles had gone bone white. And Nicholas… Nicholas stood rigid, jaw set, shoulders drawn back, the determination in his posture so sharp it terrified Euijoo.

He wasn’t afraid of the Dark Lord, he's never been.

He was afraid of losing them.

And with every step they took toward the outer grounds, toward the place where the first blow of battle would land, that fear pressed deeper, like a cold blade twisting between Euijoo’s ribs.

“What a dream, huh?”

Euijoo’s cheeks warmed instantly — a soft, embarrassed flush that crept up toward his ears. He ducked his head, letting his fringe fall forward as he pretended to focus on the book open in front of him. Anything to avoid Maki’s knowing smirk.

“I’d rather dream about Quidditch than fighting,” he muttered, scribbling aimlessly on a piece of parchment. His quill trembled just enough for Maki to notice. “But suit yourself, mate.”

“Would you two be quiet?” Nicholas groaned, tipping his chair back on two legs in a perfect picture of someone absolutely not studying. He looked more likely to topple backwards than learn anything. “One day they’ll kick us out of the library.”

“You’re not even studying!” Maki hissed, pointing accusingly.

Before Nicholas could retaliate, a sharp “Shh!” sliced through the table from somewhere in the stacks.

The three of them tensed at once, instinctively shrinking into themselves like scolded first-years. Even Nicholas froze, his chair legs clunking back down onto the floor.

“…told you,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, and Euijoo snickered behind his hand.

Then the castle shuddered violently. Books trembled on their shelves. Dust drifted from the vaulted ceiling. Lamps rattled in their brackets. The floor seemed to lurch beneath their feet like a great beast awakening. And the memory became just that, a vague memory.

The Death Eaters’ sinister enchantments slammed against the castle’s defensive wards again, shaking Hogwarts to its bones. The very stones vibrated with the force of it.

Portraits of witches and wizards began darting frantically between their canvases. Some shouted updates about breaches and battlements, others yelled warnings or urgent encouragement to anyone within earshot.

The giants reached the Viaduct like an earthquake given form. Their footsteps alone sent tremors rolling through the stone, but the moment they breached the archway, chaos erupted.

The courtyard lit up with a barrage of curses; streaks of sickly green, violent red, and harsh purple exploding against walls that had stood for centuries. One blast hit the cloister with such force that an entire row of elegant stone columns disintegrated, collapsing in a storm of debris and fire. Shards of centuries-old marble skittered across the courtyard like broken teeth.

Suits of armor — McGonagall’s hastily awakened army — thundered forward without hesitation. They met the giants on the Viaduct, steel clashing against skin thicker than dragonhide, their dull metal hands choking, clawing, pushing. More surged up the stairways to the first floor, mechanical and merciless in their defense.

But even enchanted steel had limits.

Death Eaters on the high battlements fired mercilessly into the fray, tearing through the metal ranks. Euijoo saw one suit of armor seized by a giant and crushed against a pillar with a sickening crunch, enchanted joints snapping like kindling. Another was blasted apart mid-stride, plates scattering in all directions like shrapnel.

“COME IN! GET INSIDE! Cover yourselves — COVER YOURSELVES!”

Voices screamed from every direction — teachers, older students, Order members — each fighting to be heard over the battle’s deafening roar.

Then it happened.

A sound like glass breaking through a thunderstorm. A splintering, echoing crack that made Euijoo’s blood run cold.

The protective barrier around Hogwarts — the invisible ward that had wrapped the castle in shimmering, stubborn resistance — fractured. Hairline cracks of light spiderwebbed through the air above the battlements, glowing like veins of lightning.

And then the glow dimmed.

And the castle, ancient and proud, braced itself for the inevitable.

Screams tore through the darkness, raw and panicked, mingling with the crack and sizzle of spells colliding in midair. Brilliant flashes of green and red lit the courtyard like lightning, each burst carving the chaos into sharp, fleeting images — a fallen student, a giant’s shadow overhead, a Death Eater raising their wand.

Euijoo didn’t remember deciding to fight. His body simply moved.

His wand was already up, his voice already breaking the air with a spell before his mind caught up. “Expelliarmus!”

The words tore out of him with desperate strength. His arm burned with the recoil of each spell. The world narrowed to a single violent rhythm. Cast, dodge, breathe, cast again.

A Death Eater lunged toward him through the smoke, mask gleaming in the fractured light. Euijoo reacted before fear had the chance to register. His wand swung, and something inside him — instinct, survival, fury — snapped free.

A blast of red light shot from his wand, so bright it left a scar of color across his vision. The Death Eater took the hit full-force, their body jerking backward, mask slamming against stone as they collapsed.

Silence didn’t follow — only more thunder, more screams — but the moment hung in Euijoo’s mind like a suspended heartbeat.

That had been him.

His spell, his voice.

His hand bringing someone down.

The numbness that followed felt like frost along his spine. The noise of battle blurred, muffled, as if he’d been forced underwater. And yet his legs kept moving, his wand kept lifting, his breath kept rising in sharp, frantic bursts.
He couldn’t stop to think about what he had done.

So he ran. He hurled spells at anything masked, throwing himself between fallen students and circling Death Eaters. He dove beside strangers, shielding them, dragging them behind rubble, shouting warnings he couldn’t hear over the ringing in his ears. Every impact of magic against stone sent tremors up his legs, rattling his ribs and teeth. Smoke stung his eyes, the burn relentless.

He didn’t know how long he’d been fighting before he realized — suddenly, sharply — that he was alone.

No Maki’s steady breathing beside him, no Nicholas’ voice anchoring him, no glimpse of Taki or Harua among the darting shadows.

Just smoke.

Just bodies.

Euijoo pivoted in place, searching with panic rising like a tide. The courtyard was a battlefield of silhouettes and screams, scattered flashes of magic lighting the fallen faces beneath the haze. His eyes watered, from the smoke or terror or both; he couldn’t tell.

Where were they?

Where was everyone?

His lungs strained against the choking air as he took in the carnage around him, the twisted forms, the shattered stone, the impossible stillness of those who should’ve been running, laughing, living.

As Euijoo dodged another flash of sickly green light, he heard a voice — that voice — one so carved into his bones he could’ve recognized it even in death. It cut through the chaos, raw and trembling, shattering the numb shell around him.
He spun toward it, wand raised, every muscle coiled to strike.

Nicholas stood several yards away, chest heaving, wand leveled with a fury Euijoo had never seen; not even in their worst moments. Sparks bled from the tip, uncontrolled, trembling with barely contained rage.

And then Euijoo realized Nicholas wasn’t shouting at a Death Eater.

He was shouting at someone.

“You left him!” Nicholas’ voice cracked open, splintering into the storm-churned air. “How could you—how dare you?”

Euijoo’s breath stilled, because he saw him.

The mask hung crooked off one cheek, cracked down the center, exposing half a face Euijoo once knew as well as his own reflection. Sharp, dark eyes stared up at Nicholas, glistening with rain and something more jagged, something wounded.

It was K.

His eyes locked onto Nicholas with a hollowed-out shock, his expression flickering between disbelief and recognition. He blinked slowly, as though waking up from a nightmare only to find himself in another.

“Jo?” K mouthed, blood already dripping from a cut at his temple. His voice came out small, dislodged, almost dazed. “You were there.”

It wasn’t a question.

And that — that certainty — made Nicholas’ blood turn to poison. His entire body recoiled as if struck, betrayal twisting through his features, violent and devastating. He shouted — a word, a curse, a release of every buried wound — and the spell tore from him before Euijoo could even breathe.

K staggered, choked, collapsing onto the shattered stones.

Sectumsempra.

The air itself recoiled.

Lines split open across K’s skin in thin, merciless slashes, blood blooming in dark ribbons. The same curse that carved Nicholas’ torso now tore into the boy who once shared birthdays together.

K gasped, voice warping as his body convulsed. Red seeped into the dirt, swirling with the thickening raindrops.

“You’re the one who left us—!” he spat, his voice ragged with pain and fury, trembling with something that sounded suspiciously close to heartbreak. “Don’t you— don’t you fucking forget that.”

And the sky finally broke open above them, the rain falling like shattered glass as the past caught fire at their feet.

Before Euijoo could react, a force slammed into him from the side, knocking the breath out of his lungs as he hit the soaked ground. Stone bit into his ribs. The world spun violently and then it vanished.

For a moment, there was only blackness.

Not the soft kind that comes with sleep, but a suffocating, absolute dark, thick and lonely, swallowing sound and sense whole. His ears rang so sharply it felt like someone had struck a gong inside his skull.

“Euijoo—!”

Then, he heard a voice, muffled at first, like it was calling through water. But it persisted, urgent, terrified.

“C’mon, you have to get up!”

Light bled back into his vision in trembling patches of grey and rain-smeared color. A face leaned over him; frantic and drenched, pale with worry.

Maki.

Water streamed off his hair, plastering it to his forehead, and behind him stood Taki and Harua, both panting, both alive. Relief crashed over Euijoo so hard he nearly choked on it.

He forced himself upright, ignoring the pulsing ache in his lower back and the throbbing behind his eyes. His fingers sank into mud and broken stone as he steadied himself. The world tilted, but Maki’s hand clamped firmly around his arm, anchoring him.

“Easy,” Maki muttered, voice tight, “you were out for a bit.”

Euijoo swallowed, tasting blood and rain on his tongue. He didn’t know what spell or explosion had sent him flying — or how long he’d been unconscious — but the battlefield around them had changed.

There were no more crowds, no more clusters of fighters screaming orders through the chaos. Only scattered figures, some injured, others crawling, but most of them were motionless.

Bodies lay twisted across the courtyard, washed pale under the relentless downpour. The rain fell harder now, drumming against the stones like a thousand tiny fists, washing blood into thin crimson rivers that snaked between shattered bits of cloister and rubble.

Thunder growled overhead, echoing the violence still unfolding somewhere in the distance.

Maki kept a tight grip on him, steady and warm despite the cold rain.

“On your feet,” he said, breath trembling though he tried to hide it. “We’ve gotta keep moving.”

And then it hit him. Euijoo felt the hollow, visceral terror of realizing he did not know where Nicholas was.

“Where have you been?” Euijoo coughed out, blinking rain from his lashes as his gaze swept the ruined courtyard, desperate and frantic.

“Busy trying not to get killed,” Taki answered, breathless, knuckles white around his wand. His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp and shaken, darting at every shadow as if expecting it to attack.

“We figured out who the pendant is tracking,” Harua added quietly.

That caught Euijoo’s attention like a hook beneath the ribs. He straightened despite the dull ache in his spine.

“Who?” he demanded.

But no-one answered.

A heavy, pulsing silence, thick as fog, settling between them. Taki lowered his eyes. Harua looked away. Even Maki, still gripping Euijoo’s arm to steady him, seemed to tense in grief.

“Who,” Euijoo repeated, sharper now, his voice cracking around the edges. The look on Taki’s face — tight, almost pained — made Euijoo’s stomach knot. “Taki—”

But before Taki could speak, a sharp, blood-curdling cry tore through the storm.

It cut across the castle like lightning, raw and desperate — the kind of scream that ripped instincts wide open.

Euijoo didn’t think. He shoved Maki hard out of the path of whatever was coming and bolted toward the sound. His legs protested, limp with exhaustion and bruises, but adrenaline burned through the pain, driving him forward.
The rain blurred the world into streaks of grey and red as he sprinted, his boots splashing through puddles that had pooled with blood and rubble. His wand was clenched so tightly his fingers throbbed, knuckles blistered and raw.

Another cry — closer this time.

His heart slammed against his ribs, faster with every step, until he burst through the arched entrance of the Great Hall.

It was crowded with people, more than Euijoo had seen gathered in one place since the war began. Members of the Order filled the edges of the hall; professors stood tall despite their injuries, robes torn and burned; and among them, unmistakable in their dark, practical coats, were Aurors.

Euijoo’s lungs loosened. A breath he hadn’t realized he was strangling finally escaped him, shaky and thin but freeing. For a moment — a fragile, dangerous moment — the crushing pressure on his chest eased. Murmurs swirled around him: healers tending to burned limbs, students sobbing into friends’ shoulders, adults whispering reports in panic-driven voices.

Could it be over? Had it actually happened?

Was the Dark Lord—?

“Get away from him!”

The shout cleaved through the noise like a blade.

Euijoo froze. His blood turned ice-cold. He knew that voice down to its marrow. Fear and instinct crashed into him all at once, and he shoved his way through the packed bodies, ignoring the complaints and startled looks. He pushed past a cluster of Ravenclaws, ducked under a healer’s arm, chest tightening with every step.

He needed to see, needed to reach him.

When he finally broke through the circle of onlookers, his heart ruptured.
There, on the stone floor, was Nicholas Wang. On his knees. Soaked in rain and blood and grief.

He looked destroyed, not wounded or exhausted, but obliterated from the inside out. His shoulders shook as he shielded the still body beside him.

It took Euijoo a moment — a terrible, sickening moment — to recognize the man’s face beneath the dirt and bruising.

Mr. Wang. Nicholas’ father, now one of the many corpses laying on the ground.

Euijoo’s stomach twisted violently. His throat burned. He didn’t know whether he was going to vomit or collapse, or run straight to Nicholas and pull him out of that agony by force.

Nicholas didn’t look up. He didn’t look at anyone. He just kept his wand aimed with trembling fury at the Aurors who had approached, his voice raw and broken as he shouted again.

“Don’t touch him!”

“Wang, please — lower your wand.”

The Auror Nicholas was aiming at spoke evenly, though Euijoo could hear the strain tightening the man’s jaw. His hands were lifted, palms open, a gesture of patience that was thinning by the second.

“No.”

The word tore out of Nicholas like something sharp. His tears dripped from his chin onto his father’s motionless arm, each drop carving new cracks into him. “You’re not— you’re not taking him back there.”

His voice broke on the last word.

“He’s gone, Nicholas,” Professor McGonagall said softly as she stepped forward, slow, cautious, as though approaching a wounded creature that might lash out if startled. “Let us help you.”

But Nicholas flinched, recoiling from her presence as though her gentleness hurt worse than any curse. His arm snapped upward, wand shifting from the Auror to McGonagall, hand trembling violently.

“Step back.” His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable.

McGonagall froze.

Every witch and wizard near them went still, the tension in the room tightening like a noose. Rain dripped from Nicholas’ hair, tracing down his bruised cheek, mixing with the tears he couldn’t stop, couldn’t even seem to feel.

He looked feral — cornered — a boy who had already lost too much and now refused to lose the last thing he had left, even if it slipped through his fingers. His wand hand trembled harder, but his eyes burned with raw, breaking desperation.

Euijoo hesitated where he stood , breath trapped, heart pounding a painful rhythm against his ribs. His eyes locked on Nicholas, on the shaking wand, on the broken fury twisting his features. The world felt too loud, too bright, too sharp.
Then he saw it.

Two Aurors — slipping in behind Nicholas while McGonagall held his attention, their wands rising in perfect synchronicity. And something in Euijoo’s chest snapped.

“Expelliarmus!”

His voice cracked like lightning. Twin flashes of red shot from his wand, tearing the wands from the Aurors’ hands and sending them clattering across the stone floor. Gasps erupted around the room.

And Nicholas turned.

His eyes, swollen and red, landed on Euijoo, but there was no recognition in them. Only a hollow, stunned kind of confusion, as if Euijoo were another ghost in the haze of grief swallowing him whole.

“Byun—?”

McGonagall inhaled sharply, a quiet, horrified sound, as Euijoo stepped forward. He moved without thinking, as if his bones had decided for him, carrying him to stand shoulder to shoulder with the boy whose world had just collapsed. His wand lifted again — not trembling, not uncertain — as he planted himself at Nicholas’ side.

He didn’t stutter, didn’t blink.

He simply stood there, breathing hard, soaked in rain and fear and something fiercer than both.

“Nicholas,” Euijoo murmured, voice low and careful, as though any sudden movement might shatter what little was left of him. “Let me talk to them, I’m sure they—”

“Taki killed him.”

The words tore out of Nicholas, rough and broken, coated with bitterness so sharp it stung. It wasn’t an accusation aimed at Euijoo—not fully—but pain didn’t recognize direction or mercy. “Where were you?”

Euijoo’s throat closed, and when his eyes met Nichoas', he faltered. Because that was enough to see the betrayal bleeding at the edges of his grief.

“I needed you.” Nicholas’ voice cracked apart, shredded by a fresh wave of anguish. His wand pressed firmly to Euijoo’s chest now, the trembling tip digging into fabric and skin as his bloodshot, furious eyes locked onto Euijoo’s. “I… needed you.”

“…Nicho—” Euijoo breathed, taking one small step closer instead of back, letting his chest meet the point of Nicholas’ wand without flinching. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

And Nicholas crumbled.

His face twisted, his lips trembling as the last of his strength drained out of him. His wand dipped toward the floor, slow and unsteady, and with its fall the room finally exhaled. Shoulders loosened. Wands lowered. The tension that had stretched the air thin began to ease—but not inside Nicholas.

Because the moment a hand, gentle and well-meaning, landed on his shoulder, he snapped.

The curse tore out of him, raw and instinctive, fueled by agony rather than intention; an Unforgivable in every sense of the word.

A violent rush of green light burst through the hall, bleaching faces, painting shadows across stone. Gasps followed, sharp and horrified, erupting as people stumbled back. Some screamed. Others simply froze as the Auror’s body hit the floor with a brutal, echoing thud.

Euijoo froze where he stood.

Cold fear surged through him, flooding his veins until he could barely feel his own heartbeat. Nicholas had just killed someone. And not just anyone. He'd just murdered someone who had been trying to help, a bloody Auror.

Nicholas’s wand slipped from his hand as though it weighed a hundred pounds, clattering uselessly against the stone. His breath stuttered—short, uneven pulls of air—as he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing painfully. His gaze drifted, unfocused at first, until it landed on the Auror lying motionless on the floor. Lifeless eyes stared back at him, glassy and empty.

Nicholas flinched.

Maybe he had killed someone’s father. Someone’s husband. Someone who had kissed their child on the forehead before leaving for work that morning.

The thought didn’t spark resistance. It didn’t spark anything at all.

So when hands grabbed him—rough, urgent, many of them—he didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. He didn’t even blink. He let them seize his arms, haul him upright, push him toward the doors. He moved like a ghost being carried along by a tide, his expression blank and strangely small. There was too much pain inside him, too much for the heart to hold; it had numbed itself, drowned under the weight.

He didn’t hear Euijoo shouting his name.

Didn’t hear him cry out, didn’t feel his hands clawing at Nicholas’s sleeve, trying to wrench him back.

All he knew was the pull of unfamiliar wizards and witches dragging him away, away from his father’s body, away from the ruins of the Great Hall. Away from the only place that had ever felt like home.

Euijoo fought them; he tried to wedge himself between Nicholas and the Aurors, his voice shredding with desperation. The stronger witches and wizards shoved him aside, their orders sharp, unforgiving, swallowed by the storm outside.

Euijoo ran.

He didn’t think, didn’t feel the ache in his legs, didn’t remember dropping his wand somewhere behind him. All he could see was Nicholas being dragged toward the doors, swallowed by the chaos of fleeing bodies and shouting Aurors.

He lunged forward, fingers outstretched, reaching for him one last time.
But arms locked around his torso, yanking him back.

“No—no, let go! Let go!” Euijoo thrashed, twisting violently, nails clawing at the arms restraining him. His breath came in frantic bursts, half-sobs, half-screams. “Nicholas! Nicholas!”

But the grip only tightened, grounding him, holding him still while everything he cared about was ripped away.

He fought until his lungs burned and his strength failed, until the realization hit him with cruel finality: he wasn’t getting free. His body sagged, trembling, though he still reached forward blindly, fingers shaking in the empty air where Nicholas had been.

Through the blur in his vision, he watched as Nicholas was pushed out of the ruined Great Hall doors, swallowed by a line of captured Death Eaters and the teams carrying the fallen. Nicholas didn’t look back. Didn’t even turn his head.

And then he was gone.

Vanished into the storm with the others, leaving Euijoo frozen in place, the echo of his own choked cry hanging uselessly in the air.

Don't you hear it callin' me

Woman

Ah, woman

I know, I know,

It feels good to have you back again and I know that one day, baby

It's gonna really grow, yes it is

We gonna go walkin' through the park every day

Come what may, every day, ooh!

My, my

My, my

My, my babe

I'm gonna leave you, go away

Sweet babe

Chapter Text

Two years had passed, and still Euijoo woke every night clawing his way out of the same nightmares.
If this was what victory felt like, he hated it. He despised it with a bitterness that settled deep in his bones. Peace had come, they said, but the hollow carved into his chest remained, vast and echoing, a wound that refused to close. Some losses did not heal. They only learned how to ache more quietly.

That night—the night everything ended—Euijoo felt as though he had died more than once.

After Nicholas was torn from his side, dragged away screaming his name, the world became a sequence of broken images. Yuma, slumped against a wall, his head wrapped in blood-soaked bandages that did little to hide the way his entire body shook. His uncle Joon, impossibly still, resting in a corner beside bodies Euijoo did not recognize—faces blurred by death, names that would never be spoken to him.

Euijoo had never felt so small. So utterly powerless.

All he wanted was his mother. He wanted to bury his face in her chest like he had when he was a child, to disappear there, to be held and allowed to fall apart. Part of him wanted to sleep and never wake again, to forget the screams, the blood, the way Nicholas had vanished into the dark without looking back.

The wizarding world mourned in unison after that. Victors and defeated alike grieved what had been lost, because the war had taken far more than it had ever given back.

But grief was not given time to settle.

Only a day later, Euijoo was summoned to the Ministry; pulled into cold, sterile rooms to recount the moment an Auror had died by Nicholas’ hand. His name was Arthas. A father of three, they told him, children not much younger than Euijoo himself. The words lodged in his chest like stones, heavy and suffocating.

Nicholas was there, too.

Their eyes met only once across the courtroom—dark, distant, stripped of everything that had once been familiar. There were no words. No apologies. No explanations. Just a glance, fleeting and unbearable. Euijoo did not know it then, but that moment would be the last time he would ever see Nicholas Wang.

He looked terrible.

Not just wounded or exhausted—but hollowed out, as if something essential had been carved from him and never returned. He sat alone, shoulders drawn inward, a single figure adrift in a room full of strangers. Loneliness clung to him like a second skin.

His mother was worse.

She looked like a ghost of herself, pale and brittle, her hands trembling as she pressed them together. Euijoo had never seen her cry before, not truly. Not even during their fourth year at Hogwarts, when fear had briefly cracked her composure the first time she and Euijoo met. Now tears slid freely down her face, silent and relentless, as though she no longer had the strength to stop them.

Euijoo remembered everything about that trial.

The way Nicholas stared straight ahead, his eyes empty, unseeing. The way he never tried to defend himself. Never argued. Never explained. As if punishment was something he had already accepted long before the verdict was spoken.

Euijoo had begged. He had turned to his parents, desperation choking his voice, pleading with them to speak, to tell the court the truth. To tell the judge that Nicholas had fought beside them. That he had bled for the same cause. That the dark mark etched into his wrist meant nothing anymore.

But the words sounded naïve the moment they left his mouth.

“We are not judging him for choosing the right path,” the judge had said, voice flat and distant, unmoved by the way Euijoo’s world was collapsing in real time. “He cast an Unforgivable Curse. Don’t you think Arthas’s family deserves, at the very least, to know that their murderer will remain behind bars?”

Euijoo had wanted to scream.

The sound built in his chest, raw and burning, but it never made it past his throat. His voice abandoned him entirely as Nicholas was taken away, hands on his arms, chains clinking softly in the silence.

For the second time in less than forty-eight hours, Nicholas was ripped from his sight.

And Euijoo was left standing there, helpless, with nothing but the echo of closing doors and the unbearable certainty that this time, there would be no running after him.

Since then, Euijoo couldn’t silence this nagging thought.

It followed him everywhere, clinging to his skin, whispering into his bones, making him flinch at nothing, making his stomach twist without warning.

If only you had been there sooner.
If only you had died like the others.

The guilt was corrosive. It didn’t shout; it gnawed. It worked slowly, patiently, until even breathing felt like an accusation.

Azkaban loomed in his mind like a living thing. A curse masquerading as a prison. A sentence worse than death—everyone knew that. No visits. No sky. No warmth. Only endless dark and the slow, merciless hunger of Dementors, creatures born of nightmares, feeding on whatever scraps of happiness still dared to exist inside you. Hope didn’t survive there. Memories didn’t survive there. People didn’t survive there. Escape was impossible.

And yet Nicholas’ father had done it once.

That fragile fact circled Euijoo’s thoughts like a dying star, faint and distant, offering the barest illusion of hope. But it wasn’t enough. Not to pull him from his bed. Not to make the world feel bearable again.

Because Joon was gone.

And Yuma.

And so many others—names and faces blurring together in the aftermath, swallowed by grief and silence. The war had ended, they said. Victory, they called it.

But Euijoo lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of absence press down on his chest, knowing that whatever had survived was broken beyond repair.

The school gates opened again in 1999, as if nothing had happened—as if the stones hadn’t bled, as if the walls hadn’t learned how to scream. Hogwarts invited its students back, urging them to finish what the war had interrupted, to reclaim a sense of normalcy through timetables and textbooks.

Euijoo didn’t want to return.

But his parents, careful and gentle in their grief, nudged him forward anyway. They told him it would help. That classes and homework might distract him from the storm inside his chest, from the constant ache that never quite dulled. They spoke softly, as though afraid he might shatter if pushed too hard.

Maki, however, didn’t give him much of a choice.

He dragged him through the gates with a tired resolve, his grip firm on Euijoo’s sleeve.

“Our last year, mate,” he’d said, offering a smile that never reached his eyes. “One last time.”

To Euijoo’s surprise, Fuma was there too. Hogwarts, it seemed, had loosened its rules in the aftermath, anyone could return, no matter where the war had forced them to stop. Time no longer mattered the way it used to.
So Euijoo found himself in the same year as Fuma, sitting beside someone who had once guided him through assignments and corridors alike. And somehow, that helped. Fuma grounded him, gave him something solid to hold onto. Between shared notes and late-night studying, Euijoo found focus again. If not peace, then at least direction.

But every night, Euijoo cried.

Silently, face buried into his pillow, breath held tight so no one would hear. He cried for everyone: for the names etched into stone, for the faces that haunted his waking hours. And most of all, he cried for Nicholas, somewhere cold and unreachable, locked away in a place that devoured light and hope alike. Utterly alone.

Taki and Harua were there too, back within the familiar walls of Hogwarts. At first, Taki seemed unsure how to look at Euijoo, as though afraid his gaze alone might reopen wounds that refused to close. But Euijoo was far too broken to search for blame—least of all in Taki. They all knew the truth: anyone would have made the same choice. War didn’t leave room for purity.

So they clung to routine. To schedules and meals and shared silences. Normalcy, once taken for granted, now felt foreign—almost obscene—but it was the only thing keeping them upright.

The school grounds themselves had changed. What had once been a place of laughter and stolen moments had become a cemetery. A graveyard carved into the earth, where most of the fallen now rested. Nearly every day, they walked among the stones, fingers tracing carved letters, reading name after name, until it became unbearable to realize how many they recognized. How many voices they could still hear.

That year, no one was truly happy.

Perhaps the professors sensed it too. Detentions were quietly forgotten, rules bent until they almost broke. Pranks went unpunished. Farting charms echoing down corridors, illegal fireworks blooming briefly in the air like defiant stars. Even the adults needed to laugh, to pretend, if only for a moment, that joy was still allowed.

Euijoo started attending more parties than usual. Drinking more than usual. Laughing louder, staying out later, chasing noise the way one chased light in the dark. Desperate, reckless, and definitely necessary. Somewhere along the way, he began smoking too, ducking behind stone walls and shadowed corners to keep it hidden from Maki, who would’ve been quietly, deeply disappointed.

But honestly—who cared?

Euijoo needed to forget. He needed something strong enough to dull the memories, to silence the nightmares that crept in whenever the corridors grew too quiet. Hogwarts, with all its familiar turns and staircases, only sharpened the ache. Every hallway was a reminder. Every corner whispered names.

So when Fuma offered him a fag, Euijoo never said no.

“I really shouldn’t have let you try this,” Fuma muttered one night, as they lingered near the greenhouses, hidden from the castle lights, sharing a single cigarette between them. “You’re going to ruin me economically.”

Euijoo laughed softly, breath fogging in the cool night air as smoke curled around his face. He held the cigarette between his fingers, feeling oddly grounded by its warmth. And every time their hands brushed, his cheeks flushed, heat blooming beneath the numbness.

When Euijoo slipped back into his room late at night, the bitter scent of smoke clung to his robes and lingered on his breath. Maki noticed. They all did. But no one ever said a word.

They understood. They understood why Fuma shared his vices so easily with Euijoo, and Maki—more than anyone—understood why Euijoo needed something ugly and grounding to keep his thoughts from drowning him. Still, in the quiet hours of the night, Maki would discreetly empty Euijoo’s pockets, tossing away any fags he found, as if small, silent acts of care might be enough to keep him from slipping too far.

School ended sooner than Euijoo expected.

And with it came the slow, inevitable exposure to the real world, a place far less forgiving than Hogwarts’ stone walls. And one by one, they left.

Taki was the first. He always was. Purpose had never frightened him. He became an Auror with almost unsettling ease; the Ministry had watched him during the war, had measured his bravery and his losses, and had already decided where he belonged. Voldemort’s fall had his fingerprints on it, after all, thanks to his golden pendant. The path had been carved for him long before graduation.

Harua followed not long after. Quietly. Unexpectedly.

To everyone’s surprise, he turned his back on the wizarding world altogether. He chose something smaller, something gentler. Muggle jobs, familiar streets, a life rebuilt alongside his family in London. Peace, even if it came at the cost of magic.

And then Maki left too.

Euijoo couldn’t blame him—not really—but the ache it left behind was sharper than he would ever admit out loud. He helped Maki pack anyway, folding clothes and handing over books with steady hands, because his best friend was finally going after his dream. Studying dragons, abroad. Something wild and alive and untouched by the past. Euijoo felt proud of him, fiercely so, his chest tight with equal parts affection and grief.

“You better write, oi?” Maki said, slinging the bag over his shoulder, trying to sound light, trying not to linger.

Euijoo nodded, nudging Maki’s shoulder in return. “And I better see you at Christmas.”

When Maki was gone, the silence settled in again—thick and familiar.

Euijoo spent the summer helping his dad with chores, fixing things that didn’t truly need fixing, just to keep his hands busy. He searched for jobs too, any job, though he no longer had a dream attached to the future. He just wanted movement. Distance. An exit.

Staying in the house felt unbearable. Every room echoed with ghosts. Joon’s laughter, Nicholas’ quiet presence. Even his clothes betrayed him, fabrics that still carried memories of shared jokes and shy smiles, of warmth that no longer existed. Some mornings, simply getting dressed felt like being pulled under water, lungs burning, heart sinking.
He knew then that he couldn’t stay. Not there. Not with everything reminding him of what he had lost.

He found a part-time job at a relic shop tucked into a narrow stretch of Diagon Alley. It didn’t pay much—barely enough to justify the long hours—but it was something to hold on to. Something to wake up for. And, to his own surprise, he enjoyed it. Euijoo had always been a social creature; smiling came easily when it was part of the job. He guided customers through shelves of cursed trinkets and forgotten heirlooms, the air thick with dust, polish, and that peculiar scent of age, like parchment and time itself.

The shop felt like a pause in the world. Old magic slept in every corner, humming quietly, asking nothing of him.
One afternoon, while reorganizing a case of objects he didn’t dare touch with bare hands, Euijoo spotted a familiar head of hair among the labyrinth of narrow aisles. Fuma stood there, half-hidden between towering shelves of oddities and obscenely expensive artefacts, looking just as lost as ever.

Euijoo’s heart leapt before he could stop it.

“Fuma?” he scoffed, disbelief brightening his voice as he stepped closer. The older boy turned, brows lifting in surprise before his face broke into a wide, genuine smile. Euijoo couldn’t stop himself—his own grin stretched across his face, warm and unguarded. “No way. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Fuma laughed, shaking his head as if the universe itself had developed a sense of humour. “I’m starting to sense a pattern here.”

Without thinking—without warning, though none was needed—Euijoo stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Fuma. The hug came out of him like a reflex, sudden and fierce, as if his body had decided before his mind could catch up. Fuma froze for half a heartbeat, then laughed softly and returned the embrace, solid and warm, holding Euijoo the way one does an old friend you never quite stopped missing.

When Euijoo’s shift finally ended, Fuma was still there, leaning casually against the shopfront as if he had nowhere else to be. Together, they drifted into the night, Diagon Alley stretching before them in pools of golden lamplight. The street had quieted, shops shuttered and windows dark, the cobblestones slick with the memory of footsteps. They walked shoulder to shoulder, aimless at first, until hunger and habit guided them toward a small coffee shop tucked between a bookbinder and an apothecary.

They had far too much to catch up on.

“So,” Fuma said at last, hands shoved into the pockets of his long coat as he glanced sideways at Euijoo, a teasing lilt in his voice, “a relic shop? I always thought you were more ambitious than that.”

Euijoo scoffed, though the sound lacked its usual bite. It barely made it past his lips.

“I’m saving up,” he said simply. “Trying to move out.” Then, after a brief pause, a crooked smirk tugged at his mouth. “But what about you? What were you doing poking around a relic store?”

They reached the café moments later, its windows glowing softly against the dark. Choosing a small table outside, they settled into their seats as the night breeze brushed their faces, cool and gentle, like a quiet invitation to stay.

“I see,” Fuma murmured, eyes drifting over the menu as though he were only half-reading it. Candlelight reflected faintly off the page, softening the sharp lines of his face. “I’m looking for decorations for my apartment. I’d never actually stepped into that shop before, so I thought… why not.”

Euijoo let out a quiet laugh, warmth blooming in his chest. “Really? And were you hoping a stuffed rat would help attract visitors?”

Fuma’s lips curved into a restrained, knowing grin. “On the contrary. I’m hoping it’ll scare them off.”

That earned another laugh—lighter this time, almost genuine—and just like that, the tension Euijoo hadn’t realized he’d been carrying slipped away. Conversation flowed easily after that, lively and unguarded. Euijoo talked, really talked, telling Fuma about the string of poorly paid jobs he’d jumped between, about how he kept himself busy simply to avoid thinking too hard about the future. He admitted how lost he felt, how every plan dissolved the moment he tried to hold onto it.

With Fuma, the words came naturally. There was no pressure to explain himself, no need to justify the confusion gnawing at him. Fuma listened—truly listened—offering dry remarks and quiet humor at just the right moments. Somewhere between the coffee growing cold and the lamplight dimming, Euijoo realized he’d grown attached to the older boy’s presence, to his calm voice and sharp wit.

It almost reminded him of—

Euijoo stopped himself, the thought catching painfully in his chest before he could name it.

“You could move in with me,” Fuma said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. He lifted his cup, steam curling lazily between them as he took a sip of coffee. “I’m looking for a roommate anyway. Rent isn’t really an issue.”

Euijoo blinked—once, then again—his thoughts scrambling to catch up with the words. He stared at Fuma, excitement and disbelief flickering across his face. “Really?” he asked, a breathless edge creeping into his voice. “Are you sure?”

Fuma met his gaze and nodded, his expression steady, certain. He smiled, and something about that quiet assurance made the decision feel inevitable.

And just like that, it was settled.

Euijoo’s parents didn’t take the news well. Even at twenty, they hovered, worried and reluctant, clinging to the version of him that still came home every night. They had always been like that—loving to the point of suffocation—and this time was no different.

Packing, however, was easy. Too easy. He hadn’t accumulated much over the years, not things he wanted to keep, anyway. The truth was, moving out wasn’t about independence, it was about escape. About leaving behind everything that anchored him to a past that still ached when he touched it.

That meant the photographs stayed behind. The ones where Nicholas smiled softly at the camera, half-turned, as if already looking at Euijoo. The folded scraps of parchment too. The ridiculous notes passed back and forth during Potions, scribbled jokes and stolen glances while neither of them could bring themselves to focus on Severus’ droning voice.

Euijoo closed the drawer gently, as though afraid the memories might bruise if handled too roughly. Some things, he decided, were better left untouched.

Fuma’s apartment wasn’t much. It was small—almost cramped—with narrow hallways and furniture that seemed to have been chosen more for function than comfort. And yet, to Euijoo, it felt like enough. Like a beginning. A fragile, tentative start, but a start all the same; and that was something he desperately needed.

Still, when he set his few belongings down in what was now his room, the silence closed in on him. The walls felt too bare, too unfamiliar. Tears slipped down his cheeks without warning, quiet and relentless, and his chest tightened until breathing felt deliberate, like something he had to remind his body to do.

He didn’t mention it to Fuma.

It was a few nights later, the apartment washed in the soft glow of lamplight, when Euijoo finally spoke. Fuma stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, rinsing plates from dinner while Euijoo sat at the small table, half-heartedly filling out yet another job application.

“I need to visit someone,” Euijoo said suddenly, his voice barely steady. He didn’t look up. “Would you mind coming with me?”

There was no hesitation.

Fuma dried his hands, glanced over his shoulder, and nodded. “Of course.”

He didn’t ask who. Didn’t press for explanations. And when they stood later before the iron gates of the Wang Manor, looming and silent in the night, Fuma didn’t falter or step away. He simply stayed beside Euijoo, solid and present.
Euijoo had spent months—years—bracing himself for this moment. Rehearsing it in his head, steeling his nerves, convincing himself he was ready. Even now, standing there, his stomach twisted painfully, and every instinct screamed at him to turn back.

But he couldn’t.

He had to do this. If not for closure, then for survival. For himself, at the very least.

And above all, for Nicholas.

They stopped in front of the gates, towering and dark, the iron swollen with rust and neglect. The metal creaked softly when Euijoo pushed against it, the sound echoing like a warning. For a fleeting moment, he thought the manor might still be inhabited—too alive with memories to ever truly be empty—but to his quiet relief, it wasn’t.

A soft pop broke the silence.

Their house-elf appeared at the edge of the path, smaller than Euijoo remembered, eyes wide and glistening. Recognition flickered across its face almost instantly.

“…Byun,” the elf breathed.

That was all it took.

The gates opened, and they were allowed inside.

The Wang Manor was darker than Euijoo had imagined. Not just dim, but hollow—its vast rooms stripped of warmth, shadows pooling in corners where laughter used to linger. Every step forward felt like walking deeper into a wound that had never healed. His chest tightened painfully, as if the walls themselves were pressing in, tearing him apart piece by piece.

Then a voice cut through the silence.

“Byun.”

It echoed along the marble halls, firm and unmistakable. Euijoo turned, his breath hitching.

She stood at the top of the grand staircase, exactly as he remembered. Tall, composed, immaculately dressed. Yet something was different. The sharpness was gone from her gaze, replaced by exhaustion so deep it seemed to weigh her down. She looked older. Smaller, somehow. A woman left alone in a house far too large for her grief. Guilt twisted painfully in Euijoo’s stomach.

“Mrs. Wang,” he murmured, bowing his head slightly.

She paused, studying him for a long moment, then began to descend the stairs with measured steps.

“It’s been a while, Byun.”

And in her voice, for the first time, there was no command. Just loneliness.

Her voice wavered—only for a heartbeat—but Euijoo felt the crack travel straight through him, settling painfully in his chest. It was enough to undo him. He swallowed hard, steadying himself.

“You look so grown up now,” she murmured as she stepped closer. Her hand lifted, hesitant, hovering near his face without quite touching, as if she were afraid he might vanish if she did. Her fingers traced the air along his features, committing them to memory. “You look so much like your father.”

When her hand finally rested against his cheek, warm and trembling, Euijoo caught the glimmer of tears gathering in her eyes. Something in him broke then. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, careful and gentle, yet firm enough to feel the way she shook against him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her shoulder. “I should have been there—”

“Shh. Don’t say it,” she interrupted softly. One slender hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair the way a mother might. “I know he loved you, Byun. I know.”

Her voice dropped, heavy with regret.

“And if he’s there now,” she continued, barely above a whisper, “it’s because of me. It’s my fault he had to endure all of that.”

The words lingered between them, raw and unforgiving, as the manor seemed to hold its breath.

After that, Euijoo began visiting Mrs. Wang once a week, always with Fuma at his side. She remained reserved, her expressions carefully guarded, yet Euijoo found an unexpected sense of peace in her presence. Their companionship often unfolded in silence—an unspoken understanding that neither of them needed to fill the quiet for it to feel full.

She would prepare tea and delicate pastries, setting them neatly on the low table as if ritual itself could hold the house together. While steam curled lazily from their cups, Euijoo told her stories—soft, careful ones—about his first years at Hogwarts. He spoke of laughter echoing through corridors, of the ridiculous pranks he, Maki, and Nicholas had planned with far more enthusiasm than they ever executed. He admitted, with a small smile, that imagining the chaos had always been more thrilling than carrying it out.

Mrs. Wang listened without interrupting, her brows knitting together in mild horror at their mischief, while Fuma sat beside Euijoo, equal parts amused and slightly out of place, clearly unsure how he had ended up sharing tea with a woman who carried so much quiet grief in her posture.

On Christmas Eve, Euijoo slipped away from his parents’ lively, crowded home and stopped by the manor with a carefully wrapped dish of food in his hands; something warm, something meant to be shared. The house was quieter than ever, the decorations sparse, but she welcomed him all the same.

As he stood to leave, coat already in hand, her voice reached him soft as a breath, fragile as glass, yet unmistakably clear.

“Call me Amelia,” she murmured.

The words followed him out into the cold, settling in his chest like a promise.

After that, Euijoo somehow found the courage to convince his parents to invite Nicholas’ mother for New Year’s Eve. What began as a hesitant suggestion quickly grew into something neither of them had quite anticipated. Slowly, awkwardly at first, they began to feel like a family, or at least the fragile outline of one. It was strange, almost unbelievable. It was the sort of thing Nicholas and Euijoo might have whispered about during sleepless nights, never truly believing it could exist beyond imagination.

And through it all, Euijoo couldn’t stop wondering how Nicholas would react.

He could almost hear his voice, see the way his lips would curl into that familiar, disbelieving grin. This is pure madness, he’d say, laughter slipping through the words as his carefully polished accent dissolved under the weight of surprise.

Life, somehow, kept moving.

From time to time, Euijoo met up with Taki, who now wore his Auror uniform like a second skin. The fabric was crisp, the insignia bright, and the smile on his face—once so weighed down by grief—had begun to look real again. Harua wrote letters from London, neat handwriting filling page after page. He told Euijoo he’d found work as a librarian, that he liked the quiet, the order, the sense of things being where they belonged.

Maki sent postcards and moving photographs from abroad: sunlit landscapes, dusty research fields, and dragons in various stages of flight. In one of them, a small dragon perched proudly on his shoulder, wings twitching with restless energy.

“I’ve named her,” Maki said during one of his rare visits home, holding the photograph out with a grin. “Hope.”

Euijoo laughed before he could stop himself.

“Really?” Taki teased from across the room. “Were all the original names taken?”

And for a while, everything felt… lighter. Not healed, not whole but bearable. Euijoo went to interviews, sat across polished desks at the Ministry, listened to promises that sounded too clean to trust. Sometimes he did well. Other times, he sabotaged himself before anyone else could. Maybe he didn’t want to belong to that place. Maybe he wasn’t ready to stand among halls that smelled of power and old decisions.

So he stayed where he was. Moving from one poorly paid job to the next, letting time pass without asking too much of it. And through it all, there was Fuma.

That was the part that mattered.

With Fuma, the silence wasn’t heavy. Even the smallest routines—shared meals, tired conversations, the soft hum of the flat at night—felt grounding. Euijoo didn’t feel abandoned anymore. He didn’t feel like the world had left him behind. He wasn’t alone. And for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t drowning in loneliness either.

Somewhere between stolen cigarettes on the balcony and whispered words meant for no one else, something shifted. Lines blurred, then softened, then quietly disappeared. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t deliberate. And it wasn’t something Euijoo had ever set out to want.

But still—somehow—it happened.

Some nights, Euijoo woke with a jolt, drenched in sweat, breath tearing painfully from his chest. The screams from the night of the first of May clawed their way back into his mind, the sound of them sharp and endless. He saw his uncle’s face again, pale and still, heard the last words Yuma had ever spoken to him, unfinished and heavy with things that would never be said aloud.

And then, inevitably, his thoughts circled back to Nicholas.

Always Nicholas.

The memory of him dragged Euijoo under and hauled him back up again, over and over, from one nightmare into the next. There was no escaping it. Even sleep had learned how to hurt him.

But Fuma was there.

Euijoo never knew if he called out in his sleep, or if Fuma simply sensed it, but he always came. Quiet footsteps in the dark. A low murmur of reassurance. Arms wrapping around Euijoo with careful gentleness, grounding him, anchoring him back to the present until his breathing slowed and the world stopped spinning.

Night after night, it became a ritual.

Eventually, the space between their beds felt absurd; an unnecessary distance in a world that had already taken so much. Crawling into the same bed stopped feeling like a choice at all. It felt natural. Necessary.

“Do you think he’s cold?” Euijoo whispered, his words already blurred by sleep, barely more than a breath in the dark.

Fuma’s arm tightened around his waist, instinctive and protective. “He’s very stubborn,” he murmured back, voice low and steady, his thumb tracing slow, calming circles along Euijoo’s side. “I’m sure he’s warm.”

Euijoo hummed softly in response, eyes fluttering shut. Fuma’s body was pressed close, solid and real, his warmth wrapping around Euijoo like a promise, a shield against the night.

And yet, the cold lingered.

It crept beneath skin and bone, a chill no blanket or embrace could chase away. The kind of cold that belonged to graves and empty rooms, to names carved in stone. The kind of cold war left behind, buried in the bodies it had stolen from everyone.

Even held, even safe, Euijoo shivered.

"All murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.”—Voltaire

O Children