Jongdae is 17, Yixing is 18 and in his last year of Hogwarts 

“I'm not a ,” Yixing's gaze hardens. “I just like . That's all.”

Jongdae is at a loss to say anything. He wouldn't know about – embarrassing though it is, he's remained a throughout all of his time at Hogwarts, though god knows no one else seems to – but he honestly has no idea how actively seeking out men to love and leave doesn't make you a .

“It's kind of hard to see you as anything else when you've had every available man going in this institution.” It's nasty, but he can't help himself. He's not a cruel person – he swears – but he's tired of the way Yixing makes him feel. He's tired of the mixed signals, the confusing looks, the touches – and the ever-present knowledge that Yixing is far more experienced than he will ever be.

Yixing's smile is sarcastic. “Yet you don't call any of them s.” He snorts, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He's wearing jeans, Jongdae notices, as opposed to the boring grey uniform trousers they're supposed to wear. He half-heartedly wonders how he gets away with it – and then promptly decides he doesn't want to know. “Kind of a double standard you've got going there.”

He lifts his head and looks at Jongdae, catching his gaze in a way that makes it impossible for him to look away. That feeling – the tingling warmth – starts up in his gut once more, and he curses Yixing for making him feel this way. “You know I'm more than a ,” Yixing says calmly, still looking at him.

That's what gets him, he thinks. The warm, steady look, and those simple words. You know I'm more than a . Because he does know. Because – somehow – during their infrequent talks and shared rendezvous, he's seen another side of Yixing. The laughing, sly trickster; the surprisingly kind underside, and the absorbed composer. He remembers the wry, sad statement. “Sometimes, I wish I'd been born a muggle.”

He longs to say that he doesn't know anything, that Yixing is just an annoying nuisance he can't shake off, but he can't. It's not even true anymore, he realises – for weeks now, he's been enjoying their little spats, enjoying the way they rub off on each other. And he's been looking at Yixing in an admiring light lately, something that is perhaps fuelled by more than adolescent hormones.

So when Yixing walks that little bit closer, gets in his face, and adds the dangerous little suffix “Don't you?”, he grabs him by the sleeve and pulls him forward so that he can crush his lips against his own. It's clumsy – downright ugly – but somehow, it feels right when Yixing responds immediately.

There's something coursing through his veins, a heady cocktail of emotion and hormones. Every slight touch, the brush of Yixing's fingers against his face, the thud of his back being pushed against the wall becomes heightened. His own hands push upwards, scrabbling for support; he is overwhelmed by choice, as the desire to cup Yixing's or shove his shirt out of the way wars within him.

Yixing solves that problem for him, however, as he presses impossibly close against him, close enough for Jongdae to feel the bulge in his pants. His own hardens in response, and he's reminded anew how new and strange an experience this is for him.

He's never had someone turn him on so much; he might be knowledgeable about , but it's completely different when you're rubbing up against a real person. Once again, the old fear flares up – Yixing knows so much more about this than him, so how can this end well? – but there's no need to even think about it going further, because Yixing pulls away, breathing heavily.

His eyes are wide, the pupils blown out, and he looks a little lost. “No,” he says quietly, exhibiting control Jongdae didn't know he had. “Not here.” He glances around them, suddenly terrified that they're about to be caught by a professor, or worse – someone who knows them. “I'm not – I don't,” he struggles with the words for a few moments, looking torn as he tries to describe his own feelings. “People could watch,” he says out last, though Jongdae doesn't quite think that's what he wants to say.

“I thought you liked that?” He ducks them behind a pillar, hands gripping onto Yixing's shoulders, the exposure of Yixing's vulnerability strangely cheering. “Here,” his eyes dance mischievously, “is this private enough?”

He half expects Yixing to say something dry about having done much worse in much more public places, but he's surprised by the stubborn expression in his eyes.

“No,” he mutters, folding his arms. He jerks his head towards a portrait. “They can see.” Jongdae can't be sure, but he's fairly sure he saw one of the bearded gentlemen in bedazzled red robes snort at that comment.

“I thought that was what you liked,” his tone is guarded, the words meant at a joke, though they could be taken as a jab. He's confused – one minute they're making out, the next Yixing is pushing him away. Is Yixing incapable of giving him the right idea?

“It's got nothing to do with what I like.” He sounds frustrated, and as the occupants of the portrait giggle behind them, Jongdae can't help but share that frustration. “I don't want it to be like that,” he rakes a hand through his hair, and dimly, Jongdae notices that he's still somewhat hard. “Not with you,” he says quietly.

That gets Jongdae's back up. Perhaps he's over sensitive, but he's spent too long around guys who think the faster you get rid of your ity, the more of a man you are to not be defensive. “What, because I'm such a loser?”

Yixing shifts at his combative tone. “You're not a loser.” He shifts again, uncomfortable. “I just don't want to do it like that with you. I want it to be – good,” he finishes lamely, cheeks flushing a dull pink. He looks mortified by the admission.

“And it wouldn't be good because I obviously have no idea how to do it right?” Jongdae's voice is emotionless, but the tension between them is palpable.

“No!” That, at least, elicits a proper reaction from him. “Because it's your first everything and it should be...enjoyable.”

Jongdae doesn't know whether to laugh at the sentiment or cry about how pathetic he obviously is. “Right,” he says flatly.

“I like you.” Yixing gets right to the point, his direct stare a little unnerving. “I like you a lot, okay? So I want it to be...right, or something. I don't know. I just know that jerking you off in some dark corner isn't what I had in mind for the first time I actually got to snog you.”

Jongdae is aware that the expression his face probably makes him look like a sulky, grumpy little gnome, but he can't help it. “I wouldn't have minded,” he says sullenly. He really wouldn't have minded. In fact, the idea is turning him on again, which really isn't helpful, seeing as clearly he's going to get nothing from Yixing.

“But I would,” Yixing stresses, and Jongdae can feel his expression getting grumpier. Oh god, if Taekwoon was here, he'd probably be laughing his off right now. He's always said he looks like cross between a Cornish pixie and a gnome.

“I thought you liked ,” Jongdae points out stiffly.

Yixing fights back a smile, amused. Jongdae wonders if he could hex him into continuing their earlier making out, because talking isn't half as much fun, and to be honest – he feels rejected. He's halfway to pulling his wand out when Yixing speaks. “I do. But I don't like forcing people into it. That's no fun at all.” He puts his hands on Jongdae's waist, drawing him in. Jongdae – though a little reluctant – doesn't pull away. “I don't want to do things you're not ready for. I'm not like that.”

There's a pleading note to his voice, and finally, Jongdae looks up at him, still a little glum. “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he sighs, “you're not as much of a as everyone makes you out to be, yada, yada.”