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Chapter Text

As far as anyone who meets them is concerned, Lee Minho and Bang Chan should have hated each other from the beginning.

By the time Minho arrives at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Chan has already made a name for himself. It takes Minho less than forty-eight hours to find out that the bright, chattering second-year he saw on the train platform with the full entourage of girls and boys alike was none other than Gryffindor House’s new golden boy. Even the Slytherins talk about him, albeit only ever whispered with rolled eyes and curled lips.

It’s not long after that that Minho discovers that his generations upon generations of pureblood Slytherin heritage hold much less weight than he expected at Hogwarts. Back home, in his parents’ tight-knit circles, alliances and shared history are everything, and until now, he’s never had to actually try to make friends in his life. Here, though, Minho quickly learns that friendship and respect alike have to be earned. If Minho wants to avoid the hungry, cruel looks of the older Slytherin boys, he’ll have to painstakingly climb the social ladder out of irrelevance.

The same doesn’t seem to be true for the Gryffindors, though, who as far as Minho can tell exist in a nebulous cloud of half-connections and friends of friends. On more than one occasion, Minho watches enviously from the other side of a classroom as two Gryffindors that were apparently complete strangers develop a bantering rapport just in time for the professor to announce the end of class. And if the Gryffindor social circle is a cloud, Chan is always inexplicably at the center of it, a fact that more and more makes Minho want to claw his eyes out as the year goes on.

They don’t talk, of course, because how could they? Minho scrounges desperately through his first year while Chan seems to float through his second, always around the corner when Minho wants to see him the least. He’s there when Minho has his first run-in with the older Slytherin boys, a group of millionth-generation purebloods that Minho knew of growing up but never met. He’s there when Minho cries until he vomits one particularly bad night in the third-floor boys bathroom, appearing just long enough to scold him. In second year, after Minho finally, desperately, finds friends to cling to, he’s there the first time those new friends call another student a mudblood, all shot through with that same awful hunger that seems to devour the older Slytherin students just in time for graduation. Chan defends the student, because of course he does, with the steady confidence of someone who’s never had a hand raised against him in his life, and it’s this, finally, that makes Minho hate him.

As Chan is helping the student to their feet, Minho watches, something roiling in the pit of his stomach. It only gets worse when his friends start to laugh.

Finally, Minho can’t stand it. He has to do something, anything, to stop that awful feeling rising in his chest. Sure, he doesn’t like looking at the Hufflepuff student, sniffling into Chan's arms, but he hates the way Chan's arms wrap around them. So he spits on the ground, just narrowly missing Chan's spotless white sneakers.

At first, Minho thinks Chan isn’t going to react, but when he finally looks up, the look that he gives him chills Minho to the bone.

“Lee Minho, yes?” Chan says slowly, giving him a once over. At Minho’s blank expression, his lip curls. “My family says your parents are just plain rotten.”

“The hell do you even know about my parents?” Minho hisses. “You - you’re nothing.” He steps forward, but one of his friends grabs his arm to stop him. Minho doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know the boy is shaking his head; Chan, after all, is untouchable.

“I’m nothing?” Chan says appraisingly. His mouth twists. “That’s funny, you know, coming from you.” Then he glances down at the Hufflepuff, and his gaze softens. “Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s go.”

While they didn’t hate each other at first, as it turned out, doing so came as easy as breathing. Like Minho’s mother would say, it was fated. Everything that came after should have been fairly easy to predict.

SEVEN YEARS LATER

When Minho wakes, it’s still dark out, the light of dying coals in the fireplace sending odd shadows dancing across the walls of his room. For a moment, he almost lets sleep overtake him again, drowsy cobwebs clinging to his brain, but then he remembers what day it is.

“Shit,” he mumbles, crawling across his gigantic four-poster bed falling out of the sheets to the floor. The bed, like all things in his house, is an antique, passed down generation after generation to each successive eldest son of the most noble House of Lee. On its best days, it smells vaguely like mothballs, especially the dark green woolen sheets. As far as Minho can figure, they were made for a time when the concept of central heating would get you accused of dark magic. Using them in the summer, especially with the fireplace burning in the background, is an exquisite kind of torture, but Minho knows better by now than to try to alter ancient Lee family tradition.

Normally, Minho would stay in bed until the morning sun starts to shine through the empty spaces in the heavy velvet curtains over his window. Since he graduated Hogwarts back in June, he’s done close to nothing all day, spending hours upon hours in the most tolerable of his family’s many sitting rooms, boredly browsing books or just staring at the wall until a bell calls him to meal.

Summers, he knows, are supposed to be filled by jobs with a lot of physical labor and spending time with friends until the early hours, at least if you believe Muggle movies, but that’s never been the case for Minho. Physical labor, after all, is beneath a Lee, and the few friends that he has are people that his parents would disown him for associating with if they knew: people like Hyunjin, a half-Veela boy, and Yeji, a lesbian. He’s even close friends with a Ravenclaw named Seungmin, which would horrify his parents just as much as the other two. All three are friends he could never hang out with over summers in a million years. And besides, Minho’s friends have all been back at Hogwarts for a week already, so it’s sort of a moot point anyway.

In fairness, he actually used to work summers, mostly interning at his father’s department in the Ministry. After all the rumors about him last spring, though, he’s been effectively exiled. Frankly, he’s surprised his parents even let him keep his job offer.

With a sigh, Minho meanders over to his closet and starts rummaging through the hangers for his work clothes. From what he remembers, the dress code at the Department of International Magical Cooperation is ultra-formal, usually complete with a suit jacket and navy or black formal trousers. What he goes with, though, is something more semi-formal, a dark navy suit jacket and trousers with a white button-down. He forgoes a tie entirely, mostly because the idea of showing up to his first day of work looking like a clone of his father makes him want to tear his skin off.

He’s just putting in his cufflinks when there’s a knock at his door.

“Come in,” Minho says tiredly.

After a moment, someone pops their head in the door. It’s the family’s butler, a man in his early thirties named Shin Peniel. His family has worked for the Lees for generations.

“Young Master Lee,” he says, inclining his head in greeting. “Your father would like to convey to you that he’ll be arriving to work separately.”

Minho can read between the lines: his father doesn’t want to be seen with him. It’s a change from the last time Minho showed up at the Ministry, but not an unexpected one. Fine, Minho thinks tightly. It’s not like I wanted to walk with you anyway.

“Thank you, Peniel,” Minho replies after a pause, once he swallows down the bile that’s risen in his throat. “Feel free to tell my mother to not wait on me for breakfast. I’ll eat on the way there.”

Peniel nods. “As you wish.” He leans back, as if about to close the door, then seems to think the better of it. “And, ah…”

Minho, in the middle of fixing his left cufflink, glances up. “What is it?”

“Try not to fight with that Gryffindor boy today,” Peniel adds quietly. “I know that he bothers you. But after this past spring, it will only do you ill.”

If Minho said he’d forgotten about that part, he’d be lying, but the implication in Peniel’s voice makes his heart swoop in his chest. He looks at the floor when he replies, as bored and dismissive as he can make it, “So my father told you to remind me not to fuck him?”

Peniel winces. “Young Master Lee, please.”

Minho takes a while to respond to that. For a moment, he just finishes arranging his cuffs. If this was years ago, back when Minho was younger and more naive, he might have been more honest. But he’s nineteen now, and he knows better than to bare his soul to the man at his father’s ear. And besides, his anger toward Chan is so nebulous and unfocused that he doesn’t think he could explain it to Peniel even if he wanted to. The fact that he’s unlucky enough to be working in the same office as Chan is horrible enough, even without having to talk about it.

“I’ve never touched a Gryffindor in my life,” Minho responds tightly with a cursory look in the mirror. “You can tell my father I’m not about to start now. And besides, even he knows that Bang and I have been at each other’s throats since we were children. It’s a non-issue.” He takes a few steps until he’s in front of Peniel, arms crossed, and lets the familiar bite slip into his voice. “So. Are we done?”

Something flickers across Peniel’s expression, gone before Minho can catch it. “Of course,” he acquiesces, moving out of Minho’s way as gracefully as a ghost. “My apologies.”

Once Minho makes his way down the long, sloping staircase and through the wide oak double doors of his family home, he Apparates to the Ministry’s main entrance. It’s only fifteen or so minutes after that when Minho finally steps out of a fireplace and into the main atrium, the dark, reflective stone arching high above him.

Even this early in the morning, it’s packed, fire bursting every few seconds in the fireplaces that line the hall as various office workers arrive into the building.

Minho’s dress shoes echo faintly against the hardwood floor as he makes his way to the back of the atrium. If he hadn’t been to the Ministry hundreds of times before, he might have been amazed by the splendor of it all - the massive gilded statues glinting in the artificial light, the swooping arches that trace the ceiling, the endless stacked offices that lean over the walkways like glassy outcroppings. But he’s been coming to the Ministry since he could walk, first to visit his father’s office on late Friday evenings when the rest of the staff had long since returned home, and later as an intern once he was old enough for his father’s influence to get him in.

Minho figures he’s been in more Ministry departments than most current employees; when he was younger, he used to intern with the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, the place his father not-so-affectionately calls “where good breeding goes to die.” In those days, as barely a preteen, his main jobs were sorting papers and getting coffee for a staff that, in retrospect, probably couldn’t wait for him to finally leave. When he was a little older, he spent another few summers with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, which includes the Obliviator’s Headquarters. By then, in his mid-teens, he was old enough to be useful, and he spent probably three consecutive summers taking notes for his mom’s office on Obliviations and other horrible accidents that tend to happen when wizards don’t pay close enough attention to their magic.

Then, finally, last summer, his father trusted him enough to put him in his department, the Department of International Magical Cooperation. There, he discovered the horrible truth: Chan had been hired just a few weeks prior, the latest star recruit to his father’s international law offices.

For some reason, Minho blocked out most of last summer, and he can’t remember most of his time in the office. Whatever happened between him and Chan must have been awful, though, because every time he mentions it in front of his parents, they acquire matching sour expressions, like Minho’s managed to disappoint them just by mentioning it. Lees, he knows, are supposed to be above making a scene.

Minho makes it to the elevators a few minutes before the start of his shift, cramming in with a cohort of middle-aged women with tired eyes. After a moment’s pause, the metal grates that make up the doors close with a shudder, and a second later, the elevator lurches into jerky movement.

Minho closes his eyes. He doesn’t even really know what he’s praying for, but he sends up a desperate plea anyway, tinged with that same bitterness that he’s grown used to feeling in the back of his throat: Please, please, please…

After a few brief introductions, his new boss, a man who identifies himself only as Mr. Lim, leads him to his desk. While technically still part of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Minho’s father’s domain of the International Magical Office of Law has always felt like another realm entirely. The moment Minho turns down the hallway from the trading offices, the Law department loom large in the distance, a wide-open floor plan with endless rows and rows of desks.

“You’ll be working here,” Mr. Lim says boredly once they reach probably the dozenth or so row. He’s shorter than Minho, and by a lot. A single, solitary desk sits in front of them, already stacked high with papers. Minho leans forward, curious, but the font is so small and dense he can’t even read it from here. He looks up just as Mr. Lim finishes, “You’ll be reporting to Bang Chan. He’s a few desks up, about your age. Can’t miss him.”

Minho’s heart sinks like a rock. “I’m sorry?” He says faintly. “What?”

“Bang Chan,” Mr. Lim repeats, this time more slowly. “Last name Bang. First name Chan. Looks like he plays Quidditch. Almost as tall as you.” Here, he gestures above his head, still a good three inches shorter than Minho, and continues, “Like I said, you can’t miss him.”

Minho swallows down bile. “But I thought you were my supervisor.” In the back of his mind, he thinks but doesn’t say, You know, I played Quidditch, too.

“I am,” Mr. Lim affirms emotionlessly. He glances down at an invisible watch, then continues quickly, “But quite frankly, I’m too busy to listen to every problem you’ll inevitably have in the next few weeks. Chan is our go-to with newbies. Seems to have a way with them. Only once you’re done with training-” and not a bother, Minho hears him imply “-you can talk to me.”

Minho doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods. Some part of him wants to protest that he was an intern here before, that he remembers what this entails, but the fact of the matter is, after this past spring, whatever he’s doing now is bound to be way more menial and way less official than whatever his job was when his parents weren’t actively punishing him. And besides, last summer is a bit of a blur to him. He doesn’t think he could remember what he’s supposed to do if he tried.

“Well, got to go,” Mr. Lim says with a glance behind him. “It’s like your father says - the bureaucratic ladder exists for a reason. I’ll see you once your training’s done in October.” Without a second glance, he turns and starts walking back down the aisle.

Fuck everything, Minho thinks acidly. Fuck this. If he were someone else, he might throw those endless, dense papers of probably barely readable legalese off the desk and just walk out. Hell, if this were a year ago, he would probably still do that. But he can’t. Not any more.

With an inward groan, Minho scans the rows of desks ahead of him for Chan's familiar frame. It only takes him a few seconds to find him, leaning his head against his hand a few rows back from the front. He doesn’t even need to see Chan's face to be sure, a fact that mildly alarms him but that he smooths over quickly. He’s wearing a white long-sleeve button up, his dark hair gelled back, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows like he’s grown a bit too warm. His skin looks almost translucent in the low lighting. Minho looks, and looks, and then something roils in his stomach and he has to quickly look away.

Just then, right before Minho is about to gather his courage and go greet him, Chan turns around. Their gazes meet almost immediately. Clearly, Chan wasn’t expecting him, because Minho is treated to a whole two or three seconds of clear, obvious panic before Chan's face clears. Abruptly, he stands up, letting the quill in his hand clatter to the desk.

“Lee,” he says brusquely, just loud enough for Minho to hear him over the low buzz of dozens of workers scratching quills across parchment. A few eyes, round and confused, turn to look at both of them.

You, Minho thinks to himself. You, again. It’s always you.

Chan gestures for him to come closer, and Minho swallows down the sharp feeling in his throat, slowly making his way up the rows and towards his new trainer. I can do this, he thinks to himself. Maybe. Maybe.

Once he approaches, Chan glances down at the ground, like he can’t bear to hold Minho’s gaze. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way,” he says to the desk after a lengthy pause. “But after-” He stops, a full one, the kind for when you’re about to say too much. “I guess I just assumed you’d never be allowed to show your face here again.”

Minho stares. “What did you just say to me?”

Chan's eyes meet his, if only for a second. His eyes darken. “Why are you here, Lee?”

There are so many things Minho could say to that. If even you know that my parents hate me right now, how many other people in the office know, for one. And If even you know what happened last spring, how many other people know, for another. Why do you care, for another. The fact that even Chan has apparently noticed his father’s current disfavor for him tastes sour in his mouth. For a moment, Minho wants to say something rough and caustic and mean, but then he remembers Peniel’s words this morning, the look on his face when he told Minho to steer clear of Chan, and he swallows down the urge.

Instead, he says curtly, “Let’s just skip the niceties and go straight to the part where you tell me what the hell I’m going to be doing with the next God-knows-how-many years of my life, shall we? You and I both know you don’t care about any of that.”

Chan's expression flickers. For a moment, he looks almost taken aback. Then he laughs, short and staccato, absent of any trace of amusement. “Of course,” he says. “Never mind. Let’s head back to your desk. I’ll explain what you’re supposed to be doing.”

Wordlessly, Minho lets Chan lead him back to his desk. As they pass between identical rows, the workers don’t even look up, even as a paper flutters off of one woman’s desk in their wake. She simply watches it fall, eyes quiet and liquid. Minho just catches the nametag on her lapel: Kim Dahyun. She must be a secretary, then.

All at once, Minho is so struck by the wrongness of it that a little shiver runs down the small of his back. But then Chan is speaking, and he’s jolted out of the feeling.

“-not that similar to what we did in seventh-year classes, so I’d forget that right now,” Chan is saying. “The number-one feedback we get from new team members is that they feel like they must be doing something wrong because it feels too easy. I imagine you’ll feel the same, so don’t be surprised by it.”

“I don’t need the spiel, Bang,” Minho says as boredly as he can.

Play nice with the Gryffindor boy, Peniel said. Well, that didn’t last long.

Chan's expression flashes. “Of course,” he says tightly after a brief pause. “No problem.” He taps the desk next to them with his pointer finger, then adds, “You’ll read all of these papers. And read, don’t skim. The packet at the top will tell you what to correct them for. When you’re done, we have more for you.”

Minho glances down at the desk. “That’s it?”

Chan's smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Surprised there’s no red carpet rolled out for you this year?”

Minho curls his lip. “You wish.”

There’s that look again - Chan is surprised, somehow, by Minho’s tone, so surprised that he seems to feel the need to hide it. Once his expression smooths out, Chan taps the desk again, once, twice, then says quietly, “Just get to work, Lee.”

Minho wants so badly to argue with him, but there’s nothing for him to say. So, instead, wordlessly, he slips into his seat and starts reading the top pages of the packet.

As it turns out, Chan is right - the work comes easily to him, so easily it almost feels like busywork. He quickly loses himself in the routine, picking up new stacks of paper every hour or so and reading through them for legal errors. They provide him with a reference packet, since Hogwarts didn’t offer any courses on Magical Law beyond the little they reviewed in their core classes, but Minho quickly memorizes the gist of it. After that, it’s just the same thing over and over - new government documents to read, correct, and turn in to Chan before the cycle inevitably restarts. By Monday evening, Minho is tired to the bone, and the moment he gets home, he falls into bed without dinner.

The rest of the week is much of the same - early mornings, paperwork, avoiding Chan, and the long trek home. After the oddness of Monday, both he and Chan seem to have learned to stay out of each others’ way, and the few interactions Minho has with him are short and to-the-point. On Tuesday, he Apparates home, but quickly learns that means arriving around the same time as his father, an idea that is so repulsive to him that he instead decides to walk home as long as the weather permits it. It’s a bit of a longer trek, close to fifty minutes if Minho’s being deliberate about it, but it’s worth getting home long after his father has retreated to his study for the night. It means the only time he needs to see his father again is during dinner, and for now, he manages to wriggle out of that one most nights, too.

By Thursday night, the routine of the day has become enough of a second nature that Minho starts to forget how he made his way home. It reminds of something they taught him back in Muggle Studies at school, a class he’d only taken to spite his father - what was it? Oh, highway hypnosis, or the phenomenon that Muggle drivers encounter when driving cars along paths they’re overly familiar with. Minho, for one, feels a little like he’s been hypnotized, reduced to exclusively automatic responses as he goes about the week’s series of identical days. Even during his worst weeks at Hogwarts, he doesn’t remember losing as much time as he has in the last few days. He certainly hasn’t done so since last summer.

He’s so tired that night that when he lays in bed, all signs point to him falling asleep immediately. Instead, though, it takes him a long time for him to relax. He keeps replaying the odd look on Chan's face whenever Minho was rude to him on the first day, the raw surprise on his face. Minho doesn’t understand it. They’ve always been like this around each other - Minho rude, Chan brusque, always at each others’ throats. It’s strange. Minho doesn’t think he remembers ever surprising Chan before, and the knowledge of it sits so strangely that he ruminates on it for hours.

That night, sleep comes for him slowly, and when it does, it’s immediately fitful.

In the dream, he’s in his father’s office. His father is turned away from them, standing behind his large mahogany desk with his hands clasped behind his back. In real life and in the dream, he’s tall, much taller than Minho, and his formidable profile is shadowed by the unlit lamps that surround his desk. Next to him is Minho’s mother, wand clutched in her fingers so tightly her knuckles are white. She won’t meet Minho’s eyes.

“Now, I should have expected this from my son,” his father is saying, his voice made of venom. “But you - from you, this is certainly a surprise. Given your parentage, I would’ve thought you had the good sense to stay away from him.”

The boy’s voice is soft and blurred and dreamlike, so much so that Minho can’t quite make out what the other man is saying.

His father laughs without amusement. “Regardless, I could have your job for this.”

“I don’t care,” the boy replies quietly. “Fire me. Do it. It’s not worth….” His voice blurs out here, so Minho can’t hear the rest.

“Oh, I thought you would say that,” Minho’s father says measuredly. “The problem is, I have a much, much better idea.” He turns his head just enough to jut his chin towards Minho’s mother.

Her lip quivers, but when she raises her gaze, it’s like steel. “Minho-”

Minho awakes with a gasp to a knock at his door. For one horrible moment, he thinks he’s still in his Hogwarts dorm, but then he registers the heavy weight of his bedroom comforter, the familiar smell of dust and moths, and a second, soft knock on his door, followed by Peniel’s familiar voice: “Young Master Lee?”

Minho scrambles up to a seated position. “Yes?” He replies loudly when he’s sure his voice won’t break.

“Your father wants you to be aware that he’ll be hosting the Minister of Magic tonight,” Peniel says, opening the door a crack. He pops his head in, his face the same perfect calm that Minho’s long since come to expect.

Minho can read between the lines: make himself scarce until the early hours of the morning. Fine. It’s not like he wants to be here anyway.

Minho nods curtly. “Thank you, Peniel.” He doesn’t look up, but he hears the door click shut a few moments later. Then, as soon as he’s sure Peniel has retreated down the hallway, he takes a shaky breath and staggers, sweat-drenched, out of bed and to the shower.

The whole morning, the dream clings to his consciousness like cobwebs, sticking to him no matter how much he tries to shake it off. His father’s voice echoes in his brain: I have a much, much better idea.

Then, still unsteady, Minho finds his way downstairs for work.

Chapter Text

When Minho ducks out of their front door that morning, it’s raining, the kind just light enough that he didn’t hear it on their roof this morning but heavy enough that he’ll be soaked by the time he makes it to the office. He would cast an Impervius Charm on his clothes to repel the water, but that wouldn’t help his hair, and he’s too nervous about Muggles seeing to dare trying the charm. (Seeing a completely dry man in a downpour would probably do someone in.) He’ll have to Apparate there.

Minho closes his eyes for a brief moment, the droplets pattering across his skin. He imagines the alleyway across from the entrance to the Ministry in his mind just long enough to cast the Apparition spell. A few moments later, there’s that familiar dropping feeling in his gut, and then he opens his eyes to the cramped streets of central London.

“Whoa,” says a familiar voice into his ear with a huff of surprise. Minho feels the scrape of fabric against his arm, and turns just in time to see Chan a breath away from him. Minho freezes. All at once, Minho can smell the heady pine of Chan's cologne, right alongside the feel of the ghost of Chan's breath on his cheek. Chan's eyes are wide, wide.

Minho must have Apparated nearly on top of him. In the back of his mind, his brain is screaming at him to move, but the thought is entirely overpowered by everything else Minho is feeling.

“Morning,” Chan says evenly. His eyes narrow almost perceptibly, following the length of Minho’s throat as he audibly swallows. Why hasn’t he moved? Why aren’t either of them moving?

Minho feels another breath on his skin, and it’s this, finally, that gets his brain working again. He takes a stumbling step back, nearly tripping over the edge of the curb in his haste to get away.

“Morning,” Minho replies roughly, his heart racing. He doesn’t apologize. He’s never apologized to Chan before, and some part of him recognizes that if he started now, it would be an emotional tell that neither of them would ever be able to surmount.

“I see you still Apparate with the grace of a baby horse,” Chan says neutrally. He’s still messing with his collar, not quite meeting Minho’s eyes. Raindrops scatter wet patches across the shoulders of his shirt. In his other hand dangles an upside-down umbrella, because of course he has one of those, and after a moment, he rights it, holding it back over his head. They’re still close enough that Minho can see water drip across the slit in his eyebrow and onto his lashes. It takes him another moment to realize that Chan has held it up high enough to cover them both from the rain.

Minho steps back out of range of the umbrella, strangely annoyed. “Those are called foals, asshole.”

“Yeah, I know.” Chan says, adjusting his collar absentmindedly as he shoots him an oddly amused look. “You should have Apparated closer to work. You’re going to get wet walking from here.”

Minho doesn’t respond. His eyes have caught on the soft bruises patterning Chan's neck right before they disappear behind his white starched collar, exactly the size of a mouth. Chan pulls at his collar again, and the motion pulls the fabric taut across his chest. Minho has just a moment to think oh that shirt is tight on him before he whisks the thought away, cheeks burning.

Chan's gaze meets his. Something flickers across his expression, something frozen and surprised, and Minho feels his stomach twist.

“I said you’re going to get all wet,” Chan repeats, as if he and Minho don’t both know he’s caught Minho staring.

Instead of taking the olive branch, for some reason, Minho finds himself replying lowly, “Have a hot date last night or something, Bang?”

Minho doesn’t know why he says it. It’s a non sequitur of colossal proportions, made worse by the fact that Minho realizes too late that it means he’s just admitted that he’s noticed the hickeys, that he’s been looking at them long enough to make a comment like that. But his blood is still pumping wildly from those few seconds where they were nearly nose to nose, and clearly his impulse control isn’t back online yet.

Chan's gaze is dark when it meets his. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”

Minho hates the way Chan is looking at him right now, almost analyzing. His skin prickles with it, and that makes him so irrationally angry that he finds himself snapping, “Maybe it wouldn’t be anyone else’s business if she wasn’t so egregious about it.”

Chan looks baffled. “What?”

“The woman you were with,” Minho says, gesturing to Chan's neck. “Obviously. Isn’t that an HR violation?”

“I-” Chan pauses. Something flickers across his face again, too quick to identify. “Why are we talking about this again?”

Luckily, before Minho has to endure the humiliation of explaining himself out of that one, a woman comes up behind Chan, water bouncing off of her like she’s made of water-resistant polyester. Her hair is bone-dry. An Impervius Charm, done with no concern for what Muggles might see.

“Chan,” she says warmly, not even giving Minho a second look. “Late start?”

Darkly, Minho wonders if this is the woman that gave Chan those hickeys. They don’t seem like lovers, but Minho can never really tell with girls, and she’s certainly beautiful enough: effortlessly straight blue-black hair down to her roots, a face like a model, and a navy blue pencil skirt clearly meant to hug her body. Her heels are high enough that she’s almost taller than Chan. Not that he seems to care.

The smile on Chan's face is immediate. “Miyeon, hey,” he says. “Long time no see. How’s the new job going?”

Miyeon smirks. “Did I not just see you on Tuesday?”

“And it’s been an age,” Chan replies, grinning. It looks like he means it, too. “The Law Enforcement office treating you well?”

Minho must make a sound, because Miyeon’s gaze flickers to him, as if noticing him for the first time, and she immediately shrugs. “Eh. Tell you later. But who’s this?”

“Lee Minho,” Chan says. It’s impossible to not notice the way his tone drops.

“Oh, the newbie,” Miyeon says in a very different voice. “You know, a couple of us were thinking about getting drinks after work. You in?”

“Miyeon,” Chan says warningly. It still comes across as friendly, somehow, but just this side of it.

Minho opens his mouth, ready to say no, but then he looks at Chan's face and can tell immediately that Chan would like nothing else less. And besides, if he remembers Peniel’s message correctly, he has to make himself scarce tonight for his father’s dinner with the Minister. Going to a bar with Chan and Miyeon, as horrible as that may sound, will kill a few hours at least.

But is he willing to go to a bar with Chan and this random girl on a Friday night solely to piss Chan off?

Apparently, yes.

“Okay,” he says finally, not quite believing himself even as he says it.

Chan looks nothing short of incredulous. “Okay?” He repeats. “Are you serious?”

“What else do you want, Bang?” Minho snaps, a little embarrassed by Chan's reaction, hating that he’s second-guessing himself already. “I said yes. Do you need a signed letter or something?”

“From you?” Chan says. “Yeah.”

“Well, we’ll be happy to have you,” Miyeon chimes in, shooting Chan a reproachful look. “It’s always good to have new blood in the office. Oh, and you said your last name is Lee?”

There’s a pause. Out of the corner of his eye, Minho sees Chan freeze, which tells Minho pretty much everything he needs to know.

“Yes,” Minho says, already bracing for impact. There aren’t that many Lee Minhos in the Ministry, that much he knows. His stomach is a pit of acid.

Instead, though, all she says is this:

“That’s what I thought,” Miyeon says cheerfully. “And Chan, lose the blue.”

Chan blinks, holding up his blue umbrella with a frown. “What?”

Already walking away, Miyeon says over her shoulder, “It’s so not your color!”

Minho half-expects him to argue, but Chan just grins after her. “Uh, huh. Bye, Miyeon.”

Miyeon ripples her fingers in an airy wave. “Later!” She extends the latter half of the word, though, so it comes out more like laterrrr.

The two of them watch her go. Her heels click against the concrete, loud enough that Minho can hear them up until the moment she turns around the corner and disappears into the crowd. Minho is horrifically curious about how Chan is looking at her right now, but he can’t quite make himself check.

“She was in Ravenclaw, wasn’t she?” Minho says, when she’s long since out of earshot. “Your year.”

That earns him that surprised look again. “Yeah,” Chan says finally. “She was.” There’s a finality to his voice, a kind of protectiveness that Minho was expecting but hates the moment he hears it. He can pick up the subtext easily: they’re done talking about Miyeon. Point-blank.

Which is fine. Minho doesn’t know why they’re still talking at all.

It was the voice at the end that finally jogged his memory, the drawn-out later. There were only a few girls at Hogwarts that talked like that, and most of them were in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, the type that exclusively dated the boys on their House Quidditch teams and giggled into their hands at the back of classrooms. Miyeon was probably the only Ravenclaw among them, at least that Minho remembers.

Way too hot to be a Ravenclaw, one of the other boys in Minho’s year said once at the Slytherin table, a wide, wide smirk on his face. Oh, the things I would do to her.

With her, you mean, one of the girls had corrected with a frown, but the boy hadn’t responded, already whispering with his friends.

“Well, bye,” Minho says brusquely, when it’s clear Chan isn’t going to say anything more. “I guess I’ll see you at work.”

Chan's smile is faint. He closes his umbrella with a click, and the rain begins to fall on him anew, running down his jawline and into the paper-white fabric of his collar. “See you, Lee.”

The rest of Minho’s day passes in what feels like simultaneously an eternity and the span of a single blink, an endless wash of legal documents and ruffling papers and the slow background tick-tick-tick of the international law office’s grandfather clock. Sometime around lunch, he gets a message dropped off at his desk via interdepartmental mail from one Cho Miyeon: a series of directions to a bar in Diagon Alley handwritten in purple pen. At the bottom, she signed her name in impeccable cursive, the curves of the “M” so perfect Minho would have been justified in wondering if she took calligraphy classes. He keeps thinking about the events of the morning, the look on Chan's face when he replied, And it’s been an age. Maybe he and Miyeon are dating.

For some reason, that thought fills Minho with such nebulous anger that he dismisses it as quickly as it comes. After, unbidden, he thinks of the rain clinging to Chan's jaw, the scent of heady pine cologne strong enough that Minho can almost still smell it, and unlike Miyeon, that particular thought doesn’t leave his brain for a long, long time.

An hour or so before the end of the day, a hand with immaculately painted fingernails raps twice on his desk. “Wakey, wakey, Lee.”

Minho glances up to find Miyeon leaning over him. “Can I help you?” He asks brusquely. He can smell her perfume from here: something flowery and sweet.

“Yes, actually,” Miyeon says steadily. “Come with me.” Without another word, she retreats down between the rows of desks, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

For a long moment, Minho just stares after her. Is this a practical joke? He can’t think of any reason Miyeon would need to speak to him; after all, she’s not even in the same department. But when she reaches the edge of the room, almost at the doorway, she comes to a stop next to Chan, who sends Minho a quick glance before making a quick come here gesture.

For a long moment, Minho considers just staying in his seat. But Chan is more or less his direct superior, as much as he might dislike it, and the consequences of directly disobeying an order could be grave for him, depending on how far Chan is willing to take it. Given their track record, Minho wouldn’t put it past him.

The moment he approaches, Chan hands him a thick packet of paper.

Minho stares at him. "Is this about the bar?"

“Look,” Chan says evenly. “Miyeon just updated me on something her team is working on. I know we’re not on the best of terms, but you’re the only person I know who can help us.”

“I’m sorry?” Minho says after a pause.

“You heard him,” Miyeon replies. “Chan says you’re one of the best spellcasters he’s ever seen.”

At first, Minho thinks he might have hallucinated the words. “I’m sorry, what?”

Chan's expression doesn’t change. “Didn’t you take your Charms NEWTs a year early? I remember seeing you in the exam room with the rest of us seventh-years.”

“Yes,” Minho says slowly. “I did. But why-”

“The thing is, that’s unheard of,” Chan replies, cutting him off. “We all know that. Back then, I had assumed it was just nepotism, like your dad had bought out the examiners or something to get you an early spot, but Miyeon was just telling me that her Ravenclaw friends said you got an Outstanding.”

Minho just stares at him. It’s all true, of course; his dad did buy him a spot a year early, he has always been unusually good at spells, and he did get an Outstanding. What Minho doesn’t understand is what this has to do with anything. His score is real, and as far as he knows, that’s all employers care about.

When it’s clear he’s not going to respond, Miyeon adds, “And Chan was just telling me that your mom works for the Obliviator’s Headquarters. Is that true?”

“Look, why are you asking me these things?” Minho asks finally, feeling frustration bubbling beneath his skin. “Who cares if I took my NEWTs a year early or if my mom works for the Obliviation office? That doesn’t have anything to do with my job.”

“Exactly,” Miyeon says smoothly. “Look, you know I work for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, right? My team and I have been working on a case. It’s internal, private to the Ministry. We need someone with ties to the Obliviator’s Headquarters and who’s good with charms. Chan thinks you might be able to help.”

“I know this probably isn’t the job you wanted,” Chan says, meeting Minho’s eyes. “If you help us with this, in return, I might be able to talk to Mr. Lim and see about getting you your old job back, the one you did last summer. It might get you out of doing this for another five, ten years.”

For a long moment, Minho doesn’t reply. What he can’t say, what he wishes he could say, is that anything he does for Chan won’t matter. That the real issue is his father, is what he did last spring, is the fact that he’s tainted the Lee family name and nothing he does will be able to walk back from that. That the weight of this job, of turning in packet after packet of edited legalese until his eyes grow blurry with strain is a Sisyphean boulder meant, Minho is sure, to punish him for sullying that name. That working with Chan and the woman Minho suspects he’s hooking up with would be another, different kind of punishment, one that Minho doesn’t think he’ll be able to bear.

But, still, he thinks back to the packet of legal notes waiting on his desk for him, the endless hours of editing awaiting him this week, this month, for the next year. He remembers, in a distant way, what it felt like to be back in school, to be doing meaningful work. Work that mattered. Work that changed the outcome of next week and the week after. Work that changed him.

“I’ll do it,” Minho says finally.

Something flickers across Chan's face, some warmer cousin to surprise. “Great,” he says, a smile breaking across his face. “Seriously, Lee, thank you. Let’s go back to Miyeon’s office to talk.”

“Here’s the situation,” Miyeon is saying a few minutes later, standing in the middle of her glass-paned office overlooking the main atrium. “Normally we’d have people helping us from other departments perform the Unbreakable Vow, but Chan says you’ll back out if we make you do that, and quite frankly, we can’t afford to lose your help on this.”

Minho feels a spark of surprise at that. Chan's right - Minho absolutely would have backed out - but he’s not sure how he feels about being so well-pinned.

Miyeon’s office is on the complete other side of the Ministry from where Chan and Minho work, the part that overlooks the atrium where everyone Apparates in every morning. The mostly glass-paned outer wall of her office overlooks the far edge of the golden fountain statue far below, a long desk covered with a mess of papers sitting against the glass. It’s small, for sure - magnitudes of size smaller than Minho’s dad’s office - but it’s a solitary office nonetheless, pretty much unheard of for someone just out of Hogwarts. Whatever Miyeon does for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she must be important.

“Essentially, a woman from our department is claiming she was Obliviated,” Chan says to Minho, just quietly enough that they won’t easily be overheard if someone passes in front of Miyeon’s door. “Kim Dahyun. She sits a few rows in front of you. Quiet. Up until a few weeks ago, she was your father’s secretary, but now she technically works for Mr. Lim.”

Which means she works for Chan, who takes all of the new hires. That does explain why Chan's here - if she’s under his management, any HR complaints might end up reeling him in as well.

Meanwhile, Minho frowns. “How does she know that? She shouldn’t have any recollection of being Obliviated at all. Her memory of the event and everything prior would be gone.” He’s so confused by the statement that he forgets to sound annoyed.

“That’s the thing,” Miyeon says, eyes flashing with something a little like excitement. “She says she’s missing memories. Huge portions of them, in fact, like literal weeks at a time. Times she was supposed working for…” She suddenly trails off, sharing a glance with Chan.

“Your father,” Chan says.

Oh. Minho understands now. “That’s why you want my help,” he says, something twisting in his gut. “You want me to spy on him?”

“No,” Chan says quickly. “No, absolutely not. You interned with the Obliviator’s Headquarters before, right? With your mom? And you remember how the Obliviation spell works from school?”

“Yes,” Minho says after a pause. He has no idea how Chan knows that. He’s never mentioned his mom around his friends from school, much less around Chan. “How did you-”

Chan barrels on, ignoring him. “Do you think you remember the office procedures? Things they do prior to and after a case? How they identify people as Obliviation candidates?”

“Maybe,” Minho allows. Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. “Hold on. You said this is a full legal case against my father? Why haven’t-” He pauses. Why haven’t I heard about it already? “Why hasn’t everyone heard about it already?”

“That’s the thing,” Miyeon replies for him. “It’s not an actual case yet. She originally filed an internal HR complaint, but says HR never got back to her. She’s now threatening to go to the Wizengamot if it doesn’t get resolved. It got reviewed by your father, then turned over to us. My boss wants us to look at the legal context before it makes it that far.”

Minho frowns. “So, what, you’re trying to disprove she could have been Obliviated?”

“No,” Miyeon says slowly. “Technically we’re proving your father had the legal recourse to have her Obliviated in the first place. That it was okay if he did it. At least, that’s what my boss wants.”

“That’s…” Minho can’t even conjure the words. Horrible, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

Chan and Miyeon share a suspiciously long glance.

“I know,” Chan says finally, clearly anticipating Minho’s words without him needing to say them. “Which is why the three of us are going to build a case to help her instead.”

After work, Minho drags himself through the damp city streets. Above him, the sky is a deep gray, just dark enough to make it a good five degrees cooler in the shade without completely threatening rain. The cobbled roads of Diagon Alley are basically a minefield to someone like Minho, who’s wearing black leather shoes probably more expensive than a month’s rent in one of the one-room studio apartments above the Three Broomsticks. He tries his best to avoid the puddles, but it rained hard enough this morning that it’s a pretty impossible task. He comforts himself by reminding his brain that his parents probably don’t hate him enough yet to refuse to replace them. And besides, ruining his shoes is probably one of the few acts of rebellion he has left.

One of the other things he finds himself avoiding is the crowds. Of course, Diagon Alley is full to bursting on a Friday night in early September, but he’s been a Hogwarts student for so long that the crowds are a surprise to him; he sort of forgot that people go to Diagon Alley outside of the two weeks before school starts. The crowd at this time of the year, at this time of the evening, is like night and day from the ones in late August. Now, the streets are filled not with eager schoolchildren and their parents but rather formally-dressed twenty and thirty-somethings, some with briefcases in hand, lingering outside of pubs and illuminated by the fluorescent light as it spills out of the open doors of restaurants.

Minho doesn’t think he’s ever actually been in Diagon Alley at this time of year before. After all, he only graduated last spring. Maybe that wouldn’t be the case, though, if his friends weren’t all younger than him. If he wasn’t the first one to graduate, doomed to this horrible no-man’s-land of a year of no one to talk to but his parents and his reluctant coworkers. If he actually had friends to spend the summer with, friends he could see without the fear of being disowned.

The problem is, of course, that the only people Minho has any desire to know are exactly the people that would get him disowned.

“Lee!” A familiar voice calls from behind him.

Minho’s thoughts are like spiderwebs, holding fast to the edges of his brain. It takes him a moment to register who’s calling his name, and another to turn around.

It’s Chan, because of course it is, one hand casually in the pockets of his dark gray suit trousers. He’s discarded his suit jacket, throwing it casually over the bent elbow of his other arm, revealing that same white formal dress shirt as earlier. A few buttons of his shirt are undone, and Minho just catches a glimpse of the edge of his white undershirt as it peeks out over the top of the uppermost done button. There are other people with him, but they rank so little on Minho’s list of things he cares about that he barely pays attention to them.

Chan's eyes are shining, but that might just be the yellow LED lighting of the bar sign reflecting in his dark pupils. It casts a strange glow on the bruises on his neck, now perfectly revealed by the undone buttons. There’s actually not as many as Minho thought - maybe three at most, the ghost of one or two more disappearing into his collar, and they’re small enough that they’re really more large blurry dots than large rashes. But still.

Because Minho hates himself, he thinks before he can stop it, I wonder what he sounded like when he got those.

Chan makes a come here gesture with one hand, clearly growing impatient. He calls, “Come on, Lee, we don’t have all day.”

Minho mentally shakes off the thought. Quickly, he hurries over, trying to ignore the rapid beating of his heart.

Chan gives him what almost looks like a once-over, then says, face quickly clearing, “Have you met Jaehyun and Eunwoo yet?”

“No,” Minho says. He doesn’t even have to look at Chan's friends to know that. They have near-identical swooping haircuts - Jaehyun’s blonde, Eunwoo’s dark - and are about the same height, half a foot taller than Chan. They’re both dressed in suits, too, Eunwoo holding a thick, expensive looking briefcase. A little behind them is Miyeon, typing away rapidly on a phone.

“I mean, me, you and Eunwoo had NEWT-level Astronomy together two years in a row,” Jaehyun says after a beat.

Next to Jaehyun, Chan sends his friend an unreadable glance.

There’s a pause. “Sorry,” Minho says eventually. “I didn’t pay a lot of attention to Gryffindors.” In retrospect, he does kind of remember them; he thinks they were in the same year as Chan, which explains why the memory is so vague. As his friend Daisy would say, the three of them were thick as thieves. They might’ve all been on the Quidditch team together, too, if he isn’t misremembering. Minho, who spent a few years as a Slytherin Chaser before he dropped out of the team, vaguely remembers playing against them.

“Yeah, no worries,” Jaehyun says, shrugging. “I get it. We’re in different Houses, different years, that type of shit.”

“If I was a Slytherin, I wouldn’t care about me either,” Eunwoo adds with a grin.

There’s a slight pause. Minho knows that if he cared about getting to know these men, here is where he would say something amused and jokey, something to diffuse the tension. But he doesn’t. He stays silent, so instead, the moment falls flat and strange, Eunwoo’s smile slowly disappearing. After a few seconds, he just catches Jaehyun and Eunwoo exchanging a look that he can’t read.

“Come on,” Chan says finally. “Let’s all head inside.”

At this time of night, the bar is full to bursting, groups of young people crowded around bar stools as they clamor to get a bartender’s attention. It’s dark and dingy inside, the few light fixtures surrounded by cracked yellow-green glass lamps that look one hard bump away from shattering.

Minho follows Chan and his friends as they make a beeline for an empty table in the back. As they do so, Chan makes a gesture towards one of the bartenders, a gangly tattooed man probably not much older than them. He sends Chan a conspicuous wink, and Minho watches incredulously as Chan blushes.

“I’m getting a drink,” Eunwoo says immediately the moment they all cram into what feels like the last booth left in the entire bar. The table is still dirty, a stack of half-empty glasses pushed in the corner by the wall.

Jaehyun pushes them further away from himself with the back of his hand, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll come with you,” he replies. “Maybe we can find a better table on the way there. Chan, your boy toy couldn’t have gotten us better seats?”

Chan coughs. Ducking his head, he mutters, sounding oddly embarrassed, “No.”

“Whatever,” Jaehyun says with a shrug, slinging an arm around Eunwoo’s shoulders. “Catch you guys in a minute.”

“Don’t kill him while we’re gone,” Eunwoo adds over Jaehyun’s arm with a grin right before they disappear into the crowd.

“Did they say boy toy?” Minho echoes, not quite sure he heard right. He doesn’t know where he gets the courage to ask; maybe it’s the oppressive heat of the bar, unraveling his brain in little bits.

“They’re fucking with you,” Chan says steadily, undoing one of his cuffs with deft fingers. “Especially Jae. He thinks he’s really funny.”

“Oh.” Minho stares down at the table. Now that Chan's friends are gone, the silence between them feels heavy. Idly, he wonders what’s funny about calling the bartender Chan's boy toy. Is it the word? The idea that Chan might be interested in a man? The concept of being gay?

While Minho stews, Chan, seemingly unbothered, is folding back his cuffs so that his shirt sleeves are pulled up to his biceps on both sides. His dark hair is starting to curl with the humidity, a lone, loose spiral falling across his forehead. He sends Minho a brief glance, then looks away.

It’s a long minute before Jaehyun and Eunwoo return, holding two glasses each of auburn-brown Firewhiskey. They pass one each to both Chan and Minho, who’s so surprised they even bothered to get him something that he can’t even muster up a reply.

“Hey, I forgot to thank you for taking the Pensieve,” Jaehyun says as he slides into the seat next to Chan, passing him a large glass of what looks like beer. “My parents were losing their minds about it.”

Minho, mid-sip of beer, almost chokes. “I’m sorry, did you say Pensieve?”

“Yeah, Jaehyun’s family is moving and needed a place to put it,” Chan replies casually, like that’s the most normal thing in the world.

Minho stares blankly at him. “So they decided to put it in the home of a twenty-year-old?”

Jaehyun snorts. “Well, they don’t exactly know about that part. My only other alternative was to pay for fucking bank vault in Gringotts or something, and I definitely do not have the time to wander around that batshit cave system they have going on down there with the goblins when I could be at work instead.”

Minho doesn’t have anything nice to say to that, so instead, he just takes another drink of his beer.

Jaehyun immediately turns to look at Chan; clearly, he isn’t expecting a response. “So…” He says slowly. “How was your date?” He says “date” like it’s supposed to be in air-quotes; it’s clearly a substitution for a different word, probably something like hook-up. The moment he sets down his glass, he starts pulling off his suit coat, setting it in his lap.

Meanwhile, Minho swallows down a bitter mouthful of beer, and tries to ignore the way his stomach twists.

Meanwhile, Chan shrugs. “Fine.”

Eunwoo snorts. “Just fine?”

Chan shrugs again, taking a swig of beer. “Yeah, it didn’t work out.” He doesn’t quite meet anyone’s gaze.

Because Minho apparently hates himself, he asks, only a little sharply, “With Miyeon?”

Jaehyun raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “Miyeon is a lesbian, dude.” Then, before Minho can even reply, he adds, raising his beer in Chan's direction, “You know, I think your problem is that you only date horny bitches.”

To Minho’s shock, Chan actually flushes. “I do not.”

“Yeah, you do,” Jaehyun emphasizes, gesturing to Chan's neck. “That shit on a workday is crazy.”

“Yeah, dude, seriously,” Eunwoo adds. “It looks like he fucking bit you.”

The world stops.

Minho flinches. “What?”

Eunwoo blinks. “What do you mean, what? Look at him. Dude practically has bite marks all over him.”

“No, that’s not-” Minho shakes his head, reconfigures. He looks at Chan. “You’re gay?” He feels a little like he’s losing his mind. Like the world is very far away. His ears buzz, loud enough that he feels a little woozy.

Face still red, Chan says unsteadily, “I’m bisexual, actually.”

Everything Minho has ever learned about Chan reconfigures itself in his head. He’s so distracted by this revelation, in fact, that it makes him immediately forget the weirdness from Eunwoo and Jaehyun just a few seconds earlier.

“I don’t understand,” Minho says finally, once he’s regained the ability to speak. “I thought you were normal.”

Minho doesn’t mean to say it that way. He doesn’t intend for it to sound like the exact kind of things his parents have been saying to him for months. But the knowledge that Chan is - that’s he’s - it just sits with him like acid burning a hole in his stomach. Before, when he thought Chan was straight, his hatred of the other boy could remain indefinite and unformed, a vague mess of feelings he tries not to think about, all covered by that boiling anger. But now, it’s like it’s grown wings in his stomach. He thinks about the hickeys on Chan's neck, the soft curve of his neck, and something in him hurts.

Meanwhile, Chan's mouth turns into a very thin line. In a tone of voice Minho doesn’t think he’s ever heard from Chan before, he says roughly, “Jesus, Lee.”

“What?” Minho replies, because it’s the only thing he can.

Chan just shakes his head. Something sparks across his expression, something a little like pain. And then he gets up and leaves.

The moment Chan is out of sight, Eunwoo whirls on him. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Minho rushes out, staccato and awkward. “I didn’t- I wouldn’t-”

“No, you did mean it like that,” Eunwoo replies, perfectly evenly. “We could all see it in your face.”

Jaehyun’s expression is similar to his friend’s: this perfect, cold anger that Minho’s never seen before on a Gryffindor. “Which is odd, you know, considering what you were up to last year.”

Ice trickles down Minho’s veins. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Jaehyun laughs without amusement. “Yeah, you do.”

“I assure you, I don’t,” Minho says icily. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to beat straight out of his chest.

“Yeah, you do,” Jaehyun says insistently. “My sister is in your year. A Ravenclaw. She told me all about you and that Ravenclaw boy. Your boyfriend or whatever.”

Unbidden, memories of the past spring rise in Minho’s brain: long hours studying shoulder-to-shoulder in the library, kissing breathlessly in classrooms, the sound of his belt buckle clinking as Jungwoo’s deft fingers undid the cold metal. Later, the freezing water of the Black Lake, Jungwoo’s lips whispering across his neck. The cold shouts of his Housemates. Being pulled out of the lake, Jungwoo taking anxious, hitching breaths behind him. The eyes of one the older Slytherin boys, a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight that he’d practically grown up with, wide with horror as he whispered, You sick bastard! What have you done?

When Minho opens his eyes again, nausea is roiling around in his stomach, so strong that he almost makes a run for the bathroom. Instead, he swallows down bile and says, his voice coming out rough and unsteady, “I’m leaving.”

“You better go fix it, then,” Eunwoo says sharply. He sends Jaehyun a warning glance as he starts to stand up, but Minho doesn’t stay long enough to find out what Jaehyun could possibly want. Minho is already gone, disappearing through the crowd.

Minho finds Chan standing in the back alleyway of the bar, back turned. Minho can’t see his expression, but his shoulders are as tense as a coiled spring.

“Hey, can we talk?” Minho says quietly.

Chan whirls around. The moment their eyes meet, his body jolts, like he can’t even believe his eyes, and his expression does something awful. “No, actually,” he says brusquely. “We can’t.”

“You have to know I didn’t mean it that way,” Minho says. It comes out almost desperate-sounding, which is strange, because why should Minho care what Chan thinks of him? They hate each other. They always have. But some strange, foreign emotion is rising in his throat, something like regret’s more desperate cousin.

He takes a step forward, and Chan recoils.

“Stop,” Chan says evenly, holding his hands up like he’s warding Minho off. “We’re done. That’s been made very clear. ” His lips twist. “Consider yourself formally uninvited to this event. I don’t know why I even bothered. I clearly shouldn’t have.”

We’re done. That’s been made very clear.

What the hell does that even mean?

Chan turns, conversation clearly over, and grabs the edge of the back door back into the bar with a white-knuckled hand. The bright lilt of pop music immediately greets them, mixed with the low roar of chatter.

“Wait,” Minho repeats, hearing his voice crack and hating himself for it. “Wait. Please.” He thinks about the rest of the night ahead of him, the hours before his father will let him back into the house, the long, endless stretch of exhausting days of work that stretch before him, waiting for the time when his fortune changes and his parents accept him and his broken-ass personality changes and he can sleep soundly at night. He thought he didn’t care about what Chan thought, and maybe he didn’t used to, but it’s clear right now that he does. He doesn’t even really understand what Chan is saying right now, but right now, Chan is the person he looks forward to seeing the most each day, and that admission in of itself takes his breath away.

Chan doesn’t slow, though. And why would he? He’s about to slip back into the bar when Minho says, mostly as a last-ditch effort, hearing his voice shake, “Hyung, please.”

As far as he remembers, he’s never called Chan that before in all the years they’ve known each other. Chan has a lot of younger friends, boys like Han Jisung and Seo Changbin who all naturally call him hyung, but Minho’s never done it in all the times they’ve interacted. It has always felt too personal. An admission of respect that Minho can’t usually imagine providing.

Chan stops. Slowly, impossibly slowly, he closes the door again, turning to face Minho. His expression is almost unreadable, but Minho can see the shock in it. He clearly didn’t expect Minho to say that in a million years.

“Minho,” Chan says roughly.

Something sparks in Minho’s chest, an odd sense of recognition, but he pushes it down. “I know how that sounded,” he says desperately, barely aware of what he’s saying. “What I said, back in the bar. About being normal. But you have to know, I don’t, like, hate gay people or something-”

Chan stares at him for a long second. “What?”

“I just, Jaehyun implied it sounded homophobic-”

“I know you’re not homophobic,” Chan says, cutting him off. “That’s not what I meant.”

The words Chan said earlier echo in Minho’s mind again: We’re done. That’s been made very clear.

It’s a very odd way to say you don’t want to be around your coworker anymore. It implies that they were something to each other in the first place. But they’ve never been that. They’ve always been Minho and Chan, enemies who hate each other’s guts.

“Then what did you mean?” Minho says after a pause.

“You should stop talking to me,” Chan whispers. “Before it’s all ruined.”

Minho takes a step forward. His heart is pounding, pounding in his veins. “Before what’s ruined?”

Chan starts to turn away, but Minho grabs his wrist tightly, pulling him back. “Before what’s ruined?” He asks, this time more insistently.

“I hate you,” Chan tries desperately. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I hate you, Lee Minho. You should just… stay away from me.”

“I know,” Minho whispers. He tries to push Chan away, but his traitorous fingers hold fast to Chan's collar. His thumbs brush Chan's skin. He sees the surprise in Chan's eyes, and waits for him to inevitably pull away, but that moment never comes.

Minho can feel his body heat from here. The bruises - the hickeys - across Chan's neck are impossibly close now. So close he could touch his lips to them. Run his lips across his skin. Find out exactly what kind of sound Chan makes under someone else’s lips.

His fingers brush Chan's skin again, his thumb running across the skin of his chest, and Chan shivers. Then Chan steps forward, and with the tilt in his head, they’re almost nose-to-nose.

“What,” Chan says dangerously, “do you think you’re doing?”

His eyes flicker to Minho’s lips, then stay there, just too long to be a coincidence. And god, Minho wants - he wants so badly he aches with it.

“Chan,” Minho says helplessly. “I…” This, too, is new. This admission. Being this vulnerable around him. But Minho’s long since lost control of the situation, of his own reactions.

“You called me hyung before,” Chan replies low in his throat. “Why?”

Minho lets out a shaky breath. He can’t even gather a response. In his head, he thinks, I didn’t mean to. It just came out. Like most things I say around you. Without even really meaning to, he reaches up and brushes a stray lock of hair out of Chan's eyes. His fingers linger on the Gryffindor’s cheek long after he’s tucked the hair behind his ears, then finally fall to his shoulders. It happens so easily, it might as well be muscle memory.

Chan closes his eyes for a long second. When they open, his awful anger is replaced completely by something else, something that sends a galvanized shock through Minho’s stomach. “I’ll ask you again, then,” he whispers. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The moment hangs between them like a live wire. Minho feels a little like he’s been struck by lightning. His pulse is thundering in his chest.

“I-” Minho stammers.

Chan kisses him.

At first, it’s tamer than Minho expected - a soft puff of surprised breath escapes from him as their lips connect, and then the steady, stiff presence of Chan's lips to his. Minho’s grip doesn’t leave Chan's collar. Then Chan relaxes against him, pulling Minho closer, and everything kicks into high gear. Suddenly, Chan's hands are around his waist, tugging at the edges of his dress shirt until it comes free from his trousers, and the moment Chan's hands make contact with Minho’s stomach, he nearly hisses with surprise.

“Sorry,” Chan says into his ear, breathing hard. “I…”

Minho shakes his head. “Just stop talking,” he mutters rapidly, kissing Chan fiercely.

Chan makes a soft noise of pleasure, kissing him back just as fiercely, and then his hands are running up and down Minho’s torso and Minho’s kissing him until his back hits the wall and then Chan is fumbling with Minho’s belt and Minho loses the ability to think completely. Oh god, he thinks desperately, oh god, oh god, oh god…

Chan's hands slip lower, below the band of his underwear, and Minho groans helplessly into his mouth. “Not here,” he says unsteadily, pulling away just enough to speak. “We can’t do this here.” With one hand, he gestures towards the street just fifty or so feet away, still bustling with noise and people. He’s halfway to hard already. He can’t come in his pants in a public area, as much as he’d love to let Chan keep touching him forever.

Chan groans. “Okay, you’re right,” he says, breathing just as hard. He sends an annoyed glance over at the street, then suddenly laughs, sharp and amused. “You know, this is such a horrible idea, but you could go home with me.”

Minho doesn’t even have to think. “Yes,” he breathes. Yes, yes, yes, yes.

Another flicker of surprise across Chan's face - he clearly wasn’t expecting Minho to agree. Chan pulls his phone out of his pocket, probably to text his friends, and Minho finally gets a longer moment to just observe him for the first time since they started kissing. He looks surreal. His hair is messy from Minho running his hands through it, shirt undone another few buttons (did Minho do that?), lips red from the pressure of Minho’s own. He looks debauched.

Minho can’t help it. He tugs at Chan's chin and kisses him again, soft and slow. Chan, apparently easily distracted, shoves his phone back into the pocket of his dress trousers, then tugs at Minho’s hair just enough to pull his head back.

Confused, Minho stares at him. “What…”

Chan shakes his head, turning his lips to Minho’s neck, and Minho gets a blissful half-second of Chan mouthing at the skin there before he pulls away, kissing his shoulder quickly before he does.

“Don’t look so disappointed, Lee,” Chan says, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. “We can continue this in my bed instead of against the wall of this bar.”

At that, Minho closes his eyes. That word, against, sends a veritable pack of butterflies fluttering through his stomach, and he lets his thoughts wander for one long second before opening them to Chan finishing up his text.

“Take me home, then,” Minho says without thinking, and is treated to another sharp look of surprise that Chan swiftly hides.

Chan kisses him, soft and fierce, then murmurs, “I think I will.”

They find their way back to a cramped fifth-floor apartment not far from Diagon Alley, where they climb up multiple successive staircases that smell mostly like beer and kind of like piss. The anticipation builds in Minho’s bloodstream like a drug, to the point that the moment Chan opens the door, his heart feels like it’s pounding out of his chest again.

Chan flicks on the light, letting Minho pass by him as he closes the door with a click. The apartment illuminates immediately. It’s typical London fare - a studio with a futon crammed in the corner, a beat-up couch facing a wall-mounted TV, and an attached kitchenette with counters covered with clutter.

Chan, mid-unbuttoning his shirt, says casually, “Well, make yourself at home.”

Minho stops him mid-attempt. Trying to hide the shake in his hands, he murmurs, “Let me.”

After a heavy look, Chan lets him. Slowly, he undoes each button, Chan's gaze hot on his skin, until he gets to the heavy belt of Chan's dress trousers, where he unbuckles it as it clinks against itself.

He’s only done this once before (with Jungwoo, his brain whispers, only with Jungwoo), but it was with someone he only partially liked. There’s something different about doing this with Chan. Every time he moves, it sets Minho’s heart beating like a quick drum. Hell, even when he’s not moving, Minho’s being devoured by anticipation. The heat of Chan's body a few inches from his own is heady, almost dizzying. Some deep, previously hidden part of him wants to lick the sweat from Chan's skin, and the thought sends a shock through his bloodstream.

Slowly, Chan runs his fingers across the fabric of Minho’s shirt across his chest. “I want to take this off you,” he says lowly. “Can I?”

Wordlessly, Minho nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Chan shrugs out of his formal shirt, then helps Minho out of his. Every touch of Chan's fingers across Minho’s shoulders as he pulls the sleeves off of him sends a shiver of heat down his spine. They’re both in their undershirts now, trousers loose around their hips. Chan gives in a slow once-over, then says, so low in his throat Minho almost doesn’t hear him, “Jesus. I almost forgot how hot you are like this.”

There’s something strange about that statement, so much so that Minho should have stopped and asked what he meant by that. Because what did he mean, forgot? They’ve never done this before. But in the moment, the thought whisks itself from Minho’s brain. He’s too busy looking.

Minho feels his cheeks heat. “You say that when you look like that.” He gestures to Chan's body somewhat generally. After all, while Minho is made of a heap of slim, long limbs, Chan has the biceps and abs of a man that lives in the gym. Minho can see his muscles through the tight, ribbed white fabric of his undershirt. He wants so badly he aches with it.

Chan sees where he’s looking, because of course he does, and he smirks. “Thanks to being fucking awesome at Quidditch, apparently.” Minho doesn’t miss, though, the way his cheeks turn pink, too.

“I could…” Minho lets out a breath. Devour you. “Suck you off.”

Chan leans back against the wall with a heavy breath. He shakes his head with a quiet laugh, then says, “I should have known you’d be…” He never finishes his sentence, though, so Minho never learns what Chan should have known about him. Instead, Chan reaches out, runs his hand along Minho’s jawline, and then buries it in his hair. There’s a quiet look in his eyes, a look that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen on Chan before. Something intimate and contemplative and appraising all at once, like Chan's seeing him for the first time.

“We could just kiss, too,” Chan says softly.

“I-” Minho starts, then stops. He doesn’t know how to say it out loud, but in his head, he thinks, I want to touch you so badly I ache with it.

At the look on Minho’s face, Chan laughs. “Alright. I see how it is.” His lips curved, he tugs Minho downward by the hair.

Minho groans, letting himself slip to his knees. Chan's belt clinks as it hits the floor. Minho is immediately treated to a view of the long lines of Chan's lower abdomen, the sharp curve of his hipbones over the waistband of his boxer briefs, the curve of the elastic as they stretch across the pale skin of his thighs. Chan's hand still hasn’t left his hair.

“Do you need a map?” Chan asks, sounding amused.

“Fuck you,” Minho replies, but without the usual heat. Slowly, he tugs Chan's waistband down, heart in his throat, and ghosts his mouth across Chan's hipbone once, twice.

Chan's breath hitches. “Come on,” he says, low in his throat. “God. You know I want you.”

Minho swallows another groan. He wants to put his mouth on Chan immediately, see what else he can do to catch the other man’s breath, but instead, he rocks back on his heels and says as conversationally as he can manage, “You know, Bang, that sounded suspiciously close to begging.”

The hand in his hair tightens. “No,” Chan says, surprisingly easily. “If anyone begs tonight, it’ll be you.”

Minho swallows. “Yeah?” He says unsteadily. He glances up; Chan's gaze is all heat. He holds his gaze for just a second before glancing back down, heart pounding.

Chan's fingers curl around Minho’s chin. “No way,” he says, sounding awed. “You like that, don’t you? I was mostly joking.”

Minho’s face burns. “I-” He starts to pull away, but Chan stops him.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Chan says softly, cutting him off. “Anything you like.” His thumb curves across Minho’s lips, tracing them gently. There’s an unfamiliar look in his eye, something soft and warm and -

Minho looks away, his breath suddenly coming in short gasps. He almost takes Chan's thumb into his mouth, then thinks the better of it. Instead, he finally does what he’s been aching to do. As his mouth moves, he listens to Chan gasp, and Minho’s own mouth is far too busy to make any sound other than a groan for a while.

Chapter Text

Though Jungwoo and Minho were in the same year in Hogwarts, they didn’t cross paths until seventh year. By then, Minho had already heard about him from other people - he was one of the few out gay guys at Hogwarts, and his public coming out at the beginning of that school year was preceded by six years of pretty relentless bullying from students in all four Houses for his more effeminate presentation and personality. No one ever actually touched him, as far as Minho could tell; it was just little things, small side comments made in front of him in class, or laughter as he walked past on the green. Things that could be passed off as jokes or coincidences. Nothing incriminating. But they all knew - everyone in their year - what was really happening.

It was a strange year for Minho, immediately coming off of his whirlwind first internship in his father’s department at work. He had vague memories of the summer before, but they were hazy and superfluous, like they’d been put through a meat grinder, or like he was viewing them through a shattered mirror. Regardless, though, it was like that summer was a watershed moment for him, and since then, he hadn’t been able to stop noticing the differences. He was different.

When he walked into his first class of seventh year, he made eye contact with a random Slytherin boy with messy dark hair he’d vaguely hated since first year and immediately felt an odd swooping in his stomach. He looked at that boy, and looked, and looked, and only looked away when the boy sent him a strange glance. He’d never felt that way about men before (or maybe he had, some little voice in the back of his brain suggested, and was only just paying attention) but now he couldn’t stop noticing it.

Minho and Jungwoo were lab partners in Potions that year, courtesy of the fact that Minho was in the middle of his long-held pureblood Slytherin friendships slipping through his fingers. None of the Slytherins in his year would partner with him, and Jungwoo was, of course, alone, which meant their professor put them two together once everyone else had partnered up and left.

When they got to their seats, Jungwoo turned to him and said, Look, I know who you are. I can just do the work myself. I won’t look at you or talk to you or anything.

Minho knew what that meant. It meant Jungwoo had heard about Minho and his former friends; they had been the princes of Slytherin House for a while. Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs knew to stay out of their way.

Minho could’ve left it that way. He could’ve kept up the persona he’d cultivated, said something brusque and rude and let Jungwoo really do all the work. But something in him had ached since the summer, this summer that he barely even remembered, and if he was really honest with himself, he kind of liked how Jungwoo looked.

And so Minho had surprised himself by saying, No, I’ll do my work. You’re my partner. We can work together, the same as everyone else.

Jungwoo stared at him. You know what they’re going to say about you, right?

Minho shrugged. They won’t. Not about me.

He’d been wrong, of course. He’d even known it at the time - it was bravado, the kind he’d always been able to conjure when he needed it. In fairness, though, it didn’t help that by December, Minho and Jungwoo found themselves gasping into each other’s mouths in empty classrooms, stealing moments in broom closets and, when spring came, fumbling at each others’ clothes near the lake (and eventually, in the lake) where so few students went.

It was a connection of convenience, and they both knew it; by February, they’d both pretty much admitted to each other that neither of them was each others’ type, but they’d both been starving for so long that just being near a boy that kind of wanted them was intoxicating.

It was too good to be true, and Minho knew it, but somehow, he never assumed people would find out. It felt like living a dream, one he’d carved out in pockets for himself around the edges of his new friend group with Hyunjin and Seungmin and Jeongin, younger students that had recently replaced Minho and his former friends at the top of the Hogwarts food chain, but of course it couldn’t last. And it didn't. It ended like this: Minho and Jungwoo being pulled out of the lake by laughing Slytherin classmates. Jungwoo shaking and shivering, trousers half-unbuttoned, dappled red marks the shape of Minho’s mouth just visible below his collar. Minho had similar marks, but in far less obtrusive places: his stomach, his thighs, his lower back. Then there was a boy he’d once considered a friend, gripping his arm and saying loudly, the disgust plain in his eyes, You sick bastard! What have you done?

You can’t tell anyone, Minho begged. Please. Please.

He’d reached out, maybe to grip the boy’s sleeve - a mistake, because the boy immediately backed away, as if horrified by the prospect of Minho’s touch. Don’t fucking touch me. I’m going to tell fucking everyone.

Minho wakes up in a tangle of bedsheets.

It must be around dawn, because the pale blue-yellow light of the sunrise is just starting to trickle in through the apartment window. It still feels like night inside Chan's apartment, though, the cabinets and desk casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. Above them, light footsteps patter across the ceiling, undoubtedly the sound of the apartment dweller directly above them either starting or ending their day.

Minho turns his head to the other side of the bed. There, Chan's eyes are closed, expression softened with sleep. His hair is almost curly with the humidity of the room, and Minho recalls without meaning to the feeling of running his fingers through it last night, interlinked strands catching in his hands. Chan is on his stomach, his arms curled under the pillowcase, chest rising and falling.

For a moment, Minho just watches him. He’s not quite sure what to do. Should he just leave? Stay? Would Chan even want him to stay? It’s morning, after all. Don’t people leave hook-ups in the morning? Though Chan didn’t explicitly say he had to leave early, the thought of overstaying his welcome is far more unbearable than leaving earlier than he should.

Slowly, so as to not wake Chan up, Minho peels back the sheets and stumbles over to his clothes, still strewn out across the floor of the entryway. He manages to get halfway dressed, in just boxer briefs and his formal shirt, when a yawn startles him out of his reverie.

“Hey,” Chan says sleepily. He blinks awake, turning over onto his back with his arms stretched out over his head. The motion highlights the long lines of his stomach, and Minho has to quickly look away.

“Hey,” Minho says, heart pounding, sounding much more awkward than he intends. He’s not quite sure what to do with his hands.

Chan blinks a few more times, rubbing his eyes, then looks back up at him before it finally seems to dawn on him what Minho was about to do. “Wait, were you leaving?”

Minho bites his lip. “Yeah?”

“Well, don’t,” Chan replies immediately. “Come here. It’s Saturday, the literal ass-crack of dawn. There’s no way you have somewhere to be.”

Minho’s heart clenches. The image of sitting in bed with Chan long past dawn does something strange to his head. It feels like something lovers would do. People who actually care about each other.

Before he can think about it too much, Minho finds himself saying, his voice hard, “I’m not a dog. You can’t call me over at every whim.”

“I never said you were,” Chan responds. His frown deepens. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Minho looks down, starting to button up his cuffs. “I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yes,” Chan says simply. “You were.” He pulls himself to a seated position, the blanket falling off his bare chest, then adds, very carefully, not quite meeting Minho’s gaze, “But I can take a hint. Leave if you want. I won’t keep you against your will.”

For a second, Minho considers saying something rough and caustic again, something that’ll undoubtedly leave Chan frowning even worse than he is now. It’s certainly the safer option. Minho knows very well by now how to be angry with Chan. But the memories of the previous night are still bouncing around in his brain. Once they were kissing, they didn’t argue, did they? Not really. Not in the ways that mattered. It was like they finally found something to agree on. And besides, as much as Minho might try to lie to himself, even he can’t deny that Chan seems genuine.

Minho looks at him for a long moment. “I’ve never-” He stops, closes his eyes. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “I’ve never done something like this before,” he says unsteadily. “I didn’t mean to… offend you or anything. I don’t know how to do this.”

Chan's gaze softens imperceptibly. “I know.”

Minho laughs, but it’s without amusement. “It’s that obvious?”

Chan shakes his head rapidly. “No, I-” He stops. “Just ignore me. It was a stupid comment. I didn’t mean anything by it. Leave, or stay, or whatever you want. It doesn’t matter to me.” He stares down at the blankets.

For some reason, Minho has the feeling that it does matter to Chan if he stays. If Minho had to guess, it matters a lot to him, a thought that confuses him as much as it takes his breath away. He doesn’t know what he did to warrant that level of interest. He can’t be that good in bed.

“Okay,” Minho whispers. Then, face burning, he walks back to the bed.

Almost immediately, Chan pulls him into his lap, which could have been odd and awkward but somehow is anything but. “Thank Merlin,” he murmurs against Minho’s neck. “I was worried you were going to leave.” Slowly, he presses kisses across Minho’s skin, his fingers deftly unbuttoning Minho’s shirt again.

“I thought about it,” Minho says lowly. His head is hazy; the feeling of straddling Chan's lap is breaking his brain a little.

“I know.” Chan kisses his mouth, clearly meaning it to be a quick press of the lips, but Minho catches Chan's jaw right as he’s about to pull away. Almost immediately, Chan melts into him again, and before Minho knows it, they’re rocking against each other, breath coming in quick gasps between heated kisses. Minho’s skin feels hot. A tight feeling is growing in his belly, sharp like lightning every time Chan grinds up. Distantly, he’s aware that he’s clutching Chan's face like he’s about to disappear, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.

Chan's hips lift again, and something tugs hard in Minho’s stomach. “Wait, I’m gonna-” He pants, breaking away from Chan just long enough to get the words out.

Instead of answering, Chan just kisses him harder, and the world turns white once more.

Later, once they’ve cleaned up, they lay naked together under the sheets. By now, it’s easily close to mid-morning, the late summer sunlight dappling across the blanket and the few bits of hardwood floor not covered by furniture or clutter. Outside, the sounds of engines without mufflers occasionally roar past on the street below.

Minho is laying his head on Chan's bare shoulder, their legs tangled together. They’re not really talking, but it’s not awkward, either. Instead, to Minho’s surprise, they’ve been sitting in a kind of companionable silence, Minho playing idly with Chan's fingers, Chan's hand running through Minho’s hair.

Minho glances up at him. Chan's eyes are closed, lips slightly parted. If Minho didn’t know better, he’d say the other man was asleep.

“When did you know you were gay?” Minho asks quietly.

“Bi, actually,” Chan corrects, eyes flying open. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” Minho says as casually as he can muster. “I remember you had a lot of girlfriends in school.”

“Not that many. Just, like… four.” Chan shrugs, or as well as he can with Minho’s head on his shoulder. “Five, maybe, depending on how you count. But yeah, I figured it out in maybe fourth or fifth year. What about you?”

Minho stares at him. Unbidden, the memory of their first interaction at work back on Monday rises in his brain, the way Chan said, voice tight, I guess I just assumed you’d never be allowed to show your face here again.

Jungwoo. It was with Jungwoo. Some day in November or December of their seventh year, sitting in the library with their knees brushing and feeling a little like he touched a live wire. Looking at Jungwoo’s lips and finding himself wondering for the first time what they would feel like against his own. Realizing, his heart sinking, that he’d never thought about a girl that way in his life. That he probably never would.

“Don’t do that,” Minho says tightly, moving away from him as much as possible in Chan's small mattress. Chan's arm slips from around his shoulders, and he feels the absence like a cold front.

Chan frowns. “What?”

“Don’t fucking taunt me,” Minho grits out. “I know you know. Everyone knows. Everyone fucking knows. Jaehyun made that perfectly clear.”

“What?” Chan repeats, his brow furrowing. He looks so genuinely confused, in fact, that Minho falters. Maybe he doesn’t know about him and Jungwoo. But then what did he mean at work by I just assumed you’d never be allowed to show your face here again?

“You don’t know,” Minho says, his voice faltering. When Chan's expression doesn’t clear, he adds, “About me and Jungwoo?”

Chan shakes his head. “I have no idea who that is.”

“Jaehyun didn’t tell you?” Minho asks, disbelieving. He thought they shared everything with each other. Gryffindor boys always seemed that way to him, at least - like they had no secrets.

“We don’t talk about you,” Chan says briefly. It’s staccato and short, the kind of response for when there’s more to be said.

Minho doesn’t buy it. “Jaehyun said he heard from people he knows at school.”

“I think you’re forgetting that my friends that are currently at Hogwarts couldn’t give two fucks about that kind of gossip,” Chan replies after a pause. “No offense.”

In fairness, that’s probably true: Chan’s younger friends, Changbin, Felix, and Jisung, have always seemed somehow separate from the school rumor mill, maybe because the only notable thing any of them have ever done is be gay with friends popular enough to protect them. So Minho doesn’t know why he’s pushing it. Maybe because he’s lived the last six months of his life under the impression that every Hogwarts student and graduate between the ages of sixteen and twenty heard about him and Jungwoo. That was certainly how it seemed, at least, when he was in school.

“Changbin’s in Ravenclaw,” Minho says lowly. “So is Jungwoo.”

“Yeah, and Changbin is way too absorbed in his boyfriend to be bothered by stuff like that. I doubt it even occurred to him to mention it.” Chan ducks his head, then adds quietly, “He’s also not generally in the business of outing people.”

Minho’s chest tightens. “I see,” he says roughly. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t move to get closer to Chan again, either. Outside, a motorcycle rumbles past, the engine revving.

“So…” Chan says slowly, when it’s clear Minho’s not going to say anything else. “You dated this guy? Jungwoo?” There’s a weird tone to his voice that Minho’s never heard before. He brushes his hair away from his forehead, still messy from the morning (and, undoubtedly, from Minho running his fingers through it). If Minho didn’t know better, he might even say Chan sounds… jealous.

Minho shakes his head quickly, turning away. “No,” he says brusquely. “Yes. Kind of. I don’t know, we didn’t really talk about that kind of stuff.”

“And it ended badly.” It’s barely a question. Whatever Chan is seeing in Minho’s expression seems to have confirmed it for him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Minho says. “Ever.” He knows he’s coming across as rude, but the memories of Jungwoo still stick in him like thorns.

“Okay,” Chan says. He doesn’t say anything else.

For a long moment, it’s silent. After a bit, Minho turns back to look at Chan again, and is surprised to see his gaze still focused on Minho’s face. He looks lost in thought, and it clearly takes him a moment to realize that Minho’s meeting his gaze because a moment later, he jolts.

Eventually, it’s clear that Chan won’t be the one to break the silence. They sit in it, the feeling in Minho’s chest growing tighter and tighter, staring and staring, until Minho can’t quite bear it.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Minho whispers finally. “I don’t understand. I thought you hated me.” He doesn’t mean to be so honest - his face burns the moment he says it, and he can no longer meet Chan's eyes.

Chan makes a soft sound of disagreement. “I never hated you.”

Minho scoffs. “Liar.” He still can’t look up from the blankets, so he can’t see Chan's face, but if Minho’s not wrong, he sounds almost disturbed. It’s like the thought of hating Minho has never occurred to him, which is almost laughable. Obviously he hated Minho. Obviously.

“I never hated you,” Chan repeats, sounding almost forceful, and Minho is so shocked by his tone that he actually looks up. Chan continues, frowning, “Did I dislike you? Sure. Did I think you were a stuck-up asshole? Absolutely. But I never hated you. And if I had to guess, I’d say the same is true for you.”

Minho swallows. “What the fuck makes you think that?”

“Knowing us, we wouldn’t be here otherwise.” At Minho’s confused expression, he clarifies, “Here. In my bed.”

For a moment, Minho thinks about it. He thinks about his first year in school, the way his gaze had followed Chan around the school, that horrible feeling in his stomach whenever Chan was kind to other students in his vicinity, the way that same feeling reared its head every time they inevitably argued. The way that feeling followed him all through school.

He always assumed that feeling was hatred. Or, rather - it was easier to assume it was hatred. To pretend like the reason looking at Chan made his chest hurt was because he couldn’t stand him, and not because staring at the bright-eyed, effortlessly handsome, perfectly amiable Gryffindor, kind to seemingly everyone but him, made his stomach ache year after year after year. Because hate was easier to explain to a family that despised Chan and his type (Gryffindors, Gryffindors, always Gryffindors).

“You’re right,” Minho says finally. “I never hated you.”

Chan doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but he tugs at Minho’s arm until he pulls himself closer of his own accord, which doesn’t take nearly as long as Minho would like to admit. They lay back against the bed again, Chan's skin warm against Minho’s cheek.

“Okay, well, now that we’ve established that we don’t and never hated each other, what happens now?” Chan says tentatively, wrapping his arm around him. He presses a quick kiss to Minho’s shoulder. As he pulls away, he clarifies, “Between us, I mean.”

I don’t know. Minho can’t say it, though. That feels like an admission, one far bigger than simply admitting he didn’t despise Chan. It feels a little like a promise. So, instead, he just kisses him.

Immediately, it’s soft and slow, like night and day compared to their previous kisses. Chan pulls him closer, so their legs are helplessly entangled, and Minho kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until his lips feel bruised and his chest aches.

“So the Obliviator Headquarters doesn’t technically have the legal right to Obliviate wizards,” Minho says, ruffling through his briefcase. They’re back in Miyeon’s office, the atrium near-empty behind the glass over Miyeon’s shoulder. It’s late on Monday evening, probably close to 7 pm, and most of the Ministry has long since left for the day.

Minho spent most of the weekend worrying about his first day back at work after his and Chan's hook-up, but as it turns out, he shouldn’t have. It goes exactly the same as last week: coming in to work via the atrium, editing the packets and packets of legalese, and turning them in once they’re done to a Chan that barely gives him a second glance.

The only difference today is that after work, instead of heading straight home, Chan leads him back to Miyeon’s office, where they start planning for how to help Dahyun with her case against Minho’s father.

A moment later, Minho pulls out the sheet he was looking for, Chan and Miyeon looking at him expectantly. “This is the fact sheet my mom gave me on my first day,” he says. “It’s a lot of legal bullshit, basically, all to say that in the vast majority of cases, the sole purpose of the Obliviators is to keep the magical world safe, usually from discovery by Muggles.”

“Right,” Chan says, frowning. “That’s what they teach us in school.”

Minho nods. “But depending on who the current Head of the department is, “keep the magical world safe”-” here he makes air quotes “-can be interpreted a number of ways. For example, if there’s concern that a wizard might release confidential information that could put the magical world at risk, the Ministry will occasionally use force as they see fit to keep that information safe.”

“Have you ever seen them do that?” Miyeon asks, clearly trying to hide her curiosity. “Obliviate a wizard, I mean.”

“Once,” Minho replies. He tries not to think about it too much; the memory of the light leaving the man’s eyes still lives on in his brain like a horrible parasite. “He broke into the Department of Mysteries.”

Chan frowns deeper. “So they Obliviated him? That seems extreme.”

Minho looks back down at the papers. In this environment, surrounded by reminders of his father, he has to fight the urge to say something mean to Chan. A few days ago, he probably would have. But then this whole thing would go up in flames - helping the Obliviated woman, talking to his coworkers, maybe even his wordless agreement he has with Chan now. So, instead, Minho says to the desk, “He was noncompliant. He wanted to tell people about whatever he found. As far as they were concerned, he was basically asking for it.”

“That’s awful,” Miyeon replies, her voice so strange that Minho looks back up at her. “I can’t imagine.”

Minho shrugs. For some reason, he suddenly can’t speak. The look on Miyeon’s face is distant, like she’s lost in thought, and he can’t quite meet her eyes. He thinks again of Dahyun on his first day, the way he looked down at her desk to see her eyes blank and empty, the wrongness of it. It was like someone had taken something from her, something intrinsic and irreplaceable. Like someone had torn a piece out of her soul.

“So, to get back on track,” Chan says, “If Dahyun found information that they didn’t want getting out, could they Obliviate her?” He, too, sounds strange, but it’s different from Miyeon. Less like he’s lost in thought. More like he’s trying to control his voice.

“Again, legal force doesn’t technically extend to Obliviation,” Minho replies, finally looking up from the desk. “They can’t do it. It’s illegal. But sometimes it happens anyway.”

Chan looks at him for a long moment, expression impossible to read, then says in that almost-perfectly-even tone, “So if we find evidence that they took her memories and manage to release it, they get in trouble?”

Minho nods. “Basically.”

“Great,” Miyeon says cheerfully, finally herself again. “Now where do we find that?”

“Um…” Minho has to take a moment to think. It’s been two years since he was last in the Obliviation office, and to be honest, he hasn’t thought about it much since then. Back then, it was a nothing-thing, an internship he took reluctantly with the expectation that he’d be moving on to bigger and more important things. Self-consciously, he retraces his old path in his mom’s office in his brain, mindful of the other two watching him.

Finally, Minho says tentatively, “When I interned there, I think they kept all the Obliviation records in boxes in the head of the department’s office.”

Miyeon raises an eyebrow. “The Head of Obliviator Headquarters, who is also your mom.”

“Yes.” There’s no denying that, no making that less of a big deal. Minho doesn’t even try.

Miyeon’s eyebrow climbs higher. “So we have to break into your mom’s office.”

“We could,” Minho allows. “But I have a better way.”

Chan leans forward, eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“The records department, down in the lower levels,” Minho replies. “All departmental records get sent there. If they were dumb enough to record evidence of them taking her memories, they’ll all be down there.”

To his surprise, when Chan replies, he doesn’t even hesitate. “Then we go there,” he says decisively. “This Friday, after work. I think I know someone who can get us in.”

Later that night, the shadows in the Ministry looming long, the three of them walk back through the atrium and toward the exit. Miyeon has long since shed her heels, and is walking instead in a pair of spotless pink-and-black sneakers that look like they might cost as much as Chan's monthly rent. The heels she holds by the back of the shoes, dangling from her left hand with practiced ease.

Chan and Miyeon chatter away just a few paces ahead of him, but Minho has long since tuned them out. He thinks they’re talking about sports - apparently Miyeon’s girlfriend plays for the Chudley Cannons - but Minho hasn’t cared about that kind of thing in years, and he doesn’t plan on restarting now. Besides, talking to the other two for hours and hours has started to wear on him. He doesn’t think he’s spoken to other people this much in months.

If Minho didn’t know that Miyeon is a lesbian, the picture of the two of them together, Miyeon practically hanging off of Chan's arm, might have twisted his stomach. The two of them have the easy chemistry of old friends. At one moment, Miyeon is sending Chan an accusatory half-glare; another moment, they break into laughter, Chan smirking at her like he’s just told a particularly good joke. His eyes are bright despite the low lighting, and Minho resists the urge to follow his eyes along the firm lines of Chan's shoulders and down his back.

At the fireplaces, Miyeon sends them a small wave over her shoulder. “Later!” Like last time, she draws out the end of the word, so it comes out again like laterrr.

Chan grins at her, returning her wave. “See you!”

Minho hesitates for a moment, but when her gaze meets his, he hesitantly returns the wave. At that, Miyeon smiles, then disappears in a bright burst of green fire as she enters the fireplace, Apparating to wherever else she was heading for the night.

Chan turns around. His smile is still dancing as he says, “She likes you, you know.”

“I don’t know why,” Minho mutters. It’s more honest than he intends to be; he’s still halfway lost in thought when he opens his mouth.

Chan's smile slips a little. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

Chan looks at him for a long moment. “You know what I mean,” he says finally.

Minho does know what he means, but hearing it come from Chan makes his face burn. He hadn’t realized Chan would even care how Minho talks about himself. After all, why would he? They’re not friends.

But Minho doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he just lets his eyes flicker to the ground. In a low voice, he replies, “See you tomorrow, Bang.”

Minho moves toward the fireplace, meaning to Apparate back home, but Chan grabs his wrist, stopping him. For a moment, Minho can’t look back. He won’t.

“Hey, wait,” Chan says, his voice so low Minho almost doesn’t hear him. It sends a thrum of anticipation through his veins.

After a beat, Minho turns to face him, his heart pounding. “What?”

Chan just looks at him. Distractedly, Minho’s eyes flicker to the messy swoop of dark hair across Chan's forehead, the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips. He didn’t think this would happen again between them. All weekend, he didn’t even let himself consider it. But now, with Chan looking at him like that, for the barest of seconds, he lets himself wonder.

“Is your father expecting you home tonight?” Chan asks quietly.

Yes. “No,” Minho replies, more steadily than he feels. “Why?”

Chan's expression flickers. “Lee, you know what I’m asking.”

Minho thinks back to Friday night, Chan's back against the wall, fingers tugging on Minho’s hair, the dull sensation of his knees against the wood floor. Later, straddling him on the bed, Chan's arms warm around his waist.

Minho can almost hear Chan's words in his brain: What happens now? Between us, I mean.

I don’t know.

Finally, Minho lets himself admit it: he wants it. Him. Chan. He wants him so badly he almost aches with it. He’s done pretending he hates this man, not when the memories of Friday night make him hot all over.

“Yes,” Minho whispers. “The answer is yes.”

Immediately, Chan's grin is like the sun. He tangles his fingers in Minho’s, tugging him towards the fireplace. “Then let me take you home.”

Later, they crawl into bed together, gasping into each other’s mouths. Chan practically tears off Minho’s clothes, fingers warm against Minho’s thighs, and then, after, in more intimate places. Chan kisses his neck, his chest, his hips, murmuring words that Minho can’t quite catch. Slowly, Minho runs his hands through Chan's hair, his breath turning into other sounds, ones he might have been embarrassed by if Chan didn’t so clearly enjoy hearing them. As Chan's mouth moves, that iron-hot tugging sensation in his stomach grows larger and larger until Minho’s brain goes white with pleasure and the sound of Chan saying his name.

Friday comes around sooner than Minho would have liked. After Monday night, they develop a kind of unspoken agreement, and he spends almost every afternoon after that at Chan's place. It even gets to the point that he even has a toothbrush there by Thursday night (one Chan must have bought; they don’t talk about it and when Minho returns from the bathroom, he can’t quite meet Chan's eyes.) Some part of him is aware that most people don’t spend nearly that amount of time with people they only recently started hooking up with, but the other, larger part of him is too busy with other things to think about it too hard. Maybe he would be concerned if things just weren’t so easy.

Because they don’t just have sex: they also talk, more than Minho could have ever predicted. They banter in between Chan's sheets as they trade kisses, but also after, when the night has grown long and the blue light of the morning begins to creep in. They talk about their classes, exes, things they knew nominally about each others’ lives back in school but never talked about. Minho learns that Chan first slept with a boy in his fifth year, when he and his best friend Jaehyun, who turned out to be more or less straight, fell into bed together after a particularly long night of drinking and laughter. He learns that Eunwoo knows about Chan's sexuality only because he found Jaehyun and Chan in bed together that morning. He learns that Chan only properly came out to one other person, his friend Felix, that he hasn’t worked up the courage to tell the rest of his friends, much less his family, and that he’s not sure he ever will. (This, in particular, resonates with Minho, who has never quite managed to say the words “I’m gay” to even his friends, though he’s sure they long since figured it out).

They talk about other things, too, like their favorite professors, their Yule Ball dates, old Gryffindor or Slytherin parties, and even Minho's family cat, Soonie, who lords over the family with the pleased satisfaction that only a cat can exude. What they don’t talk about, though, is their own relationship. After their discussion Monday night, the probably hundreds of times they fought tooth and nail over the course of the six years they attended school together seem completely, extraordinarily off-limits, and the few times they grow close to discussing it, either Minho or Chan trails off into silence.

He still leaves Chan's apartment late in the night or the early hours of the morning each time; after all, it’s not like he’s moved in. He still leaves for work from his parents’ house. They haven’t asked him where he’s been yet, and even if they do, he doesn’t plan on telling them. Part of him wonders if they’re just so hopeful that he’s found a nice girl to date that they haven’t been able to work up the courage to ask.

Friday night, after Minho turns in his last packet of papers for the night, he, Chan, and Miyeon make their way down to one of the hallways near to the records department, down in the dark underbelly of the Ministry. It’s dark down here, the lighting limited, and it takes until they’re ten or so feet away before Minho can make out the figures waiting for them.

“No way,” Minho says incredulously. “Your secret people who can get us in are Seo Changbin and Lee Felix? What are they even doing here?”

Because the figures waiting for them are none other than two of Chan’s closest friends, seventh-year Ravenclaw Seo Changbin and sixth-year Hufflepuff Lee Felix, both of whom should definitely be at Hogwarts right now, doing whatever it is that popular Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff boys do on Friday nights. Organizing a study group, maybe?

“Changbin’s mom works in the records department,” Chan says, holding out his hands placatingly. “He’s objectively the best person to ask.”

Miyeon, apparently ignoring Chan and Minho’s statements completely, busies herself with hugging both Changbin and Felix tightly one by one in a string of chatter. Minho can’t tell if it’s because she’s also objecting to Changbin’s presence or because she can’t be bothered to argue with Minho about it.

“My mom is the front desk lady, actually,” Changbin adds helpfully as he and Miyeon separate. “Also the only person who works Friday nights this month. So I’m really the best person to help you guys, all things considered.” He’s still dressed in his school clothes, a black school robe with blue Ravenclaw trim over jeans and a blue-and-silver sweater. The outfit looks so drastically out of place in the Ministry that Minho almost laughs. Otherwise, he looks the way Minho remembers him: muscular, his dark hair swooping across his forehead. He’s one of the shortest men Minho’s ever met, too, but to his credit, he’s never seemed to care all that much.

“And Felix?” Minho asks, unimpressed.

Felix raises an eyebrow. "Hello to you, too." The tone doesn't surprise Minho at all: as cheerful as Felix normally is, he has clearly never forgiven Minho for his former role in the Hogwarts pureblood hierarchy. He, too, looks more or less the same as Minho remembers: a little taller than Changbin, with blonde box-dyed hair and a constellation of freckles across his cheeks. He, unlike Changbin, is dressed in normal clothes, which for him is apparently a pair of whitewashed jeans, a white t-shirt, and a jean jacket. He looks like a model from the nineties.

Before Minho can reply, Changbin adds, nudging his boyfriend, “Consider him moral support.”

Minho doesn’t dignify that statement with an answer. “He does know he’s going to have to lie to her about why we’re here, right?” he asks Chan acidically, ignoring Changbin completely. “Because when I think subtle, I don’t think Seo fucking Changbin. Besides, shouldn’t these two be in school?”

“He can hear you, you know,” Changbin says, bristling. “And I Apparated us here from Hogsmeade.”

Minho curls his lip. “Isn’t that illegal?”

Changbin juts out his chin. “I’m eighteen, actually, a seventh-year, so no. I have my Apparition license.”

“Don’t you two have, like, homework to do or something?”

Throwing up his hands, Changbin asks tightly, “Dude, do you want my help or not? Because it seems like you don’t. I can just leave.” Beside him, Felix touches his shoulder, as if trying to calm him.

“No, no, no,” Chan says quickly. “Don’t leave. Thank you for coming. Both of you. Minho’s just being…” He trails off for a moment. “Minho.”

There’s a slight pause, like they’re all digesting what that means. Minho bites back a sharp retort. Unfortunately, Chan's right; if they’re going to make it into the records department, they’re going to need someone like Changbin, and right now, it seems like their other options are slim.

“So what’s the plan?” Miyeon cuts in.

“As far as my mom knows, I’m working on a project in History of Magic right now about the Goblin Rebellion of 1798,” Changbin says. “Part of that rebellion included a siege of the Ministry, so I sent a message via Floo to my mom earlier this week to ask if I can look into the records to find evidence for the paper I’m writing.”

“But you’re not a wizard historian,” Minho argues. So much for not protesting anymore. “They don’t let normal people into the records. My dad’s told me that plenty of times. Isn’t doing that illegal?”

“Technically, yes,” Changbin admits. “But my mom’s a Ravenclaw like me, so she’s a sucker for kids trying to learn new things. She agreed pretty quickly to let us in.”

Minho hates that the argument makes any kind of sense. One of his best friends is a Ravenclaw, the steady, booksmart Seungmin, and he can immediately imagine even someone as wary as him softening in response to a child asking for a chance to learn. He’s so busy thinking about that, in fact, that at first, one of Changbin’s words flies straight over his head.

“We?” He echoes slowly, a thought dawning on him. “All four of us?”

Chan raises a hand. “Yeah, you said we’re all pretending to be your classmates?”

“Well, obviously not you or Felix. She knows you two already, so that can’t be helped,” Changbin answers with a shrug. “But I managed to convince her that you guys are just really passionate about goblin rebellions and are giving us a helping hand, so Chan, I hope you remember seventh-year History of Magic.”

Chan winces. “Oh, Merlin. You know History wasn’t really my subject.”

Minho frowns. “And Miyeon and me?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” Changbin says with a sly grin. “You and Miyeon are officially my fellow Housemates. You’re working on the project with me.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“No,” Minho says emphatically. “No way. I’m not pretending to be a Hogwarts student. And I’m definitely not pretending to be a Ravenclaw.” He raises his hands. “Look, if that’s the plan, we have a problem.”

“Come on, Lee,” Miyeon says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Just pretend. It’s only one day.”

“Yeah,” Felix adds with a frown. “I know you’re a proud Slytherin and all, but I assumed this would be important enough to you that you’d be willing to pretend for like ten minutes.”

Minho curls his lip. “Oh, please. If you bothered to listen for two seconds, you’d already know that’s not it. I used to go down to the records department all the time when I interned for my mom. There’s a good chance your mom is going to recognize me.”

Changbin raises an eyebrow. “What? No way. People come down to the records department every day. You’re not that special.”

“Just listen, please,” Minho repeats insistently. “In order to access the records, they take your picture, right? And ask for your name?”

“Right,” Changbin says slowly.

“Now what the hell do you think is going to happen when the system inputs my name or face?” Minho asks, curling his lip despite himself. “It’s going to pull up my internship photo from two years ago, plus my name, plus the headline Obliviator’s Headquarters. So even if your mom doesn’t recognize me, if my mom’s office is at all in contact with the records department about which of their current or former employees are visiting and when-”

“-Then your mom is going to figure out what we’re doing,” Chan finishes for him with a frown. “You’re right. That is a problem.”

Changbin’s brow furrows. “Well, you don’t have to give my mom your actual name.”

“That doesn’t fix the fact that my face is in the database already,” Minho sneers.

Suddenly, Miyeon’s eyes light up. “Yeah, but the way those things usually work is by saving a picture of your face in a visitor log,” she says slowly. “What if no one looking at the visitor logs believes that could actually be you?”

A slow grin spreads across Changbin’s face. “Chan, you still keep your workout stuff in your work bag, right?” Beside him, Felix sends him a knowing look.

“Yeah?” Chan replies warily.

“Well, get it,” he says quickly. “And Miyeon, didn’t you get an Exceeds Expectations on your Transfiguration NEWTs?”

Miyeon smiles. “You’re thinking exactly what I’m thinking. Minho, hold please?”

Chapter Text

Fifteen minutes later, Chan and Minho retreat to the nearest men’s restroom, located halfway to the elevator, leaving Changbin and Miyeon waiting expectantly outside the door.

Chan sets his black briefcase down on the marble counter by the sink, then promptly starts rummaging inside. Minho has a half a second of confusion as he watches Chan's hand disappear up to his mid-bicep in a bag barely six inches deep before he realizes what’s going on.

“Did you use an Undetectable Extension Charm on your Ministry-issued briefcase?” Minho asks, incredulous. He may not have worked at the Ministry as a full employee for long, but it’s not hard to guess that that would be against the rules.

Chan glances over his shoulder sheepishly. “Look, it’s not my fault these things are barely large enough to hold a folder,” he says, tugging on the edge of a sleeve as it catches on the zipper. “And besides, it’s come in handy. I don’t know how else I would have stuffed this shit in there.” And, with that, he pulls out a Gryffindor letterman jacket, followed by a handful of black athletic material.

Minho can’t help it - his jaw drops. “You’re fucking insane if you think I’m wearing that.”

“Just hear me out,” Chan says, holding his hands out placatingly. “I’m not asking you to actively pretend to be a Gryffindor or anything. We can let Changbin’s mom jump to her own conclusions. But I think Changbin and Miyeon are right. You’d never be caught dead wearing athletic clothes, much less a Gryffindor jacket. We have to bank on these things being so far outside of your normal style that anyone sifting through visitor pictures isn’t gonna look twice.” With that, he gestures at the clothes. “Try them on.”

Slowly, Chan's gaze hot against his skin, Minho starts to pull off his formal shirt. He hands it to Chan after he’s done, taking the jacket and shirt in exchange.

The shirt is cold to the touch, probably from being buried at the bottom of Chan's unnecessarily magical briefcase, and Minho shivers a little as he pulls it over his head. After, he pulls his arms through the sleeves of the jacket, which turns out to fit almost perfectly, the metal buttons clacking against each other as he adjusts the fit. The shirt is the same almost perfect fit; Chan must wear his workout clothes baggy.

“Well, what do you think?” Chan says finally. His voice is a little strange, but Minho can’t quite work up the courage to look at him in the face.

For a long moment, Minho just looks at himself in the mirror. In fairness, Miyeon and Changbin didn’t change that much (mostly because the moment Miyeon pulled out her eyeshadow, Minho threatened to bail), but the few changes that they did make feel monumental.

A very different person looks back at him in the mirror. Silently, Minho stares at the purple tint to his usually black hair, now parted messily down the side; at the black muscle tee tight around his collar; and at the red-gold Gryffindor letterman’s jacket hanging off his shoulders. Of course, his face looks identical to fifteen minutes ago, but Minho’s half-convinced that his own parents wouldn’t recognize him like this if he stood directly in front of their faces. He’s never dyed his hair or worn clothing like this in his life.

Minho doesn’t like it, really. At least he doesn’t think so, since he’s so uncomfortable right now he could jump out of his skin. But a year and a half of being friends with people that are loudly colorful and openly queer has inoculated him against the shock of seeing Slytherins with bright clothes and even brighter hair. And besides, the larger part of him is too distracted by the fact that he’s wearing Chan's clothes.

Mistaking his silence for disapproval, Chan rushes out, “Obviously the hair isn’t permanent. Miyeon will change it as soon as we’re done. But if we’re set on helping Dahyun, we need you to help us find the records, and I think they’re right - you’re not getting inside unless no one looking at the visitor logs is going to believe that’s actually you.”

Minho steps back from the mirror. “Okay,” he says quietly. The jacket is warm around his shoulders. He feels a little out of sorts, and he can’t quite make himself meet Chan's eyes. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he thinks back to old Quidditch games, when after a Gryffindor win, Chan's girlfriend of the time would appear in the hallways for days swallowed by his letterman’s jacket, Chan's arm slung around her shoulders.

Distantly, he wonders if Chan even remembers that part. If this is even remotely as strange for him as it is for Minho. But then he turns to look at Chan, and all of a sudden, he doesn’t have to wonder any more.

The moment their eyes meet, Chan clears his throat. “Alright,” he says, his gaze flickering away a little too rapidly. “If you’re ready?” He’s just finished folding up Minho’s formal shirt and suit jacket, and slides them into his briefcase before picking it up with one hand.

Suddenly, it occurs to Minho that they haven’t talked about when Chan's going to give him his clothes back even once. Not when Chan handed over his letterman jacket and black athletic shirt, not when Minho stripped off his shirt, not when Chan packed away Minho’s clothes. For some reason, that feels important, but he can’t let himself think about that for too long.

Minho nods, not trusting himself to speak, and they both head towards the restroom doors.

Together, the four of them walk down the hallway to the records department. Normally, Miyeon’s heels would be clicking against the marble floor, but in the time that Chan and Minho were in the men’s bathroom figuring out Minho’s disguise, Miyeon changed out of her maroon pantsuit and heels and traded them for black trousers, a plain t-shirt, and the same sneakers that Minho’s seen her change into after work before. She’s wearing probably a little too much makeup to pass for a Hogwarts student, but it’s a near thing, and Minho has a feeling she’ll be able to charm Changbin’s mom out of any misgivings.

Miyeon, who was apparently catching up with Changbin the entire time Minho and Chan were in the bathroom, finally turns to Felix. “So, Lix,” she says, “How have you been?”

Felix makes an almost exasperated expression. “I would say good, but Bin’s going to disagree with me.”

Changbin grins at her. “He’s been super stressed about classes for no reason, but other than that, yeah, he’s good. We’re thinking about spending Christmas break at his parents’ house since mine are going out of town for my cousin’s wedding.”

Miyeon raises her eyebrows. “How’d you manage to get out of that one?”

Spreading his arms, Changbin says grandly, “Gay privilege. My cousin’s family is super homophobic.”

Miyeon makes a disapproving noise. “Are your parents still trying to convince you to find a nice woman to marry?” She puts “nice woman” in air quotes.

“Yeah,” Changbin says with a shrug. “It’s whatever, though. I’m kind of used to it.”

“You know, they think he turned me gay,” Felix says casually. “Which is crazy for a number of reasons, obviously, but I also had a crush on him for way longer, so if anyone turned anyone else, it was definitely my fault.”

“You know what they say,” Changbin says, giving his boyfriend an amused look. “Lee Felix, turning dudes gay since 2000.”

For some reason, this surprises Minho, who has always assumed that Changbin had been the one to develop feelings first, but maybe he’d just assumed that because Changbin is older by a year. Felix had just always seemed so young, and by the time they came out as a couple at the end of Minho’s seventh year, the first pair of guys to do so in Minho’s entire time at Hogwarts, Changbin had been so protective that Minho had just assumed.

Chan glances at them. “Yeah, that was a crazy few years.”

“Yeah, until I broke his heart,” Changbin says evenly, his tone suddenly much more somber.

Minho’s gaze flickers upward. He hadn’t heard about that.

Immediately, Felix reaches out to intertwine their fingers. In the softest voice Minho has ever heard him use, he murmurs, “You fixed it, though.”

Changbin’s lips twist. “Eventually.” He glances forward, then says in a more normal voice, “Hey, we’re here.”

“Binnie?” An older female voice says curiously as they step through the rough oak doors to the records department. “Aren’t you a bit early?”

A woman sits at a desk in the entryway, endless impossibly-high shelves disappearing into the distance behind her. The lighting is just low enough that her desk is ringed with shadows, a flickering lantern at the edge of her desk casting most of the light around her. Further back, little floating blue lights dance between the shelves.

“Yeah, sorry,” Changbin says with a grimace.

The woman shakes her head. “That’s fine. Come, I’ll help you and your friends with signing in. How many of you, then?” Without pausing, her eyes pass over each of them, then she picks up her quill and says expectantly, “Just the four of you, I see. What are your names?”

Changbin grins. “Will you guess what mine is?”

Mrs. Seo shoos him away from the desk. “Oh, you’re funny,” she says wryly, looking over at Miyeon. “If you might recall, I gave birth to you, Seo Changbin. I won’t be forgetting that ordeal anytime soon. But what about you, miss?”

“Cho Miyeon,” Miyeon says easily, and then spells her name out loud.

“Perfect,” Mrs. Seo says, then looks at Chan with a glimmer in her eye. “And you, then? The handsome one?”

Minho watches as Chan blushes. “Mrs. Seo, I-”

“Mom,” Changbin protests, cutting Chan off. “You’re not funny.”

She gives them a very familiar grin and Minho feels for a moment like he’s seeing double. “I’m only joking. I know who you are, Bang Chan. How’s the job going? The Ministry treating you well?”

“It’s going well, thank you,” Chan replies with an easy smile. A moment later, the camera hovers in front of him and snaps another photo.

“And Lixie, of course,” she says warmly the moment her eyes settle on Felix. “My favorite. It was so nice to have you over this summer. I hope my son has the good sense to invite you to stay with us next year.”

Felix ducks his head, looking mildly embarrassed. “Thank you, Mrs. Seo.”

Finally, Changbin’s mom turns to look at Minho. There’s a small pause, and for a moment, Minho thinks her smile slips. “And you?”

For a moment, Minho panics. “Shin Peniel,” he says as quickly as possible. Shit, does she recognize me? He only came down here a few times that summer, but he knows she’s a Ravenclaw, and according to his friend Seungmin, more than a few of them have memories like a steel trap when it comes to names or faces.

“Can you spell it for me?” Mrs. Seo replies, busying herself with her quill. It’s impossible to notice how much more professional she’s become in the last few moments. Normally, that wouldn’t bother Minho, but he can’t help but notice that all the warmth has disappeared from her voice.

Minho spells it, his heart in his throat.

She taps her quill on the book once, twice, then looks up. “Any chance your parents work in the Ministry?”

Minho opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, Changbin beats him to it. “Mom, if you’re done interrogating my classmates, I have a question about Christmas break I’d like to discuss.”

Immediately, Mrs. Seo’s focus switches. She gestures dismissively for the camera to approach and says, frowning, “What, is this about your cousin’s wedding? I already RSVP’d.”

The camera flashes a photo of Minho so brightly he goes momentarily blind. In the background, he hears Changbin reply, “Have you forgotten she didn’t invite me?”

“Your invitation was implied.”

Changbin bites his lip. “You and I both know she doesn’t want me there because I’m gay.”

Mrs. Seo makes an odd noise. “Oh, have you decided you’re gay now, then?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Changbin replies, a little more tense, “And you know it.” Beside him, Felix visibly stiffens.

“Well, maybe it’s because you’re dating a Hufflepuff,” Mrs. Seo replies stubbornly. She looks at Felix then, her gaze softening, and adds, “Lixie, you know we love you dearly, but that side of the family is far more traditional. Proper Ravenclaws and all that.”

“Don’t put this on Felix,” Changbin retorts fiercely. “Have you considered that them being, oh, homophobic might be a bigger contributing factor to their traditionalism?”

“Let’s go now while they’re talking,” Chan whispers in Minho’s ear, so suddenly that Minho jumps. “Changbin is distracting her on purpose.”

Minho nods, and after exchanging a glance with Miyeon, the three of them tiptoe off amidst the sound of swiftly rising voices.

“Who’s Shin Peniel?” Chan asks conversationally as they walk down the impossibly tall aisles of endless bins, paper sticking out here and there.

“My father’s assistant,” Minho replies, his gaze flickering over the labels. Law Enforcement Office, 1511-12, Law Enforcement, 1512-13…

Chan raises an eyebrow. “His assistant?”

“Our butler,” Minho clarifies. “We don’t call him that, though.”

“Won’t your mom recognize his name from the visitor log if she sees it?” Chan’s tone is still casual, but it’s clear from his expression he already knows the answer.

Minho makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t know. Probably. I panicked.”

Busying himself with reading a nearly scraped-off label, Chan says, “You really should have chosen a fake name before we entered the records department, not after.”

“I panicked, Bang,” Minho repeats. “You guys didn’t give me that much time. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

Chan doesn’t look up, eyes trailing across the labels as he walks. “We just can’t afford to fuck this up,” he says evenly. “If we don’t manage to help Dahyun, no one will, and then your father will get away with ruining her life plus God knows how many others.”

There’s no accusation in Chan’s voice, as far as Minho can tell, but his voice is so controlled Minho can’t be sure. “I get it,” he says roughly. “I fucked up. Now, for Merlin’s sake, can we move on?”

Chan glances up, but before he can respond, Miyeon’s voice calls over from the next aisle.

“Hey, guys? I think I found the Obliviation office’s stuff.”

It only takes a few minutes of reading down the aisle, eyes flickering between each bin of records, before Minho finds it. “This is it,” he says loudly, pressing his thumb to the yellowed paper label. “The records from the last year or so.”

“Alright, give me a sec,” Chan calls down from his position on one of the ladders. “Lee, I assume you know what you’re looking for?”

Minho shrugs. “Mostly.” Slowly, he pulls the bin out from the shelf. It’s heavy, but not so badly that he can’t lift it. Gingerly, he sets it on the ground, then lifts the lid.

There are close to fifty or sixty files in the box, all in various states of organization, and it’s barely a quarter of the way full. Together, Minho thinks they’re about as thick as the worst of his school textbooks over the years, and probably about as heavy.

Miyeon scampers over. “Perfect,” she says excitedly. “Now if you just go through them-”

“Hold on,” Chan says suddenly as he steps down onto the tile. “Is it weirdly quiet, or is it just me?”

They all freeze. Heels click on the tile floor, so close Minho thinks they might be only a few dozen feet away.

Miyeon’s eyes widen. “She’s coming,” she whispers. “Give them to me.”

Minho stares at her. “What, all of them?”

“Miyeon’s right, we’re running out of time,” Chan says under his breath. He shoves the records into her hands, then pushes the bin back on the shelf. “We’ll have to go through them all at home and return them later.”

“Stealing Ministry records is a crime punishable by prison time, you fucking idiots,” Minho hisses. “I don’t know about you two, but I have no desire to spend the next three years of my life in Azkaban.”

Rolling her eyes, Miyeon replies, “Oh, come on, Lee, don’t be an idiot. How did you think we were going to do this, by asking nicely?”

“Miyeon,” Chan warns. “Weapons down, please.” To Minho, he adds, dead serious, “This is worth it.”

Minho’s jaw drops. “Are you joking?”

Completely ignoring them, Miyeon rummages in the pocket of her jeans to reveal a small drawstring bag. She tugs in it until the opening is just large enough to fit, and promptly shoves the files until they disappear into a space barely a fraction of their size. It’s an Undetectable Extension Charm, the same as Chan has on his briefcase. Minho should have known.

Miyeon tucks the bag, barely the size of her fist, into the pocket of Minho’s (that is, Chan’s) letterman jacket before he can even react. “There,” she whispers. “We can worry about any alarm spells later.”

The three of them have just straightened up when Mrs. Seo’s head pops around the corner. “You won’t get very far with your history project in the Obliviation records, I’ll tell you that much,” she says, glancing between them. “The Ministry History section is the other way.”

“Apologies, Mrs. Seo,” Chan replies quickly. “We got turned around and stopped to get our bearings.”

“Amazing how easily that happens,” Mrs. Seo says mildly, “When each shelf has a huge sign on it. Now, I don’t know about you Gryffindors, but I’d always assumed other Ravenclaws could read just fine.” Here, she gestures to Miyeon. “Miss Cho, if you’d like to prove your ocular usefulness and lead us to the right section?”

Miyeon sends them a brief, wide-eyed glance, before jogging over to the end of the aisle where Changbin’s mom is waiting. “Of course,” she says smoothly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, Changbin was telling me you and your husband are both from the country?”

Mrs. Seo starts to respond, but Minho tunes out just in time to catch Chan sending him a nervous glance. Leaning in, Chan murmurs, his breath tickling the shell of Minho’s ear, “What are the chances she recognized you?”

“I think she can tell something’s up,” Minho mutters under his breath. “But I don’t know. I don’t think she recognized me.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Chan replies with a grimace. “Oh, there’s Changbin and Felix.” Quickly, he waves his frienda over.

“Sacrifice Miyeon to my mom, did you?” Changbin says under his breath as he approaches on Chan’s right. “That’s bold.”

Chan ignores him. “What happened to distracting her?” He hisses. “We almost got found out.”

“We tried,” Felix protests. “Honestly. We did.”

“I can’t help it if she’s suspicious by nature,” Changbin mutters. “This is what I get for having a former Ravenclaw Head Girl as a mother. You guys had only been gone for a bit before she all of sudden stopped talking about my cousin and started asking these really intrusive questions.”

“Like what?” Minho asks, an odd feeling in his stomach.

“Like about what your father does,” Changbin replies with a frown. “But I have no fucking idea, clearly, so I told her that and that shut her up for a bit.”

Minho freezes in his tracks.

Meanwhile, Chan swears under his breath. “Okay. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, let’s just focus on getting out of here.”

After fifteen or twenty minutes of pretending to sort through old goblin rebellion records, Changbin’s mom standing with her arms crossed at the end of the aisle, they finally make their way back to the door.

“Thanks, Mom,” Changbin says as his mother sits down at her desk again. “We appreciate it. Really.”

Mrs. Seo smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right. Well, good luck with your…” She trails off, her gaze glancing off of Minho. “History project.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Seo,” Chan says softly.

Her eyes train on Chan and Felix, and at last, her face warms. “It was good to see you two. Really. You’re both always welcome for tea, alright?”

“Thank you,” Chan repeats, this time with a smile. Beside him, Felix echoes the phrase a few moments later.

“Lovely to meet you as well, Miss Cho,” Mrs. Seo says just as warmly, looking up at Miyeon. “It’s always wonderful to meet like-minded women. Us Ravenclaws have to stick together, yes? And you,” she says, turning to her son with a frown, “I’ll be contacting you tonight to talk about the wedding. Don’t ignore me.”

Changbin opens his mouth, then closes it. “Alright,” he says finally. “That’s fine. See you, Ma.” He glances at the others, inclining his head toward the door.

They all get the message. Slowly, they all walk out of the records department, Miyeon falling back enough to keep pace with Minho. When he looks at her in askance, she mutters under her breath, “Just trust me.”

Right as they’re about to step through the door, an alarm begins to blare, so loud Minho’s ears begin to ring almost immediately. He glances at Miyeon, who’s in the middle of putting on an extremely convincing impression of someone who has no idea what’s going on.

“I imagine,” Mrs. Seo says, standing up from her chair rather abruptly, “That I will not need to explain to you four what that particular alarm means.” Her demeanor has changed so radically Minho feels like he’s looking at a different person. All the friendliness is gone, replaced by a cool, appraising look. But she does not, to Minho’s concern, look surprised.

“I’m sorry?” Chan asks faintly.

“Just as I am sure,” she adds, ignoring Chan, “That I will not need to explain that stealing from the Ministry is a punishable offense.”

Changbin, to his credit, turns out to be a pretty good actor. His brow is furrowed. “Before you go all fire and brimstone, one of us probably just accidentally rubbed off the ink from one of the labels. That should be enough to set off a spell like this.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Miyeon says, eyes wide like she’s realizing something. “I’m so sorry. I borrowed a pencil from you earlier to tie back my hair. I’d completely forgotten.” She pulls a pencil out of the bun in her hair, then says sheepishly, “I believe this is yours.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Seo says curtly, taking the pencil. “I admit that in normal circumstances, that’s plausible. But it may be time to put all our cards on the table. Am I to assume you weren’t aware that your teenage classmate is actually Lee Minhyun’s adult heir?”

Chan takes a sharp breath. Hurriedly, with a wide-eyed glance at Minho, he says, “Mrs. Seo, I swear-”

“Right,” She cuts in, her mouth a thin line. “I thought so.” Turning to Minho, she continues, meeting his gaze exactly, “I remember you, you know. I remember every one of the times you came down here with your mother. I have an excellent memory, in fact, and you Lees have a very recognizable look, though I’m sure you know that already. Your father has been very clear on his opinions on that front for the full thirty years I’ve known him.”

And Changbin said there was no chance she’d remember him. Minho should have known. His name, his face, even his body give him away even when he tries his best to hide the tells. He’s a Lee through and through, even if none of the current members of the family, himself included, want him to be.

“Mom went to school with your dad,” Changbin says, his voice rough. He doesn’t look up from the ground. “They were in the same year. I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten.”

Minho doesn’t reply. His brain is busy replaying over and over the possibility of his father finding out that they were looking through the Obliviation records, and each time it does, his stomach twists even further. He feels a little like he’s about to vomit.

“The adults here,” Mrs. Seo says calmly, “Are investigating this boy’s father. Yes or no?”

Miyeon breaks her silence with a quick breath. “Mrs. Seo, please. I work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as I assume you’ve likely figured out. It’s nothing nefarious. I’m just working on a case and asked for their help.”

Mrs. Seo’s gaze sharpens. “That wasn’t a no.”

Minho risks a glance at Chan beside him. His expression is difficult to read, but it’s impossible to miss the tension in his frame. Minho wonders idly if he’s contemplating the now very real possibility of prison time. Or, maybe, the fact that the three others didn’t end up having the time to use Minho’s Obliviation office expertise to carefully select the right document out of the stack and would have pulled this heist off perfectly without him.

Then, to Minho’s shock, Mrs. Seo’s face softens slightly. “Just making sure. Well, don’t let me stop you. I know Kim Dahyun personally, you know. What’s happened to her is a tragedy.”

Minho’s paying just enough attention to notice right when Chan’s shoulders relax. Felix, too, who until now has been carefully blank, lets out a long breath.

“Mom,” Changbin sighs, face awash with relief. “Merlin’s beard. Why the hell-”

“What I don’t understand,” Mrs. Seo adds, her voice growing hard again, “is what you three are doing associating with him.” Here, she gestures to Minho, but Minho feels like that part was unnecessary. They all would have known who she was talking about anyway.

Minho is about to open his mouth - to say what, he has no idea - but Chan beats him to it.

“Mrs. Seo,” Chan says, laying a hand on Minho’s shoulder. Minho nearly flinches with the contact, and Chan sends him a brief glance before continuing smoothly, “With all due respect, Minho is a colleague of mine. Miyeon and I have asked for his help precisely because he is a Lee. His expertise on this case will be invaluable, as I’m sure you can agree.”

It’s his prefect voice, the one Minho used to hear echoing through the hallways of Hogwarts at the most inopportune times. Usually, it was swiftly followed by the warm, low baritone or soft, friendly tenor of one of the professors. It’s the kind of voice that had even the most stony of professors hanging on his every word; Chan at his most charming, most convincing, and, as far as Minho is concerned, least himself.

Minho watches as a flicker of doubt flashes across Mrs. Seo’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by that same look. “You see, I’m not sure I can,” she replies, frowning. “Every Lee I’ve met has been a clone of the last. Not a kind soul among them. If I were you, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near the evidence.”

A muscle twitches in Chan’s jaw. “Mrs. Seo, I have to ask you to please-”

“Enough,” Minho says forcefully, cutting Chan off. “Enough, all of you.”

They all stare at him. Clearly, after such a long silence, none of them were expecting him to contribute at all. Even Miyeon, who Minho thought was long since checked out of the conversation, looks surprised.

Minho turns to look at Mrs. Seo. In the most controlled voice he can manage, he says, “Clearly, you seem to be under the impression that I am using your son and his friends to spy for my father. Let me be perfectly clear. That entire theory depends on me being on speaking terms with him. I have not conversed with my father in months, and the issue we have been disagreeing on is…” Minho feels his mouth twist. “Let’s say it’s of a permanent nature. I have already been removed from the will, and my living conditions are uncertain. Nothing I do now, not even rescuing my father from a swift political demise, will save me from that. There is nothing for me to gain from any association with these three. Only more to lose.”

Mrs. Seo’s expression has gone strange. “You said it was an issue of a permanent nature?”

Minho swallows back an acidic retort and simply nods.

Her expression grows even stranger. “Your name is Minho, isn’t it?”

Minho frowns.“Yes, but what-”

“I’d forgotten,” she says slowly. “I haven’t been responsible for looking over the records in so long, I’d forgotten that…” She trails off. “You worked here last summer, too, didn’t you? In your father’s office.”

It’s not precisely a question, so Minho doesn’t respond. Beside him, though, Chan stiffens. “Mrs. Seo,” he says, low in his throat. “Please. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me we can continue on our way?”

Suddenly, Mrs. Seo turns to Changbin, all business again. “You were never here. All of you. I’m scraping your names and faces from the record. Bin, you will Floo home next weekend to give me any records you have stolen, and I will return them myself. But never bring these two here again. Ever. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Changbin whispers, frowning deeply. “Of course. Yes.” He sends Chan a confused glance, then adds, “Let’s go. Now.”

“Yes,” Chan says hurriedly. “Please.”

Frowning, Minho follows him and Changbin through the doors and down the hall, Miyeon and Felix hurrying after.

They gather in a circle outside of the commuter exit from the Ministry, the sky long since darkened. It’s a warm night, almost uncomfortably so, and a slow breeze drifts by just often enough to almost dry the sweat forming on Minho’s brow. Slowly, Miyeon turns Minho’s hair back to black, whispering spells under her breath, then steps away.

For a long moment, no one says anything.

With a sigh, Changbin announces, “I’m always glad to help you, Chan, but let’s please never do that again.”

Chan grimaces. “No kidding.” He pulls Felix in for a half-hug, then adds, “I’ll see you over Christmas break, I think?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Felix affirms.

“Yeah, we better,” Changbin adds once it’s his turn for Chan to pull him in. “See you then, man.” After he steps back, he glances over at Miyeon and Minho and says half-heartedly, “Nice to see you again, unni. And, uh… you. Hyung.”

Minho wrinkles his nose. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, thank God,” Changbin says immediately. “Well, see you never, Lee. Chan, Miyeon, send my best to your folks.”

Felix sends them all a wave, and with that, they Apparate away in a blur of black students’ robes.

Miyeon turns to the two of them with a sigh of her own. “Well, I guess I’ll go and spend my entire weekend reading documents. We can regroup on Monday. Does that sound good?”

Chan gives her a grateful look. “You’re the best. Thanks for bearing with us.” He pulls her in for a hug, too, and Minho is briefly treated to the image of her head buried in his shoulder before his stomach twists unpleasantly and he has to look away.

“Oh, and good work today, Lee,” Miyeon says as they pull away. “Really. I know that couldn’t have been easy, talking to Changbin’s mom like that.”

At first, Minho thinks she’s messing with him, but the longer they sit there, her smile slowly dissipating the more he realizes she’s being sincere. Finally, a little awkwardly, he replies, “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Miyeon says with a small smile. “Later, guys.” Then she, too, turns around, sending a last wave over her shoulder before she walks toward the corner, leaving Minho and Chan alone.

To his credit, Chan doesn’t miss a beat. Without even turning, he comments, “The issue of a permanent nature is you being gay, isn’t it?” It isn’t really a question, though, and they both know it.

Minho presses his lips together tightly. “Do you have an actual question, Bang, or did you just want to remind me of things we both already know?”

Chan’s expression flickers, and for the first time in a while, Minho sees a hint of frustration. “You’re doing that thing again, just so you know,” he says evenly. “And I’m getting kind of sick of it.”

Minho stares at him. “What?”

“You’re being an asshole for no reason,” Chan replies, meeting his gaze. “Just say you don’t want to talk about it like everybody else.”

Briefly, Minho considers saying something worse. Something rude. It’s certainly his first instinct. But the weight of Chan’s stare is heavy on him, and as much as he might hate to admit it, he’s not actually trying to scare Chan away. Not anymore, at least.

Slowly, Chan starts walking, and Minho matches his pace so they’re side by side.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Minho says finally, right when the silence has almost grown too long.

Chan nods. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“Why do you keep a Gryffindor jacket in your work briefcase?”

Of all topics, Chan clearly wasn’t expecting that, because he raises his eyebrows. “Wait, actually? That’s your burning question?” He blinks. “Have you been holding onto that all night?”

Minho feels his face go warm. “Oh, fuck you,” he mutters, fixing his gaze on the ground. “Don’t answer, then.”

“Hey, hold on,” Chan says, raising his hands. “That wasn’t a no. The answer is I go to the gym most days after work." He glances at Minho, as if remembering what they've been up to after work this week, and adds, his cheeks pinkening, "Or, well, usually. It makes more sense to pack my stuff for the day instead of going home to get it first.”

Raising an eyebrow, Minho asks, “You wear a letterman’s jacket to work out?”

“Hey, it’s cold out in the evenings these days,” Chan says defensively. “And I go to a Muggle gym. They all probably think I’m repping a local high school. It’s not like I’m wearing it around wizards.”

Minho hides a grin. Carefully, he replies, “My friend Hyunjin says the only guys who wear their old sports jackets are washed up has-beens.”

Chan sends him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, well, your friend Hyunjin is still in school. His opinion isn’t relevant yet.”

“Hwang Hyunjin?” Minho echoes, doubtful. He hadn’t expected Chan to recognize that name at all.

“Yeah, Hwang Hyunjin,” Chan repeats. “What, you think I don’t remember Hyunjin? He beat our asses at Quidditch every year. He’s impossible to forget.”

“You’re right, he did,” Minho affirms. Then, because he can’t help it, he adds, “That's because you guys all sucked at Quidditch.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised Chan remembers Hyunjin; after all, he’s right. Hyunjin has long since become the unequivocal leader of a generational-level Slytherin Quidditch team, and Chan played all six years he was eligible. Of course he would remember him.

“Oh, okay,” Chan says, raising his eyebrows. There’s a challenge in his eyes, but amusement, too. “All of us? I see how it is.”

Minho shrugs. “Yeah, well, last I checked, you guys have lost every single game you've played against our team for the last five years.”

“Oh, please,” Chan replies with a roll of his eyes. “We both know that if Hyunjin hadn’t been there, we would have won every game. It’s not our fault he’s freakishly good.”

“You tell yourself that,” Minho replies casually. “Meanwhile, we’ll be winning the House Cup, again, beating your asses, again.” He tries his best, but at the end, he can’t help but let the shadow of a smile escape, and Chan catches it immediately.

“Yeah, sure,” he allows. “But you’re forgetting that before Hyunjin, you guys lost every game against Gryffindor. You want to know why?”

“Don’t try to make me play Gryffindor Quidditch bingo,” Minho warns, trying to sound unimpressed and not sure how well he’s succeeding. “I couldn’t name a single player on that team.”

“Right,” Chan says slowly. His lips twitch. “Sure. I can give you a hint, then. The reason why we used to win all the time is because of the team captain from your, oh, I suppose third to sixth year. He’s like three inches taller than you, incredibly handsome, abs of steel, the whole nine yards. Couldn’t miss him.”

“Oh,” Minho allows, just barely suppressing a laugh. “That’s so true. I completely forgot about, oh, what’s his name?” He pauses. “Charlie something?”

Because Minho’s looking so closely at him, he catches the exact moment when Chan's gaze heats, followed by an almost appraising look in his eye. See, Chan, Minho thinks, swallowing down the warm feeling in his chest. I can keep up.

“No, no, no,” Chan chides. “Nice try, though. See, you’re still not remembering right, but that’s okay. I can help you. Last night, he sucked your-”

“Shhh,” Minho says frantically, pressing a hand to Chan’s lips right as he starts to laugh. “Not here, you dumbass.” Rapidly, he glances around, but the only other people on their side of the sidewalk is an older couple a few paces ahead that don’t even flinch.

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, you asshole,” Chan replies, tugging Minho’s hand off of his mouth with a wide grin.

Minho gives him a look. “Is the prize traumatizing the local children?”

“Where,” Chan inquires archly, “do you propose these children are? Are they ghosts? Because I sure don’t see any.”

“Oh, come on. You know what I mean.”

With a sideways glance at him, Chan replies, “Well, all I see is two adults ahead of us that almost certainly don’t give a fuck.” In a softer voice, he adds, bumping their shoulders together, “I promise you, Minho, it’s not that serious.”

Minho makes a soft noise of disagreement, but doesn’t reply. Instead, they walk for a little while longer before he finally works up the courage to ask, his heart pounding, “So you’re going back home tonight?”

Chan’s voice is casual when he replies, “Have something to ask me?”

“Chan,” Minho says, low in his throat. “You know what I’m asking.”

Chan stops in his tracks. “Yeah,” he says lowly, turning to face him. “I do. I just wanted to hear you say it.” One of his hands toys with Minho’s sleeve, and for the first time, Minho remembers that he’s still wearing the Gryffindor letterman’s jacket.

“We can walk all the way there,” Chan continues with an intense look. “Or… we can save time and Apparate.” His deft fingers have moved to Minho’s wrist, where they briefly dance along his skin before interlacing with his. Holding hands, again. It seems inevitable these days.

“You know,” Minho says breathlessly, trying to ignore the way his skin buzzes with Chan’s touch, “It sounds like you’re pretty eager to get my clothes off.”

“Yeah,” Chan says with a shrug. He’s trying to play it off, but is only partially succeeding. “You in this jacket…” He trails off. “Fuck. I guess I kind of am.”

“I know,” Minho murmurs, his face heating. “I like it, too.” After another quick glance around them, he leans in to kiss him, but the moment the kiss starts, he can’t bear the idea of it being over.

Eventually, it’s Chan that has to pull away. He presses a soft kiss to Minho’s jawline, then says, voice catching, “Let’s go home before I fuck you in the middle of this goddamn street.”

Chapter Text

The moment they appear in Chan's apartment, they fall into each others’ embrace immediately, Minho’s mouth finding Chan’s in a way that feels impossibly, achingly inevitable. They kiss and kiss and kiss until they’re both heaving breaths. Minho can feel the brick scraping behind his head; they must have stumbled back against the wall, but he remembers it only vaguely. He was busy with other things.

“You look so hot in my jacket,” Chan pants as they pull apart for the first time. “I can barely handle it.”

“Yeah?” Minho breathes into Chan's mouth. “You really think so?” His hands wander along the edge of Chan’s belt, really the whisper of a touch, and he’s impossibly gratified when Chan groans softly and starts pulling his dress shirt free from his trousers.

“You know, you could wear it while I fuck you,” Chan says, hands busy with his belt, eyes glinting in a way that makes its clear he’s at least partially joking.

Minho huffs a laugh. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Chan shrugs. “Just a thought.” His eyes trace Minho’s form, though, the shape of his body under the jacket, and the desire in his eyes is enough to leave Minho breathless again and wondering if maybe, maybe, he’s not joking after all.

Just for a moment, Minho lets himself think about it - Chan above him, the heat of his skin against Minho’s, Chan's jacket still thrown over his own shoulders. They haven’t gone there yet - they’ve stuck to other things thus far - but the image sends a sharp jolt of desire running through him.

“Why don’t we start with you fucking me,” Minho says lowly. “Then we can talk.”

Chan looks up abruptly. “Are you serious?”

Minho kisses him hard, mostly to prevent him from seeing the blush that’s burst across his cheeks. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

“Fuck,” Chan breathes. “Okay.”

Later, they find their way to Chan’s bed, and with the ease of someone who’s done it before, Chan takes him apart with his fingers, slowly, surely, until Minho is gasping and writhing under his hands. Minho doesn’t say he’s never slept with a man - not like this, at least, never like this - but Chan murmurs encouragement until, at last, Minho realizes he understands. Then, with an electric kind of tension running between them, they come together all at once, and Minho feels a little like he’s unraveling. They kiss and kiss and Chan moves and moves until all Minho’s brain can do is say Chan’s name and then, only then, do they collapse together like a wave.

In the small hours of the morning, when Chan has long since fallen asleep, Minho lies awake in the darkness. He feels a little like he’s crawled his way into a dream, and some part of him is terrified that if he closes his eyes, he’ll find himself back at home, in that dusty four-poster bed with the moth-eaten comforter, in a timeline where this thing between him and Chan is nothing but a desperate wish hidden even from himself. Eventually, to steady himself, he finds himself staring at Chan: the soft lines of his mouth pressed against the pillow, the flutter of his eyelashes, his pale skin, the muscled lines of his back and the toned curves of his arms as they disappear beneath the pillow. His eyes are closed, but by now, Minho can conjure up a memory of his irises so realistic it might as well be an image right in front of him. Burnt umber, his friend Yeji would say, always the artist.

Minho doesn’t think he’s ever met someone like Chan, and he can’t imagine he ever will again. Even at night, his thoughts about the other man are difficult to parse, even to himself, but what he does know is that the thought of losing him now is unbearable.

Bang Chan, Minho thinks softly. What a different man you’ve made me.

It’s then that Chan blinks awake, because of course he does, swiftly breaking Minho’s reverie.

“Minho?” He mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing awake?”

Minho shakes his head. There’s a tight feeling in his throat, and he can’t quite muster the courage to speak. Instead, he brushes a slow hand through Chan’s curls, letting it whisper down to cup his chin before finally pulling away. You’re unraveling me, he thinks but doesn’t say. And I think I might really like the person I’m knitting myself back into.

Chan’s eyes soften. “Oh, hey,” he whispers, tugging Minho closer. “It’s okay. Come here.”

“Sorry if I woke you,” Minho says quietly. He’s not sure how he could have, but it feels important to say, nonetheless. They wrap themselves together, legs entangled with legs, arms around waists or shoulders, and Minho feels something inside him still.

“Don’t be sorry,” Chan murmurs. “You were so far away.” He kisses Minho’s temple, then says, very carefully, “What were you thinking about?”

“Go to sleep,” Minho whispers, returning the kiss with one of his own.

Chan looks like he wants to reply, but after a moment, he just sighs. “Okay. Just- You, too. Don’t spend all night awake.”

Minho nods. I won’t, he thinks, but he’s abruptly very, very, tired, and he forgets to say it out loud. It’s then, finally, listening to Chan’s soft, steady breaths, their bodies intertwined, that he sleeps.

For the first time, on Saturday, they spend all day together. They cook brunch in Chan’s kitchen, tossing lazy banter over their plates of over-salted eggs and turkey bacon, and then because Chan promises to show him his favorite spots in London, they spend all day touring the Muggle part of the city. Minho, for once, feels like a tourist in his own home, and he finds that he doesn’t hate it. Here, they whisper their way through a packed museum; there, chatter through lunch at a restaurant hidden in a back alley that serves greasy food and water in sweating plastic glasses; and there, they walk through a public park, dodging families on bikes and murmuring to each other just quietly enough that they have to tilt their heads just so, shoulders brushing.

At night, Minho assumes they’re going to finally part ways, but at Chan’s request, they come back, order Thai food from the restaurant next door, and pretend to watch a Muggle movie on his beaten-up gray couch for a valiant full half hour before giving in and kissing until the light from the street lamps outside filter through the curtains and Minho’s come untouched twice. Then, like the night before, they fall into bed, intertwine themselves again, and whisper to each other until Chan eventually has to get up to work on his argument for Kim Dahyun’s defense and Minho is left to doze off alone under the blankets.

When Minho awakes, it’s just past two, and the bed is still empty. Outside Chan’s window, a car screeches down the street below. Otherwise, it’s silent, the only other sounds the slow patter of rain on the windowsill and the scritch-scratch of Chan’s quill against paper. Minho peers across the dimly lit room and finds Chan is still sitting at his desk, head hung just low enough it’s clear he’s on just this side of sleep.

Quietly, Minho slips out of bed and pads across the floor. The closer he gets, the more obvious it becomes how hard Chan’s been working; the piece of parchment he’s been writing on is nearly full, line after line covered in his even, curving handwriting. Even today, the most recent line says, given our legal system’s protective laws and processes we…

Minho leans over his shoulder. “You forgot a comma.”

Chan startles. “What? Oh. Where?”

“There.” Minho points with one hand, the other resting unthinkingly on Chan's shoulder. “After ‘processes’.”

Chan stares blankly down at the parchment, tracing the bottom of the letters with the edge of his quill. “Huh,” he says finally, after a long, silent moment. “You’re right.” Achingly slowly, he inks it in.

Some sharp, fond feeling sparks in Minho’s belly. “You know, you look like shit.”

Chan snorts. “Wow, thanks.”

“No, I mean-” Minho pauses. “Hyung. Come to bed.”

There’s a little pause. For the first time, Chan looks up at him, some hidden emotion flashing across his face. Surprise, maybe? Minho uses that word so rarely. There’s something warmer there, though, too.

“In a bit,” Chan says finally, squeezing the hand still resting on his shoulder. “I just have to finish this paragraph.”

“Okay,” Minho replies. Somehow, he knows in the back of his mind that fighting with Chan on something like this is futile. He’ll get up again to remind him in a while. Without thinking, he presses a kiss to the top of Chan’s head, then makes his way back to bed.

“Hey, Minho,” Chan says suddenly, right as Minho’s leaning back against the pillows. “If you had ever been Obliviated, would you want to know?”

Somehow, Chan's tone has shifted in the last few seconds, but Minho can’t tell why. “It depends on what it was,” he says. “If not knowing was making me unhappy, then yeah. Probably. Why?” Something odd tugs at his brain, like the ghost of a memory, but when he focuses his mind on it, it flickers away.

“No reason,” Chan replies, turning back to his work so Minho can’t see his face. “Just curious.”

The second time Minho wakes up that night, it’s to the sound of someone pounding on the door to Chan’s apartment.

“Guys, open up,” a familiar female voice says hurriedly, just loud enough to be heard. “I’m serious.”

Chan wakes with a start. “Is that Miyeon?” He mumbles, sitting up with all the personal volition of a puppet whose strings have been pulled. “What the fuck?”

Minho swears under his breath. “It’s fucking three am. This better be good.”

Together, they stumble out of bed and toward the door, Chan marginally faster only because he sleeps on the side of the bed closer to the entryway. The moment Chan opens the door, a haggard and messy-haired Miyeon, dressed like she just rolled out of bed, starts talking immediately.

“I finally read through the documents,” Miyeon rushes out, holding a bag close to her chest. There’s something wrong with her expression - she won’t quite meet Minho’s eyes.

“Okay,” Minho says slowly, when it’s clear Chan won’t be saying anything. “And why couldn’t that have waited until the morning?” Next to him, Chan’s gone strangely mute since he opened the door, his face a mixture of what almost looks like alarm and something else, something darker.

“Minho,” she says quietly. “You might want to sit down.”

At first, Minho is tempted to say something caustic but it’s this, the usage of his first name, that convinces him that she’s serious. An anxious feeling flickers in his gut.

Wordlessly, Miyeon hands him a document. It’s water-stained and wrinkled, but Minho can still make out the words at the top: Obliviation file, August third, Minho.

Minho doesn’t even have to look twice. He has a fairly common name. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen a document with Minho emblazoned across it that clearly didn’t pertain to him. There were three other Minhos at Hogwarts alone. “This obviously isn’t me,” he says, handing it back to her. “I’ve never been Obliviated. There are probably a thousand wizards named Minho in the country.”

Beside him, Chan is oddly silent. He reaches out to touch the document, then pulls away, so sharply that if Minho didn’t know better, he’d say Chan thought it was poisonous.

“Read further,” Miyeon says, swallowing. She pushes it back into his hand. “More. Below the line.”

Minho scans the document, but it’s mostly legalese: explanation of the inciting incident, which is frighteningly vague, plus an additional four or five lines of disclaimers. And then, at the bottom, a note added in a familiar perfect cursive: Witness Bang left alone. As the child of a current Ministry official, the risk of discovery with him is too great. Husband tried to coerce to an Unbreakable Vow, but he refused. Had a discussion instead about father’s job and the risk to it if he comes forward. It seems unlikely at this point that he will continue pursuing M. Continue to observe.

Everything stills.

“That’s my mom’s handwriting,” Minho says distantly. “I don’t understand.” And your last name, He thinks about Chan, but doesn’t say. His entire body is buzzing. He feels like he’s left his body; like he’s observing it from afar. His face is numb.

“Minho,” Chan says. His voice sounds blurry, and it takes Minho a second to realize that it’s because he’s started crying. And the look on his face - Minho knows that emotion, though he doesn’t think he’s ever seen it on Chan’s face before. Guilt.

“No,” Minho says slowly, shaking his head like it’ll dispel that look on Chan’s face. “No. You’re lying.”

“They threatened my father’s job,” Chan says, his voice rough. “You have to understand. I couldn’t- I can’t-”

All of a sudden, Minho can’t breathe. “Why?” He whispers. “Why would they do this?”

“It’s my fault,” Chan says, taking a shaky breath. “It’s because of me. I’m so sorry, Minho. I’m so, so sorry.”

“No,” Minho says, shaking his head. Desperately, he adds, “You’re lying. You have to be. Is this a joke? Some horrible, sick joke you two are playing on me?”

“No, Minho,” Miyeon whispers. “No, I promise. It’s not a joke.”

“I’m not- I can’t-” Minho steps back. Away from Chan. He can’t even look at him. “I’m leaving.”

“Minho, please,” Chan begs. “Don’t.” He reaches out, as if to grab Minho’s wrist, but Minho slips through his fingers.

Minho doesn’t even bother to grab his jacket, his notes, his clothes. He just steps out into the rain, trying with all his might to ignore Chan's voice calling his name as it eventually dissolves into the sound of water pounding across the concrete.

That night, at home, buried under the moth-eaten green comforter, Minho dreams of his father’s office.

In dreams, Minho returns here at least a few times a week. In some dreams, he’s still a child, scampering through the hallways of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and skidding around the corner just in time to hide in the nooks and crannies in his father’s office. Those are more memory than dream, and when he wakes, he’s always reminded of the real instances that he and his father would play hide and seek the few times growing up that he brought his son to work.

Other times, he finds himself locked inside the office, left for what feels like hours and hours as the rest of the world goes on just outside. In some of those, the walls grow closer and closer until he’s being suffocated by them. Those dreams, though, are not nearly the worst.

No, the worst is this one.

He’s been having it over and over for the last year, and every time, he wakes with a pounding headache and a tight, sharp feeling in his chest that quite literally takes his breath away and doesn’t go away for a while and leaves him dizzy and forgetful, like someone’s taken out his brain and shaken it. It always starts the same: a faceless boy next to him, wound tight a spring, Minho’s parents standing behind his father’s large mahogany desk.

His father always starts the same: turned away from them, hands clasped behind his back. In real life and in the dream, he’s tall, much taller than Minho, and his formidable profile is shadowed by the unlit lamps that surround his desk. Next to him is Minho’s mother, wand clutched in her fingers so tightly her knuckles are white. She won’t meet Minho’s eyes.

And, finally, there’s the boy - faceless, nameless, his words so muffled Minho can never hear what he’s saying. Like most dreams, Minho can never remember his facial features, but then again, in the dream, Minho never looks at him long enough to capture any.

“Now, I should have expected this from my son,” his father is saying. “But you - from you, this is certainly a surprise. I would’ve thought you had the good sense to stay away from him.”

The boy juts out his chin. “Why, because I’m a Gryffindor?”

Minho jolts. His brain is just lucid enough to recognize the wrongness of this - he’s never been able to understand the boy before. And what did he mean, Gryffindor?

His father laughs without amusement. “You’re funny. Regardless, I could have your job for this.”

“I don’t care,” the boy replies quietly. “Fire me. Do it. It’s not worth losing him.”

Minho starts at this, and the boy looks at him for a long moment. There’s something in that look, soft and warm and something else, something that makes Minho’s stomach twist.

“Oh, I thought you would say that,” Minho’s father says measuredly. “The problem is, I have a much, much better idea.” He turns his head just enough to jut his chin towards Minho’s mother. “Do it.”

“No,” the boy says desperately. He grabs Minho’s face with his hands, clutching it like Minho’s going to disappear, and tugs his jaw until they’re facing each other.

Minho has to look at him now - after all, he’s cradling Minho’s face with his hands. “Please,” the boy says, voice rough and wet with tears. “They can’t do this. You have to remember, okay? You have to.”

Minho reaches out and touches his face. It’s the first time he’s looked at the boy long enough to make out facial features, and there’s something about this boy that’s bothering him. Something about the fullness of his mouth, the long lines of his nose, the curve of his cheekbones and the sharpness of his jaw. He’s achingly, achingly familiar. Minho feels like he’s dreamed of him before; more than that, that he’s seen him before.

“Chan,” Minho whispers. He can’t say anything else.

Chan wipes away a tear running down Minho’s cheek with his thumb. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. (Because it’s Chan, it’s him, it’s always been him-)

“You have to remember,” Chan repeats shakily. “This can’t all be for nothing. All this- all this time, all this effort, God, you hated me for so long, Minho. I don’t know what I’ll do if you-”

“Do it,” Minho’s dad cuts in forcefully, more of a command than a statement, and then everything fades to black.

Minho wakes to darkness.

For a long moment, he just sits there, the comforter heavy across his chest, breathing in and out, in and out, slowly steadying himself.

Was it a memory? That seems impossible. Obliviated memories don’t return. And yet, he can’t deny the obvious, no matter how much he might like to: there was no making up that file. Especially not with his mother’s handwriting on it, plain as day.

There’s a reason Minho can barely remember last summer, a reason why his parents have been angry at him for a year when they only found out about Jungwoo in March, a reason why Chan said I just assumed you’d never be allowed to show your face here again on Minho’s first day as a new hire when he didn’t know about Jungwoo. A reason why Chan looked at Minho like he’d hit him when he was rude the first day.

Lee Minho has been Obliviated. And somehow, some way, Chan is involved.

It’s early, still impossibly early, when Minho knocks hard on Chan’s door. When it doesn’t immediately open, he calls out, his voice shaking, “Open the fucking door, or I swear to God, I-”

The door swings open.

“Minho,” Chan says, the shock plain on his face. For a moment, they sit in silence, but eventually Chan adds unsteadily, “What are you doing here?”

Minho pushes past him. “You’re still holding on to Jaehyun’s family Pensieve, right?”

Chan turns to stare at him. “Yeah, but-”

“Show me,” Minho says forcefully. “Show me everything.”

Chapter Text

THE PAST

Bang Chan is twelve the first time he meets Lee Minho.

It’s September first, and he and his mother are standing on the train platform before the start of his second year of Hogwarts. This close to eleven am, the platform is almost full to bursting, and already, Chan’s friends from last year have started to wave him down from all sorts of nooks and crannies. Some shout his name from the train, others catch his sleeve while passing by, and still others mouth excited hellos over the shoulders of younger siblings as they stand in little circles with their families.

“Chan,” his mother says exasperatedly, snapping her fingers in front of his face after the dozenth or so time he finds himself distracted. “Focus.”

Chan blinks. “Oh, sorry. What were you saying?”

She sighs. “I was saying that I’ll see you at Christmas break, alright? And don’t forget to write to your brother and sister this year. I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Chan replies, rolling his eyes. “I’ll do it, I promise.”

“Well, the funny thing about that,” his mom says good-naturedly, leaning down so they’re at eye-level, “is that you said that last year. Verbatim, I believe. And what did your siblings get in the mail? Oh, that’s right. Zip. Zilch. Nothing.”

Oops. “Sorry,” Chan repeats with a grimace. “I got distracted. It won’t happen again.” This time, he stares at the ground, trying to look contrite. It isn’t that he didn’t plan on writing to them, or anything. Hogwarts is just busy for him, and he got carried away with classes and friends and this crush he’s been nursing on silky-haired Lisa Manobal and going to Quidditch games with gaggles of other high-spirited Gryffindors.

His mother raises an eyebrow. “I certainly hope so.”

“Well, if it isn’t the Bangs,” a male voice suddenly drawls from behind Chan.

Slowly, his mother’s gaze flickers up from his face and then higher, at something much, much taller than him. “You,” she says, straightening up. In barely a moment, her voice has become as frigid as ice. “To what do I possibly owe the pleasure of your esteemed company?”

Oh, Chan realizes the moment he hears her tone. He knows about this man, about both him and his silent wife. These are the Lees, one of the pureblood Slytherin families that control the school board. His parents talk about them in hushed voices when they think he’s not listening. Stuff about Muggleborns, that the Lees hate them and wish they couldn’t go to school at Hogwarts with everyone else, and that the only reason two Gryffindors like Chan’s parents were even let on the Slytherin and Ravenclaw-dominated board is because they’re from pureblood families of their own.

Chan turns, curious, and immediately discovers that behind him are the coldest looking man and woman he’s ever seen. They’re both about his mom’s age, with gray dotting their silky black hair, mouths pursed into thin lines, and clothes in colors Chan would normally associate with mourning or those Muggle emo kids he sees walking down the street sometimes. Honestly, they look kind of like living skeletons. Chan nearly has to crane his neck to look at the man, whose nose is turned up like he’s smelled a rat.

Curious, Chan opens his mouth, but the man speaks first, his lip curled. “I presume it’s too much to expect you and your husband to be mysteriously absent from the next board meeting?”

“Clearly not, considering that’s our annual vote,” Chan’s mom says shortly. “The fact that you even stopped to ask is beyond me.”

“Well, one can hope,” the man replies with a shrug. “Surely you cannot champion the poor and unfortunate forever.” His gaze drops downward, and Chan catches a flicker of interest. “Ah,” he says evenly. “Your heir.”

A dark look passes over Chan’s mother’s face. “This is my son, Chan. Where’s yours? Minho, isn’t it?”

“I see you read the evening paper,” Mr. Lee says, his expression tightening. “Good for you. Yes, Minho is here.” There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes at the mention of his son’s name. However, he doesn’t offer an explanation for his son’s absence, and Chan is left wondering.

Suddenly, Chan hears a rush of chatter, and glances over just in time to be nearly bowled over by a quartet of enthusiastic boys. “Chan,” his friend Eunwoo calls jubilantly. “You’re here!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Another one of them, Jaehyun, says with a wide grin, pushing everyone back. “Give the guy some space. We’re looking at the future king of Quidditch, after all.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but before he can intervene, another friend claps him on the back.

“Hear, hear!” Yugyeom crows. “Hey, remember how the school coach is my dad’s cousin? I talked to him over the summer and he says we’re both shoo-ins.”

For a moment, the Lees are completely forgotten. “No way,” Chan says excitedly. “You’re serious? Did you show him the video of the two of us playing?”

“It’s the video of all three of us, actually,” the final boy, Bambam, informs him. He’s one of several of Chan's Slytherin friends. According to him, his father is a Muggleborn sorted into Slytherin, which meant he didn’t particularly get along with Mr. Lee’s type when he was in school. The same has been true for Bambam.

Then Mr. Lee clears his throat, and Chan feels his smile disappear on his face. Oops.

“As always,” Mr. Lee says silkily, “Gryffindor children prove to be completely lacking in manners.”

Bambam frowns. “I’m not a Gryffindor.”

At this, Mr. Lee seems at a complete loss for words. Chan is watching closely enough that he sees the exact moment when he notices the green and silver trim on Bambam’s school robes, then glances back at Bambam’s face, his eyes widening.

Meanwhile, Chan’s mom doesn’t seem affected. Something about this interaction, the appearance of Chan’s friends, is clearly amusing her. “Is it my fault my son is popular?” She says with a shrug. “They’re young boys. Let them have their fun.” A small smile plays at the edge of her lips, then she adds, “You know, I’ve heard the rumors, and I, for one, cannot wait to hear what the sole heir of the illustrious House of Lee will get up to.”

The Lees are silent.

Chan doesn’t look away from his mom, but she must enjoy whatever she sees on the Lee’s faces because her mouth curves. “Yes. Word travels fast when you’re still friendly with your old classmates. As it turns out, even you can’t buy your son some friends.”

For a moment, none of them speak, and the look on the man’s face is so thunderous that Chan is briefly afraid that he’s going to hit one of them.

But then from out of the crowd appears the most beautiful boy Chan has ever seen. He’s taller than Chan by a little, but looks about the same age, with gelled black hair and lanky limbs and dark eyes. Chan stares and stares until he realizes what he’s doing and swiftly looks away, a weird feeling collecting in his stomach.

“Dad,” the boy says insistently. “I’ve been calling for you.” He doesn’t even give Chan and his friends a second glance - it’s like they’re not even there.

“Minho?” Mr. Lee replies with clear surprise. For a moment, he almost sounds like Chan’s own father, leaning around a corner in their house and calling warmly, Chan?

Chan’s so distracted that it takes him another few seconds to recognize what the boy said, and the moment he does, he reels with it. Dad? He thinks, eyes widening. This is the son of the people his parents despise?

Mr. Lee’s wife leans forward. “What is it, Minho? I thought you went to find the Choi boy.” It’s the first time she’s spoken the entire conversation, and Chan is struck by the cadence of her voice, the odd formality of it. It’s breathy and quiet and her pronunciation is so proper it almost sounds unnatural, like a news reporter with a lung condition.

The boy - Minho - ducks his head, cheeks pink. “Yeah, I did, but he’s being kind of…” He trails off. “I dunno. Weird.” He still doesn’t seem to notice Chan and his mom. Given the robes he’s wearing - they’re all black, the ones they give first years before they’re sorted - he’s clearly about eleven. No wonder Chan hasn’t seen him before. He’s struck by how normal the boy sounds, too. He assumed he’d be as haughty and patronizing as his parents.

The Lee parents exchange an indecipherable look, and then Mrs. Lee steps back, wrapping her arm around Minho’s shoulders and leading him away.

Mr. Lee looks back at Chan’s mom, his lip curled. “Always a pleasure.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he turns on his heel and follows his wife into the crowd.

The last glimpse Chan catches of Lee Minho as he’s herded away is of him standing between his white-lipped parents, his shoulders halfway to his ears as his father rests a hand in his arm.

The moment the Lees are out of earshot, Chan’s mom clears her throat expectantly. “Well?”

“What?” Chan stares at her for a moment, just long enough to watch eyebrows climb higher, before he realizes. “Oh, whoops. Uh, Mom, obviously you know Jaehyun and Eunwoo, but this is Yugyeom and Bambam,” he explains, pointing to everyone one by one. “They’re my friends, too.”

“Hi, Mrs. Bang,” Eunwoo and Jaehyun chorus in unison. A second later, after a well-timed elbow from Eunwoo, Bambam and Yugyeom follow suit.

Chan’s mom smiles. “Good to see you two. And nice to meet you, Bambam and Yugyeom.” The her expression grows somber. “Now, before you boys go, I need you all to promise me something. I know he might seem nice, but I’m sure I speak for all of your parents when I say that you need to promise me to stay away from Lee Minho.”

Chan and his friends exchange a look. “Okay,” Chan says after a pause. “But-”

“I know you’re friendly boys,” His mother says evenly. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. But Minho's dad is a rat in the gutter, and the Lee family has been spreading the worst of the Wizarding world around like a disease for as long as your parents and I have known them.”

Chan doesn’t think he’s ever heard his mother talk about another person like this before in his life. At first, he’s nervous about his friends’ reaction, but it quickly turns out that he shouldn’t have worried.

“Don’t worry,” Jaehyun says with a shrug. “My mom gave us that speech already.”

“Minho could end up alright, though, Mom, couldn’t he?” Chan asks after another glance behind him, an uncomfortable feeling churning in his stomach. “I thought you said we don’t always turn out the way people expect.”

Something flickers across Chan’s mom’s expression. Leaning down, she looks Chan right in the eyes and says gently, “Don’t get me wrong. This has nothing to do with him being a Slytherin. Lee Minho is not like your Slytherin friends, and I'd bet money that he won't ever be.”

Chan thinks back to Minho, the way he seemed as tense as a live wire. “Yeah, but what if he is anyway?”

“Well, then you won’t want to be around him when his father finds out,” his mom says, shaking her head decisively as she straightens. “Mark my words. And besides, I can’t imagine you’ll need to go searching in that particular dark corner of Slytherin House to look for friends. You boys seem to be doing absolutely fine already.”

“Oh, speaking of which,” Jaehyun says suddenly, “My mom said she thinks we’re gonna be the most popular kids in the school.”

Immediately, the tension of the moment breaks. Covering his face with his hands, Yugyeom groans, “Merlin, Jaehyun, you can’t just say that.”

“What?” Jaehyun exclaims, raising his arms defensively. “It’s true! And even if she was joking, you never know. We have three surefire Quidditch team members, the smartest kid in our year, and probably the next Minister of Magic.”

Bambam rolls his eyes. “For the last time, I don't want to be Minister of Magic.”

“Alright,” Chan says loudly before they can start arguing again. “Bye, Mom. See you at Christmas.”

“Bye, Chan,” she replies, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Study hard and make us proud. And Eunwoo, Jaehyun, do me a favor and remind your moms to read the book for the book club this month, they keep forgetting.”

Jaehyun salutes her with a grin. “Will do.”

Slowly, Chan and his friends start down the train platform, but they don’t get far before his mom calls, her voice strained, “And stay away from that boy!”

The next time Chan sees Minho, it’s mid-September, and Chan and Jaehyun are speed-walking through a side hallway as they desperately try to make it on time for class.

“I should have known not to listen to you,” Chan grumbles over his shoulder as they turn a corner. “That shortcut was a dumb idea. Now we have no idea where we are.” Around them, the light from the torches dances across the floor, the moving figures in the paintings sending them curious looks as they rush past.

Jaehyun at least has the grace to look sheepish. “Hey,” he says defensively. “I feel like this is at least half your fault for being dumb enough to trust me.”

Chan gives him a look. “What, now I’m stupid for trusting my friend? What kind of Slytherin crap is that?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, man,” Jaehyun replies with a shrug. “I speak the truth, I don’t explain it.” He glances ahead of them, just for a second, and his expression morphs immediately into something more like panic. “Oh, shit,” he whispers. “Hold on, Chan, stop.”

Chan stops in his tracks. Ahead of them, a group of older boys in green-and-silver Slytherin sweaters are standing around in a circle, muttering something amongst themselves in low voices.

“So what?” Chan replies. “They’re just standing.”

Jaehyun shakes his head rapidly. “No, no, no. Look. There’s a kid in there.”

Chan squints at them. And sure enough, to his horror, there’s a boy in the middle, curled up into a ball on the floor, his head against his knees. Chan might not have recognized him if not for the same gelled hair, the same lanky, bony limbs. He doesn’t remember him from the Sorting ceremony - Chan’s friends talked over most of it - but he’s wearing a sweater with green trim, so he must have ended up in Slytherin after all.

One of the boys laughs. “Come on, Lee,” he taunts, “just get up already.”

“Yeah, Lee,” one of his friends echoes with a grin. He nudges Minho with his foot, then adds, sharing a knowing look with his friends, “Just do it. We won’t hurt you.”

The boys laugh even harder. There must be five or six of them, all tall and burly. Most of them are unfamiliar, but one of them Chan recognizes: there’s a boy on the Slytherin Quidditch team that Chan remembers playing against already this year. Jun, maybe?

“Chan, we have to help him,” Jaehyun hisses, but it’s a little too loud, said right at a lull in the boys’ conversation, and a few of them turn around at once.

For a second, a few of them look afraid, but the look immediately subsides.

“Oh, it’s you two,” Jun or whatever says, rolling his eyes. To the other boys, he declares, “These two are in my year. Nothing to worry about.”

Behind them, Minho looks up slowly, peering at them from over his knees. Even at a distance, Chan can see that there’s a nasty bruise forming on his left cheekbone.

“Chan,” Jaehyun repeats. “Come on. Are we…” He trails off, glancing nervously at the boys, but Chan can see the question in his face. Are we helping him or not?

Chan looks back at the boy, and at the circle of older boys around him, and somehow finds himself thinking back to what his mother said on the train platform. Something about avoiding rats in the gutter. But he can’t quite make himself say the words, so he stares at Minho, and stares, and stares, until Minho’s lip curls and he looks away.

Chan steps backwards. “Let’s go, man,” he says quietly to Jaehyun. “We’re late for class.”

With that, the shadowed, cramped side hallway transforms to the brightly lit corridor of one of the main byways of Hogwarts. Chan is on the third floor, about to head back to his dorm for the night. It’s almost midnight, right before Christmas break, and the castle is full to bursting with holiday decorations. Everywhere Chan looks, there’s a Christmas tree or holiday garlands or bright red velvet bows or sparkling green-and-red ornaments hung on every available surface. The Gryffindor common room alone looks like a crowd of Santa’s elves threw up all over it.

Chan, who hasn’t seen another soul since he left the library and is half convinced he’s the only person awake, isn’t really paying attention when he decides to head into the men’s bathroom. He’s busy thinking about the homework he has left, presents he needs to buy, and his travel plans, so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the voice until it’s too late.

The moment Chan opens the door, he finally registers the noise: not just crying, sobbing, broken up by rasped breaths and soft hiccups. It pauses just long enough for someone to retch, and then starts up again, even louder.

“Hello?” Chan asks nervously. “Um, are you okay?”

The crying abruptly stops. The person retches again, and Chan hears the toilet flush. He has one brief moment of panic - should I go see if they’re okay, should I leave, what should I do - before he decides to at least check. That’s what he’d want someone to do for him, anyway.

Slowly, gingerly, Chan walks across the floor of the bathroom, glancing in each stall. Not that one, not that one, not that one… When he gets to the last stall, the door is hanging open like all the rest, giving him a clear view of Lee Minho, eyes bloodshot, face red and tearstained and visibly bruised, staring wide-eyed back at him.

Oh no, Chan thinks desperately. No. Why is it you?

“Um…” Chan stammers. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

The boy’s lip curls. In a cold voice, he replies, “I don’t need help from you.”

In that moment, he sounds so much like his father that Chan almost physically steps back. When he finally responds, his voice is even, the anxiety forgotten. “So you’re just sitting here on the floor for fun, then?”

“What do you think?” The boy snaps. “Get the fuck away from me. I said I don’t need help.”

Something in Chan’s stomach twists. “Stop lying to yourself,” he finds himself retorting. “Clearly you do. I wouldn’t keep finding you like this otherwise. You know, if you actually do something about it, maybe they won’t hit you anymore.”

“Get,” the boy says venomously, “The fuck. Away from me.”

Abruptly, Chan stops thinking about helping him. He stops thinking about the fact that he’ll probably keep finding this boy bruised until someone actually does something about it. He’s too busy replaying the tone of the boy’s voice, and Chan is young, and he’s angry, and so he does the one thing he would never in a million years have done otherwise: he leaves the boy alone, and he tells no one.

The memory changes. Chan is older now, but not by much, holding a stack of third-year textbooks as he navigates through yet another Hogwarts hallway. Jaehyun is there again, much taller and burlier, as is his friend Changbin. They’re all chatting animatedly, but a boy further down the hall curses and they abruptly stop. It sounds like Bomin, the worst of the Slytherins, but there’s a larger group around him, too.

“Who is that?” Changbin says, frowning at the small crowd in front of them. “I mean, Bomin and his cronies, obviously, but I swear, that one guy kind of looks like-”

“Minho,” Chan and Jaehyun say at the same time, sharing a look. Chan doesn’t even have to look twice; he’d recognize that boy anywhere by now. Especially now that he’s wormed his way into his own friend group, somehow, a friend group that’s swiftly living up to Chan’s mother’s predictions. He hears about them sometimes from the younger students in his House. If he had to guess, every second or first year in the school by now knows to stay out of their way.

Chan rushes forward without thinking, just in time to hear Bomin spit out to the girl lying on the floor in front of him, “Fucking mudblood.”

Chan pushes him back, almost getting in his face in the process. “Enough,” he says forcefully. “It’s time for you to walk away.”

Immediately, the hallway quiets.

Meanwhile, Bomin’s lip curls, but Chan sees him glance around them rapidly. “Or what, Bang?”

“I don't know if you noticed who's here, but I doubt even you want to take on one of Gryffindor’s Beaters,” Chan replies, his voice perfectly even.

Bomin glances over Chan’s shoulder, where he’s certain Changbin and Jaehyun are standing not far behind. Jaehyun, the Beater in question, may be on the muscular side, but Changbin is a mountain of a man already. Together, they tower over Bomin, who, although tall, is mostly skin and bones.

“Like I’m scared of you,” Bomin sneers. But he takes a step back, anyway.

Chan turns, holding out a hand to the girl on the floor. “Hey,” he says softly. “Are you okay?” She’s a Hufflepuff, Chan thinks, maybe a year older than himself.

Behind him, he hears Bomin start to laugh. After a beat, the girl takes his hand with a sniffle. “Yeah. Uh… thanks.”

“Any time,” Chan says easily. He turns back, about to straighten up, but then someone spits at the ground right by his shoes and his mind blanks.

One of the other boys hisses a laugh, clapping Minho on the back. “Nice one, man.”

Chan spends a full ten or twelve seconds just staring at Minho straight in the face until the curl in Minho’s lip, the haughty look in his eye, slowly disappears. He looks more or less the same as the last time Chan saw him, still pale and tall. Fewer bruises, now that he has powerful friends.

“Lee Minho, yes?” Chan says in a hard voice. “My family says your parents are just plain rotten.”

Minho’s face briefly blanks, and it occurs to Chan for the first time that Minho likely doesn’t remember their almost-meeting on the train platform his first year. That he probably has no idea how Chan knows his name.

“The hell do you even know about my parents?” Minho hisses. “You - you’re nothing.” He steps forward, but one of his friends grabs his arm to stop him.

“I’m nothing?” Chan says appraisingly. Without meaning to, his mouth twists. “That’s funny, you know, coming from you.”

He sees Minho stiffen, but Chan doesn’t stay long enough to hear whatever else he possibly might have to say. He looks at the Huffepuff, still standing in the middle of the crowd, and gestures for her to follow. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Time passes; the memory changes again. It’s Chan’s sixth year now, and he’s the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, taller and broader than ever. Everywhere he goes, he gets caught up in conversation: here, his teammates call out his name with wild grins as they sprawl out on the green; there, his girlfriend and her friends whisper to him across the library; there, wide-eyed younger students holding out Quidditch banners for him to sign; and especially with his closest friends, Changbin and Felix, a younger Ravenclaw and even younger Hufflepuff, as they gesture for him to join them for dinner or joke with each other in the hallways. He kisses girls at parties, and dates a few others. He kisses Jaehyun, too, in a moment of particular weakness, and though they laugh about it the next day, Chan thinks about that kiss for a long time afterward, all the way until the summer after when he and a boy with messy dyed-red hair make out languidly in the bathroom of a bar until Chan can’t deny who he is any longer, that boys make him feel the same way as girls.

And, as always, no matter where he goes, Minho always seems to be around the corner, tailing Bomin’s group of venomous Slytherin boys. He’s older now, of course, and taller, and the look on his face is frequently so dark and contemplative that Chan sometimes wonders if he’s changed. But then he’ll lock eyes with Chan, and that rough, haughty look will return, and Chan will curse himself for ever wondering.

Then it’s seventh year, barely the beginning of the year, and Chan and Minho are staring each other down in the corridor of the train car. Chan’s entire body is buzzing so badly he might as well be shaking. He’s so, so angry. He doesn’t even remember what started the argument - something about Hyunjin, a boy Jun and Bomin used to bully - but then he saw the prefect badge on Minho’s chest and everything else faded away.

“Am I a Slytherin prefect?” Minho repeats, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah. Look at the badge. Do you not have eyes?”

Arms crossed over his chest, Chan says coldly, “I just find that hard to believe.” There are a few inches between them, Minho leaning casually against the window. Even now, leaning back against the glass, Minho is taller than him, and the height discrepancy makes something churn in Chan’s stomach.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Minho replies, equally coolly. “But if you have a problem with that, take it up with Professor Choi, not me.”

Chan tilts his head. “You know,” he says conversationally, trying to keep his voice even, “I wonder if Professor Choi knows what you’ve been up to the last few years. I bet that Hwang boy would love to update your Head of House on how his new star prefect has been spending his time.”

Minho laughs. It’s not a nice sound. “Good luck with that. By now, Hyunjin knows not to get on my bad side, and I doubt he’s willing to make himself even more or a pariah than he already is. He’s not going to talk to you.”

I remember when that pariah was you, Chan thinks to himself. I remember when it was you hiding in corridors. What the hell happened? But he doesn’t say any of that to Minho, of course. “Do you have any idea what message this sends to the younger students?” He snaps. “That the biggest fucking bully in Hogwarts is able to become a prefect?”

This, he knows as soon as he says it, is a lie. Because as much as he hates Minho, the biggest bully in Hogwarts has never been him. For a long time now, it's been Bomin. But never Minho. Minho’s helped him, for sure, and he’s still helping him, but he’s always been more of an asteroid to the Bomin's planet.

Meanwhile, Minho’s gaze briefly darkens, and Chan watches as he leans further back against the window. With a shrug, he says, deceptively casually, “Oh, I don’t know. That they should respect their betters?”

“No,” Chan growls, taking a step closer. Their foreheads are almost touching. “It tells them that nothing they do will ever matter. That all that matters is power.”

For a second, some strange, foreign emotion flickers across Minho’s expression, and he looks at Chan, and looks, and then Chan is suddenly hyperaware of how close they are. Without breaking eye contact, Minho responds, his voice rough, “And what an apt lesson that is.”

For a long moment, they just stare at each other. In the back of his mind, Chan remembers the first time he saw him, the way he’d thought Minho was the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen. It’s still true now, he supposes, though why he’s thinking about that currently is beyond him. Minho’s still leaning away, like Chan’s poisonous, but they’re still close enough that Chan hears just when Minho’s breath catches in his throat and something in his expression shifts. If he leaned in, just a little, they’d be close enough to kiss.

Abruptly, Chan takes a step back, his heart racing. As neutrally as he can, he says, “As soon as we get to Hogwarts, I’m having a conversation with the Head of Gryffindor House about Slytherin’s clearly flawed system for choosing prefects.”

“Good luck with that,” Minho replies, curling his lip. “Even if your Head of House does try to do something about it, my father’s on the school board.” There’s something different about his voice, now, though, in a way Chan can’t place.

Minho doesn’t know, Chan realizes after, because it’s clear on his face. Chan’s known that their parents are on the school board for the entire time they’ve known each other, but clearly Minho doesn’t. Chan has so many questions - first of all, how, and second of all, do Minho and his father not speak to each other - but he just smiles. “What a coincidence. So is mine.”

Minho blinks. He looks almost nonplussed. “What? But all the school board members are-”

“-Purebloods,” Chan says, cutting him off. “Yes, they are.”

He’s put off mentioning this in front of Minho for a reason, but the situation unfortunately requires it.

Minho’s expression goes cool again, though, and after a moment, Chan starts to wonder if, somehow, Lee Minho doesn’t actually care whether he’s a pureblood or not. But shouldn’t he? The first time he got any modicum of respect from Bomin, it was after name-dropping his father. And Minho has been friends with him for years.

Chan doesn’t like talking about being a pureblood purely because of this: this should mean something to Minho. This should mean him backing away, should mean him ignoring Chan in the hallways. This means something to boys like Minho.

But Minho doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he says, just as coldly as before, “Whatever, Bang. Like I care. We’ll continue this at school.”

Another memory, short and quick and tainted with the blurry filter of alcohol: Chan and his girlfriend are trading whispers and soft kisses in an alcove by Gryffindor Tower, leaning against each other more for support than to cuddle. It’s after yet another Gryffindor Quidditch loss - Minho’s now-friend Hyunjin is a nightmare to play against - and they’ve escaped from the pity party, just this side of tipsy. His girlfriend’s hands are just starting to card through his hair when Chan hears a noise.

“Oh,” his girlfriend says slowly, wrinkling her nose. “It’s you.”

None other than Lee Minho is standing a few feet away, his face bright red. Chan locks eyes with him for an impossible moment, and Chan just has enough time to wonder what are you thinking before the Slytherin flees.

“He’s so weird,” his girlfriend mumbles as he disappears. “You know he’s never had a girlfriend?”

For a second, Chan is abruptly awake. “What? Why do you know that?”

She shrugs languidly. “All the Slytherin girls think he’s gay. I don’t know. He’s just weird.”

Something turns in Chan’s stomach. “Right,” he says slowly. He doesn’t want to hear her speak any more. Maybe, he thinks idly, it’s time to break up. She’s pretty and all, sure, and he’s definitely attracted to her, but all of a sudden, he can’t stand to hear her voice.

They just kiss again, and the night slips into the early hours.

The next time Chan sees Minho, it’s at another Gryffindor party on a Saturday night several months later, and this time, Minho is the drunk one.

The previous week, Hwang Hyunjin, Slytherin’s star player, had the flu, which meant that he was benched for the night and Slytherin lost a Quidditch game for the first time in years to a jubilant Ravenclaw team. Then Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw on Thursday night, just in time for Hyunjin to return to the field at full form the next day and beat Ravenclaw with a sound 130-40. Two Ravenclaw losses in less than twenty-four hours. For the first time in all of Chan’s time at Hogwarts, both Gryffindor and Slytherin agreed that the shared moment deserved mutual celebration. And so he finds himself here, on a Saturday night, as the designated Sober Seventh Year (a position passed around like a hot potato), watching Gryffindors and Slytherins alike cram into the Gryffindor common room and drink themselves senseless.

Chan hates being the Sober Seventh Year. The real reason they have one is to be a reliable look out for the school groundskeeper in case he decides to go patrolling the halls of Gryffindor Tower, which makes sense, but no one ever wants to do it, so the participating seventh years always draw lots before each party. And of course, tonight had to be the night Chan drew the short straw.

Chan is standing by the door with his friend Lisa, one of the Gryffindor Chasers, when he spots Minho’s familiar frame slip in through the doorway and begin weaving his way through the crowd. These days, with a face like his, sharp and princely, he stands out in every room he enters. Even today, in the chaos of the party, it’s not hard to track his progress, his dark head of hair at bobbing past groups of students.

“Is that Lee Minho?” Lisa says suddenly, peering through the crowd with a frown. “What the hell is he doing here? I thought he stopped coming to parties.”

Chan hadn’t heard that. “What, why?” He asks, trying to hide his curiosity.

“Oh, apparently some issues with the Slytherin players,” Lisa says absently, still staring into the distance. “I guess they haven’t been huge fans of his since he left the team last year.” Then she startles, turning back to Chan. “Oh, shit, he’s coming over here.”

Chan has barely a few seconds to prepare before Minho stumbles his way out of the crowd, a glass beer bottle in one hand. “Bang,” he says, with the slow slur of the very drunk. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Lisa hides a smirk. “Seems like you’re having fun.”

“Oh, no,” Minho assures them, swaying a little in place. He reaches out for the wall, almost too late, then says as he steadies himself, “I make a point to never have fun within fifteen feet of Bang Chan.”

At this, Lisa and Chan share a glance. Personally, Chan isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be offended, and he hasn’t decided if he even wants to be. He’s a little too distracted by the fact that he’s now realizing that Minho has never said his first name before. He’s annoyed that he even notices it.

“Aha,” Minho replies slowly, pointing to Chan with his glass bottle. “Exactly.”

Chan raises his arms. “Lee, I didn’t even say anything.”

“Yes,” Minho accuses, “But you thought it.”

“Well,” Lisa says loudly, pushing off of the wall after a brief pause. “This has been fun and all, but I’m going to go find my other friends. Chan, do you want the rest of my drink?”

Chan sighs. “Please, don’t even joke with me about that right now.”

Lisa grimaces.”Oh, wait. Shit, sorry. I’m not gonna lie, I totally forgot you’re the SSY. Oops.”

Chan shoots her a look. In a low voice, he mutters, “At this party, of all times?”

“Ha!” Lisa laughs. “You’re so right.” She turns to Minho, who’s watching them intently, and something in her expression grows curious. “Lee, do you want it instead?”

Instead of answering, Minho repeats, “The SSY?”

Raising her eyebrows, Lisa responds, in the exact tone of someone explaining the concept of a dog to a ten year old, “Um, yeah. The designated Sober Seventh Year? Do you guys not have that in Slytherin or something?”

“Oh,” Minho says slowly. “Yeah. We do. But we call them the goose.”

“The goose?” Chan repeats, doubtful.

“Yeah,” Minho shrugs. “Annoying, and with good eyesight.”

There’s a pause. She and Chan exchange another look. Chan, for one, wonders if this is what it’s like to be high. Did he take drugs without meaning to? What is happening right now?

“Um, okay,” Lisa says. “Well. That’s interesting and all, but that doesn’t answer my question. Do you want the alcohol or not?”

Minho shrugs again, which Chan suspects is the only type of answer they’ll get out of him.

Lisa sends Chan an arch look, then asks, “Can I keep my cup?”

Minho just looks at her. He’s swaying again in place, his gaze vague, and Chan has to fight the strange urge to find a chair to push him into.

“I’ll pour it into your mouth,” Lisa says.

“That’s fine,” Minho replies, surprisingly unbothered by this suggestion. Chan can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Lisa glances at Chan again, almost analyzing, then inquires, “Unless you want to do it?”

Immediately, Chan takes a rapid, panicked step back into the wall right as Minho says, loud and emphatic, “No.”

For a moment, none of them speak. Chan, who feels strangely warm, manages to work up the courage to look over at him. They lock eyes, and Chan spends a minute looking at Lee Minho’s perfect goddamn face and imagining what that would be like to be the one to pour the drink into his mouth himself before he swallows thickly and looks away.

“Huh,” Lisa says cheerfully. Chan has the distinct feeling that he’s being analyzed. “Interesting. Well, Minho, open up.”

Minho leans against the wall. It takes a bit of finagling for it to work, since Lisa is a few inches shorter than him, but eventually, they find an angle where Lisa can tip the drink into his mouth, and Chan watches the entire thing and burns.

Once the cup is empty, Minho tilts his head back to normal, wiping his mouth with one hand. They lock eyes again.

“Told you I could do it,” Minho says, slurring a little. There’s something strange in his gaze, almost watchful.

“As they say,” Chan says, and his voice sounds rough even to himself. “When in Rome.” He doesn’t even really know what he means by that. He’s too busy trying to regain feeling in his face.

Then, right behind Minho, he spots Han Jisung, and Chan’s heart immediately sinks. He and Jisung were friends once, and good ones, but they had a falling out for incredibly dumb reasons at the beginning of the year and haven’t really spoken since. Jisung is a Gryffindor, younger than Chan by almost three years, has a deep-set sense of right and wrong, and is, in Chan’s humble opinion, currently harboring an intense but deeply hidden crush on Hwang Hyunjin, the boy Minho used to make fun of. Naturally, Jisung also hates Minho’s guts.

“Jisung,” Chan greets warily. He can see the betrayal on Jisung’s face, plain as day. In the younger boy’s brain, Chan speaking to Minho in a regular voice is probably the worst thing he could do on planet Earth.

“Oh, shit,” Lisa says under her breath. “No way I’m staying for this. See you later, Chan.” And with that, she disappears into the crowd.

Minho turns around. “Oh, it’s you,” he slurs. He’s looking at Jisung with an odd, hazy gaze, a wolfish grin forming on his face. “Come out of your hidey-hole, I see?”

The rage that flickers across Jisung’s face is immediate. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Minho spreads his arms, taking a stumbling step forward. “Gryffindor-Slytherin party,” he says with a smirk.

Jisung stares at him. “What?” Slowly, Chan watches as he registers the sea of green-and-silver sweaters around them. His mouth forms a thin line.

“We’re celebrating wins against Ravenclaw,” Chan clarifies. Almost derisively, he finds himself adding, “It’s like they say: House rivalries are brief, but Quidditch and alcohol are forever.”

“I thought you hated him,” Jisung says slowly. “You know how he treated me. Us. Hyunjin. Why the hell are you drinking with him?”

It’s a very Jisung reaction. Chan was expecting this exactly, but what he didn’t expect is the thread of guilt that wraps around his belly. He thinks back to earlier, to him watching Lisa pour the drink into Minho’s mouth and feeling his body heat like a lit match, then pushes the memory away.

“Oh, come on,” Minho says, frowning. “Hyunjin needs less friends these days, not more. Honestly, I’m…” He pauses for a long moment, clearly searching for the words. “Doing him a favor.”

Jisung’s gaze sparks again, and Chan has the sneaking suspicion that if he lets this conversation go any further, it’s going to turn into a fight they’re not going to be able to come back from. “Hold on a moment, Minho,” Chan says abruptly. “Okay?”

He doesn’t even realize he’s said Minho’s first name until he sees the naked shock on his face, and then something else, another emotion that Minho quickly hides.

Chan leads Jisung away, mind churning, and when he comes back alone five minutes later, Minho is already gone.

Time passes again. Chan graduates. That June, he gets hired at the Ministry in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. And on his second day, he runs into Lee Minho.

“Your Dad is our boss?” Chan says blankly. “What kind of insane fucking nepotism is that?”

After an almost wordless discussion, he and Minho have taken their previously very public argument into the break room, where Chan is currently leaning over the main table and trying very hard not to lose his shit.

They saw each other almost immediately. Minho has only been at work for all of fifteen minutes, and Chan all of thirty, and they’re already at each other’s throats. In a weird, roundabout way, it almost feels like fate; the moment Chan thought he’d escaped the younger man, he reappeared as a nepo baby intern in Chan’s grown-ass adult job. As far as he understands, the Ministry doesn’t even hire interns.

Yeah, Chan’s being extremely normal about this.

“Merlin, Bang, don’t lose your shit,” Minho replies, raising his eyebrow. “It’s just for the summer.” He leans back against the counter behind him, a half-full mug of coffee dangling from his fingers. Perceptive, as always.

Chan raises a finger at him. “Oh, don’t pretend you’re happy about this arrangement. You hate my guts. You always have.”

Something flashes across Minho’s expression, and he sets the mug down on the counter with a dull clatter. “Fuck you.”

Frowning, Chan retorts, “For what? It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Just do your job,” Minho says, giving him a hard look. “And I’ll do mine.”

“But you shouldn’t even have this job,” Chan says, frustrated. “Your rank is the same as mine and you haven’t even graduated yet. How the hell is that fair?”

Minho’s mouth twists. “I just told you. My dad runs this department. Is your brain made out of wet cardboard? Do I need to explain it again?”

“But you said you’re an intern,” Chan says, covering his head with his hands. Fine, maybe his brain is breaking a little. “What the fuck does that even mean when the Ministry doesn’t even fucking do interns-”

“Bang,” Minho snaps.

Chan glances up. “What do you want?” He asks warily.

“Look,” Minho says, leaning over the table, his expression intense. “I am an intern here even though I am a Hogwarts student because I am Lee fucking Minhyun’s son, and I go wherever the fuck he tells me to. You had to work for this job, unlike me, because you are not. I will get hired here after graduation full time without an interview because I am, again, a Lee, and my father will put me wherever the fuck he sees fit, potentially including as your boss. I have about as much control in this decision as you do.” He leans back, eyes flashing. “Any other futile things you’d like to complain about?”

“No,” Chan says shortly, taking his arms off the table. “You made that perfectly clear.”

That week, one of Chan’s more extroverted coworkers manages to cajole the younger members of the department into going to a bar with her on Friday in Diagon Alley. Chan watches throughout the week as she makes her way through most of the under-thirty crowd in the office, including Minho, and coaxes and prods until she gets resounding or (in Minho’s case) reluctant yeses from all of them. Chan, who was somewhat interested in going until he knew Minho would be there, has to wait until Friday morning before she corners him in the break room, eyes bright and expectant.

“Rosé,” Chan says regretfully. “I really don’t know-”

“Come on,” she coaxes. “It’ll be a fun get-to-know-you event. Mr. Lee is always saying we need to raise morale.”

Chan sighs. “I didn’t want to say this, but Minho and I don’t really get along,” he says carefully. “I don’t think us arguing all night would be particularly helpful when it comes to raising morale.”

Rosé gives him a knowing smile. “Oh, I know. Minho says he’ll be good.”

There’s a long pause.

“I’m sorry?” Chan says faintly.

“He’s gonna behave,” she assures him. “I already talked to him about it. No arguing or anything. He swore it.” With her lips twitching, she adds, “Come on, you think nobody noticed you two disappearing into the break room to yell at each other on his first day? The walls aren’t that thick.”

Chan is stunned into silence. “Rosé,” he says weakly, after another very long pause. “I’m so sorry. That was extremely unprofessional of me. Of both of us, in fact. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’re coming,” Rosé says decisively.

Chan doesn’t have much other choice - he nods. “Alright.”

The bar goes about like he expected: a group of a dozen or so men and women in their twenties sipping beer and doing small talk for two or three hours around sticky wooden tables. Gratefully, he doesn’t interact with Minho once, though he sees him bobbing through the crowd. Instead, Chan spends most of it shoved into a corner chatting about international law procedures with a young man about his age with thin wrists and messy dark hair. While they get along well, he’s pretty relieved when Rosé finally announces the event is over.

“Hey,” the boy says under his breath as they’re all gathering they’re stuff to leave. “Do you wanna do something fun?”

There’s something different about the way he’s looking at Chan right now, something sharply interested, almost appraising, and Chan feels his heart thrum. “Yeah,” he whispers back. “Sure.”

They make it all the way to the men’s bathroom of the bar, where Chan pushes the guy up against the wall and kisses him until they’re both breathless. Since figuring out that he’s bi, he’s gotten in the habit of doing this every summer, finding boys with sharp eyes in bars or cafes late at night and hooking up with them in the early hours. He wouldn’t normally do this around other people, people he knows, people who could find out about him and his identity, but it’s been a long time since he’s kissed someone and he’s sick of the small talk and he’s sick of Lee Minho, of being aware of him in every room he enters, of the way Chan’s eyes follow him wherever he goes, and he’s willing to do anything to distract himself from it.

They kiss for a long time. Every time Chan tries to keep his mind focused on the guy, his thoughts wander to Minho’s dark hair and his long legs and his sharp eyes and the soft curve of his even softer-looking mouth. Chan aches with it. With wanting.

“Bang,” Minho’s voice calls abruptly as the bathroom door opens. “Rosé wanted to- oh, fuck.”

Chan pulls back from the other man immediately, his stomach in his throat, but it’s too late. Minho is staring at him, white-faced, his horror evident. He looks at Chan, then at the guy, then at Chan, and something dark passes over his face, and he looks away from them like he can’t even bear to look at Chan’s face anymore.

“Minho,” Chan says unsteadily. “I-”

“You’re-” Minho cuts him off, then stops. He can’t seem to finish his sentence, either. Finally, almost choking on it, he finishes, “What? You?”

“Lee,” Chan attempts again. “I don’t know what to say.” Still leaning against the wall, the other man is staring at them, a strange look on his face.

Minho shakes his head. “God, Bang,” he says, that dark look still on his face. “I can’t believe you’re a-”

Abruptly, Chan doesn’t want to hear the rest. His face burning, he pushes past Minho and out the rear door of the bar, disappearing into the night.

For a long time, Chan stands in the back alleyway of the bar, feeling almost numb. That look on Minho’s face. The horror. The way he couldn’t even look anywhere near Chan, much less meet his eyes. Was Chan wrong? Was his ex-girlfriend wrong? Has Minho been straight all along?

“Hey, can we talk?” Minho’s voice says quietly from behind him.

Chan whirls around. The moment their eyes meet, he feels his body jolt. “No, actually,” he says brusquely. “We can’t.”

“You have to know I didn’t mean to do that,” Minho says. He still isn’t quite meeting Chan’s eyes.

“Stop,” Chan says, shaking his head. His chest still aches. “Don’t even try. You know, even with all the crap you pulled when we were at school, all the horrible things you said, I never took you for homophobic. But I don’t know why I ever bothered to try to be nice to you. You always end up being a cold-blooded bitch.”

“No,” Minho says vehemently. At last, he meets Chan’s gaze, his eyes wide. “No, that’s not- I’m not- No.”

“No?” Chan repeats incredulously. “Then what was that, then? You saw me kissing a boy and couldn’t even look at me. Hell, you can barely do it now! What am I supposed to think?”

Minho hisses in frustration. “That’s not it.”

Chan starts to turn away, but Minho grabs his wrist tightly, pulling him back. “Please,” he urges. “Bang. Wait.”

“You were about to say something, back in the bar. Say the rest,” Chan says roughly. “I know the word. What, do I make you uncomfortable? Because I’m queer?”

“You fucking idiot,” Minho growls. He starts to push Chan away, but his fingers hold fast to Chan's collar. His fingers brush Chan's skin, thumb running across his chest, and Chan’s traitorous body shivers.

At first, he thinks Minho’s movements are an accident, and he burns with embarrassment, but then he sees the look in Minho’s eye and everything stops. His expression is intense, almost heated. He’s staring at Chan like he can’t tear his eyes away.

“Lee,” Chan says distantly. “What…”

“I was jealous, you dumbass,” Minho says lowly. “Obviously.”

“Oh,” Chan says with a frown. “But I-” Then his lips curl upward. “Oh.”

And then they’re kissing. It’s hard to tell who initiates it - maybe both of them. They stay for a long time like that, what feels like eons. They kiss for so long that Chan's lips feel almost bruised.

“Okay,” Chan says slowly as they finally pull away. His brain feels scrambled. “Is this a- Have you been-” He doesn’t even know how to formulate the sentence. He thinks back to the party during his seventh year, watching Lisa pour beer into Minho’s mouth, the way Minho had panicked when Lisa suggested Chan do it instead.

To his relief, Minho seems to understand what he’s asking immediately. “Yeah,” he mutters, leaning his head against Chan’s neck like he can’t bear to say the words to his face. “Yeah. For a long time.”

“Okay,” Chan breathes, still catching his breath. “Just checking. Me too.”

Minho doesn’t move his head, but Chan hears the smile in his voice when he asks, “So what now?”

Chan tugs at his chin until they’re looking at each other in the eyes again. “Now,” he says as steadily as he can, “I think I’m gonna take you out on a date.”

So they go on a date. It’s for Sunday dinner, and Chan spends the full hour before Minho is scheduled to arrive pacing nervously in his apartment. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe he misinterpreted things. Maybe Minho’s going to actually hate him-

But then he hears his doorbell ring, and Chan rushes to open it.

Minho is standing at the doorway, wearing a formal-looking jacket and a white collared shirt. His hair is parted softly over his forehead in a way that makes Chan think idly he must have spent a lot of time on it. All together, he looks impossibly, mind-bendingly attractive.

“Hey,” Minho says roughly. His eyes meet Chan’s, then flicker away. “Um, I’m here. Obviously.”

It would be clear to anyone who saw him then: incredibly, Lee Minho, of all people, is nervous.

“Hey,” Chan echoes, feeling his own anxiety fall away. “You look really good, you know.”

“You, too,” Minho admits. He looks at Chan appraisingly, then adds, “I like your shirt.”

Chan knows that’s not exactly what he means. His shirt is almost the exact same as Minho’s. What’s different is the color: a brilliant forest green. Chan knows that particular color like the back of his hand by now. He watched Minho wear it for six years straight.

“Consider it a truce,” Chan replies.

Minho looks at him for a long moment, some foreign emotion crossing over his face, before he says finally, “Are you ready to go?”

“Hey, before we do this,” Chan says, catching Minho’s shoulder. “I think I should tell you that I really like you. Like, a lot. And this won’t be…” He searches for the words, his heart pounding, Minho’s gaze heavy on him. “This won’t be nothing to me.”

“Me too,” Minho says quietly. “I mean it.”

Chan kisses him, just briefly, and when they pull apart, Minho is smiling. “Cool,” he says.

Chan grins. “Cool.”

They go to dinner, and it’s not awful at all. In fact, it’s kind of wonderful. They talk and laugh and argue a little bit, just enough that it steadies Chan a little. More than once, he finds himself studying Minho from across the table, watching the other boy’s eyes sparkle as he regales Chan with some tale from Slytherin House that he can’t believe he hasn’t heard before.

Has he been this person the whole time? Chan finds himself wondering, some sharp ache tugging at his chest. Could we really have been doing this the whole time? This instead of whatever the fuck we were doing before? But he doesn’t say that. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he just lets himself watch - that is, until Minho looks at him expectantly and he finds words bubbling out before he can stop them, jokes and warmth and stories of his own.

That night, Minho walks him back to his house, and they kiss on Chan’s doorstep before they pull away, breathing hard, to say good night. And then, on Wednesday, they do it again. And again, this time the following Saturday, but they go bowling instead. It turns out Minho is a terrible bowler, like dead awful, but that night, he makes Chan laugh until he almost cries.

Just like that, the summer disappears to steady tune of dinner dates (not bowling, never again bowling) and movie theatre dates and walks in the local park and nights out to local bars (Minho, of course, being underage, doesn’t drink), then, eventually, movie nights in Chan’s apartment that dissolve into other things. They argue sometimes, and Chan is angrier at him than he’s ever been at anyone, but they fix it, somehow, and go out again. At first, at work, they try to pretend like nothing’s changed, but after a few weeks, Chan finds them sharing coffee breaks in mutual silence, chatting in the hallways, even walking out of the building together. He doesn’t know what Minho’s been telling his father, and he doesn’t ask. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter. That Minho is figuring it out. That Minho’s father is never going to find out. That if he does, Mr. Lee will have a sudden change of heart, and everything will be all right again. He thinks more than once of their meeting on the train platform, that flicker of pride in Mr. Lee’s eyes when Chan’s mom said Minho’s name. That has to mean something, right?

The weeks fly by fast as lightning, no matter how much Chan tries to hold on to them.

And then, somehow, it’s late August, and Minho is leaving in four days. Chan can barely breathe with the ache of it.

It’s Friday afternoon, four days until Minho leaves for his seventh year at Hogwarts, and Mr. Lee approaches Chan right as he’s sitting down in the break room for lunch. He hasn’t seen Minho all day, but that’s not completely unusual; Mr. Lee apparently gives him unlimited sick days, and he already took off a few days in July when he got a nasty summer cold from their coworker.

“Mr. Bang,” Mr. Lee says smoothly. “No, no, don’t get up.” Chan’s always surprised by how tall he is, no matter how many times he sees him, and today is no different. He towers over Chan, especially with him sitting.

Slowly, Chan sits back down. “Sir,” he replies, swallowing down a flicker of nervousness. “How can I help you?”

“I have something I need to discuss with you regarding your employment,” Mr. Lee replies. His expression, as always, is impossible to read. “After work, I think. Will that do?”

It’s the kind of request, Chan notes, that’s really more of an order.

Abruptly, Chan’s flicker of nervousness abruptly transforms into a wave. “Of course,” he murmurs, glancing down at the table. “No problem at all.”

Chan doesn’t see Minho again all day, and his anxiety ratchets up with each passing hour. By three pm, he finds himself wishing desperately that Minho grew up with Muggles and had a cell phone, like Chan and his friends. If he were Felix or Changbin or even Jisung, he could just call or text him and expect a response within the hour, since they all attended Muggle public school until age eleven and have their own phones to prove it. But no - Minho, like many of the children in his social circle, grew up with private tutors and has probably never touched a phone in his life. Every time Chan uses his own phone around him, Minho tends to look at him like he’s grown a third head.

“Hey, Bang,” Rosé says eventually, passing his desk around five with a frown. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Chan replies distantly. “Yeah, for sure.”

Around five thirty, the office starts to clear out, and by six fifteen, Chan is in the office alone. For probably the hundredth time that hour, he glances up at the closed door of Mr. Lee’s office, wishing he could somehow will the door open, and catches right as Minho walks into the office, a grey-haired woman in tow.

Even now, seven years later, he’d recognize Minho’s mother anywhere. But she works in the Obliviator’s Headquarters, several floors away. She never comes here. Why would she…

Chan tries to catch Minho’s eye, but he’s looking strangely, studiously forward. Then, by accident, he and Mrs. Lee’s gazes lock, and the look of pure loathing in her face almost takes his breath away. Oh, no, Chan thinks, suddenly panicked. Oh, no, no.

Mrs. Lee motions for him to stand. “Mr. Bang,” she calls in that same prim, breathy voice. “Come.”

Unsteadily, Chan pushes himself out of his desk and walks across the office floor. He looks at Minho again, and then slowly, minutely, Minho shakes his head. Up close, his face is white, eyes almost glassy. He looks terrified, Chan realizes numbly.

Mr. Lee opens the door to his office. “Come in,” he says, gesturing behind him. “Mr. Bang, if you will.”

Once they’re inside, Mr. Lee stands behind his desk, leaning on his hands across the mahogany. Chan is just paying enough attention to hear Mrs. Lee whispering a locking charm. A second later, he hears a familiar click, and Mrs. Lee steps away from the door to stand next to her husband.

“Minho,” Chan says lowly. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. “What the hell is going on?”

Minho reaches out, as if to grab Chan’s hand, but then stops himself halfway. I’m sorry, he mouths.

“You’ve been seen, is what’s happening,” Mrs. Lee says in that soft, even voice. “Twice, I might add. The first time, I thought it might be a story someone made up. But the second time, at the park, the reports were quite clear.”

“The park?” Chan repeats blankly. “But that was weeks ago.” They kissed a lot that day, he remembers distantly, laying out on a picnic blanket as Minho tried to assign cloud formations to various mythological creatures and Chan mostly criticized him until they both were in stitches laughing.

“If you might recall, that park is quite close to the main entrance to the Ministry,” Mr. Lee says, finally turning around. “And I have been working at the Ministry for close to twenty years. People know my face. They know my family. They were bound to ask questions.”

“I’m sorry,” Chan whispers. “Really. I didn’t mean to… offend you, or anything. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mr. Lee shakes his head. “Now, truth be told, I should have expected this from my son,” he says. “But you-” He pauses. “From you, this is certainly a surprise. I would’ve thought you had the good sense to stay away from him.”

Chan swallows back an angry retort. “Why,” he says, in the steadiest voice he can manage, “Because I’m a Gryffindor?”

Mr. Lee laughs without amusement. “Clearly not. You, like my son, are a pureblood. You know how this works. I assumed you would have the good sense to stay away.”

“That’s not how it works in my family,” Chan replies carefully before he can stop himself. He thinks he understands what Mr. Lee means now. He knows, of course, that certain wizarding families have certain expectations for their children, especially their sons. He knows, too, that there was very little chance Minho’s parents were going to accept Chan as a part of their son’s life with open arms. What he didn’t expect, though, was this.

That dark look passes over Mr. Lee’s face, and he purses his lips. “Regardless. Here is the situation. You should know I could have your job for this.”

Chan doesn’t even have to think about it. He has a killer resume, fantastic test scores, great interviewing skills. He could go anywhere else. Quietly, he replies, “I don’t care. Fire me. Do it. It’s not worth losing him.”

Minho jolts. “Chan,” he urges quietly, his eyes wide. There’s something in that look, soft and warm and something else that makes Chan’s heart ache.

“Oh, I thought you would say that,” Minho’s father says measuredly. “The problem is, I have a much, much better idea.” He turns his head just enough to jut his chin towards Minho’s mother. “Do it.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what Minho’s father means. Mrs. Lee is the head of the Obliviation office. But can she- Would she really-

“No,” Chan says, voice coming out strangled. Without thinking, he steps forward and shields Minho’s body with his own.

Behind him, Minho makes a pained noise. “No, you idiot,” he says, sharp and desperate, tugging Chan’s shoulder in a futile attempt to pull him away. “Don’t do this for me. It’s not worth it.”

“But they can’t do it,” Chan says, the thought suddenly occurring to him, staring at Minho’s parents right in the face and growing more and more confident the longer they stay silent. “They can’t. Maybe they could to someone else, but not to me. My parents know what your mom does for a living. They’re on the fucking school board. They could ruin them.”

For a long moment, Mr. Lee just looks at him, gaze difficult to read, and Chan has a brief period of time to feel a burst of warm triumph before the man opens his mouth and says conversationally, “Did you know I’m very close friends with Park Jinyoung?”

Chan pauses. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Mr. Lee replies archly. “I know you are perfectly aware who that is. Park Jinyoung, I recently learned, in addition to being a close and personal friend, is also your father’s boss at the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.” He leans forward, then continues, “You know, you would be surprised at how frequently things go wrong in that department. I heard just last night that they have to fire up to ten people a year just for incompetence.” His eyes glint, darkly triumphant, and he adds, “Of course, it’s also a dangerous field, so there are occasionally regretful… hmm. Accidents, let’s say. It’s a good thing Jinyoung and I are on such good terms. Truly, it’s amazing what people will do for you when you know what strings to pull.”

Chan almost stops breathing. When he thinks he has his voice under control, he asks, heart pounding, “I’m sorry, did you just threaten my father’s life?”

“Did I say that?” Mr. Lee repeats. “You know, I don’t think I did. What I said was this, plain and simple, just the way you Gryffindors like it.” At last, his voice turns cold. “You will step away from my son, or we will see what my dear friend Jinyoung can do.”

“Chan,” Minho says finally, his voice thick, after the longest, tensest silence Chan has ever experienced in his life. “It’s okay. Really.”

Chan whirls around to find him crying.

“Minho,” Chan whispers. Without meaning to, he reaches out and runs his thumb across Minho’s face, wiping away tears, then says, anguished, “Minho, my dad.”

“I know,” Minho whispers. “It’s okay.”

“Please,” Chan says, cupping Minho’s face, his voice rough and wet with tears of his own. “They can’t do this. You have to remember, okay? You have to.”

Minho swallows. “I know.”

“You have to remember,” Chan repeats shakily. “This can’t all be for nothing. All this- all this time, all this effort, God, you hated me for so long. I don’t know what I’ll do if you-”

“Hyung,” Minho cuts in forcefully. “I know.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you. Really. You were… ” He trails off for a moment, then finishes gently, “You’ve been everything to me.”

Chan takes another shaky breath. He wants to kiss him, just once, but is terrified of provoking his parents. So, after another beat of just holding his face and wishing, wanting, aching, he slowly steps aside.

It’s immediately the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life. Minho closes his eyes and waits, tense as a string pulled taut, but Chan can’t. They have so little time left.

He turns to Minho and tries desperately to memorize the slope of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the soft wave of his hair, the deep brown of his eyes. He thinks of their date in the park, then the first time they had dinner together, then that night at the bar as they kissed desperately in the alley, then watching Lisa pour beer into his mouth, then crowding him up against the train wall as they fought, then standing up to him in the hallway, finding him sobbing on the floor of the third-floor bathroom, and then, finally, finally, when they first met, when he appeared out of the crowd and all Chan could think about was how beautiful he was.

All these memories, all these fragments, but they’re not enough for Chan. They’ll never be enough. He could replay them a thousand times and never get sick of them. He could never stop wanting just a little bit more time. Just one more memory, one more day, one more minute. One more second of this moment, staring at the boy he loves across a room that feels as wide as a chasm and wondering if he could do it again, maybe he’d get a chance to tell him. Kiss him sooner. Laugh with him longer. Actually say it.

Minho, he thinks desperately. Minho, Minho, Minho. Then, begging to whoever will listen: Please.

He’s running out of time, he knows. Somehow, they’re always running out of time.

Mrs. Lee raises her wand. In a soft, firm voice, she murmurs, “Obliviate.”

Chapter Text

The moment Minho steps away from the Pensieve, his heart aches so badly he wonders if he’s dying. He knows Chan is watching him, but he doesn’t look up from the ground. He can’t think. He’d wondered, once Chan had said he’d been Obliviated, if they had been involved, but to see it with his own eyes is something different entirely.

They were together. They were together for a whole summer, for weeks and weeks and weeks, and Minho doesn’t even remember it. His memory of his entire internship is still blurry and strange, and while he’s known intellectually that Chan was working on the staff at the same time, he assumed they fought the whole time. He assumed that his anger and mess of emotions about the other man were the reason he couldn’t remember.

They didn’t just hook up. They dated. They were fucking dating. Chan was his romantic partner, and they dated, and then Minho’s mother took his memories of all of it.

“Minho,” Chan says eventually. His voice is roughened like he’s been crying again, but Minho doesn’t yet have the courage to look up and check.

When Minho doesn’t lift his gaze, Chan repeats, sounding almost choked, “Minho, look at me. Please.”

Minho looks up, his heart in his throat, and is immediately greeted with the image of Chan standing a few feet away. His lips are pursed in a thin line, but Minho has a suspicion that has more to do with him trying not to cry again than anything else.

Minho swallows. “What happened… after?” He can’t quite muster the courage to finish the sentence, but luckily, it seems that Chan understands.

“You were pretty confused, after,” Chan says quietly. “Your dad made up some bullshit about having to meet with the two of us because our arguments were causing problems for the office. You had a pretty bad headache, I guess, so your mom took you home. Your dad reminded me again about my dad’s boss, and finally then let me leave. When I came back to work on Monday, Rosé told me you’d left for school already.”

“And then we didn’t see each other again until two weeks ago, when I got hired,” Minho finishes for him. His mouth tastes like ash. “That’s why you were being so weird.”

Chan frowns. “What?”

“You told me on my first day that you were surprised I was allowed to show my face here again,” Minho replies unsteadily. “I’ve been trying to figure out what you meant by that for the entire time we’ve been working together. I thought it was because you heard about Jungwoo. But that’s not what you meant at all.”

Chan clears his throat. In a more normal voice, he says, “Yeah. Um. I told myself I was going to pretend nothing happened. Clearly, that didn’t go super great.”

Minho doesn’t ask why didn’t you send me a letter while I was at school. He doesn’t ask why didn’t you show me this sooner. He knows that until seeing that Obliviation record, there was no chance on Earth that he was going to believe anything Chan said or wrote to him about it. But he wonders, anyway, what might have happened if Chan did.

Suddenly, a terrible thought occurs to him. “Wait,” he says, heart rate picking up, “My dad didn’t talk to you again before I arrived, right? Is your dad-” He stops, unable to finish the thought. Panic rises in his chest. “Surely he isn’t-”

Rapidly, Chan shakes his head. “No,” he rushes out. “No, no, no.. He hasn’t talked to me about it at all. My dad is fine. Actually, he’s not even working at the Ministry anymore. I didn’t tell him why, but I mentioned hearing about the workplace injury statistics in his department last fall and managed to convince him to apply somewhere else. He works just south of London now, in a Wizarding architecture firm. Your dad can’t get anywhere near him anymore.”

“And your mom?” Minho asks immediately. “She doesn’t work at the Ministry, right?”

Chan shakes his head. “No, she retired early this past spring. She just does the school board stuff now.”

They’re safe. His parents are safe. But Chan… “What about you?” He manages, throat tight. “If my dad finds out about what we’ve been doing…”

Surprisingly, Chan gives him a little smile. “We’re about to get him fired, remember? If we pull off this case for Dahyun, at least.”

There’s another long silence. For a moment, Minho just looks at him: his dark eyes, the loose curls in his hair, the curves of his shoulders. Bang Chan, real as anything, baring his soul with the last seven years of memories just because he asked him to.

Chan looks back, because of course he does, gaze steady despite the red tint to his cheeks, and something in Minho’s chest tugs and tugs until he can’t stand it anymore.

He’s watching Minho with what must be a purposefully careful look, and it occurs to him for the first time that he hasn’t actually reacted in any real way to what Chan’s shown him. For all Chan knows, he’s about to turn tail and leave again, and even the thought sends a sharp wave of pain through his chest.

Minho takes another step away from the Pensieve, then another, letting it float back into Chan’s cabinet. He closes the cabinet door, then lets out a long breath. Something in him stills.

“They took three months of memories away from me,” Minho says softly. “Memories of you. Memories I’m probably never getting back. But…” He trails off, mindful of Chan’s gaze on him. “It almost feels like fate, finding each other again like this after everything. So, um. I guess what I’m trying to say is this.” He takes a steadying breath. “Chan, I think I would find you in every universe.”

When Minho pauses, Chan’s eyes are shining. Before he can lose his nerve, he continues, “And if your family is safe, then I want to try again. Not just as fuckbuddies or whatever the hell we’ve been doing this summer. Like, as partners. Real ones.”

The weight of Chan’s gaze sends a thrum of anticipation through Minho’s veins. After a beat, he says, lips twitching in a way that is abruptly very Chan, “You know, I think you just stole my speech.”

“You waited long enough,” Minho replies. “I think it was probably my turn.”

Then he reaches out, because the other man is abruptly, achingly far away, and they stumble into each others’ arms.

Chan’s body is warm against his, and Minho leans into him. “I missed you last year, I think,” he says without thinking, lips pressed to Chan’s hair. “And I didn’t even know it.”

Chan pulls back just enough to cup Minho’s chin. For a long moment, his gaze is searching, and Minho thinks he’s going to say something, but then he presses his mouth to Minho’s and they kiss until everything else falls away.

That night, they stay awake and talk until the early hours. Chan tells him about their year apart, what it was like going to the office without him there, the way he lost and found himself again just in time for June to roll around. He tells him about building his friendship with Miyeon, the long nights with her at the bar, the way he had to scramble to explain to Eunwoo and Jaehyun why he was acting so strangely without giving away what Mr. Lee had expressly forbidden him from revealing.

After, Minho tells him about his own year, everything he’s been too nervous or hurt about to say yet: things like the recurring nightmares and his relationship with Jungwoo, which Chan listens to quietly before finally admitting that the thought of Minho in a relationship with someone else makes jealousy eat him alive. (Minho, of course, has to then remind him that he himself felt that way about Chan’s various relationships for all six years they went to school together).

Of course, Minho tells him about the really good things, too, namely becoming close friends with Hyunjin, Seungmin, and Jeongin. Predictably, that particular conversation quickly devolves into various anecdotes of dumb things their friends have been up to. By one or two am, they’re still sprawled on Chan’s bed, murmuring to each other in the low light of the lamp across the room, and Minho can’t stop smiling.

Later, after they’ve gone quiet, Chan rolls over on his side so they’re face-to-face.

“What?” Minho asks warily.

Chan shrugs. He opens his mouth, closes it, then says, "Nothing."

"What?" Minho repeats.

Chan ducks his head. “It's just..." He trails off for a moment, then finishes, his lips twitching, "I can’t believe you, Lee Minho of all people, are a bottom.”

Minho shoves him so hard Chan almost falls off the bed. “Oh, fuck you,” he growls, face burning.

“No, wait-” Chan says between cackles of laughter as he pulls himself back from the edge. “Wait, hold on, in my defense-”

Minho shoves him again. Trying to ignore what he’s sure is a colossal blush across his face, he hisses, “What could you possibly have to say in your defense?”

Chan, who’s holding onto the bed a lot tighter now, merely jostles this time at Minho’s touch. “I- shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I swear,” he repeats, still laughing, all the while grabbing Minho by the shoulders and pushing him backward. “I’m sorry. I promise. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

Minho’s back hits the mattress with a whump. “You asshole,” he breathes. “That was the least sincere apology I’ve ever-” Suddenly, meaning to catch Chan by surprise, he pushes back, grappling with him by his shoulders and straddling his hips.

“You’re going to regret this,” Chan says slowly, eyes glinting.

Minho juts out his chin. “Try me.”

Quickly, he tries to use his hips to keep himself steady, but - and in retrospect, unsurprisingly - Chan turns out to be stronger. Instead, all it does is entangle them further, and they both wrestle somewhat futilely for a minute or two until their hips slide together by accident and Minho very audibly hitches a breath.

Chan, who’s somehow above him again, stops. He swallows audibly, and Minho watches as his Adam’s apple bobs.

“You’re being an asshole,” Minho says quietly. “I know you don’t mean to. But I fucking hate being a Lee.” He doesn’t mean to be that honest, and he regrets it immediately, not in the least because the tension between them, the mutual expectation of a kiss, quickly dissipates.

Chan’s expression is abruptly serious. “I’m sorry,” He says, his gaze searching Minho’s face. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Um, if you don’t mind me asking,” Chan says after a pause. “Why?”

“I-” He says. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears. Before he can make himself continue, Minho turns his head away, screwing his eyes shut. “I’m part of a thousand years of perfect pureblood Lee family heritage, you know? Me, my dad, my grandfather, his father before him. The perfect Slytherin heirs.”

Chan’s gaze flickers. “And you don’t want to be that.” It’s not a question. After all they’ve been through together, he knows that by now.

Minho’s chest tightens. He can’t make himself open his eyes. “No,” he says, face still half-buried in the pillow. “I don’t. But I pretended. It was better than the alternative. My father is not…” He takes a breath, steels himself. “He is not the kindest man in the world.”

“Wait. That’s why you acted that way in school,” Chan says, sounding like he’s realizing something. “That’s why you hung out with those bastards. Because of your father? Because he told you to? Not because you liked spending time with them?”

Minho nods.

Chan shifts slightly above him. Gently, he says, “You must have been really afraid of him. The same as you were afraid of the older Slytherins. The other purebloods.”

Minho opens his mouth, about to speak, then closes it, because the fact of the matter is that that, technically, is a lie.

His father is not a violent man, and he never has been. Minho has never been afraid for his physical safety in his family home, and he’s certain he never will be. As a child, he was even rarely yelled at; his parents made themselves clear enough with a normal volume. And they made themselves clear, over and over, that Minho is a Lee, that he always will be, and that he has certain expectations he will always need to fulfill. It was obvious from the start: for Minho, there were no other options. He would play Quidditch. He would be friends with Jun and Bomin. He would not be friends with Gryffindors. He would have a wife, preferably a Slytherin one, and he would have at least one son. The moment he turned eighteen, he would work for his father, and prepare to one day take his father’s place in the Ministry hierarchy.

So it’s not that he was afraid of his father. Not really. It’s that he worried the hatred his father lived every day was catching, and that if he stepped out of line, he might finally find himself in the firing zone. But Minho has no idea how to explain any of that to Chan.

Suddenly, Minho realizes he’s been biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. His throat feels thick, almost like he’s choking. He takes a very shaky breath, and finds himself tasting salt.

“Minho,” Chan whispers, sounding stricken. “Merlin. I-” Then, just as suddenly, as he began, he stops talking. There’s a rustling sound, and Minho feels Chan’s weight disappear from off of his hips. For one horrible moment, Minho thinks Chan’s about to leave the room, but then gentle fingers tug him to a seated position. A moment later, Chan’s hand brushes tentatively against Minho’s cheek, and after a brief pause, Minho leans into the touch. He doesn’t dare open his eyes.

“Minho, look at me,” Chan says quietly.

Minho can’t help it. He opens his eyes, and it occurs to him, all of a sudden, that the wetness he’s been feeling on his face is tears.

Chan is sitting cross-legged in front of him, his eyes trained on Minho’s face. His deep brown eyes look almost golden in the low light. His gaze searching, he says, almost desperately, “I don’t know what to say.”

“I made everyone’s life hell for years,” Minho says unsteadily. “You don’t have to say anything.”

To Minho’s surprise, Chan makes a strange expression. “Maybe for Hyunjin, that might be true. I don’t know. But that’s not really how I remember it.”

Minho frowns. “What?”

“I don’t know if you recall,” Chan says slowly, his gaze skittering to the blankets as he pulls back his hand. “I assume you do. But I sort of ignored you, your first two years at Hogwarts. I knew the older Slytherin guys were being horrible to you, but I didn’t do anything. Honestly, I think I just made it worse. I remember that night in your first year, that time in the third floor bathroom-”

“Stop,” says Minho quickly. He presses his hand to Chan’s mouth, just long enough to end the sentence, then removes it. “Just- stop. Whatever you did, I was worse. They called that girl a mudblood, and I-” His heart hurts. Unsteadily, he finishes, voice dripping with scorn, “I did nothing. Just like the perfect Slytherin heir that I was supposed to be.”

Chan shakes his head, frowning deeply. Insistently, he replies, “I know, but they were beating you up all year, and I knew it, and I did nothing, either. That time in the bathroom-”

“Chan,” Minho cuts in sharply. “Enough.”

“No, you, enough,” Chan replies, eyes flashing. “We could do this all fucking day, and you and I both know it. I could just as soon argue that if you had said something to protect her, they could have hurt you.” His mouth twists. “Hurt you worse, I mean.”

“Oh, don’t patronize me,” Minho snaps. “I did nothing. Nothing before, nothing after, nothing during. You and I both know that’s not sufficient. We always have a responsibility to help others in need, regardless of the consequences.”

In a voice Minho doesn’t think he’s ever heard before, Chan says, very very quietly, “You know, I know quite a few Gryffindors that don’t even believe that.”

Minho presses his lips together. He feels something twist in his gut. “The spirit of charity and good will or whatever the fuck isn’t exclusive to fucking Gryffindors, Bang.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Chan replies shortly. “I meant-” He pauses, closes his eyes for a brief second, then says in a much more controlled voice, “You were a child. You were being harmed. I'm certain you never actually called that girl or anyone else that word. By now, I'm also pretty convinced that you never believed any of that shit your father believes. And you have just expressed an opinion that a good portion of my House, the fucking courage and bravery House, probably wouldn’t own up to. Did you act in a way you’re not proud of? I hope so! But you are not and were not a bad person, Minho. No matter how much you try to convince yourself you were.”

“And neither are you!” Minho retorts. “So stop trying to convince me that you were!”

Chan’s eyes flash. “That’s literally what I’ve been saying. That’s my fucking point,” he adds roughly. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. Neither of us are bad people.”

“You don’t get it,” Minho says with a flash of frustration. “You just don’t get it. It’s not the same.”

“Please,” Chan growls, pushing him lightly with his hands. “For the Merlin’s sake. Enough.”

As Chan pulls his hands back, Minho stops them, tangles their hands together in the process without really meaning to. “You don’t get it,” he repeats. But the fight is leaving him, all at once. He looks at Chan, sitting carefully on the bed across from him, eyes alight with frustration and anger and something else, something warmer and heavier, and though he tries, he can’t manage to bring up that awful anger again.

Does he believe Chan? Maybe not. Probably not. Not right now, at least. But what he does believe, somehow, incredibly, is that Chan would walk to the ends of the Earth to convince Minho that he did the right thing. Chan, despite everything, thinks Minho is a good person, and is willing to fight forever about it until Minho agrees. He’s arguing that he should’ve done more good back then, and Chan fucking Bang is defending him like his life depends on it. Minho had assumed Chan at least liked him a little, all things considered, but this?

“Minho,” Chan repeats, his voice intense. “I swear to fucking God, if you don’t-”

Minho takes a breath. “You’ll what?”

Chan stares at him. “What?”

Minho can’t stop the challenge from slinking into his voice. “If I don’t stop, you’ll what?”

“I-” Chan stops. His gaze is hard. “Oh, fuck you,” he says, this time in a very, very different voice. Angry, but something else, too. “Don’t do that. Not when I’m angry at you.”

Minho shrugs. “Do what?”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Chan says, gaze intense. “But it’s not going to work. We’re not done until you believe me.”

Minho raises one of their interlocked hands and kisses the back of Chan’s palm. “Okay.”

Chan is really staring now. Disbelievingly, he asks, “What?”

Carefully, Minho leans back against the pillows, tugging Chan back on top of him. As he expected, Chan doesn’t resist, and before he knows it, Minho is staring up at him again, Chan’s arms caging him in.

“I can’t believe you,” Chan says incredulously. “All that, and now you’re just done?”

“Yeah,” Minho says simply. He won’t touch Chan without his permission - not after an argument like that - so instead, he just waits.

“I-” Chan closes his eyes, just briefly. Carefully, he says, looking Minho directly in the eyes, “I’m really fucking angry at you. But I’m angry because I care about you, and I don’t like hearing you talk about yourself like that. And I don’t want to continue any sort of activity or conversation until you are a little kinder to yourself. You have to understand, Minho. You can’t blame yourself for everything. And you are not the same person that you were.”

“I get it.” Minho says quietly. “I promise. Or I’ll try, at least.”

“Really?” Chan’s gaze is skeptical.

“Yeah.” And he means it, too - he lets the honesty slip into his voice. Minho wants so badly to hold his hand, but he won’t do it without Chan’s consent.

Chan’s gaze softens. “Okay.”

Minho smiles tentatively. “Okay?”

Instead of replying, Chan kisses him. “You’re so predictable,” he murmurs into Minho’s mouth between kisses, reaching up to intertwine their fingers as a smile creeps into his voice. “I saw you looking. You should just admit that you like my hands.”

No, I like you, is what Minho means to say, but what comes out instead is something different. Before he can stop himself, he murmurs back, “I love you.”

Chan pulls away immediately. “Minho,” he whispers. “I-”

Oh, God. Minho buries his head in his hands. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters, face burning. “I didn’t mean to say it, I promise. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Chan shakes his head rapidly. “No. No, no, don’t be sorry. Um-” He swallows. “I love you, too.”

And then Chan kisses him. Minho cups his face, runs his hands through his loose curls, and kisses him back like the world is ending. They gasp into each others’ mouths, hips sliding against each other, hands hungry to undo buttons and pull off clothes. In all the time they’ve been hooking up, Minho doesn’t think they’ve ever kissed each other like this, not nearly this needy, not nearly this filled with ache and want. It’s like they’re starving. Like they’ve been starving.

Eventually, Chan breaks away just long enough to gasp, “God, I want to be inside you so fucking badly, can I-”

Minho nods desperately, cutting him off as he presses another kiss to his lips. Yes, yes, yes, he mouths against Chan’s skin as he kisses down his neck. Then, louder, almost begging, just to make sure Chan heard him: “Please.”

“This time, say my name,” Chan murmurs in his ear. “Instead of please.”

Minho doesn’t need to be told twice. “Chan,” he groans. “Chan, God-”

Chan presses a desperate kiss to Minho’s mouth, then again, down and down and down his skin, and then, finally, too long after, starts to move above him, and Minho is reduced to soft sounds of pleasure and saying Chan, Chan, Chan over and over again, and then, later, I love you, I love you, I love you, until that rising wave inside of him finally crests against the shore.

That Sunday, Miyeon comes over to the apartment, and the three of them spend hours and hours perfecting Kim Dahyun’s case. They pore over legal manuals, debate over semantics, and read case after case after case until their eyes burn. They write a draft, then another, then scratch both of those out and do it again. In the evening, Miyeon sends a message via Patronus charm to Dahyun, more of a progress report than anything else, and then they debate even more until all three of them are at least somewhat content with what they’ve gathered.

“Okay,” Miyeon says finally, when Minho has long since developed a pounding headache and Chan is blinking at the paper in front of him like it’ll somehow keep him awake. “I think this is it.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Minho says immediately. “No offense, Miyeon.”

She grins. “No, I get it. This is kind of how it goes in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, though. Long hours and even longer weekends. But anyway, I think I finally like what we have. I’ll show it to my team on Monday, and if my boss approves, your dad will get served his papers sometime later this week.” She brandishes the small stack of parchment in front of her, then adds in a more serious voice, “The only remaining question is, do either of you want your names to be on it?”

For a long moment, Chan and Minho exchange a look. Eventually, as Minho suspected he would, Chan nods, but Minho surprises himself by saying, “Yeah, I think I do.”

Both Miyeon and Chan stare at him.

“You do know what that’ll mean, right?” Miyeon asks slowly. “He’ll know you helped gather the evidence. You’re not a witness, so they probably won’t reference your name in the trial, but it’ll be on the documents. Even if your father isn’t allowed to directly access the list of contributors, someone will probably find out for him.”

Minho glances at the floor. “I know.”

“Just…” Chan pauses. “Will that be safe for you?”

“Probably not,” Minho says evenly. “But I’m done letting my father control my life. You guys were right, back in the records department. This shit matters, and I want to be a part of it.”

To his relief, Miyeon nods. “Alright,” she says simply. “That works for me. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.” She looks at both of them one by one, then adds with a grin, “Group hug before I leave?”

Minho groans, but Chan pulls her in with a laugh. “Good luck, Miyeon, seriously,” he says into her hair. “We’ll be cheering you on. And you said you’d get back to me about observing the proceedings, right?”

“I’ll get back to you on Monday,” Miyeon promises. “And don’t forget about movie night. I know Jaehyun and Eunwoo can’t wait.” To Minho, she just smiles. “Pleasure working with you, Lee. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Minho finds himself nodding. “Yeah, of course.”

Together, he and Chan help her clean up all the documents they’d used, then they walk her out to the door. She gives Chan one last hug, then calls as she heads down the hallway, flipping her silky black hair over her shoulder, “By the way, I’m serious, Lee! I better see you around!”

“I know, don’t worry,” Minho calls back with a grin. Somehow, even he’s caught her infectious high spirits. He hated her so much when they met, but he can’t imagine ever feeling that way about her now.

When he turns to look at Chan, he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He’s smiling, the kind you don’t intend others to see, and he almost jolts when their eyes meet.

Minho stares. “What?”

“I was just thinking,” he says, reaching for the doorknob. “We should start talking about what happens when you move out of your parents’ house.” There’s a strange weight to his voice that makes Minho’s heart rate pick up, but he tries not to read too much into it. He won’t. Not about this.

“I have been,” Minho replies. “I could probably stay on my friend Yeji’s parents’ couch for a while-”

“Or,” Chan interrupts, “You could stay with me.” He’s biting his lip, not quite meeting Minho’s eyes. It’s like he’s afraid of Minho’s answer. Like he has no idea what Minho is about to say.

In fairness, though, neither does he. For a moment, Minho lets himself think about it: waking up in the mornings with Chan, heading to work together, putting his books and clothes side by side on Chan’s bookshelf and in his closet. It’s probably too early, he knows. In Minho’s memory, they’ve been together for barely a month.

But it’s not like they were strangers before, either. Even in school, there were periods where he was closer to Chan, the boy he supposedly hated, than to anyone else in his life. There are things they know about each other that he doubts they’ve shared with anyone else. And besides, if he was going to trust that any relationship of his could stand the strain of change and growth, it would be this one.

“Um,” Minho starts, then stops. “Yeah. Okay.”

Chan’s eyebrows shoot up. Incredulously, he asks, “You’re serious? Merlin, I was so certain you were going to say no.”

“I can change my answer if you want,” Minho volunteers with a small grin. “You know, if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

Chan shakes his head so fast that Minho’s briefly worried he’ll get whiplash. “Oh, no,” he says immediately. “Please don’t.” For a second, he pauses, looking away with a grin of his own. “Merlin, Minho,” he repeats. “Just… come here.”

He tugs at Minho’s arm.

Minho doesn’t even think about it. He lets himself be pulled.

Monday comes, bright and cool, a soft breeze whispering through the busy London streets. Minho goes to work, like always, and halfway through lunch, when he and Chan are eating in the break room as far apart from each other as possible, a woman he doesn’t recognize slips through the doorway.

“Bang,” she says in a low voice. “It’s done.”

Chan immediately stiffens. “Oh, shit,” he says quietly. “When is the-”

“Not sure yet,” she replies. “They’re keeping it super locked down.” She glances at Minho. “Ah, Lee. Nice work.”

Then, with a nod to both of them, she slips away.

The moment she’s gone, Minho shoots Chan a confused look. “Who was that?”

“Miyeon’s team leader,” Chan whispers back. “It means her work was accepted. They’re moving forward with the case.”

Minho has a million other questions, but then someone else walks into the break room, and both of them quickly busy themselves with their food. Luckily, though, by the end of the day, he has his answer, given to him on a slip of paper by the same woman as he’s walking through the atrium:

Friday. 8 am. Burn this after you read it.

The rest of the week passes in a blur. Minho goes to Chan’s apartment each afternoon, as always, and then returns to his parents’ house late at night. Not once are his parents still awake when he returns, but he runs into Peniel, his father’s assistant, enough times as he’s preparing dinner in the kitchen or walking up the stairs to bed that he’s certain they at least know he’s still living there. Each day, his anxiety ratches up another notch, and then Thursday night rolls around before he realizes it.

When Minho returns to his parent’s house that night, it’s past dark, the sun long since disappeared beneath the horizon. It’s quiet as Minho takes off his shoes in the front hall, the soft scratch of a quill against parchment coming from a kitchen the only sound Minho can hear other than his own heartbeat in his veins. Probably his father, up late working on diplomatic paperwork, his mother undoubtedly having gone up to bed hours ago.

Minho is just hanging up his coat when he hears a familiar meow.

Soonie curls around his legs, his ginger fur ruffled just enough that Minho can tell he’s just waltzed past Minho’s father. They’ve never gotten along, not even when he was a kitten. He reaches down to pet him in a way he hopes comes across as soothing.

“Oh, Soonie,” Minho whispers. “Stop antagonizing him.”

Soonie purrs contentedly, his tail slipping between Minho’s fingers as he slinks off towards the staircase. This house is so large that sometimes Minho will go days without seeing him, if not up to a week. His parents have probably half a dozen spells on the house to keep him fed in the interim.

Slowly, Minho stands up straight and sets off down the hall. Their house, the ancestral Lee home for what feels like centuries, is made almost entirely of creaky wooden floorboards, and so Minho isn’t surprised when the sound of the quill scratching abruptly stops about halfway down the hallway.

“Son,” Minho’s father’s voice says evenly. “I thought that was you. Where have you been?”

Minho stops. “Working late,” he says after a pause. He walks forward a few steps, just enough to stand in front of the kitchen doorway where his father has turned his head, meeting Minho’s eyes dead-on.

Minho can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen his father not in a suit in the last year of his life, and today is no exception. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, documents strewn across the polished wood, suit jacket hanging across the back of his chair. The sleeves of his formal shirt aren’t even rolled up. It’s like Minho’s mom always says: he always dresses like he’s moments away from being called to the office.

Like always, he’s frowning, but Minho has long since learned to tell his micro-expressions apart, and it’s clear he doesn’t buy what Minho’s saying. Sharply, he replies, “You can’t possibly have that much work to do.”

“I’ve been asking for more,” Minho says quickly. “Getting ahead, the way you always say.”

Gratefully, after a moment, his father’s face clears. He doesn’t seem to totally believe Minho, but reason appears to have won out. “Good,” he says finally, the sharp tone disappearing slightly. “I’m glad to hear it.” There’s a beat of silence, and then he adds, voice tense, “Still staying away from those types of men, I hope?”

Minho’s heart clenches. He knows exactly what his father means by that: queer men. Men that could ruin the family name. Men like Minho himself. His heart in his throat, he says quietly, “What if I said no?”

One eyebrow raises, rapid and high. His tone is back to staccato-sharp. “Is that the answer?”

Minho feels Soonie brush past his legs, but he doesn’t look down. He meets his father’s gaze head-on. “What if it was?”

Minho’s father abruptly stands up. “Then, Minho, we would be having a very different conversation.” There’s a dangerous tone to his voice, the same sort of warning as the ones red-and-black snakes project as they slither through the grass. This one is made of venom.

For a long moment, Minho just looks at him. They haven’t had a conversation this long in weeks, if not months, and after all that time, the similarities in their faces pop up at Minho anew: they have the same nose, the same sharp jaw, the same downturned lips. The face of an heir, Minho’s mother used to say proudly, back when they all got along, back when Minho was younger and angrier. The face of pureblood Slytherin House.

Not a day goes by that Minho doesn’t think about that face, their similarities. Minho used to wish desperately that he would turn out just like his father, and then, when everything changed, he feared it. Either way, the possibility seemed more like a certainty, and he thinks, at last, that he might forgive himself for believing that becoming his father was inevitable.

Minho used to think the only way to crawl his way to happiness was to climb the pureblood Slytherin social ladder, to make his way to the pinnacle as if being the perfect Slytherin heir would make him happy. He stood by friends that were practically made of poison and hatred for five years, and he spit his own venom himself. He said and did things that he regrets, and that he’ll regret for the rest of his life.

But he’s tried to make amends. He’s tried, every day of the last two years of his life, to avoid becoming his father. He made amends with Hyunjin, who he and his friends used to treat like dirt and who’s somehow become one of his closest friends, a boy with the immense grace and kindness to forgive words and actions that Minho doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive in himself. He grew himself a new friend group, friends that he gets along with better than he could have ever imagined, a friend group made of outcasts who became something more, Hyunjin and Jeongin and Seungmin and Yeji. And, somehow, he made amends with Chan twice, the boy he thought would hate him forever, even though he doesn’t remember it the first time.

Staring at his father, Minho thinks, at last, he can see the differences. His father’s gaze is harder, his shoulders broader, his legs longer. The lines on his face are the lines of a man who’s spent a lifetime frowning and not much else. He married Minho’s mom because Minho’s grandparents arranged it, and he chose his profession because it was the kind of job the other pureblood families could be proud of. He hates Muggleborns with the fervor of someone for whom that’s all they’ve ever known. The fervor of a man who’s never been challenged in his life.

For the first time, Minho realizes that he’s not afraid of him anymore, if he even ever was. While his father has never been violent, he has been angry, so angry that Minho felt like it was going to seep into his bones. He thought that anger would follow him forever.

Minho is not his father. And he forgives himself for thinking that was all he could ever be. This life that Minho carves out for himself from now on will be his own, a life that brings him joy, and it will be nothing else.

“Then I guess we’re having that conversation,” Minho says finally. “I’m gay.”

His father’s expression flashes. “You idiot,” he hisses. “Do you realize what people will say about us? What they’re already saying? I won’t have a son that’s a-”

“Dad,” Minho says loudly. He hasn’t called him that in so long, it feels strange to say it, but he knows he has him when he sees the look on his face.

“You know, you were supposed to be the heir,” his father says, his voice hard, but not quite as much as it was a few seconds ago. “You were supposed to make your mother and I proud. And fine, you weren’t exactly what we wanted, but we all made due for a while, and then I don’t know what the hell happened to you. I don’t even know you anymore. I mean, quitting Quidditch? Making problems with Jun and Bomin? And the stuff with those boys of yours-” He cuts off, the distaste plain on his face. “Honestly, Minho, it’s like you’ve forgotten who you are. It’s no wonder we had to intervene.”

For a moment, Minho thinks of Chan, and he’s suddenly so angry he can’t speak. But he takes a deep breath, gathers his thoughts, and replies as evenly as he can, “You know, I played Quidditch only because you wanted me to. I made the friends you chose for me. But this is my life, not yours. I’m done living it for you.”

Something in his father’s expression stills. Slowly, he says, “So this is the choice you’ve decided to make? That you’re… gay?”

Minho nods. It’s not worth fighting with him about semantics. In a different world, Minho might reply, I didn’t choose to be gay any more than you chose to marry Mom, but this is not that universe. Not anymore, at least.

“Then leave this house,” his father says finally. “And don’t come back.”

Minho doesn’t let him get any further, say any more. He just walks away, up the creaky wooden stairs and back to his room of moths and dust for the last time, and though his stomach is roiling, he feels lighter than he has in years.

Later, as Minho is unpacking his belongings in Chan’s apartment, the telltale rushing noise of the shower in the background, a familiar face appears in the almost-dormant fireplace.

“Minho,” Miyeon whispers. “What is it?”

In the background, Soonie meows, stretching lazily across the bedspread, then hops to the ground and meanders over to check out the noise. He's taken being essentially stolen from Minho's parents' home much better than Minho expected, and has somehow already made himself at home in the few hours they've been back at the apartment.

Minho sets down the shirt he was folding. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Something Chan and I have been discussing.” He hesitates. “Something about the trial.”

Chapter Text

“Order in the court!” The Minister of Magic says loudly, banging his gavel against his pulpit just hard enough to be heard. Around him, the feverish chatter immediately begins to soften, red-cloaked members of the highest wizarding court, the Wizengamot, walking across the raised stands to their seats.

Minho’s never been in a Ministry courtroom before, and for some reason, he expected more: maybe more dramatic lighting, stands made of marble, or a cage in the center like they apparently used to use for accused Death Eaters. This one, though, is nothing like that: a middle area with a tile floor and a single black chair; wooden seats rising up and up and up for the Wizengamot, and finally, a raised pulpit in the middle that Miyeon said is called the judge’s bench.

As the room is quieting, Minho takes his seat on the bench a little ways from the Wizengamot next to a woman he recognizes vaguely as Dahyun.

She’s dressed formally, like he is, in a long silk skirt and matching blouse, her dark hair tied up in a complicated-looking topknot. “You must be Minho,” she says under her breath. “Good to meet you, but apologies it had to under these circumstances.”

Minho nods. “Same to you.”

Dahyun smiles waveringly, then adds, “You know, I have to admit, it’s nice to not be alone.”

Then Minho hears a metallic clink, and both of them immediately turn their heads to watch as his father is led into the courtroom in chains. Following him is Miyeon, looking as always like the most professional one in the room, then a red-haired girl he doesn’t recognize.

Swallowing, Minho glances away just as his father’s gaze starts to sweep through the room. They haven’t spoken since last night, when he was kicked out the house, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Minho might have been involved in getting him here. When he finally looks up, the guards have settled his father into the black chair, the manacles chained to the wood.

After a moment, the Minister clears his throat. “We will now begin the criminal hearing of this day, the twentieth of July, into offenses committed by one Lee Minhyun, attorney general of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, resident at number thirty-seven Cotton Circle, London. Interrogators are myself, Do Kyungsoo, Minister of Magic, and Jung Hoseok, Chair of the High Court of the Wizengamot. Aiding the prosecution is Cho Miyeon, secretary for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. No witnesses for the defense have been produced at this time.” He pauses. “We shall begin.”

Minho watches, heart in his throat, as his father’s head raises. In a cold, clear voice, he responds, “Charges?” Gratefully, he doesn’t look over at the side, where Minho and Dahyun sit tense as wound toys on a string.

The Minister inclines his head. Loudly, he declares, “The charges against the accused are as follows: that he did knowingly, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, sanction the Obliviation of his former secretary, Kim Dahyun, without the prior consultation of the Wizengamot on the thirteenth of June of this year. The prosecution’s primary evidence comes in the form of internal Obliviator’s Headquarters documents detailing the Obliviation of the plaintiff. This evidence was submitted to us last Monday and has been reviewed by the Wizengamot. ” The Minister looks down from his bench. “Ms. Cho, your statement?”

Minho glances over at Miyeon, where she’s still standing a few paces behind the chair. With the click of her heels on the tile, she approaches the stands, ponytail swinging.

“The prosecution’s first witness is Choi Lia, the roommate of the plaintiff.”

The Minister nods to the red-haired girl, and beside Minho, Dahyun takes in a rapid breath.

“Ms. Choi, if you would come to the stand.” The Minister motions to the man to his right in red Wizengamot robes, who Minho remembers vaguely was introduced as the chair of the Wizengamot. Jung Hoseok, maybe?

“Please state your full name,” Hoseok drones.

The girl wrings her hands. “Um. Choi Lia.”

Hoseok doesn’t react. In that same emotionless tone, he taps his fingers twice against the desk and inquires, “Please describe what you noticed of the victim after the event.”

“She was different,” Lia says slowly. “At first, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I thought she was sick or something. She’d get headaches, bad ones, all of a sudden out of nowhere. We went out with old friends she met at work, people we’ve known for eight or nine years, and she couldn’t even remember their names. Then they switched her to a different department.”

Something in her gaze shifts. “I couldn’t believe it,” she says tightly. “She’d been working that job for like a year with no problem, so I called one of her supervisors. They said she’d forgotten everything. Even the stuff they teach in the first week you’re hired. They didn’t know what else to do.” She swallows, her gaze switching to Minho’s dad, and to Minho’s shock, gives him a look of pure loathing. “He took her memories,” she says, voice shaking. “I just know it. Nothing else makes sense.”

Hoseok’s eyes flick to Miyeon. “Ms. Cho?”

“Telltale signs of Obliviation include the following,” she reads from a piece of parchment in a clear voice. “Headache, sudden loss of recognition of those met in particular places or during particular events, recurring nightmares, sudden dip in performance at work or school. As Ms. Choi attests, her friend exhibits many of these.”

“That is true,” the Minister allows. “However, Ms. Cho, Mr. Lee may just as well argue that those symptoms could stem from a number of other issues. Symptomology implies. It is not proof. What you need is a witness to the event.”

Behind him, Minho watches as several members of the Wizengamot begin to nod. “Yes,” Hoseok adds after a moment. “These are heavy charges, and Mr. Lee is a valued member of the Ministry. Simple headaches will not nearly be enough.”

“I agree,” Miyeon replies, and Minho can tell none of the Wizengamot is expecting it, including the Minister, because all thirty or forty or so eyes all swivel to her at once. She glances at Minho, just once, and gives him a small smile.

Minutely, Minho nods at her.

“And that,” she continues more loudly, “is why we, the prosecution, have added an additional charge to Mr. Lee’s case.”

A slight murmur ripples through the room, the Wizengamot whispering amongst themselves, and the Minister frowns deeply. “Ms. Cho, this is highly unusual.”

“Absolutely,” Miyeon says, glancing behind her, where a figure stands by the doorway, half-shadowed by the overhanging wall. “And I apologize to the court. But I think you will find this additional charge particularly enlightening.”

Hoseok and the Minister exchange a long look. Eventually, in a dubious voice, the Minister inclines his head. “Go on.”

“Thank you,” Miyeon says smoothly. “If you would all turn your eyes to the young man sitting next to Ms. Kim Dahyun?”

Forty eyes train on Minho at once. Minho spots more than a few frowns.

“That man,” Miyeon says, “is Lee Minhyun’s son. Now, my team will argue that Mr. Lee also stands accused of sanctioning the Obliviation of his son, full name Lee Minho, current employee of the same department, without prior consultation of the Wizengamot on the twenty-sixth of August of the last calendar year.” She takes a breath. “We may not have a witness for Ms. Shin’s accusation, but it is in this charge that we can, in fact, produce a witness of the event for the court.”

There’s a much louder murmur in the room, and Minho watches as several dozen wizards in red Wizangamot robes turn to each other. Merlin, he thinks to himself, heart pounding. Here goes nothing.

This is what he and Miyeon discussed into the early hours of this morning: adding his information to the case. For most of the week, Minho thought he wouldn’t be able to do it. That even standing in this courtroom and watching his father on trial would be almost too much for him. But last night, he couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Chan over the weekend. What was it he himself had said? We always have a responsibility to help others in need, regardless of the consequences?

It’s a very all-or-nothing statement, the kind that Minho in particular tends to produce in moments of high emotion. So, if he thinks about it, what he really means is this: he, like everyone else, has a responsibility to help where he can. He helped Dahyun by contributing to Miyeon’s research, even though the thought of his father finding out terrified him. And what he’s been thinking about the last few days is that maybe, just maybe, that responsibility extends to himself.

This moment, watching his father survey the crowd with narrowed eyes, is probably close to the most terrified Minho has ever been in his life. But he’s no longer living for his father - he’s living for himself. And maybe that starts with standing up to him not just once last night, but again, here, in front of all these people.

His father’s gaze flicks over to Minho, and it’s impossible to miss the hard look in his eyes. “I was not aware that a second charge had been brought forward.”

“Well, it appears you can thank the prosecution for the last minute addition,” The Minister replies mildly. “Ms. Cho, now would be the time to produce your witness.”

Miyeon glances behind her again, back towards the doorway, and gestures next to her. “Mr. Bang,” she says. For a moment, she sounds almost nervous. “Please approach the stand.”

Slowly, Chan walks forward, hands in the pockets of his trousers. He’s dressed for work, in black formal trousers, a white collared shirt, and a black tie that Minho helped him tie earlier this morning. His gaze is trained on the Wizengamot.

The Minister looks at him for a few seconds, as if assessing, then inquires, “If you would state your full name for the court?”

“Bang Chan,” Chan replies, his voice steady.

There’s another almost-imperceptible murmur; somehow, Chan’s parents are famous, even here. In fairness, though, Minho has a feeling that you don’t manage to stay pureblood Gryffindors on one of the most powerful boards in the nation without gaining at least some notoriety.

Hoseok speaks up. “And what is your relationship to the plaintiff?”

“I’m his partner.”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “Work partner?”

“No, um.” Chan swallows. “Romantic partner.”

“If you could be more specific?” Hoseok presses. “Just for the purposes of the record.”

Suddenly, it occurs to Minho that they technically haven’t clarified who they are to each other yet. No wonder Chan is floundering. He tries to catch Chan’s eye, but he’s still staring at the Minister, chewing at his lip.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Chan says finally. At last, he looks at Minho, cheeks flushed. It’s not hard to interpret his expression; clearly, he feels like he’s overstepped, the look in his eyes apologetic.

Quickly, Minho mouths, it’s okay. He refuses to look at his father, still sitting silently in that chair.

Something in Chan’s gaze quiets. He sends Minho a tentative smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Bang,” the Minister says, glancing between them once. “You claim to have witnessed the Obliviation of-” here he pauses almost imperceptibly “-Lee Minho, dated to August twenty-sixth of last year?”

Chan nods. “I do.”

“Please describe the event to the court.”

“Um,” Chan says, darting another glance at Minho. “Minho and I…”

Minutely, Minho nods at him again. It’s okay, he thinks, hoping it shows on his face. It’s okay.

Chan takes a quick breath. “Minho and I met soon after I was hired in June,” he recites, “and we started seeing each other not long after. I knew he was hiding our relationship from his father, our boss, but I wasn’t sure to what extent. On that day, Minho didn’t show up for work, which I thought was weird, but I assumed he was just sick. Then Mr. Lee asked to see me after work. I’d never been in disciplinary trouble before, so I was confused, but I stayed until everyone was gone. Then I saw Minho.”

Chan’s expression flickers. “His parents took us into his dad’s office, and his dad explained that he didn’t like that we were together. He had found out, and was really angry about it.” Chan takes a soft breath. “Then he said he was going to take Minho’s memories. I stood in front of him, since I knew he wouldn’t cast the spell with me in the way. I thought that would be enough. But then he said he knew where my dad worked. Oh, um, my dad used to work in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. And Mr. Lee said…” He pauses, face blank. “He said…”

“Yes?” The Minister prompts.

“He said he was friends with the chair of the department,” Chan continues lowly. “And that if I didn’t step away from Minho, he would get my dad fired, or maybe killed.”

Someone in the Wizengamot gasps. For a moment, the entire room feels frozen. Then the murmuring starts again, rippling through the court like a wildfire. In his peripheral vision, Minho sees Dahyun whip her head around to look at him, but he keeps his gaze focused on Chan.

Minho’s dad sits up, the cool look on his face flipping to something almost bordering on panicked. “Objection!”

The Minister raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“He has no proof,” Minho’s dad says rapidly. “It’s his word against mine.”

“Minister,” Miyeon cuts in evenly, “If I may?”

The Minister gestures her forward. “Make it quick.”

For a moment, Miyeon looks almost nervous. “Mr. Bang has submitted his memories of the event to a Legilimency expert on the prosecution team,” she says, gaze flickering to Chan. “They have been ruled as originals.”

That’s news to Minho, who only talked to Miyeon about adding his accusation to the case. Chan must have submitted the memory on Thursday night while Minho was at his parents’ house, though who he could have possibly given it to is beyond him completely. Rosé, maybe?

“And who,” Hoseok probes, “would that be, exactly?”

Minho glances around the room, expecting someone from the Wizengamot to stand, and is astounded when Miyeon tentatively raises her hand.

He had no idea Miyeon even practiced Legilimency. As far as he knows, Hogwarts students are usually forbidden from learning it because of the potential for abuse (if you could read your professor’s mind, would you ever study again?)

In fairness, he does understand why Miyeon kept it a secret. He probably wouldn’t have been nearly as comfortable around her the last few weeks if he’d known. Some part of him, the more cynical part, wonders if she read Chan’s mind and knew about Minho’s Obliviation all along. But then again, she seemed so miserable when she appeared on Chan’s doorstep with the files…

“I’ve submitted my documentation to the court already,” Miyeon says rapidly, as if anticipating debate. “You can view it on page 54.1.”

The Minister waves her off. Clearly, he’s not nearly as impressed as the Wizengamot. “No, no. No need. Mr. Lee’s objection has been overruled. Mr. Bang, if you would continue?”

Chan shifts his weight, as if uncomfortable with the sudden weight of everyone’s gazes on him. “Like I said, Mr. Lee threatened my dad,” he says, swallowing. “I thought he meant it. So I stepped back, and then his mom did it.” His tone dips at did it, almost whispering away. It’s like he can barely bear to say it.

Meanwhile, Minho closes eyes, if only for a moment. He thinks back to the memory Chan showed him, the horror in Chan’s voice when he clutched Minho’s face and said, anguished, Minho, my dad.

For a moment, it feels like the entire room holds its breath.

“If you could be more specific, Mr. Bang?” Hoseok interjects. “Just for the purposes of the record.” Even he, somehow, sounds oddly subdued.

“Mr. Lee told his wife to Obliviate Minho,” Chan restates. Pain whispers across his face. “And then she performed the Obliviation charm.”

“Thank you, Chan,” Miyeon says softly. To the court, she adds, “Mrs. Lee is the head of the Obliviator’s Headquarters, if you all may recall.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cho,” The Minister says. “I think we’ve heard enough.”

The Wizengamot deliberates for what feels like hours but in reality must only be ten or so minutes. The entire time, Minho feels wound as tight as a spring. He can feel his father’s eyes on him, dark from across the room, and Dahyun is crying softly on the bench beside him. Please, is all he can think, brain full of bursting with white-hot anxiety. Please.

When the Wizengamot returns, the Minister stands for a long moment in front of the court, holding the gavel in one closed hand. Finally, he says, “All those in favor of clearing the defendant of all charges, please raise your left hand.”

Minho watches, heart in his throat, as three sole members of the crowd raise their hands. He thinks he recognizes one of their faces only now that they’ve singled themselves out: Bomin’s dad, his old Potions professor. But no others. The rest of the Wizengamot is still.

“Those in favor of conviction?”

Slowly, every other member of the Wizengamot, some thirty or forty witches and wizards, raise their left hands. Minho tries to look at them one by one, to memorize their faces, but there’s far too many of them. He catalogues only a few of them, but the expressions on their faces are enough to take his breath away. And then, feeling a little like he’s in a dream, he watches as the Minister of Magic and the Chair of the Wizengamot join them.

They all lower their hands. Slowly, achingly slowly, the Minister of Magic leans closer to the front of his desk. “Lee Minhyun,” he says in a booming voice. “You have been convicted of committing one of the most grievous of harms in the Wizarding world against two of your own employees, including your very own kin.”

He pauses, glancing at his desk. “The next time that you will appear here, which will be in approximately four hours, it will be to determine exactly how many years you will face in Azkaban. Personally, though, if the court might permit me?”

No one says anything. A moment later, the Minister continues, his voice hardening almost imperceptibly, “I suggest you enjoy this moment. It very well might be your last on Earth as a free man.” He leans back. “Trial adjourned.”

The world feels soft as a dream, pulled tight and thin as taffy. Minho is vaguely aware that the Wizengamot has begun to stand up, that his father is being pulled to a stand by the guards and led bodily out of the room, but he’s not really paying attention. In the rush of chatter, Minho’s eyes have found Chan, and he’s not thinking of anything else.

His heart sings in his chest. It’s over, he thinks, disbelieving. It feels impossible. Like he’s about to wake up at any moment.

Chan approaches the side of the stands, his hands in his pockets. “Lee,” he says, his eyes warm. The weird feeling in Minho’s chest begins to dissipate. Slowly, he begins to feel his hands again.

“Bang,” Minho copies him, raising an eyebrow.

Chan looks at him for a long moment. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Minho admits, and finds to his surprise that he means it. “You?”

“Yeah,” Chan replies. His mouth curves. “How could I not be? We did it.”

Minho reaches out across the wall to the stands, catching Chan’s hand so their fingers intertwine. “So,” he says slowly, glancing around them. “What now?”

Chan’s skin is warm and soft and real, as real as the press of wood against Minho’s elbow, real as the soft brush of Dahyun’s skin against Minho’s legs as she presses past him, murmuring a thank you.

Chan shrugs. “I don’t know,” he replies, squeezing Minho’s hand, “I guess we go and find out.”

After work, when the image of Minho’s father has faded from his brain for the last time, they go to dinner at a Muggle restaurant in the city. Dressed like this, they might make an odd pair: a straight-haired Slytherin boy, gangly and quiet and maybe a little awkward, and a curly-haired Gryffindor boy, muscular and friendly and at ease. But somehow, standing together at the host’s stand as Chan helps Minho fix his cufflinks, all Minho can think about is that they feel more and more like a team. Like a partnership. Like, perhaps, boyfriends.

The host sits them at a two-person table near the back, the low light sending shadows dancing across the planes of Chan’s face. They lean across the table at each other and murmur and chatter and laugh through two appetizers, their entrees, and then into dessert. Finally, as Chan is taking his last bite of chocolate cake, a thought occurs to Minho, sharp as a vise.

“Hey, um, I was just thinking,” Minho starts, then stops. He feels his heartbeat pick up.

Chan’s eyes flicker up from his plate. He must see something in Minho’s expression change, because his smile falters. “Yeah?” He asks warily.

“I just,” Minho falters. “I don’t think I ever apologized for how I acted back when we were in school.”

Rapidly, Chan shakes his head. “Minho, really, you don’t have to-”

“No, please,” Minho cuts in. “I think I do.”

Chan looks at him, waiting, and for a moment, Minho closes his eyes.

Here goes.

“I’ve acted in ways I’m not proud of,” he says quietly, glancing down at the table. He’s rehearsed this a few times, mostly in his head, but saying it out loud feels different. Weightier. He continues, voice unsteady, “Toward a lot of people, but especially toward you. I used to think that if I tried to hate you, it would change how I felt about you, but clearly it did nothing. And I guess, the truth is, I was jealous of you. You Gryffindors, but especially you. The pureblood Slytherins are not… kind, and I don’t know, it just seemed so easy for you. You had so many friends, and were nice to people that my Housemates hated, people that didn’t have a lot of friends just like me, and…” Minho almost trails off, then finishes, his heart pounding, “I wished someone had been that kind to me.”

He opens his eyes to find Chan staring at him. Before he can lose his nerve, he continues, “And I’m gay. Obviously you know that, but I didn’t, and I just knew that the way you looked made me angry in a way I couldn’t explain. So I treated you horribly, like that would somehow fix how much I wished I could know you even though I knew it would never work. And I think even now, I still feel like you’re going to realize that I’m never going to be good enough for you and leave me alone, the way I was before.”

“But I’m not going to leave you,” Chan says fiercely. “And you’re not alone, anyway. You have friends. A lot of them, if Changbin is reporting correctly.”

“Yeah, I know. I know that now. But that’s not what I meant. That’s different. I don’t-” Minho swallows. “You know I love you, and obviously I’ve been in love with you for a while, but I think it’s been longer than you knew. Longer than even I realized. Maybe years.” Minho swallows audibly again, not quite meeting Chan's eyes. “So I’m sorry for acting the way I did when we were younger. That’s why.”

For a long moment, Chan is quiet, his gaze searching Minho’s face. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

Minho bites his lip. “Anyway. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“I’m sorry, too, then,” Chan replies. Before Minho can interrupt, he says rapidly, “Just let me finish. I don’t think you remember this, but the first time we met wasn’t actually that time in the hallway with Bomin and Jun. It was on the train platform, before we even made it to Hogwarts.”

Minho nods. Chan is right - Minho doesn’t remember. He’s been racking his brain since the Pensieve, trying to recall that moment, but all he can remember after he left to look for their family friends is going to find his parents and then saying goodbye. When Chan’s memory showed him not noticing Chan and his friends, he was right.

“My mother told me you were going to be like your father, and I believed her,” Chan says, his expression dipping. “And I let that decide whether or not I thought you deserved help, and I shouldn’t have. That’s not who I am, and that’s certainly not the kind of person I ever wanted to be. You know, I was older than you. I am older than you, I guess, but back then, that kind of thing felt like it mattered. And for years, I’ve been wondering what might have happened if I’d actually done something to help you.”

“You couldn’t have,” Minho says gently, reaching for Chan’s hand. “I wouldn’t have let you.”

Chan intertwines their fingers. “I don’t know, though,” he says softly. “Some days, I’m not so sure. I don’t know if this is true for you, obviously, but I think sometimes people act that way, like, defensively, because they hope someone will help. And I think you’re right, too, about what you said before. We have an obligation to help when we can. And maybe if I did, maybe you wouldn’t have felt obligated to be friends with Bomin and Jun. Maybe all of this with your dad wouldn’t have happened.”

Abruptly, Minho can’t meet Chan’s eyes. He thinks back to that moment in the bathroom, the moment he’s now seen through both of their eyes, and suddenly, some part of him wonders.

I also-” Chan swallows visibly. “It’s just, it’s not like you were the only one who said horrible things. I said my fair share of shit to you that I regret. So.” He smiles faintly, then adds, “That’s all I wanted to say, too.”

For a long moment, neither of them says anything, but for once, it’s a comfortable kind of silence. The silence of them thinking. Not a silence where neither of them has anything to say to each other.

“Okay,” Minho says finally. “I think I understand.” Not it’s okay, because he knows Chan would never accept that. If Chan said it, he probably wouldn’t either.

Chan rubs his thumb against the back of Minho’s hand. “Me too.” His expression flickers, and then he adds in a much softer voice, “You were really brave today, by the way. Standing up to your father like that, I mean.”

Minho shakes his head. “I didn’t do it for me. Well, I guess I did, but also for Dahyun, and for everyone else in our office. I think…” He trails off for a moment. “I think I’m done doing things or avoiding things because I’m worried about what he might think. For now on, I want to live my life for me.”

Chan’s eyes are shining. “Good,” he says simply. “I’m glad.”

“So…” Minho says, feeling his lips curve upwards. “You said boyfriend?”

“You don’t seem that upset about it.” Chan’s gaze is careful. If it were Minho, he’d probably bury his face in his hands, but not Chan. This kind of thing, he owns.

“I liked it,” Minho confesses, his face warming. “A lot.”

“Good,” Chan says casually. “Me too.” He squeezes Minho’s hand, then adds with a grin, “I love you, by the way. I still can’t believe I can finally say it.”

Minho grins back. “I know. I love you, too.”

When they get back to Chan's apartment, they turn on music and laugh and talk and dance until the early hours. Minho is deliriously happy. The world feels as wide and bright as the sun. This, he thinks, almost drunk on it. This is what I wanted. This man is who I want.

Eventually, they remove each article of clothing one by one, kissing and kissing until Minho thinks he can’t breathe, and then Chan presses him into the sheets, fingers intertwined above their heads, whispering, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Chapter Text

FOUR YEARS LATER

The day of Changbin and Felix’s wedding comes around on a mild weekend in early May, long before the first hints of summer for most of those who live north of the fifty-first parallel. When Chan and Minho find the invitation on their doorstep, Felix and Changbin have already been together for over four and a half years, which to Minho feels like no time at all but to Felix and Changbin is clearly all they needed.

By now, Chan and Minho have been to a number of Chan’s family weddings together, so it’s not like the simple fact of going to a wedding causes any sort of stress. No, the whole endeavor wouldn’t be nearly as nerve-wracking if not for the fact that Chan is Changbin’s best man, which means his participation in the wedding (and thus, to a certain extent, also Minho’s) is scripted along particular lines. From day one, there are all sorts of aspects to worry about: planning Changbin’s bachelor party, helping the groomsmen coordinate their suit colors and styles, helping arrange transportation, arranging lodgings, storing the wedding rings safely, and, of course, giving one of the biggest speeches of the night.

A long time ago, when their relationship was newer, Minho might have watched Chan flounder in the stress of it with the same level of comprehension and empathy as a fish watching a baby deer learn to walk. But four years is a long time, and by now, they’ve stood by each other through their fair share of arguments and illnesses, job relocations and career changes, new apartments and landlord battles, and finally, eventually, attending various family weddings and funerals as a unit. The days of staring blankly at Chan as he paces the apartment before an event are long since over, and throughout this entire process, Minho’s felt, not unhappily, like he’s almost been an assistant best man.

But today is the day. Nine months of work - planning, coordinating, checking and rechecking - are officially coming to an end, and with it, a whole stage of their lives. After all, their friends are getting married. And with it, Minho gets the sense, disappears that odd middle period between adolescence and when you really, truly start feeling like an adult.

“Hyung,” Minho calls. “You ready?”

While the ceremony doesn’t technically start until eleven am, the groomsmen have to be there at nine thirty. While Minho may not be a groomsman, he is dating one, which means that whatever time he would have preferred to arrive at the venue is currently irrelevant. Chan is arriving at nine thirty, which means that he, too, is arriving at nine thirty.

Currently, Minho stands in his sock feet at the entryway of their hotel room, pulling on his black suit coat as he waits for his boyfriend to finish getting ready. Chan already takes forever to prepare for the day (or, rather, he waits until the last minute to do so) and today is no exception. This morning, Minho even laid in bed staring at the wall for a while to artificially manufacture him some more time, but it was clearly no use.

“Almost,” Chan calls back, his voice tense. “Just messing with my cufflinks again. Give me a minute.”

From his perch on their bed, Soonie meows indignantly, his ginger tabby coat dappled with sunlight as it pours in the hotel window. They thought about leaving him behind, but he’s old enough now that Minho couldn’t really bear to abandon him for the four days they knew they’d be out of town. Gratefully, he’s taken to the hotel like a fish to water, already staking out a place on the bed and voicing his opinions as frequently as possible.

Is bringing a cat to a hotel technically against the rules? Almost certainly, but Minho doesn’t really care, and besides, they’re wizards. There are plenty of ways to bend the rules, and reality, in their favor.

“Shh,” Minho warns Soonie, then pops his head in the bathroom doorway. Chan stands at the bathroom mirror, the blinding hotel lights illuminating his face in sharp relief. Since the last time Minho saw him, he’s straightened his curly hair, gelling it so it sweeps artfully over his forehead. His fingers shake a little as they fidget with his cuffs, though whether it’s due to frustration or anxiety Minho can’t tell.

Quietly, Minho slips through the door and bats Chan’s hands away as gently as he can. “Let me do it.”

“No, I can-” Chan lets out a frustrated breath. “Sorry. Thank you.”

Minho shakes his head at him, more of an acknowledgement than dismissal, and grabs his boyfriend’s wrists. Deftly, he fixes the cufflinks in barely a few moments, then looks up so they’re eye to eye.

“Hey,” Minho says evenly. “You need to chill.”

Chan ducks his head. “I know.”

“No, really,” Minho adds, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s a wedding, not an exam. Changbin’s not going to give a shit if you skip a few words of your speech by accident or if the DJ has to be reminded again not to play those weird Celestina Warbeck love songs. It’s okay if it’s not perfect.”

There’s a brief silence where Chan won’t quite meet his eyes. Then, slowly, his gaze flickers up to meet Minho’s. “I know,” he admits. “Changbin told me the same thing at the bachelor party yesterday. I just didn’t really believe him.”

“If anyone’s a perfectionist, it’s you, not him,” Minho says, stepping back. “Just so you’re aware. This is stuff you’re putting on yourself.”

A small smile flickers across Chan’s face. “Like you don’t tell me all the time.”

“Because I’m helping you become less of a perfectionist,” Minho replies, slipping through the doorway again. He checks his watch absentmindedly. “Is your coat still on the bed?”

Chan snorts. Following him out of the bathroom, he replies, “How, exactly, is this supposed to make me less of a perfectionist?”

“Coat,” Minho repeats. He shoves his feet into his formal shoes, one hand on the wall to balance him.

“Um, closet, I think,” Chan replies absently. “And that’s not an answer.”

Silently, Minho reaches into the hall closet without looking, then tugs the suit jacket off of its hanger. “Come here.”

Chan shrugs on the jacket. As he pulls on his shoes, he inquires, sounding vaguely amused, “Are you going to keep ignoring me, or are you actually going to answer?”

“I’m not ignoring you,” Minho finally replies. “I told you I’m helping you with your perfectionism. I’m helping you right now.”

Raising an eyebrow, Chan inquires, “What, by having a conversation about being a perfectionist? That does not count.”

“Well, you haven’t fucked with your cufflinks or checked the time in almost a minute,” Minho replies, tugging open the door. “I’d call that a win. Now come on, Mr. Best Man. Let’s at least get to the venue before you piss your pants about it.” He glances over his shoulder. “Bye, Soonie!”

Chan shoves him lightly, but he follows Minho out. “Wow, thanks, babe,” he says, rolling his eyes. “When you’re inevitably Hyunjin’s best man, remind me to be an asshole to you, too.”

Minho knows him well enough by now to know that he’s not really upset; their shoulders bump too many times to be coincidence on their way to the elevator. And besides, he can see Chan's lips twitching.

When they first started dating, Minho was terrified that any jokes of that type would chip away at their relationship. By now, though, they trade banter as easily as breathing.

Minho gives his boyfriend a look. “That’s assuming Hyunjin can ever manage to find the balls to propose.” They reach the elevator, Chan's sleek BMW visible through the window of the hallway to the parking lot below.

“Maybe Jisung’ll do it,” Chan says casually, putting an arm around his waist.

Minho scoffs. His hand slips into Chan’s, easy as breathing. “That’s funny.”

“Hey, cut the boy some slack,” Chan replies. “I just found out at the bachelor party that he’s apparently a bottom. You two have more in common than you think.” He’s properly grinning now, and Minho has a full moment where he’s just thinking, chest warm, finally before Chan’s words even register.

This time, it’s Minho’s turn to shove him, but his face is too red to make it believable. “As if you don’t love it.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” Chan replies, pressing a kiss to Minho’s temple. “You know I do.”

The wedding venue is at a botanical park just outside of the city, and the path that the staff wave them down the moment they see Chan and Minho’s black suits is surrounded by golden honeysuckle bushes and hydrangeas heavy with bluish-purple flowers, petals delicate as butterfly wings. Sunlight dapples across the pavement and the green, green grass.

For a while, they walk in comfortable silence. Chan is messing nervously with his watch, and Minho is content to just watch him. Earlier in their relationship, he might have offered to help Chan wind the watch, but after multiple years together, he knows now that he just needs to let Chan do his thing. Chan can be jittery when he’s nervous, and right now, if Minho fixes it for him, there’s nothing else for him to do with his hands.

As they approach a grassy lawn covered with white-painted chairs, Chan finally looks up from his wrist with a heavy breath. He’s biting his lip, just hard enough that Minho is slightly concerned he’ll draw blood.

“Chan,” Minho says emphatically.

Chan glances at him. “Huh?”

Minho bumps his shoulder lightly with his own. “I told you. You’re not going to forget your speech.”

“I feel like I’m forgetting it right now,” Chan mutters. He kicks at a stray pebble with his foot, then adds, in a softer voice, “I don’t know. You’re probably right. I just…”

“You’ve never been best man for anyone before,” Minho finishes for him. “And Changbin is your best friend, so you’re scared you’re going to fuck up.”

Wryly, Chan asks, “Am I that transparent?”

Minho doesn’t answer that, mostly because the correct response would be no, I’ve just been in love with you for so long that I can read you like a book and this doesn’t really feel like the place or time. And besides, Chan knows that already. He knows Chan knows that.

“You’re not going to forget your speech,” Minho repeats, reaching out for his boyfriend’s hand. In a low voice, he adds, “And if you do, know that I’ll be in the back, laughing at you.”

Chan rolls his eyes, but his lips are twitching when he responds, “Oh, fuck you.”

They find seats near the front on the left side of the aisle, a row or two behind a large mass of people in shades of blue or silver that Minho can only assume are Changbin’s family. The moment they’re spotted, a statuesque middle-aged woman with very recognizable bright red hair waves Chan over with a wide smile.

“Changbin’s mom,” Chan fills in for him quickly as he gets up from his seat. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Minho, unbothered, waves him on. He figured as much. Besides, the seats behind them are starting to fill, and he spots one of his best friends, Hyunjin, coming in with his boyfriend on his arm. He sends them a wave, but it turns out to be unnecessary; Jisung is making a beeline for Felix’s parents on the other side of the aisle, leaving Hyunjin alone.

Back in school, girls used to say all the time, sometimes to Minho’s face, that Hyunjin was so pretty, that he looked like a model, that he nearly had the height of one (closer to six foot than Minho will ever even remotely get), and that he played Quidditch like a god. He’s also half-Veela, which was a secret all the way up until the end of Minho’s seventh and Hyunjin’s sixth year, at which point his admirers became even more unbearable. Half of the straight girls in the school seemed to have a thing for Hyunjin at some point or another. It didn’t help that he’s always had a quiet, kind of intense personality, the type that made girls whisper excitedly that they’d like to pick his brain apart and figure out what makes him tick.

Minho, however, has never seen him that way. Hyunjin is pretty, sure, but Minho’s always liked his men more on the gym bro side than pretty boy side of the spectrum. And besides, he has never had patience for romantic interests that are at least as broody as he is.

“I can’t stay long,” Hyunjin says apologetically as he comes to a stop in front of Minho’s row. “Jisung has a spot saved for us by Felix’s mom. I guess she wants the best man at the front, and I’m apparently coming with.”

Jisung, of course, being Felix’s best man. Minho keeps forgetting that both Changbin and Felix have one; he and Chan have been so focused on Chan’s duties with Changbin that he hasn’t thought about the other side of the wedding party all that much.

Hyunjin is dressed in a dark blue suit and grey tie, holding his suit jacket over his shoulder with a few fingers. His almost platinum blonde hair, a mark of his Veela heritage, is shorter than usual, just brushing the tips of his ears. The length is a recent development; in school, it made its way down to Hyunjin’s shoulders, and their friend Yeji used to cajole him into letting her put little braids in it every morning. But that was a long time ago.

Meanwhile, Minho shrugs. “I figured as much. Have you seen Seungmin and Jeongin yet?”

Hyunjin shakes his head. “Jeongin said he forgot to pick up his suit at the tailor’s, so he’s missing the ceremony. I don’t know about Seungmin, though.”

Minho snorts. “He probably decided not to come.” Seungmin, who already doesn’t like large crowds, has long since made his opinion about even larger, sprawling weddings perfectly clear. The fact that he was even invited still throws Minho for a loop, since Seungmin’s never really been friends with either Felix or Changbin. Felix must have been feeling particularly generous when they made the guest list, but it’s not like Minho’s complaining. It’s given him and his friends an excuse to all get together and hang out in the midst of their busy adult lives.

Hyunjin smiles wryly. “Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Minho glances over at Felix’s side of the aisle, the Lees, where Jisung is still deep in discussion with a younger Lee relative, and asks curiously, “Is Jisung ready to give his speech at the reception?”

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow. “Is Chan?”

Minho gives him a look. Out of all of his friends, he and Hyunjin keep in touch the most, which means Hyunjin’s already heard once this week how much Chan's been obsessing over it. Hyunjin’s a bit more private about his relationship - to be fair, he’s private about everything, more than even Minho - but it doesn’t take a genius to guess how Jisung might be reacting to the responsibility. Anyone who’s met him more than once could figure it out.

Meanwhile, Hyunjin’s lips twitch. “Yeah, I thought so. Jisung’s been super nervous, too. Probably worse than Chan.”

“Probably,” Minho agrees. When it comes to worrying, Jisung definitely has Chan beat. The public speaking part has never been the issue for Chan; after all, at least Chan’s always felt comfortable with crowds.

At that moment, Jisung races over to them breathlessly. “Hyunjin, babe, you gotta get over here, you’re never gonna believe-”

“Hello to you too, Han,” Minho cuts in, raising an eyebrow.

Over Jisung’s shoulder, Hyunjin makes a face at Minho like he’s holding in a laugh, but the moment Jisung looks over at him, the expression is quickly replaced by something much softer and fonder.

“Hey, baby,” Hyunjin says quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

They’re wearing nearly matching suits, Minho realizes, Jisung in a similar but not identical shade of dark blue, and it’s so them that he can’t believe he didn’t notice it sooner.

Jisung and Hyunjin have always made an odd pair; Jisung is barely five foot seven, with straight dark hair and the mixed temperament of a fierce Gryffindor with horrible anxiety. He did okay in school, according to Hyunjin, but he’s probably one of the biggest secret nerds Minho’s ever met, apparently the result of being the sole Gryffindor in a long line of Ravenclaws. The two of them, like Chan and Minho, spent most of their time in school fighting, though if Minho’s honest, their fighting was more like bickering and with twice the amount of sexual and romantic tension. For these two, unlike Minho and Chan, it’s been clear to everyone who knows them that they liked each other from the start.

After a moment, Jisung glances over, blinking. “Oh, hi, Minho.” A second later, his fingers curve around Hyunjin’s wrist, and he continues, “Anyway, as I was saying-”

Jisung keeps talking, but Minho mostly tunes him out. It’s not that he dislikes Jisung, or anything - they’ve long since made it over that hurdle - but there’s only so long he can watch his best friend stare at his boyfriend like he hung the moon and stars before he starts feeling like he’s interrupting something.

“Sorry, but I have to go rescue Chan,” Minho cuts in. “I’ll see you guys later?”

“Oh, sure, see you,” Hyunjin says with an amused look. To Jisung, he murmurs something Minho doesn’t catch, and after a moment, the two weave their way through the now thick crowd as they find their way to their seats.

Minho, who in fact doesn’t have to do anything of the sort, sits quietly until almost the start of the ceremony, when Chan rushes to sit next to him just before the pianist starts playing in the back.

“Why aren’t you with Changbin’s family?” Minho hisses to him under his breath.

Chan sends him a look. “Please,” he whispers back. “I’m not sitting with Changbin’s mom the entire ceremony.”

Minho shrugs. Fair enough. He turns back right as the crowd starts to stand.

Minho, who’s never been to a gay wedding before, assumed that one or both of them would do the walked-down-the-aisle-by-a-parent thing, but Felix and Changbin skip that part entirely. The crowd stands up as they walk down the aisle in complementary-colored suits, hand in hand, soft piano music playing in the background. Minho’s never seen either of them grin so widely. They look incredibly, impossibly happy.

Eventually, they make it to the altar, where the officiant is waiting, and stand in front of each other, hand in hand. The grass brushes the soles of their formal shoes, an arched trellis covered with ivy and white flowers behind them. In the background, the soft piano music has dissipated to nothing, replaced by the ambient noise of the botanical gardens: the soft rush of water in a nearby fountain, the chirping of birds in the trees, the whisper of leaves in the breeze.

“All those gathered here,” the officiant starts, “we are here to witness the union of Seo Changbin and Lee Felix. Changbin, if you would like to begin?”

There’s a small pause, punctuated only by the sound of sniffling from the front row. From Minho’s angle, he can just see the profile of Changbin’s mother’s face as she wipes away tears.

Then, taking an unsteady breath, Changbin unwraps a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and begins to speak.

As far as handwritten vows go, they’re not particularly long, but Changbin hits all the highlights: their history as close friends, his regret at their falling out, the moment he knew he’d been falling for Felix all along, the confession, falling in love, all of it, all presented with a bright but shaky smile. And then, afterward, Felix does the same.

Finally, when Changbin and Felix’s families alike in the front rows have been reduced to teary-eyed sniffles, the officiant turns to look at Changbin and says, very serious, “Do you, Seo Changbin, take this man, Lee Felix, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”

To Minho’s shock, Changbin’s lower lip wobbles. “I do,” he says after a pause, his voice cracking.

To say that Minho and Changbin have never been close friends is an understatement of massive proportions, but somehow, in this moment, watching Changbin overwhelmed makes some unnameable emotion rise in his chest, so quickly Minho has to look away. He swallows hard.

Chan notices immediately, because of course he does, glancing sideways at him. He doesn’t say anything - thank Merlin - but just interlocks their fingers across his lap, and Minho takes a soft, steadying breath.

Meanwhile, Felix smiles gently at Changbin, reaching out to wipe the tears from his face. Some of the younger voices in the audience let out an audible aww, as well as the now three or four people in the front row on Changbin’s side that have started to weep.

“And you, Lee Felix,” the officiant continues once Changbin has collected himself, “Do you take this man, Seo Changbin, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”

“I do,” Felix replies, much more steadily. His eyes are shining.

The officiant smiles again. “You may kiss.”

So they do.

Later, the wedding party moves indoors to one of the banquet halls on the premises, a wide-open room with ornate walls and endless tables set up with white tablecloths and little strings of lights. Chan, as part of the groomsmen, stays behind to take photos, which means Minho is off to find his table assignment alone.

Of course, the table assignments are set out alphabetically across two or three tables and done in impossibly small font, so Minho is in the middle of squinting down at the print when he hears a familiar voice come up behind him.

“Ten bucks says you’re at table twenty-three with me,” Jeongin says casually as he appears from the crowd. He waves a card in front of Minho’s face, emblazoned with Yang Jeongin, Table 23 in a cursive font that strikes Minho as rather millennial.

For most people, Jeongin has a similar first impression to that of a young, studious office worker, but the Jeongin he is behind closed doors couldn’t be further from that. In fact, it feels like he gets progressively more and more mischievous with each year Minho knows him.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Table twenty-three? Is that at the back of the room or something?”

“Way, way back,” Jeongin confirms with a wicked smile. “Where the Slytherins belong, I guess.” He peers over Minho’s shoulder, then says confidently, “Yeah. You’re way off. L’s are over there. See? Over in the corner.”

Minho picks up his card from the corner of the table. Lee Minho, Table 23. For a long moment, he just stares at it. Then, idly, he comments, “You know, Chan is at table two.”

“Do you want to sit at table two?” Jeongin replies with a raised eyebrow.

“No,” Minho admits. “Obviously not. Too many Gryffindors.” This last part is a joke, the kind he knows he can only make with certain people. Other Slytherins are one; Chan and his ramshackle friend group is another.

Meanwhile, Jeongin barks a laugh. “Let’s go see if Seungmin actually made it here. Ten bucks says he left.”

“For the last time,” Minho says, rolling his eyes, “I’m not betting with you.” Slowly, they start to make their way through the crowd, dodging parents with small children and a group of Ravenclaws that Minho recognizes vaguely from school before he makes a wide circle around them.

Behind him, Jeongin follows suit. “Yeah, because you always lose,” he says with a shrug. “You’re old, dude. Old as hell. Maybe even losing your touch-”

“Let’s go find Seungmin before I murder you,” Minho cuts in. He just barely hides his smile.

When they make it to table twenty-three, it’s as Jeongin promised, one of the furthest from the center table for the newly married couple and bordering a table taken up entirely by balding men in their sixties or seventies that Minho can only guess are Changbin or Felix’s father’s business colleagues. Their table is nearly empty, though Minho can see where Jeongin has already saved himself a seat, a black suit jacket thrown over the back. Next to his chair is, unsurprisingly, Kim Seungmin, and then, more surprisingly, Hwang Hyunjin.

“Crazy timing,” Jeongin chirps as he slides into his seat. “Seungmin-hyung, we were just talking about you.” He leans over the table to perform a complicated-looking handshake with Hyunjin.

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “Were you?”

Minho nods at him, picking a chair across from Jeongin. “I’m surprised you showed up. Hyunjin told me he hadn’t heard from you.”

“Hey,” Hyunjin says, raising his hands. “In my defense, it was true. He hadn’t texted me in like eighteen hours.”

“I was thinking about skipping, honestly,” Seungmin admits. “I have a shit ton of grading to do this weekend. At this point I’m just delaying the inevitable.”

“Did your fifth years take their OWLs yet?” Hyunjin asks curiously.

Seungmin makes a face. “No, but I wish. NEWTs and OWLs both start next week. Hence all the grading.” He leans back in his chair, then says mildly, “In my next life, if I ever tell you guys I want to be a Hogwarts professor, take me by the shoulders and shake me until I choose something else.”

“Something less trying, maybe?” Jeongin inquires, his eyes dancing. “Like being an Auror?”

It’s an argument they’ve had before. Jeongin, barely twenty, has been an Auror for less than eighteen months and he’s already making it, as Seungmin would say, everyone’s problem.

Seungmin narrows his eyes. “The fact that anyone lets you be an Auror is beyond me.” Minho can tell he’s mostly joking, though; Seungmin and Jeongin may have their fair share of banter, but they’re among the closest friends in their group. It helps that Jeongin’s at least a year younger than all of them, so he’s become sort of like a surrogate well loved younger brother - someone to bicker with but never actually be angry at.

“If we’re about to start our monthly ‘who has the hardest job’ discussion,” Minho says drily, “Let me know so I can leave.”

Jeongin grins. “Yeah, because you know you’d never win. You work at the most boring place on the planet.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Minho replies with a shrug. “But I also get actual vacation time. And I go home at four.”

Minho changed departments in the Ministry nearly three years ago now. These days, he works in the Department of Transportation, mostly managing the regulation of Portkeys and the Floo Network. What the job lacks in salary it makes up for by being really interesting, at least for someone who excelled at Charms in school, but it gets kind of a bad rep with other wizards. If Minho had to guess, it’s probably because, and rightly so, working at a desk in the Department of Transportation does sound like the most boring job on the planet.

“Guys, I think I’ve changed my mind,” Hyunjin says suddenly, his lips twitching. “I think I might actually have the hardest job.”

“Can I have permission to kill him?” Jeongin asks, deadpan, as he leans across the table toward Minho. “Please?”

“Hey, new rule,” Seungmin says, just loud enough to be heard over him burying his head in his hands. “If my fifth years haven’t taken their fucking History of Magic OWLs yet, anyone who’s idea of a bad day is throwing a ball through a hoop not enough times is automatically disqualified from the conversation. Like, even as a joke.” He peers through his fingers, then says to Hyunjin tiredly, “I saw that article about you in the Daily Quibbler last week. You’re so right, man. It’s truly the stuff of nightmares to have to face people fawning over you in the local paper.”

Jeongin picks at the tablecloth. “You know, hyung,” he observes, lips twitching, “I think that reporter only called you handsome about forty three times. You’re falling off the wagon, dude.”

Minho shakes his head. “To be specific, I think she said ethereal, not handsome. As in, ethereal as the spring wind. And then she repeated it over and over.”

At this, Seungmin finally raises his head from his hands. “Wait, really?” He says incredulously. “I didn’t actually read the article that closely. Please tell me you’re all joking.” He glances around the table, then repeats, “You’re joking. No fucking way. Really? What is she writing, a romance novel? I thought she was supposed to be reporting on the fucking Quidditch game, not her personal feelings about the look of Hyunjin’s face. And anyway, if she’s going to do that, is there no one else on the entire Puddlemere United squad for her to talk about?”

Jeongin shrugs. “If you ask the Daily Quibbler, apparently not. Puddlemere plays a game and those reporters turn the Sunday paper into the Hwang Hyunjin show. You’d think he was the Minister of Magic or something.”

There was a time when in the face of all this shit-talking, even with his friends, Hyunjin would clam up and disappear to wherever he goes when he puts on that very specific neutral and steady face that gets people whispering, He really is part-Veela, isn’t he? But Hyunjin at twenty-two is a very different man than he was at eighteen, and today, there’s no sign of that expression anywhere.

“Appreciate the vote of confidence, guys,” Hyunjin says casually. “You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself.” He looks almost unaffected, leaning back with one arm hanging off the wood backrest of his chair.

Jeongin pats Hyunjin on the back. “Anytime, man,” he says, voice cheery.

“It’s like they say,” Seungmin chimes in. “Someone’s gotta keep you humble.”

Suddenly, a thought occurs to Minho, and he turns to Seungmin with the most serious face he can muster. “Hey, none of your students have asked you for Hyunjin’s autograph yet, right? They don’t know you’re friends? Because I think Chan’s cousin is in your third-year class. I can bring it up to her this summer, see what she thinks.”

Seungmin’s jaw drops. Minho tries to hide his grin, but he mostly fails.

“If you do that,” Seungmin threatens, “I will murder you.”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin adds. “Please don’t.” For the first time, he looks almost embarrassed, his cheeks slightly red.

“You don’t get a say, Quidditch man,” Jeongin replies. Then his head perks up. “Hey, wait, I think they’re about to do the speeches.”

Immediately, Minho whirls around, heart in his throat, just in time to see Chan stand up from his chair at the front table, microphone in hand. “If I could get everyone’s attention?” He says hesitantly.

Slowly, the crowd quiets, both Felix and Changbin looking up expectantly from their chairs just off of Chan’s left.

“I know everyone’s absolute favorite part of the night is listening to super long best man speeches,” Chan says with a smile. “So I’ll try to make it short.”

The crowd chuckles.

Chan takes a visible breath, then starts, “I was eight years old when I met Changbin for the first time. Our parents lived down the road from each other in Godric’s Hollow, and I was having trouble making friends, so my dad figured he’d help me out.”

There must be some dissent from the other groomsmen, because Chan swivels his head toward them with a grin. “Yeah, I know, hard to believe. But I was. My parents surprised me with him on a really hot day in June, when me and my siblings were throwing a Quaffle around in my backyard. We were playing pretty rough, and I had just nearly knocked my brother off his broom when I heard this voice coming from the ground. I flew down, and this really skinny boy told me in this super serious voice that if I really wanted to win, I would have already read Forward Flight Dynamics by Oliver Mandrake, and then I would have known to apply exactly eight-sixths of the force through my left shoulder to really do some damage.”

A laugh ripples through the crowd. From their vantage point, Minho catches right as Changbin covers his face with one hand, muttering something to Chan with a dry grin. “Right,” Chan says, amused, as he looks across the room. “Those of you who knew Changbin at that age know he wasn’t afraid of telling you exactly how it is. And I think it was from that moment that I knew we’d be best friends.”

Chan smiles, then continues, “At school, we both had our own friend groups, because as much as Changbin liked to pretend he wasn’t, he was extremely popular in school. He’s always known how to be funny when the moment calls for it, so he tended to bring people in without meaning to. And it was like that,” he says, turning to look at Felix, “that we met Jisung and Felix.”

“I don’t know if any of you know this, but it was actually Changbin that saw those two first-year boys wandering through the train and decided to invite them in. Oh, that’s Jisung and Felix, to those of you who weren’t at Hogwarts with us,” Chan clarifies. “And I remember before he went out to say hi, Changbin turned to me and said, “Come on, you never know who’s going to be in your life forever. It’s better to make all the friends you can when you get the chance.”

Several people make little sounds, and Chan nods. “I know. Kind of a crazy thing for a twelve-year-old to say. But he was right, obviously. By the end of the trip, we’d made two new friends for life. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

Chan turns to Changbin. “So, Changbin,” he says, a little more quietly, “I know I don’t often say this because - I don’t know, for us, it kind of feels weird to since we’ve been friends for so long, but watching you fall in love with Felix has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. Truly. To see two of your closest friends fall in love isn’t a privilege many get to share in. And to know you two are definitely, one hundred percent soulmates only makes it better.”

Changbin says something, eyes wide, to Chan, and Chan laughs. “No. I’m serious, man! I really am. Really. I didn’t really believe in soulmates as a kid, but you two are one of the few reasons I do now.” He clears his throat, then says, raising his glass, “To Changbin and Felix. To soulmates.”

“To soulmates,” Changbin and Felix echo with matching smiles. They clink their glasses together. And, somehow, Chan’s eyes flicker through the crowd until they train, impossibly, on Minho. He raises his glass again, just a little, and after a little pause, Minho toasts towards him.

To soulmates, Chan mouths.

Minho smiles at him, his heart skipping a beat. He thinks, his chest warm, To soulmates.

A little while later, after both Changbin and Felix’s dad have spoken and Jisung, as the other best man, has said his piece, they all bring back plates from the buffet area for dinner. The low hum of chatter buzzes in Minho’s ears as he tugs his chair closer to the table, his friends digging into their food across the table.

“You guys ever think you’ll want one of these?” Jeongin inquires curiously as he takes a bite of mashed potatoes.

“What, a wedding?” Minho asks, surprised. He glances up from his chicken, mid-bite.

“Yeah,” Jeongin says, like it’s obvious.

Next to him, Seungmin shrugs. “I don’t really care either way, but you guys know my girlfriend’s parents are really traditional. I might not have a choice.”

“Yeah, my girlfriend’s parents are the same,” Jeongin admits. “I kinda like weddings, though. I dunno. It seems kinda fun.” He glances at Minho. “What about you? Chan seems like a big wedding guy.”

He’s right, of course. Chan is a big wedding guy. They haven’t really talked about marriage yet, at least not seriously, but that much, at least, is plain to him. You don’t date someone for over three and a half years without having at least some idea of what they would want from this kind of major life event.

But would he want this?

The fact of the matter is, if he did ever get married, it wouldn’t have the picture-perfect domesticity of Changbin and Felix’s wedding, who despite their own difficulties still have parents who generally support their identities and their relationship. After all, they did show up, both sets of parents smiling ear to ear. Even Changbin, who has his fair share of homophobic relatives, has a whole host of bubbly, accepting younger cousins from his side of the family. But Minho will probably never speak to his parents again. For him, there would be no front row of teary-eyed relatives, no half of the banquet hall full to bursting with assorted Lee blood relations. He would have family there, certainly, but for Minho, family hasn’t been about blood for a good long while.

In another life, another version of Minho before he rebuilt himself would have been endlessly bothered by that. He would have spent his own wedding absorbed with comparison and hating the fact that he was coming up wanting. But, Minho thinks, maybe not anymore. Maybe, just maybe, he can see himself standing with Chan up there someday, watching their friends give speeches and eating overly priced banquet food and making a promise of forever. Not anytime soon - he’s only twenty-three, after all - but someday.

“Yeah,” Minho says finally. “We both want something like this.”

Just then, someone presses a kiss to his hair. “Hey, guys,” Chan says, sliding into an empty seat next to him. “Sorry we’re late.”

Minho feels himself blush - he can’t tell how much Chan heard - but luckily, Chan doesn’t seem to notice.

Jisung takes the seat next to Hyunjin. “Best man problems,” he admits apologetically. “Felix needed help dealing with an annoying aunt.”

Minho turns to look at his boyfriend with a frown. “What are you doing here? You’re Changbin’s best man. You should be up there with the groomsmen.” He glances over at Jisung, already leaning into Hyunjin comfortably, and adds, “You too, I assume.”

“I may be Changbin’s best man, but you’re my life partner,” Chan responds casually. “They saw plenty of me already. And besides, it’s not like I’ve disappeared.”

Minho looks at him for a long moment, so long that Chan eventually looks up from his food.

“What?” Chan asks, blinking at him.

Minho doesn’t think he trusts himself to say anything. Instead, he just intertwines their fingers under the table, resting their hands on Chan's thigh. For the first time, it occurs to him that their table has two more seats than it should, and that Chan and Jisung have taken them without a second thought. If he actually thinks about it, he wouldn’t put it past Felix and Changbin to give their best men two seat assignments each: one for the speeches, one away from the hustle and bustle of various unknown relatives and the other groomsmen.

“So,” Chan says casually, his lips twitching, “What were we talking about?”

Seungmin gives him a look. “Wouldn’t you like to know, old man.”

“Seungmin,” Minho and Hyunjin chide simultaneously, then send each other matching grins.

Jeongin laughs. “Here we go again.”

Dinner gives way to dancing, and after Felix and Changbin’s first dance, the open area in the middle of the banquet hall is quickly filled with dancing couples, parents with children, and the occasional group of friends. Almost immediately, Jisung and Hyunjin jump up to join the fray, and they disappear into the crowd, swaying back and forth to a bouncy Celestina Warbeck love song that Minho thinks was last popular with wizards maybe fifteen years ago.

It’s not really Minho’s scene, but he’s always enjoyed dancing, so it doesn’t take much for Chan to convince him. After a few minutes, they, too, make their way to the dance floor.

Chan’s eyes are bright under the sparkling lights of the hall. His right hand is warm, warm on Minho’s waist, and for a moment, Minho isn’t thinking about the bustle of the crowd, the low roar of chatter, or the little girl dancing with her father that keeps almost stepping backwards onto Minho’s feet. It’s just them and the music.

“Hey,” someone says into Minho’s ear, so suddenly he almost jumps. “Long time no see.”

Minho turns. Changbin is standing a foot or two behind him, a slight grin across his face. Felix is a few steps behind him.

“Hey, congrats,” Minho says immediately, and is surprised to find he means it. He’s known these two for almost nine years now, and to say that it’s been all sunshine and roses between them would be an overstatement of massive proportions. But they’ve mended, somehow, and now they’re here: inviting him as a plus-one to their wedding. Congratulating them like a friend would.

“Thanks,” Felix says cheerfully. He reaches up to greet Minho with a half-hug, and his wedding ring glints under the light, a thin band of silver.

“And thanks for coming, by the way,” Changbin adds. “I know this probably isn’t really your crowd.” Instead of a hug, he shakes Minho’s hand.

Minho shakes his head as he’s pulling his hand away. “No, it’s been great. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Not a problem,” Changbin says easily. Then, with a smile, he adds, “You’ve been with Chan for so long, I kind of figure you’re one of us now.”

Grinning, Chan nudges him. “See,” he says, “you’re part of the club.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “Great.” But he can’t help but add his own smile, too.

The guests start to filter out around ten, but it’s just past midnight when the groomsmen finally finish helping clean up. Minho and Chan walk out of the banquet hall and down the path under a pitch-black sky, the moon half-covered by clouds. The temperature has dropped about ten degrees since the afternoon, and it’s just brisk enough that Minho has to tuck his hands under his crossed arms to keep them warm.

As they round the corner to the parking lot, a familiar pair of faces is standing near the edge of the sidewalk, the taller one bowing his head to murmur in the other man’s ear. Beside them are Hyunjin and Jisung, standing next to the men like Minho and Chan have just caught them all in the middle of a conversation.

Almost immediately, Chan takes a sharp breath. “No way,” he calls out. “Choi Yeonjun?”

Minho vaguely remembers the name - he thinks he’s from Hyunjin and Jisung’s year in school, a Gryffindor that played with Chan on the Quidditch team for a year or two before Chan graduated. Minho has never spoken to him, but he knew of him, primarily because he left an incredibly long string of ex-girlfriends from all four Houses in his wake.

The shorter of the two whips his head around. “Yo, Chan-hyung,” Yeonjun says with a grin. “Long time no see.”

The taller one’s eyes widen. “Whoa, no way.”

Chan pulls Yeonjun in for a hug. “How have you been, dude? I don’t think I’ve seen you since I graduated.”

Yeonjun shrugs. “Eh. You know. I played for the Wasps for a year, got cut, now I work at a bank.”

Before either of them can respond, the other man raises an eyebrow. “Huh. That’s your analysis of the last four years of your life?”

“Oh, right,” Yeonjun says slowly, like he’s realizing something. His lips twitch. “You might have been important, too, I guess.”

Chan snorts. “Sanha, right?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I remember you from school. Jisung told me you and Yeonjun took forever to get together.”

“Sorry, guys,” Jisung interjects with a grimace. “Not to spill your secrets, or anything.”

Sanha ducks his head. “It’s fine,” he says, cheeks pink. “I suppose he’s right enough. It did take forever.”

“So you’re dating now?” Hyunjin asks curiously. “Jisung didn’t mention that.”

“As of four months ago?” Yeonjun replies. “Yeah.”

“Hey,” Sanha says suddenly, glancing at Jisung, “We’ll see you at the group dinner on Friday, right? Yeonjun and I got all the guys to agree to it this time. It’ll be like a little Gryffindor reunion.”

“Duh,” Jisung says, grinning. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He gestures to Chan. “You should come, too.”

Chan holds up his hands. “Sorry, but I’m not crashing your roommate reunion.”

“No, really,” Jisung insists, touching Chan’s shoulder briefly. “Think about it.”

“Sure,” Chan allows. “I’ll think about it.” Then, glancing at Minho, he adds, “Well, I think we’ll probably get going. Our cat is still at the hotel.”

“You brought Soonie to the hotel?” Jisung says incredulously. Then he shakes his head. “You know, I don’t know why I even asked. Of course you did. Tell him Hyunjin and I say hi.”

“We will,” Minho replies with a smile. “See you, Han.” He and Jisung fist-bump, and then he reaches over to exchange a quick hug with Hyunjin. Jisung and Chan do the same, and Chan shakes hands with Yeonjun and Sanha. Minho, who barely remembers them at all, much less enough to shake their hands, doesn’t even attempt it.

“Bye,” Hyunjin and Jisung chorus. Minho waves, then he and Chan turn to head back to the car, hand in hand, the bright fluorescent streetlights flickering in the background.

They make it back home the following evening, flicking on the lights in their dark apartment right as the sun is starting to dip below the horizon.

Soonie jumps out of his carrier as soon as Chan opens the front hatch, running away at almost full gallop and escaping to the safety of the few inches of space under their couch. The blinds over the windows whisper against each other with the breeze from a window they forgot to close.

Chan makes a face. “He’s going to hate me for like a week, isn’t he?”

Minho nudges him. “Oh, he’ll be fine. You know he hates traveling.” Without saying anything, he takes their shared suitcase from Chan and pulls it over to the bedroom to start unpacking. Behind him, he hears the slight rustling of paper as Chan goes through the mail left in their assigned mailbox downstairs.

“Are you doing dinner, or am I?” Chan calls. “I can’t remember.”

Minho pokes his head out of the bedroom. “Let’s just order out.”

“I…” Chan sighs. “Aren’t we saving money?” He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, long sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows.

“Not if we get a shelter cat,” Minho replies immediately. “We don’t need to save as much for that.”

They’ve been taking about getting another cat these days. Or, more accurately, Minho has been talking about getting another cat, and Chan has been listening. Minho figures he’s about eighty percent done convincing him. Another couple of weeks, and who knows?

“Yeah, but vet visits cost money.”

“Yeah,” Minho repeats. “But the cost of getting Soonie a friend? Priceless.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want a friend,” Chan ventures. “Maybe he’s happy all alone.”

“I don’t know,” Minho replies after a brief pause. “I feel like we’re never happiest alone.”

There’s another, longer pause. Chan is playing idly with a leather bracelet on his wrist, gaze flickering between Minho and the kitchen counter. It’s hard to describe his expression, but Minho has definitely seen it before. It’s an old friend of his now.

Slowly, Minho pads across the room in his sock feet, coming to a stop a few inches from his boyfriend. “What is it?” He asks quietly. “Say it.”

Chan shrugs. “You were never alone,” he replies low in his throat. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Minho says. Some heavy emotion rises in his chest. He swallows. “I know that now.”

“Good,” Chan says softly. He pulls Minho in for a kiss, then adds, “Now let’s go get Thai.”

Minho grins. “I knew I could win you over.”

So they get Thai. They eat it on their couch, the noodles still in their takeout boxes, and then put on music and Minho manages to convince - cajole - Chan into dancing with him. They waltz around the living room, the music soft in the background, as Minho whispers the names of dance steps into Chan’s ear. (Dance was one of the few aspects of having private tutors as a kid that he enjoyed, and he’s been doing it more and more often these days, teaching Chan in little bits. Chan, as always, is eager to learn.) Later, they make their way to the bed, where Minho kisses Chan until he’s gasping into his mouth and then Chan’s hands move to other, more intimate places. They’ve done this more times than Minho could possibly count by now, but he’ll never tire of the soft press of Chan’s mouth, the slow caress of his hands and the heat of his skin. The sheets rustle behind his back, and they kiss until the early hours when they finally tire at last.

When Minho sleeps, he dreams. Dreams are sweeter these days. Warmer. They’re a lot like being awake.