#slytherin! gojo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nezuscribe · 10 months ago

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𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: six years ago, when they placed that sorting hat on your head, nobody expected for it to assign the muggleborn to the slytherin house, but it did. six years later, you find yourself as alone as the day you walked through those doors. little did you expect the prince of slytherin, the pureblood maniac himself, gojo satoru, to be the one to coincidentally fill your empty hours.

warnings: gojo is a pureblooded slytherin, slight angst, slight messy makeout

word count: 12.6k

note: part two is out now! comments and reblogs are always appreciated! thank you to @jadeisthirsting for beta reading as always!

part two

slytherin!gojo masterlist + jjk masterlist

When you were little, all the strange and peculiar things that happened to you, such as Ms. Bromsely, the awful maths teacher's desk going up in flames, or Patricia Gallaghers rings disintegrating after she teased your dress, were chalked up to chance or just something else.

Your mother was too busy covering extra shifts down at the pub to worry about it, so she rarely made an occurrence to the meetings your headmaster had scheduled, resulting in very awkward meetings with just you as you were explained how peculiar it was that you always seemed to be in the middle of all these weird occurrences.

So when that brown spotted owl almost crashed into your bedroom window at the ripe age of eleven, explaining that you were chosen to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you suspected that one of your classmates was playing a cruel joke on you, but alas, it turned out to be very real.

You were whisked away soon enough, stumbling your way in some sort of haze through Diagon Alley, and then in a blink of your eyes, you found yourself waving goodbye to your mother from that red train, on your way to a life you may have only imagined when you were younger, dreaming of a place far away from where you were.

And you loved it.

The feasts, the history-soken steps that you walked on every day to get to class, the little town that was within walking distance that you could go to every weekend.

While most of the students here had been introduced to this early on in their lives, you hadn’t. Your mother was just as shocked and as bewildered as you were all those years ago, and given your special circumstances, sometimes you wondered if you were yet to see the thick of it, wondering if some things were hidden from you given your upbringing, given your blood.

But you blinked out of your stupor, being brought down from your daydream to the sound of quills scratching, the smell of faint smoke burning in the background, and the quiet sounds of different animals in their cages. All of these tall-tell signs of the transfiguration classroom.

After years of spending time in this classroom, it slowly became one that you’d look forward to, and despite most Slytherins having an aptitude for potions or defense against the dark arts, transfiguration was where you shined the best.

The light that carded through the high arching windows illuminated the desks, and you were glad seeing how the back of the classrooms was usually the most poorly lit place. Unfortunately, they’re the only places you found yourself sitting throughout the years, which is just another reason why this specific classroom in itself brought you a slight sense of comfort.

“...cross-species and inter-species transfiguration is one of the most difficult, if not the most difficult, sort of transfiguration to achieve. Even the most accomplished witches and wizards find themselves struggling with it,” you watched as Professor McGonagall walked around the front of the classroom, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head, her emerald robes swaying behind her like green waves, “The only way we were able to replicate this form of magic is through ancient runes.”

Her eyes raked over all the students of the class, to make sure that everybody was understanding the weight of her words. As seventh years it was expected that you all would be ready to face the challenges of such a high-level class. But especially with Professor McGonagall, seeing just how difficult her classes usually were.

“Of course, this was all covered during your fourth years, so I hope that some of you,” she gave a knowing look over her glasses, “Remember your lessons.”

You momentarily caught her eyes.

You squirmed in your seat, knowing that her displeased look was directed to the Gryffindor’s sitting next to you. The boy to your left had his mouth open in a large yawn, promptly shutting it when McGonagall looked at him, and the girl to your right was busily finicking with a piece of parchment, trying to figure out how to enchant it so that it could turn into a swan to send to her boyfriend who was sitting across the class.

You loved Hogwarts. Most of the time.

The reason why you usually found yourself at the back of class, sitting with people you barely knew, and the reason why you were yet to experience most of the core memories other witches and wizards your age experienced was because you weren’t welcomed the way other would be by their assorted houses.

Nearly six years ago, when Professor McGonagall placed that sorting hat on your head, you didn’t know what to expect.

You had heard from some of the people that you sat near on the train that Gryffindor was best. Of course, the boy who said it came from a family of Gryffindors, but his friends seemed to agree with him. Ravenclaw was only for the smart people, which you hoped you might be sorted into and Huffelpuffs were known for their loyalty, which, judging by your mother's statement about how you dared to leave home, you didn’t have much of.

But the Slytherin house seemed…forbidden.

At least for you, anyways.

“And what about that girl we saw?” One of the boys pointed outside the carriage window into the little hall outside, pointing to a much older girl wearing green robes, walking with some other friends who wore adorning colors, “What house is she in?”

The other boy, who seemed to have the most knowledge out of anyone, scoffed, shaking his head.

“Not for you, sorry,” he leaned in closer as if he were telling a secret. You tried to listen in, not making it obvious seeing how you weren’t any of their friends and how this was the only cart available with space, “That’s the Slytherin house.”

“Why’s it not for me?” The other boy argued, his face pulled into a scowl.

“Well, Slytherins are many things. Ambitious, cunning,” the other boy said but shook his head disapprovingly, “But above all else, they’re all purebloods. Some are half-bloods, but even that’s rare. You’re coming from a muggle family. My father works at the ministry, and he says that some of the people in his department who were Slytherin still despise muggle-borns and muggles even long after they’ve left.”

So you had a basic understanding of what to expect. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor.

But when the hat cried out “Slytherin!” you almost jumped in your seat, looking behind you at the professor, your face of hesitancy surely mirroring hers.

And you soon found out that the boy on the train (who was sorted into Gryffindor, big shock), was right. Word spread quickly that a muggle-born was sorted into Slytherin, the first in centuries, and that it surely must’ve been a mistake.

But the sorting hat doesn’t go back on its word, and what was said was done. So six and a bit years later you found yourself as the pariah of your own house and were forced to fade into the background to avoid any further trouble.

“...and this is the one project in which I’m having you work with partners, picked by me, of course. The research that is needed to go into this is too much to be done alone.” Professor McGonagall continued, and you perked up in your seat a little bit, your brows furrowing at her words.

You felt a part of your heart race at the thought. Normally when professors assigned partners, it either left you with a fellow Slyhterin who hated your existence and forced you to do the project on your own, or somebody from another house who didn’t know you and forced you to do the project on your own.

Your tongue felt heavy as she began reading off the paired names on her list, your hands becoming clammy.

“Miss Finnegan and Mister Belton. Miss O’Shea and Miss Adan,” The girl next to you, who you quickly pieced together was Leila O’Shea groaned, her face depleted as she realized she wasn’t going to be paired with her boyfriend, and you watched as she sulkily went to the other girl's desk.

You listened in anticipation as she went down the list, your heart beating loudly and comically in your chest the closer it seemed that she was getting to the end.

“Mister Reeve and Mister Thompson,” she paused momentarily as she watched the two boys clap each other on the back, her lips threatening to quirk up into a smile, just waiting to read what foolishness they were going to write, “Miss Ward and Mister Green,” you felt like you might be getting off the hook, that maybe she took pity on you but it all came crashing down when she looked at you, a knowing look in her eyes far worse than pity as she read your name along with perhaps the singular person you would’ve paid all your money to not be paired with,

“…will be with Mister Gojo,” you heard some of your housemates laugh out loud, some of them pushing at the boy and ruffling his hair as if he were the one that was going to face the brute of everything. He sat near the front, and you could see a flash of his white hair as he begrudgingly began to pack his things up, having no choice but to sit next to you seeing how the seats next to him were filled up.

You watched as she rolled the piece of parchment back up as if she hadn’t just sentenced your public execution, and she raised a singular thin brow at the faces that were looking back at her, “Well? Get a move on. This essay is due in a month.”

You tried to take in a deep breath, your eyes trained on the blank piece of parchment in front of you as if you couldn’t hear his footsteps getting closer and closer to you, as if you didn’t just feel his robes brush up against your legs as he sunk into his seat.

This can’t possibly be happening.

Anybody would’ve been better than him. Even Marley Petterson and her constant poking and teasing about how your clothes were held together by scraps, and how you must’ve lived with mud people before you came to Hogwarts would’ve been better than him. Being forced to be a partner with the Prince of Slytherin was torture, and you wonder if after all these years Professor McGonagall was just now starting to show her distaste towards you.

That day on the train was the first time you heard his name.

“You see that boy? The one with the white hair?” The boy discreetly pointed out the window to one of the kids standing outside your cart. All the other boys hurriedly nodded, each craning their necks to get a better look at him, “He’s a Gojo. He comes from a line of Slytherins, each one worse than the one before. They’re purebloods, obviously. You wouldn’t find a speck of anything else in them. They’re rich too, filthy rich. They could buy this school if they wanted to.” All the other boys guffawed, but he seemed serious as if this stranger's family was nothing to be taken lightly.

“When it comes to Slytherins, there are four families to be wary of. There’s the Gaunts and the Malfoys. There’s the noble house of Black, but lastly…them. House Gojo is one that every other wizarding family steers away from.”

After the day you were sorted you also quickly realized why most wizarding families stayed away from them. His word seemed to be law, and all the other Slytherins, especially those in his inner circle, held him to it.

You peeked from the corner of your eye, watching as he unpacked all his supplies, his face contorted in obvious anger and disgust, and you thickly swallowed. You had done a good job in staying away from him these past couple of months, fortunate enough to only be called a mudblood and an offense to their ancient house a couple of times by him and his posse.

His left-hand ring finger almost caught your eye in the sun, the gold ring with his house emblem shining brightly, a clear reminder of your difference with him, and you tried to hide your old school bag, riddled with holes and stains, something you just couldn’t replace.

When he was done unpacked, he sat there for a couple of seconds, the silence between the two of you thick and heavy. You felt like you could choke on it, your fingers twitching to do something, to leave.

“...this is insulating…” he was talking to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as you sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t one for many words. You had observed him from afar, long enough to see that aside from the occasional words he’d exchange with his closest friends or the few times he’d mutter traitor under his breath when the two of you locked eyes, he was a more brooding type of person.

When he was angry, he hid it well. His cheeks might’ve flushed a bit, his nose flaring, but he never made an outburst. Which is why, at this moment, you could tell that he wasn’t in a particularly elated mood.

“I…” you started, your mouth going dry at the way his eyes snapped to you, cold and cruel, “I can do the essay. I’ll get it done in time…if you want.”

Most times your partners would just tell you to do the work, expecting (and knowing), you’d just say yes and go along with your day. But here, you couldn’t afford to let your guard down, rather having your pride be bitten at rather than your overall self.

You heard him snort, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he rolled his eyes.

“What? And have you do everything wrong?” His voice was hushed and clipped as if talking to you a second longer than needed would ruin him and everything he and his family stand for.

He unrolled his piece of parchment, opening up his book as he kept his head down.

“Well, I’m fairly decent with transfiguration,” you spoke up, trying for a smile that quickly fell when you felt his eyes burn into yours. For most of your time at Hogwarts, the only times you’ve ever really spoken to Gojo was when he was hurling insults at you, his words spurred on by his group of friends behind him.

Gojo Satoru knew his worth. He knew that his family name would last through centuries and that the gold his family owned could buy out the entire ministry if they wanted to. Those around him treated him as such; as if his word was law. It also didn’t help that he was incredibly charming, growing into his looks over the years.

You watched as he grew taller, his lanky figure now filled out with muscles that you could sometimes see through the baggy uniform. His eyes were always a topic of conversation, the infamous Gojo blue. His arctic white hair grew a little longer, sometimes falling in his face when he wasn’t aware. He was gorgeous, and you couldn’t even lie to yourself that he wasn’t.

Aside from his looks, he was also freakishly smart. If he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin you were sure that Ravenclaw would’ve been fitting for him as well. He was always top of the class with O’s on every exam.

Above all else, he knew his difference from everybody else. Even his closest (pureblooded) friends weren't even near his level. Even before he could walk, he’s been told of this. Not only that but he’s been told of the vileness of muggleborns. How their nature threatens the very fabric of wizarding society, and how muggles who have somehow been blessed with magical abilities are below humans, that they don’t deserve the rights every other witch and wizard has.

Which means that you, the sole muggle-born in Slytherin, stood against everything Gojo Satoru believed. You were an abnormality, inhuman, somebody that he should resent for even existing.

“Well, we could always divide the work…?” You offered, your feet anxiously bouncing on the ground as you waited for his response. One of the blessings of sitting so far away from everyone else is that sure, they looked over to see how this was going, but at least they couldn’t listen in as you embarrassed yourself even further.

His eyes darted over to your paper, blinking once, deep in thought.

He sighed deeply through his nose, swallowing thickly as he gave you a singular, curt nod.

“Hm,” he hummed, not even sparing you a glance as he began going to work, his pen scratching against the paper as his eyes began reading over the page, “But I’ll read what you write,” he said quickly, “I refuse to have my rank tank just because you mudbloods can’t do your work properly.”

Mudblood

After six years of it, you know you should’ve gotten used to it, but the stinging in your chest would argue otherwise.

Your shoulders sank, eyes falling to the ground as your fingers fidgeted. You murmured something inaudible as you opened your book to the page McGonagall instructed you to.

—

The days moved on and everything continued as it always did.

The essay you had to write with Gojo was a slight hindrance in your usual schedule, but the two of you worked in silence in class and never interacted outside of it. Sometimes when his elbow would accidentally bump into yours as the two of you were busy writing he’d make a sort of noise in the back of his throat, his hand snatching back quickly as if you had somehow burnt him, but that was the most of your interactions.

Sometimes when you were in the common rooms, late at night, you could hear him talking with his friends, talking about how heinous and ridiculous it was that McGonagall paired the two of you together, but you tried to ignore it.

That following week you found yourself back in the transfiguration classroom, working away quietly as you tried to understand the scriptures on the pages you had to read. You found yourself lucky that this subject was the one you might have some sort of talent in, seeing that this sort of ancient magic was just as difficult as McGonagall made it out to be.

You heard some mumbling next to you, your eyes discreetly looking over at your partner, only to find his head in his hands as his brows furrowed in both annoyance and confusion.

“...what does this…?” You heard him say to himself, watching as he flipped the page back and forth as if he was missing something.

You looked back at your work, the talking around the room drowning out whatever it was that Gojo was saying to himself.

Or at least you tried to drown out the noise, if not for the fact that your partner made some sort of sudden movement that managed to knock his ink bottle down, spilling ink all over the table. You moved your work to the side, watching as some of the ink soaked into your robes.

“Fuck,” he snapped, moving suddenly from his chair so that the ink would drip onto his clothes, “damn it,” he looked around almost helplessly, his hands clenching in anger after seeing all his hard work soaked up in black.

“Wait,” you suddenly say, your arm outstretching over his body, watching as his head snaps over to you, “Stop moving for a second.”

He didn’t have much time to bite back at how dare you order him around because you had already begun to pull out your wand, flicking it on a quick movement as you murmured “tergeo,” watching as the ink slowly yet surely began clumping up in the middle of the table, going back with snake-like movements into its bottle.

There was a beat of silence.

Gojo sat still in his seat, his lips pursing as he finally let out a deep breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said, but it seemed like he had to bite the word out, choking on it as if thanking you was taking too much of his mental willpower to do.

You nodded briefly, still watching him as he settled back into his seat.

“Uh,” you scratched at the back of your neck, knowing that you’d probably regret asking this in a matter of seconds, but somehow not able to stop yourself as you continue talking, “I don’t mean to be rude, or intrude, but is everything alright?”

You hold your breath as you watch Gojo sigh, his eyes shutting briefly. You braced yourself to be snapped at, to be victim to yet another reminder of how much you’ve tarnished the Slytherin name, but he just shakes his head.

“No,” he seethes, but when he peeks over at you he licks his lips, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he grabs his papers, moving it over to the middle of you two as he motions to it, “Everything is not alright. Something’s wrong with the book…and I have no idea what. I’ve read this page at least twenty times and it makes no bloody sense to me,”

You try to hide your surprise.

That’s probably the most he’s ever spoken to you without any mention of your muggle heritage.

You move in a little closer to look at what he’s pointing to. You try not to heat up under his stare, squinting your eyes as you try to make sense of what it was he was writing, trying to hide your reactions when you realize that he was doing most of it wrong.

The point of this essay was to learn about the origins of cross-species transfiguration, and eventually an animagus transformation and how it even came to be.

You had to reference at least five other books and scrolls to piece together the correct herbs and spells needed to even begin the process. McGonagall honestly probably told everybody to reference the textbook because there was nothing in it. This essay was a testament to how many people went out of their way to learn about the true nature of transfiguration.

What Gojo had written was something you were sure almost everybody else was writing as well, a mistake you almost made. His research was simple and black and white, and he was getting everything wrong because he was missing at least ten different very important points.

“So,” you swallowed nervously, chewing on your already chapped lips, “You have the main ideas down,” which was a lie, “But there are just some things-” Before you could even finish your sentence the bell tower chimed once, twice, and then a final time, telling everybody that their class was over.

All around you people began hurriedly packing up, surely excited for lunch, the chatter of conversations growing in volume, and you didn’t have to look at Professor McGonagall to know that she was irked by her student's sudden enthusiasm to leave.

Gojo sat motionless, still looking over at you, waiting impatiently for you to finish.

“I…” you scratched at your hands, “I can’t go over everything right now, but tomorrow I’ll bring in the other-” He raised his hand, packing up his bag as he cut you off.

“No, not tomorrow, I’m already behind,” you watched as he shoved his papers into his leather bag, “Just explain it now.”

You wanted to laugh, not knowing how long it might take to explain your twisted thinking process to him and you doubted he wanted to stay in this classroom with you for a minute longer.

“Well, there’s quite a bit of things,” you searched for the right word, “Missing. I have to study for the potions exam right now, but I’m going to be in the library tonight anyway. I could show you then…?”

You stood at your chair, your eyes looking up into his, wavering.

What did you just do? Surely he’d laugh now in your face, roll his eyes at how absurd it was that you could even suggest such a thing, just as he usually does.

Instead, he looks at you, then at his paper, and then at yours, which is at least three pages long at this point. He’d never admit it out loud, but you were understanding this assignment better than him and nobody in his group seemed to understand it as well as you were.

“Fine,” he runs a hand through his hair, the white sticking out between his fingers like snow perched on grass.

Your brows furrow, your lips pursing together in sudden confusion.

“What, okay,” you fiddle with your fingers, tugging on them in that anxious way you always do, watching him tighten the straps on his bag, “But wait, what time…” You try to call out but he has already left, his robes swaying behind him as you stand alone at your seat.

You slowly begin to pack up, your thoughts running at what you have just done.

—

The potions exam went well enough, but you couldn’t stress out about it too much right now.

After dinner (which you ate earlier than most, too anxious to be late), you made your way to the library, found a table near the back, somewhere that didn’t get a lot of foot traffic, and set up your workstation for the time being.

Amongst many of the amenities Hogwarts had, the library was one of them you loved dearly.

It wasn’t usually too busy, but it filled up quickly the night before some exams. But you didn’t mind it, you liked being surrounded by people. In the Slytherin common rooms, you usually had to wait until everybody had filtered out or had gone to bed before you could make your way down, not wanting to face their icy looks or the way they’d talk behind their hands when you were near, so you opted to be in the library above anything else.

The muted sounds of pages turning, of people talking in hushed whispers, and the books that would sometimes rearrange themselves were calming. You liked the candles that were lit carefully around the large room, illuminating it deep into the night.

You made sure that the work you had already written was set out, your quill resting straightly adjacent to it, your ink pot above it. Your pile of books sat neatly to the left. You wanted to seem as organized and as composed as you could, this might be your one chance to show the prince of Slytherin that you weren’t the slob he must imagine you as.

The clock on the wall ticks, and you note that it’s nearly ten minutes till five. You chew on your lips, cracking your fingers as you keep your eyes trained on the door, waiting for the familiar mop of white hair to appear.

After the first ten minutes, you begin fidgeting again, moving your papers centimeters above where they were as if they could appear any straighter. You weren’t wearing the usual house robes, and you hoped that your decision didn’t cause him to walk in, scan the area, and leave because he didn’t see what he expected to see.

But you pushed those worries aside, just doing your best to watch the people who filed in and out of the large double doors.

After the clock struck six, you began to stop looking at the doors, instead choosing to just get some work done while you were here, and opened up one of the books. Of course, he probably just lied just because he wanted to. There might be some of his friends standing outside, snickering as they watched you wait stupidly.

You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, feeling like an idiot.

For the next half hour, you busied yourself with reading about the start of the animagus process, about the mandrake leaf, and the strenuous process of keeping it on your tongue for an entire month.

Around you, you could hear the scrapping of chairs on the floor, and how most of the people were beginning to leave seeing that it was getting pretty late. The library closes promptly at eight, and although it was an hour till that happened, most people left till then.

Your eyes flitted to the door, not seeing anybody, and deflated.

Stupid, you repeated in your head.

So you began shutting the books strewn out in front of you, packing them all up in your bag as you rubbed at your tired eyes. Madam Pince also made a deal if you left any ink splotches on the table, so you cast a quick tergeo charm to clean up any spots you might’ve missed.

“You’re leaving?”

You looked up from the table, eyes squinting to see his tall figure standing in front of you, his face flushed red, sweat dotting on his brow bone as a bit of his hair stuck to his face. Gojo was panting, his chest heaving up and down as if he had just run across the entire castle, and his brows were creasing in the middle, looking down at you as you seized your packing.

You note his green quidditch robes and muddy boots.

“I, um,” you looked at the nearly empty table in front of you, and you shook your head, giving him a small smile, “No, no, I just got here.”

He looked at your bag, as if not believing you, but not caring too much as he hummed in the back of throat, rounding the table, and plopped himself down in the seat in front of you.

Wordlessly, Gojo began taking out his supplies, and you figured you might as well, setting everything back up to where you initially had it. You watched as he slyly looked around the two of you, his shoulder becoming less tense when he realized it truly was just the two of you left in the library.

“Practice took up too much time,” he mindlessly explains, a clear explanation for why he looked so different from the put-together self he usually is. He pushed some of his hair out of his face, his breathing still a little erratic.

You nod, swallowing thickly as you pretend to understand the ins and outs of quidditch.

You were aware that amongst one of the many things Gojo could do, on his long lists of talents (which if there was a list would consist of his ability to speak five languages or his incredible ability to calm any creature down), was that he was an amazing seeker.

While you weren’t very familiar with how quidditch worked, despite trying to best to follow along with others' conversations as you listened in, you could understand that his forte on a broomstick wasn’t talked about just because he was Gojo Satoru.

He was fast on his broomstick, and thought it could be chalked up to the fact that every year he came to practice with the newest model, he could whize past anybody. He was nimble as well. With how large his hands were, larger than the other house seekers, he was able to secure a win for almost every single match ever since he got recruited. Last year he was named captain of the Slytherin quidditch team, so you were able to piece together that he got held up with the recent tryouts.

“That’s um,” you scratch at your arm awkwardly, “That’s alright…okay so I’ll try to be as quick as I can, but there’s a lot that McGonagall wants us to do,” you start slowly, letting his get situated as you push forward the first book that helped you out, “Oh, that textbook doesn’t help…right now,” you quickly said as you saw him pull out the assigned reading, saw how he looked at you for a second, his face scrunching up in an unreadable emotion.

“This one is good, though,” you motion to the one in front of you.

Gojo’s movements are slow as he takes it, eyes scanning over the title until he looks back at you.

He doesn’t do much talking, you decide.

“This book covers cross-species transfiguration, but it briefly mentions inter-species transfiguration. But the author referenced this one,” you pull out the other hefty textbook, sliding it over to him, “And this covers all things related to inter-species transfiguration and then goes into animagus transfigurations.”

You pause, biting your cheek to stop you from rambling on. Transfiguration was something that you could talk about forever and ever, and you’d never really talked about out loud to anybody else up until now.

“McGonagall said that the essay was on inter-species, she never mentioned animagus transfiguration,” Gojo said suddenly, pushing the two textbooks back, letting out a heavy sigh as if this was all a waste of his time.

You nod slowly, picking at some of the skin around your nails.

“R-right, and you’re right,” you quickly sputter, nodding, “But because cross-species and inter-species transfiguration are so close together, I doubt that this was what she wanted our month-long essay to be about. Which is why,” you pull out some old essays you had done earlier in the year, “I referenced back to these animagus essay’s we had done. I mean, she wouldn’t introduce us to the topic and then drop it for no particular reason, right? I suspect she wanted us to piece the two and two together.”

Gojo gently took the papers from your outstretched hand, his eyes raking over your words, and then back to the textbooks. He seemed to read it intently as if things were slowly starting to click for him.

“Which is why the textbook she gave us isn’t really helpful, because it resembles more of an herbology textbook rather than transfiguration. So I think that this textbook, if anything, should be referenced at the end of the essay, seeing how it mentions the mandrake leaf and the properties of the chrysalis of a Death’s-head Hawk Moth. It’s all instructions on how to become an animagus without saying it.”

His eyes, a different shade of blue in the candlelight, watched your every moment. He listened carefully as you eventually did end up rambling, watching the way your face, on its own accord, twisted into a proud smile at your clever handiwork.

You abruptly stop to catch a breath and glance up at him apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I went too fast,” you shake your head, rubbing your temple in your hands, tired from staring at textbooks for as long as you’ve had.

“No…it made sense,” Gojo murmurs suddenly, his lips pulled into a thin line as he quickly looks away from you, back down to his work which was now surely long after your in-depth analysis, twisting and turning that gold ring on his finger, the one he always wore, the symbol of his family crest as he looked through the books you had offered him.

You stay silent, not knowing what to do, resting back in your seat, picking your nails.

“Well, that’s all of it,” you rub your hands against your pants, your dry eyes blinking a couple of times, yearning for sleep.

“You could’ve said this during class,” he said, still reading, his attention preoccupied, as if this was a hindrance to him.

You wet your lips, trying not to clench your hand in anger, frustration, and years of pent-up emotions, as you slowly nod, pulling the leather strap of your bag over your shoulders as you begin to stand up.

“Right, sorry,” you apologize quietly, taken aback when he suddenly looks up at you, as if startled but you didn’t feel like spending any more in the presence of someone who despised you anyways, “goodnight,” you bid farewell, not noticing how he had opened his mouth to say something, scurrying out of the library as you make your way back to the common rooms before he could.

—

The next day at transfigurations, the two of you didn’t speak to one another at the beginning of class, like normal.

You took out your books like normal, as did he, and began writing silently, like normal. Everything was going normally until he suddenly paused, his hand wavering above his essay as he set his quill down, turning his head over to you.

“Can I see what you’ve written?”

You stop writing, eyes darting to the side as if you had misheard him.

Gojo points to the papers you’ve been working on as if you didn’t understand his first command.

Wordlessly, you pass it over to him.

He reads it over a couple of times, flipping through your endless pages, muttering some words to himself now and then. You would wager that compared to other people you had made far more progress in terms of how much you’d compiled, so you weren’t necessarily worried about the time restraint on this essay.

You couldn’t say the same for him, however.

You’ve never seen him look so intense, his brows furrowed and his lips pursed in clear concentration. He almost seemed frustrated, and it was a strange thing to see from somebody so usually put together.

“Our work together is too divided, it looks like we haven’t been working with each other,” Gojo says as if that wasn’t purely what was the issue.

You didn’t say anything, wanting to see what idea he’d propose.

“I need to finish the rest of these texts,” he jutted his chin to the textbooks you had given him last night, “We can work on the essay after classes are over, in the common room.”

A part of you wanted to laugh at him as if he had just joked.

But Gojo Satoru was not a joking sort of person. You rarely saw him smiling, even when with his friends, and it was even rarer for him to say something of any comedic value. Which could only mean that he was being serious and that he truly was proposing to work in the common rooms with…you.

A little snort escapes your lips, looking at him as if he were crazy. He looked at you as if you were the crazy one.

“I don’t go to the common rooms after class, it’s too busy,” you explained slowly to him, wondering if he was daft and even after all this time didn’t take the time to understand your situation.

He blinked, eyes narrowing.

“...and?”

Your head tilted to the side, confused.

“Well…there’s people there,” you explain even further.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if you were stupid.

“Ironically, that is the point of a common room.” Gojo looks back to his essay, picking up his quill as if he were done with this conversation, but you pushed.

“Right,” you say more curtly, nose flaring, “For you, it might be. But people don’t want me there.” You say, a truth that you had to stomach, something that you grew used to after too many unsavory encounters with other Slytherins when you tried to come down to the common rooms during social hours.

“So during the hours of two to eight, you don’t go to the common room?” He didn’t even look up, his voice sarcastic, not believing such an insane thing.

“No.” You reply as if it was obvious as if he should at least know that this is why you rarely ever make an occurrence unless it’s early in the morning or late at night.

That finally gets him to stop and look at you, confusion woven into his expression.

“What?” He set his pen down again, and you noted that his eyes seemed a different shade of blue when he was confused, a little bit lighter than usual, he seemed like he was the only one not in on some sort of joke, “So from two to eight you just stay in your room?”

You shake your head, playing with your fingers.

“I’m not always in my room,” ignominy clear in your tone, “Most days I either go outside and do my homework or go to the library.”

You hate the attention this brings to you from him. You’ve never had such a long conversation with somebody in your own house, let alone Gojo. You hated the way he looked at you as if you were either lying your arse off or even worse…pity?

But you almost shook your head at that thought. The great Gojo Satoru pitying you?

“What if it’s raining?” He asked, pushing you to see if you were telling him the truth.

“Then I go to the library,” you said as if it was obvious, mainly because to you it was. This was the usual schedule that you’ve become used to over the years, something you’ve just forced yourself to become used to despite wanting everything in your soul to go to the common rooms like everybody else, to laugh at their stories, to talk about your lives, like you were supposed to.

“What if the libraries closed?”

You squirm under his heavy gaze, wondering how the topic of transfiguration got turned around to him interrogating you.

“Um, well, right now, because of the weather, I’d probably just go up to the astronomy tower if the library was closed. They don’t have lessons during the day. Or I’d probably just find a broom closet and do my work in there.”

His head tilts just a bit, his lips quirking up into a disbelieving smile as if he just caught you in your lie.

“In the dark?” Gojo presses, and you can hear the people around you already beginning to pack up their supplies, the class nearing its end. Had you spent this much time talking that you wasted nearly half an hour?

“I’d cast a lumos spell,” you argue, packing up your things as you break eye contact with him. You take your paper back, making sure the ink has dried before putting it in your bag.

“I’ll be in the library,” you say finally, making sure that was the end of it, “See you there.”

—

In some strange way, meeting up with Gojo in the library became part of your routine.

Every night at seven, after his quidditch practice would end, he’d run all across the entirety of campus to work on your transfigurations essay together.

The two of you still didn’t talk much, but it was different nonetheless.

“I’m tired,” Gojo suddenly announced, the candlelight flickering on and off from his face.

You could visibly see the dark circles that were under his eyes, how he slouched (which was uncommon for him, seeing how he usually sat as straight as a ruler wherever he was), and how he couldn’t go four minutes without letting out an exhausted sigh.

“You should take a break,” you muttered, not paying attention, head still stuck in your book as you continued to read the rest of the paragraph you were reading.

Gojo snorted, rolling his eyes at the prospect.

“I can’t take a break,” he dragged his hands across his face, “I need to finish this essay, the quidditch games in two days, and Snapes up my arse about that potion exam.”

Your eyes flickered up to his, startled at how much he had spoken, but then tried to mask your surprise by looking back down to your book.

“Potions wasn’t too bad,” you offer, “And I can finish the last bits you have,” you look back up, putting your hand out, a silent ask for him to give you whatever it was that he had written so far.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, silently passing over his stack of parchment, and you scanned through it quietly, shrugging as you nodded once more.

To be honest, the two of you were far ahead of the other students in your class. He had eventually concluded on his own that you’d be wasting more time not working together, so you guessed that he just had to suck up a bit and bite back on his pride and work with a muggle-born.

His rush to finish the essay was spurred on by the plethora of other things he needed to do, a drawback of being the prime and perfect Slytherin prince everybody made him out to be.

“You don’t have much left,” you deduce, “I can just write about the Scalivier trials,” the trial in which a man refused to register with the ministry that he was an animagus, “I’ll have it done by Saturday, I’m nearly done with my bit.”

You slide his essay back to him, but stop when you see the perplexed look on his face.

“Saturday’s the quidditch game?”.

Your eyes dart to the side, squinting a bit as you try for a laugh.

“…and?”

He scratches at his temple, tilting his head to the side. After these past couple of days working with you, he’d be wrong to say that he became more and more increasingly perplexed with you. Six years he spent watching from afar, muttering words to his friends about the absurdity of your existence, but now that he was able to see you from up close, a part of him has to agree that you’re an enigma he’s never been able to crack.

You don’t say much during class, you don’t talk to many people, and if he was being honest, in that sense, you mirrored him. You were reserved, but the times he picked and prodded at you, you seemed to open up. You don’t have any friends from what he could tell, often eating at the end of the table during the meals. He watched sometimes to see you during the common rooms during the times in which you said you never came, a part of him thinking he’d be able to catch you.

Gojo Satoru would never admit it, but in a way, he had become interested in you.

“Well,” Gojo didn’t like to be the one confused, hating being perceived as if he didn’t know everything, which is something he prided himself on most of the time, “After the game, there’s the usual…party,” he bit out, hating the word, because it was so unruly from the usual balls and galas he was forced attend, too many people sweaty and jumping, “In the common room.”

You blink owlishly at him, fidgeting with your quill, twisting and turning it around in your hand.

“Right…so I’ll be here.”

Now it was his turn to blink slowly.

Was this really that hard to understand?

“Coming to the library after a quidditch game seems a bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?” He leaned back in his chair, playing with the green and silver tie around his neck. You wondered how he could bear to wear it even after classes were over, that even his most posh friend ditched their formal wear the moment they got back to their dormitories.

“Thankfully I don’t go to quidditch games, so for me, it’s just climatic,” you said, smiling at your little joke, covering your mouth as you yawned, tired and longing for your bed.

He sat up in his chair suddenly, looking even more shocked than before. This was the most emotion you’ve ever seen him emmett before and you didn’t know what to do with it.

“What? Why not?” He seemed so startled that you almost wanted to laugh. It was strange seeing somebody you had regarded as stoic look like he did now.

You shrug, rubbing your fingers across your eyes as you let out another yawn, resting your chin on your palm.

“I went once, during my first year, but everybody seemed rather annoyed that I was there, and they crowded in front of me so I couldn’t see anything,” you recall back on the memory, one that you could remember vividly, “and I don’t know,” you’re suddenly very thirsty, your cheeks heating up the more he stared at you, laughing uncomfortably, “I don’t really understand…quidditch, so it works out in the end. And I also get to have some time to myself in the common room to do my homework, you know, unlike usual.”

Gojo didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and you tried to pretend that you had read something interesting to not embarrass yourself any further with your mindless babbling. Sure, he might be willing to work with you now, but that didn’t mean that Gojo Satoru was up for a friendly conversation with you.

You looked at him briefly, feeling your stomach churn a bit to see that he hadn’t stopped looking at you.

“Everything alright?” You asked.

He nodded, biting on the inside of his cheek as he picked up his quill, a wordless agreement that the conversation was over.

—

Transfiguration the next day went by oddly silent.

Gojo didn’t talk to himself now and then, he didn’t sigh his exasperated sigh, and he didn’t peek up every once in a while to check how much you’d written since the last time he had looked over.

You didn’t pay it much attention, keeping your head down, your eyes to yourself. Silence was better than being reminded of your muggle heritage, which even then, Gojo had yet to remind you these past weeks.

Briefly, you looked up from what you were doing to see if Professor McGonagall was walking around or sitting at her desk, but in doing so you felt Gojo shuffle a little in his seat as if he had felt your sudden movement.

“Tonight…” he started and you quickly nodded, waving off any of his worries. Of course, you chided yourself, he’s anxious about the quidditch match, nothing else.

“Yes, yes, I know, you have quidditch tomorrow. I’ll finish up what I have left and then start reading about the Scalivier trials tonight,” you finished for him, tracing some of the wood grains of the table with your finger.

He shakes his head.

“Not that - and I’ll finish up the trials by Sunday,” he’s avoiding eye contact, and if you didn’t know any better it seemed like he was trying to find his words, as if they had slipped from his tongue and were dangling in the air for him to grab, “Tonight…tonight, don’t go to the library.”

You purse your lips, trying to smile to see if that was his goal, maybe he was trying to be funny.

“Would you like to meet in one of the broom closets then?”

You felt even more lost after it seemed like he was debating taking up your offer, but his eyes shone a bright shade of aquamarine, and his cheeks twinged a slight shade of pink.

Strange.

“No,” he chewed on his lip, as if he were anxious, a preposterous thing to even think, “No, come down to the common rooms around eight.”

The cursed clock tower chimed, three loud rings, and it cut the two of you off once again.

“Look, I told you-” you go to say but he cuts you off.

“I know, just come down.” He was being so cryptic, and he looked so on edge that it was starting to freak you out. He was already beginning to pack up, his eyes snapping to his group of friends that were nearing the two of you, and he quickly looked back down at you, his head dipping down urgently.

“Eight. Be there.”

—-

You couldn’t say you weren’t at least a little apprehensive.

You were so nervous that you just stayed up in your room, not even coming downstairs for dinner as you waited for the clock on the wall to read eight.

Why were you so nervous? You first asked yourself, but then asked the more logical question, what did Gojo want with you?

The minutes on the clock seemed to take hours to pass, and the hours seemed to take days. It was such a slow process, and you knew it would be going faster if you were doing something more productive with your time until it was necessary, but you couldn’t.

The other girls in your dorms could come in and out, sometimes exchanging glances with their friends when they saw that you hadn’t moved from your spot, but they didn’t ask any questions, opting to just leave you be.

You were picked at your fingers, cracking your knuckles, and finally, finally, the small hand pointed to the eight on that ancient clock.

Funnily enough, even though you had been mentally waiting for this to happen, you waited for a couple of seconds, trying to calm yourself down, nodding to yourself that this wasn’t anything big and that you were just overreacting.

Slowly, you rose from your spot on your bed, a little dent in the mattress from just how long you’d been sitting there. You turn the handle of the door, taking in yet another deep as you take a tentative step outside the safe sanctity of your room.

The common rooms are usually more busy on Friday nights, and that might’ve been a blessing in disguise as you’re able to slip past most people, keeping your eyes peeled for a flash of white hair.

You scan the couch area, the sitting area, and the large window that looks into the black lake, but you don’t see him. It’s only until you look near the entrance to the common room, the large oak double doors, do you see him.

It seems like he’s scanning the area as well, blue eyes looking everywhere until they fall onto yours, and you’re able to sneak past some people watching as he cocks his head in the motion of the doors, and before you could do anything else, he leaves, and you take it as your sig to follow him.

You’re glad that nobody’s looking your way as you push the two doors open, looking to your right to see him waiting for you.

You go to open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it.

“Follow me, and be quick,” he’s already walking and you have to nearly jog to get to him, walking at a much faster pace seeing how his legs were abnormally long, “Put these on over your clothes.”

Gojo throws you a pile of ratty-looking uniforms, but the more you open up the folded mess you come to realize that they’re old quidditch uniforms. In fact, when you’re finally able to get a good look at him you realize he’s wearing adoring green robes.

You don’t say anything, multitasking as you walk and shrug over the (huge, it was practically dragging on the floor) robes, buttoning them up as quickly as you could without tripping over your feet, the quidditch uniform, or over the stones.

He looks at you briefly, and he’s glad that you’re too busy trying to figure out how the robes are supposed to fit over you to notice the way his lips quirked up slightly at the look of you at the moment.

“Put this on too,” he says once you're finally done, handing you another huge helmet, and you take it silently, pulling it over your head.

The helmet is way too big for you, as it nearly hangs over your eyes, and you can barely see anything with it on, and you pause, a smile making its way onto your face as you push it up only for it to fall again.

You stop walking for a second, and when Gojo looks back he sees the helmet masking most of your face up until your nose, the only thing he can see is your large grin, the sleeves of the uniform enveloping your hands, reaching to your knees, and for the first time, he hears the softest sound,

You’re giggling as you try to figure out how to tighten the straps on the helmet, not able to see where Gojo is because you have your head tilted down, struggling with the buckle until his boots come into your field of vision.

All of a sudden you feel a hand tip your helmet upwards, and your smile falters when you now see his face, the way his eyes are swirling with different hues of blues, something you notice that happened when he was battling multiple emotions at once. You can tell that there’s a small, barely noticeable smile on his face, surely from how insane you look right now.

You’ve never seen him look so at ease. His shoulders seem more relaxed, his jaw not clenched. It helped that he looked like he was smiling for once.

But there’s no time to think as you feel the brush of him on your skin, his slender and swift fingers working fast and expertly at tightening the strap under your chin. He looks focused, his white brows scrunched up the way he always does when he’s trying to figure out a transfiguration rune. You feel your breath lodge in your throat. When he’s satisfied with how it was resting on your face his hands drop to his side, and his eyes slightly widen, as if he just realized what he had just done.

He cleared his throat, looking around the hall to make sure that nobody was around, and he turned his back as he began his brisk pace out to wherever it was that he was taking you.

You walked, corrected, ran with him for a little more until he brought you to one of the openings of the castle, the one that led directly to the quidditch fields.

“Where,” you were a little out of breath, noticing how the sun was nearly about to set, and also knowing that you sure as hell didn’t have a pass to be out this late, “Where’re we going?”

“To the field,” he said, which was the answer you were most dreading.

“Right, I can see that,” you feel hot under all these layers, despite the fact that it was late October and the weather was biting at best, “Why are we going out to the fields.” The breeze that was hitting your cheeks was stinging, so you were at least glad in that aspect that the quidditch robe offered you some sort of warmth.

“Ravenclaws practicing right now,” Gojo said, turning around to look at you for a fleeting second, “I need to see what Nanami’s strategy is, and you need to learn quidditch.”

You almost trip.

And you need to learn quidditch.

His words were ringing in your head, possibly even louder than the blood rushing to your ears. He had to be lying, or have some sort of cruel prank planned out. He must be waiting for his friends to run out from behind one of the stands so that they could tie you to a tree. Not that he’s ever done that, but also not the first time it’d be happening at the hands of other Slytherins.

Because sure, while you might’ve offended him in saying you didn’t understand how quidditch worked, that wouldn’t mean that he, Gojo Satoru, the Prince of Slytherin, hater of all muggle-borns alike, would be taking time out of his life to fix this wrong.

You should’ve just run the other way, ditched the scratchy uniform somewhere, and ran back to your dormitory, somewhere where you’d at least be safe from experiencing any sort of humiliation.

But the closer that the two of you neared the stands, the more you felt confused. Because nowhere could you see any other Slytherins, and he was right, the Ravenclaw team was practicing right now, if the flashes of blue and white from above you meant anything.

Which could only mean that…?

Gojo finally stops at the stairs that lead you up the stands, his hand on the wooden railing.

“We’re going…up?”

He snorts, nodding as he ushers you to move.

“Obviously,” his voice now seems more amplified with his small and cramped winding staircase, “I’m not going to be observing them from the ground.”

You’re the one that’s ahead, so you try to go even faster so that he won’t be held up behind you, but everything is moving too fast. Did he give you these robes so that you’d seem like another player? So that you wouldn’t be marked up if you were seen out of your dormitory so late at night?

When you finally got to the opening, you were able to hear the yells that the Ravenclaw players were enhancing with one another. You hold the tarp that acted as the door above your head, heading over to one of the seats in the far back, feeling Gojo right on your tail.

It had been years since you were here since you looked out into the fields. The stands were high, and the winds were stronger up here. Gojo sat where you were, to your right, and you waited silently to see what he was going to do.

Nanami was the Ravenclaw seeker as well as the captain. You could see the flash of blonde hair as he flew by, the other team members either watching him or practicing with their respective posts.

Gojo rested his elbow on his thighs, leaning in as he observed intently.

Eventually, after a minute or two, he sat back up, leaning in closer to you. You could feel his hair ticking your temple, his nose inches away from your cheek as he began to talk.

“In quidditch, you have seven players on each side. One seeker, one keeper, three chasers, and two beaters.”

You nod, following along.

“You see number seven?” He points to the guy flying around near the three tall hoops, and you nod again, “He’s a keeper. He makes sure that the other team doesn’t get any balls into the hoops.” Gojo is leaning even closer to you now, and you can feel half of his body pressing up against yours. You feel like you're heating up, and not because of the excessive quidditch uniform you’re wearing.

“The beaters, number four and two,” he then points to the boy and the girl flying around, holding wooden bats, “try to protect their team from the bludgers; which is this black ball that sort of follows around team members, trying to knock them off their brooms. Those bats ward off the bludgers.”

You make a mental note of everything he’s saying, trying not to be distracted by the fact that you’re being given a quidditch lesson from Gojo Satoru.

“The chasers, which are the rest of them, aside from Nanami, throw around the quaffle to each other. Every time they get it through the other team's hoop, they score ten points…do you follow?” Gojo pauses, looking at you and you push your helmet up so that you can see him, giving him a confident nod.

“All that’s left is the seeker-”

“Which is you, right?” You cut him off, rubbing at your nose which was now freezing at this point.

Gojo pauses, eyes flickering to you as he raises a brow.

“I may not know quidditch but I’m not daft,” you tell him.

For a second there, you swear you could see the start of a smile play on his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, almost softly, “I’m the seeker.” You’re too busy looking ahead to notice that he’s busy looking at you, so you continue to talk.

“...plus, Kento was telling me about it a while ago. He said you were really good.”

This time, his brow raised even further.

“You know him?”

You shrug, your eyes following the quick and hurried movements of all the players, too focused on their practice to notice the change in Gojo’s voice, or overall, the change in his entire demeanor. You must’ve missed how he slightly tensed up, or the way his eyes narrowed.

“We had potions with Ravenclaw last year, remember?” You turn slightly to look over at Gojo before you go back to watching, “He helped me with some of my brews, but we talked about other stuff!” You had to raise your voice, the wind was getting stronger, “And Quidditch came up!”

Gojo’s nose flared momentarily before he swallowed thickly, his jaw ticking as he tried to focus back on the practice as well.

“A-anyways,” he cleared his throat, not remembering that last time he choked on his words, “The seeker catches the snitch. I can’t see where it is now, but once the snitch is caught, the game is over.” He tried to push some of the hair out of his face, getting annoyed at how it kept getting stuck in his eyes.

“I need to get something, I’ll be back,” Gojo murmured in your ear, pushing himself off of the seat as he walked in front of you disappearing down the stairs within seconds.

You glanced at where he left but found yourself looking back to the players, your face breaking into another excited smile when you began to piece together what Gojo had just told you, finally able to understand quidditch after all these years.

The sun had set and the stars were peeking out through the sky, and you watched the players as they furiously rode around, each one tense and stressed for the match that would be happening tomorrow.

You tried to hide yourself in the background as much as you could, now feeling a little more out in the open with Gojo gone.

The minutes ticked by and yet Gojo didn’t come back. Now and then you found yourself looking at the stairs, eyes darting back and forth from those on their broomsticks to where you had first entered from.

Slowly yet surely, you found yourself in that position the first night you saw him at that library.

When the Ravenclaw players slowly began dissenting from the air, running off the fields as they went in from shelter from the old, you felt a part of your stomach twist.

This was all part of his plan, you concluded, shivering to yourself as you tried not to feel let down, or even worse, like an idiot for thinking anything had changed, that you had maybe actually begun to have a friend after seven years.

You feel your eyes water, either from the wind or from everything, and you make your way for the stairs, your lips trembling as you suddenly start to feel claustrophobic under all the clothes you're wearing, your fingers slipping and sliding as you try to take that wretched helmet off of your head.

You feel like if you go any faster you’re going to trip and tumble down the stairs, and it doesn't help that you’re already too distracted with trying to take the helmet off. You sniffle, your eyes blurry as you feel your heart beat rapidly in your chest.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You couldn’t even tell if you were thinking that in your head or saying it out loud as you neared the end of the never-ending stairs, unbuttoning the buttons of the scratchy uniform as you bundled everything up in your hands, wiping at your wet cheeks with your palm.

Amongst all the things people have done to you over the years, this wasn’t the worst. You’ve had your room ransacked, your trunk thrown into the river, your shoes stolen on multiple occasions. You’ve been called a mudblood more times than you’ve been called your own name, and none of these things were actually done by Gojo.

Perhaps you thought that deep down, maybe he could change. That maybe after all that time spent in the library, talking to you, controlling some of his laughs at your awful jokes, he saw that maybe muggle-borns weren’t as bad as he thought they were.

And yet tonight you suffered your first prank, if that’s what this could even be called, at his hands. It didn’t hurt because of its nature, but because a naive part of you actually thought that he could’ve been your friend.

But none of that mattered now, not that you-

“Where are you going?”

You stop in your tracks, your head whipping around to the voice.

It was now fully dark outside, the moon and the spare candles that were lit around the castle and the stands were the only sources of light. You could see his figure standing a couple feet away from you, his white hair like a beacon in the night.

He takes a couple tentative steps closer to you, close enough so that you can see the furrow of his brows and the small pout on his lips. Damn it, you wanted to curse, you could hate him more if he didn’t look so pretty.

“Back to the castle,” you snap, wiping at the corners of your eyes, throwing down the old uniform and the oversized helmet on the ground near his feet. You sniffle, looking to the side so that you won’t have to see his face.

“What?” He steps closer to you and you take a step back, your head still turned, eyes trained on the dewy grass, “Why?” You try not to think too much about the two sets of brooms in his hands, or how for some strange reason, he actually sounded dejected that you were leaving.

Letting out a shaky breath you laugh curtly, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up to the sky, counting the stars, wondering if that could calm you down.

You hear the grass crunch under his feet, the warmth of his body as he comes in close to you.

Why does he care?

“I brought you a broom,” he holds it to you so you can see the outline of it, “Here,” he bends down to pick up the helmet you had thrown to the ground, “At least put this on,” he’s already securing it on your head, not noticing the way your lips were trembling, his fingers brushing up against your chin once again but you don’t him faster it, smacking his hand to the side as you rip the helmet off your head, throwing it with more force on the ground.

“S-stop,” you murmur harshly, wiping at your cheeks, “Stop, stop whatever it is you’re doing-”

“I’m not doing anything,” he snarls, his eyes a dark shade of navy blue, “So stop crying, I don’t know what it is you think I did.”

He’s angry now, good, it’ll be easier to yell at him if he’s just as amped up as you are.

But when you finally look at him and get to see his face, it’s not the kind of anger you’re feeling. His eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows pulling together down the middle the way they do when he’s confused, the way you often see him looking like when he’s frustrated at your cursed transfigurations essay. He’s not angry at you because of you, he’s angry because he doesn't understand where your frustrations are coming from.

He’s at least a head taller than you, looking down as his chest heaves slightly, waiting for you to say something, anything, so that he could explain himself for whatever it is he’s done wrong. His cheeks are a little pink, either from the cold or…something else, and his hair is messy, no longer kept the way it usually is.

Gojo looks different.

And you don’t know who it was that moved in closer, whose rational mind slowly turned irrational as you two took another step towards the middle, but all you do know is that the two of you didn’t care as you roughly grabbed him by his robes, tugging him in as you slammed your lips to his.

It happened in an instant, your lips moving against his soft one, your hands gripping onto that fabric for dear life. And for a second, you begin to pull away, your eyes opening in shock, but there’s no use, because Gojo slams his lips down onto yours as he pulls you into his chest.

It’s rushed and messy, your teeth clash against one another, your hands going up from his chest as they intertwine around his neck, your fingers tugging on his long white strands and you hear him groan into your mouth.

He moves fast, biting at your lips, one hand sprawled on the expanse of your back, the other one behind your neck, almost cradling the back of your head, tilting your head upwards to meet him. His tongue prods at your lips, and somehow, mindlessly, you part them a little more, moaning quietly at the way his tongue explores your mouth.

Gojo leads you a little back, so that you’re up against one of the wooden pillars of the quidditch stands, offering you more stability, a good thing, seeing how you feel like you're becoming lightheaded, soon about to faint.

“Fuck,” he whispers, heavy on your lips as he dips down again to kiss down your chin tilting your head up to expose the column of your neck, “Fuck,” he says once more, diving down as he sucks and bites at your skin, his movements growing faster and more erratic once he hears the soft and sweet mewls that escape your swollen lips.

“G-gojo,” you whine, feeling hot as his hands travel across your chest, cupping your tits through your thin sweater as he continues to kiss down your neck, tugging some of the material down so that he could leave even more marks across your collarbone, “G-god, oh my god,”

His pants tighten at your voice, his pupils dilate at the way you're pawing at him, pulling at him, needing him.

“Satoru,” he says against your skin, “Not Gojo. Not you.”

He’s delirious, he kisses you like you’re the air he’s been missing his entire life, and holds you to him as if you’re the only furnace in a land barren with snow. He needs you.

Your fingers are lost in his hair, pulling and tugging, hearing the way his breathing stutters when you do so.

One of your hands drops down to his chest, feeling at the skin that’s exposed from where his uniform was pulling up, and when your cold fingers make contact with the skin resting taunt on his stomach you swear you could hear him almost whine, his head momentarily dropping into the crook of your neck as he urges you to continue, holding your wrist tightly, pushing it up further.

Your eyes find his, your breathing coming out in short spurts, and he seems so far gone, so transfixed with how you look under him, that the two of you fail to hear the footsteps that come near where the two of you were.

“Who’s there?”

A voice calls out, and you see somebody behind him standing with a lantern.

You push Gojo off of you, but he stays put, looking over his shoulder, shielding your body with his.

“Oh, fuck off Taylor,” Gojo calls out, anger and irritation laced into his voice.

The boy's eyes widen when he realizes how it is, the blue and white Ravenclaw robes dashing away into the distance, the lantern long gone in a matter of seconds, but it’s no use.

When Gojo looks down at you, you’ve been given too much time to come back to your senses.

You push him away from you, and this time he moves.

You take a deep breath, not looking at him as you wipe at your spit-soaked lips, blinking rapidly as you try to make sense of what happened.

He didn't say anything, but you could hear the quiet pants that escaped his lips, trying to catch some air.

You open your mouth to say something but close it promptly, shaking your head in disbelief.

You don’t think twice as you make your way back to the castle.

---

(part two)

taglist (CLOSED): @satorusemepls, @mokonasenpaiposts, @kao-ri, @rinxgojo, @notsochillnerd, @astral-hydromancy, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron, @tedbunny333, @13-09-01, @mynameislove1, @hyunsuks-beanie

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blue-armadillo · 20 days ago

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your nerd!boyfriend gets horny when you're reading ♡ (18+ mdni)

you're perched up on your bed, reading a novel.

but your nerd!boyfriend is getting way too needy. the poor guy.

is it even his fault, though?

your elbows are unintentionally squishing your tits together. and every time you flip a page, your tits bounce ever so slightly, your nipples peeking through the thin tank top you're wearing.

your thighs are folded up towards your chest, and he can swear he sees a bit of your panties through your loose shorts every time you change your reading position.

and gosh. you're reading. that's the hottest thing he's ever seen you do.

the way your eyes scan each page. the subtle shift in your expression every once in a while.

he's leaking. literally. his cock is so hard that it's almost humiliating how horny he's getting just from watching you read. he can feel the pre-cum drenching his underwear.

you're still reading, oblivious to his predicamental situation, when all of a sudden, you hear a whimper.

your eyes shoot to him. and then you see it.

the giant wet spot on the front of his sweatpants. the silhouette of his fat, hard cock glaring at you through the grey fabric.

the tips of his ears turn a bright pink, colour rapidly spreading to the rest of his face.

'"uh- i- i'm just- i didn't mean to-" he stutters in a fit of embarrassment.

"do you enjoy watching me read?" you question him with a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

his eyes frantically search the room for a way out of this direct interrogation.

"i- no, n-no, it's not that, i-"

your book falls onto the bed with a soft thud as you lean forward to grab a hold of his twitching dick.

he whimpers.

you flash him an evil smile as you tighten your grip on his shaft, squeezing it in your palm.

the whole of his body shudders and a needy moan escapes his flushed lips, his eyelids shut tightly against each other. more pre-cum oozes out of his tip, imprinting itself onto the fabric of his pants.

"are you sure about that, baby?"

he gives in to your torture.

"i- y-yes, i'm sorry, y- you-re just so sexy when you read. so smart. i c-can't help it. it makes me so h-horny."

and the way he looks at you with such innocence. such helplessness.

gosh, you were gonna have so much fun with him.

"what else? go on."

you begin stroking his shaft through his sweatpants, squeezing it in your palm tighter by the second.

"ahn! f-fuuuuuck, i- i just couldn't stop thinking about y-you riding my c-cock and letting me cum in your p-pussy-"

your pace grows more rapid, your own wetness becoming evident to you.

"yeah? you wanna cum in mommy's pussy? wanna see my tits bounce while i fuck this beautiful cock?"

"y-yes. very, i-"

clearly, your dirty talking is enough to make him finish. his cum spurts out of his clothed cock, making the whole of his sweatpants milky and wet. his body convulses sporadically as he lets out a series of high-pitched moans.

you tut dramatically.

"tsk, tsk, tsk... look how much you came. is that how badly you wanna be inside me?"

he nods rapidly, his chest heaving and his heart pounding relentlessly.

"aww... well, here's the issue. you interrupted me right when things were getting interesting in my book." you do a fake pout. "and, well, i need to know what happens next." you whisper hotly into his ear.

"but i don't want to leave you like this. you're just so cute."

you pin your index finger into his still heaving chest, using the minimum force to push him flat onto the bed. and then you slide his pants down just enough for the whole of his lengthy cock to spring free. some of the dripping cum splashes onto your fingers.

"so, here's what's gonna happen." you say as you slip off your own shorts and situate yourself on top of his waist, hovering barely a few centimetres away from his erect dick.

he trembles beneath you, the closeness of literal paradise - your pussy - sending him off the edge.

"you're gonna read to me. loud and clear."

you hand him the book.

"meanwhile, i'll ride your cock. have i made myself clear?"

his timid hand grabs a hold of the novel while he lies there dazed, completely drunk in anticipation.

"page 269." you enunciate slowly.

and then you slide down onto his quivering dick.

a loud gasp escapes his lips. his breathing quickens and he shuts his eyes, desperately trying to stop himself from cumming so soon.

you're sitting smack on his fat cock now, your hands resting on his abs. your pussy juices slowly dribble down his thighs and you roll your head back at the full feeling.

"page 269. read. or i'm not fucking you."

"y-yes mommy, i- i will read."

he shuffles - more like struggles - to find the right page.

he begins reading. slowly.

and just as slowly, you raise yourself on his cock, until just the tip is teasing your clit. then you sit back down on him with a gentle 'smack'.

his eyes shut tight and his words become frenzied until they sound like mere gibberish to you.

you force him out of his breathy stupor by roughly grabbing his balls. you give them a squeeze.

"read. properly. i need to be able to understand it. read loud and clear for me."

he nods in submission and resumes.

he's still having a hard time but at least he's trying. and are you actually paying attention to what he's reading? maybe. maybe not.

you're just getting off on the way his voice keeps shuddering and trembling. his sudden gasps. his incoherent bumbles. his soft moans. the high-pitched noises.

and his cock. his perfect cock that stretched you out oh so well. his tip kisses your cervix, turning your stomach into a knot.

as you grind on him, you lift your thin tank top to reveal your plump breasts bouncing in tandem with your hips. you scrunch up the top there, leaving your tits on full display for him.

his eyes look away from the book - that he was trying to mumble as a prayer - and his whole body tremors. his words turn into voiceless gasps.

you smirk and play with your breasts, squishing them and pressing them together. and then you have the audacity to increase your pace on his cock.

you're now full-on bouncing on him, your tits jumping in the air vigorously before him.

'i am not letting you cum if you don't read for me."

"y-yes! i'm sorry- i- i'm reading, i'm reading. just p-please let me cum. please-"

"good boy. you like what you see? you like it when i squish my boobs like this?"

he nods vigorously, trying to focus on the stupid words of the book at the same time. but lord oh lord, he is miserably failing.

you can feel his cock twitching inside you. he's close. and so are you.

"and you like it when mommy bounces on your cock like this?" you go even faster now. the sounds of skin slapping skin - a rhythmic 'smack, smack, smack' - reverberating through the room along with your boyfriend's incoherent, strangled words.

"y-yes, i love it. i love it when you ride me- ohh fuuuuccckk, please let me cum!"

"not if you stop reading." you gasp frantically.

he's gonna cry. and he almost does. tears prick at the corners of his eyes because you're being so mean to him. making him read that stupid book when you're bouncing on his dick like the goddess that you are.

but he wants to cum so bad. and so he somehow finds it in himself to keep uttering the words he's barely able to comprehend anymore.

you ride him even faster now. your eyes are rolling back into your sockets, your grip on his chest harsher. the bed creaks below the weight of your combined bodies, and you come.

you moan loud and deep. "fuck! cum in me right now. cum in my pussy! oh, fuck!"

and oh he does. thick ropes of cum shoot into your warm cunt, kissing your clenched walls. his whole body quakes and he lets out a series of anguished moans, his fingers digging into your thighs.

some of the white goo oozes out of your hole, onto the base of his cock. and he lies there, spent and grateful.

you raise yourself off of him ever so slightly.

and when you bend forward, pressing your tits into his face, blood rushes to his crotch. again.

you smirk at him devilishly.

"oh, we're not done yet. want you to fill me up even more."

this time, you sit on him reverse cowgirl style so that he can see exactly what's happening. the way your bodies connect. how your hungry pussy engulfs the whole of his length.

before beginning your sweet torture, you look back at him, smilingly.

"oh, and- continue reading where you left off, yeah?"

he is a dead man.

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toruforuu · 3 months ago

Text

gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall ch.1 dusk of intrigues

✼pairing:hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearnin (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: discrimination, death, grief, shitty parents, light bullying, mentions of hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation

✼word count: 3.7K

✼chapter: 1/?

a/n: hii! thank you so much for deciding to read my writing, it means a lot. hopefully you’ll enjoy what lies ahead and it does not suck. i finally finished the first chapter. might have spent the whole Sunday trying to figure out how shit works here on tumblr instead of studying for my upcoming exams, yikes. i am cooked, but at least this is finished haha. enjoy!

based on this // next chapter

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪:link to vision-board

When a letter came into the mail with your name etched onto it, you immediately knew what it was.

Magic was no mystery to you regardless of the fact that your father was a mere human.

You were so thrilled when you got your fingers on the letter, rushing towards your mother without a second thought. Running through the house like lightning bolt. You tugged at her skirts, all needy as you waved the letter in the air.

Her eyes beamed with something that went unnoticed by the young version of you. Your mother was well aware of the risks which came along with marrying a human as a witch. She didn’t mind the whispers at work from those noble ranked wizards nor she regretted any of it.

Because of the love which had blossomed from her decision over the years.

Because she go to have you in the end, completing your little family.

There was a one thing that made her slightly anxious though. The thought of her sweet little girl never getting the experience at Hogwarts brought her uneasiness, however, it wasn’t anything she sought after desperately. She did her best to not worry you nor herself, simply letting it play out as it was supposed to.

Yet when she saw you clinging to the letter, her original unease dissolved into nothingness as her excitement grew at the sight of you. She was just as excited as you. Perhaps a tad more than that.

Your regular school was finished in a flash. Summer was in full bloom, hotter than the last one you remembered.

You did feel a bit saddened by the thought of leaving your friends behind and lying to them about moving schools, yet the image of your future was what kept you going without looking back too often.

You felt your life was on the verge of undeniable change. You felt it then, even as a child.

You spent the whole summer break wondering and pondering on your lawn, running in the backyard. Occasionally slipping into the streets to play with your neighbours as the humid weather shined down on you.

Before you could grasp it, your mother proudly took you into Diagon Alley as it was already time for shopping. You two had made a list together, containing all the things which were mandatory to bring or simply would make your time at Hogwarts a little easier. As you swam through each shop, ticking off all your essentials, your mother filled you on her years in school. Something she never truly did before, maybe because she didn’t want to build your hopes up. Just in case the letter for you wouldn’t come. She described them as the best time of her life, which made you all jumpy from giddiness as she went on, telling you all sorts of funny stories and things you were longing to be part of. The mere thought of following your mother’s footsteps got you convinced you were also born to be a Ravenclaw. You had to be.

Soon enough you found yourself standing on the train platform, orbs taking in the sweet image of your mother. The tears prickling in the corners of her eyes were impossible to not acknowledge, however, you didn’t dare to comment on them. Afraid you would start crying too so instead you hugged your mother tightly before you bid each other a goodbye with the sole promise of writing each other letters if needed.

Without looking over your shoulder you stepped into the train as the tears found its way out anyway, anxiety was eating at you as you realised you are now among children who are also aware of the wizard world.

It’s not a secret you have to keep anymore and for a second you can’t wrap your silly little head around the fact that all you ever dreamt of is starting already, layed out in front of you.

You pushed through the crowd of bodies, doing your best to seem approachable, smiling at everyone regardless of the gnarling fear in the pit of your stomach.

Seconds later you slipped into one of the cabins in the train which is fully empty, taking the seat closest to the window, because all you were aching to do is to see your mother one more time before you leave.

And you did, both of you were frantically waving at each other. Her sending you kisses, cheeks stained by the salty aftermath of motherhood.

The door sleeked open and your head tilted towards it instantly. You were met with eyes painted the softest shade of blue, they almost looked celestial as they stared back at you. And that doesn’t even begin to cover it, the orbs stood out on the fair canvas of pale skin belonging to the boy standing in the entrance of the cabin. His locks were the colour of crestfallen snow, the purest strands of white your eyes were ever blessed with. You most definitely haven’t seen anyone as captivating as him before in your life. He was angelic even before then.

And of course you knew who he was.

A Gojo.

Who didn’t?

You might have not known his name yet, but it was still utterly clear he had to be a part of the Gojo family. Every wizard, even some lucky muggles, knew who the Gojo family was. Or rather they could point out their striking features in any sort of crowd as it was nearly impossible to overlook them.

It is one of the most eligible families of the wizard world. Not exactly for a flattering reason though, their respect is earned by their old fashioned and brutal ways. Their history reflects their deepest secrets and darkest intentions. They had a habit of following those who were marked as evil by any sane person. Perhaps they still fall back to that habit. Old habits die screaming after all.

Their never ending fortune plays a certain role as well.

He for sure looked like he came straight out of a royal meeting. His hair well kept, only few disobedient strands of hair poking out. Features looking as if they were sharpened and his choice of clothes only added points to the unbreakable imagine of his character.

What you didn’t know back then is the fact your mothers once used to be particularly good friends at Hogwarts. Roommates. As life goes, their friendship crumbled the second your mother married a muggle. Your father. Her best friend was not able to withstand the blow and put her hatred aside. Not even for her dearest friend.

You blinked at the radiant boy, opening your mouth to say a simple greeting since you didn’t want to judge him immediately.

But, God, your blood boiled the second he shot you a simple dismissive glance and scoffed before sitting down on the other side of the cabin without even acknowledging your presence any further.

He scoffed.

From that second a seed of years full of never ending pestering and teasing was planted into the soil.

Luckily, that day was also the day you met your ride or die. Your best friend called Arabella who was the last one to join the cabin of the train, sitting right beside you. Call it a coincidence or fate, whatever.

She spent the whole time talking, telling you how she almost didn’t make it to the train on time due to her father who overslept. You couldn’t help but laugh as you listened attentively.

Gojo Satoru was the complete opposite when it came to attending Hogwarts. From the moment he was born, it was known he would be a wizard since he came from a pureblood lineage of the best amongst the greats.

He wasn’t nearly as excited to start as you were. He wasn’t on the edge of bouncing off the walls from joy, he was rather stressed. Stressed as much as a young boy can be. He had a role to play. An image to keep. A need to make place for himself in order to feel validated by his family which was eagerly sending him off after filling him with their poison for years.

Satoru might have been young, nonetheless he was aware of the burden weighing down on his shoulders.

The old fashioned ways of purebloods seeped into young Satoru’s mind as he grew up in the highest ranks of the wizard society, surrounded by people who shared his family’s views. So taking their morals as his was something inevitable.

When he saw you that day in the train cabin as you were waving to your mother, he felt a twinge of jealousy in his chest. His parents were probably already off to leave the transport. He felt envious of a stranger.

The way your coloured orbs lingered on him didn’t go unnoticed by him either. It wasn’t anything new to the boy, he understood you recognised him the second your eyes fell on his frame. He got pretty used to it over the years. People gawking at him, asking him stupid questions.

He recognised you too. Not for your features nor your family’s history. You were a nobody in the wizard world.

Well, not exactly.

Satoru put the dots together as his eyes landed on you. Your face was somewhat familiar.

He definitely saw it a couple of times in The Daily Prophet since your mother worked at the ministry, department of magic.

Unlike you, Satoru Gojo had a sense of the history between his mother and yours. For a simple reason, their friendship was an example of sacrifice for the greater good of their morals.

At least in his mother’s eyes.

He didn’t mean to scoff at first when you greeted him, it came naturally so he left it at that. He couldn’t be bothered to correct himself, to give in that effort.

To be fair, he found you quite amusing after a while of silence hanging between you. There was something alluring about you that he couldn’t quite put into words, couldn’t explain it no matter how hard he tried. No matter how clever he was.

Looking back it now, he wouldn’t be able to do it even today.

He can recall the moment when he captured you sitting pressed against the window waving a goodbye to your mother so vividly despite the fact it has been years. The day was chaos itself, yet the thought of you in there seems to be steady.

He watched you from the corner of his eyes the whole ride while you chatted up with a strawberry blond girl, the conversation you two were having slurred together as the years wore off.

He himself made friends on the way to Hogwarts as well, the children were basically at his feet the second they took him into their sights. Satoru Gojo recognised most of the children already as he was paraded to society from an early age.

The ride was buzzing, laughter and chatter wild. Older students passing by the cabins, gazing over the new arrivals with curious eyes.

Similar was the way to the actual castle, the atmosphere was filled with excitement bursting through most of the first years who were wondering in which house they would spend their time. The sun was beginning to set in the background, giving the situation a glow which continues to shine like gold in memory.

You kept silently praying for it to be Ravenclaw as the boat dangled on the surface of the Great Lake enveloping Hogwarts.

It quickly vanished from your mind as your gaze captured the beauty of the castle sitting on the hill. Sighs of amused woah’s and aw’s filling the air.

The nerves got you frozen into the ground as you stood in the queue. The Great Hall overwhelming with the bustling of people, slight anticipation hanging in the air as everyone else waited to see who would be the new people joining their houses.

Satoru Gojo went up to the sorting hat before you did, being one of the first ones to be called upon. The hat hummed in deep thought when it was placed on his artic locks. It didn’t take long, handful of seconds.

“Slytherin!” The hat called out throughout the whole hall, cheers erupting from the Slytherin’s table as Satoru snugly smirked. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone in the room, the Gojo’s have a legacy and there wasn’t a single one who didn’t belong to the house of Slytherin, in the last century at least.

You got lost in thought and didn’t notice your name being called, which caused the other first years behind you to chuckle and nudge your shoulder which jerked you back to the reality. Your cheeks flushed with a light blush as you made your way up, sitting down carefully. You could hear your own heart pounding in your chest so hard the blood ringed in your ears.

Admits all that, you certainly didn’t notice the gaze of Satoru Gojo lingering in anticipation as everyone waited for the sorting hat to decide on which house to send you in.

You were too preoccupied, your eyes fluttered shut as you swallowed the dry lump in your throat. Awaiting the decision.

For a second you thought it might have been a dream when the sorting hat mumbled out the word Ravenclaw.

You fluttered your eyes open, the crowd already in cheers and the hat being taken off hour head. Your chest felt significantly lighter when you stepped down to the stairs and happily hurried to the Ravenclaw’s table to sit. In the meantime, the godly like piercing blue eyes burned two holes in your back. A small part of Satoru hoped you would get to share a house, just to find out what was that alluring energy you were surrounded by.

So it felt only natural to feel a pinch of disappointment. You weren’t a Gryffindor so he didn’t mind much, that’s what he thought.

It quickly became clear the two of wouldn’t be considered anything close to the word friends.

Satoru Gojo did not bother to acknowledge you in the first few months, your existence falling into the abyss of the past. You did not bump into each other often. Your classes were seperated.

You too had forgotten about the interaction on the train as time went on. You were living your fantasy, your inner desires becoming reality.

You were so blinded by the image of Hogwarts you painted in your mind that it came as a low blow when you finally realised it wasn’t all that you hoped for. It wasn’t a total disaster, however, once the magic of the arrival evaporated it started to feel like a regular school. That wasn’t the issue, you thrived for knowledge and learning, but your mother portrayed it as a fairytale. Soon you came to a realisation her memories were in a haze of nostalgia, full of yearning which caused her to slightly over exaggerate.

You weren’t lonely, no, you had made couple of peers along the way. Hell, you even ended up sharing a dorm room with the strawberry blonde girl you met on the train, lightening each other’s rough start.

You missed your parents badly though. The life you left behind for this felt suddenly like a sore wound. You wrote letters home, usually twice a week. Your mother would respond to each one despite her work circumstances. Her words filled with fondness kept you from succumbing to the solitude you grew to feel over the first few months.

If you would look back at it now, you probably wouldn’t recall much of it. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred, it simply felt hard to function in a completely new environment and this feeling caused almost the entirety of the year to blur together.

Acing the exams, learning how to understand the rules of quidditch by which you were mesmerised. Spending your free evenings in the common room, eating in the Great hall. Learning to how to fly your own broomstick. Bonding with Arabella over your shared interests.

By the time spring came to bloom a new beginning, your sorrows were left in the cold winter.

And that’s when your world collided into yet another problem.

One you wouldn’t get rid of so easily.

Satoru Gojo was pleasantly surprised to find out his place at Hogwarts wasn’t something he had to earn, it was already served to him on a silver platter. He expected to loathe each passing second at the school. Instead of that he found himself enjoying being away from his suffocating parents, fooling around with the featherlight friends which tagged by his side since he stepped his feet onto the ground of house Slytherin.

He was a dazzling young wizard, everything came to him without efforts. His grades more than decent to begin with. He became the fastest first year at flying, surpassing some quidditch players with ease.

By the time your first year was almost over, everyone learnt to know who Satoru Gojo was and that it was better to stay on his good side. No one wanted to mess with him, no one dared to step up against him as fear was quickly spread and so were the rumours.

He didn’t mind either of it, he bathed in it.

He actually welcomed such an imagine, not bothering to deny any of the rumours. Regardless of how bizarre they were.

He hadn’t expected to come across someone who would defy him. But there you were, rushing as a hero to stand up for the muggle born boy he was picking at.

“Hey! Leave him alone, he didn’t do anything to you!” You yelled through the hallway as the sun shone through the cracks of windows, casting a halo around the white haired boy. His appearance making him look like an angel. He was far from that though.

He stared at you with a neutral expression, looking down at you as crouched down to help the other first year up. Part of him admired your bravery, however, if your bravery meant defying him then he wouldn’t have it.

“Eh?” he made a confused yet disgusted sound, giving you only that as a response before he let out a laugh filled with poison. He felt a rush of amusement when he briefly noticed the way your nostrils flared, the way the corners of your lips turned downward as you now stood in front him.

The other first year already on his way to get lost from the golden boy and his puppets.

“This is none of your business, so get lost,” Satoru stated with a small shrug, his tone lazy as if you didn’t matter at all.

“Well, it’s not right,” you hummed back, not caring about the lack of interest from his side. Gojo’s friends looked at you with their eyes narrowed, itching to be told to follow the first year or show you why to not mess with them. The signal from him never came, leaving them to simply watch over your interaction.

“So?” he exhaled, pouting his lips at you for a moment.

“Be grateful I am not picking on you,” he added as he turned his back to you, clear sign of dismissal. Your jaw flew open a little at his attitude, you could feel your temper slipping and as he began talking to his friends as if you weren’t there, you lost your cool.

“Aren’t you rude? Seriously, do you think you’re entitled to act like this?” you scoffed at him, expecting him to respond with the same kind of energy, but he barely looked over his shoulder to snicker down at you.

You hoped your interaction on the train wasn’t a definite take on your future, but as you stood in front of him now couple of months later any trace of what you were thinking before was now buried and rejected. He was the spoiled brat you had him for.

“I am talking to you,” you press further, earning yourself looks from the passersby.

He turns to face you then, slight flicker of annoyance etched in the curve of his fair eyebrows. He didn’t appreciate you using that tone. At first he expected you to seize the opportunity to walk away, spare yourself the trouble.

“I don’t take advice from the likes of you,” he spitted out, voice dropping a tone to sound firm as he glared at you. Not a shiver of regret in his piercing eyes.

Due to this very interaction he glued his sights on you.

And suddenly you seemed to be everywhere where he went. The Great Hall where you shared your meals. Your group of friends lingering near the lake. He kept bumping into you at Hogsmead. In the library.

As if on purpose, they merged the first years of Slytherin and Ravenclaw for transfiguration classes due to lack of staff.

Catching a mere glimpse of you during class made his stomach hurl as he recalled your insolence. He couldn’t stand seeing your face. So there wasn’t an opportunity he passed down on which could make your life a little rougher. It started out small and innocent. Throwing curled up pieces of papers into your hair during class. Using cunning spells to spill your ink, crunch your notes. Calling you names and chasing after you in the hallways.

Times you spent in detention couldn’t be indeed counted on your hands. All thanks to the infamous Gojo Satoru who pestered you any chance he got and somehow always managed to get out of it.

It was him who usually started the bickering, yet when it came down to owing it up, his clever mouth ran to spill all the reason why it was your fault and not his. Sparing himself from the detention and driving you crazy.

It’s what seemed right to him back then. And he kept the promise like an oath.

Your future was sealed.

credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]

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moonlight1030 · 2 months ago

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‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ‧͙ 𝐴 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 ☽༓･*˚⁺

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tofumiao · 7 months ago

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REUPLOAD OMF anyways slytherin first years but theyre sashisu

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hatakemrs · 5 months ago

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As Beautiful as the stars <3

Warnings: None. Just pure fluff ♡

I gaze up at the starlit sky and it makes me seem so insignificant in front of the universe. How many generations have been under this same sky? All of us,looking at the same stars, same planets, connecting all of us through this universe.

As I was lost in my own thoughts I looked at my fiancé who was lying beside me just to realize that he's been looking at this all this time.

"What?", I smiled at him and he shaked his head

" Nothing, it's just you're so beautiful. Even under this starlit sky the most gorgeous thing before me is you." He said with a little smile on his face which made my ears turn red.

"You're so cheesy", I laughed at his comment while playing it cool like he just didn't make my heart flutter.

"No, I'm serious. Everytime I look into your eyes, I fall in love with you all over again. Everything around me fades except you.", The heat rising in my ears has now spread to my face making it red.

I put my hands to cover my face which is now burning up. He laughs at my gesture and I realize he's enjoying making me flustered.

"Please stop ", I pleaded to him, embarrassed, but he only went on.

"You have a way of making ordinary moments extraordinary, just by being by my side."

My stomach did a flip, I couldn't keep letting him win. "I have to do something", I thought.

""You are my favorite daydream, the one that never fades even when reality-" he was cut off when I pressed my lips against his.

A small, delicate kiss was all it took to silence him.

"That made you shut up", I looked at him to see his face turning red.

Characters: Gojo Satoru, Yuji Itadori, Takuma Ino, Oikawa Tooru, Kuroo Tetsuro, Hinata Shoyo, Bokuto Koutaro, Chifuyu Matsuno, Naruto Uzumaki, Peter Parker, Mattheo Riddle. Any of your favourites <3.

A/n: Posting after so longgg. College sucks sm I've lost all motivation for writing. I was thinking to start writing about the Slytherin boys? I've been obsessed with them for last few months. Anyways hope you liked this Have a good day. Enjoy<3.

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moonxzys · 3 months ago

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Just starting out on tumblr, but this is a little series I'm starting! It's a Jujutsu Kaisen and Harry Potter crossover!

#jujutsu kaisen #harry potter #ravenclaw #slytherin #gryffindor #hufflepuff #shoko ieiri #gojo satoru #geto suguru

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emmistiramisu · 10 months ago

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(Come support me on IG here)

SLYTHERIN!GOJO MY BELOVED 🧎🧎🧎

@nezuscribe wrote the most DELICIOUS SCRUMPTIOUS FIC that had me clawing at the walls which you can read here (READ IT OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES-)

I'm such a sucker for Harry Potter AU's and I honestly have no idea as to why but they scratch my brain in the right spot every single time.

Anyways welcome to my art account. I will be feral for Gojo here 😍

#gojo satoru #gojo fanart #gojo satoru fanart #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fanart #slytherin!gojo #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #art #small artist #artists on tumblr #art-tags #fanart #illustration #jjk fanart

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admiringlove · 5 months ago

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imagine slytherin!prefect gojo who’s a pureblood, with his aristocratic smirk and the effortless way he broke every rule without ever facing consequences. he was everything a gryffindor like you despised: charming, cocky, and far too good-looking for his own good. you? a muggle-born gryffindor prefect who followed the rules to the letter, always organized and always ready to challenge him.

gojo loved to tease you—especially about your patronus, a phoenix. “fawkes jr,” he’d call you with that infuriating grin, and you’d fight the urge to roll your eyes. it never failed: that nickname was always accompanied by a flicker of amusement in his sapphire eyes, like he was waiting for you to snap.

you hated it.

you hated how effortlessly he would show up late to patrols, how he would mock your meticulous planning, how everything you did seemed to bore him. but there was a part of you, deep down, that wondered if it was just an excuse to get under your skin.

“you know,” he’d say, flopping onto a bench during patrol, “you’re the perfect example of gryffindor stubbornness. i’d bet you’d follow these rules even to the grave.”

you’d shoot back, “better than being a slytherin who thinks he can charm his way out of anything.”

you never understood why he baited you so much. but he did, day after day, with that devil-may-care attitude and smirk that made your heart skip in the most annoying way.

what no one knew, though, was that after hours, in the dead of night, the two of you met in the room of requirement. heads bent over maps and notes, the sound of quills scratching against parchment and murmured conversation, you worked together.

the whispered wishes of hogwarts’ students—requests too dangerous, too messy for anyone else—found their way into your hands. the marauders is what you called yourself. the perfect dynamic, really: you made the plans, and gojo carried them out with his infamous slytherin cunning, usually getting away with it all in a manner that made you want to throttle him.

you hated that it worked, but you hated even more how easy it had become to be in sync with him.

and sometimes, when the room falls quiet, and the only sound is the scratch of your quill or the soft hum of magic in the air, you catch him watching you. his expression isn’t mocking or smug—it’s something softer, quieter, like he’s seeing a side of you he wasn’t supposed to notice.

and maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to notice it, too.

a/n. due to popular demand, this work is now being turned into a series—and here's the masterlist. taglist is closed, ty for reading :)

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supermentaleyeliner · 5 months ago

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i tell my friend barty and evan are boyfriends 😤 they never believe me 😤

i tell my friend jayce and viktor are wifeys 😤 they never belive me 😤

i tell my friend satoru and suguru are husbands 😤 they never believe me 😤

#which one needs help?#slytherin skittles #arcane #jjk #barty crouch jr #evan rosier #rosekiller #jayce talis #viktor talis #jayvik #gojo satoru #geto suguru #sugusato #gay #school applications are over so i'm back #even tho my posts are flopping hard rn #whatever i will thrive

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nezuscribe · 11 months ago

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slytherin!gojo, and his pureblood mania. something imposed on by his parents ever since he could walk, and it was only more than obvious coming from such an old house like theirs.

so imagine him and muggleborn you, the first muggleborn to be sorted into slytherin for over three centuries. you don't know why, and you questioned it just as much as everybody else, but there was no use.

of course you became a pariah, and of course most of the teasing and comments came from gojo and his friends. they made it their mission throughout the years to remind you of just how different you were compared to them.

and sure, maybe it helped ease the thoughts that gojo tried to hide deep in the back of his mind that you were maybe a little cute, pretty even. and that whenever he heard you laugh, especially at a joke from someone else, his chest tightened. but he pushed those down, far far away.

over the years you grew thick enough skin, but even you couldn't help the way some of their comments stabbed themselves into your heart, made your face crumble momentarily. and gojo saw, and even though he acted like this is what he wanted, it was far from it.

so when he say you on the common rooms couch one night, your potions homework laid out in front your you as you slept soundly, curled up into a little ball, his initial reaction wasn't to spill ink all over the parchment (which he guessed one of the other boys might have done, and he hated that he could see them doing it), but to pull a blanket over your frame, watch as you cuddled into it. your face was lit up by the fireplace near you, your features just as beautiful as always.

his expression softened, and before he could stop himself his hand had gone up to your face, his thumb atoms away from your cheek, your skin soft beneath him. and before he could do anything else, he snatched it away, the ring of his noble house burning into his flesh.

but it was no use, he knew what was happening, and despite years of trying to lie to himself, the great gojo satoru, the prince of slytherin, was hopelessly in love with you.

#gojo x reader #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x you #satoru x reader #gojo drabble #jjk x you #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #slytherin!gojo

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blue-armadillo · 7 days ago

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when you tell him it's probably small and he just smiles at you.

a/n: inspired by this instagram reel lol

"i bet it's really small," you tease.

he doesn't say anything. just looks you straight in the eye and smiles, nodding gently.

this little reaction of his has your pussy throbbing. and as he sits across from you, a devilish smirk plastered on his face, you realise just how wrong you'd been.

and wrong you were.

you spend the rest of the night with your face buried deep in his pillow and your hole stuffed full of his enormous cock. your ass is in the air in a filthy doggy and your freshly manicured fingernails are digging into the fabric of his bedsheets because your fragile pussy just can't take it anymore.

"what's wrong, baby? already such a mess? you haven't even taken half of me yet." you could practically hear the sneer in his voice. the idiot.

you open your puffy, pink mouth to retort but what escapes your lips is a needy whine. "stop- ahn! what do you mean half? there's m-more???"

he chuckles softly. "it's okay, you can take it. didn't you say my cock is really small?"

oh, you were gonna get him back someday.

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toruforuu · 1 month ago

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gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall chp.8 wings of invisibility and uncertainty

✼pairing: hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: discrimination, death, grief, shitty parents, light bullying, mentions of hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation, cheating

✼word count: 13k

✼chapter: 8/?

a/n: was supposed to post yesterday, but i was too tired to edit so here it is now. it’s the longest chapter so far and it’s kinda angsty. lmaooo, hopefully you’ll enjoy it anyway. i was supper busy the past few weeks and i will be till the end of may, monday was also my last day of high-school. shit feels weird:d

based on this // previous chapter // next chapter (pending…)

˚⟡˖ ࣪: link to playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪: link to vision-board

Hogwarts, the place of your comfort, was never really the same after you returned back from your two week spiralling. It wasn’t something which you took notice of immediately due to your overpowering grief, it was rather a slow process of picking out the changes in your routine. Your schedule became loose as you dropped out of the quidditch team, it cleared out — leaving you with a great amount of free time you always longed for. Months ago it’d sound like dream, however, that impression seems to have perished. Instead, it’s more like a spiteful nightmare. And there you were, drowning in your sorrows, and with so much time on your hands, you had no clue what to do with it nor with yourself. That’s precisely when you started to become aware of the changes in your environment.

A handful of professors were fired along with the headmaster, charged guilty in the same way he was.

For plotting against the government.

Nobody was hundred percent sure of where the evidence for their plotting came from, it remains a mystery till now. It left you curious, because what if the resignation of your mother was the first step towards the worse?

The change of staff was painfully noticeable, your favourites were amongst those who were forced to take their leave. So school work became a chore, rather than something you enjoyed. And with the work pilling up for your graduating, you found yourself falling into your old habits. Into the hole you had managed to dig yourself up from, it feels dehumanising.

And due to all the new rules and assets of the headmaster, it feels good to be send off for personally picked out internship.

You had obviously chosen a two week internship at the ministry, getting easy access to it because of your mother’s position. Perks you’ll miss. It was her idea to have you by her side though, seizing the last opportunity to walk you through what you will be applying for later on, before her term is definitively over and so is her dedication to the ministry.

Plus, you knew being with her would ease the stinging pain you carry with yourself.

With your mother’s resignation, a sense of calmness washed over the usually busy departments of the ministry.

There doesn’t need to be a process of electing anymore with your mother out of the game. The future Head Auror of Magical Enforcement is named already. The paperwork is done, hanging at each corner of the hallway like a painful reminder — printed in all newspapers, the information leaking quicker than spilled ink.

Sato Gojo is to take upon your mother’s place.

The second you were told, your world shattered. It makes sense the head of the Gojo family is up to take upon your-mother’s role, however, you can’t help to not feel betrayed. Gojo’s father always kept to his social circle, refusing to involve himself in politics and rather focus on his family.

So what drove to a shift in his behaviour?

There’s many questions to which you have no answer to, but it certainly doesn’t fail to wake your previous suspicions back to life. All of this simply looks like too much of a coincidence, and no matter how my times you open yourself up to your mother about it, she always finds a way to brush it off, or reassure you it’s all in your head.

Overall, the head of the Gojo family becoming an Auror working for the ministry pleased the conservative community. Bringing them a period of harmony and peace.

For how long before they’re hungry for more power is an unknown fact.

“You’re packing already, huh?” you call out, eyeing the boxes in the corner of your mother’s office. Some of them empty, some half filled up with stacks of folders and trinkets she gathered during her many terms.

“Yes, my love. My term ends in two weeks, I better get the stuff out of here now,” your mother chuckles calmly while she browses through one of her last stacks of forms she has to fill in.

“Can I see?” you carefully point at the cardboard, requesting permission to peak and see what’s inside.

She hums in response, which sparks a wave of joy. You’ve always been fond of her position, admiring her for her strength to withstand such pressures. It’s no easy job, and the fact she as a woman managed to win over countless others candidates left you feeling proud. Making her someone you looked up to since long before you got your letter of acceptance into Hogwarts.

Therefore, it’s no wonder to feel sad as you scan all of the boxes carrying her story.

You kneel before the stack of worn cardboard, the brownish sides of the boxes are labeled in your mother’s tidy handwriting. The air smells faintly of parchment, dust, and something oddly comforting. She only just resigned, and yet this already feels like an artefact of archaeology.

You open the top box and are greeted by layers of folded robes, the fabric scuffed at the edges. Beneath them lies a cracked leather notebook with marks at the corners. Inside it, her handwriting flows steadily across the pages like deliberate poetry. It’s full of case notes, sketches of spell patterns, details of hexes encountered in the field. And so much more, it grips you in amusement. Some bylines are even scattered with personal remarks.

“Don’t trust Proudfoot with back up again,”

“Found the locket. It’s burning stronger this time.”

In another box, you find photos. Some still moving, others faded. There’s one of her where she’s much younger. It must be way before she had you. Her wand is raised mid-battle, hair wild with wind and adrenaline. Her eyes are alive in a way you haven’t seen lately. Another photo shows her, and two colleagues clinking mugs in the Auror Office, grinning in the way people do when they’ve survived something that should have strip them of their life.

A smaller box at the bottom holds her wand cases, a broken Time-Turner and a tiny box with a picture of you. You appear to be around six, perhaps seven. A lock of your hair is attached to the back of it — labeled with your name and birthdate. There's a small scribbled note under it as well, barely readable as it seems to have vanished with passing time.

She carried your picture with her into battles.

You sit back, hands in your lap, surrounded by the cardboard boxes. It’s a strange thing, learning who your mother was through what she gathered over the years. This woman in the photos is one you rarely got to meet, and you silently wish you knew more of her, not just from the pictures.

A hero to society, yes. But also just a woman who wanted to get back to her family the most at the end of each day.

You lift another folder from the depths of the box, thinner and more delicate than the rest. It isn't labeled like the others, just sealed with a faded string tie. Inside, tucked carefully between pieces of parchment, are photographs. Not official ones like the rest, but personal. Private.

The first photo shows two girls in Hogwarts robes standing near the Black Lake, grinning madly as the wind whips at their hair and ruins their photo. You recognize your mother instantly. Her coloured hair is put together into a braid, the slight squint in her eyes radiates a warm atmosphere. Perhaps due to the fact you know it only occurs when she genuinely smiles. Something which you don’t see much of these days.

But it’s the girl beside her that makes you pause.

She’s luminous.

Her hair is gold — like actual sunlight, and her eyes are a vivid emerald green that gleams even in the aging photograph. Comparable to the depths of the Forbidden Forest. There’s a joy in her expression as well, like she was on the verge of laughter. She’s got an arm slung around your mother’s shoulders, wand tucked behind one ear.

You can’t help but question who’s the girl, and why you never heard of her.

You find more photographs of them together: the two of them studying in the common room, caught mid-laugh in the library. There’s even one of them dancing at what looks like the Yule Ball —your mother is in deep blue robes, the other girl in green silk, spinning with such jubilation it blurs the image.

Then you find a letter tucked into the sleeve of one of the albums. The parchment is soft with age, but the ink is crisp and still bold enough to read properly.

You sit with your back facing your mother, afraid she might snap these out of your sight if she sees.

And right now, you’re desperate to get to know the girl she has once been.

You look back at the girl in the photo, this “Y.” Whoever she was, she mattered. Not just to your mother’s school days, but maybe to who she became when she joined the ministry, when she became an Auror, when she became your mother and a wife to your father.

She must matter a great deal to your mother still, for she has kept her letter all these years.

You wonder where she is now.

You wonder if your mother ever contacted her again.

You return the letter from "Y." carefully to its sleeve, your fingers trembling slightly, not from fear but from the heavy tenderness of it all. They’re not your memories, but it doesn’t really matter. Nostalgia welcomes you with open arms anyway. The box has become more than a collection of artefacts — it’s a map of your mother’s life, kept in parchment and photographs.

Looking into the boxes makes you realise that you might never actually get to know your mother in a way you wish you could.

There must be other countless things which remain unsaid.

And will stay that way for evermore.

Near the bottom of the cardboard, under a stack of old Daily Prophets folded, you find another set of photographs. These are different — crisper, more static and completely motionless. Photographs taken in the human world. The magic may not move them, but they hum with a different kind of atmosphere.

Your father is in them.

He stands next to your mother in a bright, sun-washed park, one hand resting over hers on the handle of a stroller. Where you’re presumably hidden under a blanket. His smile is cracked open and unguarded, nothing like the haunted eyes of Aurors in postwar photos. Your mother’s hair is loose in this one, curling over her shoulders and her work attire is traded for a simple trench coat. There’s another of your father lifting your toddler self into the air, while your mother laughs beside him. There are numbers of others as well, dating back to before you were brought into the world.

You sit with those for a while. They make the quiet around you feel significantly louder. Hot and heavy tears prickle the corners of your eyes, streaming down your cheeks. You’re quick to wipe them away, one by one, however, they keep coming back for some strange reason. You swallow the sobs bubbling in your throat, not wanting to alarm your mother of your discovery.

You hide the pictures back into the bottom of the box, away from the world and your eyes.

For a moment you thought about informing your mother of what you’ve stumbled upon and then it hit you. Your father’s no longer amongst the living, and it rips your soul to pieces all over again. As if no time has actually passed, causing you to nearly choke on the sobs you desperately try to push back beneath the surface.

You recall Arabella’s saying, that the time will pass anyway. Trying to comfort yourself, but failing miserably.

You simply miss him. And you can’t phantom how your mother must feel, losing both her best friend and life long partner in one.

And then, as you try to gather the things back into the box, something else falls out.

A letter. Unsent.

The handwriting is your mother’s, unmistakably — sharp, hurried, always pressing forward like she couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with herself.

Somehow, it feels like you’re overstepping the boundaries of her privacy, but you can’t bring yourself to put these memories of her away.

You still sit on the floor with your legs crossed, the letter open in your lap. For a long while, the only sound is the soft ticking of the old clock on the table and the sound of your mother’s scribbling ink-pen. The pieces click into place. The fierce girl in green, perhaps a Slytherin. The woman your mother was. The deep and unfinished friendship she shared.

It all shaped her into the woman sitting at the desk right now.

“Mom, I know you’re strictly against sharing any sort of information with me, but do tell me why you resigned. The people need you more than ever now,” you dare to speak up after cleaning your throat, rotating your body towards her. Your cheeks still wet, fingers brushing the remains away with your sleeve.

“They’d eventually force me out of here one way or another. And it might seem I hold majority of the power here, nonetheless, it’s quite the opposite. Despite my position, I’d be powerless here. Due to the conservative’s power rising,” she explains.

She’s right, you know it. Though you wish she still fought more and didn’t give in as easily, you wanted her to at least try in the elections. Instead, she gave in. She cleared the way for them, gave them easy access.

“And then there’s the petition,” you furrow your brows with confusion, still resting at the floor.

“A petition? For what?” you question, not piecing it together.

“For my resignation, dear. Countless of people working for the ministry signed it, it’s the conservatives doing,” she informs you calmly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the word and you’re just being dramatic.

“Why though? You’re incredible at your job,” you huff out, empathising the word incredible.

A long pause hangs in between you, your mother waits for you to come to a conclusion on your own.

“Right, dad,” you sigh out, a sting envelopes your chest as you recall the photographs kept in the boxes beside you. And the fact there’s enough hatred in the world to force your mother out of the office for such a stupid reason boils your blood.

“There’s other things involved, things I own,” she adds, her voice dropping a whole octave as her gaze remains focused on the folders. Her statement swirls a weird sensation within your stomach, an instinct begs you to persuade the topic, but you drop it. It’d do no good.

“Mom, if you ever need me, I’ll do anything,” you respond, supporting her instead of prying information out of her. You deem it to be better, given your situation.

“You’re sweet, but this isn’t your battle,” your mother chuckles warmly, lifting her gaze from the paperwork to look down at where you’re sitting — surrounded by cardboard.

“It is, it concerns me and my friends as well,” you plea, maintaining eye contact with her. Trying to be a shoulder for her to lean on once, just as she was always one for you.

“The one thing you should do now is to lay low,”

“Don’t we need to do something though? Stop the corruption, start before it’s too late?” your patience slips, casting out hopeless ideas to encourage the fire which once sparked in your mother, but now only lives in you.

“That’s the opposite of what we need right now, we will let them think they won and when the time’s right, we’ll strike,” she keeps on going with her idea of the situation, one which you’re not so fond of.

“Mom, I don’t know,” you object, looking to the side.

“Trust me, once you finish school, we’ll properly look into it, alright?” her voice isn’t pressuring, neither is her gaze. She’s truly simply trying her best to best to keep you safe and unscathed.

That only leaves you to give into her pleas.

“Okay, I’ll keep to myself,” you vow quietly, even though something’s telling you it’s not right.

Then another silence sets as she goes back to her paperwork.

Shortly after, knock cuts through the quiet lingering in the air like a misfired spell. You continue to sit cross-legged on the office floor, your hands resting on the boxes as you put everything back in place. The letter addressed to “Y.” once again lie at the bottom of the cardboard. Your mother sits by her desk, arms folded with eyes distant as she charms the papers away. She hasn’t said a word since your little promise.

The knock comes again. Three brushes of knuckles. Not urgent, but deliberate. Your mother doesn’t look at you. She doesn’t need to. You can sense the shift in her expression, the air around her goes still with tension. Her voice calls out loud enough for the other person to hear and move inside the office.

Soon enough, there’s three of you in the room.

The man entering is tall, easily over six feet, with a long and lean frame. He’s dressed in navy tailored suit. A black coat hangs open from his shoulders, lined with silk that catches the hallway light. His hair is a familiar shade of white — not the soft, aged kind. But the striking one, like freshly fallen snow on a chilly winter day. It's swept back loosely with gel, a few misbehaving strands falling across his forehead. His skin is pale, almost flawless in the dim light and his cheekbones cut sharp beneath the fall of his hair. You can feel the weight of his gaze, familiar pair of orbs staring down at your sitting form after acknowledging your mother.

He steps further inside before anyone says anything, while you watch him like someone staring at a ghost — the sight of the older man nearly makes you choke on your own saliva.

Your mother did briefly mention that Gojo’s father studied at Hogwarts around the same time as her, and if he was anything like his son — you felt sorry for her. You also stumbled across him multiple times in the newspapers, it’s possible you saw him at the train platform over the years too, and it’s simply been forgotten by you. Seeing him now though, in person, is completely something else. You didn’t expect their appearances to be as similar. It’s like your eyes are taking in the carbon copy of the younger version which pesters you in the castle.

“Ah, Sato. I’ve been expecting you,” your mother is fast to stand up, walking over to him to offer a handshake as a greeting gesture. You’re snapped back to reality and decide that getting on your feet is a better idea than lingering near the floor with such a honourable visit. Your hands brush away the dust from your trousers and then you straighten your back.

“M/N, always such a warm welcome from you,” Gojo’s father returns the offered handshake, adding a small charming smile out of politeness. The motion jabs at your ribs, the voice and the smile — it seems all too familiar. To the point where you wonder if you’re hallucinating.

“My wife will be here shortly, she has some errands to run,” he announces a second later as all three of you stand near the centre of the room, you inches behind your mother. And you swear you almost flinch, when the older man’s piercing blue eyes land on you. It’s a well known fact that those born into the Gojo family carry these extraordinary features, but seeing more than one member of the lineage in your life seems to knock the wind out of your lungs — wondering how it’s possible.

“And you must be Miss Y/N. I don’t believe we had the pleasure to meet officially,” the white haired man’s voice is honey like, welcoming you without any doubts as his hand reaches for yours. Waiting for you to take it. You swallow the lump building in your throat, the resemblance scaring and amusing you at the same time.

“No, sir. We haven’t, the pleasures all mine,” you of course mimic his gesture, lightly shaking his hand. You force out a smile, unsure of what else there’s to do.

“Ravenclaw, is it, young lady?” both of you retrieve your hands by the time he asks you the next question. It grabs you by surprise as you thought he’d simply sway the conversation back to your mother.

The gleam on older man’s face is undistinguishable, one you were convinced you’d see in no one else but his son.

“Indeed, it is,” you chuckle appropriately, nodding your head in agreement.

“Mhm, thought so, taking after your mother,” he responds with a hint of a laugh, sending shivers down your spine. Small part of you was convinced your Gojo the younger version of his father mentioned you, but then again, why would he?

“I presume that’s a compliment,” you hum, glancing at your mother who appears to be in the grasp of tension.

“You’d be right to think that,” Gojo’s father laughs louder this time, a hint of smirk decorating his lips.

And you thought they couldn’t be more alike.

“Y/N, dear, will you excuse us for a moment?” your mother’s voice breaks the trance you’ve been put to by your own wandering of mind.

“Of course,” is all you utter before you bid both of them a proper see you later kind of goodbye, closing the door shut after you.

You’ve been so baffled by the appearance of Gojo’s father, the resemblance he portrays to his son, to even question what it is that he went in there for. And his wife, the Slytherin’s mother, is on her way as well.

Strange.

What could possibly be of such importance for the both of them to come?

Surely, they aren’t here to pat your mother on the back for what a great job she has done.

Other things involved, things your mother owns — you debrief on your earlier conversation, the words settling in the pit of your stomach and creating a wrenching sensation.

You fully step out of your mother’s office, the weight of the conversation still clinging to your shoulders like a heavy burden. The hallway stretching out in front of you is its usual blend of dull marble. You move cautiously as you’re very aware of the fact you’re a mere intern — confident enough to walk without hesitating due to the badge pinned to your shirt, but aware of every polished shoe that echoes louder than it should.

Then, just as you round the corner past the auror division, you collide softly with someone. A breath, a scent like wild jasmine and clean peppermint — scent so expensive it leaves you breathless.

The woman you bumped into has golden hair, not blonde in the common way, but the color of sunlight reflecting against golden jewels. Her eyes stop you, leaving you cold. Green, like the forests in old paintings, full of calculations and surprises as she gazes back at you. There's something unnervingly excellent about her. The curve of her jaw, the tilt of her mouth. The paleness of her skin.

She’s ethereal looking.

It clicks slower than it should’ve.

You've seen her before.

In the photographs nestled in your mother’s boxes. The ones half-forgotten under folders of paperwork, labeled with a name that was no name at all. A nickname at best, perhaps a simple initial.

She smiles slowly and knowingly, as if she recognizes you too.

“An internship, young lady?” her voice is just as soft as you thought it to be, embroidered with a natural sweet tone — regardless of her sharp gaze and the suspicion in her practiced smile. Her appearance is meant to deceive. You sense your chest tightening as there’s something sorrowfully familiar to her as well. Not simply because of the pictures.

“Yes, an internship,” you breathe out unsteadily, like your breath got caught up somewhere on its way.

“I’m very sorry for bumping into you,” your apology is fast to follow as you regain your consciousness.

“I’ve seen you before, you’re in my son’s year if I’m not mistaken,” she chooses to discard your apology, focusing her energy elsewhere. Her expression is just as sweet, just as corrupted with a flash of cunningness. Her words connect your missing dots, the familiarities making sense now.

Right, she must be the wife.

You’re quick to recall your mother’s unsent letter as well — given who you married.

It all comes together like puzzle pieces, and you feel sort of stupid for not putting them together sooner.

“That would be correct,” you confirm her words, lightly nodding your head as you fidget with your fingers, unbeknownst to you. Her presence stirs nervousness within you, and the way her smile widens at your confirmation doesn’t seem to lighten it.

“You look quite awfully lot like your mother,” she hums, lost in deep thought as her globes survey your entire being.

“I get that a lot, thank you,”

“You have that kind of fire in you, I can tell,” she goes on, measuring you and ticking boxes in her head. You’re left unsure of what to do, whether to brush her off and get rid of the pit in your lower abdomen or engage in an interaction with her. To attempt at pulling some information out of her. But with that glint in her eyes, you doubt you’d be able.

Merlin’s beard, it’s as if she sees right through you and what you’re thinking.

That seems to run in their family.

“You know my mother?” you act as if you never heard of her, and you truly haven’t until today, only to see the shocked expression on her face.

It’s quick to flicker away.

“Briefly,” she slightly pouts, something which would go unnoticed by you if it weren’t for the letters and old photographs.

“Well, she’s inside with your husband. They’re waiting for you,” you look over your shoulder, eyeing out the office door you can barely see from around the corner. You offer her a kind smile, despite the fact she terrifies you.

“Thank you, have a nice day, dear,” her voice becomes even more delicate as she brushes past you, hand gently patting your shoulder In gratitude.

“You as well, Miss Gojo,” you manage to mumble out before she completely slips past you.

And what you don’t properly notice is the way she tilts her head to the side, sneaking one last look at you.

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈•• ✼

The greenhouse at Hogwarts in winter feels like a world apart from the cold stone corridors and snow-dusted grounds outside. The thick glass panels are frosted at the edges, softening the outlook winter gives. The patterns are delicate and detailed, unlike anything which could be drawn by hand. Inside, it's surprisingly humid and the air smells earthy. Warmth coming from the enchanted heaters mixes with the scent of soil and leaves. The atmosphere is strange, but nowhere near unpleasant — the magical plants rustle faintly on their own, their leaves twitch and bloom despite the season. Due to all the phenomenal spells of your Herbology professor.

You sit on a low bench near a row of puffapods, their pale purple buds pulsate with a gentle light. Your breath creates fog in the slight chill that still lingers, regardless of the heating, as you tap your fingers anxiously against your robes. The glass creaks faintly as wind blows into it. Every time a shadow passes outside, your heart jumps.

Is she finally coming?

When the door finally opens, the warmth rushes out in a wave, and Arabella steps inside. She pauses, taking in the humid haze to the contrast of the chilly weather outside. She’s enveloped in a thick blue scarf with white stripes and your house’s crest, her hands are set with gloves and a hat sits on top of her. All in the same colours. You’re actually looking the same, wrapped into thick layers of clothing that keep you safe from the creeping cold. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose is red, leaving you to wonder if your pink tint of rushing blood has passed already. And as Arabella’s eyes latch onto yours, the unspoken tension between you speaks louder. Even though it’s quiet enough to hear the subtle muffling of vines above your heads.

You don’t speak right away.

And neither does she.

When she does, her voice sounds smaller than you expected in the vast silence.

“I hate to do this given your… situation, but I’m afraid I have to. Did you tell anyone about me and Margaret?” the second she speaks out, it’s clear to you what this is about. This dates back to that godforsaken party you’ve managed to completely dissociate yourself from. Though she clearly didn’t, and you understand. The secret of her and Margaret’s relationship didn’t plague the school grounds, only selected ones accessed the information, but it’s fatal anyway. Most of the who know are Slytherins, which do shoot disgusted glances. It might have not ruined either of their reputation, nonetheless, their relationship on the other hand seems to be forever doomed. And you do feel somewhat responsible, for both not telling them upright to prepare them and for not correcting Gojo back at the world cup to avoid this miscalculation.

This is why you’re here, after all. To address the situation and put an end to the peculiar behaviour stretching in between you two.

All seems to have crumbled even more by the time you lost to gravity and fell off your broomstick, quitting quidditch.

“Of course not, I’d never do that to neither of you,” you utter, stomach twisting with guilt even though it’s not exactly a lie. But it’s definitely not the truth either. And seeing your best friend stand on the opposite side of the greenhouse, a table with plants separating you, creates an ache in your already hollow chest.

“I’m not entirely sure if I believe you, because Margaret’s brother knows about our relationship,” Arabella doesn’t let it go as easily as she usually would and she’s not to blame, you’d press for answers as well. Part of you wants to come out with the truth, but a bigger part of you is simply too terrified of the thought she could hate you for it.

For how you’ve left the situation to escalate.

“I figured, but it wasn’t me,” you remain seated, eyes glued to hers. Smiling lightly at how couple of her strawberry blonde locks poke out from under her hat, it’s a passing moment. The next second, you’re back to the guilt eating you from inside out.

“You promise?” she whispers, her words hanging above your head like a guillotine.

“I do,” the simple words taste bitter at the tip of your tongue as you speak them.

Outside, winter presses against the glass walls of the greenhouse. The sky is grey, smudged with heavy clouds. Some bare branches tap gently in the wind, ghosting over the greenhouse. Cold light filters through in weak gleams, throwing a gloomy atmosphere to your situation. The warmth in the greenhouse seems to have thinned, like it’s leaving too.

She stands across the table, her breath faintly caressing the air as she leans over the magical plants. They look tired too, their strange glows are dimming, their leaves are a little limp and their colours have dulled. Her hands move with kind and fragile grace, as if she’s going through the motions out of memory, mindlessly.

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just watch her, this person you’ve known through every season and through all the years here at Hogwarts. And you can sense the distance between you like a blockage that wasn’t there before. The silence isn't gentle now. It lingers like the frost on the foggy windows. It’s heavy and cold, and you can feel it settling into the cracks.

You want to reach out, say something that will pull her back, keep her here. But she doesn’t look at you anymore. She just keeps tending the plants, like this is the last time, like she already knows where this is going.

And you just stand there now, rooted in place like the plants. Afraid that if you move, it will make it all that more real.

“Why have you been so distant, Arabella? I know I’m a wreck, but when we came back from the internships — you ditched me,” you suddenly gather last bits of courage to speak up, not wanting to risk losing her. So you try to communicate it, despite your own sense of heartache.

“It’s not like that, Y/N. You’re my best friend,” her voice is shaky and careful, but she doesn’t gaze up at you. Instead, she continues working and planting. Her tone brings you some sort of ease at least, it’s just as desperate as yours — indicating she doesn’t want to lose you either.

“Lately it doesn’t feel like it,” you voice what you’ve been thinking the whole time.

This makes her lift her eyes to meet yours.

“My head’s a mess too, believe it or not,” she objects, growing more defensive which isn’t at all where you were heading with the conversation.

“What’s bothering you? I’m still here to listen, even if it doesn’t seem like it,” you lean into the windowsill of the greenhouse, taking a second before talking further. This time your voice is softer as you offer, filled with concern. Hoping she’ll see how much she still matters to you.

Partially praying she feels the same way.

“That’s the trouble, I don’t know what or why I’m feeling the way I’m. It just feels like something’s missing and it’s hard to put into words,”

For the first time in a while, you feel like you’re finally acknowledging each other.

Seeing one another, bare and vulnerablez

“I think I understand,” you reassure, and you truly think you have it all figured out until she speaks up again, bringing more stirring conspiracies.

“It’s like there’s this haze clouding my mind ever since the headmaster-“ Arabella stops mid sentence, leaving you at a cliffhanger. Which earns her your blinking of puzzlement, mouth opening to encourage her to keep on with what she was about to say, but the sound of shoes crunching in the snow outside put your motions to a stop.

“Did you invite anyone else?”

“I might’ve told Margaret,” she whispers, nervous and smiling.

“Arabella!” you scold her quietly, reminding her of the fact this was supposed to be a two on two meeting.

Nonetheless, you can’t really be mad at her, can you now?

The greenhouse holds its breath and so do you as you impatiently await the arrival of Margaret. The faint rattle of the heater hums beneath the silence as you and your best friend stand, surrounded by the scent of soil and dirt. Your bodies are still, the warm blur of your intimate moment left behind. You’re close enough to feel each other’s presence, the unspoken suspended tension between you continues to tickle both.

Then, the door slams open like a gunshot.

A burst of icy wind punches through the space, scattering leaves and rattling the glass panels. The temperature drops. Snow swirls in behind Margaret’s frame. She stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the pale storm behind her. Her jaw is lightly clenched and her eyes burn with something unknown, while her chest rises and falls with depict-able fury. Her boots hit the floor hard, scattering melting snow around. The sound slices through the heavy stillness.

She storms forward, her presence cutting through the heat, dragging cold and chaos inside. The plants tremble on their stems along with you. Arabella draws in a soft breath, but doesn’t turn to face her past lover.

You feel Margaret’s anger before she even reaches you — it’s almost electric.

The quiet sacred moment is gone.

Now, it’s a battleground.

“Did you tell Gojo, Y/N?” she circles the point, straightforward. Not putting on any act to soften the blows.

“And don’t even try to lie your way out, my brother told me it was him who spoke of it,” Margaret cuts you off when she takes notice of your lips parting, ready to speak. Her actions shutting them closed again. From the look on her face and her attacking demeanour, it’s clear to you that you’re not walking out of here unscathed. She isn’t going to be as understanding as your redheaded best friend. Your palms become sweaty with anticipation as Margaret continues to burn holes through your figure, tapping her foot against the floor.

“No, listen,” you finally start, lifting your clothed hands in a defensive manner. Sadly, before you get to drag your point across, you’re abruptly put to a stop by the sound of her voice yet again.

“I want a straight and an honest answer,” she demands, your eyes briefly fleeting to Arabella who’s simply watching it unfold. Her gaze avoids yours when you sneak a glance her way, the motion causing a small flicker of pain.

“It’s worth more than just one word,” your voice is a calm contrast to the one of your friend’s beloved.

“Yes or no, it’s that simple,” Margaret doesn’t smooth down her antics, she does the exact opposite. Her words growing more threatening and harsh, on the verge of unleashing an avalanche you might get seriously caught up in.

“I didn’t, he figured on his own,” you admit after a haze of silence, your brows twitching along with the frantic beating of your heart.

This isn’t going to be easy. Telling the truth never is.

“Look, it was at the world cup. While you two were inside the tent, he kind of stumbled my way and he said he noticed,” you remain assertive, which sparks more anger in the Slytherin girl. One whom used to share laughs with you not so long ago.

“And it didn’t tick you to lie?” her sarcastic laugh coming along with her words cuts through you, causing your own irritation to build up.

“He promised he wouldn’t tell,” you respond slowly, eyes flickering between the two of them.

You don’t know why, but you thought Arabella would take your side. At the same time, this must be new information for her, so perhaps she’s learning how to hate you instead.

“And you believed that, could you be more naive? You out of all people should know what he’s capable of. He’s a Gojo,” she raises her voice, half yelling at you. Her labels of you waking up the crackling fire of anger within your chest, matching her own. The rotation of the white haired wizard in this conversation irks you, so much it drives you wild.

“I don’t need for you to remind me, Margaret. And he didn’t blow your cover on purpose, that’s what this is about,” you try to clear out the confusion, because there seems to be a misunderstanding involving her fellow Slytherin starlet.

“Oh, I think you do, because to me, it feels like you’re defending him,”

It’s a jarring moment. And it hits harder than you expect. Not because it’s utterly wrong, but because it might not be. Because deep down, there’s a sliver of truth in it you don’t want to acknowledge. Your instinct is to deflect, maybe even lash out. You tell yourself you’re just being fair. Using logic and objective thinking — anything but sympathising with him. However, it lingers. That uneasy awareness that you’ve might have stated something unnecessary and unrelated. It bothers you, so you double down to convince her and yourself as well.

“Then you clearly must be blind. I don’t know who here ghosted their friends and girlfriend,” you sent a hurtful arrow straight at her, launching with the intention to cause harm.

“Let it go, both of you,” Arabella steps in between you, waving her hands in a desperate attempt to pull you from each other’s necks.

“I was about to tell you all of the things that happened,” you add, looking at Arabella who’s shielding Margaret first. You depict the disappointment in her gaze, along with the hint of understanding.

“Yet you didn’t,” Margaret bites back, pushing past your friend’s body to face you fully.

This makes the swirl of emotions hanging on a thin rope snap, letting them loose.

“Well sorry that I was too busy with my father dying,” the loud declaration seems to put a stop to the whole shift of the planet, silence drumming through the greenhouse — Margaret’s anger easing up.

“Y/N,” is what breaks the silence.

A call out of your name, doused with empathy.

“Don’t Y/N me. What you did was unfair as well, I’m not saying I don’t understand, but you didn’t see the way you hurt all four of us. The way you hurt Arabella,” you continue to shoot, kicking and throwing hands in response to her previous aggression. Your words seem to hit a nerve, regret fleeting past her expression for a fraction of a moment. Meanwhile Arabella steps away, looking to the side.

It makes you feel good.

“What about your brother knowing is so bad if you’re not together anymore anyway? It’s not like he’d go against his own blood,” you go on with your attacks, knowing exactly which words to let out into the open to cut her open.

“This is a low blow, Y/N,” she manages barely, holding her emotions at bay.

“Whatever you did before was just as bad, if not worse,” is the last thing you voice out before you storm in the direction of the door.

You slam the greenhouse door open with a sharp crack, rattling the frame as you burst through it. Behind you, voices still echo — calling out your name in raised voices. The sounds familiar but suddenly distant. You don’t care what they have to say now. The fight had already sunk its teeth too deep.

The moment you step outside, winter hits you like a slap. Frigid cold slicing through the lingering warmth clinging to your robes. Snow drifts down in lazy spirals from the sky, settling in your hair and on your shoulders. The castle looms far ahead of you, dark stones blurred behind the falling duvet of snow, but you don’t head that way at first. You just walk, fast and without a picked out direction — needing distance more than shelter.

The snow crunches under your feet as your boots sink into it with each step. Your chest burns, not from the cold, but from the fight which had just occurred. Every word still rings in your mind, every look of betrayal carved into your memory. Your hands are clenched, nails digging into the flesh of your palms. The only thing grounding you as you head into the unknown, the falling snow disorienting you.

The anger begins to falter.

It always comes like this. Hot at first. Consuming your whole being and forcing you to channel it out, and then suddenly, you become cold. Hollow.

Your footsteps slow down. The fire behind your ribs hesitantly dying out, leaving behind a quiet ache, as if your body experiences something your heart hasn’t caught up to yet. The wind picks up, tugging at your robes, curling around you like another presence — making your now soaked hair a mess.

You stop near the edge of the lake, where the ice stretches out like cracked glass. The world around you is utterly still, the kind of silence that only comes with snow. No footsteps rushing after you. No voices calling your name. Just the soft hush of snow falling and the raw throb of emotion you can’t outrun no matter what you do.

Your shoulders shake with the upcoming tears that come without permission. They well up your eyes. Warm and blinding, streaming silently and staining your cheeks. You hug yourself with your arms, the snow soaking through the fabric of your robes as you stand in the eye of the snow storm. The whiteness in the air bites at your cheeks, numbing them as you spill your overwhelming emotions.

Your fury melts into something far more fragile. The kind of pain that doesn't roar, but lingers.

Needing to be felt.

And it’s not just the fight weighing you down, it’s all at once.

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈๑⋅⋯ ୨˚୧ ⋯⋅๑┈┈┈┈┈┈•• ✼

The castle is quieter than you’ve heard in a while. It’s right before curfew, and the air in the corridors is heavy, almost syrupy with stillness. You push open the great oak doors of the Hogwarts library, the scent of parchment and ink pushing through your nose for the last time. Your eyes are incredibly heavy with hours of studying for your upcoming graduation exams. Centuries of history still echoing faintly in your head, laced with a dry tone of Professor Binns’ lecture while your consciousness drifts.

You walk with slow, lazy steps — too tired to focus, barely aware of where your feet are taking you. Still too aware of the fight you experienced yesterday evening, the wound raw. Head filled with arguments you could’ve used instead, or the reason behind of Arabella’s behaviour. The sentence she didn’t get to finish. The dim candlelight lines the walls, their flames low and flickering. The halls stretch endlessly in both directions, twisted and familiar, even in the lucent light.

You distantly think to yourself that you must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere near the staircase in spite of the exhaustion, because you’re out of your usual path.

You take a turn around the corner and pause.

Where there was only bare wall a moment ago, now stands a larger door. It’s tall, framed with a wooden arch. The wood is aged, not as polished. An odd feeling stirs within your insides, for a moment you consider if this is a mere dream or if your mind is playing tricks on you. However, it’s like the hallway itself is holding its breath with you. You notice carvings embroidering the doorframe, shifting ever so slightly as you stare, never settling on one shape. You recognize some of the symbols from your studies — protection symbols, things old and powerful.

You didn’t summon it.

At least, you don’t think you did.

Though something buried in the depths of your being feels drawn towards it. You reach out, fingers grazing the cool metallic handle. The moment you come to contact with it, the door creaks open with a soft whisper, like a sigh escaping into the night. Your breathing hitches with doubt, wand ready at your side as you try to make out a reasonable explanation to this.

It might be The Room Of Requirement which appears when a student is in need pf something — the room providing whatever is fit for the situation.

Why you, out of all people?

The chamber beyond radiates warmth, and is inviting, nearly comforting. The stone floor is gone, replaced by soft rugs that would muffle your footsteps. Cushioned chairs sit in a half-circle around a low crackling fire. The shelves are filled with books. You have to blink to adjust your vision, to convince yourself what you’re seeing is true.

Before you allow yourself to step inside, the heavy entrance falls shut and the wooden door melts back into a stone wall. You stare at the wall with confusion for a few moments, completely baffled by the gesture. Until something alters the air. It’s subtle at first. A sudden gust of breeze that seems to come from nowhere, causing goosebumps to appear all over your body. You straighten, the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

You’re alone when you rotate your body to glance at the laid out hallway, or well not quite. The atmosphere casts a strange glow. The surroundings appear to be heavier and much colder, while your head turns slowly, listening to the looming silence — gut screaming that something’s up.

“Who’s there?” you whisper out, more quietly than you anticipated as your breathing catches in your throat, wave of conspiracy seizing you.

You’re met with no answer, despite your acknowledgment of the gnarling sensation. You begin to consider yourself paranoid.

Just as you’re about to shake everything off, a sound echoes through the space, which puts you back in your spot, freezing you.

“I know someone’s there,” you voice out, loudly this time and with more confidence. You’re prepared to be met with yet another ripple of nothingness. However, you’re mistaken. As the sound of your voice jumps from wall to wall, a mop of white locks emerges from nowhere. Spilling into space, moulding from emptiness. Your jaw hangs ajar at the image, you see Gojo Satoru’s head floating in the air with no other body parts.

No limbs, no torso.

Just his head.

“Caught me redhanded,” he spills out meanwhile snickering, as if this was a normal situation to be caught up in, though his ways don’t really surprise you any longer. Knowing him for as long as you do, it’s not shocking news he’d lower himself to this level. He’s fast to strip himself of the invisibility shielding him, revealing his grand trick to be a piece of clothing.

So that must be what provided him with invisibility.

You wonder how many times he might have lurked along without your knowledge. Hell, he could’ve done anything with that cloak of his. The memory of the conversation you overheard at the party weeks back in time comes flooding back to you, laced with bitting suspicion.

Could this cloak be a part of their plan?

“Were you sneaking up on me?” you place your palm on the swell of your hip, demanding a clear response as you suspiciously look him up and down. A dark burgundy fabric set with tiny constellations and starts resting in his grip.

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it sneaking,” his eyes roll in a playful manner, careless, which isn’t uncommon for him.

“Don’t you know it’s sort of – I don’t know – creepy?” you point out, turning the corners of your lips downward. Pouting faintly at his smugness while you try to piece together the information, thinking of all the times he could’ve been there. And you wouldn’t know.

At least your friend’s accusations of your crazy behaviour weren’t true — you did capture his white hair in the hallway late at night countless of times.

He was there.

“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know you were here, so relax,”

“Right, as if that changes anything,” you scoff, your mind racing with conspiracies.

“Were you expecting someone else?” you decide to prob, his expression growing more serious. However, you don’t entirely trust it, nor him.

“Doesn’t concern you,” he objects before you eye him one more time, and with that you turn on your heel — leaving him hanging without any further notice. Though a sense tugs at your heartstrings, an urge to speak out the ideas turmoiling in your mind.

With his cloak, you could slip into the headmaster’s office without being spotted and turn it inside out. Who knows what sort of information you could get your hands on. Perhaps it’d be able to explain Arabella’s strange behaviour, as well as her zoning out. She did mention the headmaster. But for that to happen, you’d have to bite down your pride and ask the Slytherin for his help. You tighten your fist, innerly debating if it’s worth it to you.

“Gojo?” you call out, a tryout — just in case he’s not on his way or draped in his invisibility already.

“Mhmm?” and he isn’t.

“I could use your help,” you breathe out, soft and laced with surrender — wholeheartedly prepared for his acts, and the possibility of being rejected.

“My, I thought I wouldn’t live long enough to see you asking me for help,” his voice seeps out with pure satisfaction, his tone scraping your nerves and skyrocketing your blood pressure. And as you finally turn to face him, his arrogant grin doesn’t ease you.

You decide to bear it instead of lashing out.

“I just need to borrow whatever you’re holding,” your hand points to the cloak thrown over his forearm, eyes scanning it.

“My invisibility cloak? Are you up for some mischief?” his palm slides over to his chest and your gaze follows, watching as his long digits spread across his robes.

As if he’s proud you’re suggesting something so forbidden.

“If so, I certainly am interested,” he adds, nodding his head.

“It doesn’t concern you,” you reply with the same indifference, giving him taste of his own medicine. Which he doesn’t seem be fond of, because the corners of his lips turn into a frown and his brows furrow lightly.

“No cloak for you then,” he huffs, turning his head to the side, keeping his nose high up.

Prideful bastard.

“Seriously?” your voice is full of disbelief while you absorb his words, thinking he surely must be joking.

“Seriously,” he repeats firmly, lips pouting. Eyes half-lidded.

Your blood boils at the action of his behaviour, however, you’re well aware you need his cloak for your plotting to work out. And if you share one simple information, he won’t be able to use it against you. As long as he isn’t aware of all the circumstances, he wouldn’t be able to turn you in, because at the end of the day it’d be his cloak you’d be wearing.

And you’re hundred percent sure things like these aren’t allowed on the school grounds.

“Fine,” you state, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at his pretentious antics, “I need to break into the headmaster’s office,”

As soon as those words fly out your mouth, his smirk is quick to return. And you mentally prepare for another set of his picking.

You remind yourself it’s for the greater good.

“And here I was thinking you’re too goody shoes to even consider such a thing,” the white haired menace teases and you loathe it, beyond explanation. Especially the way he’s slightly hinting at your label of the Head girl. It drives you insane, so much you wonder if what lies in the office is even that important, but you refuse to back down from the conversation now that you’ve actually asked. Though it’s safe to say if nothing new awaits you in there, you’ll be irritated for going such lengths to figure no information out.

“Will you lend me the cloak or not, Gojo?” you demand, not pacing around it and getting straight to the topic.

“Under what condition,” he lifts his point finger in the air, holding it in front of you as he drags his words out — painfully slow.

“Name it,” you declare, pushing down the need to snap.

“I’m coming too,” he cheekily announces, smiling from ear to ear.

It seems to knock the wind out of your sails again.

“What? Absolutely not,” you laugh out, shaking your head in both disagreement and shock at his audacity.

“Shame for you,” he shrugs, waving the cloak in your face to rile you up even more.

And it certainly seems to work on you.

Your heart drums against your ribs, anticipation flows through your veins like a drug intoxicating you. Your inner strength fails to withstand its demand as the need for a douse of what lies within the stone walls of the office devours you. No price seems big enough to not be paid, and you instantly scold yourself for even thinking about submitting to his condition. You take in deep breaths, staring at the young wizard in front you who’s quietly watching you back — not saying anything and waiting, because he can tell from the look on your face that you’re considering his offer.

Oh, you’re so going to regret this later on.

“Alright, alright, I’ll let you come,” you finally exhale, the action takes a lot of effort as there’s nothing you despise more than relying on him out of all people. And shamefully, you find yourself in these types of situations with him quite often.

More than you’d like.

You’re not met with an answer, only a chuckle, which speaks more than anything else at the moment.

Knew you would cave, that’s what it sounds like to you.

Gojo proceeds to spread out the cloak, throwing it over his broad shoulders and leaves his arm stretched out — inviting you to join him. In that moment you realise what you’ve truly gotten yourself into.

“What do you need in the office anyway?” he questions curiously, keeping his globes — the colour of water depths — intently peeled on your frame, which is closing the distance between you. It doesn’t slip your attention, and neither does the way they glow in the dark, the light of the moon casts reflections that are similar to sea foam in his dangerously iridescent eyes.

“Something of Arabella’s,” you mumble and it’s not entirely the truth, though it’s more than he deserves to know and you figured it’d speed things up if you’re somewhat co-working. Your body slides next to his, tucked safely under the blanket granting a power you never knew you needed. His fingers brush against yours as he hands you the end of the cloak for you to hold.

“Sure,” he hums, and you know he doesn’t completely trust you either.

The castle is a maze of silence by this hour. It’s little past curfew, past the hour when even the portraits begin to drift off to sleep. The walls are with no shadow of your reflection as you pass, the floor groaning ever so lightly beneath your careful steps. Each of them feels like small earthquakes due to your overconsuming anxiety. You know no one can see, yet it’s still there.

But that’s only your mind playing tricks on you, you’re safe beneath the thin layer of the cloak that provides you with an advantage.

There's barely any room for the two of beneath it as you clumsily walk, so close that your bodies are practically fitted together. Every shift, every breath, every brush of cloth or skin is shared between you. The closeness is unavoidable. Hip gently pressing into the length of his body, arm brushing against his as you motion forward. His shoulder bumping yours every few steps, but neither of you mention it to one another. It’s intimate and impossible to fight as there’s no space to distance yourself. And even though you know he feels your warmth and breathes the same air, he remains indifferent.

The silence between you is charged with everything that hasn’t been said and everything that perhaps never should be. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t be risking getting yourself expelled.

Nonetheless, here you are. Together. Covered by a cloak that hides you from everyone sights, but not from each other.

Your mind throws non audible insults your way, wondering how you managed to wind yourself up with him once more, when you exactly know what kind of a person he is.

A pretentious jerk who seems to find you annoying just much as you find him.

It’s all worth it in the end if it’s for your best friend, right?

His scent envelopes your senses — something which you’re weirdly familiar with, something that unmistakably screams him — and with every step toward the Headmaster’s office, it becomes harder to focus on why you're going there in the first place. His hand brushes past yours again, this time it lingering for half a heartbeat too long. Your heart rings in your ears, thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to be heard by him, while your senses are clouded with his proximity. You’re not sure if he can feel it, but it wouldn’t surprise you. That’s how close you are.

A stair creaks beneath your feet, urging you to both freeze, instinctively holding your breath. You notice his chest rising and falling back in its place before he leans in, whispering something barely audible

“Left, quickly,” his breath hits your ear, warm and deliberate, sending a shiver down your spine.

You move together, carefully and silently. Your movements seem to be more in synchrony now than when you marched forward for the first step, like dancers who’ve done this before countless of times.

Both of you are okay with taking a risk involving this sort of adrenaline, nonetheless, your closeness is alien. The feeling of being wrapped up in a piece of magic fabric with him, just on the edge of doing something wrong is unlike anything.

And as you near the stone spiral staircase that leads to the Headmaster’s office, your mind should be on the goal, the reason you’re sneaking through the halls. But all you can think about is the weight of his body pressed along yours, the way your knees crash when you pause at the top of the stairs, the way the cloak drapes around you — protecting you like a sacred mystery.

You’re almost there now, part of you can’t wait to arrive. Can’t wait to break the spell thrown at you, can’t wait to forget how the press of his body feels against yours. It’s a forbidden action to be so near him without anyone else’s presence, by you and everyone else due to your backgrounds and oh so many other things.

And tucked under the cloak, hidden from the world, you dare to hope he’s thinking the same thing.

“I’ll take the watch, you do whatever you need inside,” the white haired wizard declares with ease, his breathing a little heavier because of the stairs you had just climbed. You shoot to look up at him, nodding your head in confirmation.

Then you slip from the embrace of the cloak, feeling vulnerable. And when you look over your shoulder, you’re met with a simple image of the stairs. You know he’s still there, at least you hope he’s, nevertheless — it leaves you crippling with adrenaline.

You focus what’s ahead of you, meanwhile the pounding of your primer organ swallows you, it seems like there’s a second heartbeat in your chest as you face the door of the headmaster’s office made out of dark oak. There lies a little nameplate with letters carved into it, in bold letters. Your fingers eagerly raise your wand into the air, prepared to charm your way inside.

“Alohomora,” you faintly mumble, the tip of your wand sparkling with a ripple of silver light. The sound of it is sharp and heavy, meaning the lock gave away smoother than you had expected it’d. You hesitate then, it’s almost too easy.

With taking a last glance at the corridor, you push the door open just enough to sneak inside without letting it scrape. The air inside is dry, the kind that settles in rooms filled with too many books. It smells of old parchment, candle wax, and some burnt herbs. Arabella could surely decipher which herbs, a thought crosses your mind amidst your entrance. You quietly shut the door behind you with a soft thud.

Bookshelves tower along the walls, some overstuffed with dusty grimoires and overused scrolls, others perfectly organised — magical theory, forbidden transfigurations, ancient bloodlines and spells. Sorts of books you don’t get your hands on everyday, but that’s not why you’re here. Behind the desk stands an average sized cabinet of drawers, some hazily hanging half opened. And lastly, a wide desk dominates the center of the room — its surface a battlefield of papers, crystal vials, and half-burned candles.

You trace around the desk quietly, fingers grazing the surface as you search. Notes are scribbled in an unfamiliar handwriting, covered by opened books. Maps of the school grounds lay spread out, marked with strange, shifting ink. You can’t tell what it is for, so your gaze shifts directions, catching something out of place. A sheet of parchment half-buried under a pile of herbology formulas. You slid it free, mapping out the deep crimson wax its sealed in with your fingers. It’s stamped with a sigil you don’t recognise. Its curved lines form a circle, a serpent wrapped around a stylized eye. Not the school crest. Something remotely similar to Death Eaters.

Could it be Gojo’s family crest?

You examine the letter in all possible angles, cursing under your breath, because it’s still sealed and there’s no way you can just rip it open without anyone taking action. With frustrating blooming in your core, you place it where it was. Forcing yourself to browse further, even though seeing the crest already filled you with enough of worries.

We have a plan to follow, Robin’s words play in head once more.

A plan for what?

Your eyes sweep the room again, this time with organisation — steps leading you towards the tall bookshelves that lem the office walls. Looking for any irregularities. Most of the spines reveal expected titles of standard magical texts of history, but one stands out more than the others. A thin book with no title, kept between two enormous grimoires. It slides out due to your force and one flip through the book is enough to figure the pages are blank. Your nostrils are attacked with a sharp tinging.

It’s enchanted.

You tuck it under your arm with care and head back toward the average sized cabinet which is planted with rows of locked drawers. A soft whisper is all it takes to preform the unlocking charm once more, forcing the highest drawer open. This one resisted at first, but it eventually opened with a reluctant sigh.

Inside are documents sorted into neat folders, each labeled with a name. Some you recognise — professors, students, even a few graduates working for the ministry. Handful of the names are marked with a red underlining. You pick these out, browsing throughout them to look for any clues. It wasn’t hard to put together their similarities, all the students come from a muggle family. One of the names decorated with the red underlining belongs to Arabella.

Your heart sinks at the sight, not sure why as there’s no real reason to worry yet.

You flip it open, and the first page instantly has you in a chokehold.

“Caught near The Astronomy tower. First abomination. Memory charm applied to witnesses."

Something is happening at this school and whatever it is, the headmaster is not just aware of it. He’s involved in it. You swallow hard, frantically skimming over the bylines on other pages with your wand in hand — casting a bright light, but there’s no more trace of what occurred.

“Someone’s coming, hurry,” a warming comes from the direction of the door, Gojo’s hushed voice snapping you back to reality.

Panic seeps over you, choking you and pushing you to fly to your feet and close the drawer with all the folders, quickly mumbling a spell to lock it. The thin book tucked under your arm is a painful reminder that you’re nowhere near the finish of your investigation. You’re not stupid enough to keep it, steal it with you. So you place it back between the thick grimoires at the top shelf.

Your wide eyed gaze flickers in between the strange map and Gojo’s figure poking out of the cloak as he holds it high in the air, welcoming you to join him.

Conflict boils within you, take it? Don’t take it?

You can’t wait any longer as the footsteps coming down the stairs dangerously take upon volume, so you swiftly grab it and proceed it to slide into the waistband of your uniform while the Slytherin watches — growing with fear he’ll never let bubble to the surface.

Your mother must be turning in her sleep, because this certainly isn’t what she meant by keeping a low profile.

Both of you now stand by the doorway, wrapped in the protective layer and pressed close against each other’s side. The situation barely under your control.

The two of stand frozen, afraid to let the door fall closed.

You can feel his heartbeat, pounding in rhythm with yours. The gesture soothing you, knowing you’re not the only one affected by this.

“Flinch,” you mouth under the safety of the cloak, judging by the additional four legs tapping against the stairs.

Gojo’s the one to close the door with silent precision, charming the door to lock — you note he works calm, regardless of the pressuring nature of the situation.

The first sliver of lantern light spills from the stairs leading upwards. And you don’t look back as the two of you rush down the other direction. Not a full sprint, not with Flinch so close. Your feet nearly step on the cloak several times, almost tripping. That’s probably why your footsteps echo too much through the staircase. You wince silently with every step, sensing just how loud the two of you are in such a hurry.

Meanwhile behind you, Flinch's muttering turns sharper and more audible.

“Who's there?” he barks out, overflowing with suspicious.

“I heard you,” his raspy voice is followed by a scratching meow of his cat.

As soon as you reach the bottom of the stairs, you head left — pulling your partner in crime with you. Ducking down a narrow corridor which rests off the main hall. It’s one of the older, less-patrolled routes.

“Quick,” you hiss under your breath, the white haired wizard barely making your words out.

You grab his hand out of habit, mindlessly dragging him along with you. And together, you stumble through the side passage, turning randomly at each split hallway. Each turn feels too loud, every breath too sharp. You can basically sense Flinch being not far behind, you hear the wheezing effort of him moving faster than he’s fit for. You round the last corner and threw yourself against a wall — your bodies latching onto to it like lizards, gripping for dear life.

Footsteps close the distance between you, passing by your invisible frames just as quickly.

Flinch grunts while his lantern sways in the air. And then he moves on.

Silence.

Your limbs shake with adrenaline, letting go of his hand without any further up-due. And finally, it feels like you’re able to breathe freely again. The Slytherin looks at you from the corner of his eyes, which are wide. The fabric of the cloak shifts and creates a shimmer shared only between the two of you.

“That,” you whisper “was too close,”

“It was rather fun,” he jokes, breathing out heavily as if in relief. The gesture doesn’t rile you up, instead, you find it amusingly refreshing after what you’ve been through together. Huff of your laugh pierces the loud silence, taking him by a surprise as this is your way of actually agreeing with him on something.

It’s definitely the adrenaline talking out of you.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the Slytherin draws out, and you’re certain he saw you showing the unknown map into your uniform. You feel it pressed against your skin, the material made you uncomfortable throughout your escape.

“Mostly, yeah,” you confirm, not thinking much about it and simply resting with back leaned into the wall.

You barely register the motion of his movement before he’s right in front of you, close.

Too close.

His hand comes up, resting itself firmly against the wall just beside your head. His fingers splay wide, veins visible beneath the fair shade of his skin. A second later, his other hand joins the other one on the opposite side — locking you in. Your mind ceases to function, the unexpected unfolding situation brings you shock. Not sure whether to push him away or to let it happen.

Your back presses into the wall even further, and you can feel the coolness of it chilling you through your robes. It anchors you in place while his body, just inches from yours, radiates a heat that prickles across your skin. Every breath you take feels shorter, more shallow.

Gojo’s face is close now, close enough that you can count his lashes if you dared to look long enough. His breath ghosts over the swell of your cheek, landing where it sends a racing shiver down your spine. You can’t move — not because of his proximity, but because his presence is so magnetising — it’s as if the very air around you bends to his will.

And his orbs are the worst of all, piercing and merciless. Seeing past your set up walls of protection, leaving you bare under his vision which is the last thing you need him to do.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” is all he brings himself to speak out loud, baffling you even more as your eyes don’t know where to stop first. At how his strands of hair curl upward — resting near his sides, at how the bridge of his nose beams with the reflection of the moonlight. Or at the way his lashes kiss his cheeks each time he blinks. Perhaps at the slight twitch of his eyebrows due to his fleeting gaze, or at his lips. The way they’re parted while he stares down at you, his tongue sweeping over the bottom part.

So many options, so little time.

“At the party,” he mumbles gently to add precision, which is a rare sight. But you don’t appreciate the subtle reminder of the night, the last night where all felt like it should. Nonetheless, you phantom far too quickly what he means. It’s not something you could easily forget, no matter of your current life could wash away the pit of swirling emotions he caused to rise to life at the party.

And it hits you, this is the boy who swore to make your life a living hell. The one whom your friends loathe. Most of all, he has a girlfriend too.

Just exactly what are you letting him do?

Why?

And suddenly, while waiting for you to speak up, he puts his finger to his lips — signalling for you to be quiet.

A second later you understand what it means.

Flinch strolls the corridor again, your eyes following his movement. Gojo’s alerted frame blocking your full view. As your eyes follow Flinch walking right past you, you meet his iridescent globes which don’t leap away from yours.

“I’ll walk you to your dorm,” he mumbles under his nose when Flinch is at a reasonable distance. Away from where you stand. His hands falling back to his sides, freeing you.

You don’t answer, you chose to not address the awkwardness the question he asked earlier stired.

The journey to your dorm room is quiet, unspoken tension lingering in the air as you guide him to your house��s safe space. As you walk, close to each other as ever, it’s clear you’re both hanging onto what just went on. Busy with recalling the fleeting moment.

And when you part ways, briefly sparing one another a nod of acknowledgement and whispered farewell — you’re feeling even more odd.

You curl up under your bed covers after you slip past Arabella’s bed, knees pulled tight to your chest with heart thumping in your ears. The room is still, occasional snoring coming from Arabella spreads through your shared room. Everything is dark, expect for the glow of your wand which lightens up your space beneath the covers of your bed.

"Lumos,” is all it takes to conjure up light for you.

In your hands lies something old, something curious. The worn piece of parchment, folded so many times the edges are soft. With a breath held in your chest, you spread it open to be met with lines blooming across its surface like spiderwebs made out of ink. It depicts rooms, corridors, and tiny moving footprints. Names scribbled beside them. Flinch walks, pauses, turns and so on and on.

It’s alive, and suddenly the castle isn’t just stone.

You’re not alone in a way. In this small tent of bedsheets and wandlight, feeling like the map chose you because of the strong pull you feel towards it. Like the secrets it holds have waited patiently for your arrival.

You’ve never heard or seen anything of the sort, it’s extraordinary.

Your eyes trace Flinch’s footsteps before scanning the map further. There’s not many people wandering around, and it’s no wonder since the time is close to midnight by now.

Your breath catches just then.

There, just above the Great Hall, a name you never expected to see at this hour as you thought he returned to his room like you did. The tiny inked footsteps of him haunt the corridors you explored together moments ago. You blink once, twice, as if the name might change. Smallest part of you hoping it will, or that he’s taking a longer route to reach his dorm.

But it doesn’t disappear. It stays in place, impossibly real.

Your heart beats louder beneath the covers of your blanket now, closely watching him pause by the staircase leading to the west tower.

What’s he doing there?

You don’t know why you’re still watching, but wonder and dread fuel your curiosity so you keep on observing. Tips of your fingers shaking lightly at the thought of what you might figure out.

The glow from your wand casts long, trembling shadows as you watch the Slytherin’s footsteps finally stop — reaching his destination.

Astronomy tower.

He reachs the top. And he stands there, perhaps waiting. Not moving. Not pacing. Simply waiting.

You don’t know what you’re watching unfolding, but you can’t look away as your heart instantly sinks to the bottom when two other names appear on the map.

Satoru Gojo is at the tower.

In company of his father. And… your mother?

credits for dividers: [@enchanthings-a @cafekitsune]

taglist: [ @k-kkiana @cuffiescariche @sylustoru @hyori2 @ethereal-moonlit @crankyarchives @jjklover365daysayear @cailliz @kaisenkalogathia @urthem00n @katsukiseyebrows @poopooindamouf @heiejdhdh @tessasweet @sa-yuuki @moomoov ]

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