Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hyungwon’s nails were bitten to the quick.
He noticed this as the Hogwarts Express lurched forward, because his hands were the only thing he could look at without meeting anyone’s eyes. Pale knuckles, thin fingers that had learned early to be still. The kind of hands that counted things: cracks in ceilings (forty-seven in his dormitory at the orphanage), steps between his bed and the door (twenty-three), heartbeats between the matron’s footsteps in the hall (always thirty-two, except when she was angry).
The train’s rhythm was irregular. It bothered him.
Clack-clack-pause-clack. Clack-clack-pause-clack.
He tried to find the pattern, lips moving silently as the English countryside blurred past. Green fields dissolving into one another, sheep like white stones scattered across felt. He’d never seen sheep before yesterday. Now there were hundreds of them, meaningless.
The compartment door slid open.
Hyungwon didn’t look up. He’d learned that trick at the orphanage—if you didn’t look, sometimes people left you alone. Sometimes.
“This one’s empty,” a voice said. Not empty, Hyungwon thought, but he kept his eyes on his hands.
“It’s got someone in it,” a second voice replied, lower, amused.
“Same thing.”
Footsteps. The compartment filled with the smell of expensive cologne and something else—confidence, maybe, the kind that came from never having to count anything. Hyungwon felt the seats shift as two people sat across from him. He could see their shoes in his peripheral vision: polished leather, no scuffs. His own were second-hand, the laces mismatched.
Silence stretched. Hyungwon counted to twelve before the first voice spoke again.
“You always this quiet, or are you just boring?”
Hyungwon’s hands stilled. He’d been picking at a cuticle—a bad habit, the matron said, made him look disturbed—and now his thumb was bleeding. A thin line of red against pale skin. He watched it well up, bright and immediate.
He still didn’t look up.
“Minhyuk,” the second voice said, softer. A warning or a suggestion, Hyungwon couldn’t tell which.
“What? I’m making conversation.” A pause. “He’s going to have to talk eventually, Jinyoung. We’re all going to the same school.”
Jinyoung. Minhyuk. Names that sounded expensive, like their shoes.
Hyungwon pressed his thumb against his index finger, hard enough to stop the bleeding. The pain was clean, simple. Countable.
“Maybe he’s Muggle-born,” Minhyuk continued, and there was something in his voice now—not quite cruel, but testing. “Doesn’t know how to act around real wizards yet.”
That made Hyungwon look up.
He didn’t mean to. But the words hooked under his ribs—real wizards—and his eyes lifted before he could stop them.
The boy across from him was beautiful.
Not in the way matron’s romance novels described beautiful—no chiseled jaw or brooding intensity. This was something else. Golden skin that looked like it had never known a bruise, black hair swept back carelessly, eyes that tilted up at the corners like a cat’s. He was smiling, wide and sharp, and Hyungwon realized with a cold certainty that this boy was dangerous.
Not the way angry men were dangerous. This was the danger of a knife pressed to your throat slowly enough that you felt every millimeter of pressure before it cut.
“There we go,” Minhyuk said, leaning forward. His elbows rested on his knees, chin propped on one hand. “Not boring after all.”
Hyungwon’s throat was dry. He forced himself to hold the eye contact—another orphanage lesson, harder than the first—and said nothing.
Minhyuk’s smile widened. “Good. I hate chatter.”
The boy beside him—Jinyoung, the one with the warning voice—had dark eyes and darker hair, features arranged in careful neutrality. He was watching Minhyuk watch Hyungwon, and there was something in his expression that Hyungwon couldn’t name. Resignation, maybe. Or recognition.
“I’m Lee Minhyuk,” the golden boy said, still smiling. “This is Park Jinyoung. We’re going to be Slytherins.” He said it like a fact, not a hope. “What’s your name?”
Hyungwon’s thumb was bleeding again. He could feel it, warm and wet. “Gaunt,” he said finally. His voice came out rough, unused. “Hyungwon Gaunt.”
Something flickered across Minhyuk’s face—too quick to read, there and gone like lightning.
“Gaunt,” he repeated slowly, tasting the syllables. “That’s old blood. Really old blood.” His eyes locked onto Hyungwon’s with renewed interest, and Hyungwon felt pinned like an insect to a board. “Funny, I thought that line died out.”
“I’m from an orphanage,” Hyungwon said, because apparently his mouth had decided to work without his permission. “I don’t know anything about blood.”
“Orphanage,” Minhyuk echoed. Then he laughed—bright and sudden, like breaking glass. “Oh, this is perfect.” He glanced at Jinyoung. “Isn’t this perfect?”
Jinyoung’s expression didn’t change. “Sure.”
“No, really.” Minhyuk turned back to Hyungwon, and now there was something else in his eyes—something hungry and calculating and utterly focused. “The last of the Gaunts, raised by Muggles, doesn’t know a thing about his own name. That’s—” He shook his head, grinning. “That’s a story, Hyungwon Gaunt.”
Hyungwon wanted to look away. Wanted to count something—the buttons on Jinyoung’s shirt (seven), the rivets on the compartment door (sixteen), anything to break this feeling of being seen. But he couldn’t. Minhyuk’s gaze held him like a hand around his throat.
“What house do you think you’ll be in?” Minhyuk asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
Hyungwon’s jaw tightened. “I said I don’t know.”
“Everyone knows.” Minhyuk leaned back, sprawling across the seat like he owned it. Probably he did—he had that air about him, like ownership was his birthright. “Come on. You must have read about it. Gryffindor for the brave, Ravenclaw for the clever, Hufflepuff for the—” He waved a hand dismissively. “—whatever they are. And Slytherin for the ambitious.”
“I’m not ambitious.”
“Everyone’s ambitious.” Minhyuk’s smile sharpened. “Some people just haven’t figured out what they want yet.”
The train lurched again—clack-clack-pause-clack—and Hyungwon’s hands curled into fists. His thumbnail dug into his palm, creating a new point to focus on. He counted the pressure: one, two, three—
“You’re doing it again,” Minhyuk said.
Hyungwon blinked. “What?”
“That thing. With your hands.” Minhyuk gestured vaguely. “You’ve been counting something since we sat down. I can see your lips moving.”
Heat crawled up Hyungwon’s neck. He forced his hands flat against his thighs, pressed them hard enough to hurt.
“It’s fine,” Minhyuk said, and his voice had gentled—or maybe that was worse, because it sounded almost kind. “I notice things. It’s a gift.” He tilted his head. “Or a curse, depending who you ask.”
Jinyoung made a soft sound that might have been agreement.
“Anyway,” Minhyuk continued, “you’ll be in Slytherin. I can tell.”
“How?”
“Because you’re still sitting here.” Minhyuk’s smile was back, sharp-edged and knowing. “Most people would have left by now. Gone to find another compartment, somewhere safer. But you’re still here, watching us, trying to figure out if we’re dangerous.” He paused. “We are, by the way.”
Hyungwon’s pulse hammered in his throat. “I don’t scare easily.”
“No,” Minhyuk agreed. “I don’t think you do. That’s what makes you interesting.”
The door slid open again.
This time it was a woman with a cart—“Anything from the trolley, dears?”—and Minhyuk bought enough chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties to feed a dozen people. He didn’t offer any to Hyungwon, which was a relief. Charity always came with conditions.
As the woman left, Minhyuk tore open a chocolate frog package and bit its head off. “So,” he said around a mouthful of chocolate, “tell me about the orphanage. Was it very Dickensian? Gruel and beatings and sad little waifs?”
“Minhyuk,” Jinyoung said quietly.
“What? I’m curious.”
Hyungwon found himself answering despite himself. “It was fine. Boring. The matron didn’t like me much, but she didn’t like anyone.”
“Why not?”
“I was too quiet. Made her nervous.” Hyungwon’s thumb had stopped bleeding. He pressed the nail into the dried blood, testing. “She said I watched people too much. Like I was always—” He stopped.
“Counting,” Minhyuk finished. His eyes glittered. “You were always counting.”
“It helped.”
“Helped what?”
Hyungwon didn’t answer. He looked out the window instead, at the sheep and the green and the endless blur of a country he’d never really belonged to. The silence stretched between them—five seconds, ten, fifteen—
“You know what?” Minhyuk said suddenly. “I think we’re going to be friends, Hyungwon Gaunt.”
Hyungwon looked at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re the first interesting person I’ve met today.” Minhyuk’s smile was dazzling, blinding, absolutely merciless. “And I collect interesting things.”
Jinyoung sighed—a small sound, barely audible—but didn’t speak.
The rest of the journey passed in fragments: Minhyuk talking about his family’s manor, about Quidditch and hexes and which professors to avoid; Jinyoung interjecting occasionally with corrections or warnings; Hyungwon mostly silent, absorbing everything, counting the minutes until they reached the castle (one hundred and forty-seven).
By the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, something had shifted. Hyungwon couldn’t name it—didn’t want to—but he felt it: a hook lodged somewhere under his ribs, thin and sharp and already beginning to ache.
The Great Hall was enormous.
Hyungwon stood in line with the other first-years, neck craned back to see the ceiling that wasn’t really a ceiling. Enchanted to look like the sky, Minhyuk had said earlier, like this was common knowledge. Like everyone should know that ceilings could be made of stars.
The Sorting Hat sat on its stool, ancient and patched. It sang a song Hyungwon barely heard, too focused on the counting—forty-three students ahead of him, no, forty-two now—
“Gaunt, Hyungwon!”
The hall fell silent.
Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe that was just the sound of his own heartbeat drowning everything else out. Hyungwon walked forward on numb legs, feeling four hundred eyes on his back. The stool was taller than it looked. He sat.
The hat dropped over his eyes, and the world went dark.
“Well, well,” a voice whispered in his ear—no, inside his ear, inside his skull. “What have we here?”
Hyungwon’s hands clenched on his knees. He counted his breaths: in for four, out for four.
“A Gaunt,” the hat continued, almost purring. “I haven’t sorted one of those in… oh, decades. Thought the line had ended. Thought it had burned itself out in madness and inbreeding and—” It paused. “You don’t know, do you? Don’t know what your name means.”
I don’t know anything, Hyungwon thought.
“Liar.” The hat’s voice sharpened. “You know how to survive. How to watch and wait and make yourself small. You know cruelty—not intimately, not yet, but you recognize it. You saw it in that boy’s smile.”
Minhyuk.
“Yes. Him. Dangerous, that one. But you knew that. You know lots of things you pretend not to.” The hat shifted, settling deeper. “You could be great, you know. You have the blood for it. Old magic, dark magic, the kind that leaves scars—”
I don’t want to be great, Hyungwon thought desperately. I just want—
“What? To be left alone? To be safe?” The hat laughed, soft and pitying. “Too late for that, child. You were never going to be safe. Not with that name. Not with that face.”
What does that mean?
“You’ll find out.” A pause, considering. “You’d do well in Ravenclaw. You have the mind for it. Or Hufflepuff—you’re loyal, under all that stillness. Loyal to yourself, at least.” Another pause. “But you’re not going there, are you?”
Hyungwon’s throat closed.
“No,” the hat whispered. “You’re going where the dangerous things go. Where the ambitious and the cunning and the desperate—”
“SLYTHERIN!”
The hall erupted.
Hyungwon stumbled off the stool, vision swimming. The Slytherin table was a blur of green and silver, faces he didn’t know, voices he couldn’t parse. He walked toward it—twenty-three steps, he counted them—and found a seat.
Minhyuk was three chairs down, grinning like he’d won something.
Hyungwon looked away first.
But as the hat sorted the next student—“Abbott, Hannah!”—he could still feel it: that hook under his ribs, pulling tight. And beneath it, quieter, a whisper that might have been the hat’s voice or his own thoughts or something else entirely:
You could burn it all down.
He curled his bleeding thumb into his fist and started counting the candles overhead.
One. Two. Three.
He made it to sixty-seven before Minhyuk slid into the seat beside him and said, “Told you so.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The password was pureblood.
Hyungwon watched a seventh-year prefect say it to the bare stone wall, watched the wall ripple and fold inward like water, revealing an arched entrance. Twenty-three first-years crowded through, robes rustling, voices echoing off ancient stone.
The Slytherin common room opened before them like a jaw.
It was beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful—all sharp edges and cold purpose. Green-tinted light filtered through tall windows that looked directly into the Black Lake, casting everything in an underwater gloom. Silver fixtures gleamed on dark wood furniture, and the fireplace roared with emerald flames that gave off heat but no comfort.
Hyungwon’s breath caught. Not from awe—from recognition. This was a place designed to sort people. The strong would claim the leather sofas near the fire, the uncertain would hover near the edges, and the weak would disappear entirely.
He chose a spot against the far wall, near one of the lake windows. A school of silver fish drifted past the glass, and behind them, something massive moved through the murk. The giant squid, probably. Its tentacle was thick as a tree trunk.
“Attention, first-years.”
The prefect from before—tall, sharp-featured, with a badge that read HEAD BOY—stood on the raised platform near the fireplace. The room fell silent immediately.
“Welcome to Slytherin House. My name is Adrian Pucey. You’ve been sorted here because you possess ambition, cunning, and the will to achieve greatness.” His eyes swept across them, calculating. “Some of you come from families that have bled green and silver for centuries. Others—” his gaze snagged briefly on Hyungwon, “—are new to our traditions. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you understand the fundamental truth of this House.”
He paused for effect.
“We do not tolerate weakness. We do not forgive failure. And we do not forget loyalty—or the lack of it.” Pucey’s smile was all teeth. “Your dormitories are through those staircases, boys to the left, girls to the right. Curfew is ten o’clock. Break it, and you’ll answer to me. Any questions?”
Silence.
“Good. Welcome home.”
The crowd dispersed immediately. Older students claimed their usual territories, first-years scattered like startled birds. Hyungwon stayed where he was, counting the silver fixtures on the walls (thirty-one) and trying to memorize the layout. Two staircases, seven windows, one fireplace, multiple alcoves for—
“You’re doing it again.”
Minhyuk appeared beside him like he’d materialized from shadow. Jinyoung followed two steps behind, hands in his pockets, expression neutral.
“Doing what?” Hyungwon asked, though he knew.
“That counting thing. Your lips move.” Minhyuk leaned against the window, careless and elegant. Behind him, something pale drifted through the lake water—a fish corpse, maybe, or something worse. “What is it this time? Windows? Students? Seconds until you can escape?”
Hyungwon’s jaw tightened. “Why do you care?”
“Because you’re a Gaunt.” Minhyuk said it like it explained everything. When Hyungwon didn’t respond, he pushed off the window and moved closer. “Do you even know what that means?”
“The Sorting Hat mentioned it.”
“The Hat would.” Jinyoung spoke for the first time since entering the common room, voice quiet but carrying. “The Gaunts were one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Old blood. Old old—traced back to Salazar Slytherin himself.”
Hyungwon’s stomach dropped. “That’s not—I’m from an orphanage. I don’t—”
“Doesn’t matter where you grew up,” Minhyuk interrupted. “Blood is blood. Magic is magic. And the Gaunt line…” He exchanged a glance with Jinyoung. Something passed between them, unspoken. “Let’s just say people will be interested in you.”
“I don’t want people interested in me.”
“Too late.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp, delighted. “You walked into this hall with that name, and now everyone’s wondering—is he the real thing? Is there power there, or just a name?” He tilted his head. “I’m wondering too.”
“I don’t have power,” Hyungwon said flatly. “I barely know how to use a wand.”
“Yet,” Minhyuk corrected. “You don’t know yet.” He moved closer—close enough that Hyungwon could smell cedar and something sweeter. “That’s what makes this interesting. You’re a mystery. And I love mysteries.”
Jinyoung’s expression flickered—something that might have been concern or resignation. “We should let him settle in, Minhyuk.”
“I’m just being welcoming.” Minhyuk’s eyes stayed locked on Hyungwon’s face. “Aren’t I welcoming?”
“You’re something,” Hyungwon muttered.
Minhyuk laughed—bright and genuine, like Hyungwon had told a joke instead of an insult. “See? I knew you’d be interesting.” He clapped Hyungwon on the shoulder, grip warm and firm. “Come on. I’ll show you the dormitory. You’ll want the bed by the window—best view of the lake, and it’s farthest from Goyle’s snoring.”
He walked away without checking if Hyungwon followed.
Jinyoung lingered for a moment. “He’s not wrong about the name,” he said quietly. “People will ask questions. Some will want to use you, others will want to test you.” His dark eyes were steady. “Figure out who you trust before you need to.”
Then he was gone, following Minhyuk up the stairs.
Hyungwon stood alone in the common room, watching the fish drift past the windows. His shoulder still felt warm where Minhyuk had touched it.
He counted to thirty before following them up.
The first-year dormitory was circular, with five four-poster beds arranged around the perimeter. The ceiling was enchanted to look like the lake’s surface from below—dark water rippling overhead, occasionally broken by the shadow of something swimming past.
Minhyuk had claimed the bed by the largest window. Jinyoung took the one beside him. The other three beds were already occupied—Goyle (thick-necked, small-eyed), Nott (thin, watchful), and Zabini (handsome, bored-looking).
That left the bed across from Minhyuk’s.
Hyungwon set his trunk down and started unpacking mechanically. Three robes, four shirts, two pairs of trousers, one winter cloak. Everything second-hand, purchased from Diagon Alley’s discount bins. The fabric was worn soft, elbows patched, hems uneven.
“Is that all you have?”
Hyungwon looked up. Minhyuk was leaning against his bedpost, watching.
“It’s enough.”
“Hmm.” Minhyuk’s eyes cataloged every threadbare detail. “My mother would have a fit. She thinks appearances are everything.” He paused. “I could lend you—”
“I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself.” Minhyuk sprawled across his bed, utterly at ease. “But you should know—people notice things here. What you wear, who you talk to, how you walk through the corridors. It all means something.”
“I don’t care what people think.”
“Yes, you do.” Minhyuk’s voice was certain. “You just care about different things than most people. You care about being invisible. About not being noticed.” He smiled. “Unfortunately for you, invisible isn’t an option anymore. Not with that name.”
Hyungwon’s hands stilled on his trunk. “Why do you keep talking about my name?”
“Because it matters.” Minhyuk sat up, suddenly serious. “The Gaunts were powerful. Dangerous. They went mad from inbreeding and isolation, but before that—” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “They were Parselmouths. They could speak to serpents. Command them. Some say they could do other things too. Dark things.”
“I can’t speak to snakes,” Hyungwon said.
“Can’t, or haven’t tried?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Jinyoung’s voice cut through the tension: “Leave him alone, Minhyuk. It’s been a long day.”
Minhyuk held Hyungwon’s gaze for three more seconds, then grinned and flopped back onto his bed. “Fine, fine. I’m just making conversation.” He waved a hand lazily. “Get some sleep, Gaunt. Tomorrow’s Charms first period. Flitwick’s supposed to be easy, but you never know.”
Hyungwon finished unpacking in silence, hyperaware of Minhyuk’s eyes on him. When he finally drew his bed curtains closed, he lay in the dark and counted his heartbeats.
One hundred and forty-seven before his pulse steadied.
Through the gap in the curtains, he could see Minhyuk’s bed. The other boy’s breathing had already slowed into sleep—or a convincing imitation of it.
Hyungwon stared at the enchanted ceiling and wondered what it meant to be a Gaunt. Wondered if power could hide inside you, dormant and waiting. Wondered if Minhyuk could see something in him that he couldn’t see himself.
Eventually, he slept.
He dreamed of snakes with human eyes.
Charms class was on the third floor, in a bright classroom with tall windows overlooking the grounds. After the dungeons’ perpetual gloom, the sunlight felt aggressive.
Professor Flitwick was tiny—so tiny he stood on a stack of books to see over his desk. But his voice carried easily, cheerful and precise. “Welcome, welcome! First-years, find a seat, pair up if you haven’t already. Today we begin with the Levitation Charm, a fundamental piece of magic that—”
Hyungwon stopped listening. He was too busy counting seats (thirty-six) and exits (two) and trying to find an empty spot that wasn’t too visible.
“Hey! Over here!”
Hyungwon’s head turned.
A cheerful looking Hufflepuff boy was waving at him from a desk near the middle of the room. The seat beside him was empty.
Hyungwon hesitated. Slytherins sat on the left side of the classroom, Hufflepuffs on the right. Crossing that invisible line felt significant.
“Come on,” The boy called, grinning. “I don’t bite.”
Several students laughed. Hyungwon felt his face heat. He walked to the desk and sat, spine rigid, hands folded on the surface.
“See? Not so bad. I'm Wonho by the way.” His smile was blindingly bright. “I’m glad you’re in this class. I was worried I’d get stuck with someone boring.”
“I am boring,” Hyungwon said.
“Nah. You’re quiet. That’s different.” Wonho pulled out a quill and parchment, cheerful and organized. “I’m terrible at Charms, by the way. I’m more of a hands-on person. Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, that kind of thing. But my dad says every wizard needs to know the basics, so.” He shrugged. “Hopefully you’re better at this than me, because I’m definitely going to need help.”
Hyungwon blinked. “You just met me. How do you know I’m any good?”
“Lucky guess?” Wonho’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Also, you’re a Gaunt. That’s got to count for something, right?”
Hyungwon’s chest tightened. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Saying what?”
“That my name matters. That I should be… something.” He stared at his hands. “I don’t even know what a Gaunt is supposed to be.”
Wonho was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was gentler. “Then you get to decide. That’s the good part about not knowing—you’re not stuck with everyone else’s expectations.” He nudged Hyungwon’s elbow with his own. “You get to figure out who you are. That’s pretty cool, actually.”
Something unknotted in Hyungwon’s chest. Just slightly. Just enough.
“Now then!” Flitwick’s voice rang out. “The Levitation Charm—Wingardium Leviosa—requires precise wand movement and clear intention. Watch carefully—swish and flick, like so—”
Wonho leaned closer to see better, shoulder pressing against Hyungwon’s. He smelled like grass and sunshine and something warm Hyungwon couldn’t name. It was… nice. Uncomplicated.
“You think we’ll get it first try?” Wonho whispered.
“No.”
“Me neither.” Wonho grinned. “Want to make a bet? Whoever gets it first buys Butterbeer next Hogsmeade weekend?”
“I don’t have money for Butterbeer.”
“Then the winner buys the loser Butterbeer. How’s that?” Wonho’s expression was open, hopeful, kind in a way that made Hyungwon’s throat tight.
“Okay,” Hyungwon heard himself say.
“Excellent.” Wonho picked up his wand—dark wood, worn handle—and pointed it at the feather on their desk. “Wingardium Leviosa!”
The feather didn’t move.
“Your wand movement’s wrong,” Hyungwon said. “It’s swish and flick, not wave.”
“Show me?”
Hyungwon demonstrated—clean, precise. The feather wobbled, lifted an inch, then dropped.
“Oh, that’s way better!” Wonho tried again, his shoulder still pressed against Hyungwon’s. This time the feather twitched.
They practiced together, Wonho cheerfully making mistakes and Hyungwon quietly correcting them, and for forty-seven minutes, Hyungwon forgot to count anything.
When Wonho finally got his feather to hover—shaky and sideways, but floating—he whooped loud enough that half the class looked over.
“I did it! Did you see that?” He turned to Hyungwon, face flushed with success. “That means you owe me Butterbeer!”
“You got it wrong,” Hyungwon said, but his mouth was doing something strange. Something that might have been a smile.
“Close enough counts.” Wonho’s grin was infectious. “Thanks for helping. You’re a good teacher.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did.” Wonho’s expression softened. “You were patient. That matters.”
The bell rang. Students began packing up, chattering about their successes and failures. Wonho stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“See you at lunch?”
Hyungwon nodded before he could stop himself.
“Great!” Wonho bounded toward the door, then paused and looked back. “Hey, Hyungwon? Don’t let people tell you who you’re supposed to be. Figure it out yourself. It’s more fun that way.”
Then he was gone, swept into the current of Hufflepuffs.
Hyungwon gathered his things slowly. When he reached the door, Minhyuk was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall with Jinyoung beside him.
“Making friends with the Hufflepuffs?” Minhyuk’s tone was light, but his eyes were calculating.
“We sat together. It’s just a class.”
“Hmm.” Minhyuk pushed off the wall, falling into step beside Hyungwon. “Shin Wonho. Nice boy. Little too nice, if you ask me. But harmless enough.” He glanced sideways. “Just remember—Slytherins don’t usually mix with Hufflepuffs. People notice.”
“You said people notice everything,” Hyungwon said.
“Exactly.” Minhyuk’s hand landed on his shoulder again—warm, possessive. “So be careful what they notice. You’re attached to me now, Gaunt. What you do reflects on both of us.”
“I didn’t ask to be attached to you.”
“Doesn’t matter. You are.” Minhyuk’s grip tightened briefly, then released. “This place eats the weak. And until we know whether you’re a Gaunt in name only or if there’s actual power there—” his smile sharpened, “—you stay close to me. Understood?”
Hyungwon’s pulse hammered. He thought about Wonho’s easy smile, Jinyoung’s quiet warning, Minhyuk’s calculating interest.
“Understood,” he heard himself say.
Minhyuk’s smile widened. “Good. Come on—we have History of Magic next, and if we’re late, Binns won’t even notice.”
They walked toward the dungeons together, Minhyuk’s presence like gravity at Hyungwon’s side.
And somewhere in the cold stone corridors, Hyungwon realized he’d stopped counting his steps.
The hook under his ribs pulled tighter.
He didn’t pull back.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The corridors of Hogwarts were a maze designed by sadists.
Hyungwon had been at the castle for three days, and he still got lost between Potions and Transfiguration. The staircases moved, the portraits lied about directions, and the ghosts gave advice that led directly into walls. He’d started leaving his dormitory fifteen minutes early for everything, just to account for the inevitable wrong turns.
Today, he was following Minhyuk and Jinyoung to History of Magic. They walked with the easy confidence of people who’d memorized the castle’s layout over summer visits, their families wealthy enough to afford “preparation tours.” Hyungwon trailed three steps behind, close enough to not lose them, far enough to maintain the illusion of independence.
“—completely useless,” Minhyuk was saying. “Binns has been dead for decades and he’s still boring. I don’t know how that’s possible.”
“You could just read the textbook,” Jinyoung suggested.
“I could. But then I’d be you, and that sounds exhausting.” Minhyuk glanced back at Hyungwon. “What do you think, Gaunt? Should I apply myself academically, or coast on natural charm?”
“I don’t know.”
“See? Even Hyungwon knows charm is more valuable.” Minhyuk grinned. “Speaking of which—”
He stopped walking so abruptly that Hyungwon nearly collided with him.
They’d rounded a corner into a corridor near the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. Late afternoon light streamed through the windows, illuminating the scene playing out against the far wall.
Three Slytherin boys—fourth or fifth years, judging by their height and the casual cruelty in their postures—had surrounded someone smaller. A first-year, Hyungwon realized. The boy was backed against the stone wall, bag clutched to his chest like a shield.
“Please,” the boy was saying, voice thin. “I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”
“Wasn’t trying to what?” The tallest Slytherin leaned in close. “Exist? Little late for that, Mudblood.”
The word landed like a slap.
Hyungwon’s stomach turned over. He’d heard the term twice before—once from a portrait that had called him “Mudblood-adjacent” for his orphanage background, once from Goyle in the dormitory, explaining why certain students didn’t matter. Both times, the word had tasted poisonous.
“This should be good,” Minhyuk murmured, settling against the wall to watch. Jinyoung stood beside him, expression neutral but eyes sharp with interest.
Hyungwon stood between them, frozen.
The small boy against the wall had dark hair and delicate features, and his eyes were too bright—the kind of brightness that came right before tears. His Hufflepuff robes were perfectly pressed, his bag worn but carefully maintained. Someone had taught him to take care of his things. Someone who loved him.
“I just want to go to my common room,” the boy said, voice steadier now. Braver. “Please move.”
“‘Please move,’” the tall Slytherin mimicked in a high-pitched voice. His friends laughed. “You hear that? The Mudblood has manners.” He grabbed the boy’s bag and dumped it. Books and quills scattered across the floor, parchment rolling away. “Oops.”
The boy dropped to his knees immediately, scrambling to gather his things. His hands were shaking.
“This is pathetic,” one of the other Slytherins said. “Why do they even let them in? It’s not like they belong here.”
“Entertainment value,” the tall one said. He planted his boot on a textbook the boy was reaching for. “What do you say, Mudblood? Want to entertain us?”
Hyungwon’s fingers curled into fists. His nails bit into his palms—pain he could count, could control. His throat was tight.
Do something, a voice in his head whispered. Say something.
But his body wouldn’t move. His mouth wouldn’t open. He just stood there, watching, as the boy gathered his scattered belongings with trembling hands.
“Not even worth the effort,” the tall Slytherin finally said, stepping back. “Come on. Let’s go. The Mudblood can clean up his own mess.”
They walked away, laughing. One of them shoved Minhyuk’s shoulder companionably as they passed. “Lee. Park. Enjoy the show?”
“Riveting,” Minhyuk said lightly.
They disappeared around the corner.
The boy on the floor gathered the last of his books, shoving them into his bag with jerky, desperate movements. His face was red—embarrassment, anger, shame, all bleeding together.
Footsteps approached from the opposite direction.
Wonho appeared, slightly out of breath like he’d been running. His eyes found the boy on the floor, then swept the corridor, landing on Hyungwon, Minhyuk, and Jinyoung.
Something in his expression shuttered.
“Changkyun,” Wonho said gently, crouching beside the boy. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Changkyun’s voice was thick. “They just—my bag—”
“I know. I saw them heading this way.” Wonho helped gather the remaining scattered quills, his movements careful and kind. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
Changkyun stood on shaky legs. Wonho kept a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.
Then Wonho looked directly at Hyungwon.
Not angry. That would have been easier. Anger Hyungwon understood—you could count it, categorize it, defend against it.
This was worse.
Wonho looked sad. Disappointed. Like he’d expected something and found absence instead.
“You just watched,” Wonho said quietly. Not an accusation. Just a fact.
Hyungwon’s throat closed. He wanted to explain—that he’d been frozen, that he hadn’t known what to do, that intervening would have made him a target too and he was barely surviving as it was. But the words stuck behind his teeth.
“Come on, Changkyun,” Wonho said, turning away. His hand stayed gentle on the smaller boy’s shoulder as he guided him toward the Hufflepuff common room entrance.
They disappeared behind the barrel-stack door.
The corridor fell silent.
“Well,” Minhyuk said finally, pushing off the wall. “That was uncomfortable.”
Jinyoung made a noncommittal sound.
“We should go,” Minhyuk continued. “Binns started five minutes ago. Not that it matters.” He started walking, then paused when Hyungwon didn’t follow. “You coming, Gaunt?”
Hyungwon stared at the spot where Changkyun had been kneeling. There was a crack in the floor tile—hairline thin, barely visible. He counted the length of it in millimeters. Estimated forty-three.
“Hyungwon.”
He looked up. Minhyuk’s expression was unreadable.
“Come on,” Minhyuk said, quieter now. “There’s nothing you can do about it now.”
That was the problem, Hyungwon thought. There had been something he could do. And he’d done nothing.
He followed them to History of Magic in silence.
Professor Binns droned on about the goblin rebellions, his ghostly form flickering occasionally. Half the class was asleep within twenty minutes. Hyungwon stared at his parchment, quill motionless, seeing nothing.
He kept replaying the scene. Changkyun’s shaking hands. Wonho’s sad eyes. The weight of his own silence.
You just watched.
Beside him, Minhyuk was doodling in his textbook margins—elaborate serpents with too many coils. He caught Hyungwon looking and grinned, sliding the book over to show a particularly detailed snake eating its own tail.
“Ouroboros,” he whispered. “Symbol of eternity. Also looks cool.”
Hyungwon said nothing.
Minhyuk’s smile faded slightly. He pulled the textbook back and didn’t try to talk again.
When class finally ended—after ninety-six excruciating minutes—students filed out in sleepy clusters. Hyungwon moved with them mechanically, counting steps because it was easier than thinking.
“Hey.” Jinyoung’s hand on his shoulder stopped him in the corridor. Minhyuk was a few paces ahead, talking to another Slytherin about Quidditch tryouts.
Jinyoung’s dark eyes were serious. “What happened earlier—”
“I didn’t do anything,” Hyungwon interrupted.
“I know.” Jinyoung’s voice was careful. “That’s what I’m talking about. You stood there and watched three older students terrorize a first-year, and you did nothing.”
Shame burned hot in Hyungwon’s chest. “I know.”
“Do you?” Jinyoung studied him. “Because you look like you feel guilty about it. And guilt means you think you should have done something different.”
“I don’t know what I should have done.”
“Nothing,” Jinyoung said flatly. “You’re a first-year with no connections and a famous name you don’t understand. Stepping in would have made you the target. Those boys would have destroyed you, then gone back to hurting Changkyun anyway. You made the smart choice.”
The words should have been comforting. They felt like poison.
“Then why do I feel like this?” Hyungwon asked.
Jinyoung’s expression flickered—something that might have been sympathy or resignation. “Because you’re not completely cold yet. Give it time. Hogwarts will cure you of that.”
He walked away, leaving Hyungwon standing alone in the corridor.
Dinner was loud and bright and suffocating.
Hyungwon sat at the Slytherin table, pushing food around his plate without eating. Minhyuk held court three seats down, entertaining a group of older students with some story that had them all laughing. Jinyoung sat beside him, quiet and watchful as always.
Across the Great Hall, Wonho sat with Changkyun at the Hufflepuff table. Two other boys had joined them—one broad-shouldered and serious-looking, another with sharp eyes and an easy smile. The four of them talked quietly, heads bent close like they were sharing secrets.
Wonho caught Hyungwon looking. Held his gaze for three seconds.
Then looked away.
The rejection was small and surgical and hurt more than Hyungwon expected.
He left dinner early, claiming a headache that wasn’t entirely a lie. The walk back to the dungeons took twenty-three minutes because he kept taking wrong turns, and he was grateful for every extra second away from people.
The common room was half-empty. He went straight to the dormitory.
The circular room was dark except for the enchanted ceiling—the lake’s surface rippling with reflected moonlight. Hyungwon lay on his bed fully clothed and stared upward.
He started counting the cracks in the ceiling.
It was meditative, usually. The rhythm of finding each hairline fracture, following its path, cataloging its shape. But tonight the cracks looked like the fracture in the corridor tile. Like Changkyun’s trembling hands. Like the break in Wonho’s expression.
Forty-seven cracks total. He counted them three times to be sure.
The dormitory door opened. Footsteps—two sets. Minhyuk and Jinyoung, probably. Hyungwon kept his eyes on the ceiling, hoping they’d think he was asleep.
Bedsprings creaked as someone sat. Then Minhyuk’s voice, soft in the darkness: “I know you’re awake.”
Hyungwon didn’t respond.
“The counting thing gives you away. Your lips move.”
Silence stretched between them. Hyungwon counted to thirty-seven before Minhyuk spoke again.
“You’re thinking about the Hufflepuff.” Not a question.
“Changkyun,” Hyungwon said. “His name is Changkyun.”
“Right. Changkyun.” Minhyuk’s mattress creaked—the sound of him lying down. “You’re wondering if you should have done something.”
“I should have.”
“Why?” Minhyuk’s voice was genuinely curious. “You didn’t know him. He’s not your responsibility. And those boys were twice your size and three years ahead. What were you supposed to do—challenge them to a duel?”
“I could have said something.”
“And they would have laughed at you. Maybe targeted you next time.” Minhyuk paused. “Look, I get it. You feel bad. But Hogwarts isn’t like the orphanage. There are rules here—unspoken ones, but real. You can’t save everyone. Sometimes you just have to watch.”
“That’s horrible,” Hyungwon whispered.
“That’s survival.” Minhyuk’s voice softened. “You didn’t stop it, Hyungwon. That means you understand how things work here. That means—” a pause, weighted with meaning, “—you’re one of us.”
The words settled over Hyungwon like a blanket made of ice.
One of us.
He thought about Minhyuk’s easy smile as he watched Changkyun scramble for his books. Jinyoung’s neutral expression. The way they’d both stood there, amused spectators to someone else’s humiliation.
He thought about Wonho’s disappointment. The careful kindness in his voice as he helped Changkyun gather his things.
You’re one of us.
Hyungwon closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats. Lost track somewhere around one hundred and twelve.
When he finally slept, he dreamed of cracks spreading across stone—thin fissures that branched and multiplied until the entire ceiling shattered and the lake came pouring through.
He woke gasping at four in the morning, moonlight still rippling overhead, and knew with cold certainty that Minhyuk was right.
He was one of them now.
And the worst part was how easy it had been.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The summons came during breakfast, delivered by Professor McGonagall herself.
“Mr. Gaunt,” she said crisply, appearing at his elbow so suddenly that Hyungwon nearly dropped his fork. “The Headmaster wishes to see you. Immediately.”
The Great Hall didn’t fall silent—it was too large for that—but conversations dimmed in their immediate vicinity. Heads turned. Eyes tracked.
Hyungwon’s stomach dropped. “Did I—is something wrong?”
“The password is Fizzing Whizbee. His office is behind the gargoyle on the third floor, west corridor.” McGonagall’s expression was unreadable. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
She swept away, robes billowing.
Minhyuk leaned across the table, eyebrows raised. “Well. That’s interesting.”
“What did you do?” Jinyoung asked.
“Nothing.” Hyungwon’s mind raced through the past week. Classes attended, homework completed, rules followed. He’d been invisible. Perfect. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Dumbledore doesn’t summon people for nothing.” Minhyuk’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Maybe it’s about your name. The Gaunt thing.”
“Or maybe,” Jinyoung said quietly, “it’s about what happened with Changkyun.”
Ice slid down Hyungwon’s spine. That had been two days ago. Wonho hadn’t looked at him since—hadn’t sat beside him in Charms, had moved to a different table during their shared study period. The absence felt like a wound.
“You didn’t do anything,” Minhyuk said, reading his expression. “Remember? We talked about this.”
You’re one of us, Minhyuk had said. Hyungwon still didn’t know if that was comfort or condemnation.
“I have to go,” Hyungwon muttered, standing.
“Come find us after,” Minhyuk called as he left. “I want to know what the great Albus Dumbledore wants with you.”
The walk to the third floor took fourteen minutes and three wrong turns. Hyungwon’s hands were shaking by the time he found the gargoyle—a ugly stone thing with its mouth frozen in a snarl.
“Fizzing Whizbee,” he said.
The gargoyle sprang aside. A spiral staircase appeared, moving upward like an escalator. Hyungwon stepped on and let it carry him, counting the rotations (seven) to keep his breathing steady.
The staircase deposited him in front of an oak door. He raised his hand to knock—
“Come in, Hyungwon.”
The voice was warm, aged, certain. Hyungwon pushed the door open.
Dumbledore’s office was overwhelming.
Every surface was covered—books stacked on tables, silver instruments whirring and smoking on shelves, portraits of former Headmasters dozing in gilded frames. A magnificent phoenix dozed on a perch near the window, scarlet and gold feathers gleaming. The room smelled like parchment and lemon and something else, something old and powerful that made Hyungwon’s magic itch under his skin.
Dumbledore sat behind an enormous desk, silver beard spilling over purple robes, eyes bright blue behind half-moon spectacles. He was smiling.
“Sit, please.” He gestured to a chintz armchair that looked extremely uncomfortable. “Lemon drop?”
He held out a tin of yellow candies.
Hyungwon sat carefully on the edge of the chair and took one because refusing felt dangerous. “Thank you, sir.”
“Muggle sweets,” Dumbledore said conversationally, popping one into his own mouth. “I find them delightful. Simple pleasures often are.” He settled back in his chair, studying Hyungwon with an intensity that made him want to count something—anything—to escape that gaze. “How are you finding Hogwarts so far?”
“It’s… fine, sir.”
“Fine.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “High praise indeed. And your classes? Your housemates?”
“They’re fine too.”
“I see.” Dumbledore steepled his fingers. “Tell me, Hyungwon—how much do you know about your family?”
The question landed like a stone in still water.
“Nothing,” Hyungwon said carefully. “I grew up in an orphanage. No one ever told me anything.”
“No one at all? Not even after your Hogwarts letter arrived?”
“Professor McGonagall took me to Diagon Alley. She explained magic, showed me how to buy supplies.” Hyungwon’s fingers twisted together in his lap. “She didn’t mention my family.”
“Hmm.” Dumbledore unwrapped another lemon drop, the crinkling paper loud in the quiet office. “The name Gaunt is quite old. Very old, in fact. It traces back—”
“To Salazar Slytherin,” Hyungwon interrupted. “Everyone keeps telling me that.”
“Ah. So you have learned something.” Dumbledore’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And how does that make you feel? Knowing you carry such a legacy?”
Hyungwon’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”
“There’s no ‘supposed to,’ my boy. Only what is.” Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. “Tell me about your parents.”
“I don’t have any, sir.”
“Everyone comes from somewhere.”
The words hung in the air between them. Hyungwon’s chest felt tight, compressed. The office was too warm, too cluttered, too full—all these objects and instruments and watching portraits pressing in from every side.
“I was left at the orphanage when I was a baby,” Hyungwon said, voice flat. “No note, no explanation. The matron said I appeared on the doorstep one morning, wrapped in a blanket. That’s all I know.”
“No blanket with initials? No distinguishing marks?”
“The blanket was green.” Hyungwon remembered suddenly—he hadn’t thought about it in years. “Dark green, with silver thread. The matron sold it.”
Something flickered across Dumbledore’s face. “I see.”
Silence stretched. One of the silver instruments released a puff of smoke. The phoenix made a soft, musical sound in its sleep.
“Why am I here, sir?” Hyungwon asked finally.
Dumbledore sat back, expression gentling. “Because you’re a student at my school, and I like to know my students. Particularly those who arrive with… unusual circumstances.” He paused. “And because I wanted to give you some advice.”
“About what?”
“About choices.” Dumbledore’s voice was soft but heavy with meaning. “Hogwarts is a wonderful place, full of magic and learning and friendship. But it’s also old, and old places keep old secrets. The castle has seen much darkness over the centuries. Some of that darkness lingers.”
Hyungwon’s pulse quickened. “I don’t understand.”
“The Forbidden Forest, for instance.” Dumbledore’s eyes held his. “It’s called forbidden for a reason. Strange things dwell there—creatures that predate the castle, magic that doesn’t answer to wands or words. The forest keeps its own secrets. Best not to wander at night.”
The warning was clear. Too clear. Hyungwon’s hands curled into fists on his thighs. “Have I done something wrong, sir?”
“Not at all.” Dumbledore smiled, warm and grandfatherly. “I simply want you to be careful. You carry a great name, Hyungwon, whether you asked for it or not. That name will shape how people see you. How they treat you. The expectations they place on you.” He paused. “But it doesn’t have to shape who you are. That part is yours to decide.”
Hyungwon didn’t know what to say to that.
“You may go,” Dumbledore said gently. “And Hyungwon? My door is always open. Should you need to talk about anything—anything at all—you need only ask.”
Hyungwon stood on shaky legs. “Thank you, sir.”
He was halfway to the door when Dumbledore spoke again.
“One more thing. Your housemates—Mr. Lee and Mr. Park. They’re ambitious young men from ambitious families. There’s no harm in that. But be careful not to mistake proximity for loyalty. Sometimes the people closest to us see us least clearly.”
Hyungwon left without responding.
The spiral staircase carried him down in silence. His head buzzed with questions—why had Dumbledore really summoned him? What did he know about Hyungwon’s parents? Why the specific warning about the forest?
The forest keeps its own secrets.
The words circled in his mind like a spell.
He made it back to the common room and straight through to the dormitory without stopping. Minhyuk called his name, but Hyungwon ignored him. He needed to think. Needed to count something until the world made sense again.
He lay on his bed and stared at the enchanted ceiling, watching shadows move across the lake’s surface.
Forty-seven cracks. He’d counted them a dozen times now. Knew their patterns like a map.
Best not to wander at night.
Which meant, of course, that he would.
Dumbledore wouldn’t have warned him unless there was something to find. Something dangerous. Something that mattered.
And Hyungwon had spent eleven years in an orphanage learning one critical survival skill: when adults told you not to do something, they were usually protecting themselves, not you.
He waited until midnight.
The dormitory was dark and quiet. Goyle’s snoring provided steady rhythm—thirty-two seconds between each wheeze. Nott and Zabini slept silently. Jinyoung’s breathing was slow and even.
Minhyuk’s bed curtains were drawn. Hyungwon couldn’t tell if he was asleep.
He slipped out of bed, still fully dressed beneath his pajamas, and moved toward the door on silent feet. Years of avoiding the matron’s rounds had taught him how to walk without sound—weight on the balls of his feet, breathing shallow, counting each step.
The common room was empty. The fire had burned down to embers, casting barely enough light to see. The lake windows were black, impenetrable.
Hyungwon crossed to the entrance and whispered the password. The wall opened.
The corridors beyond were darker than he’d expected. The torches burned low at night, conserving magic, and the shadows between them were thick and absolute. Hyungwon moved through them carefully, one hand trailing the wall for guidance.
He’d studied the path to the Entrance Hall during the day. Twenty-three turns, four staircases, one trick corridor that looped back on itself. He counted each one now, checking and rechecking his mental map.
The Entrance Hall was vast and echoing. Moonlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating the marble staircase and the huge hourglasses that tracked house points. Hyungwon crossed it quickly, heading for the massive oak doors.
They were locked.
Of course they were locked.
He pulled his wand—nine inches, blackthorn, surprisingly warm in his palm—and tried to remember the unlocking charm Flitwick had demonstrated. “Alohomora,” he whispered.
Nothing.
He tried again, putting more intention into it. The wand grew warmer. Something clicked.
The door swung open on silent hinges.
Cold October air hit him like a wall. Hyungwon stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him, and found himself on the castle steps overlooking the grounds.
The Forbidden Forest loomed in the distance—a black mass against the starlit sky. Trees pressed together so tightly that no light penetrated. From here, it looked like a void. Like absence given shape.
Best not to wander at night.
Hyungwon descended the steps.
The grass was wet with dew, soaking through his shoes immediately. He didn’t care. He walked across the grounds with purpose, drawn forward by something he couldn’t name—curiosity, defiance, hunger for answers.
The forest’s edge was marked by a split-rail fence, half-rotted and useless. Hyungwon stepped over it.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
Inside the forest, the temperature dropped another ten degrees. The trees were massive—ancient oaks and twisted yews, their branches forming a canopy so dense that no moonlight reached the ground. Hyungwon moved forward slowly, wand raised, whispering “Lumos” until pale light bloomed at the tip.
Silence pressed in from all sides. No owl hoots, no rustling creatures, nothing but his own breathing and the crunch of leaves underfoot.
He counted his steps. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine.
At seventy-three, he heard it.
A voice.
Soft, distant, barely more than a whisper threaded through the dark.
“Come closer.”
Hyungwon froze. His wandlight flickered.
The voice was wrong. Not quite male, not quite female. Old beyond measuring. Familiar in a way that made his scar—the thin line at his hairline he’d had since infancy—burn cold.
“I’ve been waiting for you, my son.”
The words wrapped around Hyungwon’s chest like hands. His pulse hammered. His magic surged under his skin, wild and uncontrolled.
“Who’s there?” he called, voice cracking.
Laughter. Soft and terrible.
“You know who I am. You’ve always known.”
The wandlight died.
Hyungwon stood in absolute darkness, breath coming in sharp gasps, and felt something move in the space around him. Not footsteps. Just… presence. Weight. Ancient and patient and hungry.
“Come find me,” the voice whispered. “When you’re ready. When you understand what you are.”
Then—nothing.
The forest filled with sound again. An owl called. Something small skittered through the underbrush. Wind moved through the branches overhead.
Hyungwon’s wand reignited, light flooding back.
He was alone.
He turned and ran, crashing through the forest without care for silence, branches tearing at his clothes and face. He didn’t stop until he burst out of the tree line, stumbling across the wet grass toward the castle’s warm lights.
At the bottom of the steps, he bent double, gasping.
My son.
The words echoed in his skull.
His scar still burned.
When he finally straightened and climbed the steps on shaking legs, he found the oak door already open.
Minhyuk stood in the doorway, backlit by the Entrance Hall’s torches, expression unreadable.
“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly.
Hyungwon touched his cheek. His fingers came away red—a scratch from a branch, shallow but stinging.
“I went for a walk,” Hyungwon heard himself say.
“In the Forbidden Forest. At midnight.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat. “Right.”
They stared at each other.
“What did you see?” Minhyuk asked.
Hyungwon’s throat closed. He thought about the voice, the cold burning scar, the words that felt like truth and lies tangled together.
My son.
“Nothing,” he whispered.
Minhyuk held his gaze for ten seconds. Twenty. Then he stepped aside.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up before someone else sees you.”
Hyungwon followed him inside, the door closing with a heavy thud behind them.
And somewhere in the Forbidden Forest, something ancient and patient smiled in the dark and began to wait.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Hyungwon couldn’t stop thinking about the voice.
Five days had passed since his midnight excursion into the Forbidden Forest. Five days of classes and meals and pretending everything was normal while that whisper echoed in his skull: My son.
He’d researched in the library during every free period, pulling dusty books on magical creatures, dark artifacts, forest spirits. Nothing matched. Nothing explained a voice that knew him, claimed him, called him son when he’d never had a father.
Everyone comes from somewhere, Dumbledore had said.
The Gaunt name traced back to Salazar Slytherin—everyone kept reminding him of that. Ancient blood. Dark magic. Power that ran in families like a curse.
But my son suggested something else. Something more immediate. More terrifying.
“You’re obsessing,” Jinyoung said on the fifth evening, watching Hyungwon stare blankly at his Potions essay. They were in the common room, clustered around a table near the fire. Minhyuk was sprawled across a sofa, reading a book about famous Quidditch plays. Other students drifted in and out, voices creating a constant background hum.
“I’m working,” Hyungwon said.
“You’ve written the same sentence three times.” Jinyoung tapped the parchment. “See? ‘The bezoar is found in the stomach’—”
“I know what I wrote.” Hyungwon crumpled the parchment and started over. His hands were shaking. He counted his breaths: in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. The rhythm didn’t help.
Minhyuk closed his book with a snap. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been weird all week. Jumpy. Distracted.” Minhyuk sat up, eyes sharp. “Is it about the forest? That night you came back bleeding?”
Hyungwon’s quill stilled. “I told you. I went for a walk.”
“At midnight. In the Forbidden Forest.” Minhyuk’s voice was light, but his gaze was calculating. “And you came back looking like you’d seen a ghost. So either you’re the stupidest Slytherin in history, or you found something.”
“I didn’t find anything.”
“Liar.” Minhyuk leaned forward. “You’re a terrible liar, Hyungwon. Your eyes do this thing—they go flat, like you’re trying to disappear. It’s very obvious.”
“Leave him alone,” Jinyoung said quietly.
“I’m not doing anything. Just making conversation.” Minhyuk stood, stretching. “I’m going to bed. Try not to spiral into madness while I’m gone.”
He left, book tucked under his arm. Jinyoung watched him go, then turned to Hyungwon.
“Whatever you’re thinking about doing,” Jinyoung said, “don’t.”
Hyungwon looked up sharply. “What?”
“You have that look. Like you’re planning something reckless.” Jinyoung’s expression was serious. “Minhyuk’s right—you’ve been off all week. And I know you went into that forest for a reason. You’re thinking about going back.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t.” Jinyoung closed his own book with careful precision. “Whatever’s in there, it’s not worth it. The forest is forbidden for a reason. Students die in there, Hyungwon. First-years especially.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“That’s not—” Jinyoung stopped, jaw tight. “You’re going anyway, aren’t you?”
Hyungwon didn’t answer.
Jinyoung stood, gathering his things. “Fine. Get yourself killed. Just don’t drag Minhyuk into it. He’s already too interested in you.”
He walked away, leaving Hyungwon alone at the table.
The common room slowly emptied as curfew approached. Hyungwon stayed until the fire burned down to embers, staring at his ruined Potions essay and counting the reasons he shouldn’t go back.
He counted twenty-three.
Then he went anyway.
The castle was easier to navigate the second time.
Hyungwon moved through the corridors with confidence born of repetition, counting turns and staircases, avoiding the trick step on the fourth floor and the portrait of the drunk monks who shouted at passersby.
The Entrance Hall doors opened to his unlocking charm without resistance. The grounds spread before him—dark grass, darker forest, moon hanging low and full in a clear October sky.
This time, Hyungwon had prepared.
He wore his warmest cloak, carried his wand in a death grip, and had mentally rehearsed seventeen different escape routes. He’d also left a note under his pillow—just his name and the date, nothing more. If he disappeared, at least someone would know when.
The thought was cold comfort.
He crossed the grounds at a steady pace, counting steps to keep his breathing even. The forest loomed closer with each number. At two hundred and seven, he reached the split-rail fence and stepped over.
The darkness swallowed him immediately.
But this time, Hyungwon was ready for it. “Lumos,” he whispered, and his wand blazed bright. The light carved a sphere of visibility through the pressing black—ancient trees with twisted roots, undergrowth thick with thorns, shadows that moved wrong.
He walked deeper, following instinct more than memory. The forest had no paths, no markers. Just endless trees and the feeling of being watched.
At three hundred and forty-one steps, he stopped.
The air had changed. Colder. Heavier. The silence was absolute—no wind, no creatures, nothing but his own breathing and the hammering of his pulse.
“I came back,” Hyungwon said to the darkness. His voice sounded small and young. “I want answers.”
Silence.
Then—laughter. Soft and terrible and familiar.
“Brave,” the voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere. “Or foolish. Perhaps both.”
“Who are you?” Hyungwon’s wand shook. The light flickered. “What do you want?”
“I want what any father wants.” The voice grew stronger, more solid. “To see my son.”
The air in front of Hyungwon rippled like water.
Something took shape.
It wasn’t human—not entirely. More like the idea of human, made from shadow and smoke and cold green light. Tall, impossibly thin, with features that shifted too quickly to focus on. But the eyes—the eyes were stable. Burning green, bright as poison, fixed on Hyungwon with an intensity that made his skin crawl.
“You’re not real,” Hyungwon whispered.
“Not yet.” The figure drifted closer. Moonlight passed through it like fog. “But I will be. Soon. With your help.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are mine, Hyungwon Gaunt.” The voice was certain, absolute. “My son. My blood. The piece of me that survived.”
The scar at Hyungwon’s hairline burned ice-cold. He pressed his free hand to it, gasping. “No—”
“Yes.” The figure was close enough now that Hyungwon could feel the cold radiating from it. “I placed you carefully. Hid you among Muggles where no one would think to look. Gave you a name that would mark you when the time came.” A pause. “The time has come.”
“You’re lying.” But even as Hyungwon said it, pieces clicked together. The orphanage doorstep. The green blanket with silver thread. The name that made everyone stare. The way magic felt under his skin—wild, hungry, wrong.
“I am Lord Voldemort,” the figure said softly. “The greatest wizard who ever lived. And you—” it reached out a hand made of smoke, ”—are my legacy.”
“No.” Hyungwon stumbled backward. His heel caught on a root. He nearly fell. “That’s—you’re dead. Everyone says you’re dead.”
“Death is not the end.” Voldemort’s form flickered, grew more solid. “I made sure of that. I have waited thirteen years in shadow, tethered to this place by old magic. Waiting for the right moment. The right tool.” His eyes burned brighter. “Waiting for you to be old enough to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Your purpose.” Voldemort drifted closer still. “You will bring me back, my son. You will be the vessel through which I return. Together, we will reshape the world. No more hiding. No more weakness. Only power.”
The words wrapped around Hyungwon’s throat like hands. His scar burned so cold it felt like fire. His magic surged—wild, uncontrolled, responding to something in Voldemort’s presence.
“I don’t want power,” Hyungwon gasped. “I just want—”
“To be left alone?” Voldemort’s laugh was cruel. “There is no alone. Not for us. We are destined for greatness or destruction. There is no middle ground.”
“I’m not like you.”
“You are exactly like me.” Voldemort’s form stabilized—almost solid now, almost real. “Abandoned. Alone. Watching the world from the outside and counting the ways it could break. You think I don’t know? I was you once. Before I understood what I was capable of.”
The truth of it hit like a physical blow. Hyungwon saw himself reflected in those burning green eyes—the counting, the watching, the careful distance. The hunger for something he couldn’t name.
“No,” he whispered.
“Yes.” Voldemort reached out. His smoke-hand passed through Hyungwon’s chest—cold that burned, presence that violated. “You are mine. You have always been mine. And when you are ready—when you understand what you are—you will come to me willingly.”
The hand withdrew. Voldemort’s form began to dissolve, bleeding back into shadow.
“I will wait,” the voice whispered as it faded. “I have waited thirteen years. I can wait a little longer.”
Then—nothing.
The forest filled with sound again. Wind rustling branches. Something howling in the distance. The moon emerged from behind clouds, flooding the clearing with silver light.
Hyungwon stood frozen, hand pressed to his burning scar, magic screaming under his skin.
My son.
He ran.
Branches tore at his face and clothes. Roots grabbed at his feet. He crashed through the undergrowth without care for direction, driven by pure animal panic. His wandlight bounced wildly, illuminating fragments—twisted trees, thorned vines, eyes reflecting in the dark.
He burst from the forest’s edge gasping, stumbled across the wet grass, made it halfway to the castle before his legs gave out.
He fell to his knees, retching.
You are exactly like me.
The words circled in his skull. True. Terrifying. Undeniable.
Footsteps approached—running. Hyungwon looked up.
Minhyuk stood three meters away, chest heaving like he’d been sprinting. His hair was disheveled, robes thrown on hastily, eyes wide and bright with something Hyungwon couldn’t name.
They stared at each other.
“How long—” Hyungwon started.
“Long enough.” Minhyuk’s voice was strange—breathless, almost excited. “I followed you from the common room. Watched you go into the forest. I stayed at the tree line but I saw—” He stopped. Started again. “What the fuck was that?”
Hyungwon couldn’t speak. His throat had closed.
Minhyuk crossed the distance between them in four strides and grabbed Hyungwon’s wrist, hauling him to his feet. His grip was iron-tight, trembling slightly.
“There was something in there,” Minhyuk said. “A figure. Made of smoke. And it was talking to you.” His eyes searched Hyungwon’s face frantically. “What did it say? What did it want?”
“Let go.” Hyungwon tried to pull away. Minhyuk’s grip tightened.
“Not until you tell me.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “I heard it call you ‘son.’ I heard it, Hyungwon. So don’t fucking lie to me and say it was nothing.”
The world tilted. Hyungwon’s knees buckled. Minhyuk caught him, both hands on his shoulders now, holding him upright.
“Who are you?” Minhyuk whispered. “Really?”
Hyungwon’s scar burned. His magic burned. Everything burned.
“I don’t know,” he gasped.
Minhyuk stared at him for ten seconds. Twenty. Then he pulled Hyungwon forward, half-carrying him toward the castle.
“We need to get inside,” Minhyuk said. “Before someone sees. Before—” He stopped. “We’ll figure this out. Together. But not here.”
They made it to the Entrance Hall in silence. Through the corridors, down to the dungeons, into the common room—empty except for dying embers.
Minhyuk shoved Hyungwon into an armchair and stood over him, arms crossed.
“Talk,” he said. “Now.”
Hyungwon stared at the fire. Counted the remaining embers (nineteen). His hands were still shaking.
“It said it was Lord Voldemort,” he heard himself say. “It said—” his voice broke, “—it said I’m his son.”
Silence.
When Hyungwon finally looked up, Minhyuk’s expression was unreadable. Shock, calculation, fear, excitement—all bleeding together.
“Prove it,” Minhyuk said quietly.
“What?”
“Your scar.” Minhyuk gestured. “You keep touching it. And back in the forest, when that thing reached for you—I saw your scar glow. So show me.”
Hyungwon’s hand went to his hairline automatically. The thin line he’d had since infancy, barely visible, never explained.
Slowly, he pushed his hair back.
The scar was no longer a simple line. It had branched, fractured into a pattern like lightning. And in the dim firelight, it gleamed faint green.
Minhyuk leaned closer, eyes wide. He reached out slowly, fingers hovering just above the mark.
“Don’t—” Hyungwon started.
Minhyuk’s fingertips brushed the scar.
Pain exploded through Hyungwon’s skull—white-hot and freezing simultaneously. Images flashed: a dark room, a baby crying, green light, screaming—
Minhyuk jerked his hand back, gasping. “Holy shit.”
They stared at each other.
“You’re really his son,” Minhyuk whispered. “You’re really—” He laughed suddenly, high and slightly unhinged. “This is insane. This is impossible. Voldemort’s son, hidden at Hogwarts, and I—” He stopped. “I found you first.”
The possessiveness in his voice made Hyungwon’s skin crawl.
“I don’t want this,” Hyungwon said. “I don’t want any of this.”
“Too late.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp, bright, hungry. “You’re involved now. We both are.” He crouched in front of Hyungwon’s chair, eye to eye. “But that’s okay. Because I’m going to help you.”
“Help me do what?”
“Figure out what you are.” Minhyuk’s hand found Hyungwon’s wrist again—not grabbing this time, just holding. His skin was warm. “Figure out what you’re capable of. Figure out—” his voice dropped, “—if that thing in the forest was telling the truth.”
“It was,” Hyungwon whispered. “I felt it. In my scar. In my magic. It was telling the truth.”
“Then we need to be smart.” Minhyuk’s grip tightened. “This stays between us. No one else can know—not Jinyoung, not Dumbledore, definitely not any professors. Just us.”
“Why?”
“Because—” Minhyuk’s eyes blazed, “—if people find out you’re Voldemort’s son, they’ll either try to use you or kill you. Maybe both. But if it’s just our secret—” he smiled, “—then we control the narrative. We decide what happens next.”
The logic was sound. Terrifying, but sound.
“I don’t trust you,” Hyungwon said.
“Smart.” Minhyuk’s smile widened. “But you don’t have a choice. I know your secret now. I saw everything. And I could tell—” he paused, “—or I could protect you. Your call.”
It wasn’t really a choice. They both knew it.
“Okay,” Hyungwon whispered.
“Okay.” Minhyuk stood, pulling Hyungwon up with him. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Figure out a plan.” He paused at the dormitory stairs. “And Hyungwon? This—” he gestured between them, “—this makes you mine now. You understand that, right?”
The words settled over Hyungwon like chains.
“Yes,” he heard himself say.
Minhyuk’s smile was blinding, terrible, absolutely certain.
“Good. Welcome to the family, Prince.”
He disappeared up the stairs.
Hyungwon stood alone in the common room, watching the last ember die, and knew with cold certainty that his life had just been divided into before and after.
The hook under his ribs had become a collar.
And he’d put it on himself.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Morning came too bright and too loud.
Hyungwon woke to Goyle’s snoring and pale underwater light filtering through the enchanted ceiling. His head throbbed. His scar ached—a dull, constant burn that hadn’t faded since the forest.
You are mine.
He pressed his palm to his forehead, feeling the raised branches of the mark. In the common room last night, it had glowed green. This morning, it looked like an ordinary scar again—thin, lightning-shaped, barely visible beneath his hair.
But he knew what it meant now.
My son.
“You look like death.”
Hyungwon’s hand dropped. Minhyuk stood beside his bed, already dressed, hair perfect. He looked completely unbothered—like he hadn’t spent half the night watching Hyungwon meet a ghost in the Forbidden Forest.
“I’m fine,” Hyungwon muttered.
“Liar.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp. “But that’s okay. We’ll work on your lying. Come on—breakfast. We need to talk strategy.”
“I don’t want to talk about—”
“Not here.” Minhyuk’s eyes flicked toward the other beds. Zabini was stirring. “Too many ears. Get dressed.”
He walked away before Hyungwon could argue.
Hyungwon dressed mechanically—clean robes, second-hand but carefully maintained. His hands shook while buttoning his shirt. He counted the buttons (seven) to steady himself, then his breaths (forty-three before he felt remotely human), then his steps to the common room (twenty-one).
Minhyuk and Jinyoung were waiting by the fireplace. They looked like a matched set—both elegant, both confident, both watching Hyungwon with expressions that made his stomach twist.
“Let’s go,” Minhyuk said.
The Great Hall was chaos as usual. Hundreds of students eating and laughing and passing plates. Owls swooping overhead with mail. The enchanted ceiling showed pale morning sky, clouds drifting.
Hyungwon followed Minhyuk to the Slytherin table, hyperaware of every eye that tracked their movement. Did they know? Could they tell something had changed?
You’re Voldemort’s son, a voice whispered in his head. They’ll see it eventually. They’ll know what you are.
“Sit.” Minhyuk gestured to a spot near the middle of the table. Not isolated, but not prominently visible either. Strategic.
Hyungwon sat. Jinyoung took the seat across from him, expression unreadable. Minhyuk settled beside Hyungwon—close enough their shoulders touched.
“Eat something,” Minhyuk said, loading Hyungwon’s plate with toast and eggs. “You look pale. People will notice.”
“I don’t care what people notice.”
“Yes, you do.” Minhyuk’s voice was light but his eyes were steel. “You care very much. That’s why you count everything—to control what people see. But you can’t control this.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “So we need to be smart.”
“About what?” Jinyoung asked carefully.
Minhyuk glanced at him. Something passed between them—a look Hyungwon couldn’t interpret.
“Nothing,” Minhyuk said. “Private matter. I’ll explain later.”
Jinyoung’s jaw tightened. “Minhyuk—”
“Later.”
The word was final. Jinyoung looked between them—Minhyuk’s possessive proximity, Hyungwon’s careful stillness—and something in his expression shuttered.
“Fine,” Jinyoung said quietly. “Keep your secrets.”
He turned his attention to his breakfast.
Hyungwon forced himself to eat toast. It tasted like ash. His scar throbbed with every heartbeat. Across the hall, he could see Wonho at the Hufflepuff table, laughing with Changkyun and two other boys. The sight made something twist in his chest.
Wonho hadn’t looked at him in days. Not since the corridor incident. Not since Hyungwon had stood silent while Changkyun was terrorized.
You just watched, Wonho had said. Sad, not angry.
Hyungwon looked away.
“So,” Minhyuk said conversationally, “about last night—”
“Don’t.” Hyungwon’s hand clenched on his fork.
“—I think we should establish some ground rules. For instance—” Minhyuk’s knee pressed against Hyungwon’s under the table, warm and grounding and claiming, “—you don’t go into the forest alone anymore. If you need to… investigate, I go with you.”
“I’m not going back there.”
“You will.” Minhyuk’s voice was certain. “Because you want answers. And that thing—whatever it was—it has them.” He paused. “But you’re not stupid enough to face it alone. Not after last night.”
Hyungwon’s throat was tight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Minhyuk smiled. “I saw enough. A figure made of smoke. A voice calling you son. Your scar glowing like—” He stopped, eyes gleaming. “Like dark magic. Old dark magic.”
Jinyoung’s fork clattered against his plate. “What?”
“Nothing,” Hyungwon said quickly. “He’s making things up.”
“Am I?” Minhyuk tilted his head. “Because it seems very real to me. Very… significant.”
The air between them crackled with tension. Hyungwon could feel Jinyoung’s eyes on him, calculating, suspicious.
“We’ll discuss it later,” Minhyuk said smoothly. “Somewhere private. Right now—” he gestured with his toast, “—we eat. We pretend everything’s normal. We go to Herbology and suffer through Sprout’s lecture on Mandrakes. Agreed?”
Hyungwon didn’t have the energy to argue. “Fine.”
“Excellent.” Minhyuk’s hand found Hyungwon’s knee under the table—just for a second, a quick squeeze. “See? We’re already working together.”
The touch burned through Hyungwon’s robes. He counted to seventeen before his pulse steadied.
Jinyoung watched it all in silence, jaw tight.
They were halfway through breakfast when something shifted in the hall.
Not sound—the noise level stayed constant. But attention moved. Conversations paused, heads turned toward the entrance.
Hyungwon looked up.
A boy stood at the edge of the Great Hall, scanning the room with careful precision. Ravenclaw robes, perfectly tailored. Slim build, delicate features, dark hair swept back from an intelligent face. He moved with controlled grace, nothing wasted, everything calculated.
Minhyuk went absolutely still.
“Is that—” Jinyoung started.
“Kihyun,” Minhyuk breathed.
The name carried weight Hyungwon didn’t understand. But he understood Minhyuk’s reaction—the sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing had changed, the expression on his face that looked like hunger and hope and hurt all tangled together.
The Ravenclaw—Kihyun—finished his scan of the room. His eyes landed on their table. On Minhyuk specifically.
Something flickered across his face. Too quick to read.
Then he started walking.
Toward the Slytherin table.
The hall’s attention sharpened. This didn’t happen—students didn’t cross house boundaries at meals. The four tables might as well have been four countries, borders carefully maintained. Gryffindors ate with Hufflepuffs sometimes, Ravenclaws with both. But Slytherin?
Slytherin sat alone.
Until now.
Kihyun reached their section of the table and stopped. He didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge the stares. Just stood there with perfect posture, looking at Minhyuk.
“Lee Minhyuk,” he said. His voice was soft, controlled, devastatingly polite. “It’s been a while.”
“Three months.” Minhyuk’s voice came out rough. “Since your parents—since you—”
“Yes.” Kihyun’s expression remained neutral. “Things change. May I sit?”
He gestured to the empty space beside Jinyoung.
The question hung in the air. Around them, conversations had stopped. Everyone was watching—Slytherins with suspicion, other houses with curiosity. This moment would be dissected and discussed for weeks.
“Of course,” Minhyuk said, too quickly. “Sit. Please.”
Kihyun sat with economical grace. He didn’t look at the food, didn’t acknowledge anyone else at the table. His attention stayed fixed on Minhyuk.
“Park Jinyoung,” he said, nodding to Jinyoung. “You look well.”
“Yoo Kihyun.” Jinyoung’s voice was careful. “This is… unexpected.”
“I imagine so.” Kihyun’s eyes finally moved, landing on Hyungwon. “And you must be the Gaunt everyone’s discussing. Hyungwon, correct?”
Hyungwon nodded, unable to speak. Up close, Kihyun was even more striking—fine-boned and sharp-eyed, with an air of contained intelligence that made Hyungwon feel examined and cataloged.
“Interesting,” Kihyun murmured. Then, to Minhyuk: “We should talk. Privately.”
“Now?” Minhyuk’s voice cracked slightly.
“After breakfast. The library? Third floor, restricted section entrance. No one goes there during morning classes.” Kihyun stood as smoothly as he’d sat. “I trust you remember the way.”
He walked away without waiting for an answer.
The hall erupted in whispers the moment he was gone.
Minhyuk sat frozen, staring at his plate like it held answers. His hands were shaking.
“That was—” Jinyoung started.
“I know.” Minhyuk’s voice was barely audible.
“He broke the contact three months ago. His parents sent that letter—”
“I know.” Minhyuk looked up. His eyes were too bright. “But he’s here now. He came to us. To me.”
“Why?” Jinyoung’s voice was flat. “After three months of silence, why now?”
Minhyuk’s gaze slid to Hyungwon. “Good question.”
Hyungwon’s stomach dropped. “What does that mean?”
“It means—” Minhyuk leaned closer, voice dropping, “—that Kihyun doesn’t do anything without reason. He’s brilliant. Strategic. Every move calculated.” He paused. “And he just made a very public statement by sitting at the Slytherin table. So the question is: what changed?”
The weight of Minhyuk’s attention was crushing. Hyungwon counted his breaths—in for four, hold for seven—
“You think it’s because of me,” Hyungwon said quietly.
“I know it’s because of you.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp. “You’re the new variable. The Gaunt. The mystery.” His eyes gleamed. “And Kihyun’s family has always been obsessed with bloodlines and legacy. If he heard about you—”
“Then he’s here to investigate,” Jinyoung finished. His expression was grim. “To see if the rumors are true. To assess the threat.”
“Or opportunity,” Minhyuk corrected. “Kihyun thinks in opportunities.”
Hyungwon’s scar throbbed. He pressed his hand to his forehead, feeling the raised lightning-branch beneath his hair.
They’ll know what you are, the voice in his head whispered. They’ll see.
“I should go,” Hyungwon muttered, standing.
“Sit down.” Minhyuk’s hand shot out, gripping Hyungwon’s wrist. Not hard, but firm. Grounding. “You’re not running. Not from this.”
“I have class—”
“In forty minutes. Sit.” Minhyuk’s grip tightened fractionally. “We need to talk about what you’re going to say if Kihyun asks about you.”
“Why would he ask about me?”
“Because—” Minhyuk pulled Hyungwon back down, keeping hold of his wrist, “—I’m going to tell him about you. About what we found. About what you are.”
Horror flooded through Hyungwon. “You can’t—”
“I can. I will.” Minhyuk’s voice was steel wrapped in silk. “Kihyun and I—we go back years. Our families are—were—close. If anyone can help us figure out what’s happening, what that thing in the forest wants, it’s him.” He leaned closer. “But you need to trust me.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Yes, you do.” Minhyuk’s smile was devastating. “Because I’m the only one who knows your secret. I’m the only one who saw. And I haven’t told anyone—not even Jinyoung.” His thumb pressed against Hyungwon’s pulse point. “That makes us bound, Hyungwon. Whether you like it or not.”
The words settled like chains.
Hyungwon tried to pull away. Minhyuk held firm.
“Let him go,” Jinyoung said quietly.
“He’s fine.” Minhyuk’s eyes never left Hyungwon’s face. “Aren’t you?”
Hyungwon counted to twenty-three before answering. “Yes.”
“Good.” Minhyuk released him finally. “Now finish your breakfast. We have plans to make.”
The day crawled by in a haze.
Herbology with Professor Sprout—Mandrakes that screamed when repotted, fifty-three students wearing earmuffs, dirt under Hyungwon’s nails that wouldn’t wash out.
Charms with Flitwick—Wonho sitting three rows away, deliberately not looking over, the absence of his warmth like a wound.
Lunch—Minhyuk’s constant presence at his elbow, Jinyoung’s watchful silence, whispers following them through the corridors.
Did you see the Ravenclaw at breakfast?
—sat at the Slytherin table—
—Yoo Kihyun, his family broke with the Lees last summer—
—something’s happening—
By the time classes ended, Hyungwon’s nerves were wire-thin.
He found Minhyuk and Jinyoung in the common room, sitting by the fire in their usual spot. They looked like they’d been arguing—Jinyoung’s jaw was tight, Minhyuk’s expression stormy.
“What?” Hyungwon asked, approaching carefully.
“Nothing.” Minhyuk stood abruptly. “Come on. Library. Kihyun’s waiting.”
“I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are.” Minhyuk’s voice left no room for argument. “Because if you don’t, I’ll tell Kihyun everything anyway, and you won’t be there to control the narrative.” He moved closer, voice dropping. “This is happening, Hyungwon. You can participate, or you can hide. Your choice.”
It wasn’t really a choice.
“Fine,” Hyungwon whispered.
Minhyuk’s smile was blinding. “Excellent. Let’s go meet an old friend.”
The library’s third floor was deserted.
Most students avoided the restricted section—too many rules, too many monitoring charms. But Kihyun stood there like he owned it, leaning against a bookshelf, reading a tome that looked older than the castle.
He looked up when they approached. His eyes went to Minhyuk first—a flicker of something warm and complicated—then to Hyungwon.
“Gaunt,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have choices.” Kihyun closed his book with precise care. “The question is whether you’re willing to accept their consequences.”
Minhyuk moved to Kihyun’s side—not quite touching, but close. The air between them vibrated with history. “It’s good to see you.”
“Is it?” Kihyun’s voice was soft. “Your letters suggested otherwise.”
“You stopped answering.”
“My parents stopped allowing me to answer. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Minhyuk’s jaw tightened. “It felt the same from where I was standing.”
Jinyoung cleared his throat. “Maybe we should focus on why we’re here.”
Kihyun’s eyes stayed on Minhyuk for three more seconds. Then he nodded. “Right. Business first.” He turned to Hyungwon. “Tell me about your family, Gaunt.”
“Why?”
“Because—” Kihyun’s gaze was surgical, “—the Gaunt line was supposed to have died out decades ago. Marvolo Gaunt and his children—Morfin and Merope—were the last recorded members. All dead or vanished by the 1940s. Yet here you are, carrying the name, sorted into Slytherin, displaying all the markers of old blood.”
Hyungwon’s throat closed. “I was raised in an orphanage. I don’t know anything about my family.”
“Convenient.” Kihyun tilted his head. “Or suspicious. Which is it?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Partial truth.” Kihyun’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something. I can see it in the way you hold yourself. The way you count—” he gestured vaguely, “—everything. You’re managing anxiety, controlling information. The question is: what information?”
Minhyuk stepped forward. “He’s Voldemort’s son.”
The words dropped like stones.
Kihyun went absolutely still. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Minhyuk’s voice was defiant. “Hyungwon is the Dark Lord’s son. Hidden. Protected. Placed at an orphanage to keep him safe until the right time.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” Minhyuk grabbed Hyungwon’s arm, pulling him forward. “Show him.”
“Don’t—” Hyungwon started.
But Minhyuk was already pushing his hair back, exposing the scar. The lightning-branched mark that had glowed green last night.
Kihyun leaned closer, studying it with clinical precision. “Where did you get this?”
“I was born with it,” Hyungwon whispered.
“Scars aren’t hereditary.”
“This one is.” Minhyuk’s grip on Hyungwon’s arm tightened. “I saw it glow last night. In the Forbidden Forest. When Hyungwon met—” he paused, “—his father.”
Kihyun’s expression didn’t change. But his eyes sharpened, calculating. “You’re claiming Hyungwon met Voldemort’s… what? Ghost? Echo?”
“Something.” Minhyuk’s voice carried absolute certainty. “Something powerful. Something that knew him. Called him son.”
Silence stretched.
Kihyun studied them both—Minhyuk’s desperate certainty, Hyungwon’s trapped stillness. Then he stepped back.
“If this is true,” he said slowly, “then you’re in more danger than you realize. All of you.”
“We know—” Minhyuk started.
“No. You don’t.” Kihyun’s voice cut like glass. “If Voldemort has a son—a heir, a vessel, a weapon—then every side of this war will want to use him. The Death Eaters to bring back their master. The Ministry to eliminate the threat. Dumbledore to—” he paused, “—study. Control. Manipulate.”
Hyungwon’s chest tightened. “I don’t want any of that.”
“What you want is irrelevant.” Kihyun’s eyes were pitiless. “You exist. That’s enough.” He turned to Minhyuk. “Why tell me?”
“Because I need help.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “Because you’re the smartest person I know. Because—” he stopped. “Because I trust you.”
Something flickered across Kihyun’s face. “You shouldn’t.”
“But I do.”
They stared at each other. The air between them was charged, complicated, heavy with unspoken history.
Finally, Kihyun sighed. “I need to think. Research. Confirm.” He looked at Hyungwon. “Don’t go into that forest again. If there’s something there—something powerful enough to manifest, to speak—then you’re playing with forces you don’t understand.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.” Kihyun picked up his book. “I’ll be in touch. Minhyuk knows how to reach me.” He paused. “And for what it’s worth—I’m sorry. About my parents. About the letters. About… everything.”
“Kihyun—” Minhyuk started.
“Don’t.” Kihyun’s voice was soft but final. “Not here. Not yet.”
He walked away, robes swirling.
Minhyuk watched him go, expression devastated.
“Well,” Jinyoung said quietly, “that went better than expected.”
“Did it?” Minhyuk’s voice was hollow.
“He didn’t refuse. He’s going to help. That’s—” Jinyoung stopped. “That’s something.”
Minhyuk turned to Hyungwon. His eyes were too bright. “You see? I told you. We’re in this together now. You, me, Jinyoung, Kihyun. All of us bound by your secret.”
The chains tightened.
Hyungwon counted to forty-seven before he could speak. “I didn’t want this.”
“No one does.” Minhyuk’s smile was broken, beautiful. “But here we are.”
That night, in Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun sat at his desk and pulled out parchment.
His hand shook slightly as he wrote.
Mother, Father—
I’ve made contact with Lee Minhyuk as you suspected I would. The pull is still there. I’m managing it.
But there’s something else. Something you need to know.
There’s a boy. First-year. Hyungwon Gaunt—yes, that Gaunt line. Minhyuk is obsessed with him. Claims the boy is… significant. Dangerous.
I don’t know if it’s true. But I’m going to find out.
I’ll report when I know more.
—K
He sealed the letter. Attached it to his family’s owl. Watched it disappear into the night.
Then he pressed his hands to his face and tried not to think about the way Minhyuk had looked at him.
The way he’d said I trust you like it was a prayer.
The way Kihyun was about to betray that trust for the second time.
Outside his window, storm clouds gathered.
Inside his chest, something cracked.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The tests started small.
Three days after the library meeting with Kihyun, Minhyuk appeared at Hyungwon’s elbow during the walk to Transfiguration.
“See that first-year?” He nodded toward a small Hufflepuff struggling with an overloaded bag. Books were sliding out, threatening to spill across the corridor. “Trip him.”
Hyungwon stopped walking. “What?”
“You heard me.” Minhyuk’s voice was light, conversational. “Stick your foot out. Make it look accidental.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see if you will.”
Around them, students flowed past—laughing, talking, oblivious. The Hufflepuff was getting closer, books sliding further. Any second now they’d scatter across the floor.
Hyungwon’s hands clenched. “No.”
“No?” Minhyuk’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting. Is it morality, or fear of getting caught?”
“Does it matter?”
“Very much.” Minhyuk stepped closer. His voice dropped. “One means you’re weak. The other means you’re smart. Which is it, Hyungwon?”
The Hufflepuff passed them. His bag split open. Books tumbled everywhere—thud thud thud on stone. The boy dropped to his knees, scrambling to gather them, face red with embarrassment.
No one helped.
Minhyuk watched Hyungwon watch the scene. “You wanted to help him.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp, pleased. “You wanted to. But you didn’t. Because helping would have marked you as different. Weak. A target.” He leaned in, breath warm against Hyungwon’s ear. “You’re learning.”
He walked away.
Hyungwon stood frozen, staring at the Hufflepuff gathering his books alone. His chest felt hollow.
Behind him, Jinyoung’s voice: “He does this to everyone, you know.”
Hyungwon turned. Jinyoung stood three paces back, expression unreadable.
“Tests them,” Jinyoung continued. “Pushes until he finds the breaking point. Sees what they’re made of.” He paused. “You passed, by the way. In case you were wondering.”
“That doesn’t feel like passing.”
“No,” Jinyoung agreed quietly. “It never does.”
The tests continued.
That afternoon in Potions, Minhyuk “accidentally” knocked over a Gryffindor’s cauldron. The contents—a half-finished Cure for Boils—splashed across the floor. Snape’s eyes snapped to the commotion.
“Who did this?” His voice was silk over steel.
Silence. The Gryffindor looked terrified.
Minhyuk caught Hyungwon’s eye across the classroom. Raised one eyebrow. What will you do?
Hyungwon could speak up. Could tell the truth. Could—
“It was me, Professor,” the Gryffindor said shakily. “I was careless.”
“Twenty points from Gryffindor.” Snape’s gaze lingered on Minhyuk for a long moment, then moved to Hyungwon. Something flickered in his expression. “Clean it up. Carefully.”
After class, Minhyuk fell into step beside Hyungwon in the corridor. “You almost spoke.”
“I didn’t.”
“But you wanted to.” Minhyuk’s voice carried approval. “I could see it. The way your hand moved toward your mouth. The breath you took.” He smiled. “But you stopped yourself. Good instinct.”
“It wasn’t right.”
“Right is a luxury.” Minhyuk’s hand found Hyungwon’s shoulder, squeezed once. “You’re starting to understand that.”
By the end of the week, Hyungwon had watched Minhyuk:
• Steal a quill from a second-year Ravenclaw (forty-three seconds of the girl searching, confused)
• Lie to Professor Flitwick about completing an essay (smile bright, voice certain, no hesitation)
• Spread a rumor about a Slytherin fifth-year that resulted in a midnight duel (spectators: nineteen; injuries: minor but humiliating)
Each time, Minhyuk’s eyes found Hyungwon’s afterward. Are you watching? Do you see?
Hyungwon saw.
He also noticed that he’d stopped flinching. Stopped counting his breaths every time something cruel happened. The orphanage had taught him how to survive through stillness. Hogwarts was teaching him to survive through silence.
He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Charms class on Friday brought unexpected relief.
Hyungwon took his usual seat near the middle—not too visible, not too isolated. He’d been sitting alone since Wonho stopped joining him three weeks ago. The absence had become routine. Expected.
Then Wonho appeared in the doorway.
Their eyes met across the classroom. Wonho hesitated—just for a second, expression uncertain—then crossed to Hyungwon’s desk.
“Is this seat taken?”
Hyungwon’s throat closed. “No.”
Wonho sat, setting his bag down with careful precision. He didn’t smile, but his presence felt like warmth breaking through stone.
“I’m sorry,” Wonho said quietly, pulling out his textbook. “For avoiding you. That wasn’t fair.”
“You had a reason.”
“Yeah, but—” Wonho’s jaw tightened. “Changkyun said I was being childish. That you’re new here, you don’t know the rules yet. That I should give you a chance to learn them.” He finally looked at Hyungwon directly. “So. Chance given. Don’t waste it.”
The words should have stung. Instead, they felt like possibility.
“I won’t,” Hyungwon said.
Flitwick began the lesson—Severing Charms, precise wand movements, the importance of intention. Wonho’s quill scratched steady notes. Hyungwon tried to focus, but his attention kept drifting to the boy beside him.
Wonho had come back.
Despite everything—despite the corridor, despite Hyungwon’s silence, despite the company he kept—Wonho had come back.
“You’re staring,” Wonho murmured without looking up from his parchment.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just… focus. This charm is dangerous if you mess it up. Last year someone accidentally severed three fingers. Madam Pomfrey reattached them, but still.” Wonho’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “I’m attached to my fingers. I’d like to keep them.”
“That’s a terrible joke.”
“I know.” Now Wonho did smile—small, tentative, real. “But you’re not counting anymore. So it worked.”
Hyungwon realized his lips had stopped moving. His hands had unclenched. For the first time in weeks, he felt almost… steady.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Wonho’s smile widened. “That’s what friends do, right? Keep each other grounded.”
Friends. The word settled warm in Hyungwon’s chest.
They practiced the Severing Charm together—Wonho’s attempts enthusiastic but imprecise, Hyungwon’s controlled but hesitant. By the end of class, they’d successfully severed exactly zero practice ropes, but Wonho was laughing and Hyungwon had almost forgotten about the tests and Minhyuk’s watching eyes and the voice in the forest that called him son.
Almost.
When the bell rang, Wonho gathered his things slowly. “Hey, um. There’s a study group tomorrow. Me, Changkyun, Jooheon, and Shownu. We’re working on Transfiguration homework in the library. You could… join us? If you want?”
Hyungwon’s chest tightened. “I don’t know if—”
“Just think about it.” Wonho’s expression was open, hopeful. “No pressure. But the offer’s there.”
He left before Hyungwon could respond.
Hyungwon gathered his books mechanically, mind spinning. A study group. With Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors. People who didn’t test him, didn’t watch him, didn’t treat kindness like currency.
“That looked cozy.”
Hyungwon’s head snapped up. Minhyuk leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“It was just class.”
“Mmm. Looked like more than that.” Minhyuk pushed off the frame, moving closer. “Shin Wonho. Still trying to save you, I see.”
“He’s not—”
“He is.” Minhyuk’s voice carried certainty. “He thinks you’re worth saving. Thinks if he’s just kind enough, patient enough, you’ll choose him over—” He gestured vaguely. “—whatever darkness he thinks I represent.”
“You don’t represent anything to me.”
“Liar.” Minhyuk stepped closer. Close enough Hyungwon could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. “I represent exactly what you’re afraid you might be. What you’re afraid you might want to be.” His voice dropped. “And that terrifies you more than the forest. More than your father’s ghost. More than anything.”
Hyungwon’s pulse hammered. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you better than Wonho does.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp, knowing. “Because I see what you pretend isn’t there. The part of you that didn’t stop those tests. That watched and learned and adapted. That part—” his eyes gleamed, “—that’s all mine.”
He walked away, leaving Hyungwon standing alone in the empty classroom, hands shaking.
That night, Hyungwon couldn’t sleep.
The dormitory was dark except for the lake’s rippling light overhead. Goyle snored. Nott muttered in his sleep. Across the room, Minhyuk’s bed curtains were drawn.
Hyungwon counted ceiling cracks (forty-seven, always forty-seven) until his eyes ached.
At eleven o’clock, he gave up. Slipped out of bed, grabbed his wand, and headed for the door.
The common room was empty. The corridors beyond were dark and quiet. Hyungwon moved through them with purpose, climbing stairs, navigating shortcuts he’d memorized through repetition.
The prefect’s bathroom was on the fifth floor, behind a portrait of a mermaid who demanded a password. Hyungwon had overheard it two days ago—Pine fresh—and filed it away.
The mermaid eyed him suspiciously. “You’re a first-year.”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“This is for prefects.”
“Please.” Hyungwon’s voice came out flat, exhausted. “I just need some space. Some quiet.”
The mermaid studied him, then sighed. “Fine. But if you break anything, I’m reporting you.”
The portrait swung open.
The prefect’s bathroom was magnificent—larger than the Slytherin common room, with a swimming-pool-sized tub, golden taps, stained glass windows, and candles floating near the ceiling. Steam hung in the air, warm and thick.
Hyungwon locked the door behind him and stood in the middle of the vast space, breathing.
No counting. No tests. No watching eyes.
Just steam and echoes and blessed silence.
He walked to the edge of the tub and sat, letting the warmth seep into his bones. The candles cast soft light across the water, turning everything gold and hazy.
For the first time in weeks, his chest loosened.
“I was wondering when you’d find this place.”
Hyungwon jerked upright, wand out.
Minhyuk stood in the doorway—no, not the doorway. The door was still locked. He was just there, leaning against the wall like he’d been there all along, watching.
“How did you—”
“Secret passage.” Minhyuk gestured vaguely. “Behind the mirror. I’ve been coming here since first week.” His eyes tracked Hyungwon’s face, cataloging every reaction. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“Always fine.” Minhyuk pushed off the wall, moving closer. “You know that’s your tell, right? When you say you’re fine, you’re lying.”
“Then what do you want me to say?”
“The truth.” Minhyuk stopped three paces away. Steam curled between them. “Tell me what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. What you—” he paused, “—want.”
“I want to be left alone.”
“No, you don’t.” Minhyuk’s voice was certain. “You want to be understood. There’s a difference.”
The words hit too close. Hyungwon’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand me.”
“Don’t I?” Minhyuk stepped closer. Two paces now. “I understand that you’re brilliant at surviving. That you watch people like you’re solving equations. That you’re terrified of being seen but more terrified of being forgotten.” Another step. “I understand that you’re not like the others. You don’t want power or glory or recognition. You just want—” he tilted his head, “—nothing. And that’s dangerous.”
One pace away now. Close enough Hyungwon could feel heat radiating off him.
“Dangerous how?” Hyungwon’s voice came out barely audible.
“Because people who don’t want things can’t be controlled.” Minhyuk’s eyes locked onto his. “And I’m not used to not being able to control things.”
The air between them was charged. Steam and candlelight and something else—tension pulled so tight it felt like a held breath.
“What do you want?” Hyungwon whispered.
Minhyuk’s smile was slow, devastating. “Everything.”
He moved closer—not quite touching, but there, invading Hyungwon’s space with deliberate precision. Hyungwon could feel his breath now, warm against his face. Could count his heartbeats—fast, too fast. Could see every fleck of amber in those dark, hungry eyes.
“I want to figure you out,” Minhyuk said softly. “Crack you open. See what makes you work. I want to know if you’re really Voldemort’s son or if you’re just a boy with a famous name and a tragic scar. I want—” his voice dropped, intimate and sharp, “—to keep you.”
Hyungwon’s pulse hammered. “Like a possession?”
“Like a person.” Minhyuk’s hand lifted—slow, deliberate, giving Hyungwon every chance to pull away. His fingertips brushed Hyungwon’s jaw. Feather-light. A ghost of pressure. “Like someone who matters.”
The touch burned through Hyungwon’s skin. His breath caught. His magic surged under his ribs—wild, uncontrolled, responding to something in Minhyuk’s presence the same way it had responded to Voldemort in the forest.
Recognition. Resonance. Danger.
Minhyuk’s eyes widened fractionally. “You feel it too.”
“Feel what?”
“This.” Minhyuk’s fingers pressed slightly harder, thumb brushing along Hyungwon’s jawline. “Connection. Magnetism. Whatever you want to call it.” His smile turned sharp. “You’re not as unaffected as you pretend.”
Hyungwon couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. His entire world had narrowed to the points where Minhyuk’s skin touched his.
Then Minhyuk pulled back. Stepped away. The loss of contact felt like cold water.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Minhyuk said, voice light again. Casual. Like he hadn’t just upended Hyungwon’s entire sense of gravity. “Get some sleep, Hyungwon. We have plans to make.”
“What plans?”
“About your father. About what comes next.” Minhyuk moved toward the hidden passage behind the mirror. “About how we’re going to use that connection of yours before someone else does.”
He disappeared into shadow.
Hyungwon stood alone in the steam and echoes, hand pressed to his jaw where Minhyuk’s fingers had been. His skin still tingled. His pulse still raced.
He counted to one hundred and forty-seven before it settled.
Then he counted to one hundred and forty-seven again, because the first time didn’t work.
By the time he made it back to the dormitory—three hundred and twenty-three steps, four shortcuts, one narrow miss with Filch—his hands had stopped shaking.
But when he lay in bed and closed his eyes, all he could feel was that ghost touch on his jaw.
All he could hear was Minhyuk’s voice: I want to keep you.
Sleep didn’t come until almost dawn.
And when it did, he dreamed of green fire and gentle hands and not knowing which one would burn him first.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The letter arrived during breakfast on Monday, carried by a sleek gray owl that landed directly in front of Kihyun’s plate.
Hyungwon noticed because everyone noticed—the Ravenclaw table fell silent as Kihyun untied the parchment with steady hands. His face was carefully neutral, but something in his posture changed as he read. A tightening. A withdrawal.
From the Slytherin table, Minhyuk was watching too. He’d been watching Kihyun all week—during meals, between classes, across the library. His attention was constant, hungry, desperate in a way that made Hyungwon uncomfortable.
Kihyun finished reading. Folded the letter precisely. Slipped it into his robes.
Then he stood and left the Great Hall without touching his food.
Minhyuk’s fork clattered against his plate. “Fuck.”
“What?” Jinyoung looked up from his eggs.
“That was from his parents.” Minhyuk’s jaw was tight. “I know that owl. I know that handwriting.” He stood abruptly. “I need to—”
“Don’t.” Jinyoung’s voice was sharp. “Whatever that letter said, chasing him right now will make it worse.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Kihyun.” Jinyoung’s expression was grim. “And I know his parents. If they sent a letter this early in the term, it’s not good news.”
Minhyuk sat back down slowly. His hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists on the table.
Hyungwon counted the seconds of silence that followed. Got to forty-three before Jinyoung spoke again.
“What did you tell him?” Jinyoung asked quietly. “In the library. What exactly did you say about Hyungwon?”
“The truth.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat. “That he’s Voldemort’s son. That we need help figuring out what it means.”
“And you thought Kihyun would just—what? Keep it secret? Not tell his parents?” Jinyoung’s expression was somewhere between anger and resignation. “His family has been tracking Death Eater movements for years. They broke contact with your family specifically because of those suspicions. Did you really think he wouldn’t report this?”
Minhyuk’s face went white. “He wouldn’t—”
“He would.” Jinyoung’s voice was certain. “Because that’s who Kihyun is. Loyal to his family first, his House second, and you—” he paused, “—you’re a very distant third. You’ve always known that.”
“That’s not—” Minhyuk stopped. His jaw worked. “It’s different now. We’re older. Things have changed.”
“Have they?” Jinyoung looked at him steadily. “Or have you just convinced yourself they have because you want them to?”
Minhyuk stood again, this time with purpose. “I’m going to talk to him.”
“Minhyuk—”
“I don’t care what his parents said. I need to hear it from him.”
He left before Jinyoung could argue.
Hyungwon watched him go, chest tight with something he couldn’t name. Beside him, Jinyoung sighed.
“This is going to be a disaster,” Jinyoung muttered.
“What’s their history?” Hyungwon asked. “You said their dynamic was… complicated.”
Jinyoung was quiet for a long moment. Then: “They grew up together. Our families—the Lees, the Parks, the Yoos—we were all part of the same circle. Old money, old magic, old allegiances.” He paused. “Minhyuk and Kihyun were inseparable as kids. But when they were nine, Kihyun’s parents started pulling back. Questioning things. Distancing themselves from certain families, certain ideologies.”
“Death Eater ideologies,” Hyungwon said quietly.
“Yes.” Jinyoung’s voice was careful. “Minhyuk’s family—the Lees—they’re not openly aligned, but the connections are there. My family too. Kihyun’s parents realized what that meant. What their children were being groomed for.” He looked at Hyungwon directly. “They tried to cut contact completely. But Minhyuk and Kihyun—they kept finding ways to see each other. Letters, secret meetings, midnight conversations through family Floos. It was…”
“Obsessive,” Hyungwon finished.
“Toxic,” Jinyoung corrected. “On both sides. Minhyuk needs Kihyun in a way that’s not healthy. Needs his approval, his attention, his—” He stopped. “And Kihyun keeps coming back even though he knows better. Even though every time ends with him leaving and Minhyuk breaking something.”
Hyungwon thought about the way Minhyuk had touched his jaw in the prefect’s bathroom. I want to keep you.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
“Because you’re caught in the middle now.” Jinyoung’s expression was serious. “Whatever happens between them—whatever Kihyun told his parents about you—it’s going to blow back on all of us. And you need to be prepared.”
Hyungwon didn’t see Minhyuk again until dinner.
When Minhyuk finally appeared in the Great Hall, his face was carefully blank. He sat at the Slytherin table in his usual spot, loaded his plate with food he didn’t eat, and said nothing.
Across the hall, Kihyun sat at the Ravenclaw table, surrounded by his housemates. He didn’t look toward Slytherin once.
The absence of his gaze felt deliberate. Pointed.
“Did you talk to him?” Jinyoung asked quietly.
“No.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat. “He wasn’t in the library. Wasn’t in any of his usual spots. It’s like he—” He stopped. His jaw clenched. “He’s avoiding me.”
“Maybe that’s for the best.”
“It’s not.” Minhyuk’s hand tightened on his fork. “It’s never for the best when Kihyun runs. Because he always comes back eventually, and when he does, everything’s worse.”
Hyungwon counted the tension in Minhyuk’s shoulders. The tight line of his mouth. The way his eyes kept drifting toward the Ravenclaw table despite his obvious attempts to stop them.
This was what wanting looked like when it had teeth.
Three days passed.
Kihyun attended all his classes but sat at the Ravenclaw table for every meal. Never looked toward Slytherin. Never acknowledged Minhyuk’s existence.
Minhyuk grew increasingly volatile—snapping at younger students, losing house points in Potions for “inattention,” spending hours in the library searching for someone who was clearly avoiding him.
On Thursday evening, Hyungwon found himself in the library working on a Transfiguration essay. The restricted section was quiet, most students having gone to dinner.
Then he heard voices—low, tense, coming from between the shelves.
“—can’t keep doing this.”
Minhyuk’s voice. Strained.
“I’m not doing anything.” Kihyun. Flat, controlled. “I’m studying. You’re the one who followed me here.”
Hyungwon froze. He should leave. Should give them privacy. But something kept him in place—morbid curiosity, or maybe self-preservation. He needed to understand what he’d stepped into.
“You’ve been avoiding me for three days.” Minhyuk’s voice carried an edge of desperation. “You got a letter and then you just—disappeared. Again. Just like last summer. Just like always.”
“I have my reasons.”
“Then tell me!” Minhyuk’s voice rose. “Stop running and just tell me what I did wrong.”
Silence. Hyungwon counted to seventeen before Kihyun spoke.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice was softer now. Tired. “That’s not—this isn’t about you.”
“Bullshit.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “It’s always about me. About my family. About what we are and what your parents think we are and—” He stopped. “What did the letter say?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is when it makes you disappear.” Footsteps—Minhyuk moving closer. “Please, Kihyun. Just talk to me. Tell me what they said.”
Another long silence. Then:
“They know about the Gaunt boy.” Kihyun’s voice was carefully neutral. “About what you told me. About the… claims.”
“Of course they know. You told them.”
“I had to.” Kihyun’s voice sharpened. “You told me Voldemort’s son is walking around Hogwarts, possibly being groomed as a vessel or weapon, and you expected me to just—what? Keep it secret? My parents have dedicated years to tracking Death Eater movements. This is exactly the kind of intelligence they need.”
“Intelligence.” Minhyuk’s laugh was bitter. “Is that what I am to you? A source?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Be hurt that you reported me to your parents like I’m some kind of threat?”
“You are a threat!” Kihyun’s control cracked. “Your family is connected to people who want to bring back the Dark Lord. And now you’re attached to his potential heir. Do you understand how dangerous that makes you? How dangerous it makes me for being anywhere near you?”
“So that’s it?” Minhyuk’s voice was raw. “Your parents tell you to distance yourself and you just—obey? Like a good little soldier?”
“It’s not that simple—”
“It’s exactly that simple.” Footsteps again—fast, aggressive. “You always do this. You come back, you let me hope, and then you run the second things get complicated. The second your parents snap their fingers.”
“Because they’re right!” Kihyun’s voice rose. “They’ve always been right about you, about your family, about the danger—”
“About me?” Minhyuk’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “Say it, Kihyun. Say I’m dangerous. Say you’re afraid of me.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” But Kihyun’s voice wavered. “I’m afraid for you. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
Silence. Heavy, loaded, crackling with thirteen years of history.
Then—movement. Fast.
“What did I do?” Minhyuk’s voice was closer now, urgent. “What did I do to make you keep leaving?”
“You didn’t do anything.” Kihyun’s voice was strained. “You’re just—you’re you. And I can’t—I can’t keep doing this. Every time I let you back in, every time I think maybe we can find a way, something happens. Your family’s allegiances, my family’s fears, the war that’s coming—”
“There is no war yet.”
“There will be.” Kihyun’s voice was certain. “And when it comes, we’ll be on opposite sides. We’ve always been heading there. The only question is how much damage we do to each other before we get there.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked completely. “We could—if you just stayed, if you just trusted me—”
“I do trust you.” Kihyun’s voice broke. “That’s the problem. I trust you and I—” He stopped. “I care about you too much to watch you become what your family wants you to be.”
“What if I don’t become that? What if I choose differently?”
“Can you?” The question hung in the air. “Can you really look me in the eye and tell me that when the time comes—when your family calls, when the Dark Lord returns—you won’t answer?”
Silence. Absolute and damning.
“That’s what I thought.” Kihyun’s voice was hollow. “I have to go.”
“Kihyun, wait—”
“Don’t.” Sharp, final. “Don’t follow me. Don’t send letters. Don’t—” His voice caught. “Just let me go.”
“I can’t.” Minhyuk’s voice was desperate. “You know I can’t do that.”
Sound of movement—Minhyuk reaching for him, probably. Then:
“Don’t touch me.”
The words were ice.
“Kihyun—”
“I said don’t.” Footsteps—rapid, retreating. “Stay away from me, Minhyuk. I mean it this time.”
More footsteps, then Kihyun’s voice, distant: “And stay away from the Gaunt boy. Whatever he is, whatever he’s connected to—it will destroy you. All of you.”
Then silence.
Hyungwon stayed frozen between the shelves, barely breathing. He counted to ninety-seven before he heard Minhyuk move.
Not leaving. Not following.
Just—a sound. Low, broken, quickly stifled.
Hyungwon’s chest tightened. He should leave. Should give Minhyuk privacy. But his feet wouldn’t move.
Another sound. Then another.
Minhyuk was crying.
Not loud, theatrical sobs. Just quiet, hitched breaths. The sound of someone who’d had too much practice breaking in silence.
Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
Then he stepped around the shelf.
Minhyuk stood with his back to the stacks, one hand pressed to his mouth, shoulders rigid. When he heard Hyungwon approach, he spun around.
His face was dry. Controlled. But his eyes were red-rimmed and his hands were shaking.
“How long were you listening?” His voice was flat.
“Long enough.”
“Great.” Minhyuk laughed—sharp, bitter. “So now you know. The great Lee Minhyuk, pathetic and desperate for someone who keeps leaving.” He turned away. “Go ahead. Add it to your list of things to count. My failures. My—”
“He cares about you.”
Minhyuk went still.
“I don’t know anything about love or relationships or—any of this,” Hyungwon continued quietly. “But I know what fear sounds like. And he’s afraid. Not of you. For you. That’s—” He paused. “That’s not nothing.”
“It’s not enough.” Minhyuk’s voice was hollow. “It’s never enough. He always leaves.”
“Maybe he has to.”
“Don’t.” Minhyuk’s shoulders tensed. “Don’t defend him. Don’t—” He stopped. Took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. “This doesn’t change anything. Between us. The plan. What we’re doing.”
“What are we doing?”
“Surviving.” Minhyuk turned around. His face was controlled again, mask back in place. But something in his eyes was raw, exposed. “His parents know about you now. They’ll be watching. Maybe reporting to the Ministry, maybe just observing. Either way, we need to be careful.”
“We should stop—”
“No.” Minhyuk stepped closer. “We’re not stopping. We’re not backing down. If anything, this makes it more important.” His jaw clenched. “Kihyun thinks I’ll become what my family wants. That I’ll answer when they call. But what if—” He stopped. “What if I choose something different? What if I use this—use you—to carve out a third option?”
“I’m not a weapon.”
“No.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp, broken. “You’re a key. And I’m going to figure out what you unlock before anyone else does.” He reached out, grabbed Hyungwon’s wrist. Not hard, but firm. Grounding. “You’re mine, Hyungwon. I claimed you first. And I don’t let go of things that are mine.”
His grip was trembling.
Hyungwon could pull away. Should pull away. But something in Minhyuk’s expression stopped him—the desperation, the need, the terrible certainty that he was one more loss away from shattering completely.
“Okay,” Hyungwon heard himself say.
“Okay.” Minhyuk’s grip loosened but didn’t release. “Let’s get out of here. I need—” He stopped. “I need to break something or burn something or—”
“Or you could just sit,” Hyungwon said quietly. “Count things. It helps.”
Minhyuk stared at him. Then, impossibly, he laughed—small, genuine. “You want me to count?”
“It helps me. Might help you.”
“What should I count?”
Hyungwon glanced around the restricted section. “Books. There are forty-three visible from here.”
“Forty-three.” Minhyuk’s eyes tracked the shelves. “Forty-four if you count that one lying on the table. Forty-five if—” He stopped. His shoulders loosened fractionally. “This is stupid.”
“It works though.”
“Yeah.” Minhyuk’s voice was softer. “Yeah, it does.”
They stood there in silence—Minhyuk counting books, Hyungwon counting the seconds until the shaking in Minhyuk’s hands stopped.
At three hundred and twenty-one seconds, Minhyuk finally let go.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For not running.” Minhyuk’s smile was small, genuine, devastating. “Everyone runs eventually. But you’re still here.”
For now, Hyungwon thought. But he didn’t say it.
They left the library together, side by side, and Hyungwon tried not to think about Kihyun’s warning:
Whatever he is, whatever he’s connected to—it will destroy you. All of you.
He was starting to think Kihyun might be right.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The greenhouses were Hyungwon’s favorite place at Hogwarts.
Not because he loved Herbology—though Professor Sprout was kind in a way that didn’t demand anything back. Not because the plants were interesting—though watching Venomous Tentacula snap at passing students had a certain appeal.
It was the quiet. The warmth. The fact that most students avoided the greenhouses outside of class, leaving them blissfully empty.
Today, Hyungwon needed empty.
He’d spent the morning watching Minhyuk stare at the Ravenclaw table during breakfast, jaw tight, barely touching his food. Had endured lunch where Minhyuk’s attention kept drifting, conversation trailing off mid-sentence. Had sat through afternoon classes while Minhyuk’s hands shook slightly whenever he thought no one was looking.
Kihyun hadn’t appeared at any meal. Hadn’t been in the library. Had vanished so completely it was like he’d never existed.
And Minhyuk was unraveling.
I’m a second choice, Hyungwon had realized sometime around Potions. A distraction. Something to focus on while he waits for Kihyun to come back.
The thought shouldn’t have hurt. He barely knew Minhyuk—barely understood the twisted thing between him and Kihyun. But it did hurt, somehow. The casual way Minhyuk had claimed him—you’re mine—only to spend every waking moment fixated on someone else.
So Hyungwon had skipped dinner and come here instead.
Greenhouse Three was humid and overgrown, filled with tropical plants Professor Sprout used for advanced Herbology. The air smelled like earth and growth and something sweet he couldn’t identify. Hyungwon sat on a wooden bench near the back, surrounded by ferns taller than he was, and counted the panes of glass overhead.
One hundred and forty-seven visible. He counted them three times to be sure.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Hyungwon’s head jerked up.
Wonho stood in the doorway, backlit by the setting sun. His Hufflepuff robes were rumpled, hair slightly messy, face warm with that open expression Hyungwon still didn’t know how to process.
“How did you know where I was?” Hyungwon asked.
“Changkyun said you’ve been coming here after classes. When you want to be alone.” Wonho stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. “I probably shouldn’t have followed you. But—” He paused. “You looked really sad at lunch. And then you weren’t at dinner. So I got worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.” Wonho moved closer, careful not to invade Hyungwon’s space. “Can I sit?”
Hyungwon nodded.
Wonho sat on the opposite end of the bench—close enough to talk, far enough to not crowd. For a moment, neither spoke. Just sat in the greenhouse warmth, surrounded by growing things and golden light filtering through glass.
“You don’t have to be alone, you know,” Wonho said finally. “I mean—I get it. Sometimes you need space. But being alone because you want to and being alone because you think you have to are different things.”
Hyungwon’s throat tightened. “How do you know which one I’m doing?”
“I don’t.” Wonho’s voice was gentle. “But I figure if you wanted to be completely alone, you would’ve told me to leave by now.”
He had a point.
They sat in silence again. Hyungwon counted the seconds—got to seventy-three before Wonho spoke.
“My dad’s a Muggle,” Wonho said conversationally. “Works in construction. Builds houses, fixes roofs, that kind of thing. When I got my Hogwarts letter, he thought it was a prank at first.” He smiled at the memory. “My mum had to do magic in front of him—turned his toolbox into a rabbit—before he believed it.”
Despite himself, Hyungwon’s mouth twitched. “What did he do?”
“Screamed. Then laughed. Then tried to pet the rabbit, which was a mistake because it bit him.” Wonho’s grin widened. “But after that, he was amazing about it. Started reading everything he could about wizarding history. Asked a million questions. Wanted to understand my world even though he couldn’t be part of it.”
“That sounds nice,” Hyungwon said quietly.
“It is.” Wonho’s expression softened. “Do you remember anything about your parents?”
“No. I guess I forgot to tell you… I was left at an orphanage as a baby.”
“That must be hard. Not knowing where you came from.”
“Sometimes.” Hyungwon’s fingers twisted together in his lap. “Other times I think it might be easier. Not having expectations. Not having to live up to—” He stopped.
“To a name?” Wonho’s voice was understanding. “I mean, I’ve heard people talk. They talk a lot, they’ve been talking since day one. About the Gaunts. About what that name means and what that name could say about you.”
“I don’t know what it means.”
“Then you get to decide.” Wonho shifted slightly on the bench, angling toward Hyungwon. “My dad always says you can’t control where you come from, but you can control where you’re going. That who you are matters more than who your parents were.”
“Your dad sounds wise.”
“He’s a Muggle who turned a toolbox-rabbit back into a toolbox by yelling at it very loudly until my mum fixed it. So, you know. Wisdom is relative.” Wonho’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “But he means well.”
Hyungwon found himself almost smiling. “The rabbit thing worked?”
“Absolutely not. The rabbit multiplied. We had seven rabbits by the time Mum got home. Dad tried to build them a hutch but accidentally made it hover. It was chaos.” Wonho laughed—bright and unself-conscious. “But that’s kind of how my family works. Lots of chaos, lots of love, lots of—”
He stopped, seeming to realize he was rambling.
“Sorry,” he said. “I talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“Why are you nervous?”
“Because I’m trying to cheer you up and I don’t know if it’s working.” Wonho’s expression turned serious. “You’ve seemed really… distant lately. Since that thing with Changkyun in the corridor. And I know you’re spending time with Lee Minhyuk and Park Jinyoung, which—” He hesitated. “I’m not going to tell you who to be friends with. But they’re… intense. And I worry.”
“About what?”
“That they’re not—” Wonho chose his words carefully. “That they don’t see you. They see your name. Your potential usefulness. But not you.”
The words hit too close to everything Hyungwon had been feeling.
“You don’t know them,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“No. But I know you’re not happy.” Wonho’s voice was soft. “Or at least, you don’t seem happy. You always look like you’re counting something. Like you’re trying to make sense of the world by breaking it into numbers.”
Hyungwon’s hands stilled. “How did you—”
“I notice things.” Wonho smiled. “Your lips move when you’re stressed. And you tap your fingers—one, two, three, four—when you’re trying to calm down. It’s kind of—” He stopped, cheeks coloring slightly. “It’s kind of endearing, actually.”
No one had ever called Hyungwon’s counting endearing. The matron had called it disturbing. Minhyuk called it a tell. But endearing?
“I should probably tell you something funny now,” Wonho continued, “to break the weird tension I just created. Um. Did you know that Muggles have this tradition where they dress geese in tiny hats? My dad showed me pictures. They make little hat festivals. It’s absurd.”
Hyungwon blinked. “What?”
“Geese. In hats.” Wonho’s expression was completely serious. “Little bonnets and top hats and sometimes full suits. My dad thinks it’s the height of Muggle culture. I think it’s evidence that Muggles have too much free time.”
The joke was objectively terrible. The delivery was worse.
But something about Wonho’s earnest expression—the way he was trying so hard to make Hyungwon smile—cracked something in his chest.
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“There,” Wonho said triumphantly. “I saw that. That almost-smile. I’m counting it as a win.”
“It was a terrible joke.”
“The best jokes are terrible. That’s what makes them good.” Wonho’s grin was infectious. Then his expression sobered. “But seriously, Hyungwon. You don’t have to carry everything alone. Whatever’s going on—whatever pressure you’re under—you can talk about it. I’m a good listener.”
“I can’t—” Hyungwon’s voice caught. “It’s complicated.”
“Most things are.” Wonho shifted closer—just an inch, but Hyungwon felt the warmth of his presence. “But that doesn’t mean you have to handle them by yourself.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The greenhouse was dimming as the sun set, golden light fading to purple twilight. Soon they’d have to leave, go back to the castle, return to their separate worlds.
But right now, in this moment, Hyungwon felt almost… peaceful.
Then Wonho’s hand moved—slow, tentative, giving Hyungwon every chance to pull away. His fingers found Hyungwon’s hand and held it. Just held it. Nothing more. Warm and solid and there.
Hyungwon’s breath caught.
“You’re not bad, Hyungwon,” Wonho said quietly. “I don’t care what they say. I don’t care about your name or your House or who you sit with at meals. I just know that you’re kind when you think no one’s watching. You helped me with Charms even though you barely knew me. You didn’t laugh at Changkyun even when others did.” His thumb brushed across Hyungwon’s knuckles. “That matters. You matter.”
The touch burned through Hyungwon’s skin. Not like Minhyuk’s touch in the bathroom—dangerous, possessive, claiming. This was different. Gentle. Safe. Like being offered something precious without conditions.
It terrified him.
Hyungwon pulled his hand away.
“You don’t know me,” he said, voice rough. “You don’t know what I am. What I might—” He stopped, throat closing. “You don’t know.”
Wonho’s expression didn’t change. Didn’t show hurt or rejection. Just that steady, patient warmth.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t know everything about you. But I’d like to.”
The words hung in the air between them.
I’d like to.
Not I need to. Not you owe me. Just—I’d like to.
An offer. A beginning. No pressure, no possession, no tests.
Just possibility.
Hyungwon’s scar throbbed—that cold burn that came whenever he thought too hard about what he was, what he carried, what Voldemort had claimed he would become.
You are mine.
But Wonho’s voice echoed differently: You matter.
Hyungwon stood abruptly. “I should go. It’s almost curfew.”
“Right. Yeah.” Wonho stood too, no visible disappointment in his expression. Just understanding. “Thanks for letting me sit with you.”
“You’re thanking me?”
“Well, you didn’t tell me to leave. So yeah. Thanks.” Wonho’s smile was soft. “Same time tomorrow? If you want company?”
Hyungwon should say no. Should maintain distance. Should protect Wonho from whatever was growing inside him—whatever darkness Voldemort had planted, whatever Minhyuk was trying to cultivate.
“Okay,” he heard himself say.
Wonho’s smile widened—bright, genuine, devastating in its lack of complexity.
They walked back to the castle together in companionable silence. At the Entrance Hall, they separated—Wonho toward the Hufflepuff common room, Hyungwon down to the dungeons.
As Hyungwon descended the stairs, he touched his hand where Wonho had held it. The skin still felt warm.
The common room was half-empty when he entered. Minhyuk sat alone by the fireplace, staring into the flames. He looked up when Hyungwon approached.
“Where were you?” His voice was flat, exhausted.
“Greenhouses.”
“Alone?”
Hyungwon hesitated. “No.”
Something flickered across Minhyuk’s expression. “Let me guess. Shin Wonho.”
“We just talked.”
“Right.” Minhyuk’s jaw tightened. “He’s very good at talking. Very good at being warm and safe and uncomplicated.” He stood, moving closer. “Is that what you want? Simplicity?”
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Yes, you do.” Minhyuk’s eyes searched his face. “You want what everyone wants. To be seen. Understood. Kept.” His voice dropped. “The question is whether you want it from someone like Wonho—who’ll love the version of you he’s invented—or someone like me, who sees exactly what you are and wants you anyway.”
“You don’t see me,” Hyungwon said quietly. “You see my name. My connection to—” He stopped. “You see what I can give you.”
Minhyuk’s expression cracked. “That’s not—” He stopped. Took a breath. “You’re right. Earlier today, I was—Kihyun was—” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m not good at this. Caring about people. Letting them matter. But you do. Matter. Not because of your name or your father or any of that. You matter because—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “Because you’re here. Because you don’t run. Because you’re the only person who didn’t flinch when I broke down in the library.”
Hyungwon’s chest tightened.
“I know I’m not—” Minhyuk gestured vaguely. “I’m not warm like Wonho. I’m not safe. I’m probably going to hurt you eventually because that’s what I do. But at least I’m honest about it.” His eyes were desperate, raw. “Don’t choose him because he’s easier. Choose—” He stopped. “Just don’t decide yet. Please.”
The vulnerability in his voice was startling.
Hyungwon counted to twenty-three before responding. “I’m not choosing anyone.”
“Liar.” But Minhyuk’s smile was small, sad. “You’re already choosing. We both know it.” He turned away. “Go to bed, Hyungwon. Tomorrow’s Friday. We have Kihyun’s parents to worry about, and whatever they’re planning, and—” He stopped. “Just go to bed.”
Hyungwon climbed the stairs to the dormitory, Minhyuk’s words echoing in his skull.
Someone like me, who sees exactly what you are and wants you anyway.
But Wonho’s voice was there too, quieter but steadier: You’re not bad. You matter.
He lay in bed and stared at the enchanted ceiling—the lake rippling overhead, shadows moving through dark water.
Forty-seven cracks. He counted them five times.
It didn’t help.
Because for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Hyungwon realized he had something more dangerous than a name or a scar or a father’s ghost.
He had a choice.
And he had no idea how to make it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express was nearly empty on the day most students left for Christmas break.
Hyungwon stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, watching families reunite—mothers crying, fathers embracing, younger siblings bouncing with excitement. The station echoed with laughter and warmth and belonging.
He’d planned to stay at Hogwarts. The castle over Christmas was quiet, nearly deserted. Perfect for someone who counted silence like currency.
Then Minhyuk had appeared at breakfast three days before break, sliding a cream-colored envelope across the table.
“My mother insists,” he’d said. “You’re coming home with me for Christmas.”
“I can’t—”
“It’s not a request.” Minhyuk’s smile had been sharp. “My parents want to meet the last Gaunt. And what my parents want, they get.”
The envelope had contained a formal invitation, written in elegant script:
Mr. Hyungwon Gaunt is cordially invited to Lee Manor for the Christmas holiday. Transportation and accommodations provided. Your presence is anticipated with great interest.
—Lady Yuna Lee
The word anticipated had made Hyungwon’s scar ache.
Now, standing on the platform with his trunk (secondhand, corners scuffed) beside Minhyuk’s matched luggage set (leather, monogrammed, pristine), Hyungwon felt profoundly out of place.
“Relax,” Minhyuk said, reading his expression. “They’re going to love you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re fascinating. Mysterious. Everything my mother values in a potential—” He stopped. “Just trust me. You’ll be fine.”
A sleek black car pulled up to the platform entrance—gleaming, expensive, impossible. The driver stepped out, took their luggage without a word, and opened the rear door.
Minhyuk climbed in like this was normal. Hyungwon followed, heart hammering.
The interior smelled like leather and something sweet—perfume, maybe. The seats were soft. Everything was dark wood and silver accents.
Like the Slytherin common room, but more so.
“How far is it?” Hyungwon asked as they pulled away from King’s Cross.
“Two hours north. The manor’s been in my family for eleven generations.” Minhyuk settled into the seat, utterly comfortable. “You’ll like it. It’s dramatic. Lots of portraits judging you, secret passages, ghosts in the east wing. Very Gothic.”
“That doesn’t sound comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be.” Minhyuk’s smile was amused. “My family doesn’t do comfort. We do legacy.”
Lee Manor appeared through the trees like something from a nightmare or a dream—impossible to tell which.
It was enormous. Three stories of dark stone, tall windows glinting in the afternoon light, towers at each corner. The grounds stretched in every direction—manicured lawns, formal gardens, a frozen pond reflecting the pale winter sky.
The car circled a fountain (marble serpents intertwined, water frozen mid-flow) and stopped at the main entrance.
Two house-elves appeared immediately, taking their luggage. Minhyuk strode toward the doors like he owned the world. Hyungwon followed, counting steps (forty-seven from car to entrance) to steady his breathing.
The interior was breathtaking.
High ceilings, crystal chandeliers, polished floors that reflected like mirrors. Everything was silver and green and white—cold colors, elegant colors, colors that reminded Hyungwon of the Slytherin common room but elevated to an art form.
Portraits lined the walls—generations of Lees watching with identical expressions of calculation. Their eyes seemed to follow as Hyungwon passed.
“Minhyuk.” A woman’s voice, warm and cultured.
Lady Yuna Lee descended the grand staircase like she was floating. She was beautiful—sharp features, dark hair swept into an elaborate style, robes that probably cost more than everything Hyungwon owned combined. She moved with the confidence of someone who’d never been told no.
“Mother.” Minhyuk accepted her embrace, though his body stayed slightly rigid.
“And you must be Hyungwon Gaunt.” Lady Lee turned to him, eyes sharp and assessing. “How wonderful to finally meet you. Minhyuk has told us so much.”
“It’s an honor, Lady Lee.” Hyungwon’s voice came out steady despite his racing pulse.
“Please, call me Yuna.” Her smile was warm, but her eyes stayed calculating. “Welcome to our home. I trust the journey was comfortable?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Polite.” She glanced at Minhyuk. “I like him already.” Her attention returned to Hyungwon. “We’ll have dinner at seven. Formal dress. Minhyuk will show you to your room.” She reached out, touched Hyungwon’s cheek—a brief, possessive gesture. “It’s truly remarkable. The resemblance is quite striking.”
“Resemblance?” Hyungwon asked.
“To the old portraits.” Her smile sharpened. “The Gaunts were legendary. That bone structure, those eyes—it’s all there. Blood always tells.” She withdrew her hand. “Dinner at seven. Don’t be late.”
She swept away, robes trailing.
Minhyuk exhaled slowly. “That went better than expected.”
“What did she mean, ‘resemblance’?”
“Exactly what she said. The Gaunts had a look. You have it.” Minhyuk started up the stairs. “Come on. Your room’s in the west wing, next to mine. Try not to wander at night—the portraits gossip.”
The room was twice the size of the Slytherin dormitory.
Four-poster bed with silver hangings, wardrobe that could fit thirty people, windows overlooking the frozen gardens. A fire roared in the grate—green flames, of course.
Hyungwon’s trunk looked pathetic against the polished floor.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Minhyuk said, pointing. “Fresh robes in the wardrobe—Mother had them made for you. Your size, formal style. She’s very thorough.”
“She had robes made for me?”
“She knew you were coming two weeks ago.” Minhyuk’s expression was complicated. “Once Mother decides something’s important, she commits. Completely.” He moved toward the door. “Rest. I’ll come get you at six-thirty. Dinner’s—” He paused. “Dinner’s going to be intense. Just follow my lead.”
“Minhyuk—”
“Don’t ask questions yet.” His voice was quiet. “Tonight you observe. Tomorrow we’ll talk. But tonight—just observe.”
He left.
Hyungwon stood alone in the enormous room, feeling like a chess piece being moved across a board he couldn’t see.
He counted the windows (seven), the candles (forty-three), the portraits (eleven, all watching).
It didn’t help.
Dinner was in a formal dining room that could seat fifty.
Tonight there were only five place settings, clustered at one end of a table that stretched into shadow. Crystal glinted. Silver gleamed. Everything was reflected and multiplied until Hyungwon couldn’t tell where the room ended.
Lady Yuna sat at the head. Lord Daesung Lee—tall, severe, with Minhyuk’s eyes but none of his warmth—sat opposite. Minhyuk was placed between them. Hyungwon sat beside Minhyuk, and across from him—
Jinyoung.
“Surprise,” Jinyoung said dryly. “My family has adjacent lands. I’m here for the season.”
“How convenient,” Hyungwon muttered.
“Isn’t it?” Jinyoung’s expression was carefully neutral.
“Gentlemen.” Lord Daesung’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “We are honored to host Mr. Gaunt. The Gaunt line is one of history’s most… significant families. Their contributions to magical theory, their preservation of ancient knowledge—” His eyes fixed on Hyungwon. “—their unflinching dedication to proper order.”
“Order,” Lady Yuna echoed, smiling. “Such an important concept. So lacking in modern wizarding society.”
The first course appeared—served by silent house-elves who vanished immediately.
“Tell me, Hyungwon,” Lord Daesung continued, “what do you know of your family’s history?”
“Very little, sir. I was raised in a Muggle orphanage.”
“Tragic.” But his tone suggested it wasn’t tragic at all. “To be separated from one’s heritage. From one’s purpose.” He took a sip of wine. “The Gaunts understood something fundamental that modern wizards have forgotten. They understood that magic is not democratic. It is hierarchical. Some are born to lead. Others to follow.”
“The Mudbloods and blood traitors,” Lady Yuna added conversationally, “they’ve corrupted that natural order. Introduced chaos. Weakness.” She smiled at Hyungwon. “But that’s changing, isn’t it? The old ways are returning.”
Hyungwon’s hands clenched under the table. Minhyuk’s foot pressed against his—a warning.
“My father speaks of vision,” Minhyuk said smoothly. “Of the Dark Lord’s vision. Of a world properly ordered.”
“Yes.” Lord Daesung’s expression warmed fractionally. “The Dark Lord understood. Power recognizes power. Blood recognizes blood. When he returns—”
“If he returns,” Jinyoung interrupted carefully.
“When,” Lord Daesung corrected. “It’s only a matter of time. And when he does, those who remained faithful will be rewarded. Those who prepared his way will stand at his right hand.” His eyes returned to Hyungwon. “And those who carry his blood—his legacy—will be essential.”
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Hyungwon’s scar burned cold. He touched it reflexively, and Lady Yuna’s eyes tracked the movement.
“Such an interesting mark,” she murmured. “Family trait?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” She took a delicate bite. “You know, Hyungwon, there’s a portrait in our gallery. Third generation Lee, married a Gaunt in 1847. You have her eyes exactly. And that scar—” She smiled. “Lightning-shaped. Rather poetic, don’t you think?”
“Mother,” Minhyuk said quietly.
“What? I’m simply making observations.” Her smile widened. “You should be proud of your heritage, Hyungwon. The Gaunts were remarkable. Pure blood back to Slytherin himself. Parselmouths. Masters of the Dark Arts.” She leaned forward slightly. “Tell me—have you discovered any of those talents yet?”
Hyungwon’s throat closed.
“He’s a first-year,” Jinyoung said. “Barely knows basic charms.”
“True.” Lady Yuna sat back. “But blood always tells. Give it time.” She raised her glass. “A toast. To old blood, old magic, and the future that awaits those wise enough to embrace it.”
They drank.
Hyungwon forced the wine down his throat. It tasted like metal.
The rest of dinner passed in a haze—course after course, conversation flowing around topics Hyungwon only half-understood. The Dark Lord’s ideology. The failure of the Ministry. The necessity of maintaining proper hierarchy. Mudbloods as corruption. Half-bloods as dilution.
By dessert, Hyungwon felt sick.
When Lady Yuna finally stood, signaling the meal’s end, it was nearly ten o’clock.
“Hyungwon,” she said warmly, “Minhyuk will show you to the library. We’ve assembled some texts on Gaunt family history. I thought you might find them… illuminating.”
“Thank you, Lady Lee.”
“Yuna, please.” She touched his shoulder—that same possessive gesture. “You’re practically family now, darling. Oh—” Her voice turned playful. “—we should call you Prince. The Prince of the ancient house of Gaunt. It has a certain ring, doesn’t it?”
She laughed. It was a joke.
It didn’t feel like a joke.
“I’m sorry,” Minhyuk said once they were alone in the corridor. “I should have warned you better. They’re—”
“Death Eaters,” Hyungwon said flatly.
“Sympathizers.” Minhyuk’s jaw was tight. “They’re not marked. They didn’t fight in the war. But yes—they believe. They’re waiting. And they think—” He stopped. “They think you’re the key. The proof that he’s coming back.”
“Because of my name.”
“Because of your scar.” Minhyuk grabbed his wrist, pulling him into an alcove. “That mark on your forehead—the lightning bolt. Do you know what that means? What it could mean?”
“No.”
“It means contact. Dark magic contact. The kind that leaves permanent marks.” Minhyuk’s voice was urgent. “When you met that thing in the forest—when it called you son—it marked you. Claimed you. And people like my parents? They can sense that. They can feel the residue of his magic on you.”
Hyungwon’s chest tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me—”
“Because I didn’t want to scare you. Because I thought—” Minhyuk stopped. “Because I’m an idiot who thought I could control this. But I can’t. They see you as a resource. As proof their lord is returning. As—” His voice cracked. “I brought you into my home and they’re going to use you.”
“Then let me leave.”
“You can’t.” Minhyuk’s grip tightened. “Not yet. If you run now, they’ll know something’s wrong. They’ll investigate. And if they find out about the forest, about what you really are—” He stopped. “Just trust me. One more night. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to get you out safely. But tonight—”
“Tonight what?”
Minhyuk’s expression was tormented. “Tonight they want to introduce you.”
The cellar was accessed through the wine storage.
Minhyuk led Hyungwon down stone steps (seventy-three, Hyungwon counted them) into a space that felt older than the manor itself. The walls were rough stone, the air cold enough to see breath, and the only light came from candles arranged in a circle.
Robed figures stood around the perimeter. Twenty-three of them, faces hidden by masks—some silver, some bone-white, all blank and terrible.
At the center stood someone taller than the rest. His robes were darkest black, his mask more elaborate—silver serpent eating its own tail. When he spoke, his voice was oil over stone:
“Welcome, young Gaunt. We’ve been expecting you.”
Hyungwon froze.
Minhyuk’s hand on his back pushed him gently forward. “Go. It’s okay.”
It was not okay.
Hyungwon moved into the circle. The masked figures turned to watch. He could feel their attention like weight.
“I am called the Serpent,” the central figure said. “I speak for our Lord in his absence. And we gather tonight to prepare for his inevitable return.” He moved closer. “You carry his blood. His legacy. Perhaps—” a pause, “—his very essence.”
“I don’t understand,” Hyungwon whispered.
“You will.” The Serpent’s mask tilted. “The Dark Lord will return. It is written. Prophesied. And his return requires certain… preparations. Seven pieces, scattered by the desperate act of dying. We seek them. We protect them. We prepare the way.”
“Seven pieces of what?”
“His soul.” The Serpent’s voice dropped. “Bound to objects. Hidden. Guarded. But the first is close. Very close. And you, young Prince—” he reached out, touched Hyungwon’s forehead, right above the scar, “—you may be the key to finding it.”
The touch burned ice-cold. Hyungwon gasped.
Voldemort’s voice flooded his mind: Soon, my son. Soon you will serve.
The connection snapped. Hyungwon stumbled backward.
“Remarkable,” the Serpent murmured. “He responds to you. Even in pieces, even in absence—he knows his own.” He turned to address the room. “This boy will be invaluable. Protect him. Cultivate him. When the time comes, he will help us restore our Lord to glory.”
The circle of robed figures bowed.
Hyungwon’s vision swam. His scar burned. Everything was cold and hot and wrong.
Through the blur, he saw one figure in the back who hadn’t bowed.
Taller than the others. Robes dark black. Mask covering most of his face, but his posture—
Familiar.
Their eyes met through the mask’s slits.
Black eyes. Unreadable. Assessing.
Professor Snape.
Recognition hit like lightning. Snape was here. In the cellar. At a Death Eater meeting. Watching Hyungwon be presented like a prize.
Their gaze held for three seconds. Five. Ten.
Then Snape looked away.
The meeting continued—plans discussed, tasks assigned, promises made about the coming war. Hyungwon heard none of it. Just stood in the center of the circle, burning cold, while his scar screamed and Snape watched from the shadows and Minhyuk stood at the edge looking torn between pride and horror.
When it finally ended—when the Serpent dismissed them and the robed figures filed out through a passage Hyungwon hadn’t seen—Minhyuk grabbed his arm.
“Are you okay?”
“No.” Hyungwon’s voice came out hollow. “Snape was here. Professor Snape.”
“I know.” Minhyuk’s jaw was tight. “He’s—it’s complicated. He’s not—” He stopped. “I’ll explain later. Right now we need to get you back to your room before you collapse.”
Hyungwon let himself be led up the stairs, through the manor, into his assigned room. Minhyuk stayed with him, silent and watchful, until Hyungwon’s hands stopped shaking.
“Tomorrow,” Minhyuk said quietly, “we talk about what comes next. About what they want from you. About—” He stopped. “About whether we fight it or use it.”
“Use it how?”
“I don’t know yet.” Minhyuk’s expression was complicated—ambition and fear and something else Hyungwon couldn’t name. “But you heard them. Seven pieces. The first is close. If we find it first—if we control it—we have power. Real power. The kind that lets us choose our own fate instead of letting them choose it for us.”
“That’s insane.”
“Maybe.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp, desperate. “But it’s better than being their puppet.”
He left.
Hyungwon lay in the enormous bed, staring at the ceiling (ninety-three cracks in the plaster, he counted them until dawn), and knew with cold certainty that he’d just been marked.
Not by Voldemort this time.
By something worse.
By people who thought he was valuable.
And valuable things, Hyungwon had learned in the orphanage, were never allowed to leave.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station on a gray January afternoon, and Hyungwon stepped onto the platform a different person than the one who’d left three weeks ago.
He could feel it in the way he held himself—spine straighter, chin lifted, eyes scanning the crowd with calculated assessment rather than anxious counting. The two weeks at Lee Manor had carved something new into him. Or revealed something that had always been there, waiting.
You’re practically family now, darling.
Lady Yuna’s voice echoed in his head, warm and poisonous.
“Better?” Minhyuk asked beside him, adjusting his scarf. The January cold bit through their robes, but Minhyuk looked utterly unbothered. “You look more settled.”
“I look different,” Hyungwon corrected.
“Same thing.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp. “Come on. Let’s get back before all the good common room seats are taken.”
Jinyoung fell into step on Hyungwon’s other side, carrying his trunk with a levitation charm that looked effortless. “We should establish expectations early,” he said quietly. “Kihyun will be back. His parents might have briefed him on—developments. We need a unified front.”
“Meaning?” Hyungwon asked.
“Meaning you sit with us. Always. At every meal, every study session, every public moment.” Jinyoung’s dark eyes were serious. “People are watching you now. The Gaunt name, the time at Minhyuk’s manor, the way you carry yourself—it all sends a message. We control that message.”
“Or it controls us,” Hyungwon muttered.
“Welcome to politics.” Minhyuk’s hand landed on his shoulder—familiar, possessive. “But Jinyoung’s right. Proximity matters. Association matters. You’re with us now. Completely.”
They rode the carriages up to the castle together, the three of them in one compartment. Through the window, Hyungwon caught glimpses of other students—reuniting friends, excited chatter about holiday gifts and family gatherings.
He thought about the cellar. The robed figures. The Serpent’s cold touch on his scar.
You may be the key to finding it.
“Stop thinking about it,” Minhyuk said, reading his expression. “Not here. Not where people can see.”
Hyungwon forced his face neutral. Counted the castle windows they passed (forty-seven visible from this angle). Let the numbers smooth the edge of his anxiety.
By the time they reached the Entrance Hall, he looked calm. Controlled.
Blood always tells, Lady Yuna had said.
Maybe she was right.
The Great Hall that first dinner back was overwhelming—noise and warmth and color after Lee Manor’s cold elegance. Students shouted greetings across tables, showed off new wands and brooms and magical trinkets. The ceiling showed evening stars, clear and bright.
Hyungwon sat at the Slytherin table between Minhyuk and Jinyoung. Their usual spot, now his permanent position.
He didn’t look toward the Hufflepuff table.
Didn’t search for Wonho’s broad shoulders or warm smile.
Didn’t count how many meals they’d shared before Christmas, or how many greenhouse conversations, or how many times Wonho’s hand had almost reached for his.
“Good,” Minhyuk murmured, following his deliberate non-gaze. “Clean breaks are easier.”
“I didn’t say I was breaking anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” Minhyuk’s voice was soft, almost kind. “But it’s the right choice. Shin Wonho—he’s a distraction. A weakness someone could exploit.”
“He’s a person.”
“He’s a liability.” Jinyoung’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Kind, yes. Well-meaning, certainly. But he doesn’t understand the world we’re navigating. The stakes. The danger.” He paused. “And he would try to save you. Which means he’d try to pull you away from us. Away from your purpose.”
Purpose. The word sat heavy on Hyungwon’s tongue.
Dinner progressed—roasted chicken, potatoes, vegetables that tasted like nothing. Hyungwon ate mechanically, aware of eyes on him from multiple tables. The Gaunt was back. Changed somehow. Sitting with the Slytherin elite like he’d always belonged there.
Halfway through the meal, Wonho appeared at the edge of his vision—moving through the tables toward the doors, probably heading back to Hufflepuff common room early.
He slowed as he passed the Slytherin table.
Stopped.
“Hyungwon,” he said quietly. “Can we talk?”
The Slytherin table fell silent. Conversations paused. Every eye turned to watch.
Hyungwon looked up slowly, meeting Wonho’s hopeful expression. For a second—just a second—he remembered the greenhouse. The warmth of Wonho’s hand. You’re not bad. You matter.
Then he remembered the cellar. The Serpent’s touch. Snape watching from the shadows. The cold certainty that he’d been claimed by something much larger and darker than friendship.
“I’m busy,” Hyungwon said, voice flat.
Wonho’s expression cracked. “Just five minutes. Please. I haven’t seen you since before break and I—”
“I said I’m busy.” Hyungwon turned back to his plate. “Maybe later.”
He wouldn’t say maybe later. They both knew it.
Wonho stood there for three more seconds. Five. Ten.
Then he walked away.
Minhyuk’s hand found Hyungwon’s knee under the table—a quick squeeze. Approval. Support. Possession.
“Well done,” he murmured.
Hyungwon’s throat was tight. He counted the candles overhead (forty-three) until he could breathe again.
Across the hall, Wonho rejoined the Hufflepuff table. Sat beside a small, dark-haired boy—Changkyun, Hyungwon recognized. They spoke quietly, Wonho’s expression troubled.
Hyungwon forced himself to look away.
Clean breaks are easier, Minhyuk had said.
Maybe that was true.
Maybe it had to be.
The drift happened quickly after that.
Classes resumed. Hyungwon sat in the back of Charms with Minhyuk and Jinyoung, no longer near the front where Wonho had saved him a seat before break. Wonho sat with Changkyun now, their heads bent together over shared notes.
In Potions, Hyungwon partnered exclusively with Minhyuk. They were efficient, precise, earning Snape’s rare approval. Snape’s eyes lingered on Hyungwon sometimes—assessing, unreadable—but he said nothing about Lee Manor or cellars or robed figures.
In Herbology, Hyungwon avoided the greenhouses entirely outside of class. Spent his free periods in the library or the common room, always with Minhyuk or Jinyoung or both.
Always visible. Always positioned. Always controlled.
Two weeks into term, the inevitable happened.
Hyungwon was walking to Transfiguration with Minhyuk and Jinyoung when they rounded a corner and found Changkyun pressed against the wall by three older Slytherins. Fifth years, from their height and the casual cruelty in their postures.
“—don’t belong here,” one was saying. “Mudblood trash thinking you can—”
“I have as much right—” Changkyun started, voice shaking but defiant.
“You have no rights.” The tallest Slytherin grabbed Changkyun’s bag, dumped it. Books scattered. “Except the ones we give you.”
Minhyuk stopped walking. Watched with mild interest.
Jinyoung’s expression stayed neutral.
And Hyungwon—
Hyungwon felt something cold settle in his chest. Something that had been growing since Lee Manor. Since the cellar. Since Lady Yuna had called him Prince and meant it.
Changkyun dropped to his knees, gathering his books with trembling hands. His face was red—shame and anger bleeding together.
One of the Slytherins kicked a book out of reach. “Oops.”
The others laughed.
And Hyungwon laughed with them.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just—a small sound. Acknowledgment. Participation.
Belonging.
The corridor froze.
Hyungwon’s eyes met Changkyun’s across the space. Saw recognition. Saw betrayal. Saw something die in the smaller boy’s expression.
Then footsteps—running. Wonho appeared from a side corridor, saw the scene, his face going from confused to furious in seconds.
“Leave him alone,” Wonho said, voice hard.
“Or what?” The tallest Slytherin turned, amused. “You’ll report us? Tell a professor?” His eyes flicked to Hyungwon. “Your friend seems to think it’s funny.”
Wonho’s gaze snapped to Hyungwon. Their eyes locked.
Wonho’s expression—god, his expression. Not angry. Not hateful.
Just… sad. Disappointed. Done.
“Come on, Changkyun,” Wonho said quietly, helping the smaller boy gather his things. “Let’s go.”
They left. Wonho’s hand steady on Changkyun’s shoulder, both of them pointedly not looking back.
The Slytherins dispersed, satisfied. Minhyuk’s hand landed on Hyungwon’s back.
“Good,” he said softly. “You’re learning.”
Hyungwon’s chest felt hollow. His scar burned cold. But his face stayed neutral.
“We’ll be late for class,” he said.
They walked away.
Behind them, a dropped quill lay forgotten on the stone floor. Hyungwon counted his steps over it.
Twenty-three to the classroom.
He made it to twenty before his hands started shaking.
That evening in the Great Hall, Wonho sat at the Hufflepuff table with Changkyun on one side and two Gryffindors on the other—one with sharp eyes and an easy smile (Jooheon, Hyungwon remembered from Sorting), another broader and quieter (Shownu, probably).
They looked comfortable together. Natural. Like they’d found something Hyungwon was no longer part of.
Wonho didn’t look toward Slytherin once during the meal.
The absence of his attention felt like amputation.
“He’ll find new friends,” Jinyoung said, noticing Hyungwon’s distraction. “Better for everyone.”
“Better how?”
“Better because he won’t be collateral damage when things get complicated.” Jinyoung’s voice was matter-of-fact. “And they will get complicated, Hyungwon. The Serpent wants results. Minhyuk’s parents want proof you’re useful. Kihyun’s parents are probably watching you. And somewhere out there—” he paused, “—your father is waiting.”
My father.
The words still felt foreign. Wrong. But also—inevitable.
“What do they want me to do?” Hyungwon asked quietly.
“Find the first piece.” Minhyuk’s voice was low, meant only for their small circle. “The Serpent said it’s close. In Hogwarts or near it. And you—” his eyes gleamed, “—you can sense it. I saw your face when he mentioned it in the cellar. You felt something.”
Hyungwon had felt something. A pull. A recognition. Like his scar had known.
“I don’t know how to find it.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Minhyuk’s hand found his shoulder again—that familiar, claiming touch. “Together. That’s what we do now. We figure things out. We become useful. We make ourselves essential to both sides.”
“Both sides?”
“The Death Eaters who think you’re their key to resurrection—” Jinyoung ticked off on his fingers, “—and Dumbledore, who thinks you’re a lost child who needs guidance. We play them both. Stay valuable to everyone until we figure out how to be valuable to ourselves.”
It was manipulation. Strategy. Everything the orphanage had taught Hyungwon to recognize as dangerous.
But it was also survival.
And survival was the only skill Hyungwon had perfected.
“Okay,” he heard himself say.
“Okay.” Minhyuk’s smile was bright, hungry, absolutely certain. “Welcome to Year Two, Hyungwon. This is where we become useful.”
That night, lying in his bed in the dormitory, Hyungwon stared at the enchanted ceiling and counted cracks.
Forty-seven. Always forty-seven.
But for the first time, the counting didn’t help.
Because somewhere across the castle, Wonho was probably telling his new friends about the boy who’d laughed at cruelty. The boy who’d chosen Slytherin’s cold ambition over Hufflepuff’s warm loyalty.
The boy who was becoming exactly what everyone feared a Gaunt would be.
Hyungwon pressed his hand to his scar—that lightning-branch mark that had glowed green in Lee Manor’s cellar—and felt it pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.
You are mine, Voldemort had whispered in the forest.
But looking at Minhyuk’s sleeping form across the room, at Jinyoung’s careful stillness, at the serpent emblem on his own robes—Hyungwon wasn’t sure anymore whose he really was.
Or if he’d ever belonged to himself at all.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The first time Kihyun approached him, Minhyuk was alone in an empty classroom on the fourth floor.
It was late—past curfew, technically, but Minhyuk had stopped caring about rules weeks ago. He’d been unable to sleep, unable to sit still in the common room with Jinyoung’s knowing looks and Hyungwon’s careful silence. So he’d wandered, counting corridors and trying not to think about Ravenclaw Tower and the boy who’d returned three weeks ago without acknowledging his existence.
The door opened behind him.
Minhyuk’s wand was out before he’d fully turned, defensive spell on his lips—
“It’s me.”
The voice stopped him cold.
Kihyun stood in the doorway, backlit by corridor torchlight, looking exactly as Minhyuk remembered and completely different all at once. Still that careful posture, still that controlled expression. But something in his eyes—
“What are you doing here?” Minhyuk’s voice came out rough.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Kihyun stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. “It’s after curfew.”
“So it is.” Minhyuk lowered his wand slowly. “And yet here you are. Alone. Seeking me out.” His jaw clenched. “What do your parents want this time?”
Kihyun flinched—barely visible, there and gone. “That’s—”
“Don’t.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “Don’t lie to me. Not right now. I know why you’re back. I know they sent you. I know you’re here to spy on Hyungwon, to gather intelligence, to report back like the good little soldier you’ve always been.” He laughed bitterly. “What I don’t know is why you thought I’d be stupid enough to fall for it again.”
Silence stretched between them.
Kihyun’s hands clenched at his sides. “You’re right.”
The admission hit like a physical blow.
“My parents sent me,” Kihyun continued, voice flat. “They want information about the Gaunt boy. About what happened at Lee Manor over break. About Death Eater movements and your family’s plans.” He met Minhyuk’s eyes directly. “They want me to get close to you again. Make you trust me. Extract what you know.”
“At least you’re honest this time.” Minhyuk’s throat was tight. “Last year you pretended. Made me think—” He stopped, hands shaking. “Made me think you actually wanted to be here. That you’d chosen me over them. And then you just—disappeared. Again. Like you always do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Minhyuk turned away, staring out the window at the dark grounds. “You’re following orders. Like you always do. Your parents say jump, you ask how high. They say infiltrate, you show up three weeks late and start lurking in empty classrooms, waiting for me to be alone and vulnerable so you can—what? Manipulate me? Play on old feelings? Make me trust you just enough to—”
“I missed you.”
The words were so quiet Minhyuk almost didn’t hear them.
“What?”
“I missed you.” Kihyun’s voice was still controlled, but something underneath was cracking. “The orders are real. My parents’ directive is real. But that doesn’t mean—” He stopped. Started again. “When I was away, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what you said in the library last term. About—” His hands clenched tighter. “It doesn’t matter what I want. It never has. But I needed you to know that.”
Minhyuk’s chest felt like it was being crushed. He should walk away. Should tell Kihyun to leave and never come back. Should protect himself from the inevitable abandonment.
But god, he was so tired of being without him.
“Why tell me?” he asked quietly. “Why admit you’re spying? Why not just—play the game. Pretend. Make me believe it’s real?”
“Because you deserve better than lies.” Kihyun moved closer—just a step, testing. “And because lying to you feels like—” He stopped. “It feels worse than anything my parents could do to me.”
“That’s not going to stop you from doing it.”
“No,” Kihyun admitted. “It’s not. I’ll report back to them. I’ll tell them what they want to know—or close enough. I’ll fulfill my mission because that’s what I do.” He was closer now, close enough Minhyuk could see the exhaustion in his eyes. “But I wanted you to know. I wanted you to make an informed choice about whether you let me back in or not.”
Minhyuk laughed—broken, desperate. “An informed choice. That’s rich.” He turned to face Kihyun fully. “You know what choice I’ll make. You’ve always known. That’s why you’re here, alone, telling me these partial truths that sound like honesty but are really just another layer of manipulation.”
“Yes,” Kihyun said simply.
The honesty was devastating.
“I hate you,” Minhyuk whispered.
“I know.”
“You’re going to destroy me. Again.”
“Probably.”
“And I’m still going to let you stay.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked completely. “Because having you here—even like this, even knowing what you’re doing—is better than the alternative. And that makes me pathetic. Weak. Everything my mother would despise.”
“You’re not weak.” Kihyun’s voice was soft. “You’re just—”
“Addicted?” Minhyuk’s smile was bitter. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? Addiction. You come back, get me used to having you around again, and then you’ll leave. And the withdrawal will be worse this time because I know. I know and I’m choosing it anyway.”
“Then don’t choose it.” Kihyun’s control was fracturing. “Tell me to leave. Tell me you’re done. Tell me—”
“I can’t.” Minhyuk moved closer, closing the distance between them until they were inches apart. “I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But I can’t let you go, Kihyun. Even when you leave, I’m still holding on. Still waiting. Still—” He stopped, throat too tight to continue.
Kihyun’s breath was unsteady. “This is going to end badly.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“But I don’t.” Minhyuk’s hand lifted—slow, deliberate, giving Kihyun every chance to pull away. His fingers brushed Kihyun’s jaw. “Stay. Report to your parents, spy on Hyungwon, fulfill your mission. I don’t care about any of that. Just—stay.”
Kihyun’s eyes closed. “Minhyuk—”
“Please.” The word was barely audible. “I know what you are. I know what you’re doing. And I’m still begging. That’s how desperate I am.”
Silence.
Then Kihyun’s hand covered Minhyuk’s where it rested against his jaw. “This is the part where you should walk away. Protect yourself. Find someone who isn’t—” He stopped. “Someone who isn’t me.”
“I don’t want someone who isn’t you.” Minhyuk’s thumb traced along Kihyun’s cheekbone. “I want this. Even if it’s toxic. Even if it destroys me. I’d rather burn with you than be safe without you.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“Nothing about us has ever been healthy.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp, broken. “So why start pretending now?”
Kihyun’s composure finally cracked completely. “I’m going to hurt you.”
“You already are.”
“It will get worse.”
“I know.” Minhyuk leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching. “But I’ll have you here. Near me. Real and present, even if it’s fake. Even if you’re just using me for information. I’ll take it. All of it. Whatever you’re willing to give.”
“Minhyuk—”
“Don’t tell me not to. Don’t try to save me from myself.” Minhyuk’s voice was raw. “Just—be here. Please. That’s all I’m asking.”
Kihyun’s hand tightened over Minhyuk’s. His breath was unsteady, control completely shattered. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll be here.” Kihyun’s voice was barely a whisper. “As much as I can. As long as—” He stopped. “As long as you’ll let me.”
“Always,” Minhyuk breathed. “I’ll always let you.”
They stood there in the dark classroom, forehead to forehead, hands tangled together, both trembling.
“This doesn’t change anything,” Kihyun said finally. “I still have to report to my parents. Still have to—”
“I know.”
“And you’ll have to lie to Jinyoung. He can’t know we’re meeting like this.”
“I know that too.” Minhyuk pulled back just enough to meet Kihyun’s eyes. “I won’t tell him. Won’t tell anyone. This—” he gestured between them, “—this is just ours. Secret. Private. Just like when we were kids.”
“When we were kids it was innocent.”
“Nothing about us has ever been innocent.” Minhyuk’s smile was sad. “But it was ours. And this will be too.”
Kihyun was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Same time tomorrow? Here?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t promise how long I can keep this up. My parents will expect results—”
“Then give them results.” Minhyuk’s voice was steady now, decision made. “Tell them about Hyungwon. About Lee Manor. About the meetings. I’ll feed you information—some true, some false. Enough to keep them satisfied without giving away anything that matters.”
“You’d do that?”
“To keep you here?” Minhyuk’s laugh was hollow. “I’d do worse. Much worse.”
Kihyun’s expression was complicated—guilt and want and resignation tangled together. “I should go. Before someone finds us.”
“Tomorrow,” Minhyuk said. Not a question.
“Tomorrow.” Kihyun moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the handle. “For what it’s worth—I am sorry. For leaving last time. For coming back now. For—all of it.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Minhyuk’s voice was soft. “Just don’t leave again without warning. That’s all I ask. If you have to go—when you have to go—just tell me first. Give me time to prepare.”
“I can do that.”
“Then we have a deal.”
Kihyun nodded once and slipped out into the corridor.
Minhyuk stood alone in the dark classroom for seventeen minutes after he left, hand pressed to his jaw where Kihyun’s hand had been, trying to memorize the feeling.
He knew this was a mistake. Knew Kihyun would hurt him again. Knew he was setting himself up for devastation.
But god, it felt worth it.
The next morning at breakfast, Jinyoung noticed immediately.
“You look—” He paused, studying Minhyuk’s face. “Different. Did something happen?”
“No.” The lie came easily. “Just slept better. Finally.”
“Right.” Jinyoung’s eyes narrowed. “And this has nothing to do with Kihyun returning?”
“He returned three weeks ago. I’m over it.”
“You’re never over it.” Jinyoung’s voice was flat. “But fine. Keep your secrets. Just don’t come crying to me when—”
“I won’t.” Minhyuk’s voice was certain. “Whatever happens, I chose it. That’s on me.”
Hyungwon watched the exchange silently, counting the tension between them.
Across the hall, Kihyun sat at the Ravenclaw table, eating breakfast with perfect composure. He didn’t look toward Slytherin once.
But Minhyuk felt his attention anyway. Felt the invisible thread connecting them, pulled tight and trembling.
Tonight they’d meet again. And the night after. And the night after that.
Until one of them broke.
And Minhyuk knew—with cold, certain clarity—that it would be him.
But at least he’d get to be near Kihyun while he shattered.
At least he’d burn bright before he burned out.
It was more than he’d had three weeks ago.
It would have to be enough.
That night, in Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun sat at his desk and wrote to his parents.
Contact established. Subject M. is aware of my mission but willing to cooperate regardless. Emotional attachment remains exploitable.
Access to information about H.G. granted. Will report findings as acquired.
Recommend continued proximity despite Subject M.’s awareness. His need for connection outweighs strategic caution.
This will destroy him. I’m proceeding anyway.
—K
He sealed the letter and sent it.
Then he sat in the dark and counted to one hundred and forty-seven, remembering the feeling of Minhyuk’s hand on his jaw and wondering which one of them would crack first.
Deep down, he knew the answer.
They both would.
They always did.
That’s what made them perfect for each other—and completely, catastrophically wrong.
But Kihyun went to the empty classroom the next night anyway.
And the night after.
And every night after that.
Because some addictions were too powerful to quit.
Even when they were killing you.
Especially then.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Spring break arrived with cold rain and gray skies.
Most students left for home—the Hogwarts Express packed with excited chatter about two weeks of freedom. Hyungwon watched them go from the Entrance Hall, counting families reuniting (forty-seven visible groups) and trying not to think about the letter that had arrived three days ago.
Mr. Gaunt—
Your presence is required at Lee Manor for the spring holiday. Transportation has been arranged. A car will collect you from Hogsmeade Station on the 23rd.
Lady Yuna sends her regards and looks forward to your return.
—Lord Daesung Lee
Not an invitation this time. A summons.
“Ready?” Minhyuk appeared at his elbow, trunk floating behind him with a casual levitation charm. He looked composed, but Hyungwon had learned to read the tension in his shoulders. “Mother’s expecting us by dinner.”
“Jinyoung’s coming too?”
“Of course. The Parks always spend spring break with us. Tradition.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp. “Plus, Mother likes having an audience for her… gatherings.”
Gatherings. The word sat heavy in Hyungwon’s stomach.
They rode to Hogsmeade in silence, the carriage swaying over muddy roads. Rain streaked the windows, turning the landscape into watercolor blurs. Hyungwon counted raindrops (lost track at three hundred and twelve) and tried to steady his breathing.
The sleek black car was waiting at the station. Same driver, same leather interior, same suffocating sense of inevitability.
As they pulled away from Hogsmeade, Jinyoung spoke quietly: “It’s going to be different this time.”
“Different how?” Hyungwon asked.
“Last time you were a curiosity. An interesting bloodline to examine.” Jinyoung’s dark eyes were serious. “This time you’re expected to prove yourself. To show you’re useful.”
“Useful how?”
“You’ll find out tonight.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat. “Mother has plans.”
Lee Manor looked different in spring rain—darker, more ominous, towers disappearing into low clouds. The gardens were muddy, the fountain’s frozen serpents now dripping and slick. Everything felt colder despite the season.
Lady Yuna met them in the entrance hall, elegant as ever in deep green robes. “Minhyuk, darling. And Hyungwon—welcome back.” Her smile was warm, but her eyes assessed him like a weapon she was evaluating. “You’ve grown. Filled out a bit. Hogwarts is treating you well.”
“Yes, Lady Lee. Thank you.”
“Yuna, please.” She touched his cheek—that same possessive gesture. “We’re past formalities now, aren’t we? You’re practically family.” Her attention shifted to Minhyuk. “Dinner at seven. Your father wants to discuss… developments. Hyungwon, wear the formal robes we had made. The deep green ones with the silver embroidery. They’ll suit the occasion.”
“What occasion?” Hyungwon asked.
Her smile widened. “You’ll see.”
Dinner was in the same formal dining room, but tonight there were more guests.
Eight adults Hyungwon didn’t recognize, all in expensive robes, all watching him with barely concealed interest. Their conversation was careful, coded—discussing “the situation” and “recent developments” and “preparations for the return” in voices that carried weight.
Hyungwon sat between Minhyuk and Jinyoung, feeling like an exhibit.
“—remarkable resemblance,” one woman was saying. “The Gaunt features are unmistakable.”
“And the scar,” a man added, eyes fixed on Hyungwon’s forehead. “Lightning-shaped. Quite distinctive.”
“A sign,” Lady Yuna said smoothly. “Of contact. Of… connection.” She raised her glass. “To new alliances and old blood.”
They drank.
The meal passed in a haze—course after course, conversation flowing around topics Hyungwon half-understood. The Dark Lord’s ideology. The coming restoration. The necessity of preparing now, while the Ministry was still blind.
By dessert, Hyungwon’s scar was throbbing—that cold burn that had become familiar over the year.
“Hyungwon,” Lord Daesung said, drawing all attention to him. “Tell us—have you discovered any… particular talents? Since we last met?”
The room fell silent, waiting.
“No, sir.” Hyungwon’s voice was steady despite his racing pulse. “Just regular classes. Nothing unusual.”
“Hmm.” Lord Daesung’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing unusual. No voices? No dreams? No sense of… connection?”
Hyungwon’s hands clenched under the table. Minhyuk’s foot pressed against his—a warning.
“Sometimes I have strange dreams,” Hyungwon admitted carefully. “But I think that’s normal. New school, new experiences.”
“Of course.” Lady Yuna’s smile was knowing. “Dreams can be so… illuminating. Especially for those with powerful blood.” She stood. “Gentlemen, ladies—shall we adjourn to the study? I believe our other guests have arrived.”
The adults rose and filed out.
Hyungwon started to stand, but Minhyuk grabbed his wrist. “Wait.”
“What—”
“Tonight’s different,” Minhyuk said urgently. “They’re going to test you. Give you a task. You need to succeed, Hyungwon. If you fail—” He stopped, jaw tight. “Just don’t fail.”
“What kind of task?”
“I don’t know. But whatever it is—” Minhyuk’s grip tightened, “—do it. No hesitation. No moral questioning. Just do it.”
The cellar was the same—seventy-three steps down, cold stone walls, circle of robed figures. But tonight there were more of them. Thirty-seven by Hyungwon’s count, all masked, all watching.
The Serpent stood at the center, silver mask gleaming in candlelight.
“Young Gaunt,” he said, voice like oil. “Welcome back. We’ve been anticipating this moment.”
Hyungwon stepped into the circle. His legs felt unsteady. Minhyuk and Jinyoung stayed at the edge, unmasked but silent.
“Since your last visit,” the Serpent continued, “we’ve made progress. Researched. Prepared. And we’ve identified something that requires your… unique gifts.”
“I don’t have any gifts.”
“Don’t you?” The Serpent moved closer. “You carry his blood. His scar marks you. And blood—true blood—resonates with certain magics. Ancient magics. The kind that protects what he hid.”
Hyungwon’s chest tightened. “What did he hide?”
“Pieces of himself.” The Serpent’s mask tilted. “Scattered. Hidden. Protected by wards that respond only to his essence.” He reached into his robes and withdrew a piece of parchment. “This is a map of Hogwarts—old sections, rarely used. There’s a ward in the eastern tower, third floor. We need to know how it responds.”
“Responds to what?”
“To moonlight. To magic. To—” the Serpent paused, “—to you.” He handed Hyungwon the parchment. “Observe it during the full moon. Note what happens. How the ward shifts, what patterns emerge. Report back at summer break.”
“That’s it?” Hyungwon’s voice came out thin. “Just observe?”
“Just observe.” The Serpent’s voice carried amusement. “For now. If you succeed—if you prove useful—there will be more. Greater tasks. Greater rewards.” He moved closer, until Hyungwon could feel cold radiating from him. “The Dark Lord values loyalty. Competence. Those who serve him well will stand at his side when he returns. Those who fail—” He left the sentence unfinished.
The threat was clear.
“I understand,” Hyungwon whispered.
“Good.” The Serpent placed both hands on Hyungwon’s shoulders. “You will be magnificent, young Prince. I sense it. Your father’s power flows through you, waiting to be awakened. Soon—very soon—you will understand your purpose.”
The touch burned ice-cold. Hyungwon’s scar flared in response.
And for just a second—a fraction of a heartbeat—he heard it.
A voice. Distant but familiar. Voldemort’s voice, threaded through the cold:
Yes, my son. Soon.
Hyungwon gasped. The connection snapped.
The Serpent released him, seeming satisfied. “He responds to you. Excellent. That confirms what we suspected.” He addressed the room. “The boy will serve us well. Protect him. Guide him. Ensure he returns to Hogwarts prepared for his task.”
The circle of robed figures bowed.
Hyungwon stood in the center, trembling, the parchment clutched in his hand. Through the blur of candles and masks, he found Snape again—standing in the back, black eyes fixed on him with an expression Hyungwon couldn’t read.
Their gazes held.
Then Snape looked away, and Hyungwon felt utterly, completely alone.
That night, Hyungwon lay in the too-large bed in the west wing and stared at the ceiling.
Ninety-three cracks. He counted them seven times.
It didn’t help.
His scar burned cold. The parchment sat on the nightstand—a map of Hogwarts with a specific section circled in red. A task. A test. A step deeper into something he didn’t fully understand.
Soon, my son. Soon you will understand your purpose.
The voice had been so clear. So certain. Like Voldemort had been right there, in the cellar, watching through Hyungwon’s eyes.
Maybe he had been.
Hyungwon closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Counted backward from one hundred and forty-seven. Counted his breaths. Counted the seconds between heartbeats.
Sleep came eventually, heavy and dark.
And with it—dreams.
A room Hyungwon didn’t recognize. Stone walls, no windows, lit by green flames that cast everything in sickly light. Someone stood at the center—tall, impossibly thin, face distorted by shadow.
“My son.”
The voice was Voldemort’s, but clearer now. Stronger.
“You’ve done well. The Serpent is pleased. I am pleased.”
Hyungwon tried to speak. Couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move.
“Soon you will find the first piece. The key to my return. And when you do—” Voldemort moved closer, and Hyungwon could see his eyes now. Burning green, bright as poison. “—you will understand what you were made for. What I created you to be.”
“I’m not—” Hyungwon’s voice finally worked, rough and desperate. “I’m not your weapon.”
“No.” Voldemort’s smile was terrible. “You’re so much more than that. You’re my legacy. My continuation. The vessel through which I will reclaim everything that was taken from me.” He reached out, touched Hyungwon’s scar. The pain was blinding. “You cannot run from what you are. Cannot hide from your purpose. The blood calls, Hyungwon. It always calls.”
The room dissolved into green light—
Hyungwon woke gasping.
The bedroom was dark except for the dying fire in the grate. His sheets were soaked with sweat. His scar burned like someone had pressed ice to it.
And someone was sitting on the edge of his bed.
Hyungwon’s wand was out before he’d fully processed—
“Easy.” Minhyuk’s voice, calm in the darkness. “It’s just me.”
Hyungwon lowered his wand with shaking hands. “What are you—”
“You were talking in your sleep.” Minhyuk’s face was barely visible in the dim firelight. “Loud enough I heard it from my room. Thought I should check before you woke the whole manor.”
“What was I saying?”
“Names. ‘Father.’ ‘Not a weapon.’ Other things I couldn’t make out.” Minhyuk’s eyes gleamed. “Was it him? Did you—were you dreaming about him?”
Hyungwon’s throat was too tight to answer.
“You were,” Minhyuk breathed. “The connection’s getting stronger. Ever since the Serpent touched you tonight—” He moved closer, urgent. “What did he say? In the dream?”
“He said—” Hyungwon’s voice cracked. “He said I was his legacy. His vessel. That I’d help him return.”
“Good.”
“Good?” Hyungwon stared at him. “How is any of this good?”
“Because it means you’re connected. Really connected. And if you can hear him—” Minhyuk’s expression was intense, almost feverish, “—then you can find what he hid. The pieces the Serpent mentioned. The keys to his return. And if we find them first—” He stopped, jaw tight. “We have power, Hyungwon. Real power. The kind that lets us control our own fate.”
“Or we’re just doing exactly what they want.”
“Maybe.” Minhyuk’s hand found Hyungwon’s wrist—warm, grounding. “But at least we’re doing it together. At least we’re—” He stopped. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Minhyuk’s thumb pressed against Hyungwon’s pulse point. “Your heart’s going insane. The dream scared you.”
“Of course it scared me.” Hyungwon pulled his hand away. “He’s in my head, Minhyuk. Voldemort is literally in my head, telling me I was made to serve him. How am I supposed to—” His voice broke. “How am I supposed to be okay with that?”
“You’re not.” Minhyuk’s voice was soft. “But you’re going to survive it. Because that’s what you do. You survive.” He stood. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow we go back to Hogwarts. And then—” his smile was sharp in the darkness, “—then you have a task to complete. A ward to observe. And maybe, if we’re smart about it, a future to steal before anyone else can claim it.”
He left, door closing with a soft click.
Hyungwon lay in the dark, hand pressed to his scar, and counted the remaining hours until dawn.
Got to two hundred and seventy-three before the trembling stopped.
And somewhere in the space between waking and sleeping, Voldemort’s voice whispered through his mind one more time:
Soon, my son. Soon you will be ready.
Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The voice didn’t fade.
It never did anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The common room was empty at two in the morning—just green flames dying in the grate and shadows pooling in corners. Most of the castle was asleep, but Hyungwon had given up on sleep hours ago.
The task sat heavy in his mind. The ward in the eastern tower. The full moon in three days. The Serpent’s cold voice: If you succeed—if you prove useful—there will be more.
He’d been counting the stones in the fireplace (one hundred and forty-seven visible) when the portrait hole opened and Minhyuk stumbled through.
Drunk. Obviously drunk, from the way he moved—too loose, too careless, all the careful control stripped away.
“Hyungwon.” Minhyuk’s voice was rough. “Still awake. Good. Good.” He collapsed onto the sofa opposite, a bottle of firewhisky clutched in one hand. “Want some? Stole it from my father’s study over break. He’ll never notice.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking that.”
“Probably not.” Minhyuk took a long swallow, winced. “But it’s better than thinking. And I’m so tired of thinking.”
Hyungwon watched him carefully. Minhyuk drunk was different from Minhyuk sober—edges blurred, masks slipping, raw need visible in every movement.
“Where’s Jinyoung?” Hyungwon asked.
“Asleep. Like normal people.” Minhyuk laughed bitterly. “But I can’t sleep. Can’t stop—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “Kihyun won’t even look at me anymore. Not like he used to.”
That wasn’t true. Hyungwon had seen Kihyun watching Minhyuk during meals, in corridors, across the library. But he’d also seen Kihyun look away every time Minhyuk caught him staring.
“Maybe he’s smarter than you think,” Hyungwon said quietly.
“Smart.” Minhyuk took another drink. “Everyone’s so fucking smart. Kihyun with his careful distance. Jinyoung with his strategic warnings. You with your—” He gestured vaguely. “Your counting and observing and pretending you’re not drowning just like the rest of us.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Minhyuk’s eyes fixed on him—too bright, too focused. “You’re drowning in that scar and your father’s voice and the expectations everyone keeps piling on you. I can see it. Every time someone mentions your name, every time the Serpent gives you a new task—you’re drowning. And you’re too proud to ask for help.”
The words hit too close.
“I’m fine,” Hyungwon said.
“Liar.” Minhyuk stood—unsteady but determined—and moved to Hyungwon’s sofa. Sat too close, knee pressing against Hyungwon’s thigh. “We’re all liars here. That’s what Slytherin does. Teaches us to lie so well we believe our own bullshit.” He took another drink. “But I’m tired of lying tonight. Just—so tired.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Hyungwon’s chest tightened. “Minhyuk—”
“Do you know what it’s like?” Minhyuk interrupted. “Wanting something so badly it makes you sick? Knowing you can’t have it, that it’s toxic and wrong and will destroy you, but wanting it anyway?” His hand clenched around the bottle. “Kihyun is—he’s poison. Beautiful, brilliant poison. And I keep drinking it even though I know it’s killing me.”
“Then stop,” Hyungwon said. “Walk away. Find someone else. Find something that doesn’t hurt.”
“I can’t.” Minhyuk’s laugh was hollow. “I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But he’s—” He stopped, eyes distant. “Do you know what he looks like when he loses control? When that perfect composure cracks and he just—feels? His eyes go soft, mouth parts just slightly, breathing gets unsteady. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’m addicted to making it happen. To pushing him until that control shatters.”
Hyungwon didn’t know what to say to that.
“And you?” Minhyuk’s attention snapped back, sudden and intense. “Are you smart, Hyungwon? Smart enough to see what’s happening? Smart enough to run before it’s too late?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“You’re caught in the middle.” Minhyuk leaned closer—close enough Hyungwon could smell the firewhisky on his breath, could count the amber flecks in his dark eyes. “Between me and my obsessions. Between my family and your father. Between what you want and what you’re expected to be.” His voice dropped. “Or are you just as fucked as I am?”
Hyungwon’s breath caught. Minhyuk was too close—invading space, radiating heat and desperation and something dangerous. His eyes were fever-bright, jaw tight, entire body coiled like a spring about to snap.
But Minhyuk wasn’t really seeing him.
Hyungwon realized it suddenly, watching Minhyuk’s gaze go slightly unfocused. The intensity wasn’t directed at him—it was bleeding through him, aimed at someone else. Someone with fox-like eyes and perfect composure and a smile that could cut.
Minhyuk was thinking about Kihyun.
Picturing him. Wanting him. Using Hyungwon as a substitute for the person he couldn’t have.
“Minhyuk—” Hyungwon started.
Minhyuk leaned in—closer, so close their mouths were almost touching. Hyungwon could feel his breath, warm and unsteady. Could see every detail of his face—the sharp lines, the desperate hunger, the pain bleeding through every carefully maintained mask.
“Tell me you’re not drowning,” Minhyuk whispered. “Tell me you have it all figured out. Tell me—”
He stopped. His eyes focused suddenly, really seeing Hyungwon for the first time.
Something in his expression shifted. Cleared.
Then he pulled back abruptly, grinning—sharp and broken and absolutely devastating.
“Thought so,” he said. “You’re just as fucked as the rest of us.”
He stood, swaying slightly, and took another drink from the bottle.
“Get some sleep, Hyungwon,” he said, voice rough. “You have a task in three days. And I—” He laughed hollowly. “I have a meeting I shouldn’t be going to. With someone I shouldn’t want. Because apparently I’m incapable of making good decisions.”
He walked toward the dormitory stairs, then paused.
“For what it’s worth,” he said without turning around, “I’m sorry. For using you like—for making you part of this mess. You deserve better. Better than me, better than my family, better than—” He stopped. “Just better.”
Then he was gone, disappearing up the stairs.
Hyungwon sat alone in the dying firelight, hand pressed to his chest where his heart hammered too fast.
He counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
His pulse didn’t settle.
Sleep didn’t come.
Hyungwon lay in his bed, staring at the enchanted ceiling—the lake rippling overhead, shadows moving through dark water. Forty-seven cracks in the plaster. He counted them nine times.
It didn’t help.
Because his mind kept spinning, caught in a web he didn’t know how to escape.
He thought about Minhyuk’s mouth, close enough to touch. The desperate hunger in his eyes that wasn’t really about Hyungwon at all—just displaced need, bleeding onto whoever was closest.
He thought about Wonho’s hand, warm and solid and safe. The way he’d smiled in the greenhouse, before everything changed. Before Hyungwon had laughed at cruelty and chosen Slytherin’s cold ambition over Hufflepuff’s gentle warmth.
He thought about the voice in the dark—Voldemort’s voice, threaded through his dreams. Soon, my son. Soon you will understand your purpose.
Three different futures, three different paths, all pulling him in different directions.
And Hyungwon, caught in the middle, drowning exactly like Minhyuk had said.
The worst part was not knowing which terrified him most.
Minhyuk’s desperate intensity—the way he consumed everything he touched, used people as substitutes for the one person he really wanted. The knowledge that Hyungwon was just a placeholder, a convenient target for need that would never really be about him.
Wonho’s gentle certainty—the way he’d looked at Hyungwon like he was worth saving. The kindness that Hyungwon had thrown away because it felt too dangerous, too exposing, too much like hope.
Or Voldemort’s cold promise—the voice that called him son and legacy and vessel. The destiny carved into his scar, written in his blood, inevitable as gravity.
He counted heartbeats. Lost track somewhere around three hundred and forty-seven.
Across the dormitory, Minhyuk’s bed was empty. Still at his secret meeting, probably. With Kihyun. The person he really wanted, the person he pictured when he leaned close to Hyungwon in the dark.
Hyungwon pressed his hand to his mouth—the space where Minhyuk’s breath had been warm and desperate—and tried not to think about how it had felt to be needed, even if the need wasn’t really for him.
Tried not to think about Wonho’s disappointment. About greenhouse conversations and warm hands and the version of himself he’d abandoned when he chose survival over connection.
Tried not to think about the ward he’d have to observe in three days. The task that would prove him useful. The next step deeper into something he couldn’t escape.
You’re just as fucked as the rest of us.
Minhyuk had been right.
They were all drowning.
The only question was who would go under first.
Hyungwon counted ceiling cracks until dawn light filtered through the lake water overhead, turning everything pale green.
Forty-seven cracks.
Always forty-seven.
It should have been comforting—the constancy, the predictability, the one thing that never changed.
Instead, it felt like proof that no matter how many times he counted, no matter how hard he tried to make sense of the chaos—nothing would ever add up to safety.
Some equations had no solution.
Some drownings were inevitable.
And Hyungwon was starting to think his had been written in his blood from the moment Voldemort had marked him as son.
The only choice left was how gracefully he’d sink.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Third year began with new schedules, new subjects, and the careful reconstruction of a self Hyungwon barely recognized.
Summer had passed in a blur—two weeks at Lee Manor (another meeting, another task: observe the wards, note the patterns, report findings), then six weeks alone in the castle with a handful of other students who had nowhere else to go. Hyungwon had spent those weeks completing his assignment, watching moonlight dance across ancient stones, taking notes in careful handwriting that his fingers could produce even when his mind went numb.
The ward had responded. Pulsed with recognition. Glowed faint green when he’d pressed his palm to it.
It knows you, he’d written in his report. It feels like—like coming home.
The thought had terrified him.
Now, September sun warmed the castle stones, and Hyungwon sat in the courtyard with Minhyuk and Jinyoung, pretending to study Transfiguration while actually counting the number of students training across the lawn.
Seventeen visible. No—eighteen now.
They called themselves a “casual study group,” but everyone knew what they really were. Wonho had started it second year, after Changkyun’s humiliation in the corridor. After Hyungwon had laughed.
Defense practice. “Just in case.”
In case of what, they never said explicitly. But the implication was clear: in case people like the Slytherins decided cruelty wasn’t enough. In case the whispers about the Dark Lord’s return became screams. In case the world split into sides and they needed to know which spells kept you alive.
“They’re getting better,” Jinyoung observed, watching Changkyun successfully disarm Jooheon. “More organized. Someone’s actually teaching them properly.”
“Probably that Gryffindor prefect,” Minhyuk said without looking up from his book. “Shownu. He’s got older brothers who fought in the war. Knows real combat magic, not just classroom theory.”
“Concerned?” Hyungwon asked.
“Curious.” Minhyuk’s eyes finally lifted, tracking the group. “Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors training together. Building alliances. Preparing for something they won’t name.” His smile was sharp. “It’s almost admirable. Naive, but admirable.”
Hyungwon’s gaze found Wonho across the courtyard—broader than he’d been last year, more confident in his movements. He was demonstrating a shield charm to a second-year, patient and thorough, adjusting the girl’s wand angle with gentle hands.
The same hands that had held Hyungwon’s in the greenhouse, warm and steady and asking for nothing.
You matter, Wonho had said.
Past tense now. Mattered. Used to matter. Before Hyungwon had chosen differently.
As if sensing the attention, Wonho’s head turned. His eyes found Hyungwon’s across the distance—forty-seven meters, Hyungwon estimated automatically.
They stared at each other.
Hyungwon waited for something—a smile, a wave, any acknowledgment of what they’d almost been.
Wonho’s expression stayed neutral. Then he turned back to his student, adjusting her stance, continuing the lesson like Hyungwon didn’t exist.
The dismissal was surgical and complete.
“He’s gotten good at pretending you’re not there,” Jinyoung said quietly.
“Good for him,” Hyungwon muttered, returning to his textbook. The words blurred together. He counted them instead of reading—two hundred and seventy-three on the visible page.
“You could apologize,” Minhyuk said.
“For what?”
“For laughing. For choosing us over him. For—” Minhyuk paused, “—becoming what you’re becoming.”
“And what am I becoming?”
Minhyuk’s smile was sad, knowing. “Someone who survives. At any cost. Just like the rest of us.”
Classes were harder in third year—more complex spells, more theory, more expectations. Hyungwon excelled quietly, turning in perfect essays and executing charms with mechanical precision. Professors praised his focus. Other students kept their distance.
The Gaunt boy. Voldemort’s son. Slytherin’s newest dark curiosity.
The rumors had spread over summer—carefully planted by the Serpent’s network, Hyungwon suspected. Nothing explicit, just whispers. Suggestions. The kind of reputation that made people watch from corners and conversation stop when he entered rooms.
Minhyuk seemed pleased. “Fear is useful,” he’d said. “Better to be feared than pitied.”
Hyungwon wasn’t sure he agreed, but he’d stopped arguing months ago.
The only person who seemed immune to the rumors was Kihyun.
Hyungwon still didn’t know about the secret meetings—Minhyuk kept them carefully hidden, disappearing some nights and returning with disheveled hair and shadows under his eyes. But he noticed the way Minhyuk tracked Kihyun during meals, the way his hands shook slightly when Kihyun passed in corridors.
And he noticed Kihyun’s careful distance in public, contrasted with the private glances—loaded, complicated, speaking a language Hyungwon didn’t understand.
Whatever was happening between them, it was consuming Minhyuk slowly. Making him volatile, desperate, increasingly reckless.
“You should tell him to stop,” Jinyoung said one evening, watching Minhyuk stare across the library at Kihyun’s table.
“Tell who to stop what?”
“Minhyuk. Whatever he’s doing with Kihyun.” Jinyoung’s voice was flat. “It’s going to end badly. Again.”
“He won’t listen to me.”
“He might. You’re the only person he talks to about—” Jinyoung stopped. “About the things that matter. The tasks, the meetings, your father. He trusts you.”
“He trusts what I represent,” Hyungwon corrected. “The connection to Voldemort. The usefulness. That’s different from trust.”
“Is it?” Jinyoung’s dark eyes were serious. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the closest thing Minhyuk has to a friend who isn’t me. And I’m—” He paused. “I’m too close to see clearly anymore. Too invested in keeping both of you alive.”
The admission was startling.
“Why?” Hyungwon asked. “Why stay? You could distance yourself. Transfer houses, even. Your parents would probably approve.”
“My parents,” Jinyoung said quietly, “made their choices a long time ago. I’m living with the consequences.” He closed his book. “And maybe—maybe I’m hoping if I stay close enough, I can keep the damage contained. Keep Minhyuk from completely destroying himself. Keep you from—” He stopped. “From becoming what they want you to be.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Jinyoung’s voice was gentle but certain. “Every task you complete, every meeting you attend, every time you let them call you Prince—you’re becoming it. And one day you’ll look in the mirror and not recognize what’s looking back.”
The words sat heavy between them.
Across the library, Kihyun gathered his things and left. Minhyuk watched him go, jaw tight, hands clenched on the table.
“He’s going to follow him,” Jinyoung muttered. “In three… two…”
Minhyuk stood and left.
“Every time,” Jinyoung sighed. “Like clockwork.”
That evening, Hyungwon returned to the dormitory after dinner to find a folded piece of parchment on the floor, clearly slipped under the door.
His first thought was Minhyuk—another meeting summons, another task, another step deeper.
But the handwriting was different. Rounder, more open. Familiar.
He unfolded it with careful fingers.
Hyungwon—
I know things are complicated. I know you’ve made choices I don’t understand. But if you ever want to talk—really talk, not just pretend everything’s fine—you know where to find me.
The greenhouse. After dinner. Any night.
You can still come back.
—W
Hyungwon stared at the note for ninety-seven seconds.
You can still come back.
As if it were that simple. As if he could just walk away from the Serpent’s tasks and Voldemort’s voice and the mark on his forehead that glowed green in moonlight. As if choosing Wonho’s gentle warmth over Slytherin’s cold ambition would erase everything he’d already become.
You’re becoming what they want you to be, Jinyoung had said.
Maybe he was. Maybe it was too late to turn back.
Maybe some choices, once made, couldn’t be unmade.
Hyungwon walked to the fireplace. The green flames were low, barely embers. He held the note over them, watching the edges curl and blacken.
You can still come back.
The words burned first—ink disappearing, parchment crisping, Wonho’s hope turning to ash.
Hyungwon let it fall into the flames and watched until nothing remained but gray powder and the ghost of what might have been.
Then he counted the stones in the fireplace.
One hundred and forty-seven.
Always one hundred and forty-seven.
The constancy should have been comforting.
Instead, it felt like proof that some things were fixed—carved in stone, written in blood, inevitable as the pull of gravity.
He was Voldemort’s son. The Serpent’s tool. Minhyuk’s claimed companion. Slytherin’s dark prince.
He was not the boy who sat in greenhouses and believed he mattered just for existing.
That boy had burned away, piece by piece, until only the counting remained.
Hyungwon pressed his hand to his scar—that lightning-branch mark that pulsed in rhythm with distant magic—and knew with cold certainty that he’d just closed a door that would never open again.
Somewhere across the castle, Wonho might be waiting in the greenhouse, hoping.
But hope was a luxury Hyungwon couldn’t afford anymore.
Not when survival required becoming the thing everyone feared.
Not when the only path forward was deeper into darkness.
Not when he’d already burned the last bridge back to light.
He counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The ache in his chest didn’t fade.
It never did.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The library was empty at midnight—just dust motes drifting through moonlight and the weight of a thousand books holding centuries of secrets.
Minhyuk sat at their usual table in the restricted section, textbook open but unread. He’d been staring at the same page for forty-three minutes, words blurring into meaningless shapes while his mind spun elsewhere.
Kihyun was late.
Not unusual—their meetings were erratic by necessity, dependent on patrol schedules and who was awake in their respective common rooms. But tonight felt different. Heavier. Like the air before a storm.
Footsteps on stone.
Minhyuk’s head snapped up.
Kihyun appeared between the shelves, moving with that careful precision that never quite masked the exhaustion underneath. His Ravenclaw robes were perfectly arranged, hair swept back, expression controlled—but Minhyuk had learned to read the cracks. The tightness around his eyes. The tension in his shoulders.
“You came,” Minhyuk said.
“I said I would.” Kihyun sat across from him, not beside him tonight. Distance. Deliberate. “Sorry I’m late. Prefect rounds took longer than expected.”
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. Every extra minute had been agony. “I wasn’t—I didn’t think you’d—” Minhyuk stopped, jaw clenching. “Never mind.”
Kihyun’s eyes softened fractionally. “You thought I wouldn’t come.”
“You’ve missed meetings before.”
“Once. I missed one meeting because I was sick.” Kihyun’s voice was patient but tired. “We’ve been over this.”
“I know. I just—” Minhyuk’s hands clenched on the table. “You could disappear again. Any time. Your parents could send another letter and you’d just—vanish. Like last year. Like always.”
“Minhyuk—”
“Why do you keep coming back if you hate me?” The question burst out before Minhyuk could stop it. Raw. Desperate. “If being near me is so dangerous, if your parents disapprove, if every meeting is a risk—why not just stay away? Make it easier on both of us?”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Kihyun’s hand moved—slow, deliberate—sliding across the table until it covered Minhyuk’s clenched fist.
The touch burned through Minhyuk’s skin.
“I don’t hate you,” Kihyun said quietly.
“Then what?” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “What is this? What are we doing?”
“I don’t know.” Kihyun’s thumb brushed across Minhyuk’s knuckles—gentle, devastating. “But I’m here. That has to count for something.”
“Does it?” Minhyuk turned his hand over, palm up, fingers curling around Kihyun’s. “Or are you just here because your parents told you to be? Because spying on me is easier when I think—” He stopped, throat tight. “When I think you actually care.”
“I do care.” Kihyun’s control was fracturing. “That’s the problem. I’m supposed to be objective. Detached. Report what I observe without—without feeling anything. But I can’t. Every time I see you struggling, every time you question your family’s ideology, every time you look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you sane—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “I care too much. And it’s going to destroy us both.”
“Then let it.” Minhyuk’s grip tightened. “I’d rather burn with you than be safe without you.”
“That’s not—” Kihyun’s breath stuttered. “That’s not healthy, Minhyuk.”
“I know.” Minhyuk’s laugh was hollow. “Nothing about us has ever been healthy. But at least it’s real. At least when I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend I believe the bullshit my parents spout. The pureblood supremacy, the Dark Lord worship, the—” His voice broke. “Sometimes I think I’m going insane. Following orders I don’t believe in, attending meetings that make me sick, watching Hyungwon sink deeper into something that’s going to consume him. And the only time I feel like myself—like me—is when I’m here. With you.”
Kihyun’s eyes were too bright. “You shouldn’t—you can’t put that on me. I can’t be the only thing keeping you grounded. That’s too much pressure.”
“You didn’t ask for it. I know that.” Minhyuk’s free hand reached across the table, found Kihyun’s other hand. Now they were holding both hands, tangled together, anchoring each other. “But you’re here anyway. Even knowing how fucked up I am, even knowing your parents would lose their minds if they found out about these meetings—you’re here.”
“Because I’m weak.” Kihyun’s voice was barely audible. “Because every time I try to stay away, I—” He stopped. “I can’t.”
“That’s not weakness.” Minhyuk leaned forward, urgent. “That’s the only real thing in this entire nightmare. You and me, here, being honest about how completely we’re both drowning.”
“Is it honest?” Kihyun’s eyes searched his face. “Or are we just lying to each other in different ways?”
“I don’t know anymore.” Minhyuk’s thumbs brushed across Kihyun’s knuckles—mirror of the gesture Kihyun had made moments ago. “But I know this feels more real than anything else in my life. More real than my family’s plans, more real than the Serpent’s tasks, more real than—” He stopped. “Than anything.”
The air between them charged—electric, inevitable, pulling them together like gravity.
Kihyun’s breath was unsteady. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know.” Minhyuk stood, moving around the table. Kihyun stayed seated, head tilted up, watching. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want—” He stopped beside Kihyun’s chair. “That I don’t need—”
“Minhyuk—”
“Just—” Minhyuk’s hand lifted, cupped Kihyun’s jaw with trembling fingers. “Just let me—”
He leaned down. Slow. Deliberate. Giving Kihyun every chance to pull away.
Kihyun didn’t move. His eyes stayed open, watching Minhyuk’s face like he was memorizing every detail. His breathing had gone shallow, uneven. The perfect control he maintained in public was shattered here, in the dark, with only moonlight as witness.
Minhyuk’s thumb brushed across Kihyun’s cheekbone. “Tell me to stop.”
“I should.” Kihyun’s voice was wrecked. “I should tell you to stop. To walk away. To—”
“But you won’t.” Minhyuk leaned closer. Their mouths were an inch apart. Less. He could feel Kihyun’s breath against his lips—warm, unsteady, tasting like the mint tea Kihyun always drank before bed. “Will you?”
Kihyun’s eyes closed. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair. Every line of his body screamed tension—want and fear tangled so tight they were indistinguishable.
“Kihyun,” Minhyuk breathed.
Their lips brushed—barely, ghost of contact, electricity sparking between them.
Kihyun jerked back.
The chair scraped against stone. He stood abruptly, putting distance between them, hands shaking.
“I can’t.” His voice was raw. “I can’t do this.”
“Why not?” Minhyuk’s control shattered completely. “Why not, Kihyun? We both want it. We both—”
“Because it makes it real!” Kihyun’s composure cracked wide open. “Because if we—if I let this happen—then I can’t pretend anymore. Can’t tell myself I’m just following orders, just gathering intelligence, just—” He stopped, throat working. “I can’t pretend I’m here for my parents when the truth is I’m here for you.”
The admission hung in the air like smoke.
“Then be here for me,” Minhyuk said desperately. “Stop pretending. Stop lying to yourself and your parents and—just be here. With me. Really with me.”
“And then what?” Kihyun’s laugh was broken. “We’re together? We’re happy? We pretend the war isn’t coming, that your family isn’t aligned with Death Eaters, that my parents won’t disown me if they find out?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. The world doesn’t let people like us have happy endings.”
“So we get an unhappy one?” Minhyuk moved closer. Kihyun stepped back. “We torture each other from a distance instead of being honest about what we want?”
“Yes.” Kihyun’s voice was certain. “Because at least from a distance we can both survive. But this—” he gestured between them, “—this will consume us. Burn us both down until there’s nothing left.”
“Good.” Minhyuk’s voice was sharp. “Let it burn. At least we’ll burn together.”
“That’s not—” Kihyun stopped. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” Minhyuk closed the distance again. Kihyun backed into the bookshelf, trapped. “I mean every word. I’d rather have one real moment with you than a lifetime of this—this careful distance. This pretending.”
“Minhyuk, please—”
“Please what?” Minhyuk’s hands pressed against the shelf on either side of Kihyun’s head, caging him in. Not touching, just—close. So close. “Please stop wanting you? Please stop needing you like air? Please let you go?” His voice cracked. “I can’t. I’ve tried. For years I’ve tried. And I can’t.”
Kihyun’s breath was coming in short gasps now. His eyes were wide, fox-like and terrified and wanting. “This is a mistake.”
“Probably.” Minhyuk leaned closer. Their foreheads touched. “But I don’t care anymore. I’m so tired of being careful. So tired of—”
“Stop.” Kihyun’s hands came up, pressed against Minhyuk’s chest—not pushing away, just holding. “Just—stop. Please.”
The please broke Minhyuk.
He pulled back immediately, hands dropping. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—”
“No. You shouldn’t have.” Kihyun’s voice was hollow. He slid sideways, out from between Minhyuk and the shelf. Put distance between them. “I need to go.”
“Kihyun—”
“Don’t.” Kihyun held up a hand. “Don’t follow me. Don’t—” His voice cracked. “I need space. Time. I need to think.”
“About what?”
“About whether I can keep doing this.” Kihyun’s eyes were too bright, control hanging by a thread. “About whether being near you is worth the cost. About—” He stopped. “Everything.”
“Are you leaving again?” Minhyuk’s voice came out small, terrified. “Is this—are you disappearing? Like last time?”
“I don’t know.” Kihyun’s honesty was devastating. “Maybe. I don’t—I can’t think clearly when you’re looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.” Kihyun’s smile was broken. “It’s too much pressure, Minhyuk. I can’t—I’m not strong enough to be what you need.”
“You are—”
“I’m not!” The shout echoed through the empty library. Kihyun flinched at his own volume. “I’m weak and selfish and I keep coming back even though I know it hurts us both. I keep lying to my parents about what I’m really doing here. I keep—” His voice broke. “I keep falling for you over and over again even though it’s the stupidest thing I could possibly do.”
The confession hung between them.
“Then why fight it?” Minhyuk whispered. “If you’re falling anyway—why not just fall?”
“Because when we hit the ground, it will destroy us.” Kihyun’s eyes were wet now, tears threatening to spill. “And I’m not ready for that. Not yet.”
He turned and walked away—fast, almost running.
Minhyuk stood frozen, watching him disappear between the shelves.
Then something inside him snapped.
His fist slammed into the table—once, twice, again and again until his knuckles split and blood smeared across the wood. Books shuddered. Papers scattered. Pain flared up his arm.
He didn’t care.
“FUCK!” The word tore out of him, raw and desperate.
The library swallowed the sound. Offered no comfort. Just cold stone and ancient books and the ghost of Kihyun’s warmth where he’d stood moments ago.
Minhyuk collapsed into a chair, cradling his bleeding hand, and counted the seconds until he could breathe again.
Got to three hundred and seventy-one before the shaking stopped.
By then, Kihyun was probably back in Ravenclaw Tower. Writing another coded letter to his parents. Reporting on the Lee boy’s increasing instability. The compromised mission. The feelings he couldn’t control.
I keep falling for you over and over again.
The words circled in Minhyuk’s head like a curse and a benediction.
Kihyun had almost kissed him. Had wanted to. Had been an inch away from closing the distance and making it real.
But had pulled back. Again.
Because he was scared. Or smart. Or both.
Minhyuk looked at his bleeding knuckles and knew with cold certainty that this—whatever this was between them—was going to kill him.
Slowly, painfully, inevitably.
And he was going to let it.
Because a slow death in Kihyun’s orbit was better than a safe life without him.
Because some addictions were too powerful to quit.
Because Minhyuk had been in love with Yoo Kihyun since he was nine years old, and thirteen years of wanting hadn’t dulled the edge—just sharpened it until every moment near him felt like bleeding.
He counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The ache didn’t fade.
It never did.
Somewhere in the castle, Kihyun was probably doing the same—counting, breathing, trying to convince himself that distance was safer than diving in.
And tomorrow they’d pretend tonight hadn’t happened.
They’d maintain careful distance in public. Avoid eye contact across the Great Hall. Act like they hadn’t almost crossed a line that would change everything.
Until the next secret meeting. The next moment alone. The next time gravity pulled them together despite every rational reason to stay apart.
It was inevitable.
They were inevitable.
The only question was how much damage they’d do to each other before they finally burned out.
Minhyuk suspected the answer was: all of it.
Every last piece.
Until nothing remained but ashes and the memory of what they could have been if the world had been kinder.
He stood, wrapped his bleeding hand in his sleeve, and walked back to the dungeons.
The common room was empty. The dormitory was dark. Hyungwon was asleep, or pretending to be.
Minhyuk lay in bed and stared at the lake rippling overhead and counted all the ways he was completely, catastrophically fucked.
Lost track somewhere around two hundred and sixteen.
By dawn, his hand had stopped bleeding.
But the ache in his chest remained, sharp and constant, a reminder that some wounds never healed.
They just learned to bleed quieter.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Summer arrived with oppressive heat and the weight of expectations Hyungwon could no longer escape.
Third year had ended with perfect marks, careful distance from Wonho’s group, and three more successful reports on ward behavior. The Serpent had been pleased. Lady Yuna had sent increasingly warm letters. And Hyungwon had learned to sleep through Voldemort’s voice in his dreams—background noise, like breathing.
Soon, my son. You’re nearly ready.
The Lee Manor summer gathering was larger this time.
Forty-three guests arrived over three days—some Hyungwon recognized from previous meetings, others new. All wealthy. All connected. All watching him with calculating interest as he moved through the manor’s halls.
“You’re a curiosity,” Jinyoung had explained on the second day. “Proof that the Dark Lord planned for his return. That he created contingencies. You’re walking evidence that he’s coming back.”
“I’m not evidence. I’m a person.”
“To them, you’re both.” Jinyoung’s voice had been matter-of-fact. “Get used to it.”
The formal dinner on the third night was elaborate—seven courses, crystal glinting, conversation flowing around politics and power. Hyungwon sat between Minhyuk and Jinyoung, answering questions about Hogwarts with careful precision.
Yes, Dumbledore was aging. No, he didn’t seem suspicious. Yes, the wards responded to certain bloodlines. No, he hadn’t attempted anything beyond observation.
Lady Yuna watched him with maternal pride. Lord Daesung nodded approval. The other guests murmured appreciation.
“Such composure,” one woman said. “So controlled for thirteen.”
“The Gaunt blood,” another replied. “Always produced remarkable individuals.”
Hyungwon’s scar burned cold throughout the meal. He counted forks (seven per setting) to keep his breathing steady.
After dessert, Lady Yuna stood. “Gentlemen, ladies—I believe it’s time.”
The guests filed out, heading toward the cellar entrance. Hyungwon’s stomach twisted.
Minhyuk’s hand found his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just listen, agree to whatever they ask, and don’t show fear.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Liar.” But Minhyuk’s smile was almost fond. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
The cellar was colder than Hyungwon remembered—or maybe he’d just grown more sensitive to the wrongness that permeated the space.
Seventy-three steps down. Stone walls pressing close. Air that tasted like metal and ancient magic.
The circle was larger now—fifty-seven robed figures, all masked, all perfectly still. Candles floated overhead, casting everything in flickering shadow.
And in the center, where the Serpent usually stood—
Nothing. Just empty space. But the cold was stronger there, concentrated, like something invisible was occupying the void.
Hyungwon’s scar burned ice-cold.
The Serpent appeared from the crowd, moving to the edge of the empty space. His silver mask reflected candlelight as he spoke:
“Welcome, brothers and sisters. Tonight we witness progress.” His voice carried through the cellar. “Young Gaunt has completed his observations. The wards respond to his presence. The old magic recognizes him.” He gestured toward Hyungwon. “Come forward, Prince.”
Hyungwon’s legs moved automatically. He stopped at the circle’s edge.
“The Dark Lord’s presence grows stronger,” the Serpent continued. “We all feel it—the pressure, the cold. He watches through the veil, waiting for the moment of return. And that moment approaches.” He turned to Hyungwon. “Tell them what you’ve learned.”
Hyungwon’s throat was dry. “The ward in the eastern tower responds to moonlight and—” he paused, “—to my touch. It glows green when I place my palm against the stone. The pattern suggests—” he forced the words out, “—protection magic. Something is being guarded.”
“Excellent.” The Serpent’s approval was palpable. “And what do you think is being guarded?”
“I don’t know.”
“Honesty. Good.” The Serpent moved closer. “What’s being guarded is a piece. One of seven. Hidden by the Dark Lord before his fall, protected by magic that recognizes his blood.” His mask tilted toward the empty space. “Can you feel him, Prince? Can you sense his presence even now?”
Hyungwon could. The cold pressure was immense, suffocating. And beneath it—a voice. Faint but clear.
My son. My legacy. Soon you will bring me home.
“Yes,” Hyungwon whispered.
The circle shifted—approval, excitement, anticipation rippling through the robed figures.
“Then you’re ready for the next step.” The Serpent withdrew a small scroll. “There is a book in Hogwarts’ Restricted Section. Title: Secrets of the Darkest Art. Written by Owle Bullock, banned by the Ministry in 1721. It contains information about—” he paused, “—preservation. Methods of ensuring one’s survival beyond death.”
Hyungwon’s stomach dropped. “You want me to steal it?”
“Retrieve it,” the Serpent corrected. “Study it. Understand what the Dark Lord understood. And report back on its contents.” He handed Hyungwon the scroll. “The book’s exact location is marked here. It will be—difficult to access. But your blood grants you certain advantages. The Restricted Section’s wards were designed to recognize old families. Pure families. Your name will open doors that remain closed to others.”
“And if I’m caught?”
“You won’t be.” The Serpent’s voice was certain. “You’re clever, cautious, controlled. And you have allies—” he gestured toward where Minhyuk and Jinyoung stood at the circle’s edge, “—who will assist you.”
Minhyuk stepped forward, face carefully neutral. “We’ll help him plan. Ensure proper timing, distraction if needed. The task will succeed.”
“Of course it will.” The Serpent’s attention returned to Hyungwon. “Because failure is not an option. The Dark Lord watches, Prince. And he expects results.”
The cold pressure intensified. Hyungwon’s scar felt like it was being carved deeper into his skull.
Bring me knowledge, my son. Bring me the key to restoration.
“I understand,” Hyungwon forced out.
“Good.” The Serpent addressed the room. “The boy’s progress is remarkable. Young Lee and Young Park deserve recognition for their mentorship. They have shaped him well.”
The circle applauded—muffled by gloves, but unmistakable.
Jinyoung’s expression brightened fractionally—pride at being acknowledged. Minhyuk stayed focused on Hyungwon, eyes tracking every micro-expression like he was memorizing the moment.
“This meeting is concluded,” the Serpent said. “Return to your homes. Continue your work. And remember—we prepare for his return. Every task completed brings that moment closer.”
The robed figures filed out through various passages. Hyungwon stood frozen in the center, scroll clutched in his hand, cold seeping into his bones.
Minhyuk appeared at his side. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
They climbed the stairs—Hyungwon counting each one (seventy-three) to ground himself. The manor’s warmth felt shocking after the cellar’s cold.
In the entrance hall, guests were departing—farewells, promises to write, subtle acknowledgments that they were all part of something larger.
“Hyungwon.”
The voice was quiet, controlled. Hyungwon turned.
Professor Snape stood in a shadowed alcove, black robes blending with the darkness. His mask was gone, face pale and severe in the dim light.
“Professor—”
“Walk with me.” Not a request.
Hyungwon glanced at Minhyuk, who nodded slightly. Go.
Snape led him through a side corridor, away from the departing guests, into a small study lined with books. He closed the door with a quiet click.
“You retrieved a task,” Snape said. Not a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“From the Restricted Section.” Snape’s black eyes were unreadable. “A book about—preservation methods.”
“How did you—”
“I know everything that happens in my domain,” Snape interrupted. “Including which books the Serpent covets.” He moved closer, voice dropping. “Be careful, boy. You’re playing a game with no winners.”
“I’m not playing anything. I’m surviving.”
“Are you?” Snape’s expression flickered—something that might have been pity or recognition. “Or are you becoming exactly what they want you to be? A tool. A weapon. A vessel for something that will consume you entirely.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice.” Snape’s voice was sharp. “Even when the options are terrible, even when every path leads to pain—you choose which pain you can live with.” He paused. “Your father made his choices. Chose power over humanity. Chose immortality over—” He stopped. “You don’t have to follow his path.”
“He’s in my head,” Hyungwon said, voice breaking. “Every night. Every dream. His voice, his presence, his—” He stopped. “How do I fight something that’s already inside me?”
Snape was quiet for a long moment. Then: “By remembering you’re more than his legacy. More than a scar and a bloodline. You’re a person, Hyungwon. With choices. With agency.” His voice softened fractionally. “Don’t let them take that from you.”
“Why do you care?” Hyungwon asked. “You’re at the meetings. You’re one of them.”
“I’m many things.” Snape’s expression was unreadable. “But I’m not—” He stopped. “This conversation doesn’t leave this room. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Snape moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the handle. “The book you’re retrieving—read it carefully. Understand what it describes. But don’t—” his voice hardened, “—don’t apply its lessons. Some knowledge corrupts simply by being known.”
“Then why have me retrieve it?”
“Because refusing would mark you as disobedient. Unreliable. And that—” Snape’s eyes met his directly, “—that would be dangerous. For you and everyone around you.” He opened the door. “Be smart, Hyungwon. Be careful. And if you need—” He stopped. “My office door is always open. For academic consultations.”
He left.
Hyungwon stood alone in the study, scroll heavy in his hand, Snape’s words echoing in his skull.
You’re playing a game with no winners.
Maybe that was true.
Maybe they were all losing, just at different speeds.
But at least Hyungwon was still standing. Still breathing. Still counting the ways to survive one more day.
He pressed his hand to his scar—that lightning-branch mark that connected him to something ancient and terrible—and wondered which would consume him first:
The voice in his dreams, promising purpose.
The tasks that carved him into a weapon.
Or the slow realization that he was becoming exactly what everyone feared a Gaunt would be.
He counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The cold didn’t fade.
It never did anymore.
Outside, carriages departed. Guests returned to their lives, carrying secrets and plans and the certainty that something dark was rising.
And Hyungwon stood in a borrowed study, holding instructions for his next step into darkness, and knew with absolute certainty that there was no turning back.
The bridge to light had burned months ago.
All that remained was the descent.
And the question of whether he’d reach the bottom as himself—
Or as something else entirely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Fourth year began with a secret tucked against Hyungwon’s ribs like a knife.
The book—Secrets of the Darkest Art—sat hidden beneath a floorboard in the Slytherin dormitory, wrapped in protective charms and lies. He’d retrieved it three weeks into term, using a combination of his family name, careful timing, and Minhyuk’s distraction spells.
Reading it had been worse than stealing it.
Page after page of methods for cheating death. Rituals written in clinical detail. The process of splitting a soul—what it cost, what it required, what it did to a person.
Seven pieces, the Serpent had said. Scattered. Hidden.
Now Hyungwon understood what that meant.
And the knowledge sat in his stomach like poison.
“Stop thinking about it,” Jinyoung said, watching Hyungwon stare blankly at his Potions essay. They were in the common room on a Friday evening, the space half-empty as students prepared for weekend activities. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t been fine since you read that book.” Jinyoung’s voice was quiet. “None of us have. But brooding won’t change what we know.”
“What we know,” Hyungwon repeated flatly, “is that Voldemort tore his soul into pieces and hid them. That’s what the wards are protecting. That’s what I’m supposed to help find.” He looked up. “How am I supposed to be fine with that?”
“By surviving it.” Minhyuk appeared from the dormitory stairs, already dressed for the evening—black shirt, dark trousers, casual but deliberate. “By doing what’s asked until we’re powerful enough to choose differently.” He tossed a shirt at Hyungwon. “Get changed. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“Jackson Wang’s throwing a party. Seventh floor, abandoned classroom near the Astronomy Tower.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp. “Everyone who’s anyone will be there. Which means we need to be there. Visibility, networking, maintaining our position.”
“I don’t want to go to a party.”
“I don’t care what you want.” Minhyuk’s voice was light but firm. “You’ve been hermiting for three weeks. People are starting to talk—asking if you’re sick, if something happened over summer. We need to show them you’re fine. Controlled. Exactly what they expect the Dark Lord’s heir to be.”
The title still made Hyungwon’s skin crawl.
But Minhyuk was right. Visibility mattered. Perception mattered. And disappearing made people suspicious.
“Fine,” Hyungwon muttered. “One hour. Then I’m leaving.”
“We’ll see.” Minhyuk’s grin was dangerous. “Get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes.”
The abandoned classroom had been transformed.
Candles floated near the ceiling, casting everything in warm, flickering light. Someone had conjured comfortable furniture—sofas, chairs, low tables covered with bottles and glasses. Music pulsed from an enchanted gramophone, loud enough to feel in your chest but quiet enough that patrols wouldn’t hear.
The room was packed—easily seventy students from multiple houses, all fourth year and above. Gryffindors mixing with Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs laughing with each other, even a few brave Slytherins scattered through the crowd.
Jackson Wang stood near the center, holding court. He was tall, devastatingly handsome, and radiating the kind of chaotic energy that came from too much money and not enough supervision.
“Lee Minhyuk!” Jackson’s voice carried over the music. “Finally! I thought you’d chickened out.”
“Never.” Minhyuk moved through the crowd with easy confidence, Hyungwon and Jinyoung following. “Just fashionably late. You know how it is.”
“I really don’t.” Jackson’s grin was infectious. “But I appreciate the effort.” His attention shifted to Hyungwon. “And you brought the mysterious Gaunt. Excellent. I’ve been dying to meet you properly.”
“Have you.” Hyungwon’s voice was flat.
“Absolutely. The rumors are fascinating.” Jackson leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Is it true you can speak Parseltongue? That you’ve got Dark Lord blood? That you’re destined for greatness or catastrophic destruction?”
“Jackson,” Minhyuk’s voice carried warning.
“What? I’m just asking!” Jackson’s expression was innocent. “No judgment. I think mysterious bloodlines are extremely cool. Very Gothic. Very—” He gestured vaguely. “Sexy, honestly.”
Despite himself, Hyungwon’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
“There!” Jackson pointed triumphantly. “I made the Dark Prince smile. My life’s work is complete.” He thrust a glass into Hyungwon’s hand. “Drink. Dance. Make questionable decisions. That’s what parties are for.”
He disappeared into the crowd, already greeting someone else with the same manic enthusiasm.
“He’s insane,” Jinyoung observed.
“He’s rich and bored,” Minhyuk corrected. “Dangerous combination.” He took a drink from a passing tray. “Come on. Let’s circulate.”
They moved through the party—Minhyuk greeting people with careful charm, Jinyoung maintaining polite conversation, Hyungwon counting exits (three visible) and trying not to look like he wanted to escape.
The room was hot. Bodies pressed close. Music pulsed. Laughter echoed off stone walls. It should have been fun—carefree, normal, exactly what fourteen-year-olds were supposed to do.
Instead, Hyungwon felt like he was wearing someone else’s skin.
Then he saw Wonho.
Near the far wall, talking to Shownu and Jooheon. He looked older—broader through the shoulders, more confident in his stance. His smile was easy as he laughed at something Jooheon said.
He looked happy.
As if sensing the attention, Wonho’s head turned. His eyes found Hyungwon’s across the crowded room.
They stared at each other.
Forty-seven meters between them. Hyungwon calculated it automatically. Close enough to cross. Far enough to pretend the distance was intentional.
Wonho’s expression flickered—recognition, something that might have been hope or regret, then careful neutrality.
He looked away first.
Turned back to his conversation. Laughed at another joke. Acted like Hyungwon wasn’t there.
The dismissal was practiced. Perfect. Complete.
Hyungwon’s chest tightened.
“He’s gotten good at that,” Minhyuk said quietly, appearing at Hyungwon’s elbow. “Pretending you don’t exist. Very convincing. Almost like he believes it.”
“Maybe he does.”
“Maybe.” Minhyuk’s hand found Hyungwon’s shoulder. “Or maybe it’s easier to pretend than to acknowledge what was lost. Come on. Let’s get another drink.”
They moved toward the makeshift bar. Hyungwon accepted a glass of something amber—firewhisky, probably—and drank without tasting it.
The party continued around them. Students dancing, kissing in corners, playing drinking games. Normal teenage chaos.
In one corner, Hyungwon noticed Jooheon talking to a Ravenclaw boy—slim, dark-haired, laughing at something Jooheon said. Their body language was charged, leaning close, eyes locked.
Then Jooheon kissed him.
Not tentative. Not careful. Just—kissed him, one hand cupping the boy’s jaw, confident and certain.
The Ravenclaw kissed back.
Nearby, half-hidden in shadow, Changkyun watched. His expression was carefully blank, but Hyungwon could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his hands clenched. The ache poorly hidden.
Wanting something he couldn’t have. Watching someone else take what should have been his.
Hyungwon understood that feeling intimately.
“Complicated,” Jinyoung murmured, following Hyungwon’s gaze. “Jooheon’s oblivious. Changkyun’s too proud to say anything. It’ll end badly.”
“Everything ends badly,” Hyungwon muttered.
“Cheerful.” But Jinyoung’s smile was sad. “You’re not wrong.”
The music shifted—slower, more intimate. Couples paired off. The room’s energy changed from chaotic to charged.
Hyungwon’s scar began to burn.
Not the cold burn of Voldemort’s presence. Something else. A warning. A pull toward—something.
“We need to leave,” Minhyuk said suddenly, voice urgent. His hand gripped Hyungwon’s wrist. “Now.”
“What—”
“Don’t argue. Just—” Minhyuk was already moving, pulling Hyungwon toward the door. “Jinyoung, cover for us. Tell anyone who asks we weren’t feeling well.”
“Minhyuk, what’s going on?” Jinyoung’s voice was sharp with concern.
“Work.” Minhyuk’s expression was unreadable. “We have work to do.”
He dragged Hyungwon out of the classroom, into the dark corridor. The party noise faded behind them.
“What work?” Hyungwon demanded, pulling his wrist free. “What’s happening?”
“The wards.” Minhyuk’s eyes were feverish. “I felt them shift. Just now. Something changed in the eastern tower—the one you’ve been monitoring. We need to check it. Document it. Before the moment passes.”
“Now? It’s past curfew—”
“Which makes it perfect. No students in the corridors, professors in their quarters. We can observe without interruption.” Minhyuk started walking, fast. “Come on. We might not get another chance like this.”
Hyungwon hesitated. Behind them, the party continued—music, laughter, normal teenage life. Wonho was in there, pretending Hyungwon didn’t exist. Changkyun was watching Jooheon kiss someone else. Jackson was probably doing something ridiculous and expensive.
Normal. Safe. Simple.
Everything Hyungwon could never have.
He turned and followed Minhyuk into the darkness.
They moved through empty corridors—Minhyuk leading with confident strides, Hyungwon counting their steps (two hundred and seventy-three to the eastern tower entrance). The castle was quiet, just distant sounds of portraits snoring and ghosts drifting through walls.
“What did you feel?” Hyungwon asked as they climbed the tower stairs.
“A pulse.” Minhyuk’s voice was tight. “Like the wards recognized something. Responded to—I don’t know. Proximity? Intent? Your presence at the party?” He glanced back. “Have you been dreaming more? Hearing the voice?”
“Every night.” Hyungwon’s scar throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. “It’s getting louder. Clearer. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m awake or asleep.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“It means the connection’s strengthening.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp. “Which means we’re close to something. The wards respond to his blood, Hyungwon. To your blood. And if they’re pulsing now—” He stopped at the third-floor landing. “—then whatever they’re protecting is waking up.”
The corridor ahead was dark. At the far end, a specific section of wall glowed faint green—barely visible, but there.
Hyungwon’s scar burned cold.
Yes, my son. You feel it. The first piece calls to you.
“I can hear him,” Hyungwon whispered.
“I know.” Minhyuk’s hand found his shoulder. “But we’re not retrieving it tonight. We’re just—observing. Documenting. Understanding what we’re dealing with.” His grip tightened. “And then we decide—together—what to do with that information.”
“The Serpent expects—”
“Fuck what the Serpent expects.” Minhyuk’s voice was fierce. “We give them enough to stay valuable. But we keep the real knowledge for ourselves. That’s how we survive this, Hyungwon. By being smarter than everyone who wants to use us.”
They moved toward the glowing wall.
And somewhere behind them—distant but present—the party continued.
Music and laughter and the illusion of normalcy.
Everything Hyungwon had walked away from when he followed Minhyuk into the dark.
Everything he’d keep walking away from, over and over, until there was nothing left of the boy who’d counted ceiling cracks and believed he might matter.
But at least he wouldn’t be alone in the darkness.
At least Minhyuk was there—desperate and damaged and using Hyungwon for his own survival.
It wasn’t friendship. Wasn’t love. Wasn’t even really trust.
But it was something.
And something was better than the nothing that waited if Hyungwon tried to do this alone.
He pressed his palm to the glowing wall.
The ward pulsed.
Voldemort’s voice flooded his mind.
And Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven while the world tilted and reformed around him.
Always counting.
Always surviving.
Always one step deeper into the thing he’d become.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The Restricted Section of Hogwarts Library smelled like old leather and forbidden knowledge.
Hyungwon stood at the entrance, invisible beneath a borrowed disillusionment charm, counting his heartbeats (ninety-seven in the last minute—too fast) while Minhyuk kept watch three shelves away.
It was two in the morning. The library was technically closed, but Madam Pince had left hours ago, and the prefect patrols rarely ventured this deep. Still, every shadow felt like a threat. Every creak of old wood made Hyungwon’s scar burn colder.
Secrets of the Darkest Art. Third shelf, seventh book from the left. The Serpent’s instructions had been precise.
Hyungwon moved between the shelves, counting steps (twenty-three) until he reached the correct section. The books here were ancient—leather bindings cracked with age, titles embossed in tarnished silver. Some hissed softly when he passed. Others seemed to watch with malevolent awareness.
There. Seventh position.
The book was smaller than expected—maybe nine inches tall, bound in black leather that looked almost like skin. No title on the spine. Just a symbol: a skull with a serpent emerging from its mouth.
Hyungwon reached for it.
The ward activated immediately—cold magic rippling across his hand, testing, reading him. His scar flared in response, and for a moment he felt Voldemort’s presence like a whisper in his bones.
Yes, my son. Take it. Learn.
The ward recognized him. Accepted him. The book came free with barely a sound.
Hyungwon tucked it inside his robes, heart hammering. Too easy. This had been too—
“Someone’s coming,” Minhyuk’s voice hissed from the shadows. “Filch. North corridor.”
Shit.
Hyungwon moved fast, weaving between shelves toward the exit. Minhyuk materialized beside him, disillusionment charm flickering.
“He’s got Mrs. Norris,” Minhyuk breathed. “She’ll smell us even through the charms.”
They were ten meters from the main library entrance when lamplight appeared in the doorway. Filch’s voice carried through the darkness: “I know someone’s here. Come out now and maybe I’ll go easy on the detention.”
“Closet,” Minhyuk whispered, grabbing Hyungwon’s wrist. “Now.”
They dove into a narrow broom closet three shelves away—barely large enough for one person, definitely not two. The door clicked shut just as Mrs. Norris’s shadow appeared on the floor outside.
Pressed together in absolute darkness. No space between them. Minhyuk’s chest against Hyungwon’s back, both of them frozen, barely breathing.
Filch’s footsteps drew closer. “Smelled something, did you? Sneaky students thinking they’re clever…”
Hyungwon counted the seconds. His heart was going insane—too fast, too loud. Minhyuk would definitely feel it through their pressed-together bodies.
Minhyuk’s hand shifted, settled over Hyungwon’s chest where the book was hidden. His palm was warm through the fabric. Grounding.
“Your heart’s going insane,” Minhyuk whispered directly into Hyungwon’s ear—barely audible, more breath than sound.
“Shut up,” Hyungwon hissed back.
He felt Minhyuk’s grin against the back of his neck. “Make me.”
The moment stretched—absurd, dangerous, charged with adrenaline and something else Hyungwon didn’t want to name. They were seconds from being caught with a forbidden text, pressed together in a closet, and Minhyuk was flirting.
Footsteps paused right outside. Mrs. Norris made a questioning sound.
Hyungwon stopped breathing entirely. Minhyuk’s hand pressed slightly harder against his chest—either reassurance or claiming, impossible to tell.
“Nothing here,” Filch muttered after an eternity. “Probably just the books settling. Come on, my sweet. Let’s check the Trophy Room.”
The footsteps retreated.
Neither of them moved.
Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven before his pulse began to settle. Minhyuk’s hand stayed where it was, warm and steady.
“We should go,” Hyungwon finally whispered.
“Probably.” But Minhyuk didn’t move. “Though this is—” He stopped. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Come on.”
They slipped out of the closet, disillusionment charms reactivated, and moved through the library in careful silence. Every shadow felt threatening. Every sound made Hyungwon’s scar pulse.
But they made it—out of the library, through empty corridors, down to the dungeons. Only when they were safely in the Slytherin common room did Hyungwon finally breathe normally.
“Well.” Minhyuk collapsed onto a sofa, grinning. “That was exciting.”
“That was stupid,” Hyungwon corrected. “We could have been caught.”
“But we weren’t.” Minhyuk’s eyes gleamed. “Let me see it.”
Hyungwon pulled the book from his robes. In the green firelight, the cover looked even more sinister—leather that might have been something else once, symbol embossed deep.
“Don’t open it here,” Minhyuk said. “Wait until—” He stopped. “Until we’re somewhere private. Somewhere we can read it without interruption.”
“The Serpent wants it at Christmas break.”
“Then we have two months.” Minhyuk’s voice was calculating. “Two months to read it, understand it, and decide what information to share and what to keep for ourselves.”
“That’s—”
“Smart,” Minhyuk interrupted. “That’s smart strategy, Hyungwon. They want you to be a tool. But tools can think. Can plan. Can use the same information to carve out their own future.” He leaned forward. “Trust me on this.”
Hyungwon wasn’t sure he trusted anyone anymore. But Minhyuk had just helped him commit theft. Had kept watch. Had hidden with him in a closet and made jokes while Filch prowled outside.
That counted for something.
“Okay,” Hyungwon said quietly. “Two months. We read it together.”
“Good.” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp, satisfied. “Get some sleep. We’ll start tomorrow night.”
Christmas break arrived with heavy snow and the weight of knowledge Hyungwon wished he could unlearn.
The book had been worse than he’d imagined. Not just theory—detailed instructions. Methods for splitting a soul. What it required (murder, deliberate and cold). What it cost (pieces of yourself, carved away). What it created (objects that could anchor your soul to the living world, making death impossible).
Horcruxes.
Seven pieces, the Serpent had said. Voldemort had made seven.
Reading about how made Hyungwon sick for days.
But he’d documented everything. Taken notes in careful script. Prepared his report like a good little soldier.
Now he sat in Lee Manor’s cellar, seventy-three steps underground, surrounded by robed figures waiting for his presentation.
The Serpent stood at the center, silver mask gleaming. “Young Gaunt. You’ve completed your task?”
“Yes.” Hyungwon’s voice was steady despite the ice in his veins. “I retrieved the text. Studied its contents. I understand—” he forced the words out, “—the process. The requirements. What the Dark Lord did to ensure his survival.”
“Excellent.” The Serpent’s approval was palpable. “And the text itself?”
Hyungwon handed over the book. The Serpent took it with reverent care.
“Your report?”
Hyungwon recited what he’d memorized—enough truth to be convincing, enough omission to keep certain knowledge private. The basic theory of Horcruxes. The necessity of murder. The anchoring of soul fragments to objects.
But not the specific warnings. Not the passages about what it did to a person’s humanity. Not the author’s clear horror at the magic being described.
That knowledge was his. And Minhyuk’s. And no one else’s.
“Remarkable,” the Serpent said when Hyungwon finished. “Your understanding exceeds expectation. The Dark Lord chose well when he created you.”
Created. The word sat wrong. Like Hyungwon was a thing, not a person.
“You’re ready for the next step,” the Serpent continued. “The first piece—the one you’ve been monitoring—we know its approximate location. Within the year, we’ll retrieve it. And you—” his mask tilted toward Hyungwon, “—you will be essential to that retrieval. Your blood, your connection, your understanding of the magic involved.”
Hyungwon’s scar burned cold. Voldemort’s voice whispered: Soon, my son. Soon you bring me home.
“I understand,” Hyungwon said.
“Good.” The Serpent addressed the room. “The boy has proven himself. His loyalty, his competence, his willingness to serve. When the Dark Lord returns, Young Gaunt will stand at his right hand.”
The circle applauded—muffled, respectful, certain.
Hyungwon stood at the center and felt the collar tighten.
Tool. Weapon. Vessel.
Created.
After the meeting, as robed figures dispersed and Hyungwon climbed toward fresh air, a hand caught his elbow.
Snape.
“Walk,” he said quietly.
They moved to a shadowed corridor. Snape’s expression was unreadable.
“You read it,” he said. Not a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“And it’s—” Hyungwon’s voice cracked. “It’s worse than I thought. What he did. What it cost. What it means.”
“Yes.” Snape’s voice was soft. “It is worse. And now you carry that knowledge. Which makes you valuable—and dangerous. To everyone, including yourself.” He paused. “Did you tell them everything?”
“No.”
“Smart.” Snape’s eyes searched his face. “Keep some knowledge private. It’s the only leverage you have.” His hand gripped Hyungwon’s shoulder—brief, tight. “Be careful, boy. The next step—retrieval—that’s when it becomes real. That’s when you stop being an observer and become a participant.”
“I’m already participating.”
“Not like this.” Snape’s voice was certain. “Not yet. But soon. And when that moment comes—” He stopped. “Remember you have choices. Even when they seem impossible.”
He left.
Hyungwon stood alone in the corridor, hand pressed to his scar, and counted the ways he was trapped.
Lost track somewhere around two hundred and sixteen.
By the time he reached his assigned bedroom, Minhyuk was waiting.
“Well?”
“They’re pleased,” Hyungwon said. “I’m ready for the next step. Whatever that means.”
“It means we’re running out of time.” Minhyuk’s expression was grim. “To figure out our own plan. To decide if we’re really going to help them retrieve that Horcrux—or if we’re going to—” He stopped. “We need to talk. Properly. About what we want versus what they want versus what’s actually possible.”
“Okay,” Hyungwon said. “Talk.”
And they did—through the night, weighing options, calculating risks, trying to find a path that didn’t end with Hyungwon becoming exactly what Voldemort had designed him to be.
By dawn, they still hadn’t found one.
But at least they were looking together.
At least the collar they wore had two necks in it.
At least drowning felt slightly less lonely when someone was sinking beside you.
Hyungwon counted that as a victory.
Small. Hollow. But a victory nonetheless.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Ravenclaw Tower was quiet at three in the morning—just the sound of wind against windows and the gentle scratch of quill on parchment.
Kihyun sat at his desk, surrounded by coded notes and half-finished letters, trying to translate weeks of observation into language his parents would understand without being intercepted.
Mother, Father—
Subject M.’s behavior continues to deteriorate. Emotional volatility increasing. Multiple late-night absences, returns with signs of physical distress (bruised knuckles, exhaustion, occasionally intoxicated). Attachment to Subject H.G. has intensified—protective, possessive, potentially compromising his judgment.
Subject H.G. completed winter task successfully. Retrieved text from Restricted Section (Bullock’s work on preservation magic). Demonstrated increasing competence with dark magic theory. Behavioral changes noted: more withdrawn, more controlled, less responsive to external influence. The transformation you predicted accelerates.
The Serpent (identity still unknown) has escalated. Next phase involves physical retrieval of protected object. Timeline: spring term. Subject H.G. will be central to operation. Subject M. will provide support/cover.
Request: guidance on intervention protocols. If retrieval succeeds, implications for broader conflict become significant.
—K
Kihyun read it twice, checking the code was tight. Names obscured, details vague enough to survive casual inspection but clear enough his parents would understand.
He was about to seal it when his door opened.
“Burning the midnight oil?” His roommate—a sixth-year named Taeil—stood in the doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown. “Or writing love letters? You’ve been at it for hours.”
“Just correspondence with my parents.” Kihyun kept his voice light. “You know how they are. Constant updates required.”
“Nightmare.” Taeil yawned. “My parents send a howler if I forget to write monthly. Yours sound intense.”
“They are.” Kihyun folded the parchment with careful precision. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be done soon.”
Taeil left. Kihyun waited until his footsteps faded, then pulled out another piece of parchment.
This one was harder to write.
M—
I know you’re reading this before bed. I know you check under your pillow every night for notes I haven’t sent. So here.
Stop punishing yourself. The bruised knuckles—I noticed. Whatever you’re doing when you’re alone, it’s not helping. It’s just making everything worse.
I’m not leaving. I know you think I will, but I’m not. Not yet. Not—
Kihyun stopped. Crossed out the last line. Started again.
I’m not leaving. You don’t have to keep testing whether I’ll stay. I will. Until I can’t anymore.
That’s not a promise. Just—a fact.
Sleep. Actually sleep. You look terrible.
—K
He folded this note separately, cast a simple charm to ensure only Minhyuk could open it, and set it aside for tomorrow’s delivery.
Then he returned to the first letter. Sealed it. Addressed it in his mother’s preferred code format.
His family owl would take it at dawn.
Kihyun pressed his hands to his face and counted to one hundred and forty-seven—a habit he’d picked up from watching Hyungwon, though he’d never admit it.
A knock on his window.
He looked up, startled. A small brown owl perched outside, letter tied to its leg. Not his family’s owl. This one was…
His heart sank.
He opened the window. The owl dropped the letter and left immediately—trained not to wait for a response.
Kihyun unfolded the parchment with hands that had learned not to shake.
Yoo Kihyun—
Your weekly reports have been satisfactory. However, we have concerns about the depth of your involvement. Recent intelligence suggests Subject M. has become aware of surveillance but continues engagement regardless. This complicates your position.
Additionally, Subject H.G.’s progression raises broader questions about timeline and threat level. If retrieval operation succeeds, the situation escalates beyond school politics into active conflict territory.
Transfer to Durmstrang remains viable option. Your grandfather has connections with their administration. We can arrange mid-year placement if circumstances require extraction.
Assess: Can you maintain cover while remaining emotionally detached? If answer is no, indicate immediately. Your safety supersedes intelligence value.
We trust your judgment but recognize you are young. There is no shame in acknowledging when a situation exceeds your capacity.
—Father
Kihyun read it three times.
Can you maintain cover while remaining emotionally detached?
The answer was no. Had been no for months. Possibly had always been no, from the moment he’d first sat beside Minhyuk in the library and felt that old pull—familiar as breathing, destructive as poison.
He should write back immediately: Extract me. I’m compromised. Can no longer provide reliable intelligence.
Should accept the transfer. Start fresh at Durmstrang where Minhyuk’s desperate eyes and bruised knuckles couldn’t reach him. Where he wouldn’t wake at three in the morning writing notes he shouldn’t send.
Should choose safety over whatever this was.
Kihyun pulled out fresh parchment.
Father, Mother—
Thank you for continued guidance and for offering extraction option. I appreciate your concern.
Current situation remains manageable. Subject M.’s awareness of surveillance has not compromised my position—if anything, it has created opportunity for more direct intelligence gathering. He trusts me despite knowing my mission. This provides unique access.
Regarding emotional detachment: I maintain appropriate professional distance. Personal feelings do not interfere with operational effectiveness.
He stopped. Stared at the lie written in his own careful handwriting.
I’m fine. I can handle this.
Will continue reporting weekly. If circumstances change requiring extraction, will indicate immediately.
—K
The lie tasted like ash.
But he sealed the letter anyway. Set it beside the other one for morning delivery.
Then he pulled out a third piece of parchment—this one would never be sent. Would be burned as soon as he finished writing. But he needed to say it, even if only to empty air and pre-dawn darkness.
I’m lying.
I can’t maintain emotional detachment. Haven’t been able to since I returned. Possibly never could where Minhyuk is concerned.
Every time I see him, something in my chest cracks wider. Every time he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered, I feel the ground disappear beneath my feet.
I should accept the transfer. Should run while I still can. Should choose self-preservation over whatever destructive thing we’re building between us.
But I won’t.
Because leaving him—really leaving, not just the temporary separations my parents forced—would feel like amputation. Like cutting off a limb I’ve had since childhood. Like losing something I never knew how to name but always knew was essential.
And that’s terrifying.
Because it means I’ve already lost this game. Already compromised myself beyond recovery. Already chosen him over safety, over duty, over my own better judgment.
I’m supposed to be the smart one. The strategic one. The one who sees three moves ahead and plans accordingly.
But with Minhyuk, I’m blind. Stupid. Reckless.
And I can’t seem to stop.
So I’ll keep lying. To my parents, to myself, to everyone who thinks I’m in control.
I’ll keep writing coded reports and maintaining cover and pretending I’m capable of walking away when the time comes.
But the truth—the truth I can barely admit even in letters I’ll burn—
Is that I’m drowning just as badly as he is.
And I don’t want to be saved.
Kihyun read it once. Felt something crack in his chest at the honesty.
Then he held the parchment over a candle and watched it burn.
The words dissolved into ash and smoke. Evidence destroyed. Truth safely hidden.
He gathered his sealed letters for tomorrow’s delivery and finally climbed into bed.
Four hours until dawn. Four hours to sleep before he had to put on his careful composure and pretend he was fine.
I’m fine. I can handle this.
The lie echoed in his head as sleep pulled him under.
And in his dreams—as always—Minhyuk. Looking at him with those desperate, hungry eyes. Reaching for him. Begging him to stay.
In the dreams, Kihyun stayed. Closed the distance. Let himself fall.
In reality, he kept burning letters and lying to everyone, including himself.
But the dreams were honest.
And growing harder to distinguish from waking.
Somewhere in Slytherin Tower, Minhyuk slept with a note under his pillow—unread yet, but felt. The weight of it like a promise or a threat.
I’m not leaving. Until I can’t anymore.
Neither of them knew when “can’t anymore” would arrive.
But both suspected it was coming.
Inevitable as gravity.
Destructive as collision.
And neither could seem to step away from the impact zone.
So they kept orbiting—closer, faster, pulled by forces they couldn’t name and wouldn’t escape.
Burning letters and writing new ones.
Lying and telling truth in equal measure.
Drowning together while pretending they could still breathe.
Until the moment when pretending stopped working.
And everything they’d built on lies and careful distance finally, inevitably, collapsed.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The Astronomy Tower was freezing at midnight in February—wind cutting through stone, stars sharp as glass overhead.
Kihyun stood at the railing, breath misting in the cold, trying to catalog constellations and failing. His mind was too loud, too full of coded letters and lies and the weight of choices he kept postponing.
Footsteps on the stairs.
He knew who it was before turning. Had felt Minhyuk’s approach like a change in air pressure—inevitable, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Kihyun said without looking. “Curfew was two hours ago.”
“Neither should you.” Minhyuk’s voice was rough, like he’d been shouting or crying or both. “But here we are.”
Kihyun finally turned. Minhyuk stood ten paces away, disheveled—shirt untucked, hair messy, eyes fever-bright in the moonlight. His hands were shaking.
“What happened?” Kihyun asked, instinct overriding caution.
“You.” Minhyuk’s laugh was hollow. “You happened. You and your fucking letters and your careful distance and your—” He moved closer. “Why do you keep lying to me?”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Minhyuk closed the distance in three strides. “Every time you say you’re fine. Every time you pretend this is just a mission, just intelligence gathering, just—” His voice cracked. “Just anything other than what it actually is.”
“And what is it actually?” Kihyun’s control was fracturing. “What do you think this is, Minhyuk?”
“I don’t know!” The shout echoed off stone. “I don’t know what to call it. Obsession? Addiction? The stupidest thing I’ve ever done?” Minhyuk’s hands clenched into fists. “But it’s not nothing. It’s not professional. It’s not—” He stopped, breathing hard. “Why can’t you just be honest? For once? Just tell me the truth?”
“The truth?” Kihyun’s composure shattered. “The truth is I’m compromised. Completely. I write reports to my parents and lie through my teeth because admitting how badly I’ve failed would mean accepting extraction. The truth is I can’t be in the same room as you without—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “Without wanting things I absolutely cannot have.”
“Then have them.” Minhyuk moved closer—close enough Kihyun could see the desperation in every line of his face. “Stop denying it. Stop pretending you don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Kihyun’s voice was sharp. “Don’t care? Don’t think about you constantly? Don’t lie awake writing letters I’ll never send?” His control was gone completely now, words spilling out raw and unfiltered. “I’m supposed to be detached. Professional. Objective. But I can’t—I can’t be any of those things with you.”
“Good.” Minhyuk’s hand shot out, grabbed Kihyun’s wrist. “Then stop trying.”
“Minhyuk—”
“Stop trying,” Minhyuk repeated, voice wrecked. “Stop lying. Stop running. Just—” He pulled Kihyun closer. “Just be honest. For once. Just—”
He kissed him.
Hard. Desperate. All teeth and anger and years of wanting compressed into a single moment of collision.
Kihyun froze.
Every instinct screamed to pull away. To maintain distance. To preserve what little remained of his mission and his sanity and his carefully constructed walls.
But Minhyuk’s mouth was warm against his and his hands were shaking and he tasted like firewhisky and desperation and something Kihyun couldn’t name but recognized anyway.
Kihyun kissed back.
His hands fisted in Minhyuk’s shirt—pulling him closer, anchor and claim and surrender all at once. The kiss deepened, rougher, graceless and real and nothing like the careful fantasies Kihyun had allowed himself in dark moments.
This was collision. Combustion. Years of tension igniting all at once.
Minhyuk’s hands slid under Kihyun’s robes—warm against cold skin, trailing up his sides, mapping territory they’d both pretended didn’t exist. His touch was reverent and desperate in equal measure, like he was trying to memorize every inch before Kihyun disappeared again.
Kihyun gasped against his mouth—the sound raw, uncontrolled, everything he’d kept locked away for months pouring out in a single breath.
Minhyuk made a sound that might have been triumph or relief or breaking. His mouth moved to Kihyun’s jaw, throat, sucking bruises into pale skin with focused intensity.
“Wait—” Kihyun’s voice came out wrecked. “Wait, we can’t—”
“Why not?” Minhyuk didn’t stop, hands still moving, mouth still claiming. “Give me one good reason.”
“Because—” Kihyun’s hands were in Minhyuk’s hair now, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. “Because when this falls apart—and it will fall apart—it will destroy us both.”
“I don’t care.” Minhyuk pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, lips swollen, expression absolutely wrecked. “I’d rather have this—right now, real and honest—than keep pretending forever.”
“But I—” Kihyun’s voice broke completely. “When this falls apart, it will kill you. And I can’t—I can’t be responsible for that.”
“You already are.” Minhyuk’s thumb traced along Kihyun’s jaw—gentle now, devastatingly tender. “You’ve been killing me slowly for years. At least this way it’s honest.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Kihyun pulled back—forcibly, deliberately, putting space between them despite every instinct screaming to close the distance again. His robes were disheveled, lips bruised, marks already forming on his throat. Evidence. Proof. Compromise written into his skin.
“I can’t do this,” he said. Voice hollow. Certain.
“Yes, you can—”
“No.” Kihyun’s control was rebuilding itself, walls slamming back into place even as they cracked. “I can’t. Because you’re right—this will destroy us. And unlike you, I’m not willing to burn for it.”
The lie tasted like ash.
“Kihyun—” Minhyuk reached for him.
“Don’t.” Kihyun stepped back. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“Then don’t run.” Minhyuk’s voice was raw. “Stay. Just—stay. We can figure this out. Together. We can—”
“There’s nothing to figure out.” Kihyun’s voice was flat now, emotions locked away. “This was a mistake. I’m compromised. My mission is failed. And I—” He stopped. “I need to fix it.”
“By leaving?”
“By doing what I should have done months ago.” Kihyun’s hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists. “By accepting that some things are impossible. No matter how much we—” He stopped. “No matter how much we want them.”
“This is bullshit.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “You’re scared. That’s all this is. You’re terrified of what happens if you actually let yourself—”
“Of course I’m scared!” Kihyun’s control shattered again. “I’m terrified! Because I know how this ends. I’ve seen it. We destroy each other, ruin what little we have left, and end up on opposite sides of a war that’s coming whether we want it or not.” His eyes were wet now, tears threatening. “So yes, I’m scared. And yes, I’m running. Because staying means watching you break, and I can’t—I won’t—”
He turned and walked toward the stairs.
“Kihyun.” Minhyuk’s voice was small. Broken. “Please.”
Kihyun stopped. Didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry.”
Then he left.
His footsteps echoed down the spiral staircase—measured, controlled, carrying him away from the wreckage of everything they’d almost been.
Minhyuk stood alone on the tower, hand pressed to his mouth where Kihyun’s kiss still burned. His legs gave out. He collapsed against the stone railing, sliding down until he was sitting, knees pulled to chest.
The wind cut through his disheveled clothes. The stars watched, cold and indifferent.
He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just—sat there, counting breaths (lost track somewhere around three hundred and twelve) and trying to understand how something that felt so inevitable could be so impossible.
His lips still tasted like Kihyun. His hands still felt the ghost of warm skin. His chest still held the imprint of desperate kisses and broken control.
But Kihyun was gone.
Again.
Always.
And Minhyuk was alone with the wind and stars and the slowly dawning realization that maybe Kihyun was right.
Maybe they would destroy each other.
Maybe this thing between them—years of wanting, months of careful proximity, minutes of complete honesty—maybe it was always going to end like this.
In pieces. In cold. In the space between almost and never.
Minhyuk counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The ache didn’t fade.
It never did.
In Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun collapsed at his desk.
His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold his quill. His throat was bruised. His robes smelled like Minhyuk—cedar and desperation and something that made Kihyun want to scream.
He pulled out parchment. Started writing.
Mother, Father—
I’ve compromised the mission beyond recovery. Personal involvement has exceeded acceptable parameters. Request immediate extraction. Recommend transfer to Durmstrang as previously discussed.
I cannot maintain cover while remaining objective. The situation has deteriorated to the point where my presence creates more risk than intelligence value.
I apologize for this failure. Will await your instructions.
—K
He read it three times.
His hands shook.
The letter was truth. Complete honesty. Everything he should have written weeks ago.
But sending it meant accepting defeat. Meant admitting he’d failed. Meant leaving Minhyuk to whatever came next without anyone to—
Without him.
Kihyun’s hand hovered over the seal.
Then he set the letter aside. Unsent.
Pulled out fresh parchment instead.
Mother, Father—
Situation remains manageable. Continue monitoring as instructed. No extraction necessary at this time.
—K
Another lie.
He sealed it. Set it beside his family owl for morning delivery.
Then he pulled out a third piece of parchment—one he’d burn before dawn.
I kissed him.
Or he kissed me.
I don’t know who moved first. Doesn’t matter.
What matters is I wanted it. Have wanted it for years. And now that I’ve had it—now that I know what his mouth tastes like, what his hands feel like, how he sounds when control breaks—
I can’t unknow it.
Can’t unfeel it.
Can’t go back to careful distance and professional detachment.
I should accept the transfer. Should run before I destroy us both.
But I won’t.
Because I’m selfish. Weak. Exactly as compromised as I claimed I wasn’t.
And because leaving him—really leaving—would feel like dying.
So I’ll keep lying.
To my parents.
To him.
To myself.
Until the moment when lying stops working.
And everything finally, inevitably, burns.
Kihyun held the letter over a candle.
Watched the words dissolve into ash and smoke.
Evidence destroyed.
Truth safely hidden.
He pressed his fingers to his bruised lips—still feeling Minhyuk’s mouth, still tasting desperation and want and honesty he couldn’t afford.
Counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The ache didn’t fade.
And somewhere in Slytherin Tower, Minhyuk was doing the same.
Counting. Aching. Knowing with cold certainty that they’d just crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.
That nothing would be the same after tonight.
That they were both careening toward destruction and couldn’t seem to stop.
But at least—for a few stolen minutes on a freezing tower—
They’d been honest.
And that would have to be enough.
Even if it destroyed them.
Especially then.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Winter break of fourth year arrived with bitter cold and the heaviest snowfall Hogwarts had seen in decades.
Hyungwon watched from the Hogwarts Express as the castle disappeared into white, counting snowflakes against the window (lost track at four hundred and twelve) and trying not to think about what waited at Lee Manor.
The Serpent’s letter had been clear: Your presence is required. The Dark Lord wishes to meet his son properly.
Minhyuk sat across from him, staring out his own window. He’d been distant since the Astronomy Tower incident three weeks ago—volatile, distracted, prone to disappearing for hours without explanation.
Jinyoung sat between them, the only thing keeping the silence from becoming unbearable.
“It’s going to be different this time,” Jinyoung said quietly.
Hyungwon didn’t ask how he knew. Jinyoung always knew.
Lee Manor was transformed.
Every surface draped in black and green. Silver serpents coiled around banisters. The very air felt heavy, charged with magic that made Hyungwon’s scar burn constantly.
Lady Yuna greeted them with unusual solemnity. “Hyungwon. The preparations are complete. Tonight—” her eyes gleamed, “—tonight everything changes.”
Dinner was silent. Tense. Lord Daesung kept glancing at Hyungwon like he was both prize and weapon. Other guests—more than ever before, sixty-three by Hyungwon’s count—spoke in hushed voices about “the moment” and “his return” and “the beginning.”
After dessert, Lady Yuna stood. “It’s time.”
The cellar was colder than Hyungwon had ever felt it.
Seventy-three steps down felt like descending into winter itself. His breath misted. Ice crystals formed on the stone walls. The candles burned green and cold, casting no warmth.
The circle was enormous—eighty-seven robed figures, all masked, all perfectly still. But the center—
The center was empty. Just void. But the cold radiated from there like something invisible occupied the space.
Hyungwon’s scar burned ice-fire.
The Serpent moved to the circle’s edge, voice carrying through the frozen air: “Brothers and sisters. Tonight we witness what we have worked toward. What we have prepared for. What we have believed in.”
He stepped aside.
The void in the center shifted.
Something took shape.
Not physical—not quite. More like the idea of physical, made from shadow and smoke and cold green light. Tall, impossibly thin, features that wouldn’t quite hold form. But the eyes—
The eyes were solid. Burning green, bright as poison, fixed on Hyungwon with recognition that felt like being known down to the marrow.
Voldemort.
Not a dream. Not a voice in his head. Present. Manifesting through power Hyungwon couldn’t comprehend.
“My son.” The voice was oil over stone, familiar from a thousand nightmares but stronger now. Real. “At last, we meet as we should. Not through dreams or whispers, but face to face. Father to heir.”
Hyungwon’s legs wouldn’t move. His voice wouldn’t work. He stood frozen at the circle’s edge, every instinct screaming to run while his body refused to obey.
“Come forward.” Not a request.
Hyungwon’s feet moved. Twenty-three steps to the center. He stopped three paces from the spectral form, close enough to feel the cold radiating from it like a physical thing.
“Do you know what you are?” Voldemort asked.
“Your son,” Hyungwon whispered. “Apparently.”
“More than that.” Voldemort drifted closer. “You are my contingency. My insurance. The piece of me I placed in the world before my fall—hidden, protected, designed to serve when the moment came.” His form stabilized slightly. “That moment is now.”
The room was silent. Hyungwon felt eighty-seven sets of eyes watching, judging, anticipating.
“The first piece,” Voldemort continued. “The one you have been monitoring. It lies within Hogwarts’ oldest warded cavity—where light once burned at midnight, where stone remembers what it guarded.” His eyes bore into Hyungwon’s. “You will retrieve it. Bring it to me. And in doing so, begin my restoration.”
“I don’t—” Hyungwon’s voice cracked. “I don’t know how.”
“Yes, you do.” Voldemort’s hand—translucent, unreal—reached out and touched Hyungwon’s scar. The pain was blinding. “You carry my blood. My magic. My very essence. The wards recognize you. They will yield to you. All you must do is claim what is yours by right.”
Images flooded Hyungwon’s mind: corridors he’d never walked, chambers he’d never seen, a specific stone that pulsed with dark magic. A cup, golden and ancient, hidden beneath layers of protective charms.
The first Horcrux.
“Yes,” Voldemort hissed, seeing understanding dawn. “You see it now. You feel it. The connection between what I am and what you carry.” His form grew more solid. “You will bring me this piece. And then the next. And the next. Until all seven are gathered. Until I am whole again. Until I am strong again.”
“And if I refuse?” The words came out before Hyungwon could stop them.
The temperature dropped further. Frost spread across the floor.
“Refuse?” Voldemort’s voice was silk over steel. “You think you have that choice? You, who were made for this purpose? Who carry my blood, my scar, my very identity?” He leaned closer. “You cannot refuse, my son. Any more than you can refuse to breathe. This is what you are.”
“I’m a person—”
“You are a tool.” The words cut like glass. “Exquisitely crafted, carefully placed, designed for a single purpose. And now—” his smile was terrible, “—you will fulfill that purpose. Or you will be nothing.”
The room held its breath.
Hyungwon’s scar burned so cold it felt like fire. His vision blurred. Every instinct screamed to deny, to fight, to refuse—
“Yes, my lord,” he heard himself say.
The words came from somewhere outside him. Automatic. Trained through months of meetings and tasks and careful conditioning.
Voldemort’s smile widened. “Good. You understand your place. Your purpose.” He addressed the room. “My son will retrieve the first piece. By spring’s end, we begin the restoration. And those who have remained faithful—” his gaze swept the circle, “—will stand at my side when I reclaim what was taken.”
The robed figures bowed. Some trembled—awe or fear or both.
Voldemort’s attention returned to Hyungwon. His spectral hand touched Hyungwon’s face—cold that burned, presence that violated.
“You will be great, Hyungwon,” he whispered, voice sliding directly into Hyungwon’s mind. “Or you will be nothing. There is no middle ground. No compromise. No escape.”
Then he dissolved—form bleeding back into shadow and void, presence fading but never quite absent.
The cold remained.
Hyungwon stood in the center of the circle, hand pressed to his burning scar, and felt the weight of eighty-seven gazes assessing, calculating, expecting.
The Serpent moved forward. “The Dark Lord has spoken. We have our task. Young Gaunt will retrieve the first piece. We will provide support, cover, whatever he requires. By spring’s end—” his voice rose, triumphant, “—we begin the resurrection.”
The circle erupted in muffled applause—gloved hands creating sound like distant thunder.
Hyungwon barely heard it. His mind was still full of Voldemort’s voice: You will be great or you will be nothing.
Binary. Final. Absolute.
No room for the boy who counted cracks and wanted to be left alone.
Only space for the weapon he’d been designed to be.
After the meeting, Hyungwon found himself in the manor’s library, staring at nothing.
Minhyuk appeared—silent, watchful. He sat beside Hyungwon without speaking.
“He was really there,” Hyungwon said finally. Voice hollow. “Not just a dream or a voice. Actually there.”
“I know.”
“He called me a tool. Said I was made for this. That I—” Hyungwon’s voice cracked. “That I don’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has choices.” But Minhyuk’s voice lacked conviction.
“Do they?” Hyungwon looked at him. “Do you? Do I? Or are we both just—following the paths carved out for us before we were born?”
Minhyuk was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I don’t know anymore.”
They sat in silence, two boys trapped in expectations they couldn’t escape, watching through library windows as snow fell and covered everything in white.
Clean. Pure. Hiding all the darkness underneath.
“Spring,” Hyungwon said. “He wants it by spring.”
“Three months.” Minhyuk’s jaw was tight. “We have three months to decide—do we really do this? Retrieve that Horcrux and hand it over? Or do we—” He stopped. “Or do we find another way?”
“What other way?”
“I don’t know yet.” Minhyuk’s hand found Hyungwon’s shoulder. “But we’ll figure it out. Together. Like always.”
Hyungwon wanted to believe him. Wanted to think there was a path that didn’t end with him becoming exactly what Voldemort had designed.
But the voice echoed in his head, cold and certain:
You will be great or you will be nothing.
And Hyungwon was terrified that “nothing” was no longer an option.
That he’d already become too much of what they wanted.
That the boy who counted cracks was gone, replaced by something darker. Sharper. More useful.
He counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The cold didn’t fade.
Outside, snow continued falling.
And somewhere in the cellar below, the space where Voldemort had manifested still radiated cold—marker of presence, promise of return.
Proof that some things, once started, couldn’t be stopped.
Only survived.
If you were strong enough.
Or became something else entirely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Fifth year began with tension thick enough to taste.
The Hogwarts Express was quieter than usual—students clustered in nervous groups, voices dropping when others passed. Parents had clung harder at King’s Cross, held their children longer, whispered warnings about staying safe and writing often.
Something had shifted over summer. Something everyone felt but no one would name directly.
Hyungwon sat in a compartment with Minhyuk and Jinyoung, watching the landscape blur past. His scar hadn’t stopped burning since the cellar meeting. Three months had passed, and Voldemort’s presence still felt close—not physical, but there, like pressure against the inside of his skull.
“Ministry’s still denying it,” Jinyoung said, reading the Daily Prophet. “Fudge gave another statement: ‘Rumors of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s return are unfounded and dangerous fear-mongering.’” He lowered the paper. “They’re terrified.”
“They should be,” Minhyuk muttered. “They saw him. We all did. And they’re pretending it didn’t happen.”
“Easier than admitting they’re unprepared.” Jinyoung folded the paper with precise movements. “But the students know something’s wrong. This year’s going to be—complicated.”
Complicated was an understatement.
The Great Hall felt different from the moment they arrived.
The Sorting proceeded normally—nervous first-years called forward, Hat deliberating, cheers from house tables. But underneath the tradition, Hyungwon felt division solidifying.
Slytherin table was quieter, more insular. Fewer students from other houses approached them. The casual mixing that had existed in previous years had evaporated over summer.
Across the hall, the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables sat closer together. Protective. Unified.
And at the Ravenclaw table, Kihyun sat with his housemates, carefully not looking toward Slytherin. His neck was covered by his robes, but Hyungwon caught a glimpse of fading bruises when he turned his head.
Minhyuk’s attention tracked Kihyun with hungry precision. His hands clenched on the table.
“Don’t,” Jinyoung said quietly.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re staring. Everyone can see you staring.”
“Let them look.” Minhyuk’s voice was sharp. “I don’t care anymore.”
But he did care. Hyungwon could see it in every rigid line of his body—the desperate need barely contained, the ache of proximity without connection.
Dumbledore stood for his welcome speech. His voice carried through the hall, warm but weighted: “Another year begins. And with it, challenges both academic and—” he paused, eyes sweeping the students, “—personal. Remember that the bonds we forge here, the choices we make, will echo far beyond these walls. Choose wisely. Choose bravely. Choose kindly.”
His gaze lingered on the Slytherin table. On Hyungwon specifically.
The message was clear.
Hyungwon looked away first.
Classes started with increased intensity.
Defense Against the Dark Arts had a new professor—a Ministry official named Umbridge who smiled constantly and taught nothing useful. Her first lesson was reading from the textbook. When a Gryffindor asked about practical spells, she’d responded sweetly: “The Ministry-approved curriculum provides all the defense theory you require.”
“Theory,” Minhyuk had muttered afterward. “We’re facing real threats and they’re teaching theory.”
But theory was all Umbridge allowed. No wands. No practice. Just reading and note-taking and her saccharine insistence that “You’re perfectly safe, dear children. There are no threats to defend against.”
The lie was obvious to everyone.
Which is why, three weeks into term, Wonho’s defense cell stopped being casual and became essential.
Hyungwon noticed them during a free period.
He’d been in the library—researching ward structures for the task waiting in his future—when voices drifted from a study alcove. He moved closer, staying hidden between shelves.
Wonho’s voice: “Again. Faster this time. The shield needs to be instant—no hesitation.”
Sounds of spellwork. A crack of light. Someone gasped.
“Good, Changkyun. That’s solid. But you’re telegraphing. Watch—” Movement. “See? The wand movement starts here, not here. Saves half a second.”
“Half a second matters?” A younger voice—second-year, maybe.
“Half a second is the difference between blocked and hit.” Wonho’s voice was patient but firm. “We’re not playing games. If this gets real—when it gets real—you need muscle memory. Instinct. Speed.”
More practice sounds. Hyungwon counted—seven distinct voices, all focused, all improving.
They were good. Better than good. Wonho had built something effective while Umbridge taught useless theory.
Hyungwon slipped away before they noticed him, but the knowledge sat heavy: the school was preparing for conflict. Quietly, unofficially, but deliberately.
And Hyungwon was on the wrong side of that preparation.
By October, the division was undeniable.
Students walked in clusters now—houses mixing strategically. Gryffindor with Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw with both. Slytherin alone, or occasionally with select purebloods from other houses who shared their families’ politics.
Hyungwon moved through it all like he was made of different substance.
He’d grown over summer—taller, leaner, carrying himself with unconscious authority that made younger students step aside in corridors. His robes fit perfectly now (Lady Yuna had sent new ones, tailored specifically). His scar was visible when he pushed his hair back, and he’d stopped hiding it.
Let them see. Let them wonder. Let them fear.
He was done pretending to be harmless.
“You’re different,” Jinyoung observed one evening in the common room. “The way you move. Talk. Even the way you think.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“Just—different.” Jinyoung’s expression was unreadable. “More like what they expect the Dark Lord’s heir to be. Less like the boy who counted ceiling cracks.”
Hyungwon didn’t respond. Couldn’t explain that the boy who counted cracks still existed—just buried deeper, suffocating under layers of expectation and power and the voice that whispered every night.
Soon, my son. The first piece waits.
Every. Single. Night.
Sometimes Hyungwon woke gasping, scar burning, half-convinced Voldemort was standing in the dormitory. Other times he didn’t wake at all—just existed in dream-space where his father gave instructions and Hyungwon listened like a good soldier.
The line between waking and sleeping had blurred.
November brought the first confrontation.
A third-year Gryffindor—bold or stupid, hard to tell—approached Hyungwon in the corridor. “Is it true? What they’re saying about you?”
Hyungwon stopped walking. Counted the students watching (nineteen). “What are they saying?”
“That you’re—” the boy’s courage faltered. “That You-Know-Who is your father. That you’re here to—to help him come back.”
Silence rippled outward.
Hyungwon could deny it. Laugh it off. Make the boy look foolish.
Instead, he stepped closer. The boy backed up instinctively.
“What I am,” Hyungwon said quietly, “is none of your concern. What you should be concerned about is whether you’re ready for what’s coming. Whether you’ve learned anything useful. Whether you’re strong enough to matter when everything changes.”
He walked away, leaving the boy pale and shaking.
Behind him, whispers exploded.
That evening, Dumbledore summoned him.
The Headmaster’s office was warm, cluttered, suffocating. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking older than Hyungwon remembered.
“Tea?” he offered.
“No thank you, sir.”
“Lemon drop, then? I find they help with difficult conversations.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Are you?” Dumbledore’s blue eyes were piercing. “Because from where I sit, you appear to be a young man carrying weight far beyond his years. Making choices with consequences he may not fully comprehend.”
“I comprehend perfectly.” Hyungwon’s voice was flat.
“Do you?” Dumbledore leaned forward. “Do you comprehend that threatening students—even subtly—creates division? That walking these halls like a prince of darkness makes you a target? That the path you’re on—” He stopped. “Hyungwon, you still have choices.”
“No, sir. I don’t.” Hyungwon met his gaze directly. “I stopped having choices the moment I was born. The moment he marked me. The moment my name was written in blood and destiny.” His scar throbbed. “I’m just—doing what I was made for.”
“You were not made.” Dumbledore’s voice carried unexpected force. “You were born. There’s a difference. Birth implies possibility. Being made implies purpose without choice. You still have the former, even if the latter tries to claim you.”
“Pretty words, sir. But they don’t change reality.”
“Reality,” Dumbledore said softly, “is more malleable than you think. Especially for those brave enough to reshape it.” He paused. “Your father believed himself inevitable. Destiny incarnate. He was wrong. Even he could be stopped. Even he could fall.”
“And be reborn.” The words came out before Hyungwon could stop them.
Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change. “Is that what you believe? That his return is inevitable?”
“I believe—” Hyungwon stopped. “I believe some things are too powerful to stay buried. That blood calls to blood. That I—” His voice cracked fractionally. “That I don’t know how to fight something that’s inside me.”
“Then perhaps,” Dumbledore said gently, “you don’t fight it. You acknowledge it. Accept it as part of you—but not the whole of you. You are more than his blood, Hyungwon. More than his plans. More than his legacy.”
“Am I?” Hyungwon’s laugh was hollow. “Because every day I become less of what I was and more of what he designed. And I can’t—I can’t stop it.”
“You can.” Dumbledore stood, moved around the desk. “You simply choose not to. Because stopping feels harder than surrender. Feels more painful than compliance. But I promise you—” his hand rested briefly on Hyungwon’s shoulder, “—the pain of fighting is temporary. The pain of becoming what you fear is permanent.”
Hyungwon pulled away. “May I be excused, sir?”
Dumbledore’s disappointment was palpable. “Of course. But Hyungwon—my door remains open. Always.”
Hyungwon left without responding.
That night, lying in bed, staring at forty-seven familiar cracks in the ceiling, Hyungwon heard the voice clearer than ever:
Soon, my son. The first piece waits. Spring approaches. Your moment of greatness nears.
And Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven, trying to remember what it felt like to be just a boy who wanted to be left alone.
But that boy was gone.
Buried under expectations and tasks and a destiny he couldn’t escape.
All that remained was the thing he was becoming.
Sharp. Cold. Useful.
Radiant.
And terrifying to anyone who looked too closely.
Including himself.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

It happened on a Tuesday morning in late November, during breakfast.
The Great Hall was full—students eating, talking, the usual morning chaos. Hyungwon sat between Minhyuk and Jinyoung, mechanically eating toast while Minhyuk stared at his plate without eating and Jinyoung read the Prophet with increasing grimness.
“Another denial,” Jinyoung muttered. “Ministry’s doubling down. They’re calling the summer sightings ‘mass hysteria.’”
“Idiots,” Minhyuk said without inflection. His attention was elsewhere—tracking the Ravenclaw table like always, looking for someone who never looked back.
Then the hall’s ambient noise shifted.
Not silence—just a ripple of attention, conversations pausing, heads turning toward the entrance.
Kihyun stood in the doorway.
He’d always been striking, but today he was deliberate. Ravenclaw robes perfectly arranged, posture confident, expression carefully neutral. He scanned the hall with practiced precision, found what he was looking for, and started walking.
Toward the Slytherin table.
“No,” Jinyoung breathed. “He’s not—”
“He is,” Hyungwon said, watching Kihyun navigate between tables with determined grace.
Minhyuk had gone absolutely rigid. His fork clattered against his plate. “What is he—”
Kihyun reached their section of the table and stopped. The entire hall was watching now—this didn’t happen. Ravenclaws didn’t sit with Slytherins. Especially not that Ravenclaw with this Slytherin.
“Lee Minhyuk,” Kihyun said, voice carrying just enough to be heard by nearby tables. “Park Jinyoung. Gaunt.” He gestured to the empty space beside Minhyuk. “May I?”
The question was rhetorical. He was already sitting, settling in with economical movements, reaching for toast like this was completely normal.
The hall erupted in whispers.
Minhyuk stared at him, mouth slightly open, looking like someone had hit him over the head. “You’re—what are you—”
“Having breakfast.” Kihyun’s voice was smooth, controlled. “Is there a problem?”
“No. I mean—” Minhyuk struggled for words. “You’re here. At the Slytherin table. Publicly.”
“Obviously.” Kihyun met his gaze directly. “Where else would I be?”
“But you—your parents—last time—” Minhyuk stopped, jaw working. “You’re back.”
“I was never gone.” Kihyun’s expression was unreadable. “Just—maintaining appropriate distance. But circumstances change. Strategies adapt.” He took a bite of toast, chewed deliberately. “And I decided distance wasn’t serving anyone’s interests anymore.”
Jinyoung made a strangled sound. “Your parents are going to lose their minds.”
“Probably.” Kihyun’s smile was sharp. “But that’s my concern, not yours.”
Hyungwon watched the exchange in silence, counting the stares from other tables (forty-seven students openly watching, more trying to be subtle). This wasn’t reunion. This was statement. Calculated. Deliberate. Designed to send a message.
But what message? And to whom?
Minhyuk’s hand moved under the table—reaching for Kihyun’s, finding it, holding it like he was afraid Kihyun would disappear if he let go.
Kihyun didn’t pull away. His fingers curled around Minhyuk’s, grip firm and grounding.
“Why now?” Minhyuk’s voice was barely audible. “After weeks of avoiding me. After—” He stopped, glancing at their audience. “After everything. Why now?”
“Because you need me.” Kihyun’s voice was soft but certain. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t need you back.”
The honesty was startling. Raw. Completely at odds with the careful control Kihyun usually maintained.
Minhyuk’s breath caught. His grip tightened.
Around them, breakfast continued. Students tried to pretend they weren’t watching. Professors exchanged concerned glances. But the damage was done—or the bridge was built, depending on perspective.
Kihyun had chosen sides. Publicly. Irrevocably.
Classes that day were distraction. Hyungwon couldn’t focus on Transfiguration theory or Potions brewing while his mind spun through implications.
Kihyun’s return meant something. Changed the board. But how?
Was this genuine? Had he really chosen Minhyuk over his parents’ mission? Or was this deeper strategy—getting closer, gaining more complete access, preparing for something larger?
By evening, Hyungwon’s head ached from analyzing angles.
He found Minhyuk in the common room, alone for once, staring into the fire with an expression Hyungwon couldn’t read.
“Where’s your shadow?” Hyungwon asked, sitting beside him.
“Ravenclaw Tower. Curfew.” Minhyuk’s voice was distant. “He had to go back eventually.”
“You okay?”
“I don’t know.” Minhyuk laughed—hollow, slightly hysterical. “He just—appeared. Sat with us. In front of everyone. After years of careful distance and secret meetings and pretending we barely knew each other.” His hands clenched. “I don’t understand what changed.”
“Maybe he got tired of hiding.”
“Or maybe—” Minhyuk stopped. “Maybe his parents told him to get closer. To really embed himself. To—” He couldn’t finish.
“You think he’s playing you?” Hyungwon asked carefully.
“I know he’s playing me.” Minhyuk’s voice was certain. “He’s been playing me since first year. Question is whether he’s playing for his parents or for himself.” He looked at Hyungwon directly. “And I don’t know which answer terrifies me more.”
Hyungwon understood that feeling intimately.
Later, alone in the dormitory while others slept, Hyungwon found himself at Minhyuk’s bedside.
“Why now?” he asked quietly. “Really. Why did Kihyun come back now?”
Minhyuk was silent for a long moment. Then: “I broke down last week. After Dumbledore’s lecture about choices and destiny. I—” He stopped. “I sent him a letter. Told him everything. About the meeting with your father. About the task we’re supposed to complete. About how I’m drowning and don’t know how to surface.” His voice cracked. “I told him I needed him. Actually said it. Like an idiot.”
“And he came back.”
“He came back.” Minhyuk’s smile was broken. “Which means either he cares—really cares, despite everything—or he’s using my weakness to get closer. To gather intelligence. To—” He stopped. “I don’t care anymore. Let him use me. Let him report everything. At least he’s here.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Everything about us is dangerous.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat. “What’s one more risk?”
In Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun sat at his desk, quill poised over parchment.
His roommates were asleep. The common room below was quiet. Just him and the blank page and decisions that would alter everything.
He wrote quickly, before he could reconsider:
Mother, Father—
I am formally informing you that I will not accept extraction. I am staying at Hogwarts. I am maintaining my position within the subject group. I am continuing my mission—but on my terms, not yours.
I understand this violates your instructions. I understand you may consider this betrayal. But I cannot continue operating under parameters that require me to remain detached. I tried. I failed. And I’m done pretending otherwise.
The situation with Subject M. has exceeded professional boundaries. I am emotionally compromised. Completely. And I’ve decided that compromise is acceptable—necessary, even—if it means maintaining access and influence.
I’m staying. Don’t try to stop me. Don’t send extraction orders. I won’t comply.
This is my choice. My mission. My risk.
I’m sorry for disappointing you. But I’m not sorry for staying.
—K
He read it three times.
Every word was rebellion. Every sentence was bridge-burning.
His parents would be furious. Possibly disown him. Definitely cut off support.
But sending this meant freedom. Meant choosing Minhyuk—really choosing him, not just using him for intelligence.
Meant accepting that he’d fallen so far past professional that recovery was impossible.
Kihyun sealed the letter before he could change his mind.
Attached it to his family owl with hands that almost didn’t shake.
Watched it disappear into the night.
Then he pulled out a second piece of parchment—this one would never be sent, would be burned like always, but needed to be written.
I chose him.
Over duty. Over family. Over every logical strategic consideration.
I sat at the Slytherin table today and felt the entire school watching. Felt my parents’ expectations crumbling. Felt every bridge I’d carefully maintained catching fire.
And I didn’t care.
Because Minhyuk looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. And I realized—somewhere between the secret meetings and the coded letters and the kiss that still burns on my mouth—
I’d stopped pretending weeks ago.
I’m in love with him.
Have been since we were children. Will be until we destroy each other.
And I’m done fighting it.
So I’m staying. Whatever happens. Whatever it costs.
I’m staying.
Kihyun held the letter over a candle.
Watched his confession dissolve into ash and smoke.
Then he went to bed and dreamed of Minhyuk’s desperate grip under the breakfast table, and the weight of every eye watching them, and the future they were building together on foundations of lies and truth tangled so tight even they couldn’t tell them apart anymore.
But at least they were building it together.
At least they’d stopped pretending.
At least the fall, when it came, would be mutual.
And somehow that felt like victory.
Even if it ended in ruin.
Especially then.
Across the castle, Minhyuk couldn’t sleep either—lying awake, staring at ceiling cracks (forty-seven), replaying the moment Kihyun had appeared at breakfast like an answer to prayers Minhyuk hadn’t known he was saying.
You need me.
And god help them both, Minhyuk did.
More than air. More than strategy. More than survival itself.
He needed Kihyun like drowning men needed surface.
And if Kihyun was here—really here, publicly choosing this despite every logical reason not to—
Then maybe, just maybe, they had a chance.
Small. Fragile. Built on compromised missions and burned bridges and feelings too big for their bodies.
But a chance nonetheless.
Minhyuk counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
For once, the ache in his chest felt almost like hope.
Almost.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

December arrived with frost that coated everything in silver.
Hyungwon couldn’t sleep—hadn’t been able to for weeks, not properly. Voldemort’s voice was constant now, threading through every quiet moment: Soon, my son. Spring approaches. The first piece calls.
So he walked. Past curfew, beneath disillusionment charms, counting steps through empty corridors (four hundred and seventy-three from the dungeons to the main courtyard) and trying to exhaust himself into unconsciousness.
The courtyard was empty at two in the morning—just moonlight on frost and shadows pooling in corners. Hyungwon sat on a stone bench near the fountain, breath misting, and let the cold seep into his bones.
Movement caught his eye.
A snake. Small, garden variety, probably confused about why it wasn’t hibernating yet. It slithered across the frost-covered stones, heading toward the relative warmth of the greenhouses.
Hyungwon watched it approach. Without thinking, words rose in his throat—not English, not any language he’d learned. Just—sounds. Hissing, sibilant, natural.
“Lost, are you? Cold season came early.”
The snake stopped. Turned its head toward him.
“Yes. Stone-den. Warm place. Cannot find.”
Hyungwon’s scar burned cold. He’d never spoken Parseltongue deliberately before—it just happened, like breathing, like his mouth knew how to shape the sounds without conscious effort.
“Greenhouse. That direction. Stone-den with many green-growing things. Warm.” He pointed.
“Gratitude, speaker.” The snake shifted direction. “You carry old-magic. Strong-blood. Serpent-Lord’s-mark.”
“How do you know that?”
“All serpent-kind knows. Blood calls to blood. You are marked. Claimed. Soon-to-wake.”
The snake disappeared into shadows.
Hyungwon sat frozen, hand pressed to his scar, trying to process what had just happened. He’d understood. Had spoken. Had conversed with a snake like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Impressive.”
Hyungwon’s wand was out before he’d fully turned.
Kihyun stood ten paces away, partially hidden by shadow, expression carefully neutral. “How long have you been able to do that?”
“I don’t—” Hyungwon’s throat was tight. “I didn’t know I could until just now.”
“Interesting.” Kihyun moved closer—slowly, hands visible, non-threatening. “Parseltongue. One of Slytherin’s gifts. Passed down through—” He stopped. “Through certain bloodlines.”
“You heard it.” Not a question.
“I heard something. Couldn’t understand it. But I heard you speaking and the snake responding.” Kihyun’s eyes were sharp, cataloging every detail. “That’s rare magic, Hyungwon. Dangerous magic. The kind that—” He stopped. “The kind that confirms things people have been whispering about.”
Hyungwon’s hand tightened on his wand. “Are you going to tell?”
“Tell who? Your secret’s already halfway out. Everyone knows your heritage. Everyone suspects what you are.” Kihyun sat on the bench beside him—not close, but present. “The question is what you’re going to do with that power.”
“I don’t want power.”
“Liar.” But Kihyun’s voice was almost gentle. “You want it. You’re just terrified of what wanting it means about who you’re becoming.”
The observation was too accurate. Too sharp.
“Why are you here?” Hyungwon asked. “Really. Not just tonight—why come back? Why choose this side publicly when you know what we are? What I am?”
Kihyun was quiet for a long moment, breath misting in the cold air. “Because Minhyuk needs me. And despite every logical reason not to, despite my parents’ orders and my own better judgment—” He stopped. “I need him too.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.” Kihyun’s control cracked fractionally. “I’m supposed to be detached. Professional. Report everything and maintain strategic distance. But I can’t—I can’t watch Minhyuk destroy himself trying to survive your father’s expectations and his family’s plans and this war that’s coming.” His voice dropped. “So I’m here. Compromised. Useless as intelligence. But at least I’m here.”
Hyungwon studied him—really looked. Saw the exhaustion around Kihyun’s eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched slightly when he mentioned Minhyuk.
“You love him,” Hyungwon said. Not a question.
“Yes.” The admission came easily, like Kihyun had stopped fighting it. “I love him. Have loved him since we were children. Will probably love him until it kills me.” He met Hyungwon’s eyes directly. “Which is why I won’t tell anyone what I saw tonight. Why I’ll keep your secrets. Why I’m choosing to stay despite knowing exactly how dangerous you are.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because Minhyuk loves you too.” Kihyun’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Not the same way he loves me. But you’re his anchor. His purpose. The person who makes him feel useful when everything else makes him feel powerless.” He paused. “If I expose you, I destroy him. And I can’t—I won’t—do that.”
The logic was twisted but sound. Kihyun was protecting Hyungwon to protect Minhyuk. It was strategic and emotional and completely irrational.
“You’re going to report this to your parents anyway,” Hyungwon said. “The Parseltongue. What it means. What I’m becoming.”
“Probably.” Kihyun’s honesty was startling. “I’ve spent months gathering intelligence. Can’t just stop. But I’ll—contextualize it. Make it less alarming. Buy you time to figure out what you’re really planning.”
“And if what I’m planning is exactly what they fear?”
“Then I’ll deal with that when it happens.” Kihyun stood, brushing frost from his robes. “But right now, in this moment—I’m choosing to believe you’re more than your father’s weapon. More than a Parselmouth with a destiny carved in blood. You’re a fifteen-year-old boy who’s terrified and trapped and trying to survive.” His expression softened fractionally. “That deserves protection. Even from yourself.”
Hyungwon’s throat was too tight to respond.
Kihyun started walking toward the castle, then paused. “For what it’s worth—the snake was right. You carry old magic. Strong blood. But that doesn’t mean you have to wake what your father wants you to wake. You still have choices, Hyungwon. Smaller than you’d like, more painful than you’d prefer. But choices nonetheless.”
He disappeared into shadow.
Hyungwon sat alone in the frost-covered courtyard, hand pressed to his scar, and whispered to the empty air:
“Then we’re all fucked.”
Because if Kihyun was compromised, if Minhyuk was drowning, if Hyungwon was Parseltongue and marked and claimed—
Then they were all careening toward destruction.
No winners. Just different speeds of losing.
And the worst part was knowing it. Seeing it coming. Counting down to impact while pretending there might be a way to survive the collision.
Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The cold didn’t fade.
Above him, the moon hung bright and indifferent, casting silver light on frost and stone and the slowly crystallizing future.
A future where speaking to snakes felt natural.
Where carrying his father’s mark felt inevitable.
Where every choice narrowed until only one path remained—the one carved out before he was born, leading straight into darkness.
Soon, my son. The first piece calls.
Hyungwon stood and walked back to the castle, counting steps (four hundred and seventy-three in reverse) and trying not to think about snakes and prophecies and the way Kihyun’s voice had cracked when he said I love him.
Because love was the most dangerous thing in this equation.
Love made people irrational. Made them choose wrong. Made them stay when they should run.
Love was the thing that would destroy them all.
More certainly than Voldemort.
More completely than war.
More inevitably than destiny.
And they were all drowning in it—Kihyun in Minhyuk, Minhyuk in Kihyun, Hyungwon in expectations he couldn’t escape.
Different flavors. Same poison.
Same fatal outcome.
Hyungwon reached the dungeons and slipped into the common room.
Minhyuk was there. Asleep on a sofa by the dying fire, still fully dressed, looking younger and more vulnerable than he ever did awake.
Hyungwon almost woke him. Almost told him about Kihyun and the courtyard and the conversation that changed everything.
But Minhyuk looked peaceful for once. Not desperate or obsessive or breaking.
Just—sleeping.
So Hyungwon let him be.
Climbed to the dormitory. Lay in bed. Stared at forty-seven familiar cracks.
And waited for Voldemort’s voice to whisper through his dreams.
It came, inevitable as breathing:
Soon, my son. Soon you will understand what you are. What you were always meant to be.
Serpent-speaker. Blood-heir. Weapon of my return.
Embrace it. Or be consumed by it.
The choice—such as it is—remains yours.
Hyungwon counted until the voice faded.
Then kept counting until dawn broke cold and gray over the castle.
Because counting was safe.
Counting was control.
Counting was the only thing that didn’t demand he become something he wasn’t ready to be.
Even if becoming that thing was inevitable.
Even if every counted second brought him closer to the moment when choice became illusion.
Even if he was already exactly what they wanted him to be.
And just hadn’t admitted it yet.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The decision came in February, during a blizzard that buried the castle in white.
Voldemort’s voice had grown unbearable—constant, demanding, present in every waking moment: Now, my son. The time is now. Retrieve what is mine.
Hyungwon found Minhyuk and Jinyoung in the common room after midnight, both pretending to study but actually waiting.
“It’s time,” he said quietly.
Minhyuk’s quill stilled. “You’re sure?”
“He won’t stop. Every night, every dream—he’s screaming now. If I don’t do this—” Hyungwon’s hands clenched. “I don’t know what happens if I keep refusing.”
“Then we don’t refuse.” Jinyoung closed his book with deliberate precision. “We retrieve it. See what we’re actually dealing with. Make informed decisions based on reality instead of speculation.”
“And if it’s real?” Minhyuk’s voice was tight. “If we actually find a piece of his soul—what then?”
“Then we decide.” Hyungwon’s scar burned cold. “Together. But first we need to know.”
They gathered supplies in silence—wands, basic healing potions, a dark artifact detector Jinyoung had borrowed from his father’s study over Christmas. Everything wrapped in secrecy and determination.
At two in the morning, they slipped out of the common room.
The castle was quiet—just wind howling outside and their footsteps echoing off stone. They moved through familiar corridors toward the Astronomy Tower, then down a service staircase Hyungwon had discovered during his year of observation.
The Observatory’s sub-crypt was accessed through a maintenance passage behind a false wall. It took Hyungwon seventeen tries to find the right stones to press in sequence (Parseltongue helped—the stones responded to hissing commands). Finally, a section of wall ground inward, revealing darkness beyond.
“Lovely,” Jinyoung muttered. “Lumos.”
Wandlight revealed steep stairs descending into cold that felt intentional. Malevolent. Hyungwon counted steps as they descended (ninety-seven) into a circular chamber carved from living rock.
The air tasted like iron. Like blood. Like old magic left to ferment in darkness.
Wards hummed—not hostile yet, just… aware. Watching. Testing.
“There.” Minhyuk pointed.
At the chamber’s center sat a pedestal carved from the same black stone as the walls. And on the pedestal—
A container. Black stone etched with runes that shifted when viewed directly, patterns that hurt to look at. Roughly the size of a fist, pulsing with faint green light that matched the color of Voldemort’s eyes.
Hyungwon’s scar burned ice-fire. His vision blurred. Voldemort’s voice flooded his mind: YES. Take it. Bring it to me. Fulfill your purpose.
“Hyungwon.” Jinyoung’s hand on his shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”
Hyungwon touched his scar. His fingers came away red—blood trickling from the mark, cold as snowmelt.
“I have to touch it,” Hyungwon said. Voice distant, not quite his own. “The wards—they’ll only yield to his blood. To my blood.”
“Maybe we should—” Minhyuk started.
“There’s no other way.” Hyungwon moved forward, steps automatic. The wards parted for him like water, recognizing something in his blood, his magic, his identity.
He reached the pedestal.
The container’s runes glowed brighter, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Hyungwon extended his hand.
“Wait—” Jinyoung’s voice, far away.
Too late.
Hyungwon’s fingers touched the black stone.
Pain exploded through him—white-hot and freezing simultaneously, ripping through every nerve, every cell, every atom of his being. His scar tore open, blood pouring down his face. His magic convulsed, fighting something dark and hungry that surged up through the connection.
He heard screaming. Realized distantly it was him.
Then his legs gave out.
He collapsed, skull cracking against stone, vision going white-gray-black—
Hands caught him. Minhyuk’s voice, panicked: “Hyungwon! HYUNGWON!”
More hands. Jinyoung: “He’s seizing—we need to—”
“Move.” A third voice. Controlled. Clinical. Familiar.
Kihyun.
Hyungwon’s vision cleared fractionally. Kihyun was there—where had he come from?—pushing Minhyuk aside, hands moving with practiced efficiency over Hyungwon’s convulsing body.
“Curse-burn. Dark artifact contact. His blood resonated with—” Kihyun’s wand traced patterns in the air. Latin words poured out, fast and precise. Diagnostic spells, neutralizing charms, healing magic Hyungwon didn’t recognize.
The pain lessened fractionally. The seizures slowed.
“What are you—how did you—” Minhyuk’s voice was wrecked.
“Followed you. Obviously.” Kihyun didn’t look up, still working. “Did you really think I’d let you three attempt dark artifact retrieval without backup?” His hands were steady even as his voice fractured. “Idiots. All of you. Complete idiots.”
The curse was lifting. Hyungwon could breathe again. Could think beyond white agony.
“Father,” he gasped. “I’m sorry—I tried—couldn’t—”
“Shh.” Kihyun’s hand pressed against Hyungwon’s bleeding scar. “Don’t. Don’t speak. Just—” His voice cracked. “Just breathe. In for four. Out for four. That’s it.”
Hyungwon’s eyes found Kihyun’s. Saw the terror beneath clinical calm. Saw the realization of what Hyungwon had just said.
Father.
“Don’t tell Minhyuk,” Kihyun whispered, voice barely audible. “Don’t tell him what you just said. Please.”
But Minhyuk had heard. Was staring at Hyungwon with an expression that mixed horror and understanding and something that might have been confirmation.
“It’s really true,” Minhyuk said hollowly. “All of it. You’re really—he’s really your—”
“Later.” Jinyoung’s voice was sharp. “Process later. Right now we need to—” He stopped, looking at the pedestal.
The container had opened.
Whether from Hyungwon’s touch or the curse activation or simple timer, the black stone had split along invisible seams. Inside—
Not a Horcrux.
A parchment. Rolled tight, sealed with green wax bearing Voldemort’s mark.
Jinyoung retrieved it with careful hands. Broke the seal. Read.
His expression went blank.
“What?” Minhyuk demanded. “What does it say?”
Jinyoung handed him the parchment silently.
Minhyuk read aloud, voice hollow: “Where breath meets stone, the first listens. Where water remembers light, the key waits. Where serpent-speaker speaks truth, the way opens.” He looked up. “It’s a riddle. The container was a decoy. This is—instructions. Coordinates to the real location.”
“Or another test.” Kihyun had stopped the bleeding, sealed the worst of Hyungwon’s wounds. “Horcruxes are layered protection. One ward inside another. One trap leading to the next.” He looked at Hyungwon. “Can you walk?”
“I think so.” Hyungwon’s voice was rough. Everything hurt—bones, muscles, magic itself. But he could move.
Kihyun and Minhyuk helped him stand. The chamber spun.
“We need to leave,” Jinyoung said. “Before the wards reset. Before someone notices we’re gone.”
They climbed the stairs—Hyungwon supported between Minhyuk and Kihyun, counting steps (ninety-seven in reverse) to keep conscious. The maintenance passage. The false wall closing behind them.
Back to corridors that felt too bright, too normal after the crypt’s darkness.
They made it to an abandoned classroom before Hyungwon’s legs gave out again.
Minhyuk caught him, lowered him carefully to the floor. “You almost died. That curse was—if Kihyun hadn’t been there—”
“But he was.” Hyungwon’s laugh came out broken. “Always there. Always watching. Always—” He stopped, looking at Kihyun. “Why? Why follow us? Why help?”
“Because someone needs to keep you alive.” Kihyun’s voice was flat. “Because Minhyuk would have done something stupid and gotten himself killed trying to save you. Because—” He stopped. “Because despite every logical reason not to, I care what happens to both of you.”
The admission hung in the air.
Jinyoung cleared his throat. “We need to discuss what we found. The riddle. What it means.”
“Where breath meets stone, the first listens,” Minhyuk repeated. “That’s—what? A cave? A chamber? Something with air circulation?”
“Or Parseltongue.” All eyes turned to Kihyun. “Breath meeting stone. Speaking. Hyungwon’s been practicing, hasn’t he? Learning to control it?”
Hyungwon’s jaw clenched. “How did you—”
“I pay attention.” Kihyun’s expression was unreadable. “The question is—do we actually proceed? Do we find the real Horcrux? Or do we—” He stopped. “Or do we report back that the container was empty. Buy time. Figure out what we’re really doing.”
“We’re doing what we have to,” Minhyuk said. “What we’ve always done. Survive. By any means necessary.”
“Even if it means helping resurrect the Dark Lord?” Kihyun’s voice was sharp.
“Even then.” Minhyuk’s jaw was set. “Because if we refuse, if we fail—they’ll know. The Serpent, Hyungwon’s father, all of them. And they’ll—” He stopped. “They’ll dispose of us. Replace us. Find someone more compliant.”
“So we’re trapped.” Jinyoung’s voice was hollow. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”
“Welcome to our lives.” Hyungwon’s laugh was bitter. “Trapped since before we were born. By blood. By name. By—” His voice cracked. “By fathers who decided our fates before we had a chance to choose.”
Silence fell.
Outside, the blizzard howled. Inside, four boys sat in darkness and tried to find a path that didn’t end in destruction.
Failed.
Because there was no safe path. No clever solution. No way to outmaneuver destiny when it had been carved into your bones.
“We proceed,” Hyungwon said finally. “Carefully. Slowly. But we proceed. Because stopping means dying, and I’m—” He stopped. “I’m not ready to die yet.”
“None of us are,” Minhyuk agreed quietly.
Kihyun was silent for a long moment. Then: “I’m reporting this to my parents.”
“We know.” Hyungwon’s voice was tired. “We’ve always known. Report what you need to. Just—” He stopped. “Just give us time to figure out what we’re actually doing before you tell them everything.”
“I can do that.” Kihyun’s hands were still shaking slightly from the healing magic. “But Hyungwon—what you said. When you were hurt. About your father—”
“I know what I said.” Hyungwon’s scar throbbed. “And now you know for certain. Confirmation of everything you’ve suspected. Does it change anything?”
“No.” Kihyun’s voice was soft. “It just makes everything more complicated. More dangerous. More—” He looked at Minhyuk. “More impossible to walk away from.”
“Then don’t walk away.” Minhyuk’s hand found Kihyun’s. “Stay. Help us figure this out. Help us—” His voice cracked. “Help us survive what’s coming.”
“I’m trying.” Kihyun’s control was fracturing. “But I don’t know if survival is actually possible anymore. For any of us.”
“Then we burn together.” Hyungwon’s voice was certain. “All of us. When this finally collapses—when everything we’re building falls apart—at least we fall together.”
“Cheerful,” Jinyoung muttered. But he moved closer. Sat beside them. Completed the circle.
Four boys. Four different reasons for being there. Four different flavors of trapped.
But together.
For whatever that was worth.
Which might be nothing.
Or might be everything.
Depending on how you counted.
Hyungwon closed his eyes and counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The pain faded to manageable.
The future remained terrifying.
But at least—for now—he wasn’t facing it alone.
And in the darkness of approaching war, that counted as victory.
Small. Fragile. Probably temporary.
But victory nonetheless.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The healing took three days.
Hyungwon spent them in the hospital wing with “mysterious illness”—Madam Pomfrey’s convenient diagnosis for injuries too complex to explain. The curse-burn from the decoy container had carved invisible damage through his magical core, and even Kihyun’s emergency healing had only stabilized the worst of it.
By the fourth day, Hyungwon was cleared to return to classes. His scar had stopped bleeding, but it burned constantly now—a cold fire that never quite faded.
He was walking back from the hospital wing alone when it happened.
“Hyungwon.”
The voice came from an alcove near the Trophy Room. Hyungwon’s hand went to his wand automatically.
Wonho stepped into the corridor—broader than Hyungwon remembered, more solid, carrying himself with quiet confidence that came from years of training people to defend themselves.
They stared at each other.
Hyungwon counted the distance between them (seven meters) and the exits (two visible, one behind Wonho, one requiring him to turn around). His pulse kicked up despite his best efforts at control.
“What do you want?” His voice came out flatter than intended.
“To talk.” Wonho moved closer—one step, two. “You’ve been avoiding the corridors I use. Taking longer routes. Timing your movements to minimize chance encounters.” Another step. “I know you’re planning something.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Don’t I?” Wonho’s voice was calm but certain. “You disappeared for three days. The official story is illness, but Changkyun saw Minhyuk and Jinyoung sneaking back into the castle at dawn four days ago. Covered in dust. Looking terrified.” He took another step closer. Five meters now. “And you showed up in the hospital wing an hour later.”
Hyungwon’s jaw tightened. “That’s circumstantial.”
“Maybe.” Wonho’s eyes—still so warm, still so genuine—searched Hyungwon’s face. “But I know you. I know when you’re lying. Your tells haven’t changed—you count things when you’re stressed. Right now you’re counting the distance between us, calculating escape routes, trying to figure out how to end this conversation.”
Four meters.
“I need to get to class,” Hyungwon said.
“No, you don’t. It’s Saturday.” Wonho kept coming. Three meters. “Talk to me. Really talk. Not the careful deflections. Not the strategic half-truths. Just—talk.”
“About what?” Hyungwon’s back hit the wall. When had he started retreating? “About how I’m supposedly planning something? About how you’ve been spying on me?”
“I haven’t been spying.” Wonho stopped. Two meters between them. Close enough Hyungwon could see every detail of his face—the concern etched around his eyes, the determination in his jaw, the way his hands clenched and unclenched like he was fighting the urge to reach out. “I’ve been worried. There’s a difference.”
“Why?” The question burst out before Hyungwon could stop it. “Why worry about me? I made my choices. I chose—” He gestured vaguely. “—I chose this. Slytherin. Minhyuk. All of it. I burned that bridge. Burned your note. Made it clear I wasn’t interested in—in whatever you were offering.”
“I know.” Wonho’s voice was soft. “I know you did. And I tried to move on. Tried to focus on my friends, my training, building something good instead of—” He stopped. “Instead of thinking about you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because it didn’t work.” Wonho’s control cracked. “Because I still see you in corridors and my chest gets tight. Because I still remember the greenhouse and your almost-smile and the way your hand felt in mine. Because I—” He stopped, jaw working. “Because I know you’re lying. I know you’re in danger. And I know I can’t stop thinking about you even though I should hate you.”
The words hit like physical blows.
Hyungwon’s breath caught. “Wonho—”
“Let me finish.” Wonho stepped closer. One meter now. Close enough to touch. Close enough Hyungwon could smell grass and sunshine and something warm he’d forgotten existed. “I don’t care who your father is. I don’t care about your name or your scar or the rumors that follow you. I care that you’re here, in front of me, lying about where you’ve been. Lying about what you’re doing. Lying about—” His voice cracked. “About whether you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Wonho’s voice was certain. “You’re not fine. You’re exhausted and scared and carrying something too heavy for one person. And I—” He stopped, throat working. “I care that I know the shape of your hands. That I remember how you count things when you’re stressed. That I’m terrified one day you’ll disappear completely and I’ll forget what you looked like when you almost smiled.”
Hyungwon couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His hands were shaking.
“I should hate you,” Wonho continued quietly. “You laughed when Changkyun was bullied. You chose the people who make this school unsafe. You became everything I should stand against. But I don’t—I can’t—” He stopped. “I can’t hate you. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Silence stretched between them—heavy, charged, full of everything Hyungwon couldn’t say.
I’m Voldemort’s son. I’m retrieving Horcruxes. I’m trapped in a destiny that will destroy everyone near me. You should run. You should hate me. You should forget I exist.
But the words wouldn’t come. Just—silence and the weight of Wonho’s attention and the terrible, aching pull toward safety he couldn’t afford.
“Say something,” Wonho said finally. “Please. Even if it’s telling me to leave you alone. Even if it’s—” His voice broke. “Even if it’s goodbye. Just—say something.”
Hyungwon’s throat was too tight. His hands were shaking. He counted the floor tiles between them (seven) and tried to make his mouth work.
Failed.
Wonho’s expression crumbled. “Okay. Okay, I—” He stepped back. The absence of his proximity felt like cold water. “When you’re ready to stop lying—to me, to yourself, to everyone—I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.” His smile was broken. “That’s probably stupid. Probably means I’m as trapped as you are. But I—” He stopped. “I can’t seem to help it.”
He turned and walked away.
Hyungwon watched him go—counted his steps (twenty-three to the corner), counted the seconds until he disappeared (seventeen), counted the heartbeats until he could breathe again (lost track somewhere around three hundred and forty-seven).
His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He pressed them against the wall—stone cold and solid and real—and tried to anchor himself.
I don’t care who your father is.
But Wonho should care. Should run. Should choose literally anyone else to worry about.
I know the shape of your hands.
Wonho’s hands had been warm in the greenhouse. Steady. Asking for nothing. Offering everything.
And Hyungwon had burned that bridge because survival required distance. Required becoming someone who didn’t need warmth or safety or the terrible vulnerability of being known.
He counted to twenty-three before his legs would move again.
Then he walked to the dungeons, every step mechanical, and tried not to think about Wonho’s broken smile or the way his voice had cracked or the terrible truth that Hyungwon wanted—
Wanted to be the person Wonho still saw. The person who mattered just for existing. The person who could choose greenhouse conversations over Horcrux hunts.
But that person was gone. Had been disappearing piece by piece since the forest. Since the cellar. Since the moment his scar had burned green and Voldemort had called him son.
All that remained was the weapon. The heir. The boy carved into a key for his father’s resurrection.
Hyungwon reached the common room and collapsed onto a sofa.
Minhyuk appeared from the dormitory. Took one look at his face. “What happened?”
“Wonho.”
“Ah.” Minhyuk sat beside him. “What did he want?”
“To save me.” Hyungwon’s laugh was hollow. “Or understand me. Or—I don’t know. Something I can’t give him.”
“Truth?”
“Safety.” Hyungwon’s voice cracked. “He wants me to be safe. And I’m—I’m the opposite of safe. I’m poison. I’m a loaded weapon. I’m—” He stopped, hands clenching. “I’m exactly what everyone fears.”
“Yes,” Minhyuk agreed quietly. “You are. But that doesn’t mean—” He stopped. “That doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”
“Don’t I?” Hyungwon looked at him. “You’re trapped too. Kihyun, Jinyoung, all of us—we’re all trapped in this thing that’s going to consume us. Adding Wonho just means one more person gets destroyed when it all falls apart.”
“Maybe.” Minhyuk’s voice was thoughtful. “Or maybe having someone who sees past the weapon to the person—maybe that’s the only thing that keeps us human enough to matter.”
“Pretty words.”
“True words.” Minhyuk’s hand found Hyungwon’s shoulder. “You don’t have to love him. Don’t have to choose him. But don’t—” His voice softened. “Don’t convince yourself you don’t deserve someone who cares. That’s the lie that destroys us faster than any Horcrux.”
Hyungwon pressed his hands to his face and tried not to think about warm hands in greenhouses and gentle voices saying I’ll be here.
Tried not to count the ways he was failing everyone who cared about him.
Tried not to imagine what it would feel like to choose differently.
Failed at all three.
Because some countdowns were inevitable.
Some destructions were written in blood.
And some bridges, once burned, could never be rebuilt—no matter how much you wanted to cross back to the person you used to be.
The person Wonho still saw when he looked at Hyungwon.
The person who’d died in a forest, whispering to his father’s ghost.
The person who would never, ever come back.
No matter how many times Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven and wished it weren’t true.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The summons came during breakfast on Monday.
A scroll delivered by Professor McGonagall herself, her expression unreadable as she placed it beside Hyungwon’s plate. “The Headmaster wishes to see you. Immediately after your meal.”
The Great Hall’s noise dimmed fractionally. Students watched—some curious, some knowing, all aware that Dumbledore’s summons meant something significant.
Hyungwon unrolled the parchment. Simple, direct:
My office. Password: Sugar Quills. I have Earl Grey this time—much better than lemon drops.
—A.D.
The attempted levity felt ominous.
“What does he want?” Minhyuk asked quietly.
“To talk, apparently.” Hyungwon folded the parchment with careful precision. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“It’s never nothing.” Jinyoung’s voice was flat. “Dumbledore doesn’t summon people for casual conversation. Be careful what you say.”
“I’m always careful.”
“No,” Minhyuk corrected. “You’re always counting. There’s a difference.”
The gargoyle moved aside with the password. The spiral staircase carried Hyungwon up—seven rotations, ninety-seven seconds total. He counted to keep his breathing steady.
The office door was already open.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking older than Hyungwon remembered. More fragile. The phoenix dozed on its perch, and the portraits were unusually quiet—watching with painted eyes that felt too knowing.
“Hyungwon. Thank you for coming.” Dumbledore gestured to the chair across from him. “Please, sit. Tea?”
“No thank you, sir.”
“Are you certain? It’s quite good. Earl Grey from a small shop in London that’s been operating since 1706. The owner is a Squib with impeccable taste.” Dumbledore poured himself a cup with steady hands. “But I understand. Sometimes accepting hospitality feels like obligation. Like vulnerability.”
Hyungwon sat carefully on the edge of the chintz armchair. “Why am I here, sir?”
“Because I worry about you.” Simple. Direct. Disarming. “You’ve been at Hogwarts nearly five years now. I’ve watched you grow from a quiet boy who counted everything to—” He paused. “To someone else entirely. And I wonder—are you becoming who you wish to be? Or who you believe you must be?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Always.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes were piercing. “Desire and obligation are cousins, but they lead to very different destinations.” He sipped his tea. “You remind me of a boy I once knew. Brilliant, powerful, convinced that loneliness was clarity. That isolation was strength. That the world was broken and only he could fix it.”
Hyungwon’s throat was tight. “What happened to him?”
“He burned the world.” Dumbledore’s voice was soft but weighted. “And then he burned himself. Quite thoroughly. Leaving nothing but ash and regret and the echo of what might have been.” He set down his cup. “His name was Gellert Grindelwald. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
“The dark wizard you defeated.”
“Defeated. Yes.” Dumbledore’s expression was complicated. “Though victory is perhaps too simple a word for what happened between us. I stopped him. I didn’t save him. There’s a difference.”
Silence stretched. Outside the windows, students crossed the grounds—small figures moving through snow, laughing, living, free.
“Why are you telling me this?” Hyungwon asked.
“Because you’re standing where he stood. Where I stood beside him, once upon a time. At the precipice.” Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. “You’re being asked to retrieve something. To help facilitate a return. To become instrumental in resurrection.” Not a question. “The question is—will you?”
Hyungwon’s scar burned cold. “How do you—”
“I know many things, Hyungwon. It’s my burden and my curse. I know about meetings in cellars. About tasks given and completed. About a boy who speaks Parseltongue and carries his father’s mark.” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle. “I know you’re trapped. Genuinely trapped. Between loyalty to those you’ve bonded with and horror at what you’re being asked to do.”
“Then you know I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.” Dumbledore’s voice carried unexpected force. “The choices may be terrible. The consequences may be devastating. But the choice exists. You don’t have to be your father’s son, Hyungwon. You can be your own person. But you do have to choose.”
“Choose what?” Hyungwon’s control cracked. “Choose to defy him and watch everyone I care about suffer? Choose to complete the task and help resurrect a monster? Choose to—to be nothing, because he said those are the only options—greatness or nothing?” His hands clenched. “What choice is that?”
“The hardest one.” Dumbledore’s expression was infinitely sad. “The choice to define yourself despite impossible circumstances. To be neither weapon nor victim, but simply—human. Flawed. Struggling. Real.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It’s everything.” Dumbledore stood, moved to the window. “Gellert and I—we thought we could remake the world. Thought we were special enough, powerful enough, right enough to impose our vision on everyone else. We were wrong. Catastrophically wrong. And the world paid the price for our arrogance.” He turned back. “You’re not arrogant, Hyungwon. You’re terrified. That makes you more dangerous—because terror makes people do things they never thought possible. Makes them surrender choices they thought they’d never abandon.”
“I’m not surrendering anything.”
“Aren’t you?” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle. “You’ve stopped fighting. Stopped questioning. You’re counting steps toward a destination you don’t want, convincing yourself that walking is the same as choosing.”
The observation cut too deep.
“What would you have me do?” Hyungwon asked, voice rough. “Refuse? Fail? Watch Minhyuk and Jinyoung and everyone else pay the price for my rebellion? Watch my—” He stopped. “Watch him destroy everything I care about because I dared to defy him?”
“I would have you choose yourself.” Dumbledore returned to his desk. “Just once. Choose what you want, not what he demands or what others expect. Choose the version of yourself you can live with when the dust settles. Because it will settle, Hyungwon. War always ends. The question is—who will you be when it does?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then figure it out.” Dumbledore’s voice was firm but kind. “Before the choice is made for you. Before you wake up one day and realize you’ve become exactly what you feared. Before the boy who counted cracks disappears entirely beneath the weapon your father designed.”
Hyungwon stood abruptly. “May I be excused, sir?”
“Of course.” Dumbledore didn’t try to stop him. “But Hyungwon—my door remains open. Always. When you’re ready to choose differently—when you’re ready to be saved—I’m here.”
“I don’t need saving.”
“Everyone needs saving.” Dumbledore’s smile was sad. “Even—especially—those who insist they don’t.”
Hyungwon left without responding.
The spiral staircase carried him down. The gargoyle moved aside. He walked through corridors in a haze, Dumbledore’s words echoing in his skull.
You don’t have to be your father’s son.
But he was. Had been from the moment of conception. Had been designed for this purpose, carved into this shape, marked with this destiny.
You do have to choose.
But every choice led to destruction. Every path ended in pain. There was no good option—just different flavors of ruin.
Who will you be when the dust settles?
Dead, probably. Or worse—alive and hollow, carved into a weapon so thoroughly that nothing of the original boy remained.
Hyungwon found himself in an abandoned classroom without remembering how he got there. He sat on a dusty desk and pressed his hands to his face.
Counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The ache didn’t fade.
Outside the windows, students played in snow. Inside his head, Voldemort whispered: Soon, my son. The riddle awaits. Your destiny calls.
And somewhere between those two realities—warmth and cold, life and death, choice and inevitability—Hyungwon existed.
Counting.
Always counting.
Because numbers were safe. Numbers were control. Numbers were the only thing that didn’t demand he become something he wasn’t ready to be.
Even if becoming that thing was inevitable.
Even if every counted second brought him closer to the moment when choice became illusion.
Even if he was already exactly what Dumbledore feared.
And just hadn’t admitted it yet.
In his office, Dumbledore watched through his window as Hyungwon crossed the grounds below—a small figure in dark robes, moving with the careful precision of someone who’d forgotten how to be reckless.
“You let him go,” McGonagall said from the doorway. “Again.”
“What would you have me do, Minerva? Lock him in a tower? Expel him for crimes he hasn’t committed? Force him to choose salvation when he’s not ready to be saved?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Before it’s too late. Before he becomes—”
“What his father was?” Dumbledore’s voice was heavy. “I tried that once. With Tom. Watched too closely, intervened too much, pushed too hard. And he became exactly what I feared because I treated him as inevitable instead of possible.” He turned from the window. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
“So you’ll do nothing?”
“I’ll wait.” Dumbledore’s eyes were infinitely sad. “I’ll keep my door open. I’ll offer choice without forcing it. And I’ll hope—” His voice cracked fractionally. “I’ll hope that when the moment comes, when Hyungwon stands at the precipice, he’ll remember that someone believed he could choose differently.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll have failed him.” Dumbledore’s voice was certain. “As I failed Tom. As I failed Gellert. As I’ve failed so many brilliant, broken boys who needed guidance more than expectation.” He returned to his desk. “But I’d rather fail through too little intervention than create another monster through too much.”
McGonagall was quiet for a long moment. Then: “He’s running out of time.”
“I know.”
“The spring term ends in three months.”
“I know.”
“And you’re just going to—wait? Hope? Pray he makes the right choice?”
“Yes.” Dumbledore’s voice was soft. “Because sometimes that’s all we can do. Offer choice. Offer hope. Offer the possibility that we’re more than our worst fears and our fathers’ legacies.” He looked up. “And trust that somewhere, beneath the weapon and the destiny and the terrible weight of expectation—”
“There’s still a boy who counts cracks,” McGonagall finished quietly.
“Yes.” Dumbledore’s smile was sad. “There’s still a boy who counts cracks. Who wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Who never asked for any of this.”
“And if that boy is already gone?”
“Then we grieve.” Dumbledore’s voice was final. “But we don’t give up. Not yet. Not while there’s still time.”
He turned back to the window.
Watched Hyungwon disappear into the castle.
And did nothing.
Because sometimes doing nothing was the hardest choice of all.
And sometimes it was the only choice that mattered.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Hyungwon dreamed.
Not the usual fragmented nightmares—this was different. Structured. Real.
He stood in a room he didn’t recognize. Stone walls, no windows, lit by green flames that cast everything in sickly light. The air tasted like copper and old magic.
And across from him—
Voldemort.
Not spectral this time. Not smoke and shadow. Almost solid, like he was pulling himself together piece by piece from sheer force of will. His features were clearer—serpentine, inhuman, eyes burning green with terrible intelligence.
“My son.” The voice resonated through Hyungwon’s bones. “At last, we speak properly. Not through veils or whispers, but as we should. Father to heir.”
Hyungwon tried to move. Couldn’t. His body was frozen, held by invisible force.
“Don’t struggle.” Voldemort drifted closer. “This is dream-space. My domain. Here, I can show you things. Teach you things.” His smile was terrible. “The time has come. The first piece lies within the oldest warded cavity—where serpent-speakers once held court, where stone remembers its purpose. Bring it to me before year’s end.”
“I don’t know where that is.” Hyungwon’s voice came out thin, distant.
“Don’t you?” Voldemort’s hand—more solid than it should be—touched Hyungwon’s scar. Cold burned through him. “You’ve walked those corridors. Felt the wards pulse. Your blood knows the way. Your magic remembers.”
Images flooded Hyungwon’s mind: corridors beneath the castle, older than the foundations, carved from living rock. A chamber with walls that whispered. A pedestal holding something golden. Ancient. Wrong.
“The Chamber of Secrets,” Hyungwon breathed.
“Yes.” Voldemort’s approval was palpable. “Built by Slytherin himself. Protected by magic that recognizes blood. Parseltongue. You.” His form grew more solid. “The cup is there. Hufflepuff’s cup, though she never knew what I made of it. One of seven. The first you will retrieve.”
“And if I refuse?”
The temperature dropped. Frost spread across invisible walls.
“Refuse?” Voldemort’s voice was silk over steel. “You, who were made for this? Who carry my blood, my mark, my very purpose?” He leaned closer. “You cannot refuse. You already know. You’ve always known. The knowledge sits in your bones, your blood, your destiny.”
The words wrapped around Hyungwon’s throat like hands.
“Bring me the cup,” Voldemort commanded. “Before the school year ends. Before summer scatters the students. You will descend into the Chamber. You will retrieve what is mine. And you will begin my restoration.”
“I—”
“You will comply.” Not a request. “Or everyone you care about will pay the price for your disobedience. Young Lee. Young Park. The Ravenclaw spy. Even—” Voldemort’s smile widened, “—the Hufflepuff who still believes you can be saved. All of them. Dead. Because you dared to refuse your purpose.”
“No—”
“Yes.” Voldemort’s hand pressed harder against the scar. Pain exploded through Hyungwon’s skull. “You are mine. You have always been mine. And you will serve. Or you will watch everything burn.”
The room dissolved—
Hyungwon’s eyes snapped open.
He was standing. Not in bed. Not in the dormitory.
In the common room.
Barefoot on cold stone. Shaking so hard his teeth chattered. His scar burned ice-fire, blood trickling down his face.
And Minhyuk was there. Hands on Hyungwon’s shoulders, face pale with terror.
“Hyungwon.” Minhyuk’s voice was urgent. “Hyungwon, can you hear me?”
Hyungwon blinked. Tried to speak. His throat wouldn’t work.
“You were sleepwalking again.” Minhyuk’s grip tightened. “I woke up and you were gone. Found you down here, standing by the entrance, muttering in—” He stopped. “In Parseltongue. Just—hissing at the wall like you were trying to open something.”
“The Chamber.” Hyungwon’s voice came out rough. “He showed me. Told me. The first piece is in the Chamber of Secrets.”
Minhyuk went very still. “You’re certain?”
“He was—” Hyungwon’s legs buckled. Minhyuk caught him, lowered him carefully to the floor. “He was there. Not a dream. Not a vision. Actually there, in my head, showing me—” His breath came in short gasps. “Hufflepuff’s cup. In the Chamber. Protected by—by wards that recognize blood. Parseltongue. Me.”
“Okay.” Minhyuk’s voice was steady despite the terror in his eyes. “Okay. Breathe. Just—breathe. In for four. Out for four.”
Hyungwon counted. His pulse slowed fractionally.
“How long was I gone?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.” Minhyuk wiped blood from Hyungwon’s face with his sleeve. “You were talking to the wall. Saying—coordinates, I think. Instructions. Like you were memorizing directions.”
“I was.” Hyungwon’s hands were still shaking. “He put the information directly into my head. I know where to go. How to open the entrance. What words to say. I—” His voice cracked. “I know everything.”
“Then we have a problem.” Jinyoung appeared from the dormitory stairs, wrapped in a dressing gown, expression grim. “Because if he’s giving you direct instructions, if he’s commanding compliance—”
“Then we’re out of time,” Minhyuk finished. “The spring term ends in six weeks. If Hyungwon doesn’t retrieve that Horcrux before students leave—”
“He’ll know I refused,” Hyungwon said hollowly. “And he’ll—” He couldn’t finish. Voldemort’s threat echoed in his skull: Everyone you care about will pay the price.
Silence fell.
Three boys in a common room at three in the morning, staring at each other and trying to find a path that didn’t end in destruction.
“We retrieve it,” Minhyuk said finally.
“What?” Jinyoung stared at him.
“We retrieve it. Together. Go into the Chamber, get the cup, see what we’re actually dealing with.” Minhyuk’s voice was certain. “Then we decide—do we hand it over? Hide it? Destroy it? But first we need to see it. Understand what we’re facing.”
“That’s insane,” Jinyoung said.
“Everything about this is insane.” Minhyuk’s jaw was set. “But we’re out of options. Out of time. And if Hyungwon goes alone—” He looked at Hyungwon directly. “You’re not going alone. Not into the Chamber of fucking Secrets. Not to retrieve a piece of soul. Not while I’m breathing.”
“Me neither,” Jinyoung said quietly. “If we’re doing this—if we’re really doing this—we do it together.”
“And Kihyun?” Hyungwon asked.
“Will probably insist on coming,” Minhyuk muttered. “Because he’s an idiot who thinks he can protect everyone through sheer force of will.”
“He saved your life in the crypt,” Jinyoung pointed out.
“Which is why he’s an idiot.” But Minhyuk’s voice was soft. “An idiot I—” He stopped. “An idiot we need.”
They sat in silence, the green fire casting shadows across their faces.
“Six weeks,” Hyungwon said. “We have six weeks to plan. To prepare. To figure out what we’re actually doing.”
“And then?” Jinyoung asked.
“And then we descend.” Hyungwon’s voice was hollow. “Into the Chamber. Into darkness. Into—” He stopped. “Into whatever comes next.”
“Together,” Minhyuk said firmly.
“Together,” Jinyoung agreed.
Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The fear didn’t fade.
Outside, dawn was still hours away. Inside, three boys made plans for descent into a place that had killed students before.
All because a boy with a bleeding scar couldn’t refuse his father’s voice.
All because destiny carved itself into bones and blood and wouldn’t let go.
All because some choices—no matter how many times you counted them—led to the same inevitable end.
Hyungwon touched his scar. It still burned cold.
Still whispered: Soon, my son. Soon you will serve.
And Hyungwon knew—with absolute certainty—that six weeks from now, he would descend into darkness.
Would retrieve what his father demanded.
Would become exactly what everyone feared.
Unless he found a way to choose differently.
Unless the boy who counted cracks could somehow survive becoming the weapon.
Unless there was still time.
But time, like choices, was running out.
And the countdown had already begun.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Summer had burned the world down and rebuilt it in ash.
The Ministry finally admitted what everyone already knew: The Dark Lord has returned. Fudge resigned in disgrace. Scrimgeour took his place with promises of security and strength. The Daily Prophet ran daily casualty lists—attacks on Muggle villages, Death Eater sightings, families disappearing overnight.
And Hogwarts became an island in a storm.
Two hundred and forty-three students didn’t return for sixth year. Parents pulled them out, sent them abroad, kept them home where family wards might offer protection. The ones who remained split visibly—Slytherins clustering tighter, other houses forming defensive alliances, everyone watching everyone else for signs of betrayal.
Hyungwon sat on the Hogwarts Express watching the landscape blur past and tried not to think about the summer.
The Chamber. The descent. The cup.
They’d done it. Three weeks before term ended, when most students were distracted by exams and professors were preoccupied with end-of-year chaos. Hyungwon had opened the entrance with Parseltongue, and the four of them—Hyungwon, Minhyuk, Jinyoung, Kihyun—had descended into darkness older than the castle itself.
The Chamber was magnificent and terrible. Serpent pillars. Stone that whispered. And at the far end—
Hufflepuff’s cup. Golden, ancient, pulsing with dark magic that made Hyungwon’s scar scream.
Minhyuk had retrieved it while Hyungwon held the wards open with his blood and voice. Kihyun had sealed it in protective charms. Jinyoung had documented everything with clinical precision.
And then they’d made a decision that would damn them all:
They’d hidden it. Not destroyed, not delivered—hidden.
In a place only the four of them knew. Protected by blood wards and Parseltongue and the desperate hope that buying time meant buying choices.
Voldemort’s fury had been immediate. Hyungwon had spent three days screaming through fever dreams while his father raged in his head. But they’d held firm. Told the Serpent the Chamber had been empty, that someone had moved the cup, that they’d continue searching.
The lie had barely held.
Now, September sun streamed through train windows, and Hyungwon felt the weight of choices made and consequences delayed.
“You’re brooding,” Minhyuk said from across the compartment.
“Thinking.”
“Same thing with you.” Minhyuk’s appearance had changed over summer—sharper edges, darker circles under his eyes, a hardness around his mouth that hadn’t been there before. “Stop thinking. At least until we get to the castle.”
Jinyoung looked up from his book. “He’s right. Whatever comes next, we face it at Hogwarts. Not on this train.”
“What do you think comes next?” Hyungwon asked.
“War,” Jinyoung said simply. “Real war. Not skirmishes and rumors. Actual conflict.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The Great Hall felt different from the moment they entered.
Fewer students meant more space, more silence, more weight to every interaction. The Sorting took half as long. Dumbledore’s speech was shorter, grimmer:
“We face darkness. We face fear. We face a threat that would divide us when unity is our only strength. But remember—we are Hogwarts. We are more than houses and blood status and the petty divisions others would impose. We are students. And students learn, adapt, survive. Together.”
Polite applause. But the division was visible—Slytherin sitting isolated, other houses grouped tighter, professors watching everyone with wary vigilance.
After dinner, walking back to the common room, Minhyuk muttered: “This year’s going to be hell.”
“Worse than last year?” Hyungwon asked.
“Much worse.” Minhyuk’s jaw was tight. “Because now everyone knows the sides. Now the masks are off. And we’re—” He stopped. “We’re trapped on the wrong side with a Horcrux hidden and a Dark Lord who wants us dead for defying him.”
“Cheerful,” Jinyoung muttered.
“Honest,” Minhyuk corrected.
The parties started in October.
Jackson Wang—now seventh year, head of an unofficial student alliance, looking older and more reckless—decided Hogwarts needed distraction. Needed escape from the weight of war pressing down on teenage shoulders.
So he threw parties. Weekly. In the Room of Requirement, which provided whatever space they needed: dance floor, comfortable furniture, dim lighting that made everything feel dreamlike and temporary.
The first party was tentative. Fifty students, mostly Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, testing whether celebration was allowed when the world was ending.
By November, attendance had tripled. All houses mixing—even some Slytherins, though carefully selected ones. Music pulsed. Firewhisky flowed. Bodies pressed close in the heat and darkness.
It was necessary. Vital. The only thing keeping some students from cracking under the pressure.
Hyungwon attended with Minhyuk and Jinyoung—more for visibility than enjoyment. They couldn’t afford to be seen as isolated. Couldn’t let people think they were different from other students trying to survive impossible circumstances.
The Room was packed when they arrived—music loud enough to feel in your chest, students dancing with desperate energy, the air thick with sweat and spell-warmed heat.
“Drinks,” Minhyuk said, already moving toward the conjured bar.
Hyungwon followed, counting exits (three visible) and familiar faces (seventy-three students he recognized). Old habits.
Jackson appeared with a bottle. “The mysterious trio! Finally decided to join us common folk?”
“We’re very common,” Jinyoung said dryly. “Can’t you tell by our sparkling personalities?”
Jackson laughed. “Drink. Dance. Have mindless fun. That’s the requirement for entry.”
He poured three generous glasses of something amber and potent. Hyungwon drank without tasting. The alcohol burned pleasantly, dulling edges that had been too sharp for too long.
“Better?” Minhyuk asked.
“Maybe.”
They moved deeper into the crowd. The music was loud enough to make conversation impossible—which was probably the point. No talking meant no politics, no sides, no war. Just bodies and rhythm and the temporary illusion of normalcy.
Minhyuk pulled Hyungwon into the mass of dancing students. Too close, too warm, lines blurring between friendly and something else. Minhyuk’s hand on his shoulder, their bodies pressed together by the crowd, music thrumming through both of them.
“This is weird,” Hyungwon shouted over the noise.
“Good weird or bad weird?” Minhyuk’s breath was warm against his ear.
“Just weird.”
But Minhyuk was grinning—actually grinning, for the first time in months—and Hyungwon found himself almost smiling back.
They danced. Drank more. The Room grew hotter, the crowd more energetic, reality fading into bass and bodies and blessed, temporary oblivion.
Hyungwon lost track of time. Lost track of counting. Just—existed in the moment, letting the music drown out Voldemort’s voice and Dumbledore’s warnings and his own constant anxiety.
Then he saw Kihyun.
Across the room, half-hidden in shadow near the entrance. Watching. Not dancing, not drinking—just watching with an expression Hyungwon couldn’t quite read.
Their eyes met.
Kihyun’s expression flickered—something complicated passing across his face. Then he turned and left.
“Was that—” Hyungwon started.
“Kihyun.” Minhyuk had seen too. His expression shifted immediately—the brief joy evaporating, replaced by familiar hunger and ache. “I should—”
“You should stay,” Jinyoung said, appearing beside them. “If he wanted to talk, he would have approached. He’s—” He paused. “He’s watching. Observing. Whatever that means.”
“It means his parents are pressuring him again.” Minhyuk’s hands clenched. “It means he’s pulling away. It means—” He stopped, jaw working.
“It means we keep dancing,” Hyungwon said firmly. “Because falling apart in the middle of Jackson’s party helps no one.”
Minhyuk looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded. “Right. Dancing. Forgetting. Pretending everything’s fine.”
They returned to the crowd. But the moment had fractured. Hyungwon could feel Minhyuk’s tension, see the way his eyes kept tracking toward the entrance where Kihyun had disappeared.
The party continued—hours blurring together, students laughing and kissing and forgetting, music pounding relentlessly.
But Hyungwon couldn’t shake the image of Kihyun’s expression. The careful observation. The distance maintained.
Something had shifted over summer.
Something was breaking.
And none of them knew how to stop it.
In Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun sat at his desk with parchment and quill and the weight of impossible choices.
Mother, Father—
Situation deteriorating rapidly. Subject M’s emotional instability increasing. Subject H.G. successfully delayed primary objective but consequences unclear. War escalation making continued observation dangerous.
Request updated guidance on—
He stopped. Crossed out the formal language. Started again.
I can’t do this anymore.
Five words. Honest. Devastating.
He stared at them for seventeen minutes.
Then burned the parchment and wrote what his parents expected:
Situation stable. Continuing observation. Will report significant developments.
—K
The lie tasted like ash.
But telling the truth—admitting he’d compromised himself beyond recovery, that he cared too much to remain objective, that watching Minhyuk dance with Hyungwon had sparked something he refused to name—
That would mean extraction. Transfer. The end of everything he’d been building.
So he lied.
Sealed the letter.
Sent it.
And sat in the dark, counting to one hundred and forty-seven, trying not to think about Minhyuk’s hands on Hyungwon’s shoulders or the way the music had made them both look younger, freer, almost happy.
Trying not to acknowledge that some part of him—buried deep, denied constantly—was jealous.
Not of Hyungwon. Not exactly.
Just—envious of the easy proximity. The physical closeness Kihyun maintained careful distance from. The ability to exist in the same space without constant calculation and coded reports and the weight of parents who saw everything as strategy.
Kihyun pressed his hands to his face and let his mind ramble.
By the time he climbed into bed, dawn was threatening.
And across the castle, in Slytherin Tower, Minhyuk lay awake thinking about Kihyun’s watching eyes and wondering what it meant that absence hurt worse than presence ever had.
The countdown continued.
War approached.
And somewhere in the spaces between—heat and secrecy, truth and lies, love and strategy all tangled together—four boys tried to survive the collision.
Knowing it was inevitable.
Knowing it would destroy them.
But unable—unwilling—to step aside.
Because some destructions were worth the fall.
And some people were worth burning for.
Even when burning was guaranteed.
Especially then.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The party had been wilder than usual.
November rain hammered against castle windows while inside, the Room of Requirement pulsed with music and bodies and desperate energy. Students danced like the world wasn’t ending—or maybe because it was.
Minhyuk had drunk too much. Not enough to be incoherent, but enough that the careful control he maintained constantly had started to slip. Enough that when he saw Kihyun slip out early—again, always leaving early—something inside him snapped.
He followed.
Caught up with Kihyun three corridors away, in a stretch of hallway near the library that was blessedly empty at midnight.
“Kihyun.”
Kihyun stopped. Turned slowly. His expression was carefully neutral, but something flickered in his eyes. “You should go back to the party.”
“Why?” Minhyuk moved closer. “So I can watch you disappear again? So I can pretend I don’t notice you watching me from across rooms without ever actually talking to me?”
“Minhyuk—”
“Three weeks.” Minhyuk’s voice was rough. “You’ve been back for three weeks and we’ve barely spoken. You sit at the Ravenclaw table. You avoid me in corridors. You show up at parties just to leave before I can reach you.” He was close now. Very close. “Why did you come back if you’re just going to run?”
“I’m not running.” But Kihyun’s voice lacked conviction.
“You are.” Minhyuk backed him against the wall—not aggressive, just inevitable. “You came back last year. Made that big gesture at breakfast. Told me you were staying. And then summer happened and now you’re—distant. Professional. Like we’re strangers who occasionally occupy the same space.”
“We need to be careful—”
“Fuck careful.” Minhyuk’s hand slammed against the wall beside Kihyun’s head. “I’m tired of careful. Tired of distance. Tired of pretending I don’t—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “Why did you leave early tonight?”
“Because I—” Kihyun’s composure cracked. “Because watching you with Hyungwon, dancing, laughing, looking happy—” He stopped. “It made me realize how far outside I am. How much I’ve sacrificed to stay close while maintaining distance. And I—” His voice broke. “I couldn’t watch anymore.”
The confession hung between them.
Minhyuk’s expression shifted—understanding dawning, followed by something fierce and possessive. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Minhyuk moved closer, eliminating the last inch of space. “You’re jealous because I was touching him. Because we were close. Because for five minutes I looked like I wasn’t completely destroyed by your absence.”
“Stop—”
“Make me.” Minhyuk’s voice dropped to something dangerous and hungry. “If you want me to stop, tell me to stop. Push me away. Do literally anything except stand there looking at me like—like—”
He didn’t finish. Just kissed him.
Hard. Desperate. All the months of careful distance and coded letters and painful proximity collapsing into a single point of contact.
Kihyun’s back hit the wall properly now, Minhyuk’s body pressed against his, one hand fisted in Kihyun’s robes while the other cupped his jaw with surprising gentleness.
For a heartbeat, Kihyun was frozen. Every logical instinct screaming to push away, maintain distance, preserve what little remained of his mission.
Then his hands fisted in Minhyuk’s shirt and he kissed back—fierce and graceless and absolutely real.
Minhyuk made a sound against his mouth—relief and hunger and something that might have been breaking. His hands were everywhere suddenly—sliding into Kihyun’s hair, trailing down his throat, gripping his hips like he was afraid Kihyun would disappear if he let go.
“Someone will see—” Kihyun gasped when Minhyuk’s mouth moved to his jaw, his throat, sucking marks into pale skin with focused intensity.
“I don’t care.” Minhyuk’s voice was wrecked. “Let them see. Let everyone know. I’m done hiding.”
“I’m not.” Kihyun’s hands were still in Minhyuk’s hair, contradicting his words by pulling him closer. “I can’t—my parents already suspect—if they find out—”
“Then lie to them.” Minhyuk pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re good at lying. Lie to them. Just—stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourself.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Minhyuk’s thumb traced along Kihyun’s jaw—tender now, devastating in its gentleness. “You’re lying when you say you don’t want this. When you pretend professional distance is possible. When you watch me from across rooms and convince yourself it’s just observation.”
“It is just—”
Minhyuk kissed him again. Softer this time, but no less intense. Kihyun’s protest dissolved into a sound that was half gasp, half surrender.
They stayed like that—pressed together in a dark alcove, breathing hard, hands tangled in clothes and hair and desperation. Not quite crossing certain lines but balanced right at the edge, trembling with the effort of not falling.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
They separated—barely, reluctantly. Minhyuk’s hand stayed on Kihyun’s hip. Kihyun’s fingers remained twisted in Minhyuk’s shirt. Close enough that anyone looking would know exactly what had been happening.
A prefect passed—Ravenclaw seventh year who glanced their way, raised an eyebrow, then kept walking. Either too tired to care or smart enough to avoid Slytherin/Ravenclaw drama.
The footsteps faded.
Kihyun’s hands were shaking. “We can’t—this can’t happen again.”
“Why not?” Minhyuk’s voice was raw.
“Because—” Kihyun’s composure was in shreds. “Because I’m supposed to be objective. Detached. Professional. Because my parents have already sent three letters demanding status updates and I’m running out of lies. Because every time I’m near you, I lose pieces of myself I can’t afford to lose.”
“Good.” Minhyuk’s grip tightened on his hip. “Lose them. Be unprofessional. Be real. Just—don’t run from this. From us.”
“There is no us.” But Kihyun’s voice lacked conviction.
“Liar.” Minhyuk leaned his forehead against Kihyun’s. “There’s always been us. Since we were children. Since before we understood what it meant. Since—” His voice cracked. “Since before everything got so impossibly complicated.”
Kihyun’s eyes closed. “It’s always been complicated.”
“Then what’s a little more complication?” Minhyuk’s hand came up, traced the marks he’d left on Kihyun’s throat with something like possession and something like apology. “You’re already compromised. Already choosing to stay despite every logical reason to leave. Already—” He stopped. “Already mine. Whether you admit it or not.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Then whose are you?” Minhyuk’s voice was soft, dangerous. “Your parents’? The mission’s? Some imaginary version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore?” He pulled back enough to meet Kihyun’s eyes directly. “Or are you finally going to admit what we both already know?”
Kihyun’s throat worked. His hands were still twisted in Minhyuk’s shirt, holding on like letting go would be drowning.
“I have to go,” he whispered.
“Running again.”
“Surviving.” Kihyun’s voice was hollow. “There’s a difference.”
He pulled away—slowly, reluctantly, like physically separating hurt. His robes were disheveled, lips swollen, marks already forming on his throat. Evidence. Proof. Compromise written into his skin.
“This can’t happen again,” he said.
“It will.” Minhyuk’s certainty was absolute. “It always does.”
Kihyun didn’t argue. Just—left. Walking quickly toward Ravenclaw Tower, hand pressed to his throat, trying to cover the evidence before anyone else saw.
Minhyuk stayed in the alcove, hand pressed to the wall where Kihyun’s back had been, breathing hard and trying to collect himself.
Hours later, in the Slytherin dormitory, everyone was asleep except Minhyuk.
He lay in bed, curtains drawn, staring at nothing. His lips still tasted like Kihyun. His hands still felt the ghost of warm skin. His chest still held the imprint of desperate kisses and promises neither of them could keep.
Across the room, Hyungwon was awake too. Minhyuk could tell by his breathing—too controlled, too measured. Counting, probably. Always counting.
“Hyungwon,” Minhyuk whispered into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“I love him.” The words came out raw, honest, terrifying. “I love Kihyun. Have loved him for—god, years. And it’s going to destroy me. Destroy both of us. But I can’t—I can’t stop.”
Silence for a long moment.
Then: “I know.”
“Does everyone know?”
“Everyone who pays attention.” Hyungwon’s voice was soft. “Which is most people. You’re not exactly subtle.”
“Should I be?”
“Probably. But—” Hyungwon paused. “But I don’t think it would matter. Some things are too big to hide. Too inevitable to fight.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be. It’s just—true.”
Minhyuk closed his eyes. Counted to one hundred and forty-seven—a habit he’d picked up from watching Hyungwon, though he’d never admit it.
Across the dormitory, Hyungwon did the same.
And in Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun lay awake, hand pressed to his throat where Minhyuk’s mouth had been, and tried to convince himself that distance was still possible.
That professional detachment could be salvaged.
That he could still complete his mission while his heart was defecting entirely.
Failed at all three.
Because some lies were too big to maintain.
Some feelings were too strong to deny.
And some people were worth destroying yourself for.
Even when you knew—with absolute certainty—that destruction was coming.
Even when you could count down the days until impact.
Even when every logical part of your brain screamed to run.
Because love, it turned out, was the most illogical thing of all.
And the most inevitable.
And the most impossible to survive.
But also—somehow—the only thing worth trying for.
Kihyun counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
Pretended the ache in his chest was something other than hope.
Pretended tomorrow he’d choose differently.
Pretended he was still in control.
And failed at that too.
Because control, like distance, like professional objectivity—
Was already gone.
Had been since the moment Minhyuk’s mouth touched his.
Maybe since before that.
Maybe since they were children.
Maybe since always.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The fourth party of November was the wildest yet.
Jackson had outdone himself—the Room of Requirement transformed into something that looked like a Muggle nightclub he’d seen in London over summer. Actual DJ booth (enchanted, obviously), lights that pulsed in rhythm with the bass, a bar that served drinks color-coordinated to house colors (he was very proud of this detail).
Two hundred students packed the space—more than half the school, all desperate for escape, for normalcy, for a few hours where war and death and choosing sides didn’t matter.
Changkyun stood in a corner, watching.
He’d come with Wonho and Shownu—his people, his safety net. But they’d been absorbed into dancing crowds immediately, leaving Changkyun alone with a drink he wasn’t drinking and anxiety that made his chest tight.
He didn’t know how to do this. The casual touching, the easy proximity, the way other students moved through the space like they belonged. Everything felt too loud, too close, too exposed.
“You okay?”
Changkyun looked up. Jooheon stood beside him—dimples visible even in the dim light, expression open and genuinely concerned. He’d changed over the years—still loud, still funny, but with an edge of seriousness that came from training students to defend themselves. From preparing for war while pretending they were just learning spells.
“I’m fine,” Changkyun said automatically.
“You’re hiding in a corner at a party. That’s the opposite of fine.” Jooheon leaned against the wall beside him, close but not crowding. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just—” Changkyun gestured vaguely at the dancing students. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what? Dance? Because I can teach you. I’m a terrible dancer but very enthusiastic about it.”
Despite himself, Changkyun’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Not dancing. This. All of it. Being—” He stopped, searching for words. “Open. Visible. Like everyone else.”
Jooheon was quiet for a moment, studying him. “You don’t have to be like everyone else.”
“Don’t I? Everyone else seems so—comfortable. With themselves. With each other. With just—existing in space without calculating every movement.”
“That’s because they’re not calculating.” Jooheon’s voice was gentle. “They’re just—being. Which is harder for some of us than others.” He paused. “Can I tell you something?”
“Okay.”
“I calculate too.” Jooheon’s expression was unexpectedly serious. “Every joke I make, every laugh I force, every time I pretend to be the loud, funny friend—it’s calculated. Because being visible as the loud one means people don’t look too closely at anything else. Don’t notice—” He stopped. “Don’t notice the things I’m not ready to show them.”
Changkyun’s throat was tight. “Like what?”
“Like the fact that I’ve been watching you for two years.” Jooheon’s voice dropped. “Like the fact that every time you smile—really smile, not the polite one—something in my chest gets tight. Like the fact that I’m terrified of being visible too. Just—differently than you.”
The confession hung between them.
Changkyun’s pulse was hammering. “Jooheon—”
“You don’t have to be visible to everyone,” Jooheon continued softly. “You don’t have to be comfortable with all of this—” he gestured at the party, “—or figure out how to exist in space without calculating. You just—” He reached out slowly, giving Changkyun every chance to pull away. “You just have to be visible to me. If you want. No pressure.”
His hand hovered between them. Offering. Asking.
Changkyun looked at it—broad palm, callused fingers from wand work and Quidditch, steady despite the vulnerability in Jooheon’s voice.
He took it.
Jooheon’s fingers curled around his immediately—warm, grounding, real.
“Is this okay?” Jooheon asked.
“Yeah.” Changkyun’s voice came out rough. “This is—yeah.”
They stood like that for a moment. Just holding hands in a corner while the party pulsed around them. Not dancing, not doing anything visible or dramatic. Just—connected.
“I’ve been watching you too,” Changkyun admitted quietly. “For longer than two years. Since first year, actually. Since that corridor where—” He stopped. “Since you defended me when I was too small to defend myself. And I’ve been trying to figure out how to—how to be brave enough to—”
“To what?”
Changkyun looked up. Met Jooheon’s eyes directly. Saw warmth and patience and genuine care reflected back.
“To do this,” he whispered.
He leaned up—just slightly, just enough—and kissed him.
Soft. Tentative. Asking permission with every millimeter of movement.
Jooheon froze for a heartbeat.
Then his free hand came up, cupped Changkyun’s jaw with devastating gentleness, and kissed back.
It was careful. Sweet. Nothing like the desperate, messy kisses happening in darker corners. Just—two people who’d been watching each other for years finally, finally being brave enough to close the distance.
Changkyun’s fingers curled into Jooheon’s shirt—holding on, anchoring, making this real.
When they pulled apart, both were breathing hard. Smiling. Looking at each other like the rest of the party had disappeared.
“Was that okay?” Changkyun asked.
“That was—” Jooheon’s dimples were devastating. “That was extremely okay. Can I—can we do it again?”
“Yeah.” Changkyun was actually smiling now. Really smiling. “We can definitely do it again.”
Jooheon kissed him again—still soft, still careful, but with more confidence. More certainty. Like he was memorizing this moment, cataloging every detail to remember later.
Around them, the party continued. Students dancing, drinking, laughing. No one paid attention to two boys in a corner finally figuring out how to be visible to each other.
Except—
Across the room, near the drinks table, Wonho saw them.
His expression shifted—surprise, then understanding, then something warm and genuinely happy. He raised his glass slightly in their direction—a small toast, a silent celebration.
Then he looked away. Gave them privacy. Turned back to conversation with Shownu and tried to ignore the ache in his chest.
Because he was happy for them. Genuinely. Changkyun deserved softness and someone who saw past his anxiety to the person underneath. Jooheon deserved someone who appreciated his careful kindness beneath the loud exterior.
They deserved each other.
And Wonho was happy.
He was also alone.
Had been alone since Hyungwon burned his note two years ago. Since greenhouse conversations became distant memories. Since he’d watched someone he cared about choose darkness over the light Wonho had offered.
“You okay?” Shownu asked, following his gaze.
“Yeah.” Wonho forced a smile. “Just—happy for them. They’re good together.”
“They are.” Shownu’s voice was gentle. “But that’s not what I asked.”
Wonho took a long drink. “I’m fine.”
“You’re allowed to not be fine.” Shownu’s hand landed on his shoulder—steady, grounding. “You’re allowed to be happy for them and sad for yourself simultaneously. Emotions aren’t binary.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise. You just never noticed because I don’t talk much.” Shownu’s smile was small. “Come on. Let’s dance. Jackson will be offended if we don’t appreciate his extremely elaborate setup.”
They moved into the crowd. Wonho danced—let the music drown out thoughts and the bass drown out the ache. Let himself exist in the moment without counting what was missing.
But across the room, in that corner, Changkyun and Jooheon stayed wrapped in their small bubble of new and fragile and possible.
Kissing slowly. Smiling between kisses. Jooheon’s hand in Changkyun’s hair. Changkyun’s fingers still twisted in Jooheon’s shirt. Both of them discovering what it felt like to be visible—really, truly visible—to exactly one person.
And finding that one person was enough.
More than enough.
Everything, actually.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Jooheon admitted between kisses.
“Me too.” Changkyun’s smile was bright enough to rival the enchanted lights. “Why didn’t we do it sooner?”
“Fear? Timing? General teenage stupidity?” Jooheon’s dimples were lethal. “But we’re doing it now. That’s what matters.”
“Now is good.” Changkyun pulled him closer. “Now is—really, really good.”
They kissed again. The music swelled. The party continued.
And for a few stolen hours in a room that provided exactly what they needed, two boys who’d been afraid to be visible found safety in being seen.
By each other.
Which was all the visibility they required.
All the courage they needed.
All the beginning they deserved.
The rest—war, choosing sides, the future pressing down on teenage shoulders—could wait until morning.
Tonight was just—this.
Soft kisses and gentle hands and the discovery that sometimes, being visible to the right person was braver than being invisible to everyone.
Sometimes, opening up to one was stronger than closing off to all.
Sometimes, love—even new, fragile, tentative love—was the most powerful magic of all.
Even in the middle of a war.
Especially then.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Hyungwon shouldn’t have been in this corridor.
It was past midnight—well past curfew, well past any legitimate reason for students to be wandering. But sleep was impossible lately. Voldemort’s voice was constant now, a pressure against his skull that made rest feel like surrender.
Find the next piece. The locket waits. Your time runs short.
So Hyungwon walked. Counted steps through empty corridors (four hundred and seventy-three from the dungeons to the library’s upper floor) and tried to exhaust himself into unconsciousness.
He was near the Restricted Section—drawn there by habit and research and the desperate hope that some book, some spell, some answer existed that he hadn’t found yet—when footsteps echoed behind him.
Hyungwon’s wand was out immediately. He pressed into a shadowed alcove, counting heartbeats (ninety-seven before the footsteps stopped).
“You can come out, Mr. Gaunt. I know you’re there.”
Snape’s voice. Cold. Certain. Absolutely unsurprised.
Hyungwon stepped into the corridor, wand still raised.
Snape stood ten paces away, black robes blending with shadows, face pale and severe in the dim wandlight. His expression was unreadable—somewhere between disappointment and resignation.
“What are you looking for?” Snape asked.
Hyungwon’s jaw tightened. “Nothing. Couldn’t sleep. Just walking.”
“Just walking. At midnight. In a corridor that leads exclusively to the Restricted Section.” Snape’s voice was dry. “How convenient that your insomnia brought you precisely here. Third time this week, if I’m not mistaken.”
Shit. Hyungwon hadn’t realized Snape had been tracking him.
“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Hyungwon said carefully.
“No. Not yet.” Snape moved closer—slow, deliberate, giving Hyungwon space to retreat if needed. “But you’re planning something. Researching something. The question is—what?”
Hyungwon didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because admitting he was trying to find information about destroying Horcruxes without alerting his father meant revealing he’d already found one. That he and his friends had hidden it. That they were actively defying Voldemort’s direct orders.
Snape studied him for a long moment. Then his jaw tightened fractionally. “You’ve found something.”
Not a question.
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t.” Snape’s voice cut like a blade. “Don’t insult both our intelligence with denials. I’ve been watching you for five years, Mr. Gaunt. I know when you’re lying. I know when you’re researching. And I know—” He stopped, expression flickering. “I know desperation when I see it.”
Silence stretched between them.
“What do you want?” Hyungwon asked finally.
“To understand what you’re planning. So I can—” Snape paused, choosing words carefully. “So I can mitigate the inevitable disaster you’re walking toward.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Snape moved closer still. Five paces now. “You found something your father wanted. You’ve hidden it instead of delivering it. And now you’re frantically researching how to destroy what you’ve found, hoping to eliminate the evidence before he realizes you’ve defied him.” His black eyes bored into Hyungwon’s. “How close am I?”
Too close. Terrifyingly close.
Hyungwon’s hands clenched. “Even if that were true—which I’m not saying it is—why would you care?”
“Because I made a promise once.” Snape’s voice was soft but weighted. “To protect students. All students. Even—” His expression twisted. “Even those who remind me of mistakes I can never undo.”
“I don’t remind you of anyone.”
“You remind me of everyone.” Snape’s laugh was hollow. “You remind me of your father—brilliant, powerful, convinced he’s inevitable. You remind me of myself—trapped between loyalties, drowning in choices that all lead to pain. You remind me of—” He stopped. “Of every student I’ve failed to save because I waited too long or pushed too hard or miscalculated catastrophically.”
The admission was startling. Raw. More honest than Hyungwon had ever heard Snape speak.
“I don’t need saving,” Hyungwon said.
“Everyone needs saving.” Snape’s voice was flat. “The question is whether they’ll accept help before it’s too late.” He reached into his robes, withdrew a small vial. Dark liquid, viscous, smelling faintly of something burnt. “If you insist on walking into fire, at least learn to shield yourself properly.”
He held out the vial.
Hyungwon didn’t take it. “What is it?”
“Protection. Partial, temporary, but better than nothing.” Snape’s jaw was tight. “Drink this before your next—errand. It will help mask your magical signature. Make it harder for certain parties to track your movements or sense your intentions. Won’t last long. Perhaps three hours. But three hours can be the difference between captured and escaped.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“I’m not.” Snape pressed the vial into Hyungwon’s hand. “I’m mitigating damage. Containing disasters before they consume the entire castle. Doing what I should have done years ago with—” He stopped. “With others who needed help and didn’t ask for it.”
Hyungwon’s fingers closed around the vial. It was warm, almost alive. “If I use this, if I proceed with whatever you think I’m planning—you’ll know. You’ll have proof.”
“I already have proof. I’ve had it since you returned from the Chamber last year looking like death itself.” Snape’s expression was unreadable. “The question isn’t whether you’ve defied him. It’s whether you’ll survive the consequences.”
“And you think this will help?”
“I think it’s better than nothing.” Snape stepped back. “I think you’re attempting something monumentally stupid and probably doomed to fail. But I also think—” His voice softened fractionally. “I think you’re trying. Genuinely trying to be something other than the weapon he designed. And that deserves—” He paused. “That deserves a chance. However small.”
Hyungwon’s throat was tight. “If he finds out you helped me—”
“He won’t. And if he does—” Snape’s smile was sharp, bitter. “Then I’ll pay that price. As I’ve paid others. Add it to the ledger of mistakes and regrets that define my existence.”
“Professor—”
“Go.” Snape’s voice was firm. “Back to your dormitory. Sleep if you can. And if you proceed with whatever foolish plan you’re constructing—” His eyes locked onto Hyungwon’s. “Be smart. Be careful. And remember that some fires, once started, cannot be extinguished. Only survived. If you’re lucky.”
He turned and walked away—black robes billowing, footsteps echoing, disappearing into shadow like he’d never been there.
Hyungwon stood alone in the corridor, vial clutched in his hand, trying to process what had just happened.
Snape knew. Had known for months, maybe years. Had watched Hyungwon defy Voldemort and chosen to—what? Help? Enable? Protect?
Mitigate damage.
Hyungwon uncorked the vial carefully. The smell hit immediately—ash and something darker. Regret, maybe. Desperation. The scent of choices made in darkness that could never be undone.
He should take this to Minhyuk. Should analyze it, test it, verify it wasn’t poison or tracking potion or elaborate trap.
Instead, he drank half. Just—drank it. Trusting Snape with a desperation that probably meant he’d already lost.
The potion tasted like burnt herbs and copper. His magic rippled—adjusting, shifting, wrapping itself in something that felt like shadow. Not invisibility. Just—quiet. His magical signature dampened to barely perceptible.
Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven, feeling the effects settle.
Then he walked back to the dungeons, vial tucked carefully in his pocket, and tried not to think about Snape’s expression when he’d said mistakes I can never undo.
Tried not to wonder who Snape had failed to save.
Tried not to acknowledge that he was probably adding his name to that list—another brilliant, broken boy who needed help but couldn’t ask for it.
Another student walking into fire while teachers watched and mitigated damage and prayed it would be enough.
But prayer, like counting, like careful strategy—
Was just another way of pretending control existed when really, they were all careening toward collision.
Different speeds. Different trajectories. Same inevitable impact.
Hyungwon reached the common room and collapsed onto his usual sofa.
The vial sat heavy in his pocket.
Snape’s words echoed in his skull: Some fires cannot be extinguished. Only survived.
And Hyungwon counted the days until the fire consumed them all.
Lost track somewhere around sixty-seven.
Which was probably fitting.
Because some countdowns were too painful to complete.
Some ends were too terrible to contemplate.
Some choices were already made—written in blood and ash and regret—before you realized you were choosing.
Hyungwon pressed the vial against his chest and counted the cracks in the ceiling.
Forty-seven.
Always forty-seven.
The only constant in a world that kept fracturing.
The only truth in a life built on lies.
The only thing that didn’t demand he become something he wasn’t ready to be.
Even if becoming that thing was inevitable.
Even if Snape’s mercy was just delaying the fire.
Even if survival was already impossible.
At least the cracks remained.
Unchanging.
Undemanding.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
Like everyone else.
For the moment when Hyungwon stopped counting and started burning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The parchment had been haunting Hyungwon for months.
Where breath meets stone, the first listens. Where water remembers light, the key waits. Where serpent-speaker speaks truth, the way opens.
He’d stared at those words so many times the ink was starting to fade from the oils on his fingers. Had counted the letters (one hundred and forty-seven—of course), analyzed every word, cross-referenced with architectural texts and Hogwarts: A History and half a dozen restricted texts about the castle’s construction.
Nothing had made sense.
Until tonight.
December had brought the coldest weather in decades. The castle was frozen—ice on windows, snow piled against walls, students huddled near fires and complaining about the cold. Hyungwon had been in the library, ostensibly studying for N.E.W.T.s but actually researching lunar patterns and ancient warding structures.
Then he’d found it.
A footnote in a book about Hogwarts’ foundations, written by someone who’d surveyed the castle in 1612:
The oldest foundation stone predates the visible structure by at least three centuries. Sits beneath the Astronomy Tower’s base. Accessible only during lunar alignment—specifically, total eclipse, when moon’s shadow touches the precise angle of the stone’s placement.
Hyungwon had stared at that footnote for ninety-seven seconds before the pieces clicked together.
Where water remembers light = the reflecting pool near the tower’s base, which caught moonlight during certain alignments.
Where breath meets stone = Parseltongue spoken to the foundation stone itself.
Where serpent-speaker speaks truth = him. Hyungwon. Using his blood and voice to open what had been sealed.
And the timing—
He’d checked the astronomical calendar with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Next total lunar eclipse visible from Scotland: March 15th. Five months away. Early spring of seventh year.
Hyungwon had gathered his notes and practically run back to the common room.
Now, past midnight, four of them sat clustered around a table in the darkest corner of the Slytherin common room.
Hyungwon had spread his research across the surface—parchments, diagrams, calculations. Minhyuk and Jinyoung leaned close, reading with focused intensity. Kihyun sat slightly apart, expression carefully neutral.
“You’re certain?” Minhyuk asked finally.
“As certain as I can be without actually attempting it.” Hyungwon’s voice was rough from explaining. “The riddle, the timing, the location—it all fits. The real Horcrux—the actual first piece—is beneath the foundation stone. The Chamber was just another layer of protection. Another test.”
“Accessible only during a lunar eclipse.” Jinyoung traced the astronomical diagram with one finger. “Which means we have one chance. One specific window of—” he calculated quickly, “—approximately one hour and forty-seven minutes. If we miss that window, we wait another eighteen years for the next alignment.”
“So we don’t miss it.” Minhyuk’s jaw was set. “March fifteenth. We mark it. We plan meticulously. And when the eclipse begins—”
“We retrieve it,” Hyungwon finished. “Before anyone else figures out what we’re doing. Before Voldemort realizes I’ve found the real location. Before—” He stopped. “Before everything falls apart.”
“Everything’s already falling apart,” Jinyoung muttered. “This is just—accelerating the timeline.”
Silence fell. Outside, wind howled against windows. Inside, four teenagers contemplated breaking into a magically sealed cavity to steal a piece of soul.
“We need a plan,” Minhyuk said finally. “Detailed. Airtight. Every contingency considered. We can’t afford mistakes.”
“I’ll map the exact location,” Hyungwon said. “Figure out the Parseltongue phrases needed. Test the reflecting pool’s light patterns during smaller lunar events.”
“I’ll handle protective spells and emergency exits,” Jinyoung added. “If something goes wrong—when something goes wrong—we need escape routes.”
“And I’ll—” Minhyuk paused, glancing at Kihyun. “I’ll coordinate with anyone else who needs to know. Keep communications secure. Make sure we’re not interrupted.”
Kihyun had been silent throughout the entire discussion. Now he spoke, voice carefully controlled: “You’re really doing this.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Hyungwon said.
“You always have a choice.” Kihyun’s expression was unreadable. “You could refuse. Walk away. Tell Voldemort the location and let him retrieve it himself. Countless choices exist. You’re simply choosing this one.”
“Because the alternatives are worse,” Minhyuk said sharply. “Because refusing means watching everyone we care about die. Because—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “Because we’re already in too deep to surface. So we keep swimming. Toward what, I don’t know. But we keep moving.”
Kihyun was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I need to report this.”
“We know,” Hyungwon said. “We’ve always known. Report what you need to. Just—” He paused. “Just give us time to prepare. Don’t tell them the exact date until we’ve had a chance to—to figure out what we’re actually doing.”
“I can do that.” Kihyun stood. “But my parents will want details. Timeline. Proof you’re actually proceeding. And I—” His control cracked fractionally. “I can’t keep lying to them indefinitely. Eventually they’ll demand extraction. Transfer. And I won’t—I can’t—”
He stopped. Turned away. His shoulders were tight, hands clenched at his sides.
Minhyuk stood immediately. Moved to him. His hand hovered near Kihyun’s shoulder—wanting to touch, not quite daring. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Like always.”
“There is no ‘always.’” Kihyun’s voice was hollow. “There’s just—delays. Postponements. Pretending we have more time than we actually do.” He looked at Minhyuk directly. “But the time’s running out. You know that, right? March fifteenth. That’s when everything changes. When all of this—” he gestured vaguely, “—becomes real instead of theoretical.”
“I know.” Minhyuk’s voice was soft. “But we still have five months. That’s—something. That’s time to plan, to prepare, to—”
“To say goodbye.” Kihyun’s smile was broken. “That’s what you mean. Time to say goodbye before it all collapses.”
He walked away before Minhyuk could respond. Headed toward the portrait hole, back rigid, moving like staying would shatter him completely.
“Kihyun—” Minhyuk started after him.
“Let him go,” Jinyoung said quietly. “He needs space. Time to—to process. To figure out how to report this without completely compromising himself.”
“He’s already compromised,” Minhyuk said, voice raw. “We all are. The question is whether—” He stopped. “Whether any of us survive it.”
In Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun sat at his desk with parchment and quill and decisions that would alter everything.
His hands were shaking too badly to write.
He stared at the blank parchment for forty-three minutes. Tried seventeen different opening lines. Crossed them all out.
Finally, his family owl arrived with a letter before he could send his report.
He broke the seal with numb fingers.
Yoo Kihyun—
Your recent communications have been insufficient. Your emotional compromise is evident. Your mission effectiveness has declined to unacceptable levels.
We have filed transfer paperwork with Durmstrang Institute. You will be extracted in two weeks. Pack essential belongings only. We will arrange the rest.
This is not a request. This is not negotiable. You are coming home.
Your safety supersedes intelligence value. Your involvement with Subject M. has exceeded appropriate bounds. Your continued presence at Hogwarts creates more risk than benefit.
We love you. We are protecting you. Do not fight this.
—Mother and Father
Kihyun read it three times.
Each time, the words felt more final. More absolute. More impossible to fight.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days until his parents forcibly removed him from Hogwarts. From Minhyuk. From the only thing that had felt like purpose in months.
He should accept it. Should pack. Should be grateful his parents cared enough to extract him before everything collapsed.
Instead, he held the letter over a candle and watched it burn.
The parchment curled. The ink bubbled. His parents’ ultimatum dissolved into ash and smoke.
Then he pulled out fresh parchment and wrote quickly, before logic could intervene:
Mother, Father—
I received your transfer order. I am declining.
I understand this violates your directive. I understand you’ll be furious. But I am staying at Hogwarts. I am continuing my mission. And I am making this choice fully aware of its consequences.
I’m not asking permission. I’m informing you of my decision.
I’m sorry for the pain this causes. But I’m not sorry for staying.
—K
He sealed it. Sent it. Watched the owl disappear into the December night.
Then he pressed his hands to his face and counted to one hundred and forty-seven, trying to convince himself he’d made the right choice.
Failed.
Because there was no right choice. Just—less wrong. Just choosing the destruction he could live with over the safety that would kill him slowly.
Across the castle, Minhyuk couldn’t sleep.
He lay in bed, staring at ceiling cracks (forty-seven, always forty-seven), replaying Kihyun’s expression when he’d said time to say goodbye.
Five months until March fifteenth.
Five months until the eclipse.
Five months until everything they’d been building collapsed into whatever came next.
It should have felt like a lot of time.
Instead, it felt like seconds.
Like a countdown already past the point of stopping.
Like falling with the ground rushing up and no way to slow the impact.
Minhyuk counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The ache in his chest didn’t fade.
Somewhere in Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun was doing the same.
Counting. Aching. Choosing destruction over safety.
Choosing to stay despite every logical reason to run.
Because some things—some people—were worth the fall.
Even when the ground was inevitable.
Even when survival was impossible.
Even when love meant burning.
Especially then.
The clock ticked toward March.
The countdown continued.
And four teenagers tried to survive the collision they’d set in motion.
Knowing it was coming.
Unable to stop it.
Unwilling to step aside.
Because some fires were too beautiful to avoid.
Even when they consumed everything.
Especially then.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Hyungwon was returning from the Astronomy Tower at four in the morning when he encountered Dumbledore on the main staircase.
He froze. Counted the steps between them (seventeen) and calculated escape routes (two visible, both requiring passing Dumbledore). His robes were dusty from mapping the foundation stone’s exact location. His hands still tingled from testing ward responses.
Dumbledore stood on the landing above, looking older than Hyungwon had ever seen him. Not physically—just… worn. Like he’d been carrying weight too long and forgotten how to set it down.
“Mr. Gaunt.” No surprise in his voice. No accusation. Just—acknowledgment. “You’re up early. Or perhaps you haven’t slept at all?”
“Couldn’t sleep, sir.” The lie came automatically. “Went for a walk.”
“In the Astronomy Tower.” Not a question. “At four in the morning. With dust on your robes and ward-magic residue on your hands.”
Shit. Hyungwon’s fingers clenched.
“I’m not—” he started.
“Please don’t insult both our intelligence with denials.” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle. “I’ve known about your nocturnal activities for quite some time. The question is not what you’re doing, but why.” He gestured toward his office. “Walk with me? I find tea helps with difficult conversations.”
It wasn’t really a request.
The office was warm despite the December cold. The phoenix dozed on its perch. The portraits pretended to sleep while obviously listening.
Dumbledore prepared tea with careful movements—Earl Grey again, the expensive kind. He poured two cups, added sugar to his own, offered the tin to Hyungwon.
Hyungwon declined.
They sat in silence for ninety-seven seconds. Hyungwon counted, trying to steady his breathing.
“I knew a boy once,” Dumbledore said finally. “Brilliant. Powerful. Convinced that loneliness was clarity. That isolation made him strong. That the world’s problems required solutions only he could provide.”
“I’m not interested in stories, sir.”
“Nevertheless, you need to hear this one.” Dumbledore’s voice was firm. “This boy—he believed himself inevitable. Destiny incarnate. He built plans and gathered followers and convinced himself that purpose justified methodology.” He paused. “I loved him.”
The admission hung in the air.
“I loved him,” Dumbledore repeated quietly. “And I watched him descend into darkness. Watched him make choices that carved away his humanity piece by piece. Watched him become something terrible and magnificent and absolutely catastrophic.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I let him fall.” Dumbledore’s eyes—piercing blue even in exhaustion—fixed on Hyungwon. “I watched. I waited. I told myself I could catch him before the ground did. Before he became irredeemable. Before the damage was permanent.”
“And?”
“I was wrong.” Dumbledore’s voice carried weight that Hyungwon felt physically. “I was catastrophically, unforgivably wrong. By the time I acted, by the time I tried to stop him—he’d already become the thing I’d feared. And stopping him required—” He stopped. “Required destroying him. And parts of myself in the process.”
Silence settled. Outside the windows, false dawn threatened. Inside, two people sat with tea and truths neither wanted to speak.
“Why did you wait?” Hyungwon asked finally.
“Because I needed to see where he would land.” Dumbledore’s honesty was devastating. “Because I convinced myself that knowing his complete plans would allow me to counter them more effectively. Because I told myself observation was strategic rather than cowardice.” His hands clenched on his teacup. “Because I was afraid that intervening too early would push him further into darkness rather than pull him back to light.”
“So you did nothing.”
“Exactly.” Dumbledore’s smile was bitter. “I did nothing. I watched. I waited. I made carefully calculated decisions about when to act and when to observe. And in doing so, I enabled every terrible thing he did. Every life destroyed, every village burned, every—” He stopped. “Every consequence of his choices became partly my responsibility because I chose observation over intervention.”
Hyungwon’s throat was tight. “That’s what you’re doing with me.”
“Yes.” The admission was simple. Final. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. And I’m aware of how morally bankrupt it is. How—” He paused. “How it makes me complicit in whatever you’re planning. Whatever you’re about to do.”
“Then stop me.” Hyungwon’s voice was rough. “If you know I’m planning something. If you know where it leads. Then stop me.”
“I can’t.” Dumbledore’s voice cracked fractionally. “I tried that approach with your father. Tried intervention, pressure, control. And it drove him deeper into darkness. Made him more secretive, more paranoid, more convinced that only he understood truth.” He set down his teacup with careful precision. “With you, I’m trying something different. I’m offering choice without forcing it. I’m waiting for you to choose salvation rather than compelling it.”
“That’s just—waiting again. Watching again. Doing nothing again.”
“Yes.” Dumbledore’s eyes were infinitely sad. “But this time, I’m aware of what I’m doing. This time, I’m choosing this approach with full knowledge of its failures. This time—” He stopped. “This time, I’m hoping that offering you the space to choose differently will mean you actually can. Rather than pushing so hard you have no option but to push back.”
Hyungwon stood abruptly. “That’s cowardice dressed up as strategy.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Dumbledore didn’t try to stop him. “It is cowardice. It is me, once again, choosing observation over action because I’m terrified of making the same mistakes. It is—” His voice softened. “It is me, hoping desperately that you’re stronger than Gellert was. That you’ll choose better than Tom did. That somehow, offering you space will mean you’ll use it to save yourself rather than damn yourself.”
“And if I don’t?” Hyungwon’s hand was on the door. “If I proceed with whatever you think I’m planning? If I become exactly what you fear?”
“Then I’ll have failed you.” Dumbledore’s voice was certain. “As I failed Gellert. As I failed Tom. As I’ve failed so many brilliant, broken boys who needed guidance I couldn’t provide.” He stood. “But I’ll still be here. My door will still be open. And when—if—you’re ready to choose differently, to accept help, to be saved—”
“I don’t need saving.”
“Everyone needs saving,” Dumbledore said softly. “The question is whether they’ll accept it before it’s too late.”
Hyungwon left without responding.
The spiral staircase carried him down. The gargoyle moved aside. He walked through empty corridors as dawn broke cold and gray.
His mind was spinning.
Dumbledore knew. Had known for months, maybe years. Had watched Hyungwon descend into exactly this—planning, scheming, preparing to retrieve a Horcrux against his father’s will.
And had done nothing.
Not to stop him. Not to help him. Just—watched. Calculated. Used Hyungwon’s choices as data points in some grand strategy Hyungwon couldn’t see.
I needed to see where he would land.
The words echoed in Hyungwon’s skull.
Dumbledore wasn’t trying to save him. Wasn’t trying to stop him. Was just—using him. As observation. As experiment. As proof of concept for whatever theory Dumbledore was testing about intervention versus freedom.
Hyungwon was a test case. A control variable. A boy allowed to fall so Dumbledore could see whether different methodology produced different results.
The realization was cold. Final. Clarifying.
No one was saving him. No one was stopping him. No one was even really trying to guide him.
They were all just—watching. Waiting. Hoping he’d somehow choose differently while doing absolutely nothing to help him make that choice.
Dumbledore with his careful distance. Snape with his quiet mercy. Even Minhyuk and Kihyun and Jinyoung—they were helping him proceed, not helping him stop.
Everyone was complicit. Everyone was enabling. Everyone was waiting to see where he’d land.
Hyungwon reached the dungeons and collapsed in the common room.
Pressed his hands to his face. Counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The anger didn’t fade.
Because he understood now. Completely. Painfully.
He was alone.
Not physically—he had friends, allies, people who cared. But fundamentally, in the space where choices were made and fates were determined—
He was absolutely, completely alone.
No one was catching him. No one was saving him. No one was even really trying.
They were all just watching him fall and hoping he’d somehow learn to fly before impact.
And maybe that was the point. Maybe that was what choice actually meant—being allowed to fall without intervention, without safety net, without anyone caring enough to truly stop you.
Maybe freedom was just another word for abandonment.
Hyungwon counted ceiling cracks.
Forty-seven.
Always forty-seven.
The only constant in a world that had just revealed itself as completely, terrifyingly indifferent to whether he survived or burned.
The countdown continued.
March approached.
And Hyungwon understood—finally, completely—that no one was coming to save him.
Not Dumbledore. Not Snape. Not even the people who claimed to care.
He would fall alone. Land alone. Burn alone.
And everyone would watch and take notes and use his destruction as data for the next brilliant, broken boy who needed saving but wouldn’t receive it.
The cycle was infinite.
The complicity was universal.
And Hyungwon was just the latest iteration.
Another test case. Another experiment. Another boy allowed to fall so others could observe the trajectory.
He counted to one hundred and forty-seven again.
This time, when he finished counting, something had changed.
The fear had crystallized into something harder. Colder. More useful.
If no one was saving him—
Then he’d save himself.
Or damn himself spectacularly enough that at least his fall would matter.
One or the other.
He’d decide which in March.
When the eclipse came. When the ground rushed up. When choice became action became consequence became whatever came after.
Until then—
He’d count. He’d plan. He’d prepare.
And he’d remember that every adult who’d claimed to care had ultimately chosen observation over intervention.
Had chosen their own comfort over his survival.
Had chosen to use him rather than save him.
And that knowledge—cold, clarifying, absolute—
Was the only thing keeping him tethered now.
Not hope. Not faith. Not love.
Just anger. And the determination to prove them all wrong.
Or right.
He’d decide which when the eclipse came.
And make sure everyone watching remembered the fall.
One way or another.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

YEAR SEVEN: “The Year of War”
Jackson’s parties had become legendary. Necessary. The only thing keeping some seventh-years from cracking under the weight of N.E.W.T.s and war and the constant knowledge that after June, everything changed.
This one—mid-February, two weeks before the eclipse—was meant to be the wildest yet. Jackson’s final hurrah before he graduated into a world actively tearing itself apart.
“Go big or go home,” he’d announced. “And since home is currently a war zone for half of us, we’re going extremely big.”
The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. Space expanded impossibly, fitting three hundred students. Music pulsed loud enough to feel in your bones. Lights strobed and flickered. The air was thick with sweat and spell-warmed heat and firewhisky fumes.
Every seventh year was there. Most sixth years. Even some brave fifth years who’d bribed their way past Jackson’s selective door policy.
Hyungwon attended with Minhyuk and Jinyoung—more obligation than desire. They needed to not raise suspicions two weeks before they planned to steal a piece of soul.
Minhyuk was drinking too much.
Hyungwon noticed immediately—the too-bright eyes, the reckless edge to his movements, the way he kept scanning the crowd like he was hunting something.
“Slow down,” Jinyoung said, trying to intercept another glass.
“Why?” Minhyuk’s smile was sharp. “We’re celebrating. Living like we’re not about to walk into catastrophic danger. Pretending everything’s fine.” He took a long drink. “Except it’s not fine. Nothing’s fine. And I’m tired—so fucking tired—of pretending otherwise.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Not drunk enough.” Minhyuk’s attention had fixed on something across the room. “Not nearly drunk enough.”
Hyungwon followed his gaze.
Kihyun stood in a corner, talking to other Ravenclaws. His expression was carefully controlled, but Hyungwon had learned to read the tension in his shoulders. The way his hands clenched slightly when he thought no one was watching.
“Don’t,” Hyungwon said quietly.
“Don’t what?” But Minhyuk was already moving.
Hyungwon tried to follow, but the crowd was too thick, too chaotic. He lost sight of Minhyuk in the press of bodies.
Kihyun saw him coming.
His entire body tensed. He said something to his housemates—probably an excuse to leave—but Minhyuk reached him first.
“We need to talk,” Minhyuk said.
“Not here.” Kihyun’s voice was tight. “Not now. You’re drunk.”
“So?” Minhyuk moved closer. Too close. Invading space in a way that was visible to everyone nearby. “I’m tired of hiding. Tired of watching you pretend we don’t—that we’re not—”
“Minhyuk.” Warning in Kihyun’s voice. “Don’t do this. Not here. Not in front of—”
“Everyone?” Minhyuk’s laugh was hollow. “Why not? They already know. They’ve known for years. The only people pretending otherwise are us.”
“There’s a difference between knowing and seeing.” Kihyun’s composure was cracking. “Between rumors and confirmation. If you do this—if you make this public—”
“Then what?” Minhyuk’s voice rose slightly. Students nearby were starting to notice, conversations pausing. “Your parents disown you? Mine disown me? We face consequences for actually being honest about—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “I don’t care anymore. I’m done hiding. Done pretending. Done watching you pull away because you’re afraid of what people will think.”
“I’m not afraid of what people will think.” Kihyun’s voice was desperate now. “I’m afraid of what my parents will do. They’ve already filed transfer papers. Already arranged extraction. If they have proof—if they have witnesses—”
“Then we deal with it.” Minhyuk grabbed Kihyun’s hand. Public. Visible. Deliberate. “Together. Like we should have been doing all along.”
The room was watching now. Music still played, but attention had shifted. Whispers rippled outward.
“Let go,” Kihyun said quietly.
“No.”
“Minhyuk, please—”
“I love you.” The words came out loud enough for nearby students to hear. “I’ve loved you since we were children. And I’m done hiding it. Done pretending it’s something else. Done letting you pull away because you’re terrified of—”
Kihyun hugged him.
Not to shut him up. Not to hide what he was saying. But because something in his expression had cracked completely, and the only thing left was this—desperate, public, absolutely devastating honesty.
For a heartbeat, Minhyuk froze.
Then his hands fisted in Kihyun’s robes and he kissed him—hard, graceless, in the center of the room with three hundred students watching.
The music kept playing. But everything else stopped.
Every conversation. Every dance. Every pretense of not paying attention.
The entire room saw.
Slytherins and Ravenclaws kissing desperately in the middle of a party. Not hidden in corners. Not secret. Just—visible. Real. Undeniable.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Kihyun’s face was white.
“What did you do?” he whispered.
“What I should have done years ago.” Minhyuk’s voice was wrecked. “What we both wanted. What—”
“You just destroyed everything.” Kihyun pulled away. His hands were shaking. “Everything I’ve been trying to protect. Everything I’ve been carefully maintaining. You just—” His voice broke. “How could you be so selfish?”
“Selfish?” Minhyuk’s expression cracked. “I’m selfish for wanting to stop hiding? For wanting one honest moment after years of careful distance and coded letters and pretending we’re just—what? Friends? Colleagues? Casual acquaintances who occasionally occupy the same space?”
“Yes!” Kihyun’s control shattered completely. “Yes, you’re selfish! Because this isn’t just about you. It’s about me. My family. My future. My—” He stopped, looking around at the watching faces. The phones some students were pulling out. The way whispers were already spreading.
“I need to go,” he said hollowly.
“Kihyun—”
“Don’t.” Kihyun’s voice was flat. “Don’t follow me. Don’t—” He looked at Minhyuk directly. “I can’t believe you did that. I can’t—”
He left. Pushing through the crowd, moving fast, back rigid.
Minhyuk stood frozen in the center of the room, surrounded by stares and whispers and the slowly dawning realization of what he’d just done.
Hyungwon reached him finally. “We should go.”
“I fucked up.” Minhyuk’s voice was small. “I really fucked up.”
“Yeah.” Hyungwon gripped his shoulder. “You did. Come on. Let’s get out of here before this gets worse.”
They left together—Minhyuk stumbling slightly, Hyungwon supporting him, Jinyoung following close behind. The crowd parted. Let them pass. Whispers followed.
By the time they reached the dungeons, Minhyuk had started shaking.
“He’s going to leave,” he said. “His parents are going to find out and he’s going to leave and I just—I destroyed everything because I was drunk and reckless and stupid.”
“Probably,” Jinyoung said quietly. “But what’s done is done. Now we deal with consequences.”
“How?” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “How do I fix this?”
“You don’t.” Hyungwon’s voice was flat. “You can’t. You made a choice. Now Kihyun makes his.”
The Howler arrived during breakfast.
The entire Great Hall heard it.
A gray owl swooped down to the Ravenclaw table, dropping a red envelope in front of Kihyun. He went absolutely white.
For a moment, he just stared at it.
Then it exploded.
“YOO KIHYUN.” His mother’s voice, magnified and furious, echoed through the hall. “WE RECEIVED MULTIPLE REPORTS LAST NIGHT. WITNESSES. PHOTOGRAPHS. YOU WERE SEEN KISSING LEE MINHYUK. PUBLICLY. DELIBERATELY.”
Every eye in the hall fixed on Kihyun. He sat frozen, face pale, hands clenched on the table.
“TRANSFER IS NO LONGER OPTIONAL.” His father’s voice now, colder than his mother’s fury. “YOU LEAVE IN ONE WEEK. PACK YOUR BELONGINGS. WE WILL ARRANGE TRANSPORT. THIS IS FINAL.”
The Howler continued for another minute—recriminations, disappointment, ultimatums delivered at maximum volume.
Then it burst into flames and disintegrated.
Silence fell.
Kihyun stood slowly. Walked out of the Great Hall with perfect composure, back straight, face expressionless.
Only Hyungwon—who’d learned to read micro-expressions from years of counting details—saw the way his hands shook.
Across the hall at the Slytherin table, Minhyuk had gone absolutely gray.
“One week,” he whispered. “They’re taking him in one week.”
“The eclipse is in two weeks,” Jinyoung said quietly. “He’ll be gone before—”
“I know.” Minhyuk’s voice was hollow. “I know. I just—” He stopped. Couldn’t finish.
Hyungwon watched Kihyun disappear through the doors and tried to calculate the collateral damage.
One catastrophic kiss.
One public declaration.
One week until extraction.
Two weeks until the eclipse.
Everything was falling apart faster than anticipated.
And they still had a Horcrux to steal.
A war to navigate.
A future to somehow survive.
If survival was even possible anymore.
Hyungwon counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The fear didn’t fade.
The countdown continued.
And somewhere in Ravenclaw Tower, Kihyun pressed his hands to his face and tried to figure out how to survive the next seven days.
Before his parents forcibly removed him.
Before he lost everything he’d been fighting to protect.
Before love and duty and impossible choices consumed him completely.
One week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours until everything changed.
The clock was ticking.
And no one knew how to stop it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Minhyuk hadn’t slept in three days.
Since the Howler. Since watching Kihyun walk out of the Great Hall with perfect composure while his world collapsed. Since realizing he’d destroyed everything with one drunken, desperate kiss.
He’d tried to find Kihyun. Had been to Ravenclaw Tower seventeen times. Had sent notes, left messages with housemates, waited in corridors Kihyun usually walked.
Nothing.
Kihyun had vanished into careful avoidance, and Minhyuk was left with guilt and terror and the knowledge that in six days, Kihyun would be gone.
So when the dormitory door opened at two in the morning and Kihyun stepped inside, Minhyuk thought he was hallucinating.
“How did you—” Minhyuk started from his bed.
“Slytherin password hasn’t changed since third year.” Kihyun’s voice was flat. “You really should update it more frequently.”
He looked terrible. Exhausted. Like he hadn’t slept either. His robes were wrinkled, hair disheveled, eyes red-rimmed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Minhyuk said. “If someone sees—”
“I don’t care anymore.” Kihyun moved deeper into the dormitory. The other beds were curtained, but voices carried. “I need to talk to you. Now.”
Minhyuk stood, grabbed his cloak, gestured toward the door. They left silently, moving through the common room—empty except for dying embers—and into a study alcove near the potions classroom. Private. Secluded. Safe.
“I’m sorry,” Minhyuk said immediately. “I’m so sorry. I was drunk and reckless and I destroyed everything you’d been trying to protect. I know your parents are coming for you. I know I fucked up everything. I’m—”
“I’m not leaving,” Kihyun interrupted.
Minhyuk stopped. “What?”
“I’m not leaving.” Kihyun’s voice was certain. “I received my parents’ final letter today. They’ve arranged transport for six days from now. They’ve filed all the paperwork. They expect me to comply.”
“Then—”
“I’m not going to.” Kihyun’s jaw was set. “I’m staying at Hogwarts. I’m refusing extraction. I’m—” His voice cracked fractionally. “I’m choosing you. Over duty. Over family. Over every logical strategic consideration.”
Minhyuk couldn’t breathe. “You can’t—your parents will—”
“Disown me. Probably.” Kihyun’s smile was broken. “Cut me off financially. Remove me from family records. All the consequences I’ve been terrified of for years. But I—” He stopped, throat working. “I can’t watch you walk into that chamber without me. Can’t leave you to face whatever comes next alone. Can’t—” His voice broke completely. “Can’t lose you. Not now. Not when we’re this close to—to whatever ending we’re careening toward.”
“Kihyun—”
“I’ve spent years trying to balance. Trying to serve my family’s mission while staying close to you. Trying to maintain professional distance while being emotionally destroyed by proximity.” Kihyun’s control was shattering. “And I’m done. I’m completely, catastrophically done. So I’m staying. With you.”
Minhyuk moved without thinking. Closed the distance. Kissed him—hard, desperate, grateful in a way that made his chest ache.
Kihyun kissed back immediately. Hands fisting in Minhyuk’s hair, pulling him closer, years of careful distance evaporating into this single point of contact.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.
“You’re insane,” Minhyuk said against his mouth.
“Probably.” Kihyun’s laugh was wrecked. “But I’m your kind of insane. Always have been.”
“Your parents—”
“Will be furious. Will probably never speak to me again. Will definitely remove all financial support.” Kihyun’s voice was steady despite the tears threatening. “But I’ve already lost them. The moment that Howler arrived, the moment they decided extraction without my consent was acceptable—I lost them. So now I’m choosing what I keep versus what I lose. And I’m choosing this. You. Us. Whatever catastrophic ending we’re building.”
“We’re going to the chamber,” Minhyuk said. “In six days. To retrieve the Horcrux. It’s dangerous. Possibly fatal. Definitely—”
“I know.” Kihyun’s hands were still in Minhyuk’s hair. “That’s why I’m staying. We’re doing this mission. The four of us. Together. And then—” He stopped. “Then we figure out the rest. If there is a rest.”
“There might not be.”
“Then we burn together.” Kihyun’s smile was sharp, broken, absolutely certain. “Better than burning apart.”
Minhyuk kissed him again. Softer this time. Tender. Like he was memorizing the moment before it could be taken away.
“I love you,” he whispered against Kihyun’s mouth.
“I know.” Kihyun’s voice cracked. “I’ve known for years. I just—couldn’t say it back. Couldn’t admit it made mission continuation impossible. But now—” He pulled back just enough to meet Minhyuk’s eyes. “Now I’m saying it. I love you. Have loved you since we were children. Will love you through whatever comes next.”
“Even if it’s catastrophic?”
“Especially if it’s catastrophic.” Kihyun’s smile widened. “We’ve always been heading for beautiful ruin. Might as well embrace it.”
They stood there—foreheads pressed together, hands tangled, breathing synchronized—and tried to memorize what it felt like to choose each other despite every logical reason not to.
“The eclipse is in six days,” a voice said from behind them.
They separated—not quickly, not guiltily, just—apart. Turned.
Hyungwon stood in the alcove entrance, expression unreadable. “Your parents expect you gone in six days. The eclipse happens in six days. That’s—unfortunate timing.”
“I know.” Kihyun’s voice was steady. “But I’m not leaving. I’m seeing this through. Whatever happens with my parents happens after.”
“If there is an after,” Hyungwon said quietly.
“Then we make sure there is.” Minhyuk’s jaw was set. “We plan meticulously. We execute flawlessly. We retrieve the Horcrux and figure out what to do with it before anyone—before Voldemort, before the Serpent, before anyone—realizes we’ve defied direct orders.”
“And my parents?” Kihyun asked. “When they arrive to extract me and I’m not there?”
“We deal with it.” Hyungwon’s voice was flat. “Same way we deal with everything else. Through necessity and desperation and whatever minimal cleverness we have left.”
“Cheerful,” Kihyun muttered.
“Honest.” Hyungwon moved closer. “Six days. We have six days to finalize the plan. To prepare for every contingency. To—” He stopped. “To say whatever we need to say before we descend into darkness and possibly don’t emerge.”
“Also cheerful,” Minhyuk said.
“Also honest.” Hyungwon’s expression was serious. “This is happening. The eclipse, the chamber, the retrieval. All of it. And Kihyun—” He looked at him directly. “Your parents will come. They’ll demand explanations. They’ll threaten consequences. Are you prepared for that?”
“No.” Kihyun’s voice was certain. “But I’m doing it anyway. Because some things—some people—are worth destroying yourself for.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Hyungwon said.
“Probably.” Kihyun’s smile was sharp. “But it’s also true.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Three teenagers who’d made choices that would alter everything. Who’d chosen loyalty over safety, love over duty, each other over the futures their families had planned.
“Six days,” Minhyuk said finally. “Let’s make them count.”
“Agreed.” Kihyun’s hand found his. “Together. All of us.”
“Together,” Hyungwon echoed.
They returned to their separate towers as dawn threatened. Minhyuk to Slytherin. Kihyun to Ravenclaw. Both knowing that in six days, everything would change.
The eclipse would come. The chamber would open. The Horcrux would be retrieved or they’d die trying.
And Kihyun’s parents would arrive to find their son had chosen defiance over obedience.
Love over duty.
Beautiful ruin over safe mediocrity.
The countdown continued.
Six days. One hundred and forty-four hours. Eight thousand six hundred and forty minutes.
Every second bringing them closer to the moment when choice became action became consequence became whatever came after.
If anything came after.
But at least—for now—they were choosing together.
And in the darkness of approaching catastrophe, that felt like victory.
Small. Fragile. Probably temporary.
But victory nonetheless.
The kind worth burning for.
Especially when burning was inevitable.
Especially then.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The eclipse began at 9:47 PM on March fifteenth.
Hyungwon watched from the Astronomy Tower as the moon’s shadow crept across its surface—slow, inevitable, exactly as the astronomical charts had predicted. His scar burned cold. Voldemort’s voice was a constant pressure: Now, my son. Now you fulfill your purpose.
Below, in a maintenance corridor near the tower’s base, three people waited.
Hyungwon descended the spiral stairs (ninety-seven steps, he counted them reflexively) and found Minhyuk, Kihyun, and Jinyoung clustered in the shadows. All dressed in dark clothes. All carrying wands and protection potions and the desperate hope that they’d planned well enough to survive.
“Status?” Hyungwon asked quietly.
“Professors are occupied,” Jinyoung reported. “McGonagall is dealing with a ‘mysterious disturbance’ in the west wing. Snape is in his office—we made sure he saw us heading this direction. Dumbledore is—” He paused. “Dumbledore is wherever Dumbledore goes. Observing, probably.”
“Students?”
“Jackson’s throwing a party. Room of Requirement. Half the school is there. The other half is studying for N.E.W.T.s or sleeping.” Minhyuk’s jaw was tight. “We’re as isolated as we’re going to get.”
“And the wards?” Kihyun asked.
“Should open during totality. We have—” Hyungwon checked his watch, “—forty-three minutes until the eclipse reaches maximum. Then approximately one hour and four minutes of totality. That’s our window.”
“Tight,” Minhyuk muttered.
“Survivable,” Kihyun corrected. “If we’re fast. If nothing goes wrong.”
“Something always goes wrong,” Jinyoung said quietly.
“Cheerful.” But Kihyun’s smile was sharp. “Let’s proceed.”
They moved through the maintenance corridor toward the foundation stone’s location. The path had been mapped meticulously—seventeen turns, three descents, one passage that required Parseltongue to open.
Hyungwon spoke the words (hissing syllables that made his scar burn colder) and stone ground aside, revealing a staircase descending into darkness older than the castle.
“After you,” Minhyuk said, voice tight.
Hyungwon descended.
The air changed immediately—thicker, heavier, tasting like copper and old magic. The stairs were carved from living rock, worn smooth by centuries. Ninety-seven steps down (of course, always ninety-seven) into a chamber that shouldn’t exist.
The reflecting pool sat at the chamber’s center—black water perfectly still, catching moonlight from a shaft carved through solid stone. And beyond it—
The foundation stone.
Massive. Ancient. Covered in runes that shifted when viewed directly. The air around it hummed with power that made Hyungwon’s teeth ache.
“That’s it,” he breathed.
“Are you certain?” Kihyun’s wand was out, casting diagnostic spells. “Because those wards are—they’re layered. Decades of protection. Maybe centuries. If we trigger them incorrectly—”
“We won’t.” Hyungwon moved toward the pool. “The eclipse. The moonlight. The Parseltongue. It’s all precisely timed. We just—” He stopped at the water’s edge. “We just have to trust the ritual.”
Above, through the stone shaft, the moon was entering totality. Its light—filtered through eclipse shadow—turned red. Blood-colored illumination painted the chamber.
The wards shifted. Responded. Began to peel back like layers of protection recognizing correct credentials.
“Now,” Hyungwon said.
He spoke Parseltongue—complex phrases he’d practiced for weeks, pronunciation precise despite his racing pulse. The water rippled. The foundation stone’s runes glowed green.
And behind it, previously hidden, a cavity appeared.
Small. Ancient. Humming with dark magic that made every instinct scream to run.
Inside the cavity sat a box.
Black glass. Roughly the size of a fist. Etched with symbols that hurt to look at directly. And singing—not audibly, but felt. Pulsing. Calling. Recognizing something in Hyungwon’s blood and magic and marked soul.
“Is that—” Minhyuk started.
“The Horcrux.” Hyungwon’s voice was distant. “The real one. The first piece.”
He moved forward. Minhyuk grabbed his arm. “Wait. Let’s—let’s think about this. About what happens when you touch it. Last time you nearly died. This time—”
“This time I’m prepared.” Hyungwon pulled free. “This time I know what I’m dealing with. This time—” He stopped. “This time I don’t have a choice.”
Because Voldemort’s voice was screaming in his head now: TAKE IT. BRING IT TO ME. YOU ARE MY SON. MY WEAPON. MY—
Hyungwon reached into the cavity.
His fingers touched black glass.
The world tilted.
Pain exploded through him—not physical, but deeper. His scar tore open. Blood poured down his face. His magic convulsed, recognizing the piece of soul housed in glass, responding to something ancient and terrible and familiar.
Voldemort’s voice flooded his mind completely:
YES. FINALLY. YOU’VE FOUND IT. NOW BRING IT TO ME. FULFILL YOUR PURPOSE. BECOME WHAT YOU WERE MADE TO BE—
Images cascaded: the cup in his hands, delivering it to robed figures, Voldemort materializing more solidly, more real, first step toward complete resurrection—
“Hyungwon!” Kihyun’s voice, distant. “Hyungwon, STOP!”
But Hyungwon’s hands were already closing around the box. Pulling it free. The wards screamed—not in protection now, but alarm. Betrayal. The ritual was incomplete. The timing was wrong. He was taking what he shouldn’t—
Too late.
The box came free.
The wards collapsed.
And the chamber—perfectly hidden, perfectly protected, perfectly isolated—
Became visible.
To everyone.
To the tracking spells the Death Eaters had placed months ago.
To the Serpent who’d been waiting for exactly this moment.
Above, in the castle proper, alarms began shrieking.
“No,” Kihyun breathed. “No, that’s not—we were careful, we planned—”
Footsteps. Echoing down the stairs. Many footsteps. Too many.
Minhyuk’s wand was out. “We need to leave. Now.”
They ran for the staircase.
Made it halfway before robed figures appeared at the top.
Death Eaters. Seven of them. Masked. Wands raised.
The Serpent’s voice—unmistakable despite the mask: “Well done, young Gaunt. You’ve found it. Now—” He descended the stairs slowly. “—hand it over. As you were always meant to.”
Hyungwon clutched the box to his chest. His scar was still bleeding. His mind was still full of Voldemort’s voice: GIVE IT TO THEM. SERVE YOUR PURPOSE. BECOME WHAT YOU ARE—
“We were expected,” Jinyoung said hollowly. “This entire time. They’ve been waiting. Tracking. Expecting us to find it.”
“Of course.” The Serpent’s voice was amused. “Did you think we’d let you wander unsupervised? That we didn’t have contingencies for defiance? We’ve been watching. Waiting. Letting you do the difficult work of locating what we couldn’t find ourselves.” He gestured. “Now. The box. Hand it over.”
More Death Eaters appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Surrounding them. Cutting off all exits.
They were trapped.
In a chamber beneath the castle, holding a piece of Voldemort’s soul, surrounded by enemies who’d been waiting for exactly this moment.
Minhyuk’s wand shook. “We’re not giving you anything.”
“No?” The Serpent tilted his head. “Then we take it. And you—all of you—pay the price for defiance.”
Wands raised. Spells charged. The air crackled with hostile magic.
And Hyungwon stood at the center, clutching the black glass box, Voldemort’s voice screaming in his head, blood pouring down his face, and absolutely no idea how to survive what came next.
The eclipse reached totality.
Red light flooded the chamber.
And everything—every careful plan, every desperate hope, every fragile alliance—
Shattered.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The first spell hit the wall beside Hyungwon’s head—stone exploding, shrapnel cutting his cheek.
“DOWN!” Jinyoung shouted.
They scattered. Minhyuk dragged Hyungwon behind the foundation stone. Kihyun and Jinyoung dove toward the reflecting pool. Seven Death Eaters descended the stairs, wands blazing.
“Stupefy!” Minhyuk’s spell ricocheted off a shield charm.
“Protego maxima!” Kihyun’s shield shimmered into existence, buying them seconds.
But seconds weren’t enough. Not against seven trained killers. Not in a sealed chamber with one exit.
“The Horcrux!” The Serpent’s voice cut through chaos. “Protect the Horcrux! The boy is valuable—do NOT harm him!”
Spells redirected. Instead of killing curses, they threw binding spells, stunning hexes, anything that would incapacitate without permanent damage.
But Minhyuk, Kihyun, and Jinyoung? They were expendable.
“Incendio!” Fire erupted from a Death Eater’s wand.
Kihyun countered—”Aguamenti!”—water meeting flame in an explosion of steam that filled the chamber.
Hyungwon clutched the black glass box to his chest. The Horcrux sang against his ribs—not with sound, but sensation. Pulsing. Alive. Whispering in Voldemort’s voice: YES. HOLD IT. PROTECT IT. THEY WILL KEEP YOU SAFE. LET THEM. SERVE ME.
Through the steam, Hyungwon saw movement. Minhyuk firing spells with desperate precision. Jinyoung bleeding from a gash on his forehead. Kihyun—
Kihyun saw the curse coming.
Saw it aimed at Minhyuk’s back while he was focused elsewhere.
Moved without thinking.
“Protego!” he shouted, throwing himself between Minhyuk and the sickly green light.
His shield held for half a second.
Then shattered.
The curse hit him square in the chest.
Kihyun’s scream was brief—cut off as his body convulsed, magic tearing through him from the inside. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
“KIHYUN!” Minhyuk’s voice broke on the name.
He caught him before he hit stone. Lowered him carefully, hands shaking, blood already spreading across Kihyun’s robes—too much blood, too fast, pooling beneath him in a widening circle.
“No—no no no—” Minhyuk pressed his hands to the wound. Blood welled between his fingers, hot and sticky. “Stay with me. Stay with me. You’re fine. You’re going to be fine. Just—”
Kihyun’s eyes fluttered open. Unfocused. Glazing. “Minh—hyuk—”
“I’m here. I’m right here.” Tears streamed down Minhyuk’s face, mixing with blood. “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave. We just—we just got you back. We just—”
“Sorry—” Kihyun’s voice was barely audible. Blood bubbled at his lips. “Couldn’t—watch you—”
“Shut up. Save your strength. We’re getting you out of here. We’re—” Minhyuk looked up desperately. “HYUNGWON! Help us! Please!”
Hyungwon stood frozen.
The Death Eaters had stopped advancing. Were standing in a loose circle around the scene, wands still raised but not firing. Waiting.
The Serpent moved forward slowly. “My lord’s son.” His voice was respectful. Almost gentle. “We’ve prepared safe passage. Your father waits. The Horcrux must be delivered. Your friends—” He gestured dismissively at the bleeding, broken forms. “—are unfortunate casualties. But necessary. Come. We’ll protect you.”
The other Death Eaters bowed slightly. Reverent. Acknowledging.
Hyungwon’s scar burned so cold it felt like fire. The Horcrux pulsed against his chest. Voldemort’s voice filled every corner of his mind: COME. BRING IT TO ME. THEY ARE NOTHING. YOU ARE EVERYTHING. SERVE YOUR PURPOSE.
“Hyungwon.” Minhyuk’s voice was raw, desperate, breaking. “Please. I know—I know you have to do things. I know you’re trapped. But please. He’s dying. Kihyun is dying. Help us. Just this once. Please.”
Kihyun coughed. Blood sprayed across Minhyuk’s face. His breathing was wet, labored, each breath a struggle. The curse had done something terrible inside him—organs rupturing, magic eating through his core, life bleeding out onto cold stone.
Minhyuk made a sound that wasn’t quite human. “No. No. Kihyun. Stay with me. Please. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. You can’t—you can’t leave. Not now. Not after—”
Kihyun’s hand lifted—trembling, weak—and touched Minhyuk’s face. Leaving a bloody handprint on his cheek. “Love—you—too—”
“Then STAY.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked completely. “Stay with me. Fight. Please. Please fight.”
“Can’t—” Kihyun’s eyes were closing. “Too—much—”
“HYUNGWON!” Minhyuk’s scream echoed off stone. “PLEASE!”
Hyungwon looked at them. Really looked.
Minhyuk—his best friend, his anchor, the person who’d stood beside him through every terrible choice—covered in blood, cradling a dying boy, begging for help.
Kihyun—brilliant, controlled, who’d defied his parents and stayed and chosen love over safety—bleeding out on cold stone because he’d protected Minhyuk. Because he’d loved too much to let him die.
The Horcrux whispered: THEY ARE NOTHING. DELIVER ME. SERVE YOUR PURPOSE.
The Death Eaters waited. Patient. Certain.
Hyungwon’s hands tightened on the black glass box.
“I’ll get help,” he heard himself say.
Minhyuk’s expression—hope blooming, desperate and fragile—
“I’ll get help,” Hyungwon repeated. “I’ll—”
He turned toward the Death Eaters.
“NO!” Minhyuk’s scream was animal. “No. Hyungwon. Don’t. Don’t leave us. Don’t—”
But Hyungwon was already moving. Toward the Serpent. Toward safe passage. Toward his father’s voice and the destiny carved into his bones.
Away from his best friend.
Away from the boy dying on stone.
Away from every bond he’d built and every choice that had mattered.
“Excellent decision,” the Serpent said. “Come. We’ll ensure your safety. Your father will be pleased.”
The Death Eaters formed a protective circle around Hyungwon. Guiding him toward the stairs. Away from the carnage. Away from Minhyuk’s screaming and Kihyun’s wet, labored breathing and Jinyoung’s shocked silence.
“HYUNGWON!” Minhyuk’s voice followed him up the stairs. “HOW COULD YOU—HOW COULD YOU JUST—”
The sound cut off as they ascended beyond the chamber.
Left behind: three boys. One dying. One breaking. One watching in horror.
And the space where their fourth had been—the one they’d trusted, the one they’d protected, the one who’d just chosen his father’s voice over their lives.
In the chamber, Minhyuk clutched Kihyun’s cooling body and screamed until his voice gave out.
Kihyun’s eyes had closed. His breathing had stopped three breaths after Hyungwon left.
His last word, barely a whisper: “Gone.”
Not just Hyungwon.
Everything.
All of it.
Gone.
And Minhyuk—covered in his lover’s blood, surrounded by Death Eaters who’d gotten what they wanted and no longer cared about casualties—
Counted the seconds since Kihyun’s last breath.
Lost track somewhere around forty-seven.
Stopped counting.
Stopped everything.
Just held him. And bled. And broke.
While above, Hyungwon clutched a piece of his father’s soul and tried to convince himself he’d made the only choice possible.
Tried to ignore the screaming he could still hear echoing from below.
Tried to forget the moment Minhyuk’s hope had died in his eyes.
Failed at all three.
But kept walking anyway.
Because sometimes survival required becoming the monster.
Sometimes destiny demanded everything.
Sometimes love wasn’t enough to save you.
And sometimes—
Sometimes you chose wrong.
And lived with it.
Forever.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

The Death Eaters led Hyungwon through passages he didn’t recognize—secret corridors carved into Hogwarts’ foundations, protected by wards that recognized the Horcrux in his hands and parted like water.
They emerged in the Forbidden Forest. Three miles from the castle, in a clearing where moonlight—still red from eclipse—filtered through bare branches.
And there—
Voldemort.
Not spectral anymore. Not smoke and shadow. Physical. Almost solid. His form had stabilized since the cellar meetings—features clearer, body more defined, presence so overwhelming Hyungwon’s knees buckled.
“My son.” The voice resonated through bones. “You’ve done well. Exceptionally well.”
Hyungwon stumbled forward. The Serpent took the black glass box from his trembling hands and carried it to Voldemort like an offering.
Voldemort’s fingers—long, pale, tipped with something like claws—touched the box. The Horcrux sang in response. Recognition. Reunion. Home.
“The first piece,” Voldemort breathed. “After so long. After so much patience.” His eyes—burning green, inhuman—fixed on Hyungwon. “You’ve proven yourself worthy. Proven your blood. Proven—” He smiled, serpentine and terrible. “Proven you are mine.”
The Death Eaters knelt. Bowed heads. Reverent silence.
Hyungwon stood swaying, blood still dripping from his scar, robes torn and dusty, hands shaking.
“Your friends?” Voldemort asked. Almost casual. “The ones who aided you?”
Hyungwon’s throat was tight. He saw Kihyun collapsing. Minhyuk’s desperate face. The blood spreading across stone.
“Dead,” he said. Voice flat. Empty.
Liar, something screamed inside him. They’re not dead. You left them. You abandoned them. You—
“Good.” Voldemort’s smile widened. “Attachments are weakness. Sentiment is liability. You are free now. Mine alone. Unencumbered by—” He gestured dismissively. “—by bonds that would dilute your purpose.”
“Yes, my lord.” The words came automatically.
“You’ve done exceptionally well. Beyond my expectations.” Voldemort moved closer—his presence oppressive, suffocating. “The first piece returned. The path to restoration begun. And you—” His hand touched Hyungwon’s scar. Pain flared. “You have proven yourself the weapon I designed. The heir I created. The tool I will use to reclaim everything.”
Tool. Not son. Not person. Tool.
“I am honored, my lord.” Hyungwon’s voice was distant. Not quite his own.
“You will be more than honored.” Voldemort’s form grew more solid with each second the Horcrux was near. “You will be essential. Instrumental. The key to gathering the remaining pieces. To completing my restoration. To—” He paused. “To standing at my right hand when I remake this world.”
The Death Eaters murmured approval.
Hyungwon swayed. His vision was blurring. Blood loss or shock or the slowly dawning realization of what he’d done.
He’d left them. Had walked away while Kihyun bled out and Minhyuk screamed. Had chosen his father’s approval over his best friend’s life.
It was necessary, he told himself. If I’d stayed, we’d all be dead. If I’d fought, they would have killed everyone. This way—this way at least I’m alive. At least I can—
Can what? Fix it? Undo it? Bring Kihyun back to life?
He’s not dead, the small voice insisted. You lied. He might still—
“You’re bleeding.” Voldemort’s voice cut through spiral thoughts. “The Serpent will tend your wounds. You’ll rest. Recover. And when you’re ready—” His smile was terrible. “We begin the next phase. The second piece waits. And you, my son, will retrieve it.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Voldemort turned away. The Horcrux clutched close. Already the piece of soul was merging back—Hyungwon could see it, could feel the dark magic knitting together, making Voldemort more solid, more real, more terrifyingly present.
The Serpent approached. “Come. We have a safe house prepared. You’ll be protected. Guarded. Your father’s most valuable asset.”
Asset. Tool. Weapon. Heir.
Never just—Hyungwon.
He let himself be led away. Deeper into forest. Toward whatever safe house they’d prepared. Away from Hogwarts. Away from the chamber. Away from—
Away from everything.
Behind him, hidden in shadow between ancient trees, someone watched.
Snape stood perfectly still, concealed by disillusionment charms and years of practice moving unseen. He’d followed when the alarms screamed. Had tracked the Death Eaters through secret passages. Had witnessed everything.
The delivery. The praise. The lie about dead friends.
Voldemort’s terrible approval.
And the moment Hyungwon’s expression had gone blank—not evil, not cruel, just empty. Survival-empty. The look of someone who’d cut off pieces of themselves to keep breathing.
Snape had seen that look before.
In mirrors. In the faces of students he’d failed to save. In Tom Riddle’s cold eyes before he became Voldemort completely.
He watched until they disappeared into forest darkness.
Then he turned and ran.
Not toward Hogwarts proper. Toward the chamber. Toward wherever the survivors were.
Because if Hyungwon had lied about casualties—if the friends he’d abandoned were still breathing—
Then maybe, just maybe, there was still something worth saving.
In them.
If not in Hyungwon himself.
Snape counted his steps as he ran (lost track at three hundred and ninety-seven).
Pushed faster.
And prayed—to gods he didn’t believe in, to mercy he’d never deserved—
That he’d reach them in time.
Before blood loss became fatal.
Before abandonment became death.
Before the last pieces of Hyungwon’s humanity died with the friends he’d left behind.
In the forest, Hyungwon walked between Death Eaters and told himself the lie again:
It was necessary. They’re better off. I saved them by leaving.
Counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
The guilt didn’t fade.
It never would.
But he kept walking anyway.
Because sometimes survival demanded becoming exactly what you feared.
Sometimes destiny required sacrificing everything you loved.
Sometimes the only choice was between burning alone or burning everyone.
And Hyungwon had chosen.
Wrong or right didn’t matter anymore.
Only consequence.
Only the slow, terrible realization that he’d just become his father’s weapon completely.
And there was no going back.
Not now.
Not ever.
The eclipse ended.
Normal moonlight returned.
And Hyungwon disappeared into darkness—
Carrying his father’s approval and his friends’ blood and the knowledge that some choices destroyed you more thoroughly than death ever could.
He counted to one hundred and forty-seven.
Then stopped counting.
Because some things were too broken to quantify.
Some losses too complete to measure.
Some betrayals too absolute to survive.
He’d become the monster.
Mission accomplished.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Snape reached the chamber first.
The wards were collapsed, smoking. Stone was scorched from spell-fire. Blood pooled across the floor—too much blood, dark and viscous in the dimming eclipse light.
And in the center—
Minhyuk. Holding Kihyun’s still form. Rocking slightly. Not making sound anymore. Just—broken. Silent. Destroyed.
Jinyoung sat against the wall, bleeding from a head wound, staring at nothing.
Snape moved fast. Clinical. “Mr. Lee. Let me see him.”
Minhyuk didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up.
“Now, Mr. Lee.” Snape’s voice cut through shock. “If you want him to survive, let me work.”
That penetrated. Minhyuk’s eyes—red, swollen, devastated—lifted. “He’s alive?”
“Barely.” Snape knelt, hands already moving over Kihyun’s chest. Diagnostic spells. Healing charms. His jaw tightened. “The curse damaged internal organs. He’s hemorrhaging. Magical core is fractured. He needs—” He stopped. “He needs the hospital wing. Immediately. But moving him might—”
“Do it.” Minhyuk’s voice was raw. “I don’t care about might. Save him.”
Snape worked with brutal efficiency. Stabilizing spells. Temporary organ support. Magic that bought minutes, maybe hours.
“Help me lift him,” Snape said. “Carefully. We need to—”
“I’ve got him.” Minhyuk stood, Kihyun cradled in his arms like he weighed nothing. “Lead the way.”
They climbed stairs. Through passages. Minhyuk never stumbled, never faltered, just carried Kihyun with grim determination while Snape cleared the path and Jinyoung followed in stunned silence.
They reached the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey took one look and went pale.
“What happened?”
“Dark curse. Internal damage. He’s dying.” Snape’s voice was flat. “Do what you can. I’ll assist.”
She didn’t ask more questions. Just—worked. Professional. Efficient. Terrified.
Minhyuk stood by the bed, holding Kihyun’s hand, while healers swarmed and Snape directed and magic pulsed and fought against the curse eating Kihyun from inside.
After an eternity—or seventeen minutes by Snape’s count—Pomfrey stepped back.
“He’s stable. Barely. The damage is—extensive. He’ll need constant monitoring. Possibly transfer to St. Mungo’s. But he’s—” She paused. “He’s alive. For now.”
Minhyuk collapsed into a chair. Didn’t let go of Kihyun’s hand.
Snape left them there. Walked to the Hufflepuff common room through corridors that felt too quiet, too normal after what he’d witnessed.
Found the barrel entrance. Tapped the rhythm. Slipped inside before anyone could question.
The common room was warm, golden, utterly at odds with what he carried. Students clustered near the fire—including a group Snape recognized. Wonho. Jooheon. Shownu. Changkyun. The defense cell. The ones who’d been preparing for war while pretending they were just studying.
“Mr. Shin.” Snape’s voice cut through their conversation. “A word. Private.”
Wonho looked up—surprised, wary. “Professor?”
“Now. It’s urgent.”
They moved to an alcove. Wonho’s friends followed—clearly a unit, clearly protective. Snape didn’t object.
“Kihyun Yoo and Minhyuk Lee are alive,” Snape said without preamble. “Barely. They were attacked in the chamber beneath the Astronomy Tower. By Death Eaters. During the eclipse.”
Wonho’s expression shifted—shock, then understanding, then something harder. “And Hyungwon?”
“Left with the Death Eaters. Willingly.” Snape’s voice was flat. “Delivered what they wanted. Abandoned his friends to die.”
“That’s not—” Wonho started. “He wouldn’t—”
“He did.” Snape’s jaw was tight. “I witnessed it. He walked away while Kihyun bled out. While Minhyuk begged for help. He chose—” He stopped. “He chose his father. Completely. Finally.”
Silence fell.
“Why are you telling me this?” Wonho asked quietly.
“Because someone needs to know what happened. Because those boys—Minhyuk, Jinyoung—they’ll need support. Friends. People who haven’t—” Snape stopped. “People who haven’t betrayed them.”
“You want us to—what? Comfort them? After Hyungwon—” Wonho’s hands clenched. “After he left them to die?”
“Yes.” Snape’s voice was certain. “Because they survived. Against odds, against curse damage, against abandonment—they survived. And they deserve—” He paused. “They deserve people who’ll stay.”
Wonho was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked at his friends—Jooheon, Shownu, Changkyun. Some silent communication passed between them.
“We’ll help,” Wonho said finally. “Whatever they need. We’ll—” His voice was rough. “We’ll be there.”
“Good.” Snape turned to leave, then paused. “And Mr. Shin? When you see them—when you see what Hyungwon’s choice cost—remember that some people can’t be saved. No matter how much you want to. No matter how hard you try.”
He left.
Wonho stood with his friends in the golden warmth of Hufflepuff common room and tried to process what he’d just learned.
Hyungwon had—
Had abandoned people who trusted him. Had walked away while someone died. Had chosen Voldemort over—over everything.
“We need to see them,” Jooheon said quietly. “Minhyuk and Kihyun. They’ll need—”
“They’ll need people,” Shownu finished. “We can be people.”
“Yeah.” Wonho’s voice was hollow. “We can.”
They left together. Moved through corridors toward the hospital wing. Found Minhyuk still sitting beside Kihyun’s bed, holding his hand, staring at nothing.
Jinyoung sat in another chair, head bandaged, expression blank.
Wonho approached carefully. “Minhyuk?”
Minhyuk’s eyes lifted. Red. Swollen. Devastated. “Wonho?”
“Snape told us. We came—” Wonho stopped. “We’re here. If you need anything. If we can help—”
“He left us.” Minhyuk’s voice was hollow. “Hyungwon. He just—left. While Kihyun was dying. While I was begging. He looked at us and he—” His voice cracked. “He chose. And he left.”
Wonho’s throat was tight. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Minhyuk’s laugh was broken. “It was always going to end like this. We just—we thought—” He stopped, looking at Kihyun’s pale face. “I thought we mattered. Thought our friendship was—was worth something. But we were just—” He stopped. “We were just casualties. Acceptable losses in whatever plan he’s serving.”
“That’s not true,” Changkyun said quietly. “You mattered. You do matter. What Hyungwon chose—that’s on him. Not you.”
“Is it?” Minhyuk’s eyes were wet. “Because I keep thinking—if I’d been faster, if I’d planned better, if I’d—” He stopped. “If I’d been enough, maybe he wouldn’t have left.”
“That’s not how betrayal works,” Wonho said softly. “It’s not about what you did or didn’t do. It’s about what he chose. And he chose—” His voice hardened. “He chose wrong.”
Minhyuk didn’t respond. Just turned back to Kihyun. Held his hand. Counted his shallow breaths.
“We’ll stay,” Wonho said. “Tonight. Tomorrow. However long you need. You don’t have to be alone.”
“We’re already alone.” Minhyuk’s voice was barely audible. “The one person who was supposed to stay—who we trusted completely—he’s gone. And we’re just—” He stopped. “We’re just the people he left behind.”
But Wonho stayed anyway. And his friends stayed. And through the night, while Kihyun fought for breath and Minhyuk counted his heartbeats and Jinyoung sat in shocked silence—
They were there.
Not fixing it. Not making it better. Just—present. Solid. Staying.
Which wasn’t enough to undo betrayal.
Wasn’t enough to heal abandonment.
Wasn’t enough to make Hyungwon’s choice hurt less.
But it was something.
And in the wreckage of everything that had shattered—
Something was better than nothing.
Even if it could never be enough.
Even if Minhyuk’s faith had died with Hyungwon’s footsteps walking away.
Even if Kihyun’s breathing stayed shallow and his prognosis stayed grim and the future stayed absolutely, terrifyingly uncertain.
They stayed.
And counted.
And waited.
For dawn.
For answers.
For any sign that surviving this was possible.
Any at all.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

They couldn’t stay at Hogwarts.
Snape made that clear on the second day: “The Death Eaters know you survived. Know you were there. They’ll come back for witnesses. For loose ends. For—” He stopped. “For revenge against those who aided Hyungwon’s defiance before he turned.”
“Where do we go?” Jinyoung asked. His head was bandaged, words still slightly slurred from the curse that had caught him.
“Anywhere but here.” Snape’s voice was flat. “I can buy you time. A few days, maybe a week. But then—” He looked at Kihyun’s pale form, still unconscious, still fighting. “Then you need to disappear.”
So they did.
Wonho organized everything—because someone had to, because Minhyuk was shattered and Jinyoung was injured and Kihyun was barely alive. He gathered supplies. Enlisted Jooheon, Shownu, Changkyun. Planned escape routes and safe locations and how to keep three wounded teenagers alive in the Forbidden Forest.
“This is insane,” Jooheon said. “The forest is—it’s called Forbidden for a reason. Things in there kill students.”
“Things out here will kill them faster,” Wonho countered. “At least in the forest, we can hide. Ward. Survive.”
On the third night, while Hogwarts slept, they moved.
Wonho carried Kihyun—still unconscious, wrapped in warming charms and stabilizing spells. Shownu supported Minhyuk, who moved like a sleepwalker, eyes distant and dead. Jooheon and Changkyun helped Jinyoung, who could barely walk straight.
They slipped into the forest at the darkest point between patrols. Found a clearing three miles deep that Wonho had scouted. Set up camp with desperate efficiency.
Tents conjured from transfiguration. Wards layered thick enough to hide them from tracking spells. Water from a nearby spring. Food foraged or summoned or stolen from Hogsmeade on careful midnight runs.
And they waited.
For Kihyun to wake. For Minhyuk to speak. For Jinyoung to heal. For some sign that surviving this was possible.
Two weeks in, Kihyun’s eyes finally opened.
Minhyuk had been sitting beside him constantly—watching, waiting, barely sleeping. When Kihyun’s eyes fluttered, Minhyuk’s breath caught.
“Kihyun?” Barely a whisper.
“Minh—hyuk?” Kihyun’s voice was rough from disuse. “Where—”
“Forbidden Forest. We’re hiding. You’re—” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “You almost died. The curse—it damaged everything. Pomfrey stabilized you but we had to run and you’ve been unconscious for two weeks and I thought—I thought—”
“Still alive.” Kihyun’s hand lifted weakly. Found Minhyuk’s. Squeezed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t.” Minhyuk’s tears were already falling. “Don’t apologize. You saved me. You took that curse for me. You almost died for me.”
“Worth it.” Kihyun’s smile was faint. “Always—worth it.”
Minhyuk pressed Kihyun’s hand to his face and sobbed.
A month in, Kihyun could sit up. Walk short distances. His magical core was still fractured—healing slowly, painfully, possibly permanently damaged. But he was alive. Breathing. Present.
Minhyuk never left his side.
Wonho managed everything else—foraging, warding, coordinating with Jooheon who snuck supplies from Hogsmeade. He was steady. Reliable. The anchor holding them all together.
But at night, when others slept, Wonho sat watch at the camp’s edge and tried not to think about Hyungwon.
Failed.
Because he couldn’t stop remembering—greenhouse conversations, almost-smiles, the way Hyungwon’s hands had shaken when he was stressed. The boy who’d counted everything and wanted to be left alone.
The boy who’d become something else entirely.
Who’d abandoned his best friends to die.
Who’d chosen Voldemort over—over everything that mattered.
Wonho counted stars through the canopy. Lost track somewhere around one hundred and forty-seven.
Wondered if Hyungwon still counted.
Wondered if anything of the boy he’d cared about remained.
Suspected the answer was no.
Six weeks in, Minhyuk broke.
It was late. Kihyun was sleeping—finally sleeping without nightmares. Jinyoung was on watch with Jooheon. Wonho was checking ward strength.
He heard the sound—raw, animal, broken—and ran back to camp.
Found Minhyuk collapsed outside his tent, hands pressed to his face, shoulders shaking.
“Minhyuk?” Wonho knelt beside him carefully. “What’s wrong? Is it Kihyun? Is he—”
“I loved him.” Minhyuk’s voice was muffled by his hands. “I loved Hyungwon. Not—not like Kihyun. But I loved him. My best friend. My brother. The person I trusted most in the world. And he just—” A sob tore through him. “He just left. Watched Kihyun dying and walked away. How could—how could someone do that? How could someone we loved just—”
“I don’t know.” Wonho’s voice was soft. He didn’t touch, didn’t crowd. Just—sat beside him. “I’ve been asking that too.”
“I keep thinking it’s my fault. That I pushed him too hard or didn’t support him enough or—or something. That if I’d been better, he wouldn’t have—” Minhyuk’s voice broke completely. “But I loved him. I would have done anything for him. And it wasn’t enough.”
“It was enough.” Wonho’s voice was certain. “What he chose—that’s not about you. That’s about him. About whatever broke in him that we couldn’t see or fix or—” He stopped. “About him becoming what everyone feared.”
Movement behind them. Kihyun emerged from the tent—slow, careful, still weak. He sat on Minhyuk’s other side.
“He loved you too,” Kihyun said quietly. “That’s why it hurts.”
Minhyuk looked at him. “How can you say that? After what he did? After he left you to—”
“Because I saw his face.” Kihyun’s voice was steady despite the pain in his eyes. “Before he left. When you were begging. He was—” He paused. “He was breaking too. He just—chose to break differently. Chose his father’s voice over ours. Chose survival over—over us.”
“That’s not love.”
“No.” Kihyun’s hand found Minhyuk’s. “It’s not. But it came from love once. Before it twisted. Before he—” He stopped. “Before he became what he became.”
Minhyuk turned to him. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too. I can’t—”
“You won’t.” Kihyun’s other hand came up, cupped Minhyuk’s face. “I’m here. I’m staying. I’m—”
Minhyuk kissed him.
Desperate. Messy. Tear-streaked and graceless and absolutely real.
Kihyun kissed back—hands shaking, still weak, but present. Solid. Staying.
When they broke apart, both were crying.
“I’m sorry,” Kihyun whispered. “For lying. For all the times I left. For not—for not being honest sooner. For—”
“I don’t care.” Minhyuk’s forehead pressed against his. “I don’t care about the lies or the mission or any of it. Just—don’t leave me. Promise you won’t leave me.”
“I promise.” Kihyun’s voice was certain. “Never again. I’m done running.”
They kissed again—softer this time, tender, like sealing a vow. Then Minhyuk pulled him close, careful of healing injuries, and they just—held each other. Breathing synchronized. Hearts beating together. Alive.
Wonho stood quietly. Slipped away. Let them have privacy. Returned to his watch position at the camp’s edge.
Looked out at dark trees and tried to process what he’d witnessed.
They’d survived. Against odds. Against abandonment. Against curses and blood loss and the knowledge that someone they’d loved had chosen wrong.
They’d survived.
And they had each other.
And maybe—maybe that was enough.
Even if Hyungwon was gone. Even if that betrayal would never fully heal. Even if some part of all of them had died in that chamber.
They’d survived.
Wonho counted trees in his line of sight. Got to forty-seven before his mind wandered.
Back to Hyungwon. Always back to Hyungwon.
The boy who’d counted cracks and wanted to be left alone.
The boy who’d become a weapon.
The boy who’d walked away while someone died.
Wonho wondered if Hyungwon counted anymore.
Wondered if he thought about them—about the people he’d left behind, the trust he’d shattered, the blood on his hands.
Wondered if any part of the boy in the greenhouse remained.
Suspected it didn’t.
And tried to make peace with that.
Failed.
Because some losses you carried forever.
Some betrayals you never stopped mourning.
Some people—
Some people you loved stayed gone.
Even when you wanted them back.
Even when you remembered the shape of their hands.
Even when you counted to one hundred and forty-seven and pretended it helped.
It never did.
Wonho kept watch.
Counted stars.
And waited for dawn.
Like always.
Like he’d always do.
Until something changed.
Or nothing did.
Either way—
He’d keep them safe.
Keep them alive.
Keep them surviving.
Even if survival was all they had left.
It was enough.
It had to be.
Because the alternative—
The alternative was unthinkable.
So he watched.
And counted.
And waited.
For whatever came next.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

## Chapter Forty-Three: The First Assault

The attack came on a Saturday in late April.

Wonho was in Hogsmeade—a careful, cloaked supply run with Shownu. They’d been doing these runs weekly: slip into the village during busy hours, buy essentials with borrowed money, disappear before anyone asked questions.

They were leaving Honeydukes when the screaming started.

Wonho’s head snapped up. “What—”

**CRACK.**

Apparition sounds—multiple, simultaneous. Death Eaters materialized in the main square. Fifteen, twenty, more appearing every second. Masked figures raising wands.

“Students!” A professor’s voice—McGonagall, Wonho thought. “Back to the castle! NOW!”

Chaos erupted.

Students ran. Shopkeepers dove for cover. Spells lit the air—the Death Eaters weren’t aiming to kill yet, just terrorize. Herding students like cattle toward Hogwarts.

“Move!” Shownu grabbed Wonho’s arm.

They ran with the crowd. Students screaming, shoving, panic spreading like fire. Behind them, buildings exploded. The Three Broomsticks’ windows shattered. Smoke billowed.

The castle loomed ahead. Students pouring through gates. Professors forming defensive lines. The wards shimmering visible with strain as the last stragglers crossed the threshold.

Behind them, Death Eaters surrounded Hogsmeade. Not entering the castle grounds—not yet. Just—occupying. Claiming. Making a statement.

*We can reach you. Anytime. Anywhere.*

The wards held.

Barely.

-----

Three days earlier, in the Forbidden Forest, Jinyoung had found Wonho alone on night watch.

“Can we talk?” Jinyoung’s voice was quiet, controlled. Always controlled.

Wonho turned, surprised. Jinyoung had been staying with them for weeks now—standing guard while Kihyun recovered, protecting Minhyuk from his own grief. But he’d kept his distance. Stayed on the edges. Never quite part of the group, even while protecting it.

“Of course,” Wonho said.

They walked deeper into the trees, away from the camp. Away from listening ears.

Jinyoung was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, rational. “I’ve been thinking about everything. About Hyungwon. About what’s coming.”

Wonho waited.

“I can’t leave my family behind.” Jinyoung’s jaw was tight. “My parents—they’re going to fight in this war. For Voldemort’s side. And I need to see them. Talk to them properly. Tell them about everything that’s happened.”

“Jinyoung—”

“I know what you’re thinking.” Jinyoung’s voice remained steady. “That it’s dangerous. That they’ve chosen their side. But they’re my parents. They raised me. Protected me. I have to try.”

Wonho studied him carefully. Jinyoung had always been the rational one—distant, principled, keeping himself carefully separate from getting too close to anyone. It was how he protected himself. How he survived.

But Minhyuk and Kihyun were still his friends. That much was clear in the way he’d stayed, the way he’d protected them even when he didn’t have to.

“You think you can change their minds,” Wonho said softly.

“I have to believe I can.” For the first time, something cracked in Jinyoung’s composure. “If I can make them understand—make them see what I’ve seen—maybe they’ll stop. Stop being on Voldemort’s side. Stop recklessly killing people.”

It was a fragile hope. Desperate, even.

But Wonho, being a Hufflepuff as he was, believed in people. Believed in second chances. Believed that love could change minds.

“Okay,” Wonho said. “When the time comes, you’ll join us. Fight with us.”

“I will.” Jinyoung’s voice was certain. “I just need to talk to them first. Make them understand. Then I’ll come back, and we’ll fight together.”

They shook hands in the darkness—a pact sealed on hope and trust.

Wonho believed him.

He shouldn’t have.

-----

When the Death Eaters attacked Hogsmeade, Jinyoung went with Wonho and Jooheon.

They moved through the chaos together—three figures fighting through smoke and screaming. Jinyoung was precise, efficient. Every spell calculated. Every movement deliberate.

Then, in the confusion, they lost sight of him.

“Jinyoung?” Jooheon called. “Where—”

But he was gone.

-----

Jinyoung found his parents near the edge of the village.

He recognized them even through their masks—his mother’s dueling stance, his father’s preferred curses. The way they moved together, coordinated after years of partnership.

“Mother. Father.”

They turned. Surprised. His mother lowered her mask.

“Jinyoung.” Her voice was cool, controlled. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you.” Jinyoung’s voice was steady, but his hands trembled. “To tell you what I’ve seen. What I’ve learned. This path you’re on—”

“Is the right one.” His father’s voice was firm, absolute. “We’ve made our choice, Jinyoung. And we’re certain of it.”

“But you don’t understand—” Jinyoung tried to find the words. “I’ve seen good people die. Seen friends torn apart by this war. It’s not about purity or power. It’s about control and fear and—”

“It’s about survival.” His mother stepped closer. Her face was sad but resolute. “We love you, Jinyoung. You’re our son. But you’re young. You don’t understand what’s at stake. Being a Death Eater is the only right choice. The only way to ensure our family’s future.”

“At what cost?” Jinyoung’s voice cracked.

His father placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “We are sure of our side. We believe in this cause. And we always will.”

Jinyoung looked at them—the people who had raised him, shaped him, loved him—and felt something break inside.

They believed. Completely. Absolutely.

And Jinyoung, faithful and loyal to his core, believed them.

“Okay,” he whispered.

He raised his wand and joined them.

-----

Jinyoung fought like he’d been trained to fight.

Fast. Brutal. Efficient.

He disarmed a Gryffindor seventh-year. Stunned another. Moved forward with his parents flanking him, a perfect unit.

This was what made sense. This was loyalty. This was—

Then he saw Wonho.

Across the battlefield, through smoke and chaos. Wonho was defending a group of younger students, his face set in grim determination. Buying them time to escape.

Their eyes met.

And in that instant, everything Jinyoung had been pushing away came flooding back.

Minhyuk cradling Kihyun’s dying body. Blood staining stone. The terror in Minhyuk’s eyes.

Hyungwon walking away. Choosing darkness. Choosing to leave them behind.

*I see myself in Hyungwon.*

The realization hit like a physical blow.

He had become exactly what Hyungwon had become—someone who chose survival over conscience. Someone who rationalized betrayal. Someone who abandoned the people who needed him.

He had made a promise to Wonho. To fight together. To stand against this.

And he had broken it.

Jinyoung lowered his wand.

The green light hit him from behind before he could turn.

*Avada Kedavra.*

He didn’t hear the words. Didn’t see the caster. Didn’t feel pain.

Just—

Nothing.

Jinyoung fell.

His body hit the cobblestones. His wand rolled from his hand. His eyes stared at nothing.

Gone.

-----

In the Forbidden Forest, three miles from the battle, Minhyuk sat with a scrying glass clutched in shaking hands.

The glass—a gift from Snape, passed through Jooheon—showed Hogsmeade’s main square. He’d been watching the battle, tracking Wonho and Jooheon to make sure they were safe.

Then he’d seen Jinyoung appear.

Seen him fighting alongside Death Eaters.

“No,” Minhyuk had whispered. “No, that’s not—that can’t be—”

But it was.

Jinyoung. His best friend. His brother.

Fighting for the side that had tried to kill them.

Kihyun was beside him, one hand gripping Minhyuk’s shoulder. “Maybe there’s a reason. Maybe he’s—”

“He’s with them,” Minhyuk’s voice was hollow. “He chose them. Just like Hyungwon. Just like—”

Then, through the scrying glass, Minhyuk saw it.

Jinyoung stopping. Lowering his wand. Eyes locked on something across the battlefield.

Hesitating.

The green light.

Jinyoung falling.

“NO!”

Minhyuk’s scream tore through the forest—raw, agonized, completely broken.

The scrying glass fell from his hands and shattered on the ground.

He was on his feet, running, before Kihyun could stop him.

“JINYOUNG!” Minhyuk’s voice was barely human. “NO NO NO—”

Kihyun tried to follow. Made it three steps before his legs gave out, curse-damage still limiting him. He collapsed, shouting: “SOMEONE STOP HIM!”

Jooheon and Changkyun were there immediately, tackling Minhyuk fifty yards from the forest edge.

“Let me go!” Minhyuk was fighting, screaming. “That’s Jinyoung! He’s—I have to—”

“You can’t!” Jooheon held him down. “You’ll die too!”

“I don’t CARE!” Minhyuk’s voice shattered. “He’s dead and I—I never told him—I never—”

He collapsed into Jooheon’s arms, sobbing.

They held him there—in the forest dirt, close enough to see smoke, far enough to survive.

While Minhyuk broke.

And screamed.

And mourned another friend he couldn’t save.

Chapter Text

The Death Eaters withdrew at dawn.

Not defeated—just finished. They’d made their statement, carved their message into Hogsmeade’s cobblestones in blood and ash. The message was clear: Nowhere is safe.

Minhyuk, Kihyun, and Wonho emerged from the forest as the last masked figures Disapparated. The morning light was gray, cold, wrong. Smoke still rose from the village. The smell of burning wood and something worse—something that used to be human—drifted on the wind.

“Stay close,” Wonho said quietly. His wand was raised, his body positioned between his friends and the devastation ahead.

Kihyun’s hand was tight on Minhyuk’s arm. Minhyuk hadn’t spoken since he’d screamed Jinyoung’s name. His face was white, his eyes hollow, fixed on the castle gates.

They walked through Hogsmeade’s ruins in silence.

Bodies lay where they’d fallen. Shopkeepers. Students. Defenders who’d tried to fight. The Three Broomsticks was a smoking shell. Honeydukes’ windows were shattered, candy scattered across broken glass like grotesque confetti.

And in the main square, near the fountain that no longer ran—

Jinyoung.

Minhyuk made a sound—something raw and animal that barely sounded human. He broke away from Kihyun’s grip and ran.

“Minhyuk!” Kihyun called, but he was already gone.

Wonho followed, slower, dreading what they’d find.

-----

Jinyoung lay on his back, arms sprawled, eyes open and staring at nothing. His Death Eater mask had fallen beside him—cracked down the middle, useless. There was no visible wound. The Killing Curse left no marks.

He just looked—

Empty.

Gone.

Minhyuk collapsed beside him. His knees hit the cobblestones hard enough to bruise. He didn’t feel it.

“No.” His voice was barely a whisper. “No, no, no—”

He reached out with shaking hands, touched Jinyoung’s face. Still warm. Not warm enough.

“Jinyoung.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “Come on. You don’t get to—you can’t—” He stopped. His hands moved to Jinyoung’s shoulders, shaking him gently, then harder. “Wake up. *Wake up!*”

Nothing.

“Minhyuk.” Kihyun’s voice, behind him. Gentle but firm. “He’s gone.”

“No.” Minhyuk shook his head, frantic. “No, he’s—he’s just—” His voice broke completely. “He was supposed to be with us. He *promised*. Wonho, he promised, right? He said—”

“I know.” Wonho’s voice was thick. He stood a few feet away, keeping watch, but his eyes were wet. “I believed him.”

Kihyun knelt beside Minhyuk. His hand found Minhyuk’s shoulder, steady despite the way his own breath stuttered. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Minhyuk collapsed forward, his forehead pressed against Jinyoung’s chest. His shoulders shook with silent, wrecking sobs.

Kihyun’s arm came around him, holding him up, holding him together.

Wonho watched the perimeter. His jaw was tight. His wand hand steady. But inside, guilt was eating him alive.

*I believed Jinyoung. I trusted him. I told him he could join us. And now he’s dead.*

Around them, other survivors moved through the square. Professors organizing rescue efforts. Students being levitated to the hospital wing. McGonagall’s voice, sharp and commanding, directing the chaos.

But in this small circle—Minhyuk, Kihyun, Wonho, and Jinyoung’s body—time had stopped.

-----

The sound of Apparition cracked through the air.

Multiple arrivals. Coordinated. Deliberate.

Wonho’s head snapped up. “Get down—”

But these weren’t attackers.

Death Eaters materialized at the edge of the square—twenty, thirty of them, forming a perfect line. They stood at attention, wands lowered, waiting.

And then—

Voldemort appeared.

Not fully corporeal, but more solid than before. His form shimmered between substance and shadow, his eyes burning red in the gray light. The air around him rippled with power.

The square went silent.

Students froze. Professors raised wands but didn’t fire—they were outnumbered, outmatched, and they knew it.

Voldemort surveyed the devastation with something like satisfaction.

And then, beside him, another figure materialized.

Hyungwon.

-----

Minhyuk’s breath stopped.

Hyungwon stood at Voldemort’s right hand, dressed in dark robes that fit too well. His face was blank, carefully empty. But his eyes—

His eyes found Jinyoung’s body immediately.

For just a second—less than a heartbeat—his mask cracked. His face went white. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Then he looked up.

And met Minhyuk’s eyes across the square.

The world narrowed to that single point of contact.

Minhyuk saw everything in that moment: the boy who’d sat beside him in the Slytherin common room, who’d laughed at his jokes, who’d let Minhyuk pull him into reckless plans. The boy who’d held his hand in dark corners and pretended it meant nothing. The boy who’d stood beside him in the ward-cavity and promised—

Nothing.

Hyungwon had promised nothing.

And delivered exactly that.

Minhyuk stood slowly. Kihyun tried to hold him back—“Don’t”—but Minhyuk shook him off.

He walked forward. Ten steps. Twenty. Until he stood in the open space between survivors and Death Eaters, exposed and unarmed except for rage.

“You did this.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat. Dead. Not a question. An accusation.

Hyungwon didn’t respond. His jaw was tight, his hands still clenched, but his face remained carefully blank.

“You left us to die.” Minhyuk’s voice grew louder. “You took the Horcrux. You ran. You *chose* them.” He gestured at the Death Eaters, at Voldemort. “And now Jinyoung’s dead.”

Still nothing.

Minhyuk took another step forward. His voice was shaking now, fury and grief breaking through. “Was it worth it? All of this—the power, the—whatever the fuck he promised you—was it worth Jinyoung’s life?”

The Death Eaters shifted, hands moving toward wands. Voldemort watched with interest, a serpent observing prey.

Finally, Hyungwon spoke. His voice was hollow, empty of everything that had once made it his. “I did what I had to.”

“No.” Minhyuk’s laugh was broken, bitter. “You did what was *easy*.”

Hyungwon flinched. Barely visible, but there.

“You were scared,” Minhyuk continued, relentless. “So you ran. You chose the side that would protect you, that would make you feel powerful, that would tell you that you mattered. You didn’t do what you *had* to. You did what you *wanted*.”

“Minhyuk—” Wonho’s voice, behind him. Warning.

But Minhyuk wasn’t done. He stepped closer, close enough to see the way Hyungwon’s hands shook. “He was your friend. *We* were your friends. And you let us die.”

“You didn’t die,” Hyungwon said quietly.

“Jinyoung did.” Minhyuk’s voice broke. “And you might as well have cast the curse yourself.”

-----

Before Minhyuk could do something reckless—draw his wand, throw a punch, collapse—Wonho was there.

His hand closed around Minhyuk’s arm, firm but gentle. “That’s enough.”

Minhyuk tried to pull away. “Let me—”

“No.” Wonho’s voice was soft but immovable. He stepped between Minhyuk and Hyungwon, his body a barrier, his eyes meeting Hyungwon’s over Minhyuk’s shoulder.

Wonho looked at Hyungwon—not with anger, not with hatred. Just—

Sadness.

Deep, devastating sadness.

“I believed you,” Wonho said quietly. His voice carried across the square despite its softness. “Three days ago, in the forest. You told me you wanted to change your parents’ minds. That you wanted to fight with us.” He paused. “I believed you. I thought—”

He stopped. His jaw worked. Then: “It doesn’t matter now.”

That landed harder than any accusation.

Hyungwon’s mask shattered completely for just an instant. His eyes went bright with something that might have been tears. His mouth opened like he was going to speak—

“*Enough.*”

Voldemort’s voice cut through the square like a blade.

Everyone froze.

Voldemort glided forward—still not quite solid, but present enough to cast a shadow. He stopped beside Hyungwon, one pale hand settling on his shoulder. Possessive. Claiming.

“My son has chosen wisely.” Voldemort’s voice was soft, almost gentle. Somehow that made it worse. “The weak have been culled. The strong remain. This is the natural order of things.”

His fingers tightened on Hyungwon’s shoulder. “Those who cling to sentiment, to false bonds of friendship and love—they fall. They die. They are forgotten.” His red eyes swept across the survivors. “My son understands this now. He has been elevated beyond such mortal weaknesses.”

Hyungwon stood perfectly still. His face was blank again, carefully reconstructed. Empty.

But his hands—

His hands were shaking.

Voldemort smiled. “We have what we came for. Let them mourn their dead. It changes nothing.”

He turned, still holding Hyungwon’s shoulder. The Death Eaters fell into formation around them.

As they began to Disapparate, Hyungwon looked back.

Just once.

He saw Minhyuk standing in the center of the square, held upright by Wonho’s grip on his arm. Saw Kihyun kneeling beside Jinyoung’s body, one hand covering his face. Saw the devastation—the bodies, the blood, the broken castle, the shattered lives.

He saw what he’d destroyed.

What he’d chosen to destroy.

Minhyuk’s eyes met his one last time. And Minhyuk’s expression—

Raw. Broken. *Betrayed.*

“I hate you,” Minhyuk mouthed.

Hyungwon turned away.

**CRACK.**

They were gone.

-----

The square remained silent for a long moment.

Then Minhyuk’s legs gave out. Wonho caught him before he hit the ground, lowered him carefully beside Jinyoung’s body.

Kihyun immediately wrapped around him, arms tight, face pressed against Minhyuk’s shoulder.

They stayed there—the three of them and Jinyoung’s body—while the sun rose over the ruins of Hogsmeade.

While Professor McGonagall organized the survivors.

While healers arrived to tend the wounded.

While the castle began the impossible work of counting its dead.

They stayed.

Until finally, gently, Professor Flitwick approached. “We need to move him. The hospital wing—”

“No.” Minhyuk’s voice was raw but firm. “I’ll carry him.”

And he did.

Minhyuk lifted Jinyoung’s body—carefully, like something precious—and carried him through the castle gates. Kihyun walked beside him, one hand on Minhyuk’s back. Wonho followed behind, keeping watch.

They passed students who stared.

They passed professors who looked away.

They passed ghosts who bowed their translucent heads in respect.

And they carried Jinyoung home.

-----

That night, in a manor far from Hogwarts, Hyungwon lay in a bed that wasn’t his, in a room that smelled like ash and dark magic.

He stared at the ceiling.

And counted cracks.

One. Two. Three.

The ceiling was smooth. Perfect. No cracks at all.

But he counted anyway.

Forty-seven.

The same number as the Slytherin dorm ceiling. The same number he’d counted every night for six years.

Forty-seven cracks that weren’t there.

Forty-seven reasons to stay awake.

Forty-seven pieces of the boy he used to be, scattered across a courtyard in the morning light.

He counted.

And realized—

He couldn’t stop.

He would never stop.

Even here. Even now. Even after everything.

He was still counting cracks in ceilings that had none.

Still trying to find something solid to hold onto in a world he’d burned down himself.

His hands shook.

He counted.

Forty-seven.

Forty-seven.

Forty-seven.

And outside his door, Death Eaters stood guard. Keeping him in. Keeping everyone else out.

He’d chosen this.

He had to keep telling himself that.

He’d chosen this.

Chapter Text

## Chapter Forty-Five: Aftermath and Positioning

They held Jinyoung’s funeral three days after the attack.

The sky was gray, threatening rain that never came. Students gathered in the courtyard near the lake—those who remained, anyway. Half the school had been pulled by their parents in the days following Hogsmeade. Scared families, emergency Portkeys, tearful goodbyes in the entrance hall.

The ones who stayed stood in silent rows, black robes and haunted faces.

Jinyoung’s body lay on a stone bier, covered in Slytherin green. His face was peaceful, carefully arranged by the hospital wing staff. He looked like he was sleeping.

He wasn’t.

Professor McGonagall spoke first—formal words about bravery and sacrifice and the cost of war. Her voice was steady but her hands shook on her wand.

Dumbledore spoke next. Briefer. “We honor those who fall. We remember those who chose, even when choosing meant loss. Park Jinyoung made his choice. Whatever side he fought for in his final moments, he paid the ultimate price. May we learn from his sacrifice.”

It was diplomatic. Careful. It said nothing at all.

Then Minhyuk stepped forward.

-----

Kihyun had tried to stop him. “You don’t have to do this. No one expects—”

“I do.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat, final. He’d barely slept, barely eaten. His face was gaunt, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. He’d cried himself empty. All that remained was hollow purpose.

Now he stood before Jinyoung’s body, facing the gathered students. His hands were steady. His voice, when he spoke, carried clearly across the courtyard.

“Jinyoung was my best friend.”

Simple. Direct. The words fell like stones into still water.

“We grew up together. Sorted into Slytherin together. Made every mistake together.” A pause. “He was loyal. Principled. He believed in doing the right thing, even when the right thing wasn’t clear.”

Minhyuk’s jaw tightened. “Three days before he died, he told someone he was going to talk to his parents. Try to change their minds. He believed family came first. He believed love could change people.”

The courtyard was silent. Even the wind had stopped.

“He was wrong.” Minhyuk’s voice didn’t waver. “His parents chose their side. And Jinyoung, because he was loyal, because he loved them, chose to stand with them. He fought for the Death Eaters. He fought against us.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. McGonagall shifted uncomfortably. Dumbledore’s expression remained neutral.

“But in his last moment,” Minhyuk continued, “he hesitated. He saw someone across the battlefield—someone he cared about—and he lowered his wand. He remembered who he really was. And they killed him for it.”

Minhyuk looked down at Jinyoung’s body. His voice softened, just slightly. “You tried. At the end, you tried. I hope that counts for something.”

He stepped back. Turned to face the students. When he spoke again, his voice was hard. “This is what war looks like. It doesn’t care about loyalty or love or good intentions. It just takes and takes and takes. And if we don’t fight—if we don’t stand together and actually *do something*—it will take all of us.”

He walked away. Didn’t look back.

Kihyun followed immediately. Wonho met them at the edge of the crowd, his face grim but approving.

Behind them, the funeral continued. Prayers were said. Wands were raised. Green sparks filled the gray sky.

Minhyuk didn’t watch. He’d already said goodbye.

-----

That night, Minhyuk found Wonho in the Room of Requirement.

The space had transformed itself into something tactical—padded floors, practice dummies, weapon racks, maps spread across tables. Wonho stood over a map of Hogsmeade, making notes.

He looked up as Minhyuk entered. “You okay?”

“No.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat. “But I’m done pretending I will be.”

Wonho set down his quill. Waited.

Minhyuk stepped closer. His hands were clenched into fists, his jaw tight. “I want in. Officially. Your defense cell, whatever you’re calling it. I want to fight.”

“Minhyuk—”

“I’m done hiding.” Minhyuk’s voice rose. “I’m done waiting in the forest. I’m done watching people I care about die while I do *nothing*.” He took a breath, steadied himself. “Jinyoung’s dead. Hyungwon’s—” He stopped. Couldn’t finish that sentence. “I can’t change what happened. But I can make sure it means something.”

Wonho studied him for a long moment. Then nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You’re in.” Wonho’s voice was firm. “But we do this my way. We train properly. We don’t rush in recklessly. We protect each other first, fight second. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Wonho held out his hand. Minhyuk took it. They shook—a pact, a promise.

“We fight,” Wonho said quietly.

“We fight,” Minhyuk echoed.

Behind them, the door opened. Kihyun entered, followed by Jooheon, Changkyun, and Shownu. They all wore the same expression: grim determination.

“If Minhyuk’s in,” Jooheon said, “we’re all in.”

Wonho looked around the room at these faces—his friends, his soldiers, his family. He nodded once. “Then we train. Starting now.”

-----

Later that night, after hours of exhausting practice, Minhyuk and Kihyun walked back to the Slytherin dorms in silence.

The common room was nearly empty. Most Slytherins had left after the attack. The ones who remained kept to themselves, wary and watchful.

Minhyuk collapsed on the couch. Kihyun sat beside him, close but not touching.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Finally, Kihyun spoke. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Minhyuk turned his head, exhausted. “What?”

Kihyun’s hands were folded carefully in his lap. His voice was controlled, clinical—the tone he used when he was terrified. “I’ve been lying to you. For almost two years.”

Minhyuk went very still.

“My parents,” Kihyun continued, not looking at him. “They’re not neutral. They’re actively working against the Death Eaters. And they asked me to spy. On you. On Hyungwon. On everyone in your circle.”

The silence stretched. Minhyuk’s face was unreadable.

“I wrote them letters,” Kihyun said quietly. “Coded reports. Told them everything—the meetings, the tasks, the Horcrux hunt. Everything.”

“Everything,” Minhyuk repeated. His voice was dangerously flat.

“Yes.” Kihyun finally looked at him. His eyes were bright, defiant despite the fear beneath. “They wanted me to transfer. Multiple times. Ordered me to leave. Said I was compromised, that I was getting too close, that I needed to extract immediately.”

“But you stayed.”

“I stayed.” Kihyun’s voice broke slightly. “Because of you. Because I—” He stopped. Started again. “They told me to leave after that night in the Astronomy Tower. After you kissed me. They said I’d lost objectivity. That I was a liability.”

Minhyuk’s jaw was tight. His hands were clenched.

“I burned the letter,” Kihyun continued. “Wrote back and told them I was staying. They sent a Howler. Threatened to pull me out forcibly. I ignored it.” He took a shaky breath. “When you kissed me at Jackson’s party—publicly, in front of everyone—they filed an emergency transfer order. I refused to go.”

“Why?” Minhyuk’s voice was rough.

“Because I love you.” Kihyun said it simply, like a fact. “Because I chose you. Over my mission, over my parents’ orders, over my own safety. I stayed for you.”

Minhyuk stared at him. His face was a storm of emotions—anger, betrayal, understanding, something that might have been relief.

“You were spying on me,” he said finally. “This whole time. Everything we did, everything I told you—”

“I reported it. Yes.”

“And you expect me to just—what? Forgive you?”

“No.” Kihyun’s voice was steady. “I expect you to hate me. But I needed you to know the truth. I’m done lying. If we’re doing this—if we’re fighting together—you deserve to know who I really am.”

The silence stretched. Minhyuk’s breathing was harsh. His hands were shaking.

Then he lunged forward—not to hit, but to kiss. Hard, desperate, furious. Kihyun gasped against his mouth but kissed back immediately, hands fisting in Minhyuk’s robes.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Minhyuk pressed his forehead against Kihyun’s. “I should hate you.”

“I know.”

“You betrayed me. You used me.”

“I know.”

“But you stayed.” Minhyuk’s voice cracked. “You chose me. Even when it was stupid. Even when it was dangerous. You stayed.”

Kihyun’s hands came up to cup Minhyuk’s face. “I’ll always stay. No matter what.”

Minhyuk kissed him again—softer this time, but no less desperate. “If you ever lie to me again—”

“I won’t,” Kihyun promised against his mouth. “Never again. I swear.”

They stayed like that—tangled together on the couch, holding each other like anchors in a storm.

“We’re going to survive this,” Minhyuk said quietly. “Both of us. Together.”

Kihyun nodded against his shoulder. “Together.”

It was a promise neither of them was sure they could keep.

But they made it anyway.

-----

In a manor two hundred miles from Hogwarts, Hyungwon stood before Voldemort’s throne.

The room was cold, dark, lit only by green flames in the fireplace. Death Eaters lined the walls—silent, masked, watchful. Hyungwon could feel their eyes on him. Judging. Measuring.

Voldemort sat elevated, his form more solid now. Still not quite human, but close. Close enough to be terrifying.

“My son,” Voldemort’s voice was soft, pleased. “You have done well. The first Horcrux is secure. Your loyalty is proven.”

Hyungwon kept his face carefully blank. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Now,” Voldemort continued, “we move to the next phase. There are six more pieces to recover. Each more difficult than the last.” His red eyes fixed on Hyungwon. “I have a task for you. One that will require… delicacy.”

Hyungwon’s stomach twisted. “What do you need me to do?”

Voldemort smiled. It was a terrible expression. “There is a piece hidden within Hogwarts itself. Deep in the foundations. Protected by wards keyed to Dumbledore’s blood.” He leaned forward. “You will return to the castle. Reclaim your place among the students. And you will retrieve it.”

The room seemed to tilt. “Return? But I—they know I sided with you. They saw me—”

“Precisely.” Voldemort’s voice was ice. “Which is why you will beg forgiveness. Play the remorseful son. The boy who was manipulated, who regrets his choices. Dumbledore loves redemption stories. He will take you back.”

“And then?”

“And then you will betray them. Again.” Voldemort’s smile widened. “You will find the Horcrux. You will deliver it to me. And when Hogwarts falls—and it will fall—you will stand at my right hand as we rebuild the wizarding world in our image.”

Hyungwon’s hands were shaking. He clasped them behind his back, hoping no one noticed.

“Do you understand your task, my son?”

There was no refusing. No way out. No choice.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” Voldemort sat back, satisfied. “You leave tomorrow. Do not fail me, Hyungwon. I do not tolerate failure.”

The dismissal was clear. Hyungwon bowed and turned to leave.

As he reached the door, Voldemort’s voice stopped him. “Oh, and Hyungwon? When you see your friends—the ones you abandoned—do give them my regards.”

Laughter rippled through the Death Eaters.

Hyungwon didn’t respond. He left the throne room with his spine straight and his face blank.

He made it to his room before he started shaking.

He was trapped. Completely. Fully. There was no way back, no way forward, no way out.

He had chosen this path. And now he would walk it to the end.

Whatever that end might be.

That night, he lay in bed and counted cracks in the perfect ceiling.

Forty-seven.

Forty-seven lies he’d told himself to get here.

Forty-seven ways he could fail.

Forty-seven pieces of the boy he used to be, scattered across a battlefield.

He counted.

And tried not to think about Minhyuk’s face when he’d said, “I hate you.”

Tried not to think about Wonho’s devastating sadness.

Tried not to think about Jinyoung’s body, lifeless on the stones.

He counted.

And wondered if, when this was over, there would be anything left of him at all.

-----

At Hogwarts, the transformation was immediate and brutal.

Within a week, the castle had become a fortress. The wards were reinforced, visible even in daylight—a shimmering barrier of golden light. Professors patrolled in shifts. Students moved in groups, never alone.

Classes continued, but they were different. Defense Against the Dark Arts became combat training. Charms focused on shields and barriers. Even Transfiguration turned tactical.

Parents arrived daily to pull their children out. The Hogwarts Express ran special schedules, ferrying frightened students home.

By the end of the month, the school was half empty.

The ones who remained were different. Harder. They’d all lost someone—friends, family, innocence. They’d all chosen to stay when they could have left.

They were no longer students.

They were soldiers.

In the Room of Requirement, Wonho’s defense cell trained every night. What had started as casual practice had become a militia. Twenty students now, working in coordinated units. Learning spells that weren’t in textbooks. Preparing for war.

Minhyuk was among the most dedicated. He trained until his hands bled, until he could barely stand. Kihyun stayed beside him, steady and watchful.

Jooheon and Changkyun had become inseparable—fighting together, moving like they shared a single mind.

Shownu led the defensive formations, solid and unshakable.

And Wonho—

Wonho held them together. Trained them. Protected them. Carried the weight of leadership like he’d been born for it.

One night, after particularly brutal training, Wonho stood looking out at his assembled fighters. They were exhausted, bruised, determined.

“This is it,” he said quietly. “The final act is beginning. Voldemort is coming. Maybe not today, maybe not next week. But soon. And when he does, we’ll be ready.”

Around the room, heads nodded. Wands were gripped tighter.

“We fight,” Wonho said. “Not for glory. Not for victory. But for each other. For the people we’ve lost. For the chance that maybe—*maybe*—we can make sure no one else has to die.”

“We fight,” Minhyuk echoed.

And one by one, the others joined in. A chorus of voices, determined and unafraid.

“We fight.”

“We fight.”

“We fight.”

The war was coming.

And they would be ready.

Even if it killed them.

Even if they all burned.

They would fight.

Because the alternative—

The alternative was unthinkable.

And they’d already lost too much to give up now.

Chapter Text

## Chapter Forty-Six: The Prodigal’s Return

The announcement came at breakfast.

Students filled the Great Hall—fewer than before, but still enough to create noise, movement, the illusion of normalcy. They were eating, talking, pretending the war wasn’t happening just beyond the castle walls.

Then Dumbledore stood.

The hall went silent immediately. These days, when the Headmaster stood, it meant news. And news was rarely good.

“I have an announcement,” Dumbledore said, his voice calm but carrying. “A student has requested permission to return to Hogwarts. After careful consideration, I have granted this request—conditionally.”

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Students exchanged confused glances. Who would be returning now, in the middle of a war?

Dumbledore gestured toward the entrance. “Please welcome back Mr. Hyungwon Gaunt.”

The doors opened.

Hyungwon walked in.

-----

For a moment, the hall was frozen in shocked silence.

Then it exploded.

“Are you INSANE?!”

“He’s a Death Eater!”

“He left us to die!”

Students shot to their feet. Wands appeared. Voices overlapped in fury, fear, disbelief. Professors moved to contain the chaos, but even they looked uncertain.

Hyungwon kept walking. Slow, measured steps down the center aisle between the house tables. His eyes were fixed on the floor. His hands were empty, held loosely at his sides where everyone could see them. He wore simple robes—no house colors, no insignia. Nothing that marked him as belonging anywhere.

He looked—

Small. Breakable. Nothing like the figure who’d stood at Voldemort’s right hand three weeks ago.

At the Slytherin table, Minhyuk went completely rigid.

His face drained of color. His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles went white. He stared at Hyungwon with an expression somewhere between murder and devastation.

Kihyun’s hand immediately found his arm. “Don’t.”

“He’s here.” Minhyuk’s voice was barely audible. “He’s *here*. After everything—”

“I know.” Kihyun’s grip tightened. “But you can’t—not here. Not now.”

Minhyuk looked like he was going to stand anyway. Kihyun moved closer, his other hand coming to Minhyuk’s shoulder, physically holding him in place.

Across the hall at the Hufflepuff table, Wonho had risen to his feet without realizing it.

His face was a storm of emotions—hope, fury, confusion, something that looked dangerously like relief. His hands gripped the edge of the table hard enough to hurt.

Jooheon touched his arm. “Wonho—”

“I know.” Wonho’s voice was hoarse. “I know.”

But he couldn’t look away. Couldn’t process what he was seeing. Hyungwon—here, walking through the Great Hall like a ghost returning to haunt the living.

-----

Hyungwon reached the front of the hall. Stopped ten feet from the staff table.

And knelt.

The gesture was deliberate, public, humiliating. He went down on both knees, head bowed, hands open and empty at his sides.

The hall went silent again. This was something else. This was—

Surrender.

“Professor Dumbledore.” Hyungwon’s voice was quiet but clear in the silence. “I was wrong. I made terrible choices. I hurt people I cared about. I abandoned my friends when they needed me most.”

He kept his eyes down. “I was manipulated. I was scared. But those aren’t excuses. I did what I did. And I have to live with that.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower. “I want to make amends. I want to fight on the right side. I want—” He stopped. Started again. “I have nowhere else to go. If you’ll have me, I want to come back.”

The hall held its breath.

Dumbledore studied Hyungwon for a long moment. His expression was unreadable—neither kind nor cruel, just thoughtful. Assessing.

Finally, he spoke. “Do you truly wish to return, Mr. Gaunt? Not because you have nowhere else to go, but because you believe this is where you should be?”

Hyungwon’s hands trembled slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“You understand that trust, once broken, is not easily rebuilt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You understand that there will be consequences. Restrictions. Monitoring. Probation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dumbledore was silent for another moment. Then he nodded once. “Very well. You may return to Hogwarts. However, you will be under house arrest except for classes and meals. Your movements will be monitored at all times. You will report to me weekly. And if you give me any reason—*any* reason—to doubt your intentions, you will be removed immediately. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Hyungwon’s voice was steady despite the trembling in his hands. “Thank you, sir.”

“You may sit. At your house table.”

Hyungwon stood slowly. He walked to the Slytherin table—the only table with empty seats, given how many Slytherins had left or been pulled by their families.

He sat at the far end. Alone. No one moved to sit near him.

Minhyuk stared at him from five seats away. His face was white, his jaw locked, his entire body vibrating with barely controlled fury.

Kihyun’s hand never left his arm.

-----

Breakfast continued, but the atmosphere was poisoned. No one could focus on food or conversation. Everyone was too busy watching Hyungwon—waiting for him to do something, reveal his true purpose, prove he was still the enemy.

Hyungwon kept his eyes on his plate. Didn’t eat. Didn’t look up. Just sat there, still and silent, like he was trying to take up as little space as possible.

At the Hufflepuff table, Wonho finally sat down. His hands were still shaking.

“You okay?” Changkyun asked quietly.

“No.” Wonho’s voice was flat. “But I don’t think any of us are.”

Jooheon leaned closer. “You think he’s telling the truth? About wanting to make amends?”

“I don’t know.” Wonho couldn’t stop looking at Hyungwon’s bowed head, his tense shoulders. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

Shownu, practical as always: “We keep an eye on him. Trust nothing. Verify everything.”

They all nodded. But Wonho’s eyes never left Hyungwon.

-----

Classes that day were tense and awkward.

Hyungwon attended, as required. He sat in the back of every classroom, didn’t speak unless directly called on, and left immediately when dismissed. A professor shadowed him between classes—McGonagall, then Flitwick, then Snape, rotating shifts.

Students stared. Whispered. Some spat insults as he passed. Hyungwon absorbed it all with a blank face, never responding.

In Defense Against the Dark Arts, he ended up three seats from Wonho. They didn’t look at each other. The air between them was thick with history and hurt.

In Potions, Minhyuk’s cauldron exploded when Hyungwon entered the classroom. Snape vanished the mess with a flick of his wand and a hard look at Minhyuk, but said nothing.

By dinner, the entire castle was buzzing with speculation, anger, confusion.

Hyungwon sat alone at the Slytherin table again. Ate a few bites of food mechanically. Stared at nothing.

He looked—

Exhausted. Hollow. Like a puppet going through the motions.

Minhyuk watched him from across the table. His expression was unreadable now, fury buried beneath something colder. More dangerous.

Kihyun murmured, “You’re going to talk to him, aren’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat.

“Want me to come?”

“No.” Minhyuk stood. “I need to do this alone.”

-----

Minhyuk found Hyungwon after curfew, in a deserted corridor near the dungeons.

Hyungwon was returning to the Slytherin dorms, shadowed by a professor who hung back at a discreet distance. When he saw Minhyuk waiting, he stopped.

The professor—Professor Flitwick—hesitated. “Mr. Lee, it’s after curfew—”

“I just need five minutes,” Minhyuk said, his voice tight but controlled. “Please.”

Flitwick looked between them. Then nodded slowly. “Five minutes. I’ll be at the end of the hall.” He retreated but remained visible, watchful.

Minhyuk waited until they had the illusion of privacy. Then he moved.

Fast. Brutal. He grabbed Hyungwon by the front of his robes and slammed him against the stone wall. Not hard enough to injure. Hard enough to hurt.

“What the *fuck* are you doing here?”

Hyungwon didn’t fight back. Didn’t even flinch. He just looked at Minhyuk with those empty eyes. “I told you. I want to make amends.”

“Bullshit.” Minhyuk’s voice was low, dangerous. “You don’t do anything without a reason. You don’t make grand gestures. You don’t kneel in the Great Hall and beg forgiveness unless there’s something in it for you.”

Hyungwon said nothing.

Minhyuk shook him slightly. “You’re lying. You’re always lying. So tell me—what does *he* want? What’s the plan? Are you here to spy? To sabotage? To kill Dumbledore in his sleep?”

“No.” Hyungwon’s voice was hollow. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Minhyuk leaned in closer, his face inches from Hyungwon’s. “Because from where I’m standing, you look like exactly what you are—a Death Eater playing dress-up as a repentant student.”

Something flickered in Hyungwon’s eyes. Something real, beneath the emptiness. Pain. Regret. Fear.

“I can’t tell you,” he said quietly.

“Can’t or won’t?”

Silence.

Hyungwon’s jaw was tight. His hands were clenched at his sides. But he didn’t speak.

Minhyuk stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed—bitter, broken. “You know what the worst part is? Part of me actually hoped you were telling the truth. That you’d realized what you’d done. That you wanted to come back and fix it.”

His grip loosened slightly. “But you can’t even give me that, can you? You can’t even pretend well enough to make me believe it.”

“Minhyuk—”

“No.” Minhyuk released him, stepping back like Hyungwon had burned him. “You don’t get to say my name. You don’t get to look at me with those sad eyes and act like you care. You lost that right when you left us to die.”

Hyungwon’s face crumpled for just a second. Then it smoothed back to blank. “I know.”

“Jinyoung is dead because of you.”

“I know.”

“Kihyun almost died because of you.”

“I know.”

“And you stand there and say ‘I can’t tell you’ like that makes it okay?” Minhyuk’s voice rose. “Like I’m supposed to just accept that you’re here, walking the same halls, breathing the same air, and trust that you’re on our side now?”

“I’m not asking you to trust me,” Hyungwon said quietly. “I know I don’t deserve that.”

“You’re right. You don’t.” Minhyuk’s voice dropped to something cold and final. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay away from me. You’re going to stay away from Kihyun. You’re going to stay away from Wonho and Jooheon and Changkyun and everyone else you pretended to care about.”

He stepped closer again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because if you come near any of us—if you so much as look at us wrong—I will end you myself. Dumbledore’s protection or not. Consequences be damned. Do you understand me?”

Hyungwon met his eyes. Held his gaze. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Minhyuk turned and walked away without looking back.

Hyungwon stayed against the wall, breathing hard, hands shaking.

Professor Flitwick approached quietly. “Are you alright, Mr. Gaunt?”

Hyungwon nodded. Didn’t speak. Didn’t trust his voice.

“Come. It’s time to return to your dormitory.”

Hyungwon followed him in silence, his mind already shifting gears. Processing. Planning.

He’d expected that confrontation. Had prepared for it. Minhyuk’s rage was understandable, even deserved.

But it didn’t change what he had to do.

-----

That night, after curfew, after the castle had gone silent, Hyungwon lay in his bed in the Slytherin dormitory.

The room was empty except for him. All the other beds were vacant, stripped bare. He was alone.

He stared at the ceiling. Counted the cracks.

Forty-seven. Always forty-seven.

Then he rose. Quietly. Carefully.

He pulled out a piece of parchment from beneath his pillow—a map he’d been given before returning. A map of the castle’s oldest foundations, marked with Voldemort’s elegant, spidery handwriting.

*The second piece lies in the deepest foundation, where the original wards were set. Bring it to me.*

Hyungwon studied the map. Traced the route with his finger. Memorized it.

He would need access to the lower levels. Would need to avoid the professors monitoring him. Would need to move in the small windows of time when he was unobserved.

It was possible. Barely. But possible.

He folded the map carefully and tucked it back beneath his pillow.

Then he lay down and stared at the ceiling again.

Forty-seven cracks.

Forty-seven days until the next full moon, when Voldemort expected results.

Forty-seven reasons this plan could fail.

He closed his eyes. Tried to sleep.

Failed.

All he could see was Minhyuk’s face—the fury, the betrayal, the cold finality when he’d said, “Stay away from me.”

All he could hear was Wonho’s voice from weeks ago: “I believed you.”

All he could feel was the weight of the choices he’d made, the bridges he’d burned, the people he’d destroyed.

But he couldn’t stop now.

He’d come too far. Sacrificed too much.

He had to see this through.

Even if it killed him.

Even if it killed them all.

Hyungwon opened his eyes and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.

And began to plan.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore summoned Wonho to his office the morning after Hyungwon’s return.

Wonho climbed the spiral staircase with growing dread. He’d barely slept, his mind spinning with the impossibility of Hyungwon being back, walking the same corridors, breathing the same air.

The office was warm, cluttered with silver instruments and sleeping portraits. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, Fawkes perched on the stand beside him.

“Sit, please, Mr. Shin.”

Wonho sat. Waited.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his expression thoughtful. “I need your help with Mr. Gaunt.”

Wonho’s stomach dropped. “Sir?”

“Hyungwon requires supervision. Guidance. Someone who can keep him close, observe his behavior, report anything suspicious.” Dumbledore’s eyes were sharp behind his half-moon spectacles. “Someone he trusts. Or trusted, once.”

“No.” The word came out harder than Wonho intended. “Sir, with all due respect—no. I can’t.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Wonho’s hands clenched in his lap. “He betrayed us. Left us to die. I don’t trust him. I don’t—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I can’t be around him without wanting to—”

“Without wanting to what, Mr. Shin?” Dumbledore’s voice was gentle. “Hit him? Curse him? Or perhaps… forgive him?”

Wonho said nothing.

“I understand this is difficult,” Dumbledore continued. “But you are uniquely positioned to help. Hyungwon may have betrayed you, but I believe—and I think you believe as well—that some part of him still cares. That connection could be valuable. Could even save lives.”

“Or get me killed.”

“Perhaps.” Dumbledore didn’t deny it. “But I trust your judgment, Mr. Shin. If at any point you feel unsafe or compromised, you will tell me immediately. Agreed?”

Wonho wanted to refuse. Wanted to walk out of this office and never think about Hyungwon Gaunt again.

But he couldn’t.

Because Dumbledore was right. Part of him still cared. And that part was stronger than his anger.

“Fine,” Wonho said quietly. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Dumbledore’s expression softened slightly. “For what it’s worth, I believe you may be the only person who can reach him. If there’s anything left to reach.”

-----

The arrangement began immediately.

Wonho was assigned to shadow Hyungwon between classes, sit with him during study periods, monitor his movements during free time. They were together for hours every day—forced proximity that made Wonho’s chest tight and his hands shake.

Hyungwon accepted it without comment. He was perfectly polite, perfectly controlled. He answered when spoken to, followed directions, never pushed boundaries.

It was unbearable.

They shared a table in Charms. Sat three seats apart in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Studied in the library under the watchful eyes of Madam Pince.

The silences stretched long and awkward. Neither of them knew what to say. Too much history, too much hurt.

But sometimes—sometimes Wonho would catch Hyungwon looking at him. Just for a second, before he looked away. And in those moments, Wonho saw something beneath the careful blankness.

Pain. Regret. Longing.

Or maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see.

In the greenhouse one afternoon, they worked side by side repotting Mandrakes. Their hands moved carefully, methodically. They didn’t speak.

But Wonho remembered the last time they’d been here together. Years ago. Before everything fell apart. When Hyungwon had almost smiled at one of his terrible jokes. When the world had felt smaller, safer.

“Do you remember—” Wonho started, then stopped.

Hyungwon’s hands stilled. “Remember what?”

“Nothing.” Wonho focused on his Mandrake. “Forget it.”

Silence.

Then Hyungwon, so quietly Wonho almost didn’t hear: “I remember everything.”

Wonho’s breath caught. He looked up. But Hyungwon’s face was blank again, his attention fixed on his work.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the class.

-----

A week passed. Then two.

The castle was tense, watching, waiting for Hyungwon to reveal his true purpose. But he did nothing suspicious. Attended classes. Studied. Kept his head down.

Minhyuk watched from a distance, his expression cold and unreadable. He and Kihyun were inseparable now—always together, always touching, like they needed the physical contact to remember they were alive.

Wonho reported to Dumbledore weekly. “Nothing to report, sir. He’s… compliant.”

“And you believe that’s genuine?”

Wonho hesitated. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

Dumbledore studied him. “Keep watching, Mr. Shin. The truth will reveal itself.”

-----

Late one night, three weeks after Hyungwon’s return, Wonho found him in the library.

It was past curfew. Wonho had permission to move freely—part of his monitoring duties. He’d been checking Hyungwon’s usual routes when he spotted him tucked in a corner between towering shelves, surrounded by books.

Wonho approached quietly. “You’re supposed to be in your dormitory.”

Hyungwon didn’t look up. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.” Hyungwon closed the book he’d been reading. “I’ll go.”

But he didn’t move.

Wonho stood there, torn between enforcing the rules and… something else. Something that made him pull out the chair across from Hyungwon and sit down.

“What are you reading?”

Hyungwon glanced at the book’s cover. “Defensive wards. Structure and theory.”

“Homework?”

“Something like that.”

Silence stretched. The library was quiet, empty except for them. Moonlight filtered through the high windows, casting silver shadows across the tables.

Finally, Wonho spoke. “Why did you really come back?”

Hyungwon’s hands stilled on the book. “I told you—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Wonho’s voice was quiet but firm. “Not now. Not after everything. I deserve the truth.”

Hyungwon looked up. Met his eyes. For a long moment, they just stared at each other.

Then Hyungwon’s mask cracked.

“Because I had no choice.” His voice was raw, stripped bare. “Because he owns me. Because I’m trapped and there’s no way out and I—” He stopped. His hands were shaking. “I can’t escape him. Even if I wanted to. He’s in my head, Wonho. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. He’s there.”

Wonho’s chest tightened. “Hyungwon—”

“I made my choice.” Hyungwon’s voice was hollow again. “I chose him. I chose power. I thought—I thought it would make me safe. Strong. But all it did was trap me. And now I can’t get out. There’s no way out.”

Wonho reached across the table. His hand hovered over Hyungwon’s. Almost touching. Not quite.

“You could tell Dumbledore,” Wonho said quietly. “Everything. Whatever Voldemort sent you here to do. We could protect you.”

Hyungwon laughed—bitter, broken. “From Voldemort? No one can protect me. He’s the most powerful wizard alive. He’ll kill me. And if I run, he’ll kill everyone I—” He stopped. “I made my choice. I have to live with it.”

“Or die with it.”

Their eyes met. The air between them was charged, dangerous. Full of everything they’d never said, everything they’d lost.

Hyungwon stood abruptly. “I should go.”

But before he could move, Wonho’s hand shot out and caught his wrist.

“Wait.”

Hyungwon froze. Stared down at Wonho’s hand on his wrist—the first deliberate touch they’d shared in years.

“I still care about you.” Wonho’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Even though I shouldn’t. Even though you broke us. Even though I know I’m an idiot for saying this—I still care.”

Hyungwon’s breath stuttered. His eyes were too bright. “Wonho—”

“I don’t forgive you,” Wonho continued. “I don’t trust you. But I can’t stop—” He stopped. His grip on Hyungwon’s wrist tightened slightly. “I don’t know how to stop.”

For a moment, Hyungwon looked like he might break completely. Like he might collapse, confess everything, let Wonho carry the weight.

Then his face smoothed back to blank. Carefully empty.

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

He pulled his wrist free—gently, but firmly—and walked away.

Wonho sat alone in the library, hands shaking, staring at the empty chair across from him.

And wondered how much longer he could keep doing this.

-----

Meanwhile, in a different part of the castle, Minhyuk and Kihyun sat in their shared room trying to study.

It wasn’t working.

Minhyuk had been staring at the same page of his Transfiguration textbook for twenty minutes. The words blurred together, meaningless. All he could think about was Hyungwon walking the halls, sitting in classes, existing in the same space.

“I can’t stop thinking about him being here,” Minhyuk said suddenly. “Walking these halls. Breathing the same air.”

Kihyun looked up from his own book. “I know.”

“I want to kill him.” Minhyuk’s voice was tight. “I want to—” He stopped. His voice broke. “Why did he come back, Kihyun? What’s he playing at?”

“I don’t know.” Kihyun set his book aside. “But obsessing about it won’t help.”

“I can’t help it.” Minhyuk’s hands clenched into fists. “Every time I see him, I remember Jinyoung. I remember you bleeding out in my arms. I remember—”

Kihyun crossed the space between them in two strides. He grabbed Minhyuk’s face and kissed him hard.

Minhyuk gasped against his mouth, surprised, but kissed back immediately. His hands came up to Kihyun’s waist, pulling him closer.

“Don’t think about him,” Kihyun murmured against his lips. “Think about me. Right here. Right now.”

They fell into each other—desperate, needing distraction, needing proof they were still alive. Kihyun’s hands were in Minhyuk’s hair, Minhyuk’s fingers digging into Kihyun’s hips.

They moved to the bed in a tangle of limbs and breathless kisses. Robes shed, hands exploring familiar territory, mouths trailing heat across skin.

This was real. This was solid. This was something Hyungwon hadn’t destroyed.

After, they lay tangled together, breathing hard. Kihyun’s head was on Minhyuk’s chest, Minhyuk’s arm wrapped around him, holding him close.

“Promise me you won’t die,” Minhyuk said quietly into the darkness.

Kihyun lifted his head. Met Minhyuk’s eyes. “I promise. If you promise the same.”

“Deal.”

They both knew it was a lie. In a war, promises like that were impossible to keep.

But they held each other anyway.

Because right now, in this moment, they were alive. Together. And that had to be enough.

Kihyun pressed a kiss to Minhyuk’s jaw. “We’re going to survive this.”

“Together,” Minhyuk agreed.

“Together.”

They fell asleep wrapped around each other, holding on like they were each other’s anchor in a storm.

And tried not to think about how many people they’d lost already.

How many more they might lose before this was over.

-----

Three floors below, in the castle’s oldest foundations, Hyungwon stood in a corridor that hadn’t been used in decades.

He’d slipped away during a narrow window—late enough that most professors were off-duty, early enough that morning patrols hadn’t started. It had taken him three weeks to map these routes, memorize patrol schedules, find the gaps.

Now he stood before an ancient door, half-hidden behind a tapestry. The stone around it was darker than the rest, carved with runes so old they’d worn almost smooth.

Hyungwon pulled out his wand. Whispered the revealing spell Voldemort had taught him.

The runes flared to life—burning red, angry, dangerous.

Blood wards.

He’d expected that. But seeing them in person, feeling the power radiating off them, made his stomach twist.

He couldn’t break these alone. They required multiple casters, coordinated casting, significant power.

He’d need help.

He’d need—

His mind supplied the answer immediately, unwanted: *Minhyuk. Kihyun. Wonho.*

The people he’d betrayed. The people who hated him. The people who would never, ever help him.

Unless—

Unless he told them the truth.

Unless he stopped lying and actually asked for help.

Unless he was willing to risk everything on the slim chance they might believe him.

Hyungwon stared at the wards for a long moment. Then he turned and walked away, mind spinning with impossible calculations.

He had forty-one days until the full moon.

Forty-one days to figure out how to break blood wards that required help he couldn’t ask for.

Forty-one days to decide if he was going to keep lying.

Or finally tell the truth.

Even if the truth destroyed him.

Even if they all burned.

He counted his steps back to the Slytherin dormitory.

Forty-seven.

Always forty-seven.

Some things never changed.

Chapter Text

Hyungwon spent three days staring at the blood wards, trying to find a solution that didn’t exist.

He’d studied every text on ward-breaking in the Restricted Section. Consulted ancient tomes on blood magic. Even risked sneaking into Snape’s private stores for rare potion ingredients that might weaken the barriers.

Nothing worked.

The wards were old—older than Hogwarts itself, laid down when the castle’s foundations were first set. They required multiple casters working in perfect synchronization. Minimum three, ideally four. All contributing their magical signatures simultaneously to unravel the complex weave.

There was no way around it.

He needed help.

He sat in the empty Slytherin common room at two in the morning, staring at nothing. His mind ran through scenarios, calculations, probabilities.

Option one: Trick them into helping. Lead them down to the chamber under false pretenses, get them to cast the spell, then take the Horcrux before they realized what they’d done. Betray them. Again.

It would work. Probably. But Wonho would never forgive him. Minhyuk would kill him. And Hyungwon would have to live with knowing he’d destroyed the last shred of trust anyone had ever placed in him.

Option two: Tell the truth. Confess everything. Ask for help and hope—against all logic, all evidence—that they might believe him.

It was impossible. They had no reason to trust him. Every reason to assume he was lying.

But.

*But.*

If he told the truth, and they helped, and they destroyed the Horcrux—

They could actually hurt Voldemort. Weaken him. Do something real instead of just surviving.

And maybe—maybe—Hyungwon could prove he wasn’t completely lost.

He sat in the dark, counting cracks in the ceiling that weren’t there.

Forty-seven.

Forty-seven reasons this would fail.

Forty-seven ways he could lose everything.

But he’d already lost everything.

What did he have left to lose?

-----

Hyungwon found Wonho the next evening after dinner, in a corridor near the library.

“I need to show you something.”

Wonho tensed immediately. They’d barely spoken since the library conversation—too raw, too complicated. “What?”

“Please.” Hyungwon’s voice was quiet. “Just—come with me. Five minutes.”

Wonho studied him for a long moment. Then nodded slowly. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Hyungwon led him through the castle—down, always down. Through corridors that grew older, darker, less frequented. Past tapestries thick with dust and portraits whose subjects had long since abandoned their frames.

“Where are we going?” Wonho asked.

“You’ll see.”

They descended a final staircase into the oldest part of the castle. The air was thick here, cold, tasting of ancient stone and older magic.

Hyungwon stopped before the hidden door. Pulled back the tapestry. Cast the revealing spell.

The blood wards flared to life—burning red runes, angry and powerful.

Wonho sucked in a breath. “What is this?”

“The entrance to the oldest foundation chamber.” Hyungwon’s voice was steady, clinical. “Built when the castle was first raised. Protected by blood wards keyed to the Founders.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

Hyungwon turned to face him. Met his eyes. “Because there’s a Horcrux inside. Voldemort sent me to retrieve it.”

Wonho went very still. His hand moved to his wand.

“Wait.” Hyungwon held up his hands, showing he was unarmed. “Just—listen. Please.”

“You’re admitting you came here to steal a Horcrux for Voldemort.” Wonho’s voice was flat, dangerous. “You’re asking me to help you betray everyone?”

“No.” Hyungwon took a breath. “I’m asking you to help me *destroy* it.”

Silence.

Wonho stared at him like he’d spoken a foreign language. “What?”

“I can’t break these wards alone. They require multiple casters—three, maybe four, working together.” Hyungwon’s hands clenched at his sides. “I need help. Your help. Minhyuk’s, Kihyun’s. Maybe others.”

“To steal a Horcrux.”

“To destroy it.” Hyungwon’s voice grew urgent. “Before Voldemort realizes what I’m doing. If we get it first—if we destroy it before he knows—we can actually hurt him. Weaken him. That’s one less piece of his soul anchoring him to life.”

Wonho’s jaw was tight. “Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t.” Hyungwon’s laugh was bitter. “I’ve lied to you. Betrayed you. Left you to die. You have every reason to think this is another trick.”

“Then why tell me?”

Hyungwon’s mask cracked. His voice broke. “Because I’m tired. I’m so tired of lying and pretending and being what he wants me to be. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—”

He stopped. Took a shaky breath. “I thought I could play both sides. Pretend to work for him while secretly helping you. But I can’t. He’s in my head, Wonho. Every night. I can’t escape him. The only way to fight him is to actually *fight* him. And I can’t do that alone.”

His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Please. I’m asking you to trust me. One last time. I know I don’t deserve it. I know I’ve destroyed any right to ask. But I’m asking anyway.”

Their eyes met. Wonho’s expression was unreadable—anger, suspicion, and beneath it all, something that looked like hope.

“If you’re lying—”

“I know.” Hyungwon’s voice was steady. “If I’m lying, you should kill me. I’d deserve it.”

Wonho stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned and walked away without a word.

Hyungwon’s heart sank. He’d failed. Of course he’d failed.

Then Wonho’s voice drifted back: “I need to talk to the others. Stay here.”

-----

An hour later, Wonho returned with Minhyuk, Kihyun, Jooheon, Changkyun, and Shownu.

They crowded into the narrow corridor. Minhyuk’s expression was thunderous. Kihyun’s face was carefully neutral. The others looked wary, suspicious.

Wonho had filled them in on the walk down. Now they stood staring at the blood wards, at Hyungwon, trying to process.

“Absolutely fucking not.” Minhyuk’s voice was cold, final.

“Minhyuk—” Wonho started.

“No.” Minhyuk turned on him. “Are you insane? He admits he came here to steal a Horcrux for Voldemort, and you want to *help* him?”

“If he’s telling the truth,” Wonho said carefully, “we can destroy it. That’s huge. That’s—”

“And if he’s lying—which he is—we hand Voldemort exactly what he wants.” Minhyuk’s hands were clenched into fists. “We help him break the wards, and the second we get the Horcrux, he takes it and runs. And we’ve just given the most powerful dark wizard in history another piece of his fractured soul.”

“I won’t run.” Hyungwon’s voice was quiet but firm. “I give you my word.”

Minhyuk laughed—harsh, bitter. “Your word? Your *word*? You’ve broken every promise you’ve ever made. Why the fuck would we believe you now?”

Hyungwon flinched but didn’t argue.

Kihyun stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. “We could set a trap. Go in prepared. If he betrays us, we’re ready to respond. We destroy him before he can escape with the Horcrux.”

“That’s still trusting him not to have backup,” Jooheon pointed out. “Death Eaters waiting in the wings.”

“I came alone,” Hyungwon said. “Voldemort doesn’t know I’ve told you. He thinks I’m working on breaking the wards myself. If he knew I’d revealed the location to you, he’d kill me.”

“Maybe he should,” Minhyuk muttered.

“Minhyuk.” Kihyun’s hand found his arm, steadying. “Let’s think this through.”

“There’s nothing to think through!” Minhyuk’s voice rose. “He’s lying. He’s always lying. This is what he does—he gets close, makes us believe, then stabs us in the back. I’m not falling for it again.”

“It’s risky as hell,” Jooheon admitted, looking at the others. “But if there’s even a chance he’s telling the truth…”

“Everything is risky now,” Shownu said quietly. He’d been silent until now, watching. “We’re in a war. Every choice is a gamble. The question is: which risk is worth taking?”

Changkyun crossed his arms. “I say we do it. But we don’t trust him. We just… use him back. He wants help breaking the wards? Fine. We help. But the second we have the Horcrux, we take it. Not him. Us. And if he tries anything—” His hand moved to his wand. “We end it.”

They all looked at Wonho. Somehow, without anyone saying it, this had become his call to make.

Wonho looked at Hyungwon. Really looked at him. Saw the exhaustion, the fear, the desperate hope.

And remembered the boy in the greenhouse years ago, who’d almost smiled at a terrible joke about geese in hats.

“We do it,” Wonho said finally. “Tomorrow night. We go in prepared. We get the Horcrux. We destroy it.” He turned to Hyungwon. “But if you’re lying—if this is a trap—I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”

Hyungwon nodded. His voice was hoarse. “I understand. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Wonho’s expression was hard. “You haven’t earned that.”

Minhyuk stepped forward until he was inches from Hyungwon’s face. “I’m coming too. Because when you betray us—and you will—I want to be the one who ends you.”

Hyungwon met his eyes steadily. “If I betray you, I hope you do.”

Minhyuk’s jaw worked. Then he turned away sharply. “This is a mistake. We’re all going to die because of him.”

“Maybe,” Kihyun said quietly, his hand finding Minhyuk’s again. “But at least we’ll die doing something.”

-----

They spent the next day preparing.

Gathering supplies: basilisk venom (retrieved carefully from where the last Horcrux had been destroyed), protective enchantments, emergency Portkeys in case everything went wrong.

They trained in the Room of Requirement—practicing synchronized spellcasting, working on coordination, preparing for every scenario they could imagine.

Hyungwon taught them the ward-breaking spell. It was complex, requiring precise timing and significant magical output. They practiced until their hands cramped and their cores ached.

Minhyuk refused to speak to Hyungwon directly. Communicated only through the others. But his eyes never left Hyungwon, watching for any sign of betrayal.

Kihyun remained analytical, asking technical questions about the wards, the chamber, potential dangers.

Wonho was quiet, focused. He positioned himself as the coordinator, the one who would call the timing during the actual casting.

As night fell, they gathered one final time.

“Last chance to back out,” Wonho said, looking around at his friends. “Anyone?”

Silence. No one moved.

“Alright.” Wonho took a breath. “We go at midnight. Rest until then if you can.”

None of them rested.

Jooheon and Changkyun sat together in silence, holding hands, trying not to think about everything that could go wrong.

Shownu checked and rechecked his emergency supplies, methodical and thorough.

Minhyuk paced. Kihyun watched him, eventually pulling him close. They stood pressed together, not speaking, just holding on.

Wonho sat in the common room, staring at nothing, wondering if he’d just sentenced them all to death.

And Hyungwon—

Hyungwon lay in his empty dormitory, counting cracks in the ceiling.

Forty-seven.

This was it. The gambit. The impossible choice.

Tomorrow he would either prove himself.

Or destroy everything.

There was no middle ground anymore.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to sleep.

Failed.

At 11:45, they met in the corridor outside the Great Hall.

Six of them. Armed. Determined. Terrified.

Wonho looked around at each face. “Everyone ready?”

Nods all around. Grim determination.

“Then let’s go.”

They descended into the depths of the castle.

Into the dark.

Into whatever came next.

Together.

Chapter Text

Midnight found six figures descending into the bowels of Hogwarts.

Hyungwon led. Wonho stayed close behind him, wand drawn, ready to curse him at the first sign of betrayal. Minhyuk and Kihyun followed, moving in perfect sync. Shownu brought up the rear with Jooheon, their footsteps echoing in the ancient corridors.

No one spoke.

The air grew colder as they descended. Thicker. The magical pressure increased with every step down, pressing against their skin like a physical weight. The torches burning along the walls flickered green instead of orange—old magic, wild magic, the kind that predated rules and control.

“How much farther?” Wonho asked quietly.

“Two more levels.” Hyungwon’s voice was steady, clinical. “The chamber sits at the base of the eastern foundation pillar. Where the original wards were anchored.”

They continued down. The stairs were worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, uneven and treacherous. Kihyun’s hand found Minhyuk’s in the darkness. Neither acknowledged it, but neither let go.

Finally, they reached the corridor Hyungwon had shown Wonho. The hidden door behind the tapestry. The blood wards waiting, dormant and deadly.

Hyungwon pulled back the tapestry and cast the revealing spell.

The runes flared to life—burning red, angry, pulsing with malevolent energy. The temperature dropped another ten degrees. Their breath misted in the air.

“Alright.” Wonho positioned himself to Hyungwon’s left. “Kihyun, Minhyuk—take positions. Shownu, Jooheon—watch the corridor behind us. Shout if anyone comes.”

They moved into formation. Kihyun and Minhyuk flanked Hyungwon’s right side, forming a triangle. Three primary casters. Wonho would coordinate timing.

“Everyone remember the casting sequence?” Hyungwon asked.

Nods all around. They’d practiced this for hours. Muscle memory now.

“On my mark,” Wonho said. “Three… two… one… *now*.”

They cast in perfect unison.

“*Finite Sanguinem!*”

The spell hit the wards like a battering ram. The runes screamed—a high, terrible sound that wasn’t quite physical. Blood magic resisted, fighting back, demanding payment.

Pain lanced through Hyungwon’s skull. He gasped, nearly dropping his wand, but forced himself to hold steady. Beside him, Kihyun’s nose started bleeding. Minhyuk’s face went white, teeth clenched against agony.

“Hold it!” Wonho shouted. “Don’t break the connection!”

They held. Pouring power into the spell, their magical cores burning with the effort. The wards fought back viciously, demanding blood for blood, pain for passage.

Kihyun’s legs started shaking. Minhyuk made a sound like he was being stabbed. Hyungwon’s vision went white at the edges.

But slowly—agonizingly slowly—the runes began to unravel.

Red light faded to orange. Orange to yellow. The screaming stopped.

And with a final flash of golden light, the wards shattered.

They all collapsed.

Gasping. Shaking. Kihyun wiped blood from his face with a trembling hand. Minhyuk was on his knees, breathing hard. Hyungwon’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Everyone okay?” Wonho’s voice was hoarse.

Shaky nods. Nothing broken. Nothing permanent.

“Then let’s move.” Wonho helped Minhyuk to his feet. “Before the wards reset.”

Hyungwon pushed open the door.

-----

The chamber beyond was ancient.

Stone walls carved with runes older than language. A vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. The air tasted like metal and dark magic—thick, oppressive, wrong in a way that made their skin crawl.

And in the center of the room, suspended in mid-air—

A locket.

It hung perfectly still, rotating slowly, surrounded by a nimbus of black smoke. Gold chain, emerald-encrusted surface, the serpent of Slytherin worked into the design.

“That’s it,” Hyungwon breathed.

They approached carefully. The locket radiated power—dark, corrupted, screaming silently with trapped malevolence.

“Don’t touch it directly,” Kihyun warned. “Horcruxes are dangerous. They corrupt, possess—”

But Hyungwon was already reaching out.

His fingers closed around the locket.

And he *screamed*.

-----

Visions flooded his mind. Not his memories—*Voldemort’s*.

A teenage boy with handsome features and cold eyes, murdering his Muggle father. Blood pooling on expensive carpet.

A woman begging for her life. Green light. Her body falling.

Dozens of murders. Hundreds. A soul torn apart deliberately, fractured by choice, each piece locked away for immortality.

And through it all—power. Terrible, seductive power. The promise of never dying, never being vulnerable, never being weak.

*You are mine,* Voldemort’s voice whispered through the visions. *You will always be mine. My son. My weapon. My—*

“HYUNGWON!”

Wonho grabbed him, yanked him backward. The locket fell from Hyungwon’s hand, still floating, still spinning.

Hyungwon collapsed against Wonho, gasping. His eyes were wild, unfocused. Blood trickled from his nose.

“What did you see?” Wonho demanded.

“Him.” Hyungwon’s voice was wrecked. “All of him. Every murder. Every—” He stopped, shuddering. “We need to destroy it. *Now*.”

Kihyun pulled out the warded containment box they’d prepared. Working quickly, carefully, he used levitation spells to guide the locket into the box without touching it. The moment the lid closed, the oppressive feeling in the chamber lessened slightly.

“Got it,” Kihyun said. “Let’s go.”

They turned toward the exit.

And froze.

-----

Death Eaters blocked the doorway.

Ten of them, masks gleaming white in the darkness. Wands raised. And at their center—

The Serpent.

The figure who’d led meetings at the manor. Who’d praised Hyungwon for his loyalty. Whose identity had always been hidden behind masks and shadows.

“Well done, Hyungwon.” The Serpent’s voice was smooth, pleased. “You’ve delivered them perfectly. The Dark Lord will be pleased.”

Minhyuk’s head snapped toward Hyungwon. “You fucking—”

But Hyungwon was already moving.

His wand came up—pointed not at his friends, but at the Death Eaters.

“*RUN!*”

He fired a blasting curse. It hit the wall beside the doorway, bringing down a shower of stone and dust. The Death Eaters scattered.

Chaos erupted.

“*TRAITOR!*” The Serpent’s voice was furious now.

Spells flew. The chamber became a war zone—light and sound and violence in the cramped space. Stone crumbled under the assault. Ancient pillars cracked.

Hyungwon fought beside Wonho and the others. Actually fought. Blocking curses, casting shields, firing stunning spells at the Death Eaters who’d once called him ally.

“You were supposed to deliver them!” The Serpent advanced, wand moving in complex patterns. A cutting curse flew at Hyungwon. He barely dodged.

“I changed my mind!” Hyungwon shouted back.

He cast a shield that caught three curses at once. His arm shook with the impact but held.

Minhyuk was beside him suddenly, firing curse after curse with brutal efficiency. He didn’t look at Hyungwon. Didn’t speak. But he was *there*, fighting alongside him.

Kihyun and Wonho worked together, coordinating defensive spells. Shownu protected Jooheon, who was firing from behind cover despite having no combat training.

They were outnumbered but fighting like they’d trained for this. Like they were one unit instead of six individuals.

Slowly—agonizingly—they pushed toward the exit.

A Death Eater went down, stunned. Another retreated, bleeding. The Serpent was screaming orders, but the chamber was too chaotic, too cramped for organized assault.

Then a curse got through.

It hit Jooheon’s shoulder. He cried out, stumbling.

“Jooheon!” Shownu was there immediately, catching him. “I’ve got you. Can you move?”

“Y-yeah.” Jooheon’s face was white with pain, but he nodded. “Go. Just go.”

Shownu half-carried him toward the exit. The others formed a defensive line, holding off the Death Eaters while they retreated.

One by one, they made it through the door.

Hyungwon went last. He cast a final blasting curse that brought down part of the ceiling, blocking the doorway with rubble. It wouldn’t hold long, but it might buy them minutes.

They ran.

-----

Through ancient corridors, up crumbling stairs, racing for the upper levels. Behind them, they could hear the Death Eaters breaking through, giving chase.

Alarms started blaring throughout the castle. The wards had detected the intrusion. Professors would be responding.

They burst into the main castle just as McGonagall and Snape arrived, wands drawn.

“Death Eaters in the foundations!” Wonho gasped. “At least ten—”

He didn’t have to say more. McGonagall’s expression hardened. “Get to the hospital wing. Now. We’ll handle this.”

More professors appeared—Flitwick, Sprout, even Dumbledore materializing from seemingly nowhere.

The Death Eaters emerged from the lower levels. Saw the professors. Hesitated.

The Serpent locked eyes with Hyungwon across the entrance hall.

Even through the mask, Hyungwon could feel the fury. The betrayal. The promise of retribution.

“He will kill you for this,” the Serpent hissed. “Slowly. Painfully. You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“I know exactly what I’ve done,” Hyungwon said, his voice hollow.

The Serpent raised a hand. The Death Eaters began Disapparating—one by one, retreating rather than facing Dumbledore and the assembled professors.

The Serpent went last, that masked face fixed on Hyungwon. “He’s coming for you. And when he does, no one will be able to save you.”

**CRACK.**

Gone.

-----

The entrance hall fell silent except for the sound of their ragged breathing.

Jooheon was slumped against Shownu, conscious but pale. Kihyun’s robes were splattered with blood—his own and possibly others’. Minhyuk looked ready to collapse. Wonho’s hands were still shaking.

And Hyungwon—

Hyungwon stood apart from them, isolated, staring at nothing.

Dumbledore approached. “Mr. Gaunt. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Kihyun stepped forward and handed over the warded box. “Slytherin’s locket, sir. It’s a Horcrux.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. He took the box carefully. “You have done something extraordinarily dangerous. And extraordinarily brave.”

He looked at Hyungwon specifically. “You chose. When it mattered most, you chose.”

Hyungwon couldn’t respond. His throat was too tight.

“Hospital wing,” McGonagall said briskly. “All of you. Now.”

They stumbled toward the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was already preparing beds, her face set in professional determination.

As Hyungwon passed Minhyuk, their eyes met.

Minhyuk didn’t speak. But something had shifted in his expression. Not forgiveness. Not trust.

But maybe—*maybe*—not quite hatred anymore either.

-----

Later that night, after wounds had been treated and potions administered, Wonho found Hyungwon sitting alone in the corridor outside the hospital wing.

“You didn’t run,” Wonho said quietly, sitting beside him.

“No.” Hyungwon’s voice was empty. “I didn’t.”

“You fought with us.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Hyungwon was silent for a long moment. Then: “Because I’m tired of being what he wants me to be. I’d rather die as myself than live as his weapon.”

Wonho studied him. “Voldemort knows now. He knows you betrayed him.”

“Yes.”

“He’s coming for you.”

“Yes.” Hyungwon looked at Wonho. His eyes were too bright, too hollow. “I know. And I’m—I’m terrified. But at least I chose this. At least I—” His voice broke. “At least I chose.”

Wonho reached out. Took Hyungwon’s hand.

They sat in silence, hands clasped, while the castle settled around them.

Inside the hospital wing, Kihyun held Minhyuk close. Shownu sat beside Jooheon’s bed. The locket sat in Dumbledore’s office, waiting to be destroyed.

They had the Horcrux.

But Voldemort knew.

And he was coming.

The final battle was no longer distant.

It was inevitable.

And none of them knew if they would survive it.

Chapter Text

Dawn found them assembled in Dumbledore’s office.

The six students sat in conjured chairs, exhausted and bandaged. Jooheon’s arm was in a sling. Kihyun had healing salve on the cuts across his face. They all looked like they’d been through war.

Because they had.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, McGonagall and Snape flanking him. And in the center of the desk, contained in a warded box that pulsed with barely-contained malevolence—

Slytherin’s locket.

The Horcrux.

Even through the containment wards, they could feel it. A wrongness in the air. A corruption that made their skin crawl and their magic recoil.

“You have done something extraordinarily dangerous,” Dumbledore said quietly, his gaze moving across each face. “And extraordinarily brave.”

His eyes settled on Hyungwon. “You have made your choice, Mr. Gaunt. When it mattered most, you chose. Voldemort will not forgive this betrayal. You understand what comes next?”

Hyungwon’s face was pale but steady. “Yes, sir.”

“He will come for you. Specifically, personally. He will want to punish you publicly, to make an example.” Dumbledore’s expression was grave. “And when he comes, he will bring his full force. Hogwarts will become a battlefield.”

“Then we must be ready,” McGonagall said, her voice sharp as steel. “Fortify the wards. Evacuate students who wish to leave. Prepare those who stay for combat.”

“Agreed.” Dumbledore looked at Snape. “Severus, you’ll need to—”

“I’m already working on it,” Snape said, his voice cold and efficient. “Supply lines, communication networks, emergency protocols. We have perhaps a week. Maybe less.”

Dumbledore nodded. Then he stood, moving to a cabinet behind his desk. He returned with a small vial of viscous, silver liquid.

Basilisk venom.

“We should destroy it now,” Dumbledore said. “Before Voldemort can attempt to reclaim it. Are you prepared?”

They all nodded. None of them felt prepared. But they nodded anyway.

-----

Dumbledore placed the locket on a clear section of desk and opened the containment box.

The moment the wards dropped, the temperature plummeted. The locket began to smoke, black tendrils curling from the emerald-encrusted surface. The serpent design seemed to move, writhing.

And then—

It screamed.

Not with sound, but with magic. A psychic assault that hit all of them simultaneously.

Visions exploded behind their eyes.

**Minhyuk** saw himself kneeling in Hogsmeade square, holding Jinyoung’s body. But this time, he looked up to see Kihyun falling beside him. Then Wonho. Then Hyungwon. One by one, everyone he cared about dying while he knelt helpless, unable to save any of them.

*You destroy everything you touch,* the locket whispered. *Everyone you love dies because of you.*

**Kihyun** saw Minhyuk bleeding out on stone floors, eyes glazing over, whispering, “You betrayed me. You were supposed to protect me. You lied.”

*Spy. Traitor. You’ve betrayed everyone. Your parents were right—you compromise every mission you touch.*

**Wonho** saw Hyungwon walking away into darkness, over and over. Each time Wonho called after him, reaching out. Each time Hyungwon kept walking. Never looking back. Choosing darkness. Choosing Voldemort. Choosing anything except Wonho.

*He will always leave you. You’re not enough to save him. You were never enough.*

**Hyungwon** saw himself sitting on a throne of bones, wearing a crown of dark magic. Voldemort’s hand on his shoulder, proud and possessive. Bodies at his feet—Wonho, Minhyuk, Kihyun, all the people he’d destroyed on his path to power.

*This is who you really are. My son. My weapon. You cannot escape your nature.*

**Jooheon** saw Changkyun dying, calling his name, reaching for him while Jooheon stood frozen, unable to move, unable to help.

**Shownu** saw the castle in ruins, everyone dead, and himself standing alone in the ashes, the last survivor of a war he’d failed to prevent.

The visions battered them, relentless and vicious. The locket was fighting, trying to break them, trying to make them stop.

“Now!” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the psychic assault.

Minhyuk lunged forward, grabbed the basilisk venom, and stabbed it down onto the locket.

The effect was immediate and catastrophic.

The locket *shrieked*—this time with actual sound, a high, terrible wail that made the windows rattle. Black smoke erupted from it, forming shapes—faces screaming, hands reaching, trying to claw their way free.

The visions intensified. The locket was dying and taking them all with it—

Then Minhyuk struck again. And again. Stabbing the venom-soaked fang into the golden surface over and over.

The locket cracked. Split. The serpent design fractured down the middle.

One final scream—

And it shattered.

Black smoke exploded outward, then dissipated like mist in sunlight. The psychic pressure vanished instantly. The temperature normalized. The sense of wrongness evaporated.

Silence.

The locket lay in pieces on Dumbledore’s desk. Just metal and gems now. Nothing more.

One Horcrux destroyed.

Six remained.

-----

That night, they gathered in the Room of Requirement.

The space had configured itself into something comfortable—soft chairs, a fireplace, warm lighting. A place to rest. To process. To try to put themselves back together.

They sat in silence for a long time. Too exhausted for words. Too traumatized for comfort.

Finally, Minhyuk spoke. He was looking at Hyungwon, his expression unreadable. “Why did you do it? Why help us?”

Hyungwon didn’t look up. His hands were clasped in his lap, white-knuckled. “Because I’m tired of being his weapon. I’d rather die as myself than live as his puppet.”

Long silence.

“We’re in this together now,” Wonho said quietly. “All of us. Whether we like it or not.”

Minhyuk didn’t agree. But he didn’t argue either. Just sat there, staring at the fire, processing.

Kihyun’s hand found his, squeezed gently. An anchor.

They stayed there for another hour. Not talking. Just—existing. In the same space. Alive.

Eventually, one by one, they left. Back to their dormitories. To try to sleep, though none of them expected to succeed.

Minhyuk stayed longest. And when he finally stood to leave, he paused at the door.

Hyungwon was still sitting there. Alone. Staring at nothing.

“Hyungwon.”

Hyungwon looked up, surprised.

“Come here.”

-----

They stood in the corridor outside the Room of Requirement. Alone. The castle was silent around them.

“I don’t forgive you.” Minhyuk’s voice was flat, but not cold. “I want you to know that. I don’t forgive you for leaving us. For Jinyoung. For any of it.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Hyungwon said quietly.

“But you saved us down there. You fought with us. You chose us over him.” Minhyuk’s jaw worked. “So I’m… I’m trying to understand.”

Hyungwon’s voice cracked. “I was scared. I’ve been scared since I was eleven years old. Since I found out who my father was, what he wanted from me. And I thought power would make me safe. That if I was strong enough, important enough, no one could hurt me. But it just made me more trapped.”

Minhyuk took a step closer. Then another. Until they were inches apart.

Dangerous proximity. Too close. The air between them charged with years of history—friendship, betrayal, want, loss.

“Do you regret it?” Minhyuk asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Every second of every day.”

They stared at each other. Hyungwon’s eyes were bright, too bright, like he was barely holding himself together. Minhyuk’s expression was raw, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed.

“I loved you,” Minhyuk said. “You know that, right? I fucking loved you.”

Hyungwon’s breath caught. “I know. I loved you too. I still—” He stopped. Couldn’t finish.

Minhyuk’s hand came up, hovering near Hyungwon’s face. Almost touching. Not quite. His fingers trembled.

For a moment, they both stood frozen. On the edge of something. Touch or retreat. Forgiveness or condemnation.

Then Minhyuk’s hand dropped.

“We can’t go back,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Too much has happened. Too many people have died. We can’t just—” He stopped. “We can’t pretend like everything’s fine.”

“I know,” Hyungwon repeated. His voice was hollow.

“But maybe…” Minhyuk took a breath. “Maybe we don’t have to be enemies.”

Hyungwon looked up, surprised.

“I don’t forgive you,” Minhyuk said again. “And I don’t trust you. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you chose us down there. You fought with us. You—” He stopped. “You proved something. I don’t know what yet. But something.”

Hyungwon nodded slowly. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t reconciliation. But it was—

Something.

A possibility. A crack in the wall. A chance.

“Thank you,” Hyungwon whispered.

Minhyuk nodded once. Then turned and walked away.

Hyungwon watched him go. Then he walked back to the Slytherin dormitories alone, his mind spinning, his chest tight with something that felt dangerously like hope.

-----

That night, lying in his empty dormitory, Hyungwon stared at the ceiling.

Counted cracks.

Forty-seven.

Always forty-seven.

Then—

A voice.

Not out loud. Inside his head. Cold. Familiar. Furious.

***“You will suffer for this betrayal.”***

Hyungwon went rigid. His hands clenched in the sheets.

Voldemort’s voice, clearer than it had ever been. Direct. Intentional.

***“You destroyed what was mine. You sided with my enemies. You made yourself my enemy.”***

Hyungwon couldn’t respond. Couldn’t even breathe.

***“I am coming for you, my son. And when I find you, you will beg for death. But I will not grant it. Not quickly. Not mercifully.”***

A pause. Then, softer but infinitely more terrible:

***“And everyone you care about will suffer with you. Every friend. Every ally. Everyone who dared help you betray me. They will all burn.”***

The presence in his mind intensified. Crushing. Suffocating.

***“I am coming. And nothing—not Dumbledore, not your pathetic friends, not all the magic in that castle—will save you.”***

Then the voice was gone.

Hyungwon lay in the darkness, shaking, staring at the ceiling.

Forty-seven cracks.

Forty-seven reasons this had been a mistake.

Forty-seven ways they were all going to die.

He’d made his choice.

Now he would face the consequences.

And so would everyone who’d stood beside him.

Voldemort was coming.

And there was nowhere left to hide.

Chapter Text

Three days of uneasy peace.

Three days of frantic preparation. Professors reinforcing wards, students training in combat formations, emergency evacuation plans drawn and redrawn.

Three days of waiting for the inevitable.

It came at dawn.

-----

The wards screamed.

The sound was physical—a wail that shook the castle foundations and shattered windows in the astronomy tower. Students jerked awake in their dormitories. Professors grabbed wands and ran for their stations.

In the Slytherin dungeons, Hyungwon was already awake. He’d been awake all night, staring at the ceiling, counting. When the wards screamed, he simply stood and dressed methodically.

This was it.

He was ready.

Or as ready as he’d ever be.

-----

From the windows, they could see them.

Death Eaters. Hundreds of them. Surrounding the castle in perfect formation, their masks gleaming white in the early morning light. More than had ever assembled before. More than anyone had thought existed.

This wasn’t a raid or a skirmish.

This was war.

And at the gates, materializing from smoke and shadow—

Voldemort.

Fully corporeal now. No longer the half-formed specter from before. He stood tall and terrible, robes billowing in wind that didn’t exist, his face pale and serpentine and beautiful in its wrongness.

His voice rolled across the grounds, magically amplified to reach every corner of the castle:

“**Give me my son. Give me Hyungwon Gaunt. Or I will tear this castle down stone by stone.**”

The words hung in the air like a curse.

“**You have one hour. Deliver him to me, or everyone inside these walls will die.**”

Silence.

Then the Death Eaters began their assault.

-----

Emergency assembly in the Great Hall. Students and staff crammed together—those who’d stayed, those who’d chosen to fight. Maybe two hundred people. Not enough.

Never enough.

Dumbledore stood before them, his expression grave but steady. “We do not surrender our own. We stand together. We fight together. And if we must, we fall together.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some students looked determined. Others terrified. Some were already crying.

“He wants one student,” someone shouted—a Slytherin sixth-year, voice cracking with fear. “One person. Why should we all die for him?”

“Because that’s what they do,” another voice countered. “Give them one, they’ll want ten. Then a hundred. Then everyone.”

“We don’t even know him! He was with them! Maybe he should—”

“Enough.” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the chaos. “We will not debate this. Hyungwon Gaunt is under my protection. Under Hogwarts’ protection. That is final.”

Hyungwon stood. Every head turned toward him.

“I’ll go.”

“Hyungwon—” Wonho was on his feet immediately.

“I won’t let people die for me.” Hyungwon’s voice was steady. “This is my fault. My choice. I should face the consequences.”

“No.” Wonho moved toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“He’s right.” Surprisingly, it was Minhyuk who spoke. He stood too, his expression hard. “You’re not going out there.”

Hyungwon looked at him, confused. “Why do you even care?”

Minhyuk’s jaw tightened. “Because if you die, it should be fighting. Not executed like a dog.” He stepped closer. “You chose us down in those foundations. You fought with us. You don’t get to throw that away by walking out there to die.”

“He’ll kill everyone—”

“He’ll try to kill everyone anyway,” Kihyun said, standing beside Minhyuk. “Whether we give you to him or not. That’s who he is.”

“We fight,” Wonho said firmly. “All of us. Together.”

Around the hall, heads nodded. The defense cell rose to their feet—Jooheon, Changkyun, Shownu, and dozens of others who’d trained together.

“We fight,” they echoed.

Dumbledore’s expression softened slightly. “Then to your positions. And may whatever gods you believe in protect us all.”

-----

The assault began in earnest.

Curses slammed into the wards—hundreds of them simultaneously. The golden barrier flickered, held, flickered again. The Death Eaters were coordinating, targeting weak points, pouring overwhelming power into breaking through.

The wards lasted two hours.

Then they shattered.

The sound was like the world ending—a deafening crack followed by the tinkle of magical energy dissipating like broken glass. The protective barrier that had stood for a thousand years was gone.

Death Eaters poured through the gates.

The battle for Hogwarts began.

-----

The entrance hall became a war zone.

Wonho’s defense cell held the main doors—twenty students fighting in coordinated units like they’d trained. Spells flew. Bodies fell. Stone crumbled under the assault.

Shownu commanded the left flank, his voice steady even as curses flew past his head. Jooheon fought beside him, their movements synchronized from months of practice.

“Shield wall!” Shownu shouted. “Hold the line!”

They held. Barely. Death Eaters kept coming, wave after wave.

On the right, Changkyun fought with desperate intensity. He was small, fast, vicious—dodging curses and returning fire with precision. Jooheon kept one eye on him constantly, terrified and proud in equal measure.

At the center, Minhyuk and Kihyun fought back-to-back. They moved like one person—Minhyuk aggressive and brutal, Kihyun defensive and tactical. Every spell coordinated. Every movement complementary.

A Death Eater broke through, aimed at Minhyuk’s blind spot. Kihyun’s shield snapped up before Minhyuk even saw the threat.

“Thanks,” Minhyuk gasped.

“Always,” Kihyun replied.

And nearby, Hyungwon fought alongside Wonho.

They moved together like they’d been doing this for years instead of days. Wonho cast shields, Hyungwon fired curses through the gaps. When Wonho was pressed, Hyungwon covered him. When Hyungwon faltered, Wonho pulled him back.

“On your left!” Wonho shouted.

Hyungwon spun, blocked, countered. A Death Eater went down.

“Behind you!”

Wonho ducked. Hyungwon’s stunning spell flew over his head, hit the target.

They were outnumbered. Outmatched. But they were holding.

Barely.

-----

Then the casualties began.

A younger student—third year, Hufflepuff—took a curse to the chest. Fell. Didn’t get up.

Professor Flitwick went down protecting a group of first years. McGonagall’s scream of fury could be heard across the battlefield.

Shownu saw a Death Eater aiming at a cluster of second years frozen in panic. He didn’t hesitate.

He threw himself between them and the curse.

It hit him square in the chest. He crumpled.

“NO!” Jooheon’s scream was raw, primal. He abandoned his position, ran to Shownu’s fallen form. “No, no, no—stay with me—”

Shownu was breathing. Barely. His eyes were unfocused, blood seeping from his mouth.

“Get him out of here!” Wonho shouted. “Jooheon, get him to the hospital wing!”

Jooheon lifted Shownu—the big man suddenly feeling too light, too fragile—and ran.

The line buckled without them. Death Eaters pressed forward.

Then Changkyun was hit.

A cutting curse caught his side. He gasped, stumbled. Would have fallen if Wonho hadn’t caught him.

“I’m okay,” Changkyun gritted out. “I can still—”

“Hospital wing. Now.” Wonho’s voice left no room for argument. “Jooheon will kill me if you die.”

Changkyun nodded weakly and limped away, one hand pressed to his bleeding side.

The castle was running red. Bodies on the flagstones. Screaming. Smoke. The acrid smell of dark magic.

And still they fought.

Because what else could they do?

-----

Voldemort entered the castle like a king claiming his throne.

Death Eaters parted before him. Professors tried to stop him—Snape fired curse after curse, McGonagall transformed the floor beneath his feet—but he swept them aside almost casually.

He was looking for one person.

And he found him in the entrance hall.

Hyungwon stood with Wonho, Minhyuk, and Kihyun. Exhausted. Wounded. But still standing.

Voldemort stopped ten feet away.

“My son.” His voice was soft, almost gentle. “My disappointment.”

Hyungwon raised his wand with shaking hands. “I’m not your son.”

Voldemort laughed—a cold, terrible sound. “You will always be mine. Every drop of blood in your veins is mine. Every breath you take is by my mercy. You are what I made you.”

“You didn’t make me. You tried to own me. There’s a difference.”

“Brave words.” Voldemort’s eyes glowed red. “Let’s see how long that bravery lasts.”

He attacked.

The spell was fast, brutal, overwhelming. Hyungwon barely blocked it. The impact drove him back, his shoes skidding on stone.

They dueled. Hyungwon was good—better than he’d been, trained and desperate. But Voldemort was on another level entirely. Each spell Hyungwon cast, Voldemort countered effortlessly. Each defense Hyungwon raised, Voldemort shattered.

Hyungwon was losing. Badly.

A cutting curse opened his shoulder. He gasped, stumbled.

Voldemort advanced. “You cannot win. You never could. You are nothing without me.”

Then Wonho was there.

“*Stupefy!*”

Voldemort blocked without looking. But now he had two targets.

Minhyuk joined from the left. Kihyun from the right.

Four against one. Coordinated. Desperate.

It still wasn’t enough.

Voldemort was too strong, too fast, too skilled. He fought them all simultaneously, barely even strained. He was playing with them.

“Pathetic.” Voldemort’s voice was bored. “You think friendship makes you strong? It makes you weak. It gives me leverage.”

He disarmed Kihyun with a flick of his wand. Sent Minhyuk flying into a wall. Knocked Wonho to the ground with a shield bash.

Only Hyungwon remained standing. Bleeding. Exhausted. Terrified.

But standing.

Voldemort looked at him with something like disappointment. “I had such hopes for you. You could have been magnificent. Instead, you chose sentiment. Weakness. Love.”

He raised his wand. Aimed directly at Hyungwon’s chest.

“*Avada—*”

Time slowed.

Hyungwon saw the green light beginning to form at the wand’s tip. Saw Voldemort’s face—cold, final, without mercy. Saw Wonho trying to rise behind him, too slow, too far.

This was it.

This was how it ended.

Hyungwon closed his eyes.

Waited for oblivion.

And—

Chapter Text

“*Avada Ke—*”

“**ENOUGH.**”

The voice was thunder and lightning and ancient power rolled into one word.

Dumbledore appeared between Hyungwon and Voldemort in a flash of golden light. His wand moved in a complex pattern, and the killing curse dissipated before it fully formed—scattered into harmless sparks that fizzled against newly-raised shields.

Voldemort’s eyes widened fractionally. Then narrowed. “Dumbledore.”

“Tom.” Dumbledore’s voice was calm but his magic was not. The air around him rippled with power, raw and ancient and barely contained. “You will not touch this student.”

“He is *mine.*”

“He is *his own.*”

They moved simultaneously.

The duel that followed wasn’t like anything the students had ever seen. This wasn’t the careful, controlled combat they’d been taught. This was magic at its most primal—reality itself bending and warping under the force of two of the most powerful wizards alive.

Fire met ice. Light met darkness. The entrance hall cracked and reformed. Time seemed to stutter.

It lasted thirty seconds.

It felt like hours.

Finally, Dumbledore’s spell—something ancient, something without words—slammed into Voldemort and *held*. Not injuring him, not killing him (the Horcruxes wouldn’t allow that), but forcing him back. Step by step. Inch by inch.

“You cannot win,” Voldemort hissed. “I am immortal. I will always return.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said quietly. “But not today.”

One final push of magic. Voldemort was thrown backward, his form flickering, destabilizing.

“This isn’t over,” Voldemort’s voice echoed even as he began to dissipate. “I will return. And when I do, nothing will save you. Not Dumbledore. Not your friends. *Nothing.*”

His eyes found Hyungwon one last time. “You are still mine, my son. You will always be mine.”

Then he was gone.

The Death Eaters, seeing their master retreat, began Disapparating. One by one, they vanished—some dragging wounded comrades, others fleeing alone.

Within minutes, the battlefield was empty except for Hogwarts’ defenders.

The battle was over.

-----

They counted the dead as dawn fully broke.

Seventeen students. Names read aloud in McGonagall’s steady voice, each one a knife to the heart. Some Hyungwon had known. Most he hadn’t. All of them too young.

Eight professors. Flitwick among them. Others who’d taught for decades, who’d given everything to protect their students.

Countless wounded. The hospital wing was overflowing. Madam Pomfrey worked without rest, her face drawn but determined.

Shownu was alive. Badly hurt, but alive. The curse had missed his heart by inches. He’d recover—scarred, changed, but alive.

Jooheon hadn’t left his side. Not for a moment. He sat by Shownu’s hospital bed, holding his hand, refusing food and sleep until Madam Pomfrey threatened to sedate him.

“I’m okay,” Shownu said, his voice rough. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” Jooheon’s voice was fierce. “You almost died protecting those kids. You don’t get to tell me I don’t have to stay.”

Shownu’s expression softened. “Okay. Stay.”

So Jooheon stayed.

Changkyun was in the bed beside Shownu’s. The cutting curse had been deep but clean. He’d recover fully, though the scar would remain.

Jooheon divided his attention between both beds, worrying over two people at once.

On the third day, as Changkyun was sitting up and joking with the other wounded students, Jooheon finally broke down. He sat between the two beds and put his head in his hands and cried.

Shownu reached out with his good hand. Changkyun did the same.

“We’re okay,” Changkyun said softly. “We made it. We’re okay.”

Jooheon looked up. His face was a mess—tears and exhaustion and relief. “I love you,” he said to Changkyun. Not a question. Not a confession. Just a fact. “I love you. I should have said it before. I should have—”

“I love you too,” Changkyun said immediately. “I’ve loved you for—god, I don’t even know how long. I just—I love you.”

They stared at each other. Then Changkyun laughed—slightly hysterical, mostly relieved—and Jooheon laughed too.

From the next bed, Shownu smiled. “About fucking time.”

-----

**Six Months Later**

Hogwarts was rebuilding.

Physically: the entrance hall had been repaired, new wards laid down (not as strong as the originals, but improving daily), broken windows replaced.

Emotionally: that was harder. Slower.

Students still jumped at loud noises. Nightmares were common. Memorial plaques hung in the corridors, seventeen names etched in stone. They held ceremonies. Lit candles. Mourned.

But they also lived.

Classes resumed. Quidditch matches were played. Jackson Wang threw parties that were still too loud and too crowded and somehow exactly what everyone needed.

The war continued. But differently.

Voldemort had retreated, weakened by the loss of a Horcrux and the humiliation of being driven from Hogwarts. His forces scattered into guerrilla cells—strategic strikes instead of open battles.

The Order of the Phoenix countered. Hunted down Death Eaters. Protected Muggle communities. Searched for the remaining Horcruxes.

It wasn’t over. Not even close.

But they were surviving.

That had to be enough.

-----

Minhyuk and Kihyun were together. Openly. Fiercely. No more hiding.

They held hands in the corridors. Kissed in the common room. Sat together at meals with their fingers intertwined. Some students stared. Most didn’t care. The war had reshaped priorities.

Kihyun’s parents had eventually accepted it. They’d had no choice—their son had made his decision, and no amount of letters or threats would change his mind.

One night, six months after the battle, they lay tangled together in Kihyun’s bed. The dorm was quiet. Moonlight filtered through the windows.

“We made it,” Minhyuk said quietly. His head was on Kihyun’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“We’re still making it,” Kihyun corrected, his fingers running through Minhyuk’s hair. “It’s not over.”

“No,” Minhyuk agreed. “But we’re here. Together.”

“Together,” Kihyun repeated. He tilted Minhyuk’s face up and kissed him—soft, unhurried, full of promise. “Always together.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They fell asleep like that. Holding each other. Alive.

-----

Wonho and Hyungwon were… complicated.

Not together. Not not together.

They orbited each other. Trained together three times a week. Fought side by side when Death Eaters struck. Sat in the library studying in comfortable silence.

Sometimes their hands would brush and neither would pull away.

Sometimes Wonho would catch Hyungwon’s eye across the Great Hall and smile, and Hyungwon would smile back—small, tentative, real.

It wasn’t romance. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But it was something.

One night, they found themselves in the greenhouse. Their old spot. Where they’d almost had something years ago before everything fell apart.

They sat on the floor among the Mandrakes and Devil’s Snare, shoulders touching, not speaking.

Finally, Hyungwon asked, “Do you think we’ll ever be okay?”

Wonho considered. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I think we’re both too damaged. Too much has happened. Too many people have died.”

“So that’s it? We’re just… broken?”

“No.” Wonho’s voice was firm. “We’re learning to live with being broken. That’s different.”

Silence.

Then Wonho reached out and took Hyungwon’s hand.

Hyungwon’s breath caught. He looked down at their intertwined fingers. Didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever be okay,” Wonho said quietly. “But I think we’ll keep trying. And maybe that’s enough.”

Hyungwon’s eyes were bright. “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

They sat there for another hour. Holding hands. Not kissing, not confessing love, not making promises they couldn’t keep.

Just—existing. Together. In the wreckage of everything they’d been and the uncertainty of everything they might become.

It wasn’t a happy ending.

But it was an ending that felt earned.

-----

Late one night, months into the rebuilding, Hyungwon found himself alone in the Slytherin common room.

Most of the house had trickled back. Not all—some families had kept their children home, too traumatized to return. But enough that the dormitories felt lived-in again. The common room had its familiar green glow, its cold elegance, its sense of ancient history.

Hyungwon sat in his usual spot and looked up at the ceiling.

Started counting cracks.

One. Two. Three.

He’d been doing this since he was eleven years old. Every night. Every time his mind wouldn’t quiet. Counting cracks that had been there for centuries.

Four. Five. Six.

A way to control the uncontrollable. To find patterns in chaos. To make sense of a world that made no sense.

Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

Forty-seven.

He stopped.

Stared at the ceiling.

The cracks were still there. The damage was still there. The castle had been nearly destroyed and rebuilt and nothing was the same as it had been.

But the cracks remained.

And suddenly—

Hyungwon realized he didn’t need to count them anymore.

They were there. They always would be. Some damage couldn’t be erased.

But he could learn to live with it.

He could stop trying to catalog every imperfection and just… exist. Damaged. Imperfect. Alive.

“You coming?”

Hyungwon turned. Wonho stood in the doorway, training robes on, wand at his hip.

“We’ve got training in ten minutes,” Wonho said. “Dumbledore wants us working on coordinated defensive formations.”

Hyungwon looked back at the ceiling one last time.

Forty-seven cracks.

He didn’t count them.

He just—saw them. Acknowledged them. Let them be.

Then he stood and walked toward Wonho.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m coming.”

They left the common room together. Side by side. Not quite touching but close.

Behind them, the Slytherin common room settled into silence. The green flames flickered. The ancient stones stood firm.

And on the ceiling, forty-seven cracks remained.

Unchanged. Unrepaired. Permanent.

But Hyungwon wasn’t counting anymore.

He was too busy living.

-----