A SUITABLE ARRANGEMENT — KIM JUHOON
SYNOPSIS :: To be born a pureblood means you are hounded to pick a perfect suitor of similar position in the wizarding society. Juhoon suggests a simple solution to get your parents off your back: date him, just make sure you don’t catch any feelings.
W.C :: 11.9k
CONTAINS :: slytherin!juhoon, fake dating, both purebloods, slow burn, both emotionally inept and oblivious, not a lot of dialogue (more storytelling), mini harassment (reader being touched without permission), blood/injury, skinship, kissing
PLAYLIST :: Pretty boy - The Neighbourhood; The complete knock - Blood Orange; Sweater weather - The Neighbourhood; Knee socks - Arctic Monkeys; Sad girl - Lana Del Rey; She’s my collar - Gorillaz, Kali Uchis
Everyone had assumed you and Juhoon were together long before your arrangement ever began.
To the rest of Hogwarts, the two of you made perfect sense. Two Slytherins from old pureblood families, always standing beside one another at functions, always paired together during gatherings, always carrying yourselves with the same composed elegance expected from families like yours.
A match made in heaven, according to the whispers that followed the two of you through the halls.
The irony was that your families could barely tolerate one another.
They played polite well enough during pureblood gatherings, all sharp smiles and expensive robes and poisoned compliments hidden beneath crystal glasses. But beneath the carefully maintained civility lay years of rivalry neither side ever bothered to truly conceal.
Still, neither family could exactly complain.
After years of relentless pestering about finding a “suitable” partner, the two of you had solved the problem yourselves.
No unbearable introductions arranged by your parents. No carefully selected heirs from respectable houses being paraded in front of you at dinners. And, most importantly, no risk of either of you ending up with what your mother so delicately referred to as ‘one of those horrid half-bloods polluting wizarding society’.
The arrangement had happened late one evening in the library.
You still remembered the way Juhoon had slid into the seat across from you without invitation, expression unreadable as always. The Slytherin prefect pin gleamed faintly against the dim candlelight.
“You’ve been avoiding your mother’s letters,” he had said plainly.
You glanced up from your book. “And you know this because?”
“She complained to mine.”
Of course she had.
You let out a quiet sigh, shutting your book with more force than necessary. “If this is another conversation about suitable suitors, I might actually throw myself into the Black Lake.”
To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Then, after a brief pause, he said, “Date me.”
You could only stare at him, the gears shifting as your brain tried to process his words. “What?”
“Pretend to,” Juhoon corrected smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “People already think we’re together. It would solve the problem.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately, suspicious. “And what exactly do you gain from this?”
“My parents stop introducing me to insufferable pureblood daughters every holiday.”
“That bad?”
“One of them cried because I didn’t compliment her dress.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
Juhoon continued, calm and composed as though he were discussing homework rather than proposing an entirely fabricated relationship. “We keep appearances up around our families. Attend events together. Act convincing enough that they stop interfering in our lives.” His gaze flickered toward you then, steady and sharp. “In return, they leave us alone.”
It was practical and honestly far less miserable than enduring another year of your parents’ endless matchmaking.
So you agreed, and perhaps that had been your first mistake because the lie came far too easily.
The news spread through Hogwarts within days. Apparently, you were officially off-limits now—though neither of you had exactly struggled with unwanted attention before, both considered far too intimidating for most students to approach in the first place. Still, people looked at the two of you differently afterward, as though the confirmation merely solidified something everyone had believed from the start.
Because in everyone else’s eyes, you and Juhoon fit together effortlessly enough that some couldn’t tell if your relationship was truly for the mere essence of maintaining pureblood expectations or something far more genuine.
Most assumed the latter because how could they not?
You and Juhoon moved around one another with a familiarity too natural to appear rehearsed, too instinctive to feel manufactured. None of how you interacted looked forced enough to be an arrangement crafted purely for convenience.
To many students, it looked painfully obvious: love disguised poorly beneath Slytherin composure and aristocratic restraint.
Even among the more cynical pureblood circles, whispers followed the two of you with something almost resembling admiration. A perfect match between two influential families, yes, but also something strangely sincere beneath all the politics and reputation.
Others found it romantic in an insufferable sort of way. The terrifyingly composed Slytherin heir who looked at no one the way he looked at you and the equally intimidating pureblood witch somehow capable of softening the sharpest edges of Juhoon’s cold demeanor simply by standing beside him.
Though there remained a smaller, far more rational group of students who viewed the situation differently.
They observed the timing too carefully. The convenience of the sudden announcement arriving perfectly alongside increasing pressure from both your families.
To them, it looked less like a love story and more like an agreement between two ambitious pureblood heirs intelligent enough to understand exactly what was expected of them.
And truthfully, they would have been correct, it was a strategic alliance meant for nothing more than for you both to finally get some peace in your life.
Still, no one dared voice such theories aloud.
Not when Juhoon’s gaze alone could silence most people where they stood. And certainly not when the two of you looked altogether too convincing beside one another for anyone to comfortably question it for long.
The two of you had established a set of simple, but necessary rules that night in the library as well.
No real feelings.
Public affection only when required.
Family events would be attended together, appearances maintained carefully enough to keep suspicion away. If either of you wished to end the arrangement, it ended immediately—no questions asked.
It was practical and controlled. Exactly the sort of agreement expected between two pureblood heirs raised on reputation before emotion.
At least, that was what you had told yourself.
The problem was that Juhoon had always been unfairly easy to exist beside even before the arrangement had been established
You had spent years at his side during endless pureblood functions and insufferable dinners, years exchanging sharp remarks across Slytherin tables and quiet conversations in hidden corners of the library. Being around him had never required effort and silence with him had never felt uncomfortable.
Pretending, it turned out, felt alarmingly natural, to the point where almost none of it felt staged anymore.
Not when he would pull a chair out for you before you even reached the table, or when his eyes would find yours across the Great Hall with quiet, terrifying ease. Nor when he looked at you like you were something worth protecting, and certainly not when you began forgetting there had ever been rules to begin with.
The reaction from Hogwarts had been almost insulting.
You had expected surprise, perhaps even outrage considering the nature of your families. At the very least, some degree of shock.
Instead, the majority of the school responded with an almost unbearable sense of satisfaction as though they had all collectively won a bet neither you nor Juhoon had known existed.
“Finally,” Jaehyun had drawled the morning after the rumors spread, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he slid into the seat across from the two of you at breakfast.
Mina looked equally smug. “You were honestly fooling no one.”
You nearly choked on your tea. Beside you, Juhoon remained perfectly composed, lazily stirring his coffee as though the attention surrounding your table did not exist. Which somehow only made the rumors worse.
The professors were no better. Slughorn, in particular, looked positively delighted by the arrangement.
In his eyes, the two of you were practically the embodiment of everything he adored: prestigious pureblood heirs, academically gifted Slytherins, socially influential students with families woven so deeply into wizarding society it existed beyond the ancient historical texts.
You suspected he had been waiting for this development longer than the rest of Hogwarts combined.
“Well, well,” Slughorn beamed during Potions one afternoon, eyes flickering between the two of you knowingly. “Young love among noble houses. How very classic.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
You stared at him in horror. To your right, Juhoon looked mildly appalled for perhaps half a second before his usual composure settled back into place.
Unfortunately, several students had witnessed it and that resulted in the teasing afterward being relentless. Not that either of you reacted strongly enough to discourage it.
That was the problem.
At first, maintaining the act required actual effort, though you had expected that much. The first few days were painfully awkward in ways neither of you anticipated. Every movement felt overly deliberate, every touch carefully calculated beneath the watchful eyes of Hogwarts.
Juhoon offering you his arm before entering the Great Hall, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve during pureblood gatherings, sitting together during meals, quiet conversations close enough to appear intimate.
It felt staged at first, like two people attempting to imitate a relationship they did not fully understand.
And then, somehow, it stopped feeling unnatural altogether. The shift happened so gradually neither of you noticed it immediately.
One day Juhoon was offering you his arm because people were watching and the next, he was doing it automatically without glancing around first.
You stopped choosing the seat beside him consciously. Your body simply carried you there out of habit now, settling comfortably into his presence before your mind caught up.
He began fixing your collar absentmindedly whenever it sat crooked, his fingers just grazing your throat as you maintained a straight face, though the goosebumps littering your skin almost gave you away.
You started stealing pieces of fruit from his plate during breakfast without asking.
Shared notes became shared textbooks, whispered conversations stretching late into the night within the Slytherin common room while green candlelight flickered against the dungeon walls.
And then there was the touching. Subtle enough to escape notice if one wasn’t looking carefully, yet somehow constant all the same.
Juhoon’s hand began to rest against the small of your back in crowded hallways and your knee started brushing his beneath library tables.
None of it should have felt significant yet each touch lingered far longer in your mind than it ought to have. Perhaps because Juhoon was not naturally affectionate, especially with everyone else.
He tolerated very few people willingly, less so physical contact. Most students avoided standing too close to him altogether, intimidated by the sharp calmness he carried so effortlessly.
But with you, the distance between your bodies seemed to disappear more and more each day.
And the truly dangerous part was that neither of you seemed to notice anymore when you were pretending and when you were simply… being yourselves.
The realisation came slowly.
So slowly, in fact, that you hardly noticed it at all.
It settled quietly into the spaces between lingering glances and absentminded touches, weaving itself into your routine before either of you had the chance to stop it. Somewhere along the way, Juhoon had ceased to feel like a performance and instead become something constant, expected even.
You found him beside you in every corner of Hogwarts without needing to ask.
In the mornings at the Slytherin table, already pouring tea into your cup before you had even sat down, the steam curling softly between the two of you as though he had done it his entire life. During lessons, where his chair always seemed to end up angled subtly toward yours no matter where the professors placed you. Across from you in the library during late-night study sessions, silver rings tapping idly against the wooden table while he skimmed over your essays with quiet criticism.
“Your conclusion is weak,” he remarked one evening without looking up.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’ve said that for the past three of my essays.”
“Because it continues to be true.”
And then, not five minutes later, he slid a fresh piece of parchment toward you with several rewritten sentences already scrawled neatly across it.
Even outside of lessons, Juhoon simply… appeared.
Waiting outside classrooms between periods, one hand tucked into the pocket of his robes while groups of students parted around him instinctively. Falling into step beside you through the corridors without greeting, as though your company had long since become assumed. Occupying the seat beside yours in the common room before anyone else could take it.
There was no discussion or hesitation, only certainty.
And perhaps the most dangerous part was that he noticed things no one else ever bothered paying attention to.
He knew when you were irritated before you spoke, recognising the slight tightening in your expression long before anyone else caught on. Knew exactly which desserts you avoided in the Great Hall and quietly traded them off your plate whenever they appeared. Knew the difference between your genuine smile and the polite, practiced one reserved for pureblood gatherings.
Sometimes it felt as though Juhoon observed you too carefully. As though he had spent years memorising every version of you long before either of you called this a relationship.
It seemed almost instinctive, the sort built through diving to see more than what appeared at the surface.
You began noticing it everywhere once you allowed yourself to look.
He’d automatically shifted closer whenever conversations in the common room became too loud, subtle enough that no one else would recognise the gesture for what it was. His eyes searched for you first whenever he entered a room, immediately locating you within seconds as though it were unconscious now.
And Merlin, the staring.
You did not know when that had begun.
Perhaps he had always looked at you that way and you had simply never paid enough attention before.
Juhoon’s gaze had always been intense by nature—sharp, assessing, difficult for most people to hold comfortably. He looked at people as though dissecting them quietly in his mind, cool and unreadable in a way that made even older students nervous.
But with you, it was different. Softer, somehow. Not openly affectionate. Juhoon was not the sort for obvious displays of emotion.
Still, there were moments when you caught him looking at you from across the Great Hall or over the top of a book in the library, expression unreadable yet strangely focused, as though he had momentarily forgotten anyone else existed.
And every single time, your stomach betrayed you because Juhoon was composed by nature. Controlled down to the very way he spoke. Nothing about him was careless.
And yet, around you, cracks had begun appearing in that perfect restraint. Small, nearly invisible ones.
The subtle tightening of his jaw whenever another student lingered too close to you. The way his gaze darkened almost imperceptibly whenever someone flirted too openly. The instinctive way he would place a hand against your waist while guiding you through corridors that were not even vastly populated, fingers lingering just a second too long against the fabric of your robes.
Protective.
Possessive, perhaps.
Though you weren’t entirely sure you minded, and that alone should have terrified you. Instead, it settled warm beneath your ribs like a secret you were too afraid to name. And it only became worse after Potions.
Slughorn’s classroom smelled overwhelmingly sweet that morning, thick curls of shimmering steam spiraling upward from the cauldron positioned at the center of the room. Students leaned forward curiously as the potion glimmered beneath the candlelight, its surface shifting in pearlescent swirls.
“Amortentia,” Slughorn announced proudly, gesturing dramatically toward the cauldron. “The most powerful love potion in the world. Quite distinctive, of course. It smells different to each person according to what attracts them most.”
A chorus of amused reactions spread throughout the room almost immediately. Several students laughed whilst others leaned forward eagerly, excited to reveal their own.
You had barely paid attention until the scent reached you.
Rain against stone.
Cedarwood.
Mint.
Old parchment.
Your stomach dropped instantly because it smelled exactly like Juhoon.
Not vaguely similar or close enough to dismiss. It smelled undeniably, unmistakably like him—like the lingering scent left behind whenever he shrugged his robes over your shoulders after Quidditch practice, and sitting beside him in the library beneath flickering candlelight while rain battered softly against the dungeon windows.
Heat crawled painfully up your neck but you forced your expression to remain neutral, staring firmly ahead while panic curled violently in your chest.
Surely no one else noticed.
Slowly, carefully, you shifted your gaze downward toward your notes, pretending sudden fascination with your parchment.
Then silence settled beside you, the atmosphere surrounding the two of you growing far too heavy for you to ignore. Against your better judgment, you glanced sideways to find him already looking at you. And for the first time in as long as you had known him, Juhoon looked unsettled.
Only slightly.
A nearly invisible tension lingered in his expression before disappearing just as quickly, gone so fast you might have imagined it entirely had you not spent months learning the smallest shifts in his composure.
But you knew him too well now to miss it.
He had smelled something too.
Someone.
And judging by the way his gaze lingered on you afterward: thoughtful, quiet, almost unbearably intent, you had a terrible feeling you already knew who.
Neither of you spoke about it afterward, both far too emotionally inept to even consider attempting such a conversation. Instead, the two of you did what Slytherins did best: you avoided it completely. Painfully so.
The moment class ended, you gathered your things far too quickly before standing abruptly from your seat, your robe nearly getting caught on the table. Around the classroom, students continued laughing and teasing one another over the potion while Slughorn rambled enthusiastically about the “fascinating nature of adolescent attraction.”
You wanted to disappear into the Black Lake and never emerge again.
Juhoon, unfortunately, followed you out of the classroom almost immediately because that’s what he always did.
You could hear his footsteps behind you as you moved through the dungeon corridors, measured and unhurried in a way that somehow made your nervousness worse. He said nothing at first, merely falling into step beside you as naturally as breathing.
Usually, the silence between you was comfortable. Now it felt suffocating.
“You’re walking unusually fast,” Juhoon observed after several moments.
You kept your eyes fixed ahead. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
A pause passed between you. Then, quieter: “You’ve been avoiding looking at me since class ended.”
Heat crept instantly back into your face. “I’m not avoiding you.”
“Hm.” The sound alone told you he didn’t believe a word of it.
You risked a glance toward him then, only to regret it immediately. Juhoon was already watching you, and it wasn’t casual, either. It was intent, like he was trying to solve something. It made your stomach twist painfully.
“You’re staring,” you muttered.
“And you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
Another pause.
“Hm.”
You hated when he did that.
The worst part was that Juhoon himself did not appear entirely unaffected either, no matter how composed he attempted to remain. His shoulders seemed slightly tenser than usual beneath his robes, jaw tightening faintly every few seconds like he was restraining thoughts he had no intention of voicing aloud.
Which, somehow, only confirmed your suspicions further.
Merlin. Juhoon had smelled you in the Amortentia potion.
You nearly walked directly into another student before a hand closed instantly around your wrist, pulling you smoothly out of the way before impact.
“Careful,” Juhoon murmured.
The touch burned far hotter than it should have. His fingers remained around your wrist for one second too long before releasing you, though whether he noticed that fact himself, you couldn’t tell.
Neither of you moved immediately afterward.
The corridor around you buzzed with distant conversation and footsteps, students brushing past without a second glance, yet the space between you suddenly felt strangely still.
Dangerously still.
Juhoon’s gaze dropped briefly toward your face, lingering there with unsettling focus, and for one reckless moment, you thought he might actually say something. Maybe ask or even acknowledge it.
Instead, he simply adjusted your cloak where it had slipped from your shoulder during your near collision, movements careful and composed despite the tension crackling quietly between the two of you.
Then he stepped back.
“There’s a Slytherin meeting tonight,” he said smoothly, as though neither of you were internally unraveling. “Don’t be late.”
And just like that, the moment vanished like any other time you had come close to branching further than just an arrangement.
Days passed as such, and you continued your… whatever it was you and Juhoon had become.
Not quite fake. Not entirely real. Something dangerously in between.
The awkwardness following the Amortentia incident never truly disappeared, though neither of you acknowledged it aloud. Instead, it settled quietly beneath your interactions, lingering within prolonged glances and near touches that suddenly felt far too intentional.
If Juhoon noticed the shift between you, he gave no indication of it. But afterward, he seemed even more attentive than before.
His hand found the small of your back far more often in the corridors, not that you had been keeping track though. His gaze lingered longer whenever you spoke. Sometimes, during late evenings in the common room, you would glance up from your book only to find him already watching you with that same unreadable expression that made your stomach twist painfully every single time.
It was unbearable.
Worse still, it was becoming impossible to tell where the act ended anymore.
Perhaps that was why the letter from your mother unsettled you as much as it did.
The envelope arrived during breakfast one icy December morning, bearing your family crest stamped neatly into dark green wax. You already knew it would be unpleasant before even opening it.
Across from you, Juhoon glanced up briefly from his tea as you broke the seal.
Your mother’s elegant handwriting greeted you immediately.
You and Juhoon are expected to attend the Rosier Winter Solstice Ball during holiday recess. Considering recent developments, your appearance together will be beneficial for both families.
Do try not to embarrass us.
You stared at the letter for several long moments before sighing deeply and handing it across the table.
Juhoon scanned the contents silently. “The Rosier ball,” he murmured.
You groaned softly. “I was hoping to avoid that this year.”
“So was I.”
That alone was enough to tell you exactly how insufferable the event would be.
The Rosier Winter Solstice Ball was infamous amongst pureblood society—less celebration and more political performance disguised beneath expensive robes and orchestral music. Old families gathered beneath enchanted chandeliers to exchange alliances, gossip, and carefully concealed threats while pretending it was all perfectly civilized.
Children of noble houses were displayed like prized assets.
And now, apparently, the two of you would be attending together officially.
Wonderful.
“You realise everyone’s going to stare at us the entire night,” you muttered.
Juhoon folded the letter neatly before setting it back down beside your plate. “They already do.”
Annoyingly enough, he wasn’t wrong.
The Rosier estate looked almost unreal beneath winter snowfall.
Ancient stone walls towered against the dark sky, every window glowing with warm golden light while enchanted snow drifted elegantly through the air without ever touching the ground. Inside, the manor glittered beneath towering crystal chandeliers, their reflections dancing across polished marble floors and gold-trimmed walls lined with moving portraits older than Hogwarts itself.
The ballroom itself was already crowded upon arrival.
Pureblood heirs draped in expensive fabrics moved gracefully through clusters of conversation while orchestral music echoed softly throughout the hall. Jewel-toned gowns shimmered beneath candlelight, dark tailored suits embroidered subtly with family crests and ancient runes.
Politics disguised as elegance.
Exactly as exhausting as you remembered.
The moment you entered beside Juhoon, attention shifted immediately.
Not openly, of course, pureblood society was far too practiced for something so crude. But you felt it all the same: eyes following the two of you across the ballroom, whispers murmured quietly behind crystal glasses as your arrival spread through the crowd.
Because this was the first time many of them had seen you together publicly since the announcement.
And Juhoon played the role far too well.
His hand settled against your waist almost instantly upon entering the ballroom, warm and steady through the fabric of your dress as he guided you smoothly through the crowd. The gesture appeared effortless, natural enough that no one would question it for a second, yet the touch lingered in your mind far longer than it should have.
You became painfully aware of him throughout the evening.
The way he pulled your chair out before you could sit during dinner, and he leaned down slightly whenever speaking near your ear, his voice low enough that no one else could overhear. Even how his fingers brushed absentmindedly against your own while passing you a drink.
Every action was perfectly measured. Perfectly convincing.
That should have reassured you.
Instead, it unsettled you more with every passing hour because Juhoon was terrifyingly good at acting like he adored you.
At one point during the evening, an older witch smiled knowingly as the two of you crossed the ballroom together. “You make a beautiful couple,” she remarked warmly and your polite smile nearly faltered.
Juhoon’s hand tightened subtly at your waist.
“Thank you,” he replied smoothly before you could answer. As though he meant it.
That haunted you for the remainder of the night.
Especially once the dancing began.
His hand rested against your waist while the other held yours carefully, guiding you effortlessly across the ballroom floor beneath glittering chandeliers and floating candlelight. Every movement felt controlled, elegant, practiced from years of aristocratic upbringing.
And all the while, people watched the two of you.
You could feel their attention constantly. Admiration, curiosity, approval for the perfect pureblood pair. Exactly what your families wanted.
The thought should have disgusted you, but your attention remained fixed on Juhoon.
His gaze never truly left your face while you danced and he instinctively guided you away whenever couples drifted too close. There was an almost protective way he carried himself beside you throughout the evening, calm and watchful like he was aware of everything happening around you at all times.
None of it felt forced or fake, and somewhere between his hand against your waist and the quiet sound of his voice near your ear, a dangerous thought began settling heavily into your chest.
How much of this was actually pretending anymore?
The thought lingered uncomfortably for the rest of the evening.
You tried to dismiss it. Tried to blame the atmosphere instead—the golden candlelight, the orchestral music swelling softly throughout the ballroom, the overwhelming intensity of old pureblood traditions wrapped so elegantly around the two of you.
But every time you convinced yourself you were overthinking things, Juhoon would do something small and devastating.
A witch from the Parkinson family attempted to pull you into conversation near the refreshments table, speaking animatedly about Ministry affairs while several older purebloods listened nearby. You barely managed a polite response before feeling Juhoon’s presence settle beside you once more.
He didn’t interrupt, he was never rude enough for that. But somehow the conversation ended less than a minute later regardless and his hand brushed lightly against your lower back as he guided you away through the crowd.
“You looked miserable,” he murmured.
You glanced sideways at him. “And you decided to rescue me?”
“You say that like it’s unusual.”
The response came so naturally that your steps faltered slightly before you recollected yourself.
At some point during the evening, your mother approached the two of you with a satisfied expression that immediately made you wary.
“You look lovely together,” she commented, gaze flickering approvingly between you and Juhoon. “People have been speaking very highly of your relationship tonight.”
You resisted the urge to grimace. Beside you, Juhoon remained flawlessly composed. “That was the intention,” he replied smoothly.
Your mother seemed pleased by the answer, though her attention lingered suspiciously on the hand resting against your waist before she eventually disappeared back into the crowd.
The moment she left, you exhaled quietly. “I think she’s planning our wedding already.”
Juhoon took a slow sip from his drink. “She wouldn’t be the only one.”
You nearly choked. He glanced at you then, one eyebrow lifting faintly as though amused by your reaction.
“You’re joking.”
“Mostly.”
That was not reassuring whatsoever.
The longer the evening continued, the more impossible Juhoon became to ignore. You noticed the way people reacted to him around you.
How conversations shifted whenever he stepped closer and other pureblood heirs kept a respectful distance without needing to be told. His eyes would follow you instinctively anytime someone else attempted to monopolize your attention for too long.
Protective. Always protective.
Though there was something sharper threaded beneath it tonight.
You first noticed it properly when Eunwoo Carrow approached you near the ballroom balcony.
Eunwoo was charming in the polished, aristocratic sort of way most pureblood sons were taught to be: handsome enough, socially graceful enough, and entirely too aware of both facts.
“Enjoying the evening?” He asked pleasantly, offering you a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“Trying to,” you replied lightly.
Eunwoo smiled. “I must admit, your relationship came as quite the surprise.”
You hummed softly. “Did it?”
“To everyone else? Perhaps not.” His gaze flickered briefly across the ballroom before returning to you. “To Juhoon’s admirers, however, it was devastating news.”
You almost laughed. The idea of Juhoon inspiring admiration rather than fear within Hogwarts remained endlessly amusing.
Still, before you could respond, Eunwoo stepped slightly closer. Not enough to be improper, just enough to be noticed.
“You know,” he continued smoothly, “if things between you and Juhoon ever become… less serious, I’d be very interested in—”
A hand settled suddenly against the small of your back. Warm, steady and wholly possessive.
Juhoon.
You had not even seen him approach.
“Carrow,” Juhoon greeted calmly beside you and Eunwoo’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly.
“Juhoon.”
There was no hostility in his tone, and that somehow made the tension worse.
Juhoon’s hand remained firmly against your waist as his gaze settled on Eunwoo with quiet composure. “I believe she was just about to join me for the next dance.”
You blinked. You had not been aware there was another dance but Eunwoo clearly recognised the dismissal for what it was. Still smiling faintly, he inclined his head. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to keep your partner.”
Then he left.
The moment he disappeared into the crowd, silence settled briefly between the two of you.
Juhoon’s hand had not moved. In fact, if anything, his fingers seemed to tighten slightly against your waist before relaxing again.
“You disappeared,” you said eventually, mostly because the tension had become unbearable otherwise.
“I was speaking with my father.”
“You looked thrilled.”
“I considered poisoning my drink halfway through the conversation.”
You laughed softly before you could stop yourself and the sound seemed to catch his attention immediately. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward you then—fully toward you—and for one strange, suspended moment, the noise of the ballroom faded entirely into the background.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat.
Then his eyes flickered briefly toward the crowd behind you, expression cooling almost instantly. “Eunwoo was standing too close to you.”
The words startled you. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Flat. Controlled
Jealous.
You stared at him.
Juhoon, meanwhile, seemed to realise only afterward what he had admitted aloud.
A strange flicker crossed his expression before his composure slid immediately back into place.
“He has a reputation,” he added smoothly as though that explained anything. As though your pulse had not just quickened violently at the implication hidden beneath his words.
Before you could respond, the orchestra began another slow waltz somewhere across the ballroom. Juhoon held your gaze for one lingering second before finally speaking once more. “Dance with me.”
It was not phrased like a question.
Juhoon was already extending his hand toward you, expression calm and unreadable beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers overhead. Around the two of you, couples began drifting back toward the center of the ballroom as the orchestra swelled into another slow waltz.
For a moment, you simply stared at him.
Then, against every sensible thought currently screaming through your mind, you placed your hand in his.
The ballroom blurred softly around you as Juhoon guided you back onto the dance floor, one hand settling once more against your waist while the other held yours with practiced ease. The movement between you felt almost instinctive now, frighteningly natural as he led you effortlessly through the crowd.
You hated how easily your body responded to him and how naturally you fit beside him.
The music echoed softly throughout the hall while candlelight flickered against polished marble floors, shadows dancing across expensive fabrics and glittering jewelry. Pureblood heirs moved elegantly around you beneath floating chandeliers, every step carefully perfected through years of aristocratic upbringing.
Yet somehow, despite the sheer number of people surrounding you, your attention remained painfully fixed on Juhoon alone and how his gaze lingered on your face with unnerving intensity every time you looked up.
“You’re staring again,” you murmured softly.
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his expression. “And yet you continue letting me.”
Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly and you looked away immediately, but that only seemed to amuse him further.
You weren’t embarrassed merely because Juhoon was flirting, but because he did it so rarely that every small remark carried far too much weight.
Especially when directed at you.
For several moments, neither of you spoke again, you simply danced. The orchestra played softly around you while the rest of the ballroom faded into meaningless noise, your attention narrowing dangerously to the person standing impossibly close before you.
You became painfully aware of every tiny detail: the faint scent of cedarwood lingering against his clothes, the smooth fabric beneath your fingertips, the warmth of his hand through the layers of your clothing.
And perhaps worst of all was the look in his eyes, because Juhoon looked at you like someone trying very hard not to say something.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You’re quiet,” he observed eventually.
“So are you.”
“I usually am.”
“That’s true.”
There was a brief lull between you as you attempted to avoid his eyes, it becoming far too overwhelming.
“You’ve been avoiding me since Potions.”
Your stomach dropped instantly. Of course he would notice that, Juhoon notices everything. “I have not.”
His eyebrow lifted slightly. “You walked into a suit of armor yesterday because you were too busy pretending not to look at me.”
Heat rushed immediately to your face. “That happened once.”
“You apologised to it.”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
To your horror, the corner of Juhoon’s mouth twitched faintly upward.Not quite a smile, but worse. Fond amusement.
Juhoon was enjoying your embarrassment far too much for your liking.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“So I’ve been told.”
Despite yourself, you laughed softly and the sound seemed to affect him instantly. Something in his expression softened almost imperceptibly, the usual sharpness in his gaze easing for half a second before his composure returned.
But you saw it, and suddenly the air between you felt far too warm.
The dance slowed gradually as the music neared its end though neither of you moved apart immediately afterward. Juhoon’s hand remained against your waist, your own still resting lightly against his shoulder while the final notes echoed softly throughout the ballroom.
People continued moving around you yet the moment felt strangely isolated all the same. Dangerously intimate.
Then someone called Juhoon’s name from across the ballroom and the spell shattered instantly.
His expression cooled back into practiced neutrality as he glanced toward the source of the interruption: his father standing near a cluster of Ministry officials, already looking impatient.
You felt the shift immediately. The reminder of where you were. Who you were. What this arrangement was supposed to be.
Juhoon exhaled quietly through his nose before lowering his gaze back toward you. “I need to speak with him.”
“Go,” you replied, perhaps a little too quickly.
Something unreadable flickered across his expression. Then, slowly, his hand slipped from your waist and the absence of it felt far more noticeable than it should have.
“I’ll find you afterward,” he said, and before you could properly process the implication hidden within those words, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
You remained standing there for several moments after he left, pulse still uneven beneath your ribs.
Across the ballroom, people continued watching you. Whispering quietly behind jeweled glasses and polite smiles. A perfect pair, a future alliance, apureblood success story.
If only they knew.
Though, standing there beneath glittering chandeliers with the ghost of Juhoon’s touch still lingering against your waist, you were no longer entirely certain what the truth actually was anymore.
The ball ended late into the night.
Snow drifted softly outside the manor as guests gradually disappeared through the Floo network one by one, the grand ballroom slowly emptying of music and conversation. By the time you finally stepped outside onto the manor steps, exhaustion had settled heavily into your bones.
Cold winter air bit instantly against your skin.
Beside you, Juhoon adjusted his gloves silently before glancing toward you.
“You’re cold.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Hm.”
Before you could question the sound, he removed the heavy dark cloak draped over his shoulders and settled it carefully around yours.
Your breath caught slightly. “Juhoon—”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
The familiar scent of cedarwood and mint wrapped around you immediately beneath the warmth of the cloak, making your chest tighten painfully all over again.
Neither of you spoke for several moments afterward. Snow fell quietly around the two of you while golden light spilled from the manor windows behind you, soft orchestral music still faintly audible through the walls.
“You handled tonight well,” Juhoon finally spoke, cutting through the silence.
You blinked softly. “That sounds almost like a compliment.”
“It is.”
You looked at him then, seeing the slight exhaustion beneath his composed expression and the careful way he stood beside you despite clearly wanting to leave the event hours ago. Even the way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever it rested on you for too long.
And suddenly, horrifyingly, one realisation settled heavily in your chest above all others.
You liked this version of him far too much.
The thought terrified you, because this was never supposed to become real.
The return to Hogwarts following that night was as regular as it could have been.
You maintained what had already been present between the two of you: quiet touches, shared glances, the familiar ease that had long since settled into your routines. If anything, the aftermath of the Rosier ball only seemed to deepen the strange intimacy growing steadily between you and Juhoon.
Though neither of you acknowledged it, why would you? That would have required emotional honesty, something both of you had been raised to avoid almost professionally.
Instead, life simply… continued.
Mornings at the Slytherin table, late nights in the library, walking side-by-side through crowded corridors while students instinctively moved aside to let the two of you pass.
He still looked at you in that quiet, dangerous way that made your pulse stumble embarrassingly every single time, and it was becoming a problem. A rather significant one.
Especially because Juhoon himself appeared entirely unaffected, at least outwardly.
Though there were smal moments where his composure slipped just enough to make your chest tighten painfully.
Like after Quidditch matches.
Juhoon rarely lingered after practice or games. Once finished, he usually disappeared quickly with the rest of the Slytherin team, expression unreadable beneath windswept dark hair while students crowded noisily around the pitch.
And yet, recently, you had developed the unfortunate habit of waiting for him afterward.
You weren’t entirely sure when that started.
Maybe after one particularly brutal practice where he had shown up in the common room with blood running down his jaw from a stray Bludger hit and still calmly asked if you had finished your Potions essay. Or maybe after realising he always searched the stands for you before matches began.
Either way, it became routine.
So when the Slytherin versus Gryffindor match ended beneath a cold grey February sky, you found yourself lingering near the edge of the pitch while students poured noisily from the stands around you.
Slytherin had won by the skin of their teeth.
The atmosphere buzzed loudly with excitement and irritation alike as students argued over fouls and close calls while snow crunched beneath moving crowds.
You spotted Juhoon almost immediately.
He stood near the locker room entrance speaking briefly with another teammate, broom tucked beneath one arm while his Quidditch robes clung slightly to his frame from exertion. Even from a distance, he carried himself with the same composed sharpness he always did, though a faint flush lingered across his cheeks from the cold.
And, as though sensing your attention instantly, his gaze lifted, finding you immediately. Something subtle softened in his expression before he nodded once toward you, small enough that no one else would notice.
Your stomach betrayed you instantly.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
“You know,” a voice drawled beside you suddenly, “he’s terrifyingly possessive for someone pretending to date you.”
You turned to find a Gryffindor boy leaning casually against the wooden railing nearby, red-and-gold scarf hanging loosely around his neck.
Cormac McLaggen.
Wonderful.
You had spoken to him perhaps twice in your entire life, both interactions equally unpleasant.
“You Gryffindors spend an odd amount of time thinking about Slytherin relationships,” you replied flatly.
Cormac grinned, entirely unbothered. “Hard not to when your boyfriend looks ready to kill anyone who breathes too close to you.”
Your eyes flickered instinctively toward Juhoon.
Unfortunately, Cormac was not entirely wrong. Even across the crowded pitch, Juhoon’s attention remained fixed on the two of you now, expression unreadable from this distance.
You sighed internally. “He’s not going to murder you, McLaggen.”
“Shame,” he mused. “Would’ve made this conversation more entertaining.”
Before you could respond, he stepped slightly closer.
“You know,” he continued lightly, “I still think it’s strange.”
“What is?”
“You and Juhoon.” His mouth tilted faintly. “He doesn’t exactly seem like the romantic type.”
You folded your arms. “And you’re an expert on romance?”
“Not particularly. But I am excellent at recognising when someone looks one inconvenience away from homicide.”
Despite yourself, you nearly laughed, and unfortunately that only encouraged him.
“You could do better, you know.”
The comment immediately soured your expression. “And there it is.”
Cormac shrugged. “I’m serious. Half the school’s terrified of him.”
“That sounds like their problem.”
“Hm.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Juhoon again. “You know, I think he’s glaring at me.”
“He glares at everyone.”
“Not usually like that.”
Before you could respond, Cormac’s hand landed suddenly against your waist. Lightly, casually and entirely intentionally.
The reaction was immediate.
A hand closed sharply around Cormac’s wrist.
“Remove your hand.”
The temperature around you seemed to drop instantly.
Juhoon stood beside you now, expression perfectly calm despite the dangerous stillness settled beneath his voice. Snow drifted softly around the three of you while nearby conversations gradually began faltering one by one.
Because everyone had noticed.
Cormac looked almost entertained. “Well,” he drawled slowly, “you almost sound jealous.”
Juhoon did not answer immediately which somehow only made the silence infinitely worse. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, his expression unreadable and his eyes cold.
“Don’t touch what’s mine.”
The entire pitch seemed to fall silent. You felt the shift ripple outward through the surrounding students almost instantly. Shock. Interest. Tension.
Because pureblood men did not say things like that lightly.
Not publicly. Not unless they meant them.
And Merlin—
Juhoon had sounded terrifyingly serious.
Cormac’s amusement finally faltered slightly beneath the weight of Juhoon’s stare. After one long moment, he raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped backward.
“Relax,” he muttered. “Didn’t realise the act had become so convincing.”
Act.
Right.
Your stomach twisted painfully.
Juhoon said nothing as Cormac disappeared back into the crowd.
He simply remained beside you, jaw tight beneath his calm expression while snow drifted silently between the two of you. Then, after several long seconds: “Are you alright?”
The question startled you because despite everything that had just happened, genuine concern still threaded quietly beneath his voice.
You stared at him, seeing the cold fury lingering carefully restrained behind his eyes, feeling the hand still hovering faintly near your waist as though resisting the urge to touch you again.
And suddenly one horrifying thought repeated loudly through your mind over and over again.
That didn’t sound fake at all
Students were still staring, but were pretending not to, of course.
But you could feel it all the same: the curious glances, the whispered conversations beginning almost immediately now that Cormac had retreated somewhere into the crowd looking considerably less smug than before.
Beside you, Juhoon appeared entirely unaffected by the attention.
Though you knew him well enough now to recognise the tension lingering beneath his composure. His jaw remained slightly tight with his shoulders rigid beneath dark Quidditch robes.
He was still angry.
Juhoon finally looked down at you properly, expression cooling slightly once he confirmed you were unharmed. “You should head back inside,” he said calmly. “It’s freezing.”
The normalcy of the statement almost made you laugh. As though he had not just publicly implied ownership over you in front of half the school. “You threatened him.”
“I told him to remove his hand.”
“You called me yours.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them and for the first time since arriving at the pitch, Juhoon went still. Not visibly enough, most people would not have noticed it.
But you did. Always.
A strange pause settled between the two of you while snow drifted quietly around your shoulders. Then, in that carefully neutral tone you recognised all too well as him attempting to keep composure: “Would you have preferred I let him continue touching you?”
That was not an answer. You knew it and he knew it. Still, the quiet sharpness beneath his voice made your pulse stumble embarrassingly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
His gaze lingered on your face for one long moment. Then he looked away first.
“I dislike people treating you disrespectfully,” he said finally, tone measured. “McLaggen was aware of what he was doing.”
Again, not an answer.
And somehow, that only made things worse because Juhoon was many things, but careless with words was not one of them.
If he truly had not meant what he said, he could have—would have—corrected himself easily.
Instead, he had sidestepped the issue entirely.
Coward.
The realisation should have annoyed you more than it did. Unfortunately, all it really accomplished was making your heartbeat increasingly difficult to ignore.
The walk back toward the castle passed in unusual silence.
Students parted around the two of you instinctively as you crossed the grounds, several Slytherins glancing toward Juhoon with poorly concealed amusement while others looked faintly alarmed.
The story was already spreading.
Mina nearly looked delighted when the two of you entered the common room later that evening.
“Oh, this is brilliant,” she announced immediately from her spot near the fireplace. “People are saying Juhoon nearly hexed McLaggen’s hand off.”
“I did not,” Juhoon replied flatly.
Jaehyun looked up from the armchair beside her, expression unbearably smug. “Pity. That would’ve been romantic.”
You dropped into the sofa opposite them with a tired groan. “It was not romantic.”
Jaehyun snorted softly. “Right. Because publicly claiming someone in front of half the school is completely casual behavior.”
Beside you, Juhoon removed his gloves with slow precision, appearing utterly unbothered by the conversation despite the faint narrowing of his eyes. “He touched her intentionally,” he said simply.
Mina’s grin widened immediately. “And you cared enough to threaten him over it.”
“I told him not to touch what belongs to me.”
Your stomach flipped violently. Apparently hearing the sentence repeated aloud was somehow even worse.
Jaehyun looked genuinely entertained now. “Merlin, you’re serious.”
Only then did Juhoon finally seem to realise how his words sounded to literally everyone else in the room. A strange flicker crossed his expression, brief and unreadable.
Then his composure returned almost immediately. “You’re all being dramatic.”
“No,” Mina replied cheerfully, “you’re just painfully repressed.”
You made a choking sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough while Jaehyun outright lost composure beside her.
Juhoon, meanwhile, looked moments away from leaving the room entirely, which was perhaps the clearest sign yet that they had struck a nerve. Unfortunately for him, Mina was nowhere near finished.
“You do realise,” she continued, still entirely too pleased with herself, “that half the school thinks the two of you are practically engaged now?”
“Half the school already thought that,” you muttered.
“Yes, but now they think Juhoon is one mild inconvenience away from committing murder over you.” She paused thoughtfully. “Honestly, it’s very romantic in a concerning sort of way.”
Juhoon exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
“But I’m still correct.”
The room dissolved into amused conversation afterward, though you barely registered most of it. Your mind only consumed one thing.
Don’t touch what’s mine.
The words repeated themselves relentlessly, lodged somewhere deep beneath your ribs in a way that made concentrating nearly impossible. Every time you replayed the scene in your head, your stomach twisted all over again.
None of it had sounded fake. And perhaps worse still was the fact that a part of you desperately wished it wasn’t.
Across the common room, conversation carried on around you almost normally now, though several students still occasionally glanced toward the two of you with poorly concealed curiosity.
Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely unaffected. At least outwardly.
He sat beside you with one arm draped lazily over the back of the sofa, expression calm as Jaehyun continued provoking Mina into increasingly dramatic arguments near the fireplace.
Yet every so often, you caught him briefly looking at you like he was thinking too hard about something, and it made your pulse unbearably uneven.
Eventually, sometime past midnight, Juhoon stood abruptly from the sofa. “I have something to deal with,” he said simply.
Jaehyun frowned faintly. “At this hour?”
“It won’t take long.”
Something about the answer unsettled you immediately, though before you could ask anything further, his gaze shifted briefly toward you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then he left and the common room suddenly felt colder afterward.
That night, you lay awake far longer than usual.
Moonlight filtered dimly through the Slytherin dormitory windows while the Black Lake cast shifting shadows against the stone walls, the distant sound of water echoing faintly throughout the silence.
Sleep refused to come. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back toward the Quidditch pitch. Toward Juhoon’s voice. Toward the possessiveness threaded through it so naturally it frightened you.
You rolled over with an irritated sigh, you were being pathetic honestly.
Somewhere in the distance, the castle clock chimed quietly.
Then came the knock. Barely audible.
Your brow furrowed immediately. Slowly pushing yourself upright, you crossed the dormitory carefully so as not to wake the others before opening the door slightly—
And froze.
Juhoon stood in the corridor.
For one horrifying second, your mind struggled to process what you were seeing.
His dark robes were disheveled, damp with melting snow near the hems, and a thin line of blood traced down from beneath his sleeve onto his hand. A bruise had already begun darkening along the sharp line of his jaw.
Your stomach dropped instantly. “Juhoon—”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
The lie would have been more convincing if blood wasn’t actively dripping onto the dungeon floor.
You grabbed his wrist immediately and pulled him inside before anyone else could see. “What happened?”
“Nothing serious.”
“That is objectively untrue.”
He said nothing as you shut the door behind him.
Only once the room fell quiet again did you realise how exhausted he looked.His usual composure remained intact, but thinner somehow, stretched carefully over something heavier beneath the surface.
And suddenly you remembered Jaehyun’s question earlier.
‘At this hour?’
Pureblood business. You hated the phrase because it always meant something unpleasant.
“Sit down,” you ordered softly.
To your surprise, Juhoon obeyed without argument, and that alone worried you more than the injuries.
You retrieved your wand quickly, murmuring a healing spell beneath your breath as you knelt carefully in front of him. The cut along his hand sealed slowly beneath the glow of magic, though bruising still lingered stubbornly across his knuckles.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his wrist while adjusting his sleeve. He went very still.
“What did your father send you to do?” You asked quietly.
A long silence followed until he eventually answered. “It doesn’t matter.”
Which meant it mattered very much.
You looked up at him properly then, and Juhoon avoided your gaze, which was another first.
Anger flared suddenly beneath your concern, though not at him. At the fact that someone had hurt him badly enough for him to show up at your door in the middle of the night pretending he was fine.
“You should’ve gone to Madam Pomfrey,” you murmured while examining the bruise near his jaw carefully.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
The question hung quietly between the two of you. Juhoon finally looked at you then and suddenly the exhaustion in his expression became painfully visible beneath the careful restraint he wore so constantly around everyone else.
For several seconds, neither of you spoke.
“I trust you more.” He spoke quietly, and the words hit harder than anything else possibly could have.
Your breath caught instantly, the air suddenly feeling far too thin inside the quiet dormitory.
Because Juhoon did not trust people.
Ever.
Not professors. Not classmates. Not even most of his own family.
Trust, to someone like him, was not given lightly. It was not something carelessly handed out through affection or familiarity. You had spent years watching him keep everyone at arm’s length with that cold, perfect composure of his, allowing people only carefully measured versions of himself and nothing more.
He trusted strategy, logic and control.
People were another matter entirely.
And yet somehow, somewhere along the way, he had begun seeking you out first. Standing beside you instinctively. Looking for you in crowds. Coming to you tonight instead of anyone else despite the blood staining his sleeve and exhaustion carved quietly beneath his expression.
Trust from Juhoon was not soft.
It was dangerous. Intimate. Rare.
And he had handed it to you so simply it nearly shattered something inside your chest.
The silence afterward felt unbearably fragile.
Your hand still rested lightly against his wrist, fingers curled faintly against the fabric of his sleeve while moonlight spilled silver-blue across the room around you. Outside the dungeon windows, the Black Lake shifted restlessly against the glass, shadows dancing faintly along the stone walls.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily, dark eyes quieter than you had ever seen them before. Not guarded or unreadable.
Just tired, maybe even honest. Somehow that vulnerability unsettled you more than all his sharpness ever had.
Because Juhoon was terrifying when controlled. But this version of him: exhausted enough to lower his walls around you, felt infinitely more dangerous to your heart.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted his free hand toward your face. The movement was uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he was unsure whether he was allowed to touch you like this and this mattered enough to make even him nervous.
That realisation alone made your pulse stutter painfully.
He gave you every possible opportunity to pull away, but you didn’t.
His fingers brushed gently against your jaw, warm against your skin despite the cold lingering from outside. The touch was careful, almost reverent in a way that made something tight unravel slowly inside your chest.
You had never seen Juhoon uncertain before. Never. Yet now, looking at you, there was the faintest trace of hesitation beneath his composure. Like this frightened him too.
“Juhoon…” you whispered softly.
His name left your lips almost unintentionally, barely louder than the shifting water outside.
But the effect it had on him was immediate. Something in his expression changed instantly, subtle but unmistakable.
The final crack in his restraint.
His eyes lowered briefly toward your mouth before returning to your gaze again, as though searching for any sign you wanted him to stop.
You didn’t.
He was still watching you.
Even now—even with his face inches from yours and his breath warm against your lips—Juhoon's gaze searched yours one final time. Looking for hesitation. Looking for the smallest sign that you wanted to pull away, that this was too much, that the months of careful restraint had been there for a reason.
You held his stare and didn't blink.
And something in him broke.
Not dramatically. Juhoon was not built for dramatics. But you felt it in the way his exhale shuddered almost imperceptibly against your mouth, in the barely-there tremble of his fingers where they pressed against your jaw.
Then his eyes, those sharp, assessing eyes that saw everything, that had been watching you for years, closed and he kissed you.
The first brush of his lips was impossibly soft, almost reverent, he seemed afraid you might dissolve beneath his touch if he pressed too hard. His mouth moved against yours with devastating care, slow and searching, as though he was memorising the shape of you one breath at a time.
You felt everything.
The slight roughness of his lower lip. The warmth of him, spreading through you like something slow and honey-thick. The way his thumb traced a gentle arc along your cheekbone as he tilted his head, changing the angle, finding the place where you fit together best.
A small sound escaped you that was barely a whisper, barely anything at all, and Juhoon swallowed it like it was something sacred.
His free hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading carefully into your hair. Just holding and grounding himself in the reality of you.
The kiss deepened by millimeters.
Still slow. Still careful. But surer now: his lips parting slightly against yours, the barest brush of warmth that made your breath catch and your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve.
He smelled like cedarwood and mint and something underneath that was simply him, the scent you had been catching across library tables and common room sofas for months, that had haunted you after the Amortentia until you couldn't smell it without thinking of him.
Now it surrounded you completely.
Your hand slid from his sleeve to his chest without conscious thought, palm flat against the steady beat of his heart beneath his robes. It was racing. Juhoon's heart was racing.
The realisation struck you like a stunning spell, that beneath all that careful composure, beneath the exhaustion and the blood still drying on his sleeve and the bruised knuckles he hadn't explained, he was just as affected as you were. Just as undone.
The tension bled from his shoulders slowly, minute by minute, as the kiss continued. What had started almost tentatively softened into something more certain, more trusting. Like he had finally stopped waiting for you to push him away.
When his lips gentled against yours, soft and lingering, you felt the question in it.
Is this alright?
You answered by leaning into him, by letting your fingers curl against his chest, by kissing him back with everything you had been too afraid to name for months.
His breath caught.
And then, finally and impossibly, he smiled against your mouth.
Just a small thing, barely there. But you felt it in the curve of his lips beneath yours, and something warm and devastating bloomed behind your ribs.
When he pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven in a way you had never heard before.
Neither of you spoke. The dormitory was silent around you, just the distant ripple of the Black Lake against the windows and the soft, shared warmth of two people who had stopped pretending.
His thumb traced once more along your jaw. For the first time in as long as you could remember, Juhoon looked entirely at peace. His eyes lingered on yours for several long seconds before he exhaled softly, almost like he was still processing what had just happened himself.
“So,” you whispered weakly, still slightly breathless, “this is becoming a problem.”
To your surprise, the faintest hint of amusement flickered across his face. “A significant one.”
You laughed quietly despite yourself, the sound soft in the silence between you.
And suddenly, with his forehead still resting against yours and warmth lingering against your skin, one devastating realisation settled fully into your chest at last.
This had stopped being fake a very long time ago.
The days following that night changed something between you.
Not visibly. To everyone else, very little seemed different.
You and Juhoon still moved through Hogwarts exactly as before: side by side through crowded corridors, seated together at the Slytherin table, existing within each other’s orbit with the same quiet inevitability that had long since become normal.
But now there was an awareness neither of you could ignore anymore. Every touch lingered longer than before, every glance felt heavier.
Kissing Juhoon had turned out to be a catastrophic mistake for someone attempting to remain emotionally detached because now you knew how careful he could be. How gentle and devastatingly soft he became only with you. It ruined you completely.
The worst part was that neither of you discussed what happened afterward.
The kiss had not magically transformed the two of you into people capable of openly discussing emotions. If anything, it only made the tension between you sharper, quieter, more intimate in ways that felt almost unbearable.
Still, there were moments.
Late evenings in the common room where his fingers absentmindedly traced against yours beneath the table. Lingering touches in empty corridors. The way his gaze softened almost imperceptibly whenever you laughed now, as though he no longer bothered hiding it properly.
And Merlin, the staring had somehow become worse.
You noticed it constantly, it was as if he was still trying to understand how this had happened. As though he found himself just as dangerous to you as you did to him.
Perhaps that was why the realisation settled so heavily inside your chest one quiet evening near the end of term.
The two of you sat alone in the Astronomy Tower long after curfew, the castle silent beneath you while cold night air drifted softly through the open arches. The sky above stretched endlessly dark and glittering, moonlight spilling silver across the stone floor where you sat beside one another.
Juhoon rested against the wall beside you, one knee drawn slightly upward while absentmindedly turning one of his silver rings between his fingers.
Comfortable silence settled naturally between you as it always had.
You glanced toward him eventually. “You know,” you murmured quietly, “this arrangement has become complicated.”
The words were light, attempting humor, but your chest tightened anyway because suddenly the weight of it all felt painfully obvious. The fact that somewhere along the way, Juhoon had become the first person you searched for in every room.
He went still beside you, then his gaze shifted toward yours slowly, moonlight catching faintly against the sharp line of his jaw.
“It was complicated the moment I asked you.”
Your breath caught instantly. The world seemed to narrow painfully around those words. You stared at him and suddenly every moment replayed itself differently in your mind.
The way he had looked at you before the arrangement ever started, how quickly he proposed it, how natural everything between you had always felt from the very beginning.
“You already liked me.” Your voice came out quieter than intended.
Juhoon’s gaze held yours steadily for several long seconds.
Then, finally, he spoke: “Yes.”
The simple honesty of it nearly unraveled you and your heartbeat turned uneven instantly.
“How long?” You asked softly.
A faint crease appeared between his brows, as though considering the question carefully. “I don’t know.”
Which meant a long time.
Merlin.
You looked away briefly, overwhelmed by the realisation settling slowly into place inside your chest. All this time, you had thought Juhoon adapted too naturally to pretending, but he had never really been pretending at all. Not entirely.
“I thought you hated most people,” you whispered weakly.
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly. “I do.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you and the sound softened his expression immediately. There it was again.
That look he only ever seemed to have around you now: quieter than his usual sharp composure, stripped of all the careful distance he maintained with everyone else.
Then, after a long pause, Juhoon quietly spoke again. “You were the only person I wanted beside me.”
The words settled heavily between you, devastatingly sincere, somehow making them infinitely worse.
Because Juhoon did not ever say things he didn’t mean.
Your chest ached painfully beneath the weight of it. He had chosen you long before any arrangement existed, before you had even considered Juhoon to be your own. Through all his restraint and careful control, it had always been you standing at the center of his attention.
You swallowed hard. “Juhoon…”
His eyes remained fixed on yours steadily, patient in a way that felt almost unbearably intimate now.
There were no masks or pretending, it was just him. And maybe that was the moment you finally understood the true danger of loving someone like Juhoon, because once he gave someone his trust, his loyalty, his care—
He gave it completely.
Below the Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts slept quietly beneath moonlight and drifting clouds, distant torchlight glowing warmly through castle windows while cold night air curled softly around the stone arches.
Neither of you moved away from each other.
Juhoon still sat close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally whenever either of you shifted slightly, his presence warm and steady beside you in the chill of the tower.
And suddenly, absurdly, you didn’t know what to say.
Because what response even existed for something like that?
You were the only person I wanted beside me.
The words continued echoing somewhere deep inside your chest, dangerously gentle in a way that made your throat tighten painfully.
Juhoon, meanwhile, appeared entirely calm again. Though by now you recognised the signs well enough to know better: the slight tension in his fingers where they rested against his knee, and the way his gaze avoided yours for perhaps half a second longer than usual afterward.
He was waiting for your response.
For all his composure, Juhoon was still giving you something fragile here. Trusting you with pieces of himself he clearly offered to almost no one. And that mattered more than any dramatic declaration ever could have.
“You know,” you said quietly after a long moment, “you’re terrible at communicating.”
A faint huff of laughter escaped him unexpectedly. “You’re not particularly good at it either.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m choosing denial intentionally.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “If that is what you want to believe.”
Your chest tightened embarrassingly at the sight.
Merlin. You had become far too attached to the rare moments when Juhoon looked openly amused around you.
You found yourself smiling faintly back at him without thinking and his expression softened almost immediately at the sight.
Dangerous. Everything about this was dangerous now.
Another quiet pause settled between you before you finally spoke again. “So,” you murmured carefully, “when exactly were you planning on telling me?”
“I wasn’t.”
You blinked. “What?”
Juhoon looked entirely unbothered by your confusion. “The arrangement was useful,” he replied calmly. “You were comfortable. I had no intention of complicating things further.”
“You mean more than fake dating me for months while secretly being in love with me?”
There was a brief pause.
“Yes.” He answered.
You stared at him in disbelief while he remained perfectly serious. “That is deeply concerning behavior.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you still continued?”
His gaze shifted toward you again then, quieter now. “You were happy.”
The simple sincerity behind the answer stole every sarcastic response directly from your mouth.
Because that was the problem with Juhoon. Beneath all the sharpness and composure and carefully restrained emotion, he cared with terrifying intensity once someone mattered to him, and that felt infinitely more intimate than grand gestures ever could have.
Your voice softened before you could stop it. “You really were just going to keep pretending forever.”
“If necessary.”
“Merlin.”
A faint trace of amusement flickered across his face again at your horrified expression. Then his eyes lowered briefly toward your hand resting against the stone floor between the two of you.
You barely noticed the movement before his fingers brushed lightly against yours tentatively, as if he was still uncertain whether he was allowed to do that now despite everything.
The thought alone nearly ruined you.
Without thinking, you turned your hand slightly beneath his, allowing your fingers to slide carefully between his.
Juhoon went still beside you, though not because he disliked it. It was, in fact, quite the opposite. You felt the subtle way his hand tightened around yours almost immediately afterward and your pulse stumbled softly.
“You know,” you murmured after several seconds, unable to stop yourself, “you’re significantly softer than people think you are.”
Juhoon looked unimpressed. “Don’t spread that around.”
You laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly through the tower, swallowed quickly by the night around you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke again. You simply sat there together in comfortable silence, fingers intertwined while moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. It felt strangely peaceful.
At some point, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your knuckles. The tiny gesture nearly stopped your heart entirely.
“How unfortunate,” you murmured weakly.
His brows lifted faintly. “What is?”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
The words slipped out before you could reconsider them, and silence followed immediately afterward. You stared straight ahead at the night sky, suddenly unable to look directly at him.
“Well,” you continued awkwardly, “that sounded less humiliating in my head.”
For one terrifying second, Juhoon said absolutely nothing. Then you felt his hand tighten around yours.
When you finally forced yourself to glance sideways, his expression had gone strangely soft again—that same rare look he reserved only for you, stripped entirely of sharp edges.
And very quietly, like something precious, he replied: “I know.”
Your breath caught. “You know?”
“You look at me the same way I look at you.” The devastating thing was that he sounded so certain about it, like he had noticed long before you had because of course he had. Juhoon noticed everything about you.
“You’re frighteningly observant.”
“Hm.”
His gaze lingered on your face for another long second before he leaned forward slightly, pressing another slow kiss against your mouth.
This one felt different from the first. It was certain now. Neither of you needed to question what this was anymore.
And beneath the silver glow of the moon high above Hogwarts, with Juhoon’s hand warm around yours and years of restrained affection finally unraveling quietly between you, you realised something almost laughably simple.
You had been his long before the fake dating arrangement ever began.
And somehow, impossibly—
He had been yours too.
