Act III - The Heir 

The Sorting Hat says to him, Look, kid, I'm obligated to do this, and Seunghoon blinks in surprise, only just managing to remember that the whole hall is staring at him and to keep his composure poised. I'm just asking, as a second opinion, and don't get offended. Is there any chance you'd prefer to be a Hufflepuff?

A Hufflepuff! His neck prickles at the thought.

He feels the Sorting Hat compress into itself atop his head, almost like it's cringing. Listen, no need to yell kid, I was just asking. 

You said Slytherin.

I did, and you are. The Hat does a sort of spin. You have clever. You have cunning. But you also have warmth-- loyalty, justice. You could be a great Hufflepuff, kid. 

I want to be a Slytherin. Lees have always been Slytherins.

There's a puff of dust, like a musty sigh, and Seunghoon coughs lightly, disgruntled. Always the family heritage, this and that. Well, so be it. But I'm telling ya kid, when the time comes, you'll remember what I said.

What are you saying?

There is silence for a long moment and Seunghoon wonders if the Hat's connection has broken off for a second. Then it says, I'm just a hat. And before Seunghoon can wonder further it declares with a loud roar that resonates through the room, SLYTHERIN! Applause erupts through the Great Hall, and Seunghoon cautiously takes the Sorting Hat off his head, and holds it gently, examining it curiously. Its thick, worn fabric is scratchy and rough in his childish hands and it feels like a heavy weight in his palms. He notices that a few threads have come undone as he turns it over in his hands; its brim is parted from the seam of the hat in a bent and crooked U, grinning. 

He is perfect; it's hard not to be when he has spent his entire life training to be just this-- well-versed, polished, superior. Every move is calculated, shoes polished, hair brushed, spells perfect. Seunghoon knows how to intone every incantation and every potion he makes is stirred clockwise the correct number of times and the exact shade it's meant to be.

It's easy. It always has been.

He knows exactly who he is and through his years at Hogwarts grows exactly into who he was always meant to become. Even in his physique, tall, imposing, the slant of his eyes sharp, the ridges of his cheekbones high and regal. Seunghoon has learnt how to have the world coalesce around him-- when he moves down the shifting hallways everything falls to a quiet hush. The flickering lamps in their metal cages casting light that dances over the handsome planes of his face. Indecisive shadows that move almost curiously over the bridge of his nose and curve of his forehead as if daring onlookers to look Seunghoon in the impassive face and wonder.

By fifth year, however, there are whispers of a brewing conflict and ancient names and old rivalries, watchful looks thrown his way and low voices, distrustful glares and-- he can no longer pretend it is his imagination-- people huddling closer towards the walls and further away from him when he walks the halls of Hogwarts.

He shakes it off. Cold-shouldering has always been his modus operandi and why shouldn't they cower, he reasons, he is expense and cleverness and elite. So he keeps to himself as he always has, and continues to be perfect-- poised, like he was taught and trained for.

Still, it catches him by surprise when he is assaulted in the courtyard.

He is making his way back into the castle on a Saturday, from a brief stint to Diagon Alley to pick up his broomstick from servicing. There's a distant shout, first, then the pounding of footsteps, nearer and nearer, and he pauses, to hear-- 

With a horrible, hollow thump he's sent stumbling forward, crashing over the stone steps and scraping up his knees even through the fabric of his pants. He braces himself, indignance and outage boiling through his vein. 

Whirls around, just in time to catch another fist. Je spits, What-- 

YOU! Taeil screams, eyes wild and red as he claws at Seunghoon's face, nails scratching at his skin. Seunghoon kicks out wildly, scrambling to get away and boiling at the indignity. A hard knuckle cracks against the side of his mouth and wet warmth floods his tongue and he spits, shocked and angry, watches as deep crimson splatters across the cobblestones.  There's a scuffle, and then suddenly the weight lifts off Seunghoon. He breathes, hard. 

What the hell is your deal?

Taeil is still struggling, shouting as his friends pull him back. Seunghoon recognises two of them vaguely-- Minho, Park, purebloods but with tainted families, below his class--

You ambushed my family, Taeil says hoarsely, drawing the attention back to him, shoulders shaking with emotion as his friends hold on to him, Your parents-- snitches! He sneers, jerking forward as if to lunge at Seunghoon. 

The haunted look in his eyes sends chills down Seunghoon's spine, even if he knows it cannot possibly be the truth. Instead, Seunghoon musters up a breath and at his teeth loudly, salty blood and saliva pooling under his tongue and he spits, derisively over his shoulder, wipes the corner of his bloodied mouth his his wrist. You don't know what you're talking about. He says coldly, tone steely and lips curled disparagingly. Mudblood.

There's a shrill cry and then the wind is knocked out of his lungs again, and a knee to his sternum and his head hits the stones hard, another crack and his lips flood with coppery wetness again and he's lashing out blindly, clawing, going against all poise and calm-- 

Stop! Someone yells distinctly and Taeil is pushed fiercely to the side, toppling off him. A face blurs into Seunghoon's dizzy vision-- Are you okay--

Shut UP! He screams, shoving Minho away roughly, staggering wildly away at the same time, clutching his hands towards himself like they've been burnt. I don't know what you're talking about! 

He grits his teeth, adjusting his robes now. His cheeks are burning, humiliated, he tries to regain whatever last bit of dignity he has about him. Furious and embarrassed at his outburst, he glares angrily at the boys across the courtyard from him. Minho's mouth is pressed into a thin, hard line, eyes shining with not quite anger, but, somehow worst of all, pity.

Sometimes, he dreams. 

It's always the same figure, another man, beautiful and ethereal, leaving lingering touches, limbs lithe and strong and all over, all over Seunghoon. But when he shakes awake, chest heaving and heart racing, palms slick with sweat and thighs damp, shame tugging in his gut, he can never fathom a face.

Taeil is the first, and he isn't the last one. 

Of course, Seunghoon never gets caught off guard a secons time, certainly never allows a repeat of the courtyard skirmish. He is too quick and too cold, and liberal with his lashes of hexes. 

But the rumours of the war are persistent now, and frequent, and taking shape-- distinct factions, distinct loyalties, distinct names. Students going missing or getting dreaded letters and the tension that surrounds him when he enters a room is too palpable to be ignored now. The Slytherin common room-- abuzz with chatter and within the private sphere of the elite-- acquaintances Seunghoon has grown up knowing only vaguely from pureblood events and never bothered to properly befriend-- the gossip draws all the more sinister, insidious, hateful.

And on the day Cedric Diggory dies, he finally does it, pens the letter to his parents and sends it from the clock tower, discreet on the left foot of his owl and dread settling heavy in his stomach.

The response comes in less than a week.

What about it? Blasé and curt, written in fine black cursive on white parchment. Why shouldn't we exercise power over those who are weaker?

Three words and then the stamp of the family crest.

Who are you?

He slumps against his beefcake and it rattles the sidetable. The kerosene lamp topples off its perch and shatters at his feet. His shoulders shake and he gasps, shoving his fist roughly into his mouth to stifle his own noises-- he blinks the tears from his eyes and they roll, fat, hot droplets, down his cheeks and pool lazily at the curve of his chin. He crouches, weakly, bent into himself, kneeling by the side of the bed.

In the morning, he brushes his hair. Holds his head high. Doesn't look anyone in the eyes.

Who are you?

He swallows, raising his fist to knock when the door swings open instant. It's Kang Seungyoon-- the Ravenclaw prefect-- and he lowers his hand awkwardly, taking a step back in surprise.

Seungyoon takes a second to take Seunghoon in and instantly, his face crumples into a look of anger, his thick lips pressed tight into a scowl. He jerks the door indecisively. The do you want? He snaps impetuously. 

Seunghoon's mouth goes dry. What can he possibly say, what was he possibly thinking, walking up to a meeting place of people with nothing but loathing for his kind, for him, and for reasons he could hardly blame them for? 

But just then, Minho peers over Seungyoon's shoulder and his