Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“In a blush, love finds a barrier.”
— Virgil, Appendix Vergiliana. Ciris

Hanbin

Love is always, unconsciously, at the back of Hanbin’s mind. And when he does turn his thoughts to the daunting four-letter word, Hanbin finds that he can attribute many of his strengths to it — and many of his follies, too. It’s why, he thinks, he landed in his current House, known for being kind and caring even if he doesn’t truly think that’s the real reason.

Hanbin had known before even stepping off the train what House he wanted. He remembers the low, raspy voice of the sorting hat in his ear, cajoling him to reconsider; it was probably his determination that had made him such a fitting candidate for Gryffindor. Alas, the hat had deferred to him.

But Hanbin never wastes more than a fleeting thought over his sorting. He’d wanted his mothers house, no matter what, and he’d like to think he’s gained the respect and friendship of his peers over the years to truly make Hufflepuff feel like home. So he’s never regretted his choice — out of love — not even when his Common Room by the kitchens places him at the furthest point possible in the castle to his Advanced Defense the Dark Arts class, which he is, unfortunately, going to be late for this morning.

The quickest way to the tower is up the Hufflepuff shortcut that will set him out by the marbled bust of Phillipus von Hohenheim, through the Gryffindor hallway, and then it’s just two corridors and a very long climb of stairs up to the classroom. Hanbin has the exact route charted in his head, legs taking long strides through the corridor as he dodges a group of chattering second-years.

The hallways are crowded at this time in the morning. No one has classes yet except for those in Advanced lessons. But it is, unfortunately, the perfect time for everyone to be scrambling out of their Common Rooms and ambling their way toward the Great Hall for a late breakfast. Hanbin bites his lip as the wide Gryffindor hallway stretches before him, the sheer size of it diminished by the sea of students in gold and red.

Hanbin steels himself as he plows forward, using his generous height to spot openings in the crowd. He’s making good progress, until he nearly walks right into a giant painting swinging out straight in the middle of his path. A high-pitched scream stops him dead in his tracks, nose inches away from a rosy round face and a head piled high with auburn curls.

He feels his stomach sinking— he’d been so good about avoiding this corridor since that night, always begging Matthew to meet him elsewhere or at his Common Room instead. And now, because of some foot traffic it’s all going to come crashing down. Hanbin maintains at least a semblance of hope that the Fat Lady has forgotten. He can’t have been the only drunk student to land at her feet, right?

“Oh my dear, you gave me quite a freight!” the Portrait of the Fat Lady sighs, hand to her heart, interrupting Hanbin’s internal plea.

Slight snickers can be heard nearby over the commotion, and Hanbin takes a hasty step back, never having ever wanted to be so physically close to the Fat Lady that guarded Gryffindor tower.

“Sorry,” Hanbin mumbles, though honestly, it isn’t his fault. Whoever had planned the architecture of Hogwarts had clearly not thought through the prudence of sticking a massive painting that swings outwards in the middle of a bustling hallway.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone ran into me,” the Fat Lady sniffs dramatically, seeming quite put out. Her fan flutters in front of her face at a rapid pace, and Hanbin can see a slight flush on her cheeks that he would rather not think too hard about.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be late for my class,” Hanbin tries, hoping to be able to rush by without incident. He is definitely going to be late to DADA now, which means a House point deduction, detention, and probably an extra essay, because Professor Endo is a bit sadistic that way.

Unfortunately, it seems the Fat Lady won’t let him go that easily. “Wait a minute, Hufflepuff.”

And Hanbin’s proper and polite upbringing just won’t let him refuse. His heart plummets even as his feet pause. “Yes?”

“Tall, handsome, lovely dark hair. Uniform neat as a pin and oh— a Prefect,” the Fat Lady giggles. “If I’m not mistaken, you were here this weekend. Though decidedly … less put together.”

At her deduction, the world is thrown into stark contrast; the cold light pouring in from the high-arched windows set passing students’ faces into a pale, white mien, illuminating Hanbin in his terror and dread, helpless to witness the moment in slow motion. The whites of the passing Gryffindors’ eyes around him flash with curiosity, their footsteps slowing in the hopes of eavesdropping. Hanbin watches with growing horror as the Fat Lady taps her frilly fan against her round chin, regarding him with eyes that are far too gleeful to foretell anything except utter calamity. (Because of love.)

“If I remember correctly, you were the one telling me all about the lovely Slytherin Head Boy you have a crush on! His shining eyes and breathless smile,” the Fat Lady beams, as if she had just won a prize, as if she had not just spilled Hanbin’s deepest, darkest secret to a hallway full of students. “And by the looks of your blush, I’ve gotten correct, haven’t I? You’ve really got such a becoming blush. I’m sure if you just talked to him, you’d win him over in no time—”

Hanbin feels like his face is about to melt off with how burning hot it is. There’s a ringing in his ears, and he wonders distantly, numbly if it’s a self-defense mechanism to remove him from the reality of this nightmare. Hanbin doesn’t even know what he manages to stutter out, only that he says something, and then he’s darting around the painting, running straight down the hallway, ignoring the bodies that he bumps into. He arrives at the door to his DADA class completely red in the face, wishing for death — and ten minutes late.

“I’m revoking your best friend card.”

In many ways, it is clear to Hanbin why he and Matthew are friends. Their first meeting had been, not surprisingly, on the Quidditch pitch. They’d been the only two players on that fateful February morning to have decided to slog through the sleet and snow, mount their lacquered brooms with frozen hands, and face death itself — or at the very least, a painful and unfortunate trip to Madam Pomfrey’s.

Through the blurry fog of twirling snow Hanbin had seen another figure on a broom, looping wide circles at a dangerous height above the pitch. Then, he had known, they’re the same. Both stubborn, competitive, and hard-working, but more than anything, willing to chase the things they wanted with great abandon.

Thus, despite Hanbin’s best efforts to sequester himself away from the rest of the student body in the quiet section of the library, Matthew’s familiar voice worms its way into his ears. He glances up from his Transfiguration essay to see Matthew dumping his bag on the table across from him and pulling out a chair. Hanbin knows exactly what this is about — has been trying to avoid it all day actually — so he promptly ignores his now apparently ex-best friend and returns to his quill and ink.

“Hey! Don’t just ignore me!”

Hanbin shushes his outburst quickly, looking around to make sure they haven’t drawn the librarian’s attention — or any particularly tattle-tale Ravenclaws’. “Be quiet,” he chides.

Matthew seems to take Hanbin’s admonishment as an invitation to open up about his grievances. “Forget studying for a minute. How could you not tell me you have the world’s biggest crush on Zhang Hao?”

“Oh yeah, say that louder will you? I don’t think the House Elves dusting the restricted section have heard the latest gossip yet.”

“Well they’d be the last ones — everyone’s talking about it.”

Hanbin groans, dropping his quill on the table and choosing to lay his head face down on his folded arms instead. “I know,” he bemoans. It’s the reason he’s sequestered himself here with only the dusty tomes and narrow shelves as company.

As if completely oblivious to his blinding embarrassment Matthew continues on: “Phineas Bradley told me what happened this morning. That, like, half the Gryffindor House heard you’re madly in love with Zhang Hao. Which, by the way, I can’t believe I had to hear about from Phineas, who heard about it from the Fat Lady. Do you know how dumb I looked not knowing this about my own best friend?”

“That’s hardly the problem here,” Hanbin gripes. “Everyone knows now.”

“Oh, come on,” Matthew cajoles. “It’s just the way the rumor mill works. Everyone is quick to jump on the latest bit of gossip, but I’m sure they’ll forget about it soon enough. As soon as the next person messes up their amortentia brew, which, by the way, is apparently coming up next month so just be careful about drinking any liquids you’ve left alone—”

“Matthew,” Hanbin cuts him short. “I don’t think that’s helping right now.”

He hears a gentle sigh and then feels the heavy weight of a hand on the back of his head, ruffling his hair. “Come on now,” Matthew says kindly. “Pick your head up.”

After a beat, Hanbin does lift his head, sure his face is as beet red as it was this morning.

“How come you never told me?” Matthew asks, looking a bit more serious now.

Hanbin shrugs. “I never thought it was that serious—” though it was apparently serious enough that in a drunken haze he’d told the Fat Lady all about his feelings. “—I mean, everyone has a crush on him, right?”

“He is pretty popular,” Matthew agrees.

“I never really thought anything would come of it. It’s just a silly crush,” Hanbin mumbles. Holding a flame for someone for six years wasn’t exactly a silly crush, but everything else was true. He’d never planned on ever letting his feelings be known to anyone, let alone Zhang Hao.

“Well, what are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to hide out here until everyone in the school has been obliviated of the whole incident or I graduate, whichever one comes first.”

Matthew laughs as if Hanbin has told the funniest joke in the world and isn’t being entirely serious. “I’m sure this whole thing will blow over quickly,” he repeats. “Like you said, a bunch of people have crushes on Zhang Hao. It’s not like this is a first for him.”

Hanbin isn’t sure if he’s supposed to feel better about that.

“That guy gets love letters in the post every morning. I really don’t think he’s going to be weirded out by this,” Matthew continues to rub burning salt across his wounds.

Except, against all odds, his words are actually rather comforting. As if the pain has reached a heightened threshold that has made it loop back around to numbness.

As if reading Hanbin’s clearer expression, Matthew nods to himself in satisfaction. “Don’t worry about it, man. People have way worse rumors going around about them other than having a crush on one of the most popular students at Hogwarts.”

“You’re right,” Hanbin reluctantly nods, trying to convince himself of what he had just said out loud.

“Including Zhang Hao himself,” Matthew leans in, choosing now to whisper. “You know about all the stuff with him, right? Like, you’ve got to, if you like him.”

Hanbin nods. It’s fairly old news by now. It had all happened during Zhang Hao’s first year anyway, before either of them had been at Hogwarts. At the beginning of the term, there’s always a smattering of whispers as the first-years’ attention gets snagged on Zhang Hao’s ethereal, milky countenance, on his cute smile and fine-boned figure — and they start to ask questions like who is he? what does he like? which inevitably leads to some magnanimous upperclassman catching them up on the infamous Slytherin Prefect (now Head Boy).

“I heard a new one this year actually,” Matthew says conspiratorially. “That he got mixed up with some Auror assignment and got seriously injured, witnessed some things he shouldn’t have. That’s why he was out for the entire second half of the year. Some people even said he was given veritaserum for questioning.”

“I don’t think that’s real,” Hanbin frowns. The story changes from year to year, but the general gist is simply, after an ordinary start at Hogwarts, Zhang Hao had disappeared sometime late January. Only to reappear at the start of the next Hogwarts year, having lost his memory and with the professors and Headmaster Flamel suspiciously tight-lipped, to restart his first year. If anyone had thought it would set the Slytherin back though — it hadn’t one bit. If anything, he’s one of the brightest students Hogwarts has seen in centuries.

“What do you think happened then?” Matthew challenges.

“He probably had some health problems or private family issues. I don’t know,” Hanbin sighs.

“What about his lost memory?”

“It’s not like he lost all his memory,” Hanbin stresses. “Just those few months.” There are countless unknown poisons, hexes, curses, and jinxes out there that could make that possible. Besides, if the cause of his disappearance was truly as nefarious and dangerous as the rumors say, Hanbin doesn’t think he would have been allowed back at school.

“Fine, whatever. I see you’ve been completely blinded by your ardent love for him—”

“Oh, shut up,” Hanbin laughs.

Matthew chuckles as well, but drops the subject. “Come practice dueling with me tonight.”

Hanbin shakes his head. Even without his self-sanctioned quarantine, he still wants to finish up this essay.

“Come on,” Matthew pesters.

“I’m not even in the club,” Hanbin refutes good-naturedly. Ever since Headmaster Flamel’s announcement at the start of the term that they would be hosting the TriWizard Tournament — the silver jubilee after its reinstatement — Matthew had been diligent about keeping up with his skills. Which unfortunately included a renewed interest in the Dueling Club and an annoying persistence in getting Hanbin to join him.

He had been a second year during the last TriWizard Tournament. Hanbin remembers the awe and thrill of the magic back then — how new and fantastical and marvelous it had all been to a young boy like him who had grown up without. The Tasks and Champions had made him ravenous for more, covetous to have just a fraction, just a taste of what they were capable of. And over the years his voracious greed and appetite is what he thinks has propelled him to Quidditch captain and seventh-year Prefect. But he’s no longer a bright-eyed, green thumb of a wizard anymore. And something about this year’s Tournament has lost its luster, scuffed foggy and slightly dented when grazed against the responsibility of his Prefects badge and his overloaded courses.

“Come on, you’re the only one who I trust to duel without trying to actually hex me right now.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have kissed Antony’s girlfriend.”

“Hey!” Matthew protests. “She kissed me. It wasn’t even a good kiss.”

Hanbin shakes his head — he’s already heard the story too many times since Saturday. It’s certainly the last time either of them will be drinking firewhisky. “Anyway, I can’t tonight. I still have to do Endo’s extra essay, too, for being late this morning.”

“An essay for being late?”

“And detention,” Hanbin grimaces at the memory. “You know he’s strict.”

“Yeah, yeah, and you need to kiss his ass if you want that apprenticeship.”

Hanbin wrinkles his nose at the mention, one that he is sure is turning a fair shade of brown with how much he’d been trying to kiss up to Professor Endo since the start of the year. Though this morning had completely undone all of his efforts so far. He sighs. “Yeah, he’s only taking on two students and you know Lauretta Bell is going to be one of them.” The sixth-year Slytherin had gotten top marks and an Outstanding on her DADA O.W.L.s last year.

“Lauretta is nice,” Matthew defends.

“She’s only nice because you roped her into taking all of your overnight Prefect patrols last year.”

Matthew pretends like he doesn’t hear. “Come to the club next week then.”

“Fine,” Hanbin relents, if only to get Matthew to stop bugging him about it. If he got a head start on his studying this weekend, he should be able to spare one evening next week.

“Great!” Matthew stands up, as if everything had gone according to plan. “I’m off to the pitch to practice before the club. See you later!”

Hanbin gives him a wave, turning back to his parchment. However, Matthew’s appearance had decidedly thrown off his concentration for the evening. So after two more inches of writing, Hanbin decides to give up for the night. Maybe if he hurries they’ll still be serving dinner in the Great Hall. Hoisting his bag on his shoulder, Hanbin heads out of the library, thinking about all the love letters Zhang Hao gets.

Matthew isn’t the only one spilling at the brim and taking any chance he can get to talk about the TriWizard Tournament. Hanbin can’t seem to get away from it. Murmurings about the Yule Ball crop up in the back of Potions class; chattering on about the other two schools carries over the chilly courtyard between classes; not to mention, wild speculation blankets every communal area over who the Champions from Hogwarts will be is incessant, like crickets in the summer, buzzing and annoying.

Hanbin even hears his own name floating around a few times, though it’s mentioned in the same breath as Cormac Blaiddyd, who is notoriously dumb as bricks, though not a half-bad Quidditch Chaser, so Hanbin doesn’t really think there’s much merit to it. By the end of the week, he’s almost relieved to be going to detention, if only to escape from the nonstop drone.

“Is everyone here?” The permanent scowl on Filch’s face scans the small group gathered in the hall by Sir Cadogan’s painting. Hanbin doesn’t think he’s imagining the sadistic gleam in Filch’s eye as he reveals their punishment: “Half of you will be polishing the trophy room, the other half, cleaning the Owlery.”

Filch quickly splits the group in half, and Hanbin gets stuck with the Owlery. After directing the other students to the trophy room and promising — threatening — to come check on them posthaste, Filch leads Hanbin and three others up to the tower.

“You are to scrub the stairs and clean the perches. Don’t bother the owls,” Filch snaps, leaving them to it with soapy buckets, scrubs, and mops that look like they’ve seen better days.

One of the other boys in the group, a fourth-year Ravenclaw from the looks of it, groans as soon as Filch is gone. “This is going to take forever.”

“Might as well get started. Filch will have no problem making us do this all night unless we finish,” another girl grumbles, leaning down to take a mop from the bucket.

It really would be more prudent to just use a cleaning charm, but of course, that isn’t much of a punishment, so they had been instructed to leave their wands at their dorms, much to Filch’s delight. Silently, each of them pick up a cleaning instrument and begin their grueling task.

While scrubbing the window sill (what he was exactly scrubbing Hanbin did not want to think about), he glances out at the night sky, trying to run through the chart and placements from his Astronomy sheet for the exam coming up next week. If he’s going to be stuck here, might as well try to get a bit of reviewing done, especially because studying is going to be eaten up this weekend by that extra DADA essay.

The speckled sky overhead contains a swirl of auroral grays and purples. Hanbin has always appreciated that the stars are so much more visible here at Hogwarts compared to the small flat he shares with his family. The fumes and smoke and pollution there hang like a blanket over everything, muddying even the concrete, blurring the weak sunlight. Hanbin remembers when he’d first arrived here, how amazed he was at the open air and brilliant, dazzling sky. He’d spent so long staring with his head turned up that he’d given himself vertigo.

Movement from a tower nearby catches Hanbin’s eye — the Astronomy Tower, of course. Someone is setting up a telescope next to one of the open windows, probably trying to cram in their assignment before curfew. He’s about to turn away again when a familiar dark head pops into the window frame.

His breath catches in his throat — he instantly recognizes Zhang Hao. His skin is mesmerizingly silver under the moonlight. And backlit by the pale firelight glow from inside the tower, it’s nearly pearlescent. He moves with a gossamer-like delicacy as Hanbin watches him reach over to turn the telescope and angle it just-so. Hanbin isn’t close enough to make out Zhang Hao’s figure under his billowing robes, but he has watched him enough times to know the wrists that are turning the knobs are slender, that he bends at a criminally tapered waist to peer through the scope. Even from afar, Zhang Hao looks luminous and beautiful, always beautiful.

Zhang Hao straightens from his adjustments and turns his gaze unerringly, directly at him. Immediately, Hanbin squeaks and pivots out of view. He presses his back against the stone wall, heart thrumming a hummingbird wing’s pace against his ribs. After a moment to settle his surprise, Hanbin takes a chance to peek around the edge of the window again. There’s no one behind the telescope; Zhang Hao is gone.

Ever since that night, crossing paths with Zhang Hao becomes an uncomfortable but common occurrence. Hanbin can’t recall ever having run into him this much before — particularly in recent years. Despite their overlapping Prefect roles, their differing advanced classes have meant they haven’t shared a course in two years. To make matters even more embarrassing, Hanbin is fairly sure Zhang Hao doesn’t even notice him each time.

Under any other circumstance, he would be delighted by these run-ins. Now, when he walks to the Great Hall and spots Zhang Hao exiting through the double doors with a group of his Housemates, Hanbin switches spots with Gyuvin midstep, just to put a bit of space between them, just to be safe. When Hanbin sees Zhang Hao leaving a classroom across the hall just as he’s exiting the Prefects' bathroom, he backtracks quickly, scolding himself for being ridiculous, but still taking the time to re-wash his hands until the murmuring outside fades.

Thankfully, the next week passes without any more humiliating incidents, mostly because Hanbin is so busy he barely leaves his dorm unless it’s to go to the library. As the weekend starts though, he has his sights set on something else: the first Quidditch match of the season. It’s set for next Sunday — a Hufflepuff and Slytherin match. And as the winners of the House Cup last year, Hanbin is determined to keep their streak going. Even if that means suffering through a few pointed jeers about losing on purpose so he can please his ‘loverboy’ and jokes that to distract the Hufflepuff team the Slytherin’s will just hold up cutouts with Zhang Hao’s face on them.

“How are you feeling, captain?” Matthew nudges him in the shoulder as they make their way out of the castle and toward the Great Lake on a warm, windy Saturday afternoon. The breeze blows gentle ripples across the murky water, and most patches of greenery have been taken up by darkened robes and the spill of assignments left for later.

“Alright,” Hanbin shrugs. “I’ve booked the pitch for practice tomorrow, so I’ll see how everyone is shaping up.”

“Ravenclaw’s got themselves a new Beater this year,” Matthew complains. “I didn’t even see him at tryouts. I bet it’s some dirty, under-the-table tactic Clarisse has come up with.”

“Maybe he just couldn’t make it,” Hanbin offers.

“If I’m going to complain to you, you need to agree with me!”

“Okay, fine, she’s definitely up to something,” he relents. The two of them find an unclaimed patch of grass and dump their school books on the ground unceremoniously.

“Better.”

Hanbin snorts, pulling out his History of Magic textbook. “They have a new Keeper, too.”

“Harry Higgs,” Matthew confirms.

“He’s pretty young,” Hanbin remarks. “Fourth-year.”

“He’s decent,” Matthew shrugs. And then he narrows his eyes. “They had closed practice last weekend. Who even does that?”

“You guys could have a closed practice, too,” Hanbin offers.

“But then how are we going to show off and intimidate the other teams?”

Hanbin rolls his eyes, and the two of them dissolve into soft laughter for a bit before they mutually turn to their books. Not too long later, a gangly form plops itself on the ground next to Hanbin with a bright smile. “Hey guys, you want chocolate frogs?”

“Merlin, yes,” Matthew mutters, looking up from his reading and snatching one of the packs that had spilled out from Gyuvin’s bag. “If I have to read one more word about the Muggle war I’m going to lose it.”

“I thought you were good at that stuff — being a Muggle and all,” Gyuvin points out.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s not incredibly boring.”

“Actually, I had a question about that,” Gyuvin perks up. “What is the dark web? Is it like the Dark Arts?”

“Uh,” Matthew pauses. “It’s, like, the internet.”

“Thanks so much for your unparalleled Muggle knowledge and intellect,” Gyuvin retorts, heavy with the sarcasm.

Hanbin snickers as he finally looks up from his reading, reaching for an offered chocolate frog. Both he and Matthew had grown up in Muggle families, whereas Gyuvin was from a long line of wizards. However, Gyuvin was incredibly fascinated with Muggle life and any tidbit that either of them could share with him. One summer, he had somehow talked his parents into letting him stay with Hanbin for a week, and he’d had a hell of a time with the television.

Before getting to know Gyuvin, Hanbin had thought most purebloods would be rather stuck up — though there are still a few who think blood purity means something and strut around Hogwarts acting like it, so maybe Gyuvin’s openness said more about him as a person and less about his heritage. Actually, he doesn’t speak about his home at all. Despite being friends for four years, Hanbin barely knows anything about his family.

In contrast, he and Matthew had introduced their families to each other the summer after Matthew’s first year at Hogwarts. It isn’t that uncommon for Muggle-borns to attend Hogwarts anymore, but he thinks Matthew’s parents were still a bit relieved to find another somewhat Muggle family with a son at a ‘magic school.’

As Matthew starts in on a quick recap of the World Wide Web for Gyuvin, Hanbin finds his eyes wandering around the lake. It’s nearing five o’clock, the sun slowly sinking its golden tendrils into the water. There aren’t as many people around anymore. Hanbin spots a few of his Hufflepuff friends closer to the castle, fiddling around and laughing over exploding snap. Two tall figures winding down the path from the direction of the Care of Magical Creatures cabin catch his eye. Someone nudges him in the shoulder.

“Isn’t that Zhang Hao?” Gyuvin nods toward the two boys on the path, having tuned out of Matthew’s lesson.

Hanbin nods mutely. It is. Of course he’d show up here, too. Maybe the Fat Lady had actually placed a curse on him that day.

“So?” Gyuvin presses.

Matthew seems to have realized that his student has stopped listening, following both of their gazes over to the two Slytherins drawing closer. Hanbin recognizes the other tall figure with Zhang Hao: Ricky Shen, the only known current Hogwarts student with a Veela core wand. That’s what everyone says at least, and that’s all Hanbin knows about him really. They’ve never shared a class or had any other reason to cross paths.

“So?” Hanbin echoes, turning to Gyuvin, who is looking at him like he expects Hanbin to make some sort of declaration.

“So, don’t you have a massive crush on him?”

“Well,” Hanbin falters. “Yes. What about it?”

“Well, have you talked to him?”

“No, and I won’t,” Hanbin shuts down immediately. There’s a reason he’s kept his distance all these years. And unfortunately, that hasn’t changed regardless of his current situation — it’s veritably made it worse, actually.

“Hanbin has no intention of confessing in earnest,” Matthew sighs. The two of them had already gone over it in a heated debate Thursday night.

“But don’t you think he already knows?” Gyuvin presses.

Hanbin grimaces, “Yeah, probably.”

“It’s kind of weird to act like it didn’t happen then.”

“No, I’m actually rather hoping he’ll forget about it,” Hanbin says, voice a bit thin.

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to work out.” The slow, teasing smirk on Gyuvin’s face precedes an awful tension that works its way up Hanbin’s spine. Gyuvin juts his chin out roughly towards something behind his shoulder.

When he turns, Hanbin sees that two Slytherin have settled under one of the large oak trees not too far from them. Or at least one of them has settled — Zhang Hao is currently tromping across the grass, making a bee-line towards their trio.

Hanbin quickly turns back to Gyuvin so as not to catch his eye, internally cursing. Maybe he’s just passing by, maybe he forgot something in the castle, maybe he’s actually coming over to talk to Matthew who shares a Muggle Studies course with him—

“Good evening.” And the voice is so lovely that Hanbin has no doubt who has just paused by their little group. “Gyuvin, Matthew,” Zhang Hao greets. After a pause, “Hanbin.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hanbin sees Matthew shoot Zhang Hao a quick smile, which means he can’t get out of ignoring the boy unless he wants to make things even more awkward than it already is. He tries to calm the rapid beat of his heart, willing his blush to not give him away as he turns around.

The first thing Hanbin notices is that Zhang Hao looks just as luminescent under the waning dusk light as he does under the moon. Perhaps it’s just an innate quality of his, perhaps it isn’t the moon at all, but a sort of lunar countenance that he inherently possesses. He’s in full robes this evening, despite it being the weekend, though his sleeves are rolled up like he had just finished doing some work in the greenhouse. His expression is polite and open, no sign of any sneering or pity — not that Hanbin really thinks Zhang Hao would react in that way, but he also can’t say he hasn’t already concocted every worst case scenario in his mind.

“Are you busy now?” And by the way Zhang Hao’s gaze doesn’t waver from his, Hanbin knows he’s talking to him.

“Uh, no, just doing some studying.”

“Do you have time to talk?”

“With you?” Hanbin squeaks out. He’s immediately embarrassed over his reaction and feels traitorous heat creeping over the curve of his ears.

Thankfully, Zhang Hao doesn’t seem to inherit his nervousness. If anything his smile creeps up a little higher. “Yes, with me. It won’t take long, I promise.”

“Okay, sure,” Hanbin agrees. He feels a nervous twist in his stomach as he stands up, following Zhang Hao a little further down the lake away from their friends. Zhang Hao’s gait is smooth, and Hanbin feels a bit like a creep for noticing how enticing the little strip of skin above his collar looks.

They pause by the pebbled shore of the lake, and he does his best to not stand too close. Zhang Hao’s hair is gently ruffled by the breeze, and Hanbin is hit once more by his graceful beauty. If he didn’t know better, he would think he’s currently under some sort of enchantment — didn’t Matthew say amortentia classes were coming up? — but unfortunately, Zhang Hao has always been this otherworldly to him.

Hanbin had fallen in love with Zhang Hao the moment they’d met.

It’s a bit cliche now that he thinks back on it — the first boy to be kind to him on the way to Hogwarts, when he’d been so nervous and apprehensive and completely convinced they’d made a mistake letting him attend. He’d been frantic back then, stumbling through the train trying to find his wand. He’d lost it somehow, or dropped it, perhaps while he’d been changing into his robes, perhaps when he had shuffled unsteady step after the other through the corridor to find an empty seat.

The train had barely left the station, he had barely just waved his teary-eyed mother goodbye. He couldn’t already be a failure. His mind had conjured scenarios where the Headmaster would turn him back when they arrived simply because he obviously wasn’t fit to be a wizard, because, like he feared and suspected all along, they’d gotten something horribly wrong with his invitation.

Zhang Hao, slight and reserved but with large, intelligent eyes, had been sitting in a compartment all by himself, had looked up with great concern when he’d appeared. Hanbin still remembers the dark pool of his eyes, the way they seemed to swallow him whole. He remembers how their brittle edge had softened immediately when Hanbin had stuttered through an explanation of his troubles, how they had formed into two sweet crescents when Zhang Hao smiled generously at him, when he had offered to help.

It had just been a simple Accio charm — but to Hanbin, it had been the most wonderful thing anyone could have done for him. They’d sat in the same compartment for the rest of that train ride — for the first and last time — as Zhang Hao explained Hogwarts to him with the regality of an aristocrat, the generosity of an angel, Hanbin listening in rapt attention.

In the years since, Hanbin has tried to downplay the memory, to talk himself out of his own feelings, but the emotions and warmth that had burst forth in that moment still linger, a ghost of a hand turning his head whenever Zhang Hao passes, a lodged thorn that digs deeper into his heart with every staccato beat. It’s wholly embarrassing how much he loves Zhang Hao.

Hanbin clasps his hands together to keep them from shaking now. His emotions range from nervous to giddy and back again, as he waits. There’s a heightened moment of silence, and Hanbin wonders if Zhang Hao is waiting for him to say something first, despite being the one to call him over.

“Zhang Hao, I—”

“I wanted to—”

Their words clash mid air like twirling leaves, or intersecting bolts of lightning. Hanbin immediately seals his lips shut.

Zhang Hao chuckles. “Sorry, what was that?”

“No, nothing,” Hanbin insists. “What were you going to say?”

Another beat, and it feels like Zhang Hao is giving him a chance to talk, but when Hanbin stays silent, he simply shrugs. “I wanted to ask if you could take Taerae’s curfew patrols tonight?”

Hanbin feels his entire body loosening with relief that Zhang Hao had wanted to talk to him about Prefect duties and not his debilitating crush. He hadn’t realized how tense he was, how rigid his shoulders were, how tight his legs had been, bracing himself for the shattering rejection, made all the worse for how he’d assumed Zhang Hao would try to cushion it behind banal excuses and forced niceties. He nods quickly. “Yeah, that’s no problem.”

“Thanks,” Zhang Hao’s grin deepens, gentle, grateful. “In exchange, I’ll keep you off rounds for most of the week. I know you have a Quidditch game coming up.”

“Oh,” Hanbin breathes. And it’s a bit pathetic that his heart flutters at such a simple gesture. He tries to tell himself that Zhang Hao is just thoughtful like that — everything he’s ever heard about the seventh-year certainly supports it. Polite, thoughtful, if not slightly aloof has been the general consensus over Zhang Hao’s personality. There’s no reason for him to give Hanbin special treatment. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Zhang Hao answers breezily, waving his hand.

The two of them fall into another silence — not entirely awkward, but also not entirely comfortable either. Because now would be the perfect time for Zhang Hao to say that’s the only reason he had called Hanbin over and for the two of them to part ways. Except he lingers, and Hanbin does as well, the two of them outlined against the fading light of day, their shadows rippling across the surface of the lake.

Finally, Zhang Hao turns to him again, that same polite, small smile on his face. Hanbin loves that his usually striking features, lean lines, and sharp beauty softens whenever he smiles. “What were you going to say before?”

“Oh, I—” He’d actually been about to apologize. He thought Zhang Hao had brought him over here to turn him down nicely, and he was going to say sorry for the trouble of having a massive crush on you. He’s infinitely thankful he hadn’t been given the chance to finish. Zhang Hao’s eyes are a steady, heavy weight against Hanbin’s features, and he has no doubt that his panic is clear on his face as he scrambles for something else to say. “It’s nothing, really.”

One side of Zhang Hao’s lips turn up in a playful smirk, the sort of which Hanbin has seen him giving to his friends over at the Slytherin table a few times, but never at him before. Their interactions so far had been in one shared Potions class in their fourth-year, and in their Prefect meetings, which have usually been kept terse and to the point. He seems about to say something more, something perhaps a little lilting and a bit teasing, but soon the impish expression melts away, back to his normally placid demeanor, and Zhang Hao simply just nods, “Okay then, shall we head back?”

For all his hesitation and trepidation before, Hanbin inexplicably wants Zhang Hao to stay. He wants to get to stare at him openly without fear of it being impolite; he wants to prod at Zhang Hao’s facade to get at what that lively expression had really meant; he wants to listen to him reading through their whole Prefect schedule because his voice is surprisingly soft and cute. But of course, there’s no reason for them to linger now that their business is complete. It’s not like they’re friends; it’s not like Zhang Hao would seek me out for any other reason. If anything, this conversation was proof of that — rejection enough.

By the time the two of them reach Matthew and Gyuvin, his two friends have packed up their stuff. The sky is darkening properly now, a distinct chill hanging in the air, winter clinging valiantly to the mist and wind. Dinner will be served soon.

“See you around,” Zhang Hao waves at him. “Thanks again for tonight.”

“No problem,” Hanbin returns his smile.

As soon as Zhang Hao is far enough away, both Matthew and Gyuvin pounce.

“What is happening tonight?”

“What did he say?”

Hanbin places his hands up to ward them off, and bends down to gather his things into his knapsack. “He just wanted to talk about Prefect stuff,” he explains in a low tone. “I’m taking Taerae’s patrol tonight.”

Gyuvin lets out a drawn out, exaggerated sigh. “That’s so boring! He didn’t bring up your crush at all?”

“No,” Hanbin confirms, standing up to his full height. And while a part of him is relieved that it seems like Zhang Hao is just as determined to move past the whole incident like nothing happened as him, a much, much, much smaller part can’t help but feel slightly deflated. But of course, he knew he never had a chance anyway.

Hanbin gets up early next Sunday for the Quidditch game.

The moments before dawn have always felt magical to him, before he’d ever gotten to witness true magic himself. The purple mottled sky before the sun begins its crest contains a stillness that Hanbin can’t find anywhere else in his life. Where no one is making demands of him; where he isn’t making demands of himself and feeling guilty when he doesn’t get to it fast enough, when he doesn’t do it well enough, when he thinks he falls short again and again. The sky asks nothing of him.

The stillness fades all too soon as the beds around him start to rustle and voices drift in from downstairs in the Common Room. Breakfast goes by quickly, and by the time the team is ready to leave, most of the House has already trickled in, wearing sunflower yellow and charcoal black and carrying all sorts of cheering equipment. Someone’s enchanted raccoon puppet starts to shout all the players' names in looping succession, and it gives them a chuckle as they exit the Great Hall to its deafening cries.

It’s the ideal weather for a Quidditch game: closing in on the end of September, the sun shines down unencumbered by clouds although a gentle breeze still ruffles their robes as they make their way to the changing rooms. Even from inside, Hanbin can hear the thundering footsteps of the students heading towards the stands and the raucous chatter and cheers from both Houses.

Briefly, Hanbin wonders if Zhang Hao is among the crowd — he must be. As far as Hanbin knows, he’s fairly close with most of the Slytherin team, including their captain. It’s not like Hanbin tries to look, but he also hasn’t missed the way they sit closely at the Slytherin table during meals, that they always seem to sync their Prefect rounds with each other every term. Of course, it doesn’t bother him one bit.

“Okay, everyone, gather around,” he calls, tucking all thoughts of Zhang Hao away. “Let’s keep to our usual practice formations at the start and adjust if needed. The plan is to have Gyuvin focusing solely on the Quaffle, which means Patrice and Vance, you two need to be defensive with the Bludgers.

“The goal is to divert them as far from the game as possible so their Beaters are forced to exert energy to chase and hit them back. I’ll stay close to the goals with Gyuvin and get the Quaffle over to you two on the far side of the pitch.” Hanbin nods towards Rossie and Kama, the two other Chasers. “Let’s keep our passes to the edges of the pitch, and quick if you can, don’t give them a real opportunity to start up a chase.

“And Irma,” Hanbin turns to their seeker as the team snickers a bit — a long drawn inside joke between them all. He teases, “All you’ve got to do is beat a fourth-year genius in a broom race. Easy enough.”

The team walks out to deafening roars and cheers from the stands. Across the shimmering green, the Slytherin team also emerge in their emerald and silver robes, flashing under the brilliant morning sun. Hanbin catches sight of an enchanted snake made up of sparklers winding its way around the left side stands. Thankfully, he doesn’t spot a single sign with Zhang Hao’s face on it. Perhaps Matthew was right and the whole Fat Lady incident has truly blown over.

Hanbin waves and bows and smiles at the appropriate times, letting the support of his house wash over him as they approach the center of the pitch. This is why he had wanted to be captain — it felt good to be relied on, to be well-liked and trusted. The weight of their applause is like an anvil chained to his ankle, a stepping stone to boost himself up from, a deadly albatross that’s just as likely to sink him.

Finally, the two teams line up next to Madam Hooch.

“First game of the year,” she says, looking between him and the Slytherin Captain Gideon Grimsby, as they step forward for the toss. “Let’s make it a good one.”

Hanbin clasps hands with Grimsby. The Slytherin Beater has a charming, snide smile on his face — as if victory is already secured, as if Hanbin is nothing but an inconvenience on their way to two-hundred points and eventually the Quidditch cup. Hanbin tightens his hold.

Slytherin wins the coin toss for initial possession, and on the blow of Madam Hooch’s whistle — and to the rising crescendo of the crowd’s cheers — they’re off.

Gyuvin blocks an early shot made by Warren, Slytherin’s sixth-year Chaser, and Hanbin picks up the Quaffle on a dive before it drops out of reach. He quickly dashes around a stray bludger, lobbing it easily over to Kama who takes it to the other side of the pitch.

As the game begins in earnest, everything besides the Quaffle, Bludgers, and other players fade into the back of Hanbin’s mind. One of the things that he likes most about Quidditch is its ability to make everything else go away — not even just the burn of his thighs and the ache in his palms, but the expectations that he holds himself to, to be kind and graceful and giving and considerate. Quidditch gives him the rare excuse to be selfish, to want to win, to forget everything else besides his own goals and desires.

Forty minutes in, and the point gap is still minimal. Even the two Slytherin Beaters haven’t been giving them too much trouble. However, their Beater Vance got a warning for diverting the Bludgers too close to the stands and since then Grimsby has been taking advantage of the narrowed field to lobby as many Bludgers toward him and Gyuvin as possible, which has put them on more of a defense than Hanbin would have preferred.

“Get back!” Hanbin yells as he darts towards his left to avoid yet another bludger headed his way courtesy of Grimsby. Slytherin is currently in possession and two of their Chasers are headed straight for the posts. However, the strength of Gyuvin as a keeper is his incredibly long reach. He manages to block a shot, but Hanbin loses the chase for the Quaffle and Warren lobs it through a higher post.

“Ten points to Slytherin!” Hanbin hears the announcer yell, but her voice is distant and tinny, as if locked away in the back of his mind.

“Change of plans,” Hanbin says, swooping over to hover by Vance. “Send Bludgers to their Keeper — and Seeker if you see any movement.”

“What about you and Gyuvin?”

“We’ll manage,” Hanbin says. “Tell Patrice.”

Vance darts away again as their Chaser Kama gains possession of the Quaffle, maneuvering herself around the Slytherin Seeker and yet another Bludger sent her way.

In that same distant realm in the back of his mind, Hanbin hears the announcer call out: “Fifth-year Kama scores another ten points for Hufflepuff! Though they’re still trailing by twenty points, it’s a neck and neck difference. It’s looking like it’ll all come down the Seekers. And— look! Slytherin’s Yujin Han has spotted the Snitch!”

Hanbin whips his head around to where he had seen Yujin last, only to spot the Slytherin Seeker swooping down from his vantage point — straight at his Seeker Irma. As if sensing the fourth-year-sized projectile currently launching straight at her, Irma turns around, yelling something that Hanbin is too far away to hear — drowned out by the rising exclamation of the crowd as they all expect a nasty collision with the way Yujin isn’t slowing down. Is he crazy? And that’s when Hanbin sees it, a glimmer of gold hovering right above the bristles of Irma’s broom. Except she’s too distracted by the diving Slytherin to notice.

Hanbin wants to yell that the snitch is right there, he wants to scream at her to move so Yujin won’t crash into her, but he’s frozen, caught in a moment of indecision, between his desire to win versus his care for his friend.

“It seems like Irma has not spotted the Snitch—”

It’s too late.

Because by the time Hanbin sees panic and realization flash across Irma’s face, Yujin is already on her, arm outstretched, broom tilted to the side, so they don’t crash — except, unfortunately, Yujin’s broom control is nowhere near good enough, and so, Hanbin can only watch on in cold dread as Yujin’s hands curl around the snitch and his shoulder rams into Irma’s, sending both of them off their brooms.

Zhang Hao

Zhang Hao gasps as he leaps to his feet with the rest of the crowd around him. He watches the two figures on the far side of the pitch slam into each other, teetering, their brooms wobbling as if in slow motion for a second — before they slip off their brooms and their bodies start plummeting to the grassy pitch at a breakneck pace. Zhang Hao lets out a shout, multiplied tenfold by everyone around him, and he isn’t even sure if he’s the one that surges forward or if he’s being bolstered by the crowd.

Yujin! his mind screams, maybe his mouth as well, Zhang Hao isn’t aware of anything else except the two bodies hurtling ever faster towards the unyielding field. He gasps with the rest of the crowd when the two of them seem to hit a barrier — five feet above the ground. He watches their bodies jerk to a sudden halt, and then slowly descend down to lie on the hard dirt, limp and unmoving. A cushioning charm, Zhang Hao realizes. He places his hand on his chest, feeling the fluttering of his heart against his breastbone. He sinks back down on the wooden slat bench of the stands, knees suddenly weak, relief drooping his spine.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Zhang Hao mutters, eyes still glued to Yujin and Irma lying on the field. Madam Hooch has reached them by now as well as another Quidditch assistant. They’re calling for somebody, most likely Madam Pomfrey.

“That was terrifying. I can’t believe Yujin would do that,” Zhang Hao hears a girl nearby say.

“That was bloody cool!” a deeper voice replies.

Zhang Hao scowls, turning his head to find the owner of the voice and catching the eye of a bright-eyed, freckle-faced second-year. He cowers under Zhang Hao’s withering stare, shuffling back and tugging on his friend to go. There’s so much chatter around him, excitement, relief lifting their voices and making everyone a little more enthusiastic as they begin to file out of the stands — the game is over.

On the field, Madam Pomfrey has arrived and is levitating both Irma and Yujin onto stretchers. Zhang Hao doesn’t even wait for the dulcet tones of Lea Nettles to announce the winner of the game before he’s dashing down from the stands and marching through the halls to the Hospital Wing.

Ricky catches up to him near the Great Hall.

“He’s fine,” is the first thing his friend says, accurately reading the concerned crinkle in Zhang Hao’s brow. “I heard some students talking in the courtyard. They overheard the professors and Pomfrey — just some strained muscles, maybe a fractured bone at most.”

“That is not fine,” Zhang Hao breathes, though the concern making his feet slap down on the stone floors abates, just a little.

“Nothing some Skele-gro won’t fix,” Ricky placates.

“They will not need Skele-gro if it’s just a fracture,” Zhang Hao sighs as if it’s common knowledge. He continues, muttering more to himself than Ricky: “Ferula might be all that is needed, but they should be checked for any concussions first. Maybe if paired with a Wideye Potion it’ll be okay, though some rest is also important. They’ll simply need to be woken every hour or two …”

Zhang Hao continues running through his mental checklist until the two of them step into the Hospital Wing. By the time they arrive, Irma Lee is sitting up against the pillows in a bed tucked into the corner with Madam Pomfrey gently testing her arm. Yujin is lying on the bed next to them. Pomfrey looks up when they both enter, a frown on her face and her mouth open and ready to unleash her familiar spiel against disturbing visitors, but her gaze softens when it lands on him.

“Zhang Hao,” Madam Pomfrey greets.

He leaves Ricky by the entrance as he hurries over to the beds. “Is there anything I can do to help? How are they?”

“Everything is well in hand. There’s no need to worry,” Madam Pomfrey assures. “Most likely just a few fractures. Nothing some healing spells and a night of rest won’t solve. Though, if you would like to practice a few of your diagnostic charms, you may do so on Mr. Han over there.”

At the mention of his name, Yujin’s eyes blink open and he turns his head towards Zhang Hao. His face splits into a wide grin when he sees him. “Did we win?”

Zhang Hao scowls, heading over to the bed as Madam Pomfrey returns to Irma’s arm. “And if I say no?”

“That’s impossible,” Yujin argues. “I caught the snitch.”

“You also barreled into another player without any regard for your or her safety, nearly killing you both and landing you in the Hospital Wing,” Zhang Hao stands over Yujin’s bed with his arms crossed and a practiced expression that he usually reserves for telling off first-years he finds out of bed after curfew.

He’s mollified that Yujin at least looks a little more contrite. At least he hasn’t lost his touch yet — though Zhang Hao figures his authority and ability to censure him won’t last for much longer. It had worn off on Ricky quite quickly.

“I’m sorry,” Yujin grimaces. “Is she okay?”

“Madam Pomfrey said you’re both going to be fine,” Zhang Hao sighs. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t incredibly reckless. No Snitch or Quidditch game is worth your life.”

Yujin chews on his lip, working it until he winces, a bead of blood pooling along the surface. Zhang Hao sighs again, sitting down on the bed and muttering a quick healing spell to soothe the sting.

“I just wanted to make the House proud,” Yujin says in a small voice.

“I know,” Zhang Hao soothes, running his hand over Yujin’s messy hair. He knows he’ll regret telling him this but— “We won. Two-hundred and ten points.”

Yujin smiles so hard he splits his lip again.

Commotion from the hallway has Zhang Hao snapping his head up.

“Uh,” Ricky says from his lingering position by the doorway. “The Hufflepuff team has just arrived.”

“They are not to be let in,” Madam Pomfrey instructs sternly, and Zhang Hao nearly laughs at Ricky looking distinctly uncomfortable at having been somehow given the unsolicited responsibility of guard duty.

Zhang Hao can hear the low murmur of voices and the tromp of Quidditch boots right on the other side of the doorway, but no bodies come barreling through.

“Let’s wait here,” a faint, familiar voice drifts in. Zhang Hao can’t see the players yet, but he thinks he knows exactly who it belongs to. “Madam Pomfrey will hex us if we all go in at once.”

Zhang Hao snorts at that. He stands up again, glancing down at Yujin’s form and instructing, “Lie still, and let me take a look at you.” He gets to work with the knowledge that Hanbin will prevent the curious and concerned Quidditch players from barging into the Hospital Wing.

The simple diagnostic spell tells him what he already suspected — bruising around Yujin’s legs and chest, a pulled shoulder muscle from the force of the impact, a bump along his hairline that will likely swell and look worse than it actually is, and the possibility of a concussion.

“How’s he doing?” Madam Pomfrey asks, coming over to check. She must already be done with Irma. Zhang Hao reports the results to her, and she pulls out her wand, tapping against Yujin’s chest and shoulder with a quick episkey. Once that’s all sorted, she turns back to Zhang Hao, “I should still have a few healing potions stored in the back cabinet. Will you grab them for me, dear?”

Zhang Hao nods, dutifully setting off towards her medicine cabinet. It’s a tall, stately, wooden thing. One that is powerfully enchanted to burn anyone who touches it — to prevent any mischief or theft. It had taken Zhang Hao two years to earn the right to be an exception to the spell, and there is still an echo of reverence in his movements as he lays his hand on the wooden handle and pulls open the door. There are small labels on the side of each vial of healing potion, with an initial and a date when they were brewed. Zhang Hao feels a bit of pride swell in his chest seeing his familiar handwriting on them.

He takes them back to Madam Pomfrey who pours them into two floating cups of tea, before sending them off to Irma and Yujin.

“Drink those,” she tells the two of them. “It’ll greatly improve your recovery, and you’ll be out of here by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Irma questions.

“I’ll keep you here overnight just to be safe,” Madam Pomfrey says. “But you should be back to your chipper selves in the morning. I’ll write you a tardy slip for your classes if you still wish to attend.”

“Um, Madam Pomfrey,” Ricky’s voice drifts over from the doorway. The four of them turn their heads to see that someone else has appeared behind his tall form.

Hanbin’s eyes widen a bit when they meet Zhang Hao’s, but then his gaze skitters past him over to Madam Pomfrey and then to Irma behind her.

“Can I come in?” Hanbin’s gentle voice carries across the infirmary.

Madam Pomfrey purses her lips. “Fine, you may stay for fifteen minutes, and then I must ask you to leave.” She switches her gaze to Zhang Hao and Ricky, “All of you.”

They agree, easily on Ricky’s part, reluctantly on Hanbin’s, and Madam Pomfrey makes her way to her backroom to give them a bit of privacy.

Hanbin hurries straight to Irma’s bedside.

“I’m fine,” Zhang Hao hears her reassure him. Soon their voices lower to a murmur that he can’t quite make out from the other side of Yujin’s bed. He watches as Hanbin sits down and clasps her hand in both of his own — they can’t be dating can they? Hanbin has a crush on him, or he’s supposed to, not that he has done anything to indicate that what the Fat Lady had said was true.

“You’re scowling,” Ricky points out, having finally approached the beds.

“I’m not,” Zhang Hao snaps, turning away from the Hufflepuffs to glance back down at Yujin, who is also looking up at him with eyes that are far too knowing for a fourteen-year-old.

“Everything okay?” Ricky nods down at him.

“Yeah,” Yujin croaks, taking a sip of his tea.

“That was a really ballsy move,” Ricky grins.

“Don’t encourage him,” Zhang Hao groans. He glances down at Yujin as well. “When you’re feeling better tomorrow, you need to apologize.”

Yujin scrunches up his nose, but under Zhang Hao’s unyielding stare, he slowly nods. “Okay, I’ll do it before we leave tomorrow.”

“Good.” Zhang Hao reaches over to lay a soothing hand over his head again. He’s known Yujin since he was toddler — their families, like most of the other purebloods, having known each other for all of their lives. It still amazes Zhang Hao how big he’s grown; big enough to be able to make his own stupid decisions. “We’ll leave you to rest then. Make sure to drink anything Madam Pomfrey gives you, even if it tastes horrid.”

“Okay,” Yujin says.

“See you tomorrow,” Ricky bids Yujin a farewell before the two of them head out of the room. Zhang Hao spares Irma and Hanbin a brief glance as they pass by — Hanbin has a rather frazzled expression on his face, and Irma a teasing smirk. He wonders not at all bitterly what they might be talking about.

“You alright?” Ricky asks as soon as they exit the doors, looking at him with a gleam in his eye that Zhang Hao would rather not examine. It seems the rest of the Hufflepuff team had dispersed; the hallway is empty when they step out into it.

“Yes, of course,” Zhang Hao sniffs, straightening his robes for good measure. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason at all, that’s why I asked,” Ricky says, his expression developing into a full on smirk. But thankfully, he doesn’t say any more as they make their way to the dungeon.

Gideon and the rest of the team are sprawled around the Common Room when they enter, though they immediately leap to their feet to surround the two of them.

“Zhang Hao,” Gideon reaches him first, clasping his large hand over his elbow. “How is he?”

“They’re both just fine, bruises, some pulled muscles. Madam Pomfrey is keeping him overnight just to rest,” Zhang Hao explains, turning slightly so he can address the rest of the team as well. Gideon’s hold remains a heavy weight on his arm.

“I wanted to go check on him, but figured it was probably best to leave it to you and Madam Pomfrey,” Gideon explains.

Zhang Hao gives him a smile. “You were right; there’s no need to worry.”

Gideon breathes out a sigh of relief, features relaxing into an easy smile. “It’s a good thing you were there. I knew they’d be in good hands.”

“It was mostly Madam Pomfrey,” Zhang Hao denies, though he can’t help but feel pleased over the acknowledgement.

“We’ll have to plan a party for when he’s back tomorrow,” Warren, one of their Chasers says. “He’s a hero.”

Zhang Hao frowns at that. Gideon catches his eye and turns back to the group, “He may have gotten us a win, but what he did was dangerous. I don’t want any of you guys following his example.”

One of the players towards the back — their sixth-year keeper Leland — snickers, but no one dares openly contradict Gideon.

“Sorry, man, forgot you’re a Prefect,” Warren says with a smirk.

It’s all a show, Zhang Hao knows. A facade of respect and glib understanding for the two Prefects to be able to claim innocence later — Gideon’s strategy no doubt. Despite their pretenses, Zhang Hao knows that by tomorrow evening, illegal Daisyroot Draught will somehow make its way into the Common Room and Yujin will be letting far too much praise and encouragement go to his reckless head.

“We’ll make sure he gets a proper welcome back, yeah?” Gideon places a heavy hand on Zhang Hao’s shoulders. “Nothing bad, I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zhang Hao waves him off, sidestepping so his hand drops. He suddenly feels incredibly tired. “I’ll leave you all to your planning.”

He and Ricky leave the team in the Common Room and head through the doorway far doorway down the long winding corridor to their room. Zhang Hao plops down on his bed, groaning as he kicks off his shoes.

“You know he’s just laying it on thick for you, right?” Ricky asks, perched on his own bed.

Zhang Hao doesn’t have to ask who he’s referring to. They’ve had this conversation too many times already.

“Yeah, I know,” Zhang Hao mutters. “But it’s complicated.”

Gideon has, for whatever reason, always seemed to have a soft spot for him. It had been Gideon who had defended him back in their first year, when the rumors regarding his disappearance from Hogwarts and memory loss were at their most rampant. Zhang Hao had lost track of the number of times Gideon had gotten into spats over some snide comment made at Zhang Hao’s expense, the number of times he’s scolded him over doing something so pointless — because it certainly wouldn’t stop the mean-spirited gossip and sidelong glances and students running away saying he had Scrofunglus — while patching up his scraps with Murtlap Essence.

He had been thankful back then, a little guilty, too. And perhaps it’s that lingering guilt, the feeling that he owes Gideon something that makes him turn a blind eye to some of his more unsavory aspects, particularly as they’ve gotten older, as his family have sunk their claws deeper in him.

Gideon isn’t all bad, Zhang Hao wants to believe. He may show favoritism and abuse his Prefect powers and spout pureblood nonsense at times, but— Zhang Hao sighs. There really is no but. Whenever he’s brought these things up to him, he receives a heartfelt apology, a promise to do better. And the thing is, Zhang Hao thinks he’s sincere, or at least it always feels that way, as Gideon holds his hand and looks into his eyes and implores him to understand that it’s difficult for him, too. But then the abuse will start up all over again a few weeks later. And Zhang Hao has grown tired of their fraying friendship. If he’s being honest, it hasn’t been a real friendship for some years now.

“I’ll talk to him again tomorrow,” Zhang Hao offers, throwing his arm over his eyes to stem the headache he feels coming on.

“It’s not your job to babysit him,” Ricky says placidly. He hears a bit of shuffling as the younger settles back against his pillows.

“I know that,” Zhang Hao retorts, a little too harshly, taking his own personal feelings and frustration out on the least deserving person. He repeats, a little softer, “I know that.”

But he also knows that he’s one of the only people that Gideon actually listens to, that he actually holds in some sort of regard or esteem. And so this, too, feels like his responsibility — on top of everything else.

Zhang Hao shuffles around on his bed, turning his back towards Ricky in a silent sign that he’s not in the mood to talk right now — Ricky has always been good at reading his signs, it’s one of the reasons they get along so well. Even as his body sinks into the bed, his mind continues to whirl with unfinished, half-formed thoughts, of Gideon pulling Yujin aside this morning after breakfast, of the Astronomy work he still needs to complete tonight, of Hanbin’s non-confession and the way his mind drifts to it at completely inappropriate times. Perhaps worst of all though, he remembers Hanbin’s flushed cheeks as they stood next to the still waters of the lake. Zhang Hao drifts off into a fitful slumber, a rosy, apple-blossom tint on his mind.

He isn’t sure for how long he sleeps, but he wakes sometime later to a brief commotion by the door to their room. Someone has lowered one side of his bunk bed’s blinds — probably Ricky — that faces the window, but the side that opens to the inner bedroom is still tied up. He opens his bleary, groggy eyes to see their other two roommates, Huanjun and Camden, chattering amongst themselves as they come in. Soon enough, their topic of conversation becomes clear.

“It’s in the entrance hall now. Phineas saw them putting it up,” Huanjun reports. “I reckon we can start putting our names in tomorrow. Flamel will probably make an announcement in the morning.”

Zhang Hao sits up on his bed, swinging his leg over the side as he rubs his still-tired eyes. He notices Ricky reclining on his own bed, an open book in his hand.

“Are you guys going to enter?” Ricky asks.

Camden shrugs, dumping his satchel on the trunk at the end of his bed. “What’s the point?”

“Come on, we should all put our names in,” Huanjun says, plopping on his own bed next to Camden’s. He turns to Zhang Hao, “Especially you, Head Boy.”

It’s his turn to shrug. “It’s not about popularity.” Not that Head Boy is a popularity contest, but reputation is certainly a factor in the choice, and there’s no point in being humble about his reputation around Hogwarts: attractive, smart, well-liked, well-connected. The pile of love letters at the bottom of his trunk tells him so. “The Goblet will decide.”

“My O.W.L.s scores weren’t that great, so I’m probably out,” Camden says.

“At least you’re smarter than the entirety of Gryffindor,” Ricky quips. Both he and Camden chuckle, even Zhang Hao manages a smile despite the fog clinging to his brain. It’s been like this for the past two days. Whenever he wakes up, he feels even more tired than when he went to sleep.

“It’s got to be Slytherin this time. Probably Zhang Hao or Gideon.”

“Or Lauretta,” Zhang Hao offers, thinking of the sixth-year Prefect. Her DADA skills are one of the best among her year, probably better than most seventh-years, too.

“I reckon it’s one of you two,” Camden says. “You’re older.”

“So? Montmorency was a sixth-year when he won,” Huanjun argues.

Zhang Hao tunes them out after that, as the two begin comparing stats of the past winners. With everything that has been happening lately, Zhang Hao had nearly forgotten about the TriWizard Tournament, or at least how real and how close it really is.

He doesn’t want to enter his name — but he knows he has to. If only to placate everyone who thinks he should, who will be disappointed in him if he doesn’t. He honestly hates all this Tournament talk — it leaves an awfully bitter taste in his mouth how much everyone is willing to shove him into the spotlight, how greedy they are to partake in his successes. But most of all he hates himself the most, for working so hard to gain their respect only to realize it’s all too easily lost — to realize it’s still not enough. Somehow, after all these years, he still feels like he has something to prove.

Zhang Hao stares dispassionately down at the bottom of his tea cup. “It’s an eagle.”

“And what does that mean?” Professor Burbage asks in a breathy voice that makes Zhang Hao’s skin crawl.

He looks around the room for some inspiration, but is only met with Taerae’s blank gaze. “I’m … going to reach great heights?”

“Yes, yes,” Professor Burbage crowds even closer, and Zhang Hao has to resist the urge to flinch back. “But the eagle is on the side of your cup, which means you have the determination to lead other people. But despite it all, you still believe that you can do more.”

The eagle doesn’t really look to be on the side of the cup whatsoever, but Zhang Hao simply nods so Burbage will move on and call on the next student. He sets the offending teacup down when he does, tuning out the rest of the interpretations, gazing out of the North Tower window. It’s an unseasonably cold day, and a gentle breeze blows in to ruffle his fringe. A chill tingles up Zhang Hao’s spine — completely unrelated to the beady dark raven’s eye that peers up at him from pale porcelain.

The sound of scraping chairs knocks Zhang Hao out of his daydream. He picks up his thing and follows Taerae down the spiral of the Divination tower stairs.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Taerae complains. “We’ve been taking this course for a month now and I don’t understand a single thing. How is a cow supposed to be a good and bad omen?”

“It’s fine,” Zhang Hao pacifies. “I heard the exam is all interpretation and theory.” It’s the only reason he signed up for the course — he has enough of a workload without adding extracurriculars into the mix.

“We should have just taken Care of Magical Creatures.”

Zhang Hao gives him a droll look. “Do you want to be bitten by a fire crab again?”

“No,” Taerae shudders, thinking back to his fifth-year horror. “But Clarisse said they get to actually work with unicorns this year.”

“I doubt it’ll be very extensive.”

“Better than Burbage breathing down our necks while we stare at glass balls,” Taerae mutters.

The two of them arrive at the courtyard, sitting down on a stone bench under the shade of a tree to protect their delicate complexions. It’s one of those odd, cold days where the sunlight feels more artificial than warm — throwing the students milling across the grass and stepping out from the stone archways into a strange, bleak translucence, as if they’re all ghosts.

“Oh, I almost forgot, thanks for taking my patrol last weekend,” Taerae says once they’re seated. “Want me to do yours tonight?”

“Actually,” Zhang Hao starts. “Hanbin did your rounds.”

There’s a long pause, in which Zhang Hao refuses to look over at his friend. He has no doubt a raised brow, affected an annoying grin, and come to some absolutely ridiculous, incorrect conclusion. “How come?” Taerae asks.

“I asked him to.”

“Taking advantage?” Taerae teases.

“No!” Zhang Hao protests, not liking how close to the truth that hit. Perhaps he had used it as an excuse to talk to Hanbin, simply just to see that if given the chance, he’d confess. He hadn’t. Zhang Hao has mixed feelings about that. “Besides, I don’t think it’s true that he has a crush on me.”

“What? You don’t think the Fat Lady is the pinnacle of sincerity and trustworthiness?” Taerae snorts.

“I get all my most reliable information from paintings,” Zhang Hao says sarcastically. Everyone knows they’re notoriously finicky; traditionally only a few certain ones can be counted on to give accurate information on a student’s whereabouts when they’re out of bed at night. “But I mean, you know him. Do you think he likes me?”

“I don’t know him that well — we just had curfew patrols together last year.”

“Well?” Zhang Hao presses. Taerae is the closest he’ll get to one of Hanbin’s friends.

“I can’t say he’s ever really brought you up,” Taerae ponders, utterly unhelpfully. “Outside of, you know, talking about Prefect stuff.”

Zhang Hao scowls. He doesn’t have time to date — he has absolutely no intention of humoring any of the various confessions and crushes directed his way, simpering girls and blundering boys with too much bravado for their own good. He’s tired of them all, and not one of them have ever caught his eye. He’s never liked anyone to want to spend so much time with them, to feel so moved that he has to have them for himself. And as cheesy and dreamy as it sounds, that what he wants love to be — effortless and desirable. Sue him if that makes him picky.

He’d tried going on dates, once, twice, maybe even thrice, back in fourth-year when he’d grown into his full height and the suspicious whispers faded and instead were eclipsed by his many achievements and “stunning beauty” and “captivating charisma” (to quote Ricky). It had been overwhelming back then, to suddenly get so much attention that he hadn’t quite known what to do with it. So he’d given in. Said yes to a few more dates than he should have, not wanting to upset anyone. But they had never led anywhere, and they had taught him that it was something he isn’t really cut out for. So why is he annoyed that Sung Hanbin apparently does not have a crush on him, after all?

“But I mean, why not?” Taerae asks.

“Why not what?”

“Why wouldn’t he have a crush on you? Plenty of people do. It’s almost a rite of passage for the lower years,” Taerae snickers.

And that annoys Zhang Hao, too. That people’s affections for him are a given, like he hasn’t had to work at it much like he’s mastered the perfect wrist movement for a complicated Transfiguration spell, much like he’s meticulously followed directions down to the millisecond for his Potions brews, shedding integral parts of himself to become someone they could admire. The boy that they were all in love with has never been him.

Though Zhang Hao can’t really blame Taerae — they aren’t in the same House, didn’t really become close until they both became Prefects in the fifth-year. Zhang Hao shouldn’t expect him to know everything that happened in his first and second years, especially because most of the antagonistic remarks, all of the cutting censure had been subtle enough that none of the professors noticed either, that even the Prefects back then had turned a blind eye.

“He’s a seventh-year,” Zhang Hao points out, like Taerae needs the reminder.

“Maybe he’s one of those that never grew out of it,” Taerae teases. “Has been pining over you since first year.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Zhang Hao mutters, rolling his eyes. Because he’s experienced first hand how quickly people’s infatuations fade — how they profess their love for him and try to sneak him amortentia and follow him around the halls until one day, they lose interest. He can never hold anyone’s interest. He can feel it, a roiling sense of bitterness rising up his esophagus, choking him. He doesn’t want to release it here, so he glances around the courtyard, desperate for a change of subject.

He nods towards a group of Hufflepuff sixth years, clutching something in their hands, scurrying off quickly in the direction of the entry hall. “Are you going to enter?”

“The Tournament?”

“No, the professional Quidditch League,” Zhang Hao replies sarcastically. “Yes, the Tournament.”

“Yeah,” Taerae nods sagely, matching Zhang Hao’s sarcasm. “A bunch of us Ravenclaws are going to do a ritual in the East Tower bathroom with Felix Felicis, turn around three times, summon a troll, and then enter our names this weekend.”

Zhang Hao reaches over to swat at Taerae, who dodges him laughing.

“You know me,” Taerae shrugs, still chuckling. “I hate having to do anything remotely physical. There might be interesting challenges, but I can learn just as much from watching. Remember last Tournament, they had to counter a spell that was nonverbal — that was quite interesting.”

He nods with a small hum.

“I hope they poison them this year,” Taerae muses. “That would be exciting to watch — basic diagnostic charmwork along with advanced potion making before the poison hits them.”

“That’s too easily taken care of with a bezoar,” Zhang Hao refutes.

“Where would they get a bezoar?”

“It’s still too straightforward,” Zhang Hao insists. “It has to be more complicated — maybe a multi-layered hex to start.”

“What are you two nerds talking about?” Ricky’s voice carries over them both as his shadow blends in with the shade of their perch. In the limpid sunlight, he looks a bit greyer than usual.

“Taerae wants to poison the TriWizard Champions.”

“But that’s no fun,” Ricky shakes his head.

“See? That’s what I said,” Zhang Hao gloats.

Taerae immediately opens his mouth to argue, until he’s interrupted by Ricky—

“They should poison someone they love instead.”

The two of them fall silent.

“Sometimes you terrify me, Ricky,” Taerae mutters.

Thursday night finds Zhang Hao all alone.

Though he considers himself quite popular, everyone that he could possibly spend time with is preoccupied this evening. Ricky had snuck off earlier to the kitchens with some friend, promising to bring Zhang Hao back dessert “if there’s any left.” Taerae begged off for a Ravenclaw study session — notoriously exclusive and off limits to anyone who isn’t in their House. Even Yujin and Gideon are at Quidditch practice tonight, and neither Camden nor Huanjun have returned to the room.

So with a few hours left before curfew, Zhang Hao resigns himself to slogging his telescope up the Astronomy tower. When he arrives, he notices a few third years have taken up the best viewing windows for the night, including his preferred one. Zhang Hao grumbles as he finds another spot away from them and unpacks his set up; he’s not bully enough to ask them to move, even if this angle is less than ideal. He gets ready to settle in for a long night.

The last time he was up here … Zhang Hao lets his gaze drift from the clear, glittering sky over to the neighboring tower. He sees a few shadowy figures flitting about on top of the spire — just owls. He could have sworn he saw Hanbin in the Owlery a couple weeks ago. That had only been a few days since gossip started going around regarding what the Fat Lady had said about his crush. The pointed whispers and derisive giggles had set Zhang Hao’s nerves on edge, and he’d come up here back then as an escape to the unpleasant memories they had drudged up. He had thought the constant chatter about Hanbin had made him go crazy and conjure him up here, too. There’s no sign of the Hufflepuff tonight though.

Zhang Hao sighs and turns back to unrolling his parchment and adjusting his telescope. On paper, he should love Astronomy. It allows him to sit still in relative silence for long periods of time, it requires precise calculations and detailed attention to follow along with the texts, perfect for someone who has innate focus — like him. The one singular problem is, he’s just bad at it. No matter how many charts he reviews or how many times he glances up at the stars, the instincts needed to be a good astronomer evade him. It also doesn’t help that if he spends too long gazing up at the dark yawning sky, he gets the overwhelming feeling of something pressing upon his mind, pushing him somewhere cavernous and vast and unknown. That’s usually when shadows start to creep into the edge of his vision.

He’s tried all sorts of ways to get rid of that feeling. It’s just the sky, he tells himself, no closer to Earth or in danger of falling down and crushing him than on any other occasion. He’s even gone to lengths to take a Pepperup Potion prior to charting, with the hopes that increased stamina and a little bit of a boost will set right whatever imbalance is happening in his brain. Unfortunately, Astronomy continues to be one of his most hated — and weakest — subjects.

Zhang Hao is just finishing up his first constellation when he is made aware of two things. The first is that the quiet murmurs from the third years are gone; they must have finished their work. The second is a presence in the next alcove over, someone also scratching away at a chart but with much more ease than him, judging by their relaxed stance and speedy quill.

Hanbin lets out a small sound of surprise when he glances up to see Zhang Hao staring at him. It in turn makes Zhang Hao jump a bit, not quite expecting the thrum of awareness when their eyes meet. They both chuckle a bit, embarrassed and self-conscious. Hanbin has a nice smile — Zhang Hao has always thought so, kind and soft-spoken and generous. Hanbin is always generous with his smiles.

When had he arrived? Zhang Hao doesn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until Hanbin replies, “A while now.”

“Oh.” Zhang Hao struggles with something more eloquent to say and comes up empty. He blames it on Hanbin’s smile.

“You were concentrating really hard,” Hanbin offers him an out.

A quiet falls in the space between them, and just like before by the lake, it doesn’t feel awkward. And yet Zhang Hao isn’t entirely comfortable in it, because now he is aware of the scratch of Hanbin’s quill, and his small unconscious hums as he refers back to his textbook, and the swish of his robes as he paces back to his telescope to check something. But as Zhang Hao turns back to his own constellation, the silence also feels amicable; he gets the sense that both of them are quite content with it, and that lessens the pressure of providing conversation, of having to worry about disappointing him when he doesn’t have something witty or interesting or particularly insightful to say.

It’s Zhang Hao who finally breaks the silence, after wrangling another star from the obscure sky. “How is Irma doing?”

Hanbin smiles over his telescope at him before answering, “She’s alright — she’ll return to practice next week. Thanks for asking.”

“You seemed concerned in the infirmary.”

Hanbin grimaces. “More like guilty. I feel like I should have somehow prevented it.”

“It was entirely Yujin’s fault,” Zhang Hao admits. House loyalty does not count for anything in the face of Hanbin’s remorseful gaze, apparently.

“It was just bad luck,” Hanbin offers, shaking his head. “No one would have thought the Snitch would show up there. I could tell he was trying to avoid a collision by the angle of his dive.”

It’s impressive, both Hanbin’s Quidditch acumen and his stubborn need to be so kind. They fall into yet another prolonged silence, filled with the flip of Hanbin’s textbook pages and his continued small murmurs as he jots down coordinates on his map. Zhang Hao tries to concentrate on his own work, but no matter how he adjusts his telescope, he can’t find the final star for his constellation. Rubbing at his temples, he sighs. Without realizing, he turns to Hanbin again for relief, “About last weekend’s Prefect rounds …”

“Hm?” Hanbin hums softly, glancing up with a curious smile. “What about it?”

“I hope you didn’t agree just because I asked.”

Hanbin looks taken aback, and Zhang Hao bites his lip, unsure if he’s overstepped. Apparently, what Taerae said had been bothering him. But maybe it’s too presumptuous. Even now, Hanbin seems determined to finish up his own work and be out of here without showing a single sign of interest in him. They wouldn’t even be talking if it wasn’t for him. There’s no way Sung Hanbin has a crush on him — Zhang Hao has weathered too many of those to know what that is like. And it isn’t like this: easy chatter and sweet but distant smiles. The Fat Lady is a big fat liar, he concludes.

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao says before Hanbin has a chance to reply, waffling for a way to save this. “I just mean since I’m Head Boy and—”

“Don’t worry,” Hanbin assures. “I get it. I would have said if I couldn’t do it, but I’m happy to help.”

For some reason, Zhang Hao feels dissatisfied. For some reason, he doesn’t want Hanbin to be quite so polite, quite so … so formal with him. He must be going crazy. Hanbin is probably just here to finish his work and is fed up with Zhang Hao bothering him with inane chatter. “You don’t have to be so nice.”

Hanbin looks momentarily surprised again before he starts laughing, not even small little giggles, just full blown laughter that has him leaning to the side off his chair. “Did you want me to tell you no?”

“No,” Zhang Hao scowls, put out by Hanbin’s mirth. He was not trying to be funny! He was actually trying to be nice here! “But you can be honest with me.”

“I am, I promise,” Hanbin replies, still chuckling.

The dimples of his cheeks are sweet, Zhang Hao thinks. They make him look younger, carefree.

“I actually thought you were being too nice,” Hanbin accuses.

“Me?” Zhang Hao is a bit surprised. “Why? You don’t think I can be nice? Because I’m a Slytherin?” He hadn’t realized Hanbin had that impression of him.

“No, not that,” Hanbin’s smile curls up in a sly smirk, and Zhang Hao is struck with the realization that Sung Hanbin is not just cute or sweet, but actually deadly handsome, so much so that it takes Zhang Hao a second to realize what he’s saying. “I thought you were being nice because you needed help with your chart.”

He pulls himself to his full height, casting Hanbin an imperious look, his lower lip pushing out in a pout of displeasure. “No I don’t.”

Hanbin’s cheeky grin doesn’t waver. “You have the wrong placements for Saturn’s moons.”

Zhang Hao glances down at his latest coordinates, his tone flat when he replies, “You’re joking.”

Hanbin giggles, getting up from his bench to walk over to Zhang Hao’s alcove, pointing at a spot on his parchment. “They’re supposed to be closer here. I could tell they were off from all the way over there.”

“I hate Astronomy,” Zhang Hao groans.

“Here, let me,” Hanbin offers, grabbing his own map and bringing it over to Zhang Hao’s table, laying them side by side.

Zhang Hao’s eyes darts between the two charts for a moment before he slumps down in defeat, tossing his head back. “I’m going to have to redo all of it,” he wails.

“It’s not that bad,” Hanbin soothes. “I’ll help you. What do you have left?”

He raises his head to glance over at his textbook. “Just these two constellations. And then apparently Saturn.”

“Okay, I’ve already done one of them — and then we can do the last one together,” Hanbin offers, indicating the spot on his chart where he’s nearly laid out the stars and the coordinates right next to them.

“I can’t cheat off you,” Zhang Hao says, slightly offended, though unsure if it’s on his or Hanbin’s part.

“It’s not cheating,” Hanbin insists, a small glimmer in his eyes. “We’re working together.”

Zhang Hao still isn’t convinced, but he’s actually quite desperate to not have to chart any of this himself, and Hanbin is offering him a lifeline. Sighing, as if he’s the one being inconvenienced here, he bends over and starts copying the placements and coordinates for the completed constellation on his parchment.

“There, that wasn’t so bad,” Hanbin teases when he’s finally done. “Flamel hasn’t barged in to expel you.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Zhang Hao mutters, though he shoots Hanbin a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” Hanbin answers, seeming suddenly a bit bashful, but he turns back to the book too quickly for Zhang Hao to pick out whether he’s actually blushing or not. “For the last one, it’s near Europa so it shouldn’t be that hard to spot.” He motions towards Zhang Hao’s telescope. “Do you mind?”

Zhang Hao shakes his head and watches as Hanbin ducks down to look through the scope, fiddling with it so it’ll be angled in the right direction. Sure enough, he seems to spot what he’s looking for. “Got it.”

“That was fast,” Zhang Hao breathes, a little in awe.

Hanbin’s cheeks are pink when he turns back around. Zhang Hao feels a strange satisfaction, at having broken through Hanbin’s unflappable, cordial mask, as if he’s won something.

“Here, you take a look,” Hanbin offers.

While Zhang Hao looks through his telescope at a patch of sky that looks like every other view he’s seen tonight, he hears the scratch of Hanbin noting it down on their parchments. It really is quiet up here in the tower.

“Do you see Pleiades?” Hanbin asks.

“Not a chance.”

Zhang Hao hears soft laughter behind him, and now, he has the privilege of knowing exactly how the cute dimples that are no doubt forming on Hanbin’s cheeks look.

“It’s a bright cluster of stars. Should be on the right,” Hanbin explains.

He follows his instructions, adjusting the telescope just a bit until he sees a smattering of smaller stars that cluster together in a glowing, pulsing group. “I think I have it.”

“Okay, good,” Hanbin sounds pleased. “Now, come show me where it is.”

They proceed in this same pattern, with Hanbin instructing Zhang Hao on where the points of the constellation are based on the book, and Zhang Hao coming back to mark them down. He leans over to indicate on Hanbin’s chart where he just added the newest star, their hands brushing for just a moment. It’s warm, Zhang Hao thinks, almost absently. But it lingers on the tips of his fingers as he adjusts the telescope, on the glowing red curve of Hanbin’s ears.

They work quickly and smoothly together, though apparently not quick enough. Just as he’s marking the second-to-last point, the ten minute announcement for curfew rings overhead.

Hanbin instantly groans, “I have to go; I can’t get detention again, sorry.”

“Again?”

The pink from Hanbin’s ears spread quickly to the upper swells of his cheeks. His nose scrunches up cutely as if from a distasteful memory. “Ah, I was late for Advanced DADA a couple weeks ago.”

That didn’t seem like Hanbin. Though Zhang Hao supposes it could happen to anyone. “You’re a Prefect — who’s going to give you detention? Me?”

“I don’t want to take advantage …” Hanbin says haltingly.

And it’s so ridiculous, it’s Zhang Hao’s turn to laugh. It bubbles out of him, doubling him over.

“It’s not that funny,” he hears Hanbin mumble over his guffaws.

“I’m sorry, but it is.” Zhang Hao pretends to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re practically doing my Astronomy work for me and you’re the one taking advantage? Yeah, I’m really going to slap you with a tardy slip — ten points from Hufflepuff.”

Hanbin’s lips quirk up at the corners, his cupid’s bow dipping down impishly. “Fine, let’s finish then.”

Zhang Hao hops off the bench and heads back over to the telescope, bending over once more to line his eye with the lens. “Okay, tell me what to do.”

The silence stretches behind him.

“What?” Zhang Hao turns his head back to see Hanbin standing where he’d left him, now with brighter spots of pink on his cheeks.

“Nothing,” Hanbin squeaks, hastily turning away to scan the textbook again.

Zhang Hao knows that look — has caught it on the face of passing first-years in the hall, from girls who peek over at him from across the Great Hall thinking he doesn’t notice them. He smirks slightly as he turns back to the telescope. Perhaps he’d been too quick to judge the Fat Lady, after all.

That evening, once Zhang Hao makes his way back to the dungeons, Ricky intercepts him in the Common Room.

“What’s that look for?”

“What look?” Zhang Hao feigns ignorance.

“All smug.”

“I don’t look smug,” Zhang Hao scowls. “I just finished my Astronomy work for the week, sue me.”

Ricky narrows his eyes, knowing he’s not telling the full truth, but unable to discern what about it is so suspicious. “Fine, whatever. Can I see it?”

“No, you can’t,” Zhang hao refuses on instinct.

“I brought you tea cakes from the kitchen.”

Grumbling, Zhang Hao hands over the sheet of parchment. His gaze lingers the star Aldebaran, briefly remembering how Hanbin’s hand had slightly adjusted his, fixing the position as he made the mark.

“Thanks, you’re the best,” Ricky grins.

Zhang Hao simply sighs. “Give it back to me in the morning; I’m going to bed.”

Ricky nods, bidding him goodnight before heading back to the corner of the Common Room he’s holed up in to finish his work. Walking down the hall, Zhang Hao flexes his hand, remembering long, slightly callused ones that had neatly sectioned off their charts, turned the knobs on the telescope so the depth would be just right for him. He idly wonders why he and Hanbin have never really spent much time together before — it seems like such a shame. Not that he really has the time to now; not that it really changes anything if Hanbin does have a crush on him.

And beyond the issue of time and concentration and energy, is the deep seated fear that underneath it all, there’s something inherently unlikeable about him. A year’s worth of bullying had left him incredibly motivated and petty — and broken. Though he thinks maybe all that damage was already done before, not that he can remember.

Despite the warmth still reverberating under the thin skin of his palm, Zhang Hao gets ready for bed with a heavy heart. And when he wakes up in the middle of the night, a scream caught in his throat, the bedsheets tangled haphazardly around his legs and one of his curtains half draped over his bed, Zhang Hao can’t say he didn’t see it coming. His heart is pounding and his breaths are harsh and loud in the quiet air.

“You all right?” Huanjun’s voice comes from the bed across from him. His roommates are all used to his night terrors. He told them he’s had them since he was little, and over time, they’d come to take his word for it, especially since he never seems to do anything besides yell and cry and, one time, tumble out of his bed. They’re kind about it though, which Zhang Hao is grateful for.

“Yeah, sorry if I woke you.”

“All good. Get some rest, yeah?”

Kind but clueless. Zhang Hao can’t say he minds it being that way though. “Yeah, thanks.”

He doesn’t get any rest for the remainder of the night. Zhang Hao had long stopped trying to figure out what the cause of his night terrors are, what they’re even about. He knows it stems from the gap in his memory, but he’s been told enough times not to try remembering — failed enough times at it to finally relent.

When he was younger, namely in his first and second years right after the incident, he’d kept a secret journal, jotting down every feeling and flash of a moment to try and figure out what had happened, what was wrong with him. The journal now sits at the bottom of his trunk, untouched. And as the years have gone by, he’s able to remember less and less. Now, whenever he tries, all he feels are fear and dread — there’s nothing there.

There’s never anything there.