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Macklin should’ve known it was all going to shit when Professor Warsofsky interrupted one of their little sessions in the library (probably Macklin’s last one, if this task proved to be as difficult as they thought it was).
Him and Will had spent all their free hours after getting the clue doing research in the library on how Macklin could possibly survive the second task of the Triwizard Tournament— both of them having their fair share of Wideye Potion the past week.
“Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground,
And while you're searching, ponder this:
We've taken what you'll sorely miss,
An hour long you'll have to look,
And to recover what we took.”
Figuring out it would be happening underwater from just the riddle was easy enough (it wasn’t, Macklin and Will had to put their last brain cells together to decipher the clue), figuring out how Macklin can hold his breath for an hour was much harder.
The best thing that came up a few days into their research was gillyweed— which Macklin responded to with a blank stare aimed at his best friend since first year and a simple “fuck no.”
Will rolled his eyes, not even bothering to argue.
The gillyweed page is bookmarked though. If they can’t come up with anything else, Will would forcefeed Macklin with gillyweed himself.
Now, the last night and a few hours before the second task and still coming up with nothing just makes Will groan in his hands in frustration.
The sudden noise makes the students in the next table look over with judging stares but Will pays them no mind.
Fuck them, Will thinks, they’re not the ones who’s about to lose their best friend to a dirty ass body of water.
He turns to Macklin with a serious expression “bud, I think you’re just gonna have to work on your Transfiguration.”
Which is easy for William Charles Patrick Smith III who has a seven-year streak of Outstandings in Transfiguration to say.
Now it’s Macklin’s turn to roll his eyes.
Macklin might be the best of their year in both sports and academics (one of the best wizards Hogwarts has ever had since Sidney Crosby, really), but for some reason, Transfiguration proves to be his worst obstacle every year.
He just barely reaches Exceeds Expectations in the class— and that’s only with sleepless nights and Will’s sheer determination in dragging Macklin up with him.
If he wasn’t able to do it in the past six years, he wasn’t confident he’d be able to properly pull it off in just a few hours.
“Salazar,” Will leans back against his chair, letting his head hang, “why can’t I just do it for you? The Triwizard tournament being an individual sport is such bullshit.”
And despite the exhaustion, frustration, and borderline delirium for having a total of eight hours of sleep for an entire week— warmth floods Macklin’s chest.
“We already kind of made it a team sport,” Macklin tries to let humor bleed into his words— but it sounds too honest, too fond.
It sounds like he’s giving something away.
From the moment Macklin’s name came out of the goblet of fire, the paper might as well have Will Smith written on it.
Even Macklin— who had beamed at Will and unconsciously taken a hold of his wrist when he was declared a contestant— who was called to the front by the Headmaster while the Hogwarts students hollered and hooted— had almost dragged Will with him.
As if any place in the world he was called to had to have space for Will in too.
If Will hadn’t breathed out a laugh, “Mack—”
Macklin wouldn’t even have noticed. Will never tugged his wrist away from Macklin’s hold, he would never, but like always— the softest of Will’s tones would carry above the loudest of crowds.
That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way it has always been for Macklin Celebrini.
“Uh,” Macklin realizes, his smile wavering just a tiny bit.
And this time, Will does let himself slip away from Macklin’s hold— his fingers trailing from Macklin’s pulse to hook over Macklin’s own fingers and gently tugging.
When Will lets go and steps back into their little group of seventh year Slytherins with the biggest grin, Mack couldn’t help but grin right back.
“I really wish I could do this for you,” Will tells him, his eyes still closed and his voice quiet.
Like anything louder and brighter than that would be too much.
Macklin thinks it must be the sleep deprivation that makes Will let that slip out.
Macklin turns on his side to fully face where his friend is sitting. He sighs and reaches his fingers out to gently rub across Will’s forehead, as if to smoothen his evergrowing frown.
Will doesn’t react. It’s too much of a practiced movement.
It’s just another thing that gives Macklin away.
“You’re already doing too much,” Macklin says, and because he knows Will is a worrier (though he would never admit it), he assures him, “we already have the gillyweed. If it comes down to it, you know I’ll just suck it up and deal.”
This time Will opens his eyes and tilts his head to meet Mack’s gaze, “the gillyweed route isn’t bulletproof.”
“Nothing is bulletproof,” Macklin tugs at the blonde’s ear.
“You are,” Will scrunches his nose, pulling away from Macklin when the younger tries to reach for his ear again, “you’re supposed to be.”
And if it was anyone else, Macklin would’ve taken those words as just another added weight to the immense pressure he was already under.
You’re supposed to be bulletproof. You have to excel in everything. You must always give it everything you have. You have to make no mistakes. Anything less would be failure.
But it’s Will.
And because it’s Will, you’re supposed to be bulletproof doesn’t sound heavy at all. There is no edge or sharpness to it.
Instead, it’s soft and light.
Because it’s Will, it sounds a lot like I want you to be safe, always.
Macklin’s heart swells twice its size and for a second he wants— he wants so badly—
“Smith,” a voice cuts from right in front of their table, shattering their shared little world.
They manage to tear their gazes from each other and look up to the source of their interruption.
“Evening, Professor,” Macklin clears his throat.
Professor Warsofsky only gives Macklin a nod of greeting before turning to look at Will.
“The headmaster is asking for you. You have to be at his office before midnight.”
The boys both glance at the clock right by the main entrance.
They don’t even have a whole ten minutes.
The realization makes both boys stand up to protest.
“But, Professor,” Will says, always so polite, “for what? it’s only a few more hours before the next task— what could the headmaster even want from me at this hour—“
“Better find out now then,” Warsofsky interrupts him, “the sooner you get to his office, the sooner you can come back to Celebrini.”
“Professor—” Will starts again, but their professor simply turns his back on them and walks away.
“Midnight, Smith.” He doesn’t even bother to look back.
The two Slytherins turn to each other.
It makes Will inhale sharply, not realizing how close they were standing.
Stunned into silence, Macklin finally gets a good look at his best friend.
Will’s uniform is rumpled— his button down untucked and his green tie loose. Even the silver chain Macklin never sees him not wearing but is always neatly tucked inside his uniform is on full display tonight, albeit askewed. His robe was thrown across the table at some point during the night.
Will Smith who grew up under the careful watch of the most noble and most ancient of houses.
Who had never had a single hair out of place, not a single smile that wasn’t disarming in its beauty. Who had rumors about him being part Veela going around the school (Macklin had never dared to bring this up lest he gives himself even more away, but a part of him has always wondered along with the rest of the student body).
Who had now, after days of nonstop research, dark undereyes and red bitten lips.
His curls were all over the place.
It hits Macklin like a particularly nasty bludger to the gut.
“Will, I—“
“I’m coming back to you,” Will assures him, “I have to.”
But still, Will wraps his arms around Macklin’s shoulders in a tight hug.
It feels like a promise— for Will to do his best to do whatever it is the headmaster wants him to do so he can make his way back to Mack quickly. But he just has to do this one little thing. Like he just can’t risk this being the last time he sees Macklin before the task and not doing anything— can’t risk anything when it comes to Macklin at all.
It takes Macklin a moment, but he does return the embrace with the same level of desperation.
“You have to be safe,” Will murmurs against his neck, “you can eat the gillyweed or transfigure yourself the way I taught you— or just the best way you can. The way we practiced.”
Will burrows himself further, like he can fuse himself into Macklin, “you don’t have to be the best. You don’t have to win. You just need to make it back to me in one piece.”
Macklin presses his lips to Will’s temple, soundless enough that it can pass off as nothing (it’s never nothing with them).
It would give him away, if someone else were to see it.
But it’s just Will— and Macklin’s always safe here.
“Sure bud,” Macklin tells him, “we have a quidditch championship to win after all.”
Will grins despite it all.
They’ve already both been recruited by the Caerphilly Catapults and expected by the general public to start right after graduation, but Will and Macklin had promised each other as many championships as they can back in first year and Macklin fears it would break his own heart to not fulfill a promise to young Will.
And if Macklin dies and costs them the championship against the Gryffindors of all fucking teams, and on their final year at Hogwarts too, Will might actually bring him back from the dead just to kill him again.
Will gives him one last squeeze before slipping away, “knock ‘em dead, superstar.”
Macklin is startled awake by one annoyingly bright Ryan Leonard.
How a Gryffindor (and one of the most annoying ones too) manages to casually saunter into the dungeons at this hour is beyond him.
Leno is looming over him with a malicious grin, “hey man, you good to go?”
The first thing Macklin does is look over to the bed next to his— but there’s no head of golden curls peeking from under the covers.
In fact, it looks like there’s no one under the covers at all.
Macklin frowns, turning back to Leno, “what?”
Leno helps him up, “you need to get going, loser. Everyone’s looking for you.”
Macklin doesn’t even remember getting to his bed last night.
“What’re you doing here?”
Leno buzzles around the room like he owns it. He throws clothes at Mack’s head, and before Macklin can cuss him out for it, Leno rattles a single plastic container of something suspiciously seaweed-like.
“Delivering a special order from William,” he waggles his eyebrows playfully.
Mack’s frown makes its way back, “where is he?”
Leno pauses, frowning back at him, “how the fuck should I know?” He throws the container at Macklin, which thank Salazar Macklin was able to catch, “He’s your shadow, not mine.”
Macklin’s chest hurts.
The thought of Will not being here right now physically pained him.
“Think about kissing your boyfriend later,” Leno interrupts his spiraling thoughts, “you need to get your ass moving.”
“Welcome, all, to the second task,” the Headmaster’s voice boomed, loud and clear over the cheering of the students, “last night, a treasure was stolen from each of our champions. These three treasures, one for each champion, now lie at the bottom of the Black Lake.”
Macklin stands right at the edge of the wooden deck, almost shoulder to shoulder with the other two champions.
Connor Bedard, the Beauxbaton’s champion, says, “I haven’t seen my girlfriend since last night. We were supposed to meet up this morning.
Connor’s words weren’t meant for either of them but Macklin and Quinn, the champion of Durmstrang and somewhat family friend of the Celebrinis, both halt.
They haven’t really had a chance to talk much since the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament— but Macklin and Connor had traded quite a few drinks during the Yule ball and talked about several of their shared hobbies, and while Quinn had always been more of Aiden’s friend than his, Macklin had spent more than enough summers as a child around the Hughes brothers to be more familiar with him than most.
Macklin meets Quinn’s gaze.
There’s a hard set to Quinn’s jaw before he tells Macklin, “Luke was called by our Headmaster last night. He never came back to our quarters.”
A cold weight of realization sank through both of them.
Quinn didn’t even hesitate before asking, “Will?”
“Will,” Macklin closes his eyes, a spike of fear strikes through his heart— as if saying it out loud finally made the danger true.
“In order to win,” the Headmaster continues, but the champions barely listen to his words, “the champions need only to retrieve their treasures and return to the surface in one hour. The count starts at the sound of the horn.”
Macklin doesn’t even think about the gillyweed inside his pocket.
He’s practiced the Transfiguration spell— even managed to make it work. He always falls through somehow— missing a part (or several) or transforming only halfway through, but it’s always functional enough. Always enough to keep him underwater for an hour.
And— why Macklin and Will were adamant on continuing their research despite already having this at hand— it always hurts.
But it’s fast.
Gillyweed would cost him more time to acclimate. Time he can’t waste because Will was in the bottom of the fucking Black Lake.
Will gets too cold too fast, Macklin thinks. He’d never told anyone out loud— and even if you put Macklin under an unforgivable curse, he would never betray Will by saying anything about it— but Will was terrified of the dark.
Macklin’s chest feels like it’s caving in.
When the horn sounds, Macklin doesn’t hesitate— he dives like a man on a mission.
Because he is— and on his most important mission yet.
He casts the spell Will taught him. No hesitation.
And really, it must be desperation that fuels the magic— because one second Macklin feels tender from fear and then—
It was Will who chose the shark for him. He presented the idea to Macklin neatly, wrote him notes with highlighted key points on why this particular creature would be safest and most efficient, and even expanded on his thoughts out loud.
Macklin barely registers any of it. He simply learns to transfigure himself into a shark because Will said so and Macklin trusts him like a lung.
The spell casts a bright white light under the lake. He doesn’t remember much other than that. He doesn’t try to think— can barely think at all when he feels his bones give.
For a second, he screams, with no one in the world able to hear him. Not even himself.
He swallows lungfuls of water— feels a thick set of skin settle over him— feels the pain of growing.
He’s only pulled back by the shrieking of sirens closing in on him.
For a second there is nothing but fear.
Then Macklin thinks about how Will might be waiting for him right now, praying for Macklin to be safe and to get to him faster.
The thought sucks the fear out of him.
Macklin manages to take a breath, water and all, snaps a wide set of shark teeth and swims at the sirens head on.
He will come back to Will, he promised. Simple as that.
He doesn’t know how long it takes him, but there’s blood in the water and a soreness to his shoulders he has never quite felt before.
It is only sheer will that is keeping Macklin from dropping to the bottom of the lake and staying there.
And it is like the sky clearing when he sees him— golden hair floating around his head with a grace only he could ever manage.
His eyes are closed, expression peaceful.
Will is here.
Macklin’s treasure.
A girl with dark hair was on his right and a much taller figure Mack vaguely recognizes as Luke Hughes on his left. Macklin swims to them with all the strength he has left.
They were all unconscious but breathing, all tied down by their ankles.
Macklin points his wand at the ropes below Will and disintegrates it.
He transfigures himself back despite still being underwater. He wasn’t going to risk hurting Will as a shark.
Ever so gently, he wraps his arms around Will— cradling the back of his neck with one hand like he was something precious (he is).
He swims them both up the surface.
Multiple hands grab at them to pull them up the deck.
There were hands on Will trying to take him from Macklin’s arms, and he knows at the back of his mind that they’re only here to help but the panic makes Macklin tighten his grip around Will, refusing to let him go.
Macklin was never going to let anyone rip Will away from him. The next time Professor Warsofsky tries, Macklin might just actually kill him.
Mack splutters, coughing up water over and over, but he doesn’t care.
He feels a hand slapping at his back and vaguely hears Graf cheering for him, “attaboy, Mack. Just let it out. You’re gonna be okay,” and because Graf was their roommate and therefore knew what was more important to him entirely too well, “you’re both going to be okay.”
The blonde was strewn sideways across his lap, his head resting on Mack’s shoulder.
“Will?” When Macklin finds his voice, it’s the roughest he’s ever heard himself.
The Hogwarts champion can barely sit up himself, but he still doesn’t let anyone take Will away.
“Why isn’t he waking up?” He hears himself ask, voice pitched higher this time, “what’s going on? Why isn’t he awake?”
He hears the group of Durmstrang kids start cheering at what he can only assume as the Hughes brothers resurfacing.
But he can’t tear his eyes away from Will. “Wake up, Will,” he pats his cheek repeatedly, “baby, please, don’t scare me like this.”
Will was too cold, too pale— entirely too limp in Macklin’s arms—
and Macklin’s chest really starts caving in.
He was a second away from crying when he feels Will, more than hears him, gasp for breath.
Will starts shivering in his arms, blinking awake.
“Will,” Mack whispers to him, “Will, Will,” like a prayer.
“I kept my promise. I’m here, baby, I’m here,” Macklin wraps his arms around him tighter.
A towel is wrapped around both of them— Graf maybe, he hears Eky somewhere over them too.
He doesn’t even care about the eyes and ears around him— the rush of relief too loud in his own ears.
Will meets his gaze for only a few seconds before he slumps back down, forehead hitting Mack’s cheek.
Mack closes his eyes, buries his nose in golden curls and breathes in.
“Fuck,” he mutters, “Salazar. You scared me half to death, you asshole.”
Will starts giggling weakly, making Macklin’s heart finally calm down to its normal size.
Somehow, it matters more than going first— matters more than winning.
Macklin gives himself away to the entire academy— gives himself away to three entire academies, to be specific.
He deals with it like a true proper golden boy from the long line of Celebrini Slytherins, and by that he means he avoids it.
A party is being thrown in the dungeons the night of the second task and Macklin steers clear of it.
He accompanied Will to the infirmary right after the challenge and hasn’t seen him since (has been hiding from him since, really).
Macklin knows it’s futile— proven correct not even a whole hour of him standing and looking out of the Astronomy Tower and into the night sky.
Will takes his place beside him, pressing his shoulder against Macklin’s.
He’s out of his robes, looking much healthier than he did this morning (the past week, really).
His hair is still a little wet but it's brushed back neatly, the ends curling only a little at the sides (It’s going to get much curlier once it properly dries, Mack knows this), and he’s wearing a nice fitting navy blue turtle neck and dark slacks.
It makes Macklin smile, despite himself. Trust Will to always look proper and presentable even just a few hours after a life endangering event.
It used to make him bristle, before they’d properly talked in Hogwarts as first years.
There had been tension between the Celebrinis and the Smiths— it was a tale as old as time.
It’s lesser these days, with how inseparable Will and Macklin had become (and it wasn’t for the lack of trying from their families in their earlier years).
There were only a few of the oldest and most powerful families left in the Wizarding world, it just so happens that the Smiths and the Celebrinis were among them. And it just so happens that they had their roots too close to each other— territory disputes almost an inevitability.
Macklin and Will had always known each other because of this— had orbited each other’s worlds before a single word had even been shared between them.
Macklin had thought the youngest Smith child to be a snobbish pretty boy who thought he was too good for everyone. He figures Will might have thought the same of him at some point.
There were certain expectations about what would happen once they both started at Hogwarts in the same year.
All those expectations were shattered the day both boys were not only sorted into Slytherin but sorted into the same dorm room.
Collin Graf, their only other roommate, confessed to them one night (the first time they ever got drunk together in fifth year) that he dreaded the antagonism that would surely be a part of their everyday lives in the dorms— that he was already preparing for dealing with the worst for his entire seven-year stay.
Graf told them how grateful he was to be surprised by how they were instead— how in their very first night Macklin had managed to make Will laugh (didn’t even mean to but was pleased by the result nonetheless), something loud and ugly and uncaring and entirely too unfitting for how posh he looked.
The rest was history.
Somewhere along the way, Macklin Celebrini and Wiliam Smith became Will’s Mack and Mack’s Will.
And while Graf was sometimes genuinely sickened by just how close and comfortable his two roommates had grown to be with each other, especially in the safety of their room (even with Graf in there to roll his eyes at their obliviousness)— he’d take it over what he first expected from them any day.
“What makes you think you can hide from me in here?” Will questions him, tone bordering on sharp.
“Wasn’t,” Mack shrugs, “was just buying myself some time.”
It’s not really a lie, never really a point in lying to Will— the Astronomy Tower was Will’s spot first, before it became theirs, after all.
“Thought you’d be resting or would try and see if I was at the party first,” Mack confesses.
He doesn’t have to look at Will to know the elder is rolling his eyes.
“I know you better than that.”
Macklin doesn’t argue.
“You’re trying to avoid me.”
Macklin still says nothing.
“I was your treasure for the second task.”
Mack flinches but keeps his eyes glued to the stars.
After a few more seconds of silence, Will goes in for the kill.
“You called me baby.”
Now this one finally makes Mack snap his head towards him.
Will smirks in triumph.
“They tied me to the bottom of the Black Lake because I was your treasure and you saved me and called me baby.”
Macklin bites at his bottom lip.
Will takes his hand and tries to pull at him to make them face each other.
“Do you have something to say to me, Mack?”
Macklin thinks he wouldn’t be able to string two coherent words together if he tried.
Will’s expression softens.
“Well, I do,” Will, ever so carefully, reaches a hand up to press it against Macklin’s cold cheek.
His hands are warm and when Macklin inspects it, he sees that some color is back in Will’s face. He really does look more alive and healthy than he has since the whole Triwizard Tournament started.
“I’m so proud of you, superstar,” Will continues, “you kept your promise and came back to me in one piece.”
“I won,” Macklin tells him, voice low.
“In all the ways that matter,” Will replies easily.
Macklin meets his eyes, “there’s only one way that matters to me.”
Will smiles, soft and sweet and real— and it makes Mack’s chest burn.
“I love you,” Will tells him. Simple as that.
And Macklin has truly had enough. He wants to say it back— wants it so badly— but the words wouldn't come out— too big and too honest to form in his mouth on a day where so much has happened— on a day where he’s given himself too much away to others.
He doesn’t have to though, he thinks Will understands it when Macklin holds him by the waist and leans in to kiss him.
It’s nothing more than a press of lips against lips at first— but Will—
Will lets out a sound from the back of his throat that sounds too much like a whimper—
It’s truly fucking terrible for Macklin’s heart.
Macklin takes it as an opportunity to deepen their kiss, to wrap his arms completely around Will and tug and tug and tug him as close as is wizardly possible.
Will keeps making these softs sounds as he wraps his arms around Mack’s shoulders— kissing him with as much fervor.
Macklin’s tongue sneaks past his lips and oh—
Will doesn’t know why they have never done this in the last seven years. It’s such a shame— such a fucking shame when Will thinks he would’ve rather been doing this all the time instead of whatever the fuck he’s been doing at Hogwarts (getting an education).
Mack pulls away from him just enough to press tiny little kisses at the corner of Will’s lips, then his cheek, then his jaw, then just below his ear, and then his neck— and then Macklin has the audacity to open his mouth and sucks—
“Oh, Mack,” Will fucking shivers.
Macklin uses every ounce of his strength to peel himself away, presses one final kiss to Will’s lips before he looks at Will with the expression that earned him the record of the Fastest Sorting in Hogwarts (0.5 seconds).
“Hey,” Macklin’s lips curl up lopsidedly, “wanna come back to our room and make Graf wish we never fucking survived the Black Lake?”
Will starts giggling uncontrollably.
It matters more than anything.