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Technically, it’s all Seungmin’s fault.
If he hadn’t criticised the way Minho was dicing the arrowroot, Minho wouldn’t have nudged him—not a kick, just a tap. A friendly, absolutely justified tap to the ankle.
It’s not his fault Seungmin stumbled straight into the table like someone with negative core strength.
Up until then, it had been a normal Potions lesson. Professor Park half-asleep at his desk, students pairing off to brew the day’s assignment, and Seungmin making unnecessary jabs at Minho with every other word.
To his credit, Minho had let it slide. Even when Seungmin started muttering things like, “you know simmering isn’t the same as boiling, right?” and “it says slice, not mangle.”
It wasn’t even real criticism—just Seungmin being a pedantic little shit on purpose—as always when he’s bored and Minho’s in range.
But when Seungmin pulled out a goddamned protractor to tell him his angles were off by three degrees? Yeah, retaliation was fully justified.
Which, of course, brings them back to the part where everything starts going wrong.
Their cauldron rocks back, then tips forwards off the tripod. Minho jumps back too late—their unfinished resonance draft flies up in a full arc, and splashes down across both of them.
There’s a faint sizzling sound. Minho flinches, wiping at his arm, but the liquid’s already soaking through his robes. Just what he needed, ten minutes before dinner. Minho glances around—the entire classroom’s gone quiet, everyone turning to gawk.
Seungmin rounds on him, dripping and unimpressed. “Well done,” he sighs, rolling his eyes. “I ironed my robes this morning!”
Who even irons their robes? Actually, Seungmin totally would. Minho wouldn’t be surprised if he colour-coded his sock drawer and made his bed with a measuring tape.
“Are you even listening to me?”
He blinks. Seungmin’s scowling at him over the wreckage, arms crossed. Though the effect is somewhat dampened by the large stain blooming across his jumper. Ha, dampened. Minho fights a grin. If he laughs now, Seungmin might actually jinx him.
Instead, he rolls his eyes. “Sorry, your nagging just becomes background noise after a while.”
Seungmin’s mouth opens—probably to threaten bloodshed—but before he gets the first word out, Professor Park materialises beside them, looking more tired than alarmed. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t even flinch—just gives them both a long, weary look and says, “Five points from Ravenclaw, five from Slytherin.”
A flick of his wand, and the spilled potion vanishes. “Next time, try brewing potions instead of bathing in them.”
Somewhere to his left, someone mutters, “Oof.” Minho doesn’t look, but he can feel the secondhand embarrassment radiating from the surrounding desks. He itches to point out that strictly speaking, Seungmin spilled it, not him. But whatever.
Park studies them a little more closely now, furrowing his brow. “That was a resonance draft, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Seungmin replies stiffly.
Resonance drafts are meant to be consumed, not splashed. According to the textbook, they temporarily ‘enhance magical attunement between two people.’ For duelling pairs, usually. Or romantic partners. Definitely not… whatever he and Seungmin are.
Magical attunement is the last thing he needs with Seungmin, who already finishes half his sentences just to correct them.
Professor Park seems to reach a similar conclusion. “It won’t do any permanent damage,” he says. “Since it was both underbrewed and absorbed through the skin, the effects should be minimal. You may experience minor magical interference—perhaps sensitivity to each other’s moods. That sort of thing.”
That still doesn’t sound good. He’d really rather not find out what partial “magical interference” entails. Especially not with Seungmin. Minho squints. “You mean, I’m going to get his feelings in my head?”
“I mean I can’t predict the effects,” Park says flatly. “But it’s unlikely to be harmful.”
…Right. That’s not a no.
Minho glances sideways at Seungmin, whose face is perfectly blank.
The professor sighs, already walking away. “The effects should wear off in a few weeks. I don’t imagine you’ll even notice anything.”
Well, now isn’t that comforting. Possibly psychically linked to the most irritating person he voluntarily speaks to. But don’t worry. It’ll be fine—probably.
Minho closes his eyes.
Please, he prays silently. Let’s get lucky.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
After the end of Potions, Minho heads straight for the Great Hall to eat away . But barely a minute after leaving the classroom, Seungmin materialises beside him like a stubborn piece of lint.
“If I start hearing your thoughts, I’m throwing myself off the Astronomy Tower,” Seungmin informs him, falling into step next to Minho.
“Please,” Minho scoffs. “I’d see it scheduled in your planner first.”
“I’d pencil in a time to haunt you afterwards.”
Minho doesn’t bother responding—no point encouraging him. The teasing fades into quiet as they walk.
The sun hangs low behind the towers, casting golden streaks across the stone as they emerge from the dungeons. It hits Seungmin at just the right angle—highlighting his cheekbones, hair windswept from walking too fast with his annoyingly long legs.
Minho registers—with mild resentment—that he has to tilt his head up slightly to look at him now. He quickly looks away, in case Seungmin decides to get smug about it.
They reach the oak double doors of the Great Hall just as the food appears. Students from all four houses mingle at each table, chatting and laughing. The ‘only sit with your house’ rule was scrapped years ago—something about promoting school unity. Seungmin heads for the nearest table.
He once said that Minho’s face spoils his appetite.
So obviously, Minho makes a point of sitting directly opposite him at every meal.
As he starts piling his plate, Minho allows himself a brief, hopeful thought—maybe they’ve gotten away with it. There’s been no smoke, no mind-reading, no spontaneous nosebleeds so far. Maybe the potion really was too underbrewed to take effect.
He makes it halfway through dinner before the universe decides to personally disprove that theory.
Midway through his second serving of roast potatoes, it hits—a sudden, full-body wave of drowsiness, like someone’s cast a sleeping spell directly between his eyes.
His limbs instantly weigh a ton, and his head slumps forwards before he can stop it. And then—
His cheek meets his plate with an undignified squelch.
When he comes to, there’s potatoes stuck to his jaw and the people around him are watching with varying degrees of concern. One of them might be laughing. It probably would’ve been funny if it hadn’t happened to him.
Ignoring their stares—and the growing heat in his face—Minho calmly picks up a napkin, wipes the potatoes off his cheek, and resumes chewing like nothing happened. Sure enough, everyone just blinks at his nonchalance and continues their conversations.
Then he looks up.
Seungmin is already staring at him, eyes wide with horror. Not surprise—horror. Minho’s stomach sinks. Horror is worse than confusion. Horror means Seungmin knows something—knows exactly what just happened.
With a vague sense of dread, realisation dawns on Minho—because that tiredness definitely did not come from him. Which can only mean one thing.
Minho leans forward, keeping his voice low. “What did you do?”
“I yawned,” Seungmin whispers back.
Minho stares at him. “You yawned?”
“I didn’t think it would—I was just tired!”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t faceplant into the potatoes for fun,” he mutters. He rubs at his temple, trying to piece it together. Seungmin was tired, so he yawned—and somehow, that tiredness was projected onto Minho.
It wasn’t even subtle, either. Just… lights out. Instantly.
He lets that sink in for a second, feeling the weight of it crawl down his spine. Because it means something in that stupid potion actually worked.
He recalls the textbook saying that resonance drafts, when properly brewed and actually consumed, can help duelling partners sync their movements—mirroring intent, sharpening reflexes. Boosting coordination.
So if that’s what a full dose is supposed to do... what does a half-brewed, skin-absorbed mess version look like? The yawn-to-knock-out thing is already bad enough. But what if their moods start leaking through? Or their magic?
Minho stares down at his plate with a growing sense of unease. This could get very bad, very fast.
Contrary to popular belief, he does have emotions. But he does not need Seungmin knowing about them. He has a reputation to uphold.
He glances across the table again. Seungmin’s back to eating like nothing happened, though his jaw’s a little tighter than usual. A muscle ticks in his cheek as he stabs at his food a little too precisely.
Minho looks away, mostly so he doesn't get caught looking.
They sit in silence for a while, both turning it over in their heads. This wasn’t exactly what Minho pictured “magical attunement” to be. He was imagining, maybe... a flicker of shared emotion, or an echo. Not full-blown nap-by-proxy.
But then again, potions aren’t half-brewed for a reason.
Seungmin breaks the silence first, stabbing his knife into a carrot like it’s the one responsible. “Do you think this is bad enough to go to the hospital wing?”
Minho considers for a second, nudging the sad, squashed potatoes to the corner of his plate. “What would we even say? ‘Hi, I passed out because he yawned. Please fix us’.”
Seungmin makes a face. “Yeah, that does sound dumb.”
So what now? Maybe they can figure out how to un-link themselves. Surely they can’t be the only people in wizarding history to ever have this problem.
And personally, Minho doesn’t particularly fancy waiting for Professor Park’s ‘few weeks’ for it to wear off by itself.
“Let’s go to the library. See if we can dig up anything.”
Seungmin raises his eyebrows, setting down the knife. “That’s actually a good idea.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆
By the time dinner ends, the Potato Incident is already spreading across at least three tables. Minho wants to burn the memory out of his own brain. Seungmin just tells him to burn the rest of himself while he’s at it.
Eventually, they end up in the library.
Sitting at opposite ends of the same table, they divide and conquer—each surrounded by stacks of books. Having grabbed anything even tangentially related to the issue, they settle in for the long haul.
Most of what they find is useless. Minho reads about historical spell-bonding accidents that ended in duels, heartbreak, or murder.
None of those feel helpful. Or particularly optimistic.
An hour in and barely halfway through his pile, the text starts to blur. He blinks hard, trying to refocus.
Unlike certain Ravenclaws, he’s never been good at reading for this long without either falling asleep or setting something on fire. The words on the page swim around his head.
A soft, exasperated sigh cuts in from the other side of the table. Minho glances up—just in time to catch Seungmin already watching him.
“By any chance… are you tired right now?” Seungmin asks, slumped over his book and looking moments away from losing a fight with gravity.
Minho frowns, sitting up and setting down Spell-Binding Bonds Through the Centuries. “Yeah, a bit. Why?”
Seungmin gestures vaguely at his own face. “Because I’m using every ounce of willpower not to fall asleep on this table right now. And I’ve had two coffees since dinner.”
They stare at each other.
“There’s something else,” Seungmin adds. “I feel like I’ll die if I don’t sleep right now, but I’m still resisting it. You passed out.”
“I just wasn’t ready,” Minho scowls. Then he exhales slowly, mentally checking off what they know so far. “So it goes both ways,” he mutters. “And not just yawning—it’s like our general tiredness is bleeding across. But sometimes it’s weaker. We can fight it off.”
“Perfect,” Seungmin says flatly. “We’ve unlocked the world’s most useless empathy link.”
Minho rocks back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “Could’ve at least come with something more useful. Like shared spell knowledge. Or the ability to taste each other’s snacks.”
Seungmin gives him a look. “That sounds horrifying. You snack on plain sunflower seeds.”
“They’re high in fiber.”
“Then how are you still so emotionally constipated?”
Minho sticks his tongue out, and they lapse into silence again. He tries to go back to his book, but it’s unbearably dull and his eyelids are still heavy. Across the table, Seungmin’s blinking in slow-motion like he’s buffering.
The clock on the wall shows 9:23, meaning they’ll get kicked out soon. Minho pushes his chair back, standing with a groan. “Isn’t it your bedtime soon?”
Seungmin doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Minho shrugs, stretching his arms behind his head. “We should probably let each other know when we’re going to sleep. So it’s not a surprise.”
Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “You want to coordinate bedtimes.” He says it casually, but his ears go a little pink.
“Not like that,” Minho huffs. “Just—so I don’t pass out on the stairs because you decided to have a chamomile tea and pass out at nine-thirty like a Victorian grandmother.”
Seungmin narrows his eyes, getting up to stretch as well. “I don’t sleep that early.”
“Ten, then. I assume someone pulls your charger out and you just power down.”
Seungmin levels him with a look. “I know for a fact you sneak around the castle at night.”
That catches him off guard. Minho blinks. “You what?”
“I’ve seen you leaving the kitchens after curfew. Twice.”
“Once.” That’s a lie. “And I was going to the Owlery.” Not a lie.
“At midnight.”
“It’s midday for the owls,” Minho shrugs. “And if you saw me, then you were sneaking around too. So don’t act so holier-than-thou.”
Seungmin scoffs. “I was on patrol.”
Minho gives him a sideways look as they start packing away their things. “Uh-huh. Right. Patrolling the fridge.”
Seungmin ignores that comment. Just slings his bag over his shoulder. “So what, we text each other good night now?”
Minho shrugs, adjusting his own straps. “Unless you want me passing out in a corridor.”
They step out of the library just as the bell rings for curfew. The corridor’s mostly empty, torches flickering low. Seungmin heads for the stairs to Ravenclaw Tower—unsurprisingly close to the library—without looking back.
Minho pulls out his phone and fires off a text. Mostly for the satisfaction of watching Seungmin pause halfway up the stairs when it buzzes in his pocket.
Minho:
let me know when you power down for the night
Seungmin glances back over his shoulder, shakes his head, and disappears up the stairs. Minho thinks he sees the corner of his mouth twitch—just barely—before he turns. And somehow, it’s more devastating than a full smile.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
That night, he receives a text from Seungmin at exactly 10:18pm:
Seungmin:
sleeping now
Straight to the point as usual. Minho hurriedly brushes his teeth and slips into pyjamas, just in case Seungmin meant literally now. He’d like to be horizontal when it hits, thank you very much.
Five minutes later, he’s snuggled under the duvet, eyes closed, waiting for Seungmin’s drowsiness to pull him under. It’s the earliest he’s gone to bed in… forever. Usually, he crashes sometime between midnight and three. Maybe this stupid curse will finally fix his sleep schedule.
When sleepiness hits like a brick wall, Minho succumbs easily. It’s weird knowing exactly what Seungmin’s doing right now, halfway across the castle in Ravenclaw Tower while he’s lying in the dungeons. Comforting, almost. Not that he’d admit that out loud.
He falls asleep surprisingly peacefully. No weird side effects. No Seungmin haunting his dreams. All fine.
Until 11:27pm.
When he wakes up because he’s no longer on the bed. He stares at the ceiling for a long second. Or, more accurately, from the ceiling.
His blanket’s still tangled around his legs, drooping down like a sad fabric jellyfish. Squinting through the darkness, he realises he’s hovering about a metre off the bed. Maybe more.
“Brilliant,” he mutters. Apparently, there’s more to this curse than he thought.
It could’ve at least been more exciting—glowing runes, ominous Latin whispers. But no. Just Minho, levitating like an idiot in the dark.
He actually would like to sleep in his bed, though. He braces his hands against the ceiling, trying to push himself back down. It doesn’t work—he floats right back up.
Just as he starts seriously considering the possibility of being stuck here all night, gravity finally decides to do its job, easing him back onto the mattress like a leaky balloon.
Minho stares at the ceiling again, now from a normal distance.
“...Cool.”
He considers texting Seungmin to demand what the hell he’s doing at 11:30pm that caused this, but the sleepy haze is still curling through him, thick and heavy—meaning Seungmin’s clearly asleep.
He’s too tired to puzzle over it now, so he rolls over, yanks the blanket up, and pretends the last ten minutes didn’t happen. He’ll deal with it tomorrow.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
The next morning, Minho points his fork across the table at Seungmin. “What the hell were you doing at eleven-thirty last night?”
Seungmin pauses, spoon hovering above his oatmeal. “Um… sleeping?”
Just as he suspected. So they are dealing with another unknown effect—because midterms weren’t stressful enough already. Fantastic.
Minho withdraws his fork with a sigh. “Congratulations to us, then. We have another symptom.”
Seungmin lowers his spoon, leaning forwards. “What? Did something else happen last night?”
“I woke up floating.”
Seungmin blinks at him. Then blinks again, slower. “Floating.”
“About a metre off my bed, yes.” Minho sighs. “Did you dream anything weird?”
Seungmin frowns, considering. Eventually, he shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”
Figures. The only thing worse than being cursed is having no idea how exactly you’re cursed.
“You think it’s linked to the sleep thing?” Seungmin muses, breakfast forgotten. “Maybe it happens if we don’t fall asleep at exactly the same time. Or maybe if we..”
He trails off, muttering to himself. But there’s no real point hypothesising when they know so little. Best to just hope no more weird side effects pop up.
Minho turns back to his coffee—which is now cold, of course. Because clearly, the universe is committed to kicking him while he’s down. He taps the mug irritably with his wand, performing a silent heating charm.
But possibly with too much irritation, because when he raises the mug to his lips—the coffee is scalding. He recoils sharply, tongue burning. “Ow—fuck—”
There’s a startled yelp from across the table.
Minho looks up just in time to see smoke curling from Seungmin’s eyebrows.
They meet each other’s eyes.
Right. The universe hates him.
He really needs to tattoo that somewhere.
“Minho,” Seungmin says slowly, very calmly for someone whose face just spontaneously combusted. “What did you just do?”
Minho knows exactly what he means, but annoyance sparks anyway. “Why do you automatically assume it’s me?”
Seungmin gestures to his eyebrows, which finally stop smouldering. “Because I saw you flinch just before I caught fire.”
Actually, Seungmin didn’t just catch fire. Now the smoke’s cleared, Minho clearly sees that Seungmin’s eyebrows are also distinctly red. Bright, Gryffindor-scarf red. The students around them have noticed, too—Minho sees them whispering and subtly pointing—but apparently none of them are brave enough to point it out to Seungmin.
Minho makes the executive decision not to mention it, either. Mostly because it’s hilarious. Instead, he leans back and folds his arms. “Fine. Maybe I burned my tongue and you felt it in your eyebrows.”
Seungmin blinks slowly, mouth twitching like he’s suppressing a laugh. “Seriously?”
“Look, I don’t make the rules of this stupid link,” Minho mutters.
“So we share pain now, too?” Seungmin drums his fingers around his glass of water. “Though not exactly sharing, more like… manifesting?”
“Great,” Minho deadpans. “Can’t wait until one of us stubs a toe.”
Seungmin visibly shudders at the thought, then narrows his eyes. “But it’s not consistent. I didn’t feel anything when you faceplanted into the potatoes yesterday.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Minho says flatly.
“You’re welcome,” Seungmin replies, unfazed. He continues tapping the glass thoughtfully. “So it’s only… certain feelings? Like especially strong ones?”
It’s too much mental gymnastics for eight in the morning, and Minho’s still uncaffeinated. But before he has a chance to voice this, Felix—after an impressively long display of collective denial—finally leans over from the next seat, squinting at Seungmin with concern.
“Uh… Seungmin? Why were your eyebrows smoking? And why are they red now?”
Seungmin’s expression darkens instantly, confusion replaced by tightly controlled irritation. He rounds on Minho, voice low and deadly calm. “You didn’t think to mention my eyebrows turned red?”
Minho shrugs helplessly, biting back a grin. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I—” Seungmin stops himself, pressing his lips together and inhaling deeply. Felix slowly slides back to his seat, clearly sensing danger. Seungmin points an accusing finger at Minho. “Fix this. Now.”
Is it bad that he finds Seungmin’s threats so entertaining? Probably.
Minho considers him thoughtfully. “But it suits you.”
It’s worth it for the way Seungmin clenches his teeth and glares murder. “Fix. It.” He grits out.
Minho holds out his hands placatingly, reaching slowly for his wand like he’s dealing with a wild animal. “Fine, fine. No need to combust again.”
Once Seungmin’s eyebrows have returned to their normal colour (and Minho has graciously avoided accidentally turning them green, despite strong temptation), Seungmin straightens with a grin.
Before he can say a word, Minho levels him with a look. “No.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet!” Seungmin scowls, kicking him under the table.
“Your face said enough,” Minho mutters, kicking him back.
“I was going to say,” Seungmin rolls his eyes. “We need to find out more about this—you know, test if it’s limited to pain.”
Minho’s eyes narrow. “You want to experiment. On ourselves.”
“Unless you’d rather discover new side-effects during a Quidditch match,” Seungmin shrugs. “Your choice.”
Ugh. He hates when Seungmin makes sense. Which is a shame, since he always does.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Ten minutes later, they’re tucked into an abandoned alcove near the Charms classrooms, armed with a range of potentially emotion-inducing items.
It goes terribly, of course.
First, they try positive emotions. Seungmin casts a gentle cheering charm on himself—Minho immediately hiccups, and each hiccup produces a tiny, glittering bubble that floats around obnoxiously.
“Cute,” Seungmin says, and his grin turns a little too pleased when Minho scowls.
Minho tries a stronger charm on himself—just to retaliate—and Seungmin abruptly expels a stream of bubbles with every breath, barely managing to gasp out a strangled, “You bastard.”
Next, they try physical stimuli in the form of Puking Pastilles. Minho regrets suggesting these about three seconds after swallowing one—though watching Seungmin’s skin dull to a pasty grey is fascinating. Like seeing a preview of his ghost.
After that, they test another non-magical sensation. Seungmin unwraps a chunk of sugary crystallised pineapple, chewing carefully. Minho braces himself for something unpleasant.
Instead—a soft, warm wave washes over him, sweet and comforting like the feeling of curling up under a thick blanket. His body feels lighter, and any lingering nausea from the puking pastilles vanishes. Minho raises his eyebrows at Seungmin. “This actually feels… kind of nice.”
They continue experimenting for the rest of their free period, trying everything from confuno to eating lemons. Amidst the chaos, Seungmin scribbles notes onto a roll of parchment.
They eventually come to the conclusion that it’s a sort of sensory link, where they physically manifest each other’s strong emotions—which includes the tiredness they discovered before.
It still doesn’t explain how Minho woke up on the ceiling while Seungmin was asleep, but at least they know some of the link’s mechanics now. That’s as far as the good news goes.
They slip out of the alcove, dusting off their robes as they begin casually walking down the corridor—like they haven’t just spent thirty minutes emotionally hijacking each other’s nervous systems.
Seungmin stops at the bottom of the staircase where they usually split ways. “Alright. We agree not to abuse what we just found out. No deliberate sabotage.”
Minho snorts, stopping in front of him. “Sure. No point when it goes both ways.”
Seungmin nods sagely. “Mutually assured destruction.”
“Like all good friendships,” Minho says dryly, brushing a bit of lingering glitter off his sleeve.
“Lee Minho, admitting we’re friends?” Seungmin mimes wiping a tear from his eye. “Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Minho scoffs, already turning to leave. “Like a friendship. Don’t get excited.”
But just as he rounds the corner, a burst of bright K-pop suddenly blares from his pocket:
You got me losing patience 걷잡을 수 없는 emotion…
He halts mid-step with a groan. His ringtone is not supposed to be the Case 143 chorus.
Behind him, Seungmin cackles. “Didn’t take you for the romantic type.”
Minho ignores him, yanking out his phone just as a scam caller ID flashes across the screen. “Goddamn it. I let Jeongin borrow this yesterday. Should’ve known better than to trust those Bambi eyes.”
“Uh-huh.” Seungmin raises an eyebrow, not even pretending to believe him.
Minho jabs at the screen to shut it up, cheeks faintly pink. “I’m changing it back.”
“Sure you are.”
He flips Seungmin off over his shoulder and keeps walking. He definitely does not look back to check if Seungmin’s still smiling.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
With celestial levels of self-control, Minho resists messing with Seungmin all through Herbology. It’d be so easy—just a simple cheering charm, maybe a well-placed giggle jinx—and boom, Seungmin sprouts daisies from his ears.
But that’s exactly the problem—it’s too easy. And they’d already agreed: no starting shenanigans or they both suffer.
Still, the temptation lingers.
By the time Transfiguration rolls around, Minho’s halfway through congratulating himself for his restraint. He drops into his usual seat at the back, idly doodling in the margins of his notes as Professor Chang starts explaining advanced animal-to-object transfigurations.
Minho makes an effort not to fall asleep—or he’ll get an earful from Seungmin later. But it’s theory today, and he’s never stayed fully conscious in Chang’s lessons unless they’re doing practicals. It’s painfully boring. Insultingly dull.
Until, suddenly, it isn’t.
At first, he thinks his chair is wobbly. Then he realises it’s not the chair that’s moving—it’s him. A slow, weightless pull gathers beneath his ribcage, growing stronger by the second. Minho blinks at the increasing gap between his legs and the ground.
Not again.
He grips the desk, stretches forward, and forces himself to keep writing—like he’s not being peeled off the earth a centimetre at a time.
From beside him, Jisung glances over and does a double take. “Woah. Dude.”
“Say nothing,” Minho hisses.
The ink in his inkwell starts to tremble. One dark droplet lifts free, then another—small spheres of black liquid suspending mid-air above his desk. He’s hovering half a metre off the chair now, barely anchored by his fingers. One slip and he’s going to drift straight into the rafters. Absolutely not.
“...You’re floating,” Jisung whispers unhelpfully.
“I noticed, thank you.”
Minho tightens his grip, jaw clenched. He can feel the strain cramping his fingers. His skin prickles—not just from embarrassment, but from something subtler, weirder. Like his body’s being unspooled thread by thread, pulled upwards by a force he can’t see.
On his other side, Changbin leans across the desk. “Minho?”
“Don’t say it.”
Changbin hesitates, then reaches out and gently tugs at Minho’s sleeve. It backfires immediately—the shift in momentum just sends him spinning slightly.
Professor Chang hasn’t noticed, still sketching diagrams on the board. But someone across the room gasps. Minho exhales slowly, trying not to drift further as people start pointing.
“Kim Seungmin,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of his chair to stop the rotation. “If you’re out there, and this is your fault again, I hope your toast falls butter-side down for the rest of your life.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Minho finds Seungmin in the courtyard between classes, perched on a bench with a book in one hand and a coffee in the other—like the poster child for insufferable academic excellence.
He drops his bag on the grass beside him and says flatly, “What were you doing at exactly half-past eleven?”
Seungmin doesn’t look up. “Contemplating how to fake my death to skip my next class.”
Minho sits. “You were in Runes?”
“Unfortunately.”
Minho narrows his eyes, studying him closely. He doesn’t see any evidence of guilt or emotional meltdowns in progress. “And you didn’t… start spiralling, or cast anything, or internally scream hard enough to launch me and my stationary into the air from across the castle?”
That gets Seungmin to look over. “You floated again?”
“Mid-lecture,” Minho groans. “People were staring at me spinning half a metre up like a cursed human mobile.”
Seungmin snorts into his coffee. “Amazing. Wish I was there to see it.” He squints over the rim of the mug, “So… you told a professor, right?”
Minho exhales. “Yeah. I caught Professor Park on the way here and told him everything—the floating, the syncing, the stuff we figured out yesterday.”
Seungmin straightens. “And?”
“He said the attunement magic’s probably too tangled up in our nervous systems by now. Since we absorbed it instead of drinking it, it’s tied more to… psyche, emotions, whatever.” Minho waves a hand vaguely. “Trying to undo it might scramble something, so it’s not worth the risk. We just have to wait it out.”
“Brilliant,” Seungmin mutters. He sets the cup down and slides a bookmark into place. “Okay. Let’s think. Since we’re only affected by each other’s states and not our own…”
He starts ticking off on his fingers. “It’s not sleep deprivation—I was unconscious last night. Not spell-based—I didn’t cast anything. Not emotional—I was just bored, not suicidal.”
“Speak for yourself,” Minho mutters. “It was torture trying to stay awake.”
“Your feelings, not mine.” Seungmin says mildly. Then he glances up at the courtyard clock tower. “How long had it been since we’d seen each other?”
Minho frowns, tracking back through his schedule. “Hour-ish? Maybe a bit more.”
“Huh.” Seungmin nods, more to himself than to Minho. “Weird. I was literally just sitting in Runes.”
They fall quiet.
Around them, the courtyard hums—quills scratching, echoes of distant laughter, the occasional hoot from an owl overhead.
“Maybe your body’s developed an allergy to the school timetable,” Seungmin offers dryly.
“Honestly,” Minho sighs, “that’s the most plausible theory so far.”
He leans back on the bench and glances sideways. There’s another reason he came out here. “I have some good news and some bad news.”
Seungmin sighs. “Fantastic. Let’s get it over with.”
“The good news is, you don’t have to text me goodnight tonight.”
Seungmin narrows his eyes. “And the bad?”
“You’re meeting me by the Hufflepuff common room at midnight. We’re sneaking into the kitchens.”
There’s a beat of silence. Minho can see the exact second Seungmin starts regretting all his life choices. He adds, “I go every week. Not stopping now just because you’re tethered to me like a clingy crystal.”
“So don’t go,” Seungmin tries.
“I promised the owls,” Minho explains impatiently. “They’re used to the routine.”
“You—what?” Seungmin groans, tipping his head back. “I hate this.”
“You’ll hate it more when I fall off the moving staircase and take someone down with me.”
Seungmin glares at him, but Minho can already tell he’s going to show up.
He always does.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
At exactly midnight, Minho rounds the corner to the fruit bowl portrait, adjusting the strap of his satchel. He half expects to find Seungmin already waiting—punctuality personified, as always. But the hallway looks empty.
Then he glances up.
And there’s Seungmin—drifting near the ceiling like a disgruntled helium balloon. Arms crossed, expression somewhere between deadpan and resigned.
Minho blinks up at him. But the second he steps closer, there’s a strange pull in the air—
And Seungmin drops like a stone.
His wand’s out before he even thinks about it. “Arresto Momentum!”
Seungmin slows immediately, landing with a soft oof near Minho’s feet. His robes pool around him, creasing under his weight. That’s going to be the third time this week he’ll need to iron them.
“You’re late,” Seungmin mutters, not moving.
“I’m literally on time.” Minho coughs to cover up a laugh as he tucks his wand away again.
“You said midnight.”
“And it is midnight.”
Minho has questions—he should probably ask what that was about—but they’re on a schedule here, so he files it away for later. He turns to the portrait as Seungmin pushes himself upright.
Technically, students aren’t supposed to be in the kitchens. Not unsupervised, and definitely not after hours. But on Wednesdays, the house elves always serve salmon during dinner—and they don’t throw out the leftovers until Thursday morning.
Somehow, he ended up with a habit. Every week, he takes the leftovers and makes tiny salmon sandwiches for the owls. Not for any grand reason—he just doesn’t like seeing good food go to waste.
And maybe the owls seem to like him more when he does it. Maybe he kind of likes that.
But that’s beside the point.
He reaches up and gives the pear a quick tickle. It squirms and morphs into a doorway—still deeply weird, no matter how many times he sees it. The portrait swings open, and Minho hesitates for half a second.
Maybe this is weird. Maybe Seungmin thinks it’s weird. Dragging him out at midnight to feed owls like some kind of sentimental lunatic.
But Seungmin would’ve said something if he thought it was stupid—he always does.
Minho’s fine. It’s fine.
He steps inside.
The kitchens are quiet at this hour, most of the house elves having gone to their quarters. The remaining few glance over when Minho steps in—and immediately brighten. He nods at them in greeting, and they nod back, one of them giving a tiny wave.
Seungmin blinks, as if he’s not used to being welcomed like that. He follows closely behind Minho, awkwardly lifting a hand to wave back. It’s weirdly endearing.
Anyway, back to what they came here for.
“Coffee,” Minho announces, heading towards the far corner. “Make it strong. I don’t need you dozing off and dropping me into a soup cauldron.”
He’s only half-joking.
Seungmin rolls his eyes, but moves towards the stovetop kettle anyway. Satisfied that Seungmin’s no longer a liability, Minho turns to the side table.
He moves automatically, hands finding the drawer with the butter knives and cutting board. The tray of leftover salmon is already set out on the counter, along with soft rolls and cucumber slices. He gets to work.
It’s a routine—one he’s never really shared with anyone. Not because it’s a secret, but because it feels like one. Quiet, strange, and weirdly personal.
He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t want to see Seungmin judging him, even though—rationally—he knows he won’t. Not really. Not for this.
He keeps chopping.
They seem to like him, the house elves. Maybe because he comes so often. Maybe because he says please, and thank you, and doesn’t talk to them like they’re beneath him.
Whatever the reason, they always make it easy.
He works quickly and precisely—slicing the rolls into neat quarters, layering the salmon and cucumber, cutting the crusts just so. Soon enough, he’s left with little owl-sized sandwiches lined up in tidy rows.
Behind him, Seungmin leans against the counter with his steaming mug, probably silently judging him.
“...You do this every week?” he asks.
Minho doesn’t look up, carefully transferring the snacks into his satchel. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
“Right,” Seungmin says. “Totally normal thing to do.”
Minho shrugs, buckling the flap closed. “They work hard.”
Seungmin says nothing. But from the corner of his eye, Minho catches the edge of a smile behind his coffee.
Minho rolls his eyes—not at Seungmin, exactly.
He doesn’t know why he ever thought Seungmin would laugh.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Getting to the Owlery unseen is a delicate operation. Minho leads Seungmin through three back staircases, two secret passageways, and one very close call with Filch’s cat near the North Tower.
Seungmin flattens himself behind a suit of armour so fast, Minho half suspects he’s cast a Disillusionment Charm. For someone who claims to follow the rules, Seungmin’s surprisingly efficient at breaking them when it’s Minho’s idea.
They reach the Owlery ten minutes later. Cold wind whistles through the open rafters, and the soft rustle of feathers echoes in the stone space. A few owls swivel to regard them as they enter, then promptly go back to preening and resting.
He closes the heavy door behind them and exhales. “Made it.”
Seungmin glances around, looking a little winded from the climb. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”
Minho ignores him, setting the satchel down gently on a stone ledge. He unclips the flap and pulls out the first sandwich. Immediately, a sleek barn owl flutters down from a high beam, landing gracefully a few feet away. It shuffles closer, then stops and watches him with polite expectation.
He tosses the sandwich. The owl catches it mid-air, hoots once, and flaps back up to its perch like it’s done this a hundred times before. Which, to be fair, it has.
Minho glances over—Seungmin’s still standing there, staring like an idiot. Is he waiting for divine owl intervention or something? If he’s here, he might as well start making himself useful.
Minho holds out the satchel. “Are you planning to just stand there all night, or actually be helpful for once?”
Seungmin scowls at him wordlessly, then reaches in to grab one. This time, a fluffy tawny owl swoops down, perching on the low railing next to Seungmin.
Seungmin holds out the sandwich. The owl plucks it from his hand and lets out a happy-sounding hoot. Minho turns away—then hiccups.
And a single, tiny soap bubble floats gently out of his mouth.
They both stare at it. The bubble drifts upward—slow and weightless—before popping against the ceiling.
“Seungmin,” Minho says slowly, amused. “Are you feeling something right now?”
“Nope,” Seungmin replies immediately. Too immediately.
Minho suppresses a snort, turning back to the satchel like he didn’t just hiccup literal evidence of Seungmin’s emotional state. The warm fizz of it still lingers behind his ribs—lighter than the Owlery’s draft.
Heavier than he wants to think about.
Quickly shutting down that train of thought, he plucks out another sandwich. “You can’t lie to me anymore,” he sing-songs. “I felt that.”
Seungmin grabs one as well. “Felt what.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Minho shrugs offhandedly. “Joy. Wholesome fulfillment. The tiny flicker of emotional satisfaction you got from feeding an owl.”
“Must’ve been you.”
“Sure.” He doesn’t bother hiding the grin.
They finish distributing the rest of the sandwiches in silence, falling into an easy rhythm. Seungmin doesn’t try to leave early. Minho doesn’t mention it.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Minho returns to his dorm sometime after one in the morning, limbs aching pleasantly from the excursion and hair still smelling vaguely like owl. He’s just about to climb into bed when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Seungmin:
sleeping now
and by the way
still had to text you
so there was no good news
you lied
enjoy passing out during breakfast
Minho snorts—he can practically hear the huff in Seungmin’s voice. Just to mess with him, he types back:
Minho:
sweet dreams, sunshine 🌞
He gets one final text in return:
Seungmin:
choke
⋆⭒˚.⋆
The next day—or technically, later the same morning—Minho steps out of the Slytherin common room, rubbing the traces of sleep from his eyes.
And nearly walks straight into someone.
“Sorry—oh. It’s you.”
It’s Seungmin, who has no business being in the dungeons before breakfast. Minho opens his mouth, but Seungmin beats him to it.
“I floated,” he deadpans.
Minho blinks. “Just now?”
“Last night, around two.”
Minho exhales through his nose. “Let me guess. You woke up midair?”
“No,” Seungmin winces slightly. “I woke up when I hit my head on the ceiling.”
That sounds about right.
They start walking towards the Great Hall.
Seungmin rubs his forehead like the memory still hurts. “That’s four times now. There’s got to be some sort of trigger.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying, none of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t dumped half a cauldron on us.”
Seungmin whips his head around so fast, Minho’s impressed it doesn’t fly off. “Oh, I spilled it?”
“You’re the one who knocked it over.”
“You’re the one who kicked me!”
“Because you were breathing down my neck like a dementor!”
“I was supervising! The potion looked like swamp water.”
They glare at each other, breathing hard. Honestly, it’s impressive how long they can loop through the exact same argument.
Minho frowns, mentally rewinding the conversation. “Wait. Four times? I only remember three.”
Seungmin sighs and starts walking again, ticking them off on his fingers. “You at night. You in Transfiguration. Me by the kitchens. Me today. That’s four.”
Right. Minho repressed the Transfiguration incident on purpose.
“That one doesn’t count,” he mutters. “You weren’t even there.”
Seungmin gives him a look. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you need a witness to confirm levitation.”
Minho ignores that. His brain’s finally awake enough to string thoughts together.
Wait.
You weren’t even there.
Every time it’s happened, they’ve been apart—maybe that’s it.
Minho stops walking.
Seungmin pauses beside him. “What?”
Minho turns, expression slowly flattening in horror. “It only happens when we’re apart.”
Seungmin blinks at him.
“I mean—after we split up,” Minho continues. “After the library, we went to different dorms. I was in Transfiguration, you were somewhere else. We weren’t together for a while before you floated near the kitchens. And last night—same thing.”
A pause.
“And the one time we were together,” Minho adds, “you fell the second I got there.”
Which means… gravity temporarily malfunctions if they split up for too long. Or at least, that’s the best working hypothesis he can come up with.
Seriously. How much dumber can this stupid link actually get?
Nevermind—he doesn’t want to know.
They round the corner towards the Great Hall, and the scent of breakfast drifts out from the double doors.
“So what’s the time limit?” Seungmin mutters after a moment. “An hour? Two hours?”
“Roughly that,” Minho says grimly. “But better safe than sorry. Which means we have to meet—what, at least once every fifty-five minutes?”
Seungmin exhales sharply. “Perfect. That’s twice between classes every day. And in the morning. And in the evening”
But something still isn’t adding up. Minho shoots him a puzzled look. “It doesn’t make sense, though. If that’s the rule, shouldn’t it have happened more?”
“I mean,” he adds, slower, “we’ve been cursed for, like… two days.”
“Three,” Seungmin corrects instantly. Of course he’s counting.
Minho frowns. “Then why only four times?”
If it potentially happens after an hour, four times feels low. They’ve been apart way more than that over seventy-ish hours. Right? They fall into step again, quiet for a few beats. Maybe it’s random? Maybe there’s only a chance of it each time?
But then it hits him—sort of sideways.
Because they already have been meeting. Between classes. After meals. In the library. Sitting across the table. Even when they didn’t mean to.
A lot more than he realised.
Minho frowns at the floor, but doesn’t point it out—and thankfully, neither does Seungmin.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
They agree to meet between classes. Just long enough to “reset the timer,” as Seungmin put it—like they’re some sort of cursed magical hourglass.
It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the constant fear of spontaneous levitation. So begrudgingly, they do it. Quick meet-ups between lessons, occasional eye rolls, and the shared understanding to not voice how deeply stupid this is.
Seungmin, in a disgustingly Ravenclaw move, takes it a step further and charms them each a tiny pocket watch—enchanted to glow red when they’ve been apart for more than fifty minutes.
Minho hangs it around his neck on a chain, pretending it’s a time turner—or at least something cooler than essentially a magical balloon string typing him to the ground.
Over the next few days, they settle into something close to a routine. Not normal. Just—consistent. Predictable.
The little watch glows red for the first time on Friday morning, ten minutes into History of Magic. Minho blinks at it in mild horror, like it’s about to explode. He doesn’t feel floaty, but that’s not a gamble he’s willing to take.
He slips out just as Binns launches into another ramble about goblin uprisings, and finds Seungmin pacing at the bottom of the stairs.
“This isn’t sustainable,” Minho complains, stepping into range like he’s defusing a bomb.
“Hello to you too,” Seungmin mutters. “Timer went off?”
“No, I just missed your charming personality,” Minho deadpans.
They stand in awkward silence for thirty seconds until the glow fades. Then they leave without a word.
It becomes a Thing.
By the following Monday, they’ve established unofficial checkpoints: Seungmin waits by the second-floor tapestry; Minho camps out on the third landing of the East stairwell.
Occasionally, they pass each other in the corridor and pause for an exaggerated beat—just long enough to reset the timer and have a petty little staring contest.
At one point, Hyunjin catches them hovering in a hallway and goes, “Get a room.” Minho chokes and Seungmin splutters, but Hyunjin’s already walked off.
In hindsight—yeah, they were standing half a metre apart, silently staring at each in a corridor—but still. They’re not dating. Just tragically codependent because of stupid magic.
They walk off in opposite directions without another word.
So, daytime link? Managed. Mostly.
Nighttime? Still a problem.
Since they can’t “reset” the float timer while asleep, they instead come up with a system: whoever doesn’t wake up on the ceiling has to text the other ‘goodnight’ the next night.
Falling asleep first means the other gets magically dragged into unconsciousness with zero notice, and they’ve both had enough unplanned naps for a lifetime. So as long as one of them sends the message, the other makes sure they’re horizontal before being dragged under. Simple.
At first, the texts were purely functional.
Seungmin:
sleeping now
Minho:
going to sleep
Short, cold, and strictly practical: like reporting a curfew check-in.
Then one night, Minho adds “hope you float” to the end of his message. Just to be annoying.
Seungmin doesn’t reply. But the next night, his text ends with; “hope you float too :).” Minho nearly drops his phone. The smiley face is obviously sarcastic, but he still stares at it for longer than he wants to admit.
After that, it’s not really clear whose turn it is. They just… both keep sending them.
Minho doesn’t think much about it. Not really.
But at some point, it stops being about the curse. By the end of the week, he’s checking his phone at 10:15 sharp. Not because he’s worried about collapsing anymore.
Just… because he’s waiting.
Unfortunately, the third aspect of their link is almost impossible to control.
Emotions are much harder than proximity or sleep. They don’t follow timers or rules, and they sure as hell don’t come with warning texts. And since neither of them is exactly emotionally well-adjusted, this part is… hit or miss.
Most of the time, it’s manageable. A few side effects here and there—phantom heartburn when Seungmin’s annoyed, the occasional glitter sneeze when Minho’s pleased about something. Just mildly inconvenient and vaguely undignified.
But then there are the stronger flashes.
Like today.
They’re lingering near the courtyard steps just after lunch, Minho slouched against the railing, Seungmin sitting on the ledge with a half-eaten apple.
Suddenly, Chan hurries over, expression apologetic. “Seungmin, Professor Binns wants to talk to you about your History of Magic coursework. Something about citations again?”
Seungmin groans. “Again? I literally annotated every—fine, thanks Chan. I’ll go now.”
Chan turns to Minho. “Sorry, you’ll get him back soon.”
Minho’s about to make a snarky comment—that Seungmin isn’t his to begin with—but then he sees it.
Seungmin’s ears. Bright red.
He closes his mouth instead, and just watches them go.
Approximately ten minutes later, it starts.
A low hum beneath his skin. First like static, curling under his collar. Minho frowns, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake it off. But it sticks, crawling up his spine. Sparks at his fingertips—literally.
Stress. Seungmin’s.
Right on cue, his phone buzzes.
Seungmin:
sorry
this might be bad
if you start combusting just go to the hospital wing
i’ll meet you after
Minho blinks at the screen for a second.
He almost wishes Seungmin tagged an insult on. Seungmin never apologises—not unless it’s serious.
He leans back against the wall, fingers still crackling with static, and types out a reply:
Minho:
how stressed are you on a scale from 1 to final exams
actually nevermind i think i’m developing wifi
No answer. Just more electricity buzzing around him.
He doesn’t like this.
Yeah. This is bad.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Minho texts him again just after curfew:
Minho:
bring your feet
I’ll bring the cocoa
He doesn’t say where. He doesn’t have to.
Seungmin shows up ten minutes later outside the kitchens, hoodie slightly askew and hair flattened on one side like he’s spent a long time just lying down. He doesn’t even bother protesting at all this time, which is how Minho knows whatever’s stressing him out is worse than Seungmin admitted.
That, and the fact Minho hasn’t stopped sparking all day. If anything, his voltage has gone up.
Minho hands him both the cocoas without a word, adjusting the strap on his satchel. Seungmin takes them. Doesn’t even make a sarcastic comment about them being too sweet. He just follows, no complaints for once.
Minho leads them away from the fruit bowl portrait. Through one fake wall. Then another.
About halfway through the castle’s most unnecessarily long spiral staircase, Seungmin squints at him. “We’re not going to the Owlery.”
Minho’s surprised it’s taken him this long to figure out. “It’s Tuesday.”
“...Oh,” Seungmin says quietly. “Right. Salmon night’s Wednesday.”
Minho nods, trying for a grin. “Ten points to Ravenclaw.”
Seungmin smiles back, but it’s more like a grimace. “So where are we going, then?”
Minho shrugs. “You’ll see.”
Seungmin doesn’t ask again.
A few minutes later, they reach the top of the Astronomy Tower. Minho pushes open the creaky door, stepping out into the open air. The cool night air brushes his cheeks, stars scattered across the inky sky like glittering diamonds. He doesn’t need to look to know Seungmin’s eyes have already drifted upwards.
Minho walks straight to the bench near the parapet, dropping his satchel down and pulling out a slightly crumpled roll of parchment.
Seungmin raises an eyebrow, setting down the drinks. “You dragged me up here so you could… do homework?”
Minho sits, unfurling the parchment and smoothing it out with his palm. “Yeah. I concentrate better up here.”
Seungmin stares at him. “That’s the dumbest excuse I’ve ever—”
“Shut up and drink your cocoa,” Minho huffs, scribbling something at the top of his page. “I have two feet of Transfiguration due tomorrow.”
Seungmin mutters something, but takes a mug and sits down anyway.
They sit in silence after that. Minho scribbles just enough to pretend he’s working, glancing up occasionally to check if the buzzing’s really fading.
It is.
Eventually, the electricity disappears entirely.
He doesn’t say anything. Just adds a few more fake annotations to the margin of his essay, and lets the silence stay for a while longer.
Seungmin leans back against the stone wall, cradling his empty mug with both hands. For once, he doesn’t seem in a hurry to break the stillness. He just sits, head tilted back, watching the stars.
It’s kind of annoying, how good he looks in the moonlight like that.
“...Thanks,” Seungmin says eventually. It’s quiet, but not sarcastic. Real.
Minho doesn’t look up. “For what.”
“For this.” A pause. “Bringing me up here.”
Minho rolls his eyes, setting down his quill and fighting the heat creeping up his neck. “Don’t get sentimental about it. I only did it so you’d stop making me short-circuit the corridor.”
Seungmin snorts. “Right. Of course.”
“I mean it. I was getting static shocks from doorknobs.”
“You were literally turning into Pikachu,” Seungmin mutters, lips curling into a small smile.
Minho shrugs, pretending not to be pleased that Seungmin’s cheered up. “Exactly. I am not living like that.”
Seungmin hums, but doesn’t argue. They fall back into silence, and this time, it’s easier. Minho doesn’t write much more of his essay. Seungmin doesn’t say much else. But they stay there anyway, long after the cocoa’s gone cold.
Eventually, Minho stands, stretches, and mutters, “C’mon. Let’s get back before we both freeze to death.”
Seungmin just nods and falls into step beside him, shoulders bumping briefly as they walk. Neither of them says it, but the sparks don’t come back.
Later, after they’ve gone their separate ways, Minho gets a text.
Seungmin:
thanks for earlier
sleeping now
goodnight minho
Minho stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary. Seungmin’s never used his name like that before—soft, almost. He tries not to read into it too much.
Minho:
good
sweet dreams
Before he can second guess that last message, he sets his phone down and rolls onto his side. The weird warmth in his chest is definitely not a thing.
Just… residual static.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
After that night at the Astronomy Tower, something shifts—not in a big, dramatic way. Quietly. Naturally.
They stop checking the pocket watches. Not because the charm’s worn off, but because they don’t need to anymore. They just find each other—because it’s routine now. Normal, almost.
He says he hates how predictable they’ve become.
He doesn’t mean it.
Morning greetings join the nightly texts. Once, Seungmin sends a blurry picture of the sky at 6am with the caption: this sunrise is ugly. good morning. Minho grins like an idiot the whole day.
They keep going to the Owlery on Wednesdays. The Astronomy Tower on Tuesdays—Minho continues insisting it helps him concentrate, and Seungmin never calls him out on it.
Sometimes, when Minho’s stress spikes too hard to hide, Seungmin doesn’t ask questions—just reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of crystallised pineapple from a crumpled paper bag, and goes back to reading. Like it’s nothing.
Minho starts carrying some on him, too. They never talk about it—never say anything when one of them grabs an extra bag at Honeydukes, or quietly tops up after a rough day.
They just do. And it becomes one more thing on the long list of ways they shift to make room for each other.
They still bicker. Still compete to be the most annoying person alive. But Seungmin always shows up.
And Minho never stops waiting.
Every time he hiccups a bubble or sprouts tiny stars from his knuckles, it gets harder to pretend all of this is just about the curse.
He’s not ready to name what it is instead.
But he’s starting to suspect.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
It’s a rare, sunny Thursday afternoon when they end up by the lake.
Technically, Minho finds himself by the lake. Seungmin just follows, like he always does, pretending it’s for some rational reason—the library's too stuffy, the common room’s too loud.
Minho just rolls his eyes, settling under the willow tree near the shore. Seungmin flops down beside him with a dramatic sigh, stretching out on the grass.
They don’t talk much—no need to. A few birds trill nearby, and distant shouts from the Quidditch Pitch drift over. The grass is cool beneath his palms, the sunlight dappled through the branches above them.
At some point, Seungmin sits up and leans back on his elbows. Then, without warning, shifts until his shoulder knocks lightly against Minho’s—and stays there.
Minho blinks down at him. “You’re gonna fall asleep like that,” he says, not quite teasing.
Seungmin doesn’t reply, eyes already closed. Minho waits for the wave to hit—the foggy pull he gets when Seungmin drops off first. He wouldn’t mind napping in the sun for a while.
But it doesn’t come.
Minho frowns, unmoving. One breath. Two. Three.
Still nothing.
No wave of fatigue crashing into him. No invisible string yanking him horizontal. Just the warm press of Seungmin’s shoulder and the breeze coming off the lake. He stiffens, and carefully turns his head to look.
Seungmin is asleep. Minho... isn’t.
Isn’t asleep. Isn’t tired.
The curse is gone. The link is broken.
He’s free. He should be overjoyed, but—
But he isn’t. Not exactly. It’s like a door’s been closed, and he hadn’t realised he was standing in the doorway.
He shouldn't be surprised—it was always going to end eventually. He just didn’t realise it would feel… less like relief, and more like loss.
Because without it, what are they now? Just friends? Acquaintances with a shared trauma and an unfortunate amount of pineapple in their pockets?
He glances down at Seungmin’s face. His head’s tipped gently against Minho’s shoulder, hair falling across his forehead, mouth parted just enough to be stupidly endearing. There’s a faint crease between his brows—like even in unconsciousness, he’s ready to argue with someone.
Minho’s heart stumbles against his ribs. If the link were still active, maybe Seungmin would feel it too. Maybe he’d explode in glitter and Minho wouldn’t have to say anything at all.
But the link’s gone.
And now Minho is completely, horribly on his own.
He closes his eyes, and lets his head fall back against the tree. “What am I supposed to do now?” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for the wind to catch.
“So you finally figured it out.”
Minho jumps so violently he nearly falls sideways. “You—? How long have you been awake?”
“Since my pillow rudely started moving,” Seungmin says, voice still raspy with sleep.
Minho scowls and pulls away, and Seungmin topples over with a yelp. Then—wait. “What do you mean finally?”
Seungmin blinks up at him from the grass. “I figured it out yesterday.”
Minho stares in disbelief. “And you didn’t think to mention that?”
Seungmin looks away, voice quieter. “If I did, you wouldn’t’ve taken me to the Owlery.”
That shuts him up. For a moment, all Minho can do is continue to stare—brain trying and failing to process what that means.
Then Seungmin speaks again, still quiet. “Have you checked your pocket watch lately?”
Minho frowns, confused by the sudden change in subject, but reaches under his robes and pulls it out by the chain. He flips it open.
And sees that it’s stopped.
His stomach dips a little. Maybe this is Seungmin’s way of saying we don’t need it anymore. No more curse, no more proximity timer.
No more reason to keep showing up.
Minho swallows around the lump forming in his throat, thumb brushing the metal casing. “Right,” he mutters, half to himself. But then—
A tiny chime sounds, and a song starts playing.
It takes a second for Minho to recognise it, but when he does, the melody’s unmistakable—bubbly synths, smooth vocals, all too familiar.
“Is this—no way.” Minho chokes.
It is. Case 143.
He gapes at the watch like it’s just confessed to murder. Or worse—feelings. The peppy beat doesn’t match the tight ache in his chest—or maybe it does. Because that’s when he notices the hands.
They’re stopped at 1:43.
His brain screeches to a halt, synapses scrambling to catch up with what he’s seeing. Not broken. A message.
Minho’s heart stutters—then picks up speed like it’s trying to race the truth to the finish line.
Seungmin is an idiot. They’re both idiots.
Minho exhales a breathless laugh. “You’re an idiot.”
Seungmin’s head snaps towards him, a flush creeping up his neck. “Say that to—”
“I like you.”
The words leave his mouth before he can stop them, hanging in the air like some rogue charm—glowing, irreversible.
Seungmin freezes. So does he. Then his brain finally catches up and promptly short-circuits.
“I—it wasn’t meant to come out like that,” He winces, ears burning. Then he groans, swiping a hand down his face. “It’s your fault for being—” he gestures vaguely, “—so annoying I can’t think straight.”
Seungmin blinks at him. “So… you liking me is my fault?”
“I didn’t say I like you!”
“You literally just did.”
“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”
Seungmin levels him with a look. “Minho.”
Minho exhales sharply, grounding his gaze on the lake again like that might help him get a grip. His brain is already offering escape routes, jokes to pivot to, distractions to deflect with.
But for once, he decides not to take them.
“Fine,” he mutters. ”Maybe I like you too. In a mild, tolerable way.”
There’s a pause. Then, Seungmin’s voice:
“Enough to… hold my hand? In a mild, tolerable way too, obviously.”
Minho tries to scowl, but it’s ruined by the smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t push it, Kim Seungmin.”
Seungmin shrugs, but Minho feels it—the brush of fingers against his own, casual and light. Like a question. Like an offer.
He doesn’t think. Just lets his pinky curl around Seungmin’s.
Tolerable, he thinks, as his heart does something completely intolerable in his chest.
He doesn’t pull away. Seungmin doesn’t point it out. Their pinkies stay curled together—just barely. Just enough.
And maybe, finally, more than enough.