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admiringlove · 3 months ago

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➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. the pieces are in place, the shadows are shifting, and soon, everything will unravel.

➵ warnings. mentions of blood; one character almost dies; lots of fire; bickering™; crying; ; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of death; mentions of physical injuries; slight evil geto; this is the last official chapter before the epilogues; yes i'm crying too.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (NOT ANYMORE 😼😼); slight inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 33.2k (longest chapter record broken again!!!!).

➵ author's note. second part of chapter seven, as tumblr wouldn't let me post it all in one go 💔💔 enjoy!!

➵ navigation. chapter six, chapter seven part one, masterlist, next.

When you step out of the temple, the air is still cool against your skin, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows over the temple grounds. The mist has begun to lift, dissolving into thin streams of white that curl around the wooden beams of the temple before vanishing completely. Somewhere in the distance, a crow caws, its cry cutting through the hush of the early morning. The scent of incense clings faintly to your clothes, to your hair, to your skin.

Nothing had happened.

You’d gone inside, paid your respects, bowed your head in prayer, and willed the universe to grant you some kind of sign. Something—anything—to lead you forward.

But nothing came. No shift in the air, no flicker of magic, no hidden passage revealed beneath the temple floor. Just silence and the rhythmic sound of your own breathing.

Your shoulder had brushed against Gojo’s for far too long while you prayed, though. And he hadn’t moved away.

Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe it meant nothing.

But then again, Gojo Satoru never does anything without intention. He moves through the world with certainty, with a self-assurance that is almost infuriating. He does everything with conviction, with that smug tilt of his lips, with the confidence of a man who has never once doubted himself. He does not hesitate.

You don’t let yourself think about it for too long.

You exhale, stepping down from the temple’s main hall, your shoes scuffing against the ancient wooden planks. The others follow, descending the steps one by one, the quiet hum of their conversation barely registering in your ears. When you reach the gravel path at the base of the temple, you turn to face them.

“How are we supposed to get to the next one?” you ask, scanning their faces.

Utahime presses her lips together, her brows furrowed as she considers. “The man at the tea shop said there were three that could be of use to us.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “But I really don’t think it’s Ninna-ji.”

Gojo snorts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “You mean the one where the royal family used nepotism to get their jobs as head priests?”

Utahime levels him with a glare. “No, stupid. It’s called serving your community.”

You almost smile at the way Gojo’s lips part, ready to argue, but she continues before he can interrupt. “But yes, that one,” she admits. “I don’t think it’s Ninna-ji because it’s… small. Compared to the other two.”

You glance back at the temple behind you, its towering wooden pillars stretching high into the sky. Kiyomizu-dera had been vast, an entire world built into the mountainside. The idea of Sukuna’s grave being tucked away in a smaller, lesser-known temple feels… wrong.

“So we’re discriminating based on size now?” Gojo quips, rocking back on his heels.

You ignore him, narrowing your eyes in thought. “But, ‘Hime, wouldn’t that be precisely why it is that one? It’s different compared to the others. Process of elimination.”

Utahime hesitates. Her fingers tighten around the edge of her scarf, tugging it slightly before she exhales. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “It’s just a feeling I have.”

Gojo lets out an exaggerated sigh, tilting his head back. “Your feelings aren’t exactly the most reliable way to get accurate directions.”

She turns on him instantly, face pinched in irritation. “And what do you suggest, then? Wandering around Kyoto until we stumble onto a cursed grave?”

“Could be worse,” Gojo says breezily. “Could be cursed spirits. Or dementors.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Shoko mutters.

Utahime crosses her arms, still glaring at him. “Enryaku-ji is technically way more powerful,” she argues, voice firm. “We’ve already gone to the oldest temple. Ninna-ji is only considered powerful because of its ties to the imperial family. And if Sukuna is as old as the texts say, then the oldest or the strongest would make the most sense.”

There’s a pause. A breath of silence. The wind shifts slightly, carrying the scent of cedar and damp earth.

You glance at the map again, though you already know it won’t give you any answers. The ink remains still, unmoving.

“How would we get to that one?” you ask, voice quieter than you expect it to be. The stillness of the temple grounds makes everything feel heavier, like the weight of your words might press into the earth itself. “I can’t see anything on the map except us.”

Utahime exhales, the breath curling in the cold air before dissipating. “We could take the train,” she says after a moment. “Then the cable car to the top of the mountain.”

You glance up from the map. The thought of winding through Kyoto’s train stations, of standing in a crowded car, pressed up against civilians who have no idea what lurks in their city—what you are searching for—makes your stomach turn. It would be a waste of time.

��That would take too long,” Gojo says, voicing your thoughts before you can. His hands are deep in his coat pockets, and when he speaks, it’s casual, like it’s the simplest answer in the world. “We could just Disapparate.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—

“What?”

Shoko’s voice is sharp, rising an octave.

“I am not doing that again,” she snaps, stepping forward, the loose ends of her scarf whipping slightly in the wind. “Did you not see me almost vomit earlier?”

Gojo tilts his head, unimpressed. “Relax,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice before he even smirks. “I have another vial of Pepperup Potion.”

You close your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.

You don’t necessarily like Disapparating, but right now, it’s the only logical option.

“We’ll go first,” you say, looking at Gojo as you roll the map back up. “I’ll see if there’s anything there before the rest of you follow.”

“You’re not scouting a potentially dangerous location alone,” Shoko says flatly.

You give her a look. “Then don’t take too long.”

Gojo rolls his eyes, but he grabs onto your arm before you can even make the first move, the warmth of his fingers searing against the cold. The familiar pull of Apparition wraps around you before you can protest, the world collapsing inward, a crushing force against your ribs, and then, cold air. Biting against your skin. The smell of damp earth. A dull, thick fog.

You stagger forward slightly, your boots pressing into the soft, leaf-covered ground. The wind up here is different—thinner, sharper, as if you’ve stepped into another realm entirely.

The mountain looms ahead.

Or at least, you think it does.

Everything is cloaked in mist, a heavy, impenetrable white stretching far into the horizon. You can just barely make out the outline of trees, their skeletal branches twisting into the sky, disappearing into the thick fog above. The ground beneath you is uneven, sloping upward as the base of the mountain begins its ascent.

It is eerily quiet. No birds. No insects. No distant hum of life. Only the wind, curling through the trees like something alive.

You unroll the map, pulling it free again. You open it carefully, letting the edges unfurl, and—

Your stomach drops. The map remains blank.

You frown, adjusting your grip, as if tilting it differently might make something appear. But no—there’s nothing. No outline of the temple, no indication of paths or terrain. Only a vast, empty space where the mountain should be.

It isn’t just missing information. It’s obscured.

A hidden place. An unmapped land. A part of the world that refuses to be seen. On purpose, perhaps.

“There’s nothing on it,” Gojo murmurs beside you.

His voice is quieter than usual, stripped of its usual teasing lilt. You don’t look at him right away, your gaze still fixed on the map—on the blank expanse where the temple should be. The pulse of golden light—your location—is the only thing that remains, flickering steadily, useless.

You inhale, slow and steady. You’ve always been good at grounding yourself, at keeping your head even when everything else unravels. But this—this emptiness, this sense of being unseen—it unsettles you in a way you can’t quite name.

When you finally glance at Gojo, your breath catches. He’s closer than you expected, his face turned toward yours, expression unreadable. You swallow. The remnants of Apparition still linger in your body, making your limbs feel unsteady, though not enough to be nauseating. Not like the others. You should say something. You need to say something.

“Tell Utahime and the others that they should get here too,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

“Fawkes,” he says, soft but deliberate. A name. Your name. The nickname he’s always used when he wants your attention, when he wants you to listen—really listen. You know what he’s about to do. You always know. The way he shifts his weight just slightly before he says something important. The way his voice dips when he means something more than his words let on. You know him like the back of your hand, like a familiar passage from your favorite book. You know him better than you should.

So before he can speak again, you shake your head. Just the slightest movement. Barely noticeable, but he catches it. He always does.

“Afterwards,” you say. “When everything’s over.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—confusion, maybe. But it fades just as quickly, replaced by something closer to understanding.

“How is it,” he muses, “that you always know exactly what I’m going to do?”

You huff, forcing a small smile. “The same way you always know exactly how to push my buttons.”

He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh, shaking his head before pulling his phone from his coat pocket. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his features for a second before he types out a message, sending it off into the ether.

The silence stretches between you. You don’t mind it.

You let your fingers brush over the map again, feeling the worn leather binding, the texture of the parchment beneath your touch. It feels different now—lighter, almost fragile. But nothing has changed. You glance up, gaze flickering over the mist-covered landscape, the atrophied outlines of trees scarcely visible in the distance. It feels like you’ve stepped into a place that exists outside of time, somewhere separate from the rest of the world.

You’re still alone. Utahime, Shoko, and Nanami haven’t arrived yet. The mountain is quiet, still watching.

You tilt your head, looking back at Gojo. He’s already staring at you.

“Do you think your mother meant it?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper.

His brow furrows slightly. “Meant what?”

“That Dumbledore is a selfish man,” you say. You don’t mean to hesitate, but you do. The weight of the thought is heavy, pressing against your ribs. “That he won’t stop at anything until he gets what he wants. And that’s why your mother made sure he was put under surveillance after the prophecy was revealed to her.”

He doesn’t answer. The silence that follows is heavier than the one before, unmovingly thick.

But you don’t get the chance to press him, because then, a sharp crack breaks through the quiet, then another, and another.

The others appear in front of you, the aftershocks of Apparition still rippling through the air. Shoko and Nanami stagger slightly, their faces pale with nausea, while Utahime immediately moves to steady them. She murmurs something under her breath, a hand on Shoko’s back, but the words are lost to the wind.

Gojo reaches into his coat, retrieving another vial of Pepperup Potion, handing it over without a word.

And then—

He looks at you. That same look. The one that means he knows something. The one that means he’s holding something back, keeping something from you. The one that means he’s already decided how much he’s willing to share, and how much he’s going to keep to himself.

It infuriates you. But now is not the time to fight him on it. And you hate that. But you sigh.

You clutch the map tighter in your hands, the leather-bound edges digging into your palms.

“Guys,” you say, voice steady but sharp, getting their attention, “there’s a problem.”

They all turn to you. Gojo, who had been stretching his arms above his head like this is nothing more than a casual morning stroll, groans slightly, knowing how everyone’s reactions will be to this information. Utahime, adjusting the strap of her bag, looks up with a frown. Nanami watches, unimpressed as always, and Shoko, looking at you with mild amusement, only raises an eyebrow.

“How are we supposed to find anything,” you continue, slowly turning the map toward them, “if the map suddenly goes blank?”

A golden dot pulses at the center. Your location. But everything else—everything beyond this exact point—is nothing but an empty abyss of dark, almost black parchment. No trails, no trees, no temple. Nothing.

Utahime steps closer, furrowing her brows. “Wait, what?”

“It’s blank, different from the other temple, but still blank” you repeat, flipping it back toward yourself, as if looking at it from another angle might reveal something different. “No forest, no mountain, nothing.”

Utahime leans in, peering at it, before crossing her arms. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

Shoko groans dramatically, tilting her head back toward the sky. “Maybe it’ll update itself when it realizes we’re struggling.”

You shoot her a look. “Right. Let’s just wait for it to pity us.”

Gojo snickers. Utahime ignores you both, snatching the map from your hands, flipping it around as if it might reveal some hidden layer beneath.

“Well, that’s fucking useless,” she mutters.

“Oh?” Gojo says, smirking. “The great Utahime, admitting something is useless?”

She turns to him, already exasperated. “What is your problem?”

“My problem,” Gojo starts, voice infuriatingly smooth, “is that we’re supposed to be solving a centuries-old mystery, and you’re acting like an old lady who just realized her clock is broken.”

Utahime scoffs. “That’s the stupidest analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh? Would you like me to try another?”

“No, I’d like you to shut up.”

“That’s not very nice, ‘Hime.”

You sigh, already used to this. “Are you two going to bicker the entire way up the mountain, or…?”

Utahime presses her fingers against the bridge of her nose. “I hate working with him.”

Gojo clasps his hands together, mockingly sincere. “You wound me.”

Shoko hums in amusement. Nanami, standing beside her with his arms crossed, looks deeply unimpressed. “Are we done?” he asks, voice flat. “Or should we give you two more time to act like children?”

“I’m not acting like a child,” Utahime snaps.

Gojo grins. “That’s exactly what a child would say.”

Utahime makes a noise of frustration. You roll your eyes, grabbing the map back from her hands and turning to her. “‘Hime, Where are the cable cars?”

She exhales, composing herself before looking around. For a moment, her expression shifts into something more serious—distantly calculating. Then, she points past a clearing, toward a narrow path framed by trees.

“There,” she says. “We go up, and then take the cars to the top of the mountain.”

You nod. “Then let’s go.”

“Wait,” Gojo says, voice suddenly sharper.

You pause, turning back to him. “What now?”

His gaze is lifted toward the peak, obscured by mist. His smirk is gone, replaced by something unreadable.

“Why would a grave be near a temple?” he asks.

The wind shifts. The trees whisper. The silence lingers. Something about this place feels wrong and right at the same time.

You tighten your grip on the map, its edges rough beneath your fingers. The golden dot marking your location pulses steadily, as if mocking you—taunting you with how utterly useless it is.

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice cutting through the silence. “These are very prominent Buddhist locations, right? That’s what I thought we were supposed to be—”

“No, Fawkes,” Gojo interrupts, shaking his head. His tone is different now, sharper, more serious. “Think.” His gaze is locked onto you, searching, urging. “Have you ever seen a grave near a temple?”

You open your mouth, then pause.

“A shrine, sure,” he continues. “But not temples. Temples are holy, they’re peaceful. They exist to guide the living, not house the dead. A place like this—it isn’t meant for someone like Sukuna.”

His words settle in the space between you, twisting into something uneasy. Because he’s right. He’s right, and that realization is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Your grip on the map tightens. “The map is blank,” you murmur, almost to yourself. The thought coils in your mind, its implications clicking into place with a slow, creeping dread. “It’s the most we’ve gotten out of it today.”

Utahime snorts. “Please tell me you meant to say ‘the least.’”

You shake your head, shaking away the uncertainty, forcing yourself to focus. “No, this is… progress. I think. Everywhere else, we could see everything. Streets, buildings, trees. But here?” You glance down at the map again, at the empty expanse of parchment surrounding your lone, flickering marker. “We can’t see anything at all. Except for where we are. It’s different. I think… I think we might already be where we need to be.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “Even though it feels like a big fucking fluke.”

No one speaks.

The silence stretches between you all, thick with unspoken thoughts.

But Gojo—he isn’t looking at you. He isn’t looking at the map or the others. His gaze is fixed on the landscape, scanning the trees, the mountain, the uneven ground beneath your feet. He takes in everything—the way the mist clings to the treetops, the way the air feels, the way the world has shifted into something just slightly off-kilter.

Then, without a word, he reaches up and removes his glasses.

The movement is slow, deliberate. He folds them neatly and slips them into his pocket like they mean nothing.

You inhale sharply. He isn’t looking at you, but he doesn’t need to.

Your breath catches as you follow his gaze—out beyond the clearing, past the trees, to a spot that seems unremarkable at first. Just a small dip in the earth, a shallow indentation where the grass grows thinner. But then, you see it.

A thin, near-invisible trail of water, trickling down from the mountain’s peak, weaving through the rocks and roots before pooling at a small, quiet basin near your feet.

A natural spring.

The water is clear, perfectly still, undisturbed by wind or movement. Yet there’s something unsettling about it, something that makes your skin prickle as you stare at the way it gleams under the weak morning light.

“Satoru?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he takes a step forward, his expression unreadable. Then another.

And without a word, you follow.

The map is clutched tight in your hands, the edges damp with sweat. You don’t hesitate, don’t pause to look back. You don’t even think—you just move, drawn forward by something unspoken, something you don’t quite understand.

The others follow, footsteps muffled against the damp earth. Utahime’s eyes flick between you and Gojo, wary but unwilling to interrupt. Shoko walks with a lazy sort of interest, while Nanami remains silent, watchful.

The water ripples as Gojo steps closer.

The trail beneath your feet is uneven, slick with damp moss and loose stones. It’s not a real path, not something meant for people to walk on, and yet Gojo moves like it is—like he’s always known this route, like the mountain itself is bending to his will.

"Where are we going?" Utahime asks, voice quiet, almost wary.

No one answers.

You catch the way Shoko shrugs, unbothered, the way Nanami barely shakes his head, resigned. The silence stretches longer, broken only by the crunch of your boots against the dirt and the soft, persistent trickle of water.

You glance up, watching as Gojo climbs higher, moving with a lazy sort of ease that feels wrong in a place like this. He doesn't look back, but when you step onto a particularly loose rock, his hand is there—steady, offering balance. You take it without thinking, just for a second, just until you find your footing again.

And then he moves on. There is no hesitation in his steps. No second-guessing.

He’s leading you all off the path, away from the marked trails, away from where anyone—tourists, monks, even the occasional lost hiker—could possibly see you.

You exhale, watching as he keeps following the water, trailing its source up the mountainside. You let yourself believe, for a moment, that this is his plan. That he's taking you somewhere with purpose. That there will be an answer at the end of this.

But then, he turns. Sharp, deliberate. Away from the water.

The thought in your head withers immediately, cut off before it can fully form. You frown, rolling the map in your hands, stuffing it into your pocket as you pick up the pace, trying to catch up to him.

"Satoru," you call softly, stepping over a gnarled root. "Say something."

He doesn't stop walking. Doesn't turn around.

"Afterwards," he says, and his voice is quieter than usual, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in your bones. "When everything’s over."

The words echo between you, and this time, you don’t argue because he’s repeating your own words from earlier back to you.

The ground gets trickier the farther and higher you go. Loose soil, jagged rocks, the kind of uneven footing that makes every step more of a risk. Your fingers brush against damp stone as you reach out to steady yourself, and for the next few minutes, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing, the press of the mountain rising steeply around you.

And then, Gojo stops.

You barely register it in time before you collide into his back, the impact forcing a small grunt from your throat.

"Satoru—"

"Those rocks."

His voice is different now. Sharper. You follow his gaze, heart stuttering as you take in what he's pointing at. Ahead, near the base of a twisted tree, is a cluster of stones—weathered, arranged deliberately, something that is unmistakably meant to be here. But that isn’t what makes your breath catch.

For a moment, you think your eyes are deceiving you, playing tricks with the shifting shadows and the slivers of moonlight filtering through the branches. But then he shifts, just slightly, and you see the glint of something—his belt buckle? A knife? No, just the metal of his rings catching the faint light.

Your breath stills.

Gojo is already moving before you can react. His footsteps are sharp against the forest floor, crunching dried leaves and twigs, and his wand is raised before you even process that it’s Toji standing there.

“What are you doing here, Fushiguro?” Gojo’s voice is low, sharp-edged, crackling with restrained magic. He presses the tip of his wand to the back of Toji’s head, fingers curled around the handle so tightly his knuckles are white.

Toji turns, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world. His hands are up, not in surrender, but in that easy, mocking way of his—shoulders loose, chin tilted, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. The same lips you’ve kissed before.

Your stomach twists, your pulse a beat too fast.

“Dumbledore sent me,” Toji says, voice calm, infuriatingly nonchalant. He rolls his shoulders back, stretching slightly, as if none of this—Gojo’s fury, the tension simmering between everyone—concerns him in the slightest. “I don’t mean any harm. The old man just thought I should help, ‘s all.”

Gojo doesn’t lower his wand. If anything, he presses it harder against Toji’s skin, his eyes glinting dangerously behind his glasses. “Like hell we need your help.”

Toji clicks his tongue, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Didn’t yer mother ever teach you to be nice to yer elders?” His grin widens when Gojo tenses. “I’m tellin’ you. Dumbledore sent me.”

“How’d you know where to go?” you ask, voice quieter than before. The map is still clenched in your hands, its edges crumpled under your grip.

Toji shrugs again. “Dumbledore gave me a few hints.”

Gojo’s nostrils flare. “What do you mean, ‘hints’?”

There’s a sharp shift in the air, the atmosphere suddenly charged with something volatile. Gojo pushes forward, his wand nearly digging into Toji’s neck, his jaw tight with barely contained rage.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Satoru,” you say, softly but firmly. “Step back.”

He doesn’t listen at first, doesn’t even glance at you. He just stands there, breathing through his nose, his grip still tight on his wand.

“Satoru.”

Finally, he spares you a glance—his gaze still burning, still full of suspicion and anger. But after a long moment, he steps back. Two paces. Then four.

You exhale, turning back to Toji. He watches you carefully, his smirk fading just slightly, replaced by something unreadable.

“Toji,” you say, slowly, measuring your words. “Tell me you’re not lying.”

His expression flickers—just a fraction of hesitation before he speaks.

“Princess—”

“Don’t call me that.” Your voice is sharper than you intended.

His lips quirk up, but the amusement doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not lyin’,” he says simply. “You think I wanna be here? ‘Course not. I’m doin’ this to boost my Auror applications. Classified work. Dumbledore made sure I’d get to the right place.”

You don’t break eye contact, studying him for any tell, any flicker of deception.

Then, you sigh. “He’s telling the truth.”

There’s a sharp inhale from Gojo, and when you turn, you see him looking at you like you’ve just betrayed him. His disbelief is so palpable you can feel it, seeping into your skin like cold water.

“You can’t be serious.”

Utahime exhales heavily. “If there’s anything you need to know about Fushiguro, Gojo, it’s that he does things solely for selfish purposes.”

Gojo is still looking at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to say you were wrong.

You don’t. And slowly, reluctantly, he lowers his wand.

You swallow, your throat dry, before finally turning toward the rocks by the tree. There’s an incense stick. Already lit, and set on top of the stone. Already burned halfway down to nothing. Your stomach twists.

Geto. You know it before anyone has to say it.

You step forward, your boots pressing into damp earth, closing the distance with slow, careful movements. The others follow, drawn in by the same terrible realization. The scent of the incense is faint, something familiar but unwelcome, curling into the cold air like a whisper.

Gojo doesn’t move. Neither does Toji.

Utahime breathes in sharply, hands curling into fists, while Shoko just watches, her expression unreadable. Nanami stays still, watching the scene disentangle immovably.

But you? You kneel.

Your fingers ghost over the edges of the stones, their surfaces worn smooth from time and exposure. You hesitate for only a second before pressing your hands against them, testing their weight, pushing.

They shift. Just slightly. Your breath catches again, harsher this time.

"We have to move them," you say, voice steadier than you feel.

No one argues. Together, you start working, lifting, shifting, clearing away the stones one by one. The deeper you go, the more you realize—they weren’t just placed here at random. They were meant to hide something.

The last rock is heavier, and it takes both you and Nanami to push it aside. But when it finally moves, the map burns.

Not in flame, not in a way that destroys.

But in a way that ignites.

A sharp, golden pulse erupts from it, so sudden that you nearly drop it. Your fingers tighten around the parchment, feeling the warmth spread through your skin, sinking deep. It glows, flickers—something shifting across its surface like ink bleeding into water.

And then, a drop of blood.

Yours.

You barely register the sting until you see it—a thin, shallow cut across your palm, left behind from the sharp edge of a rock. A single bead of blood swells, wavers, and then—

It falls.

And time slows as it does, finally landing on the map with a soft plop.

The reaction is immediate. The golden light surges, curling outward, the blank space unraveling like a spell breaking. And then—slowly, slowly—something begins to appear.

Lines. Symbols. A path.

And beneath your feet, a low, deep rumble. The earth shifts, and the entrance reveals itself.

“Well,” Gojo glances back at the rest of you. “Shall we?”

You inhale sharply, the scent of damp stone thick in the air, before stepping forward, gripping the map tightly in your hands. The parchment is warm now, pulsing like a second heartbeat against your fingertips. You push ahead of Gojo, brushing past him without sparing a glance.

"I have the map," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "I have to tell you all the way."

Gojo doesn't argue. No one does.

The passage ahead yawns open like the throat of something ancient, something waiting. Darkness stretches out in both directions, thick and undisturbed, and yet—there is a structure to it. This is no ordinary cave, no natural formation carved by time and water. The walls bear the shape of something deliberate, something built. There is a symmetry to the archways, the way the stone has been shaped, pressed into perfect, unnatural precision.

A catacomb. A tomb.

"Lumos," Nanami murmurs, and then one by one, all their wands ignite, their glow illuminating the space in flickering bursts of gold and blue. Shadows dance wildly across the walls, stretching, bending, making shapes where there are none.

And then, the entrance seals behind you.

A dull, grinding sound shudders through the space as stone drags against stone, the path behind you closing in on itself with a finality that makes your stomach drop. The air thickens, pressing against your skin like the weight of something unseen, something watching.

Utahime swallows audibly, walking beside Toji.

"Why are there weird runes on the walls?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You turn, eyes narrowing as she lifts her wand, illuminating the carvings. Symbols—etched deep into the stone, curling in intricate patterns, spiraling down the length of the corridor. Your heart lurches as recognition settles in.

The runes. From Mirai's parchments. They are here. Real. Tangible.

You suck in a breath, turning sharply to Gojo, and he meets your gaze with something grim, something knowing.

"That's exactly what you think it is," he says. And you exhale.

"These," you whisper, "were in Gojo’s mother’s notes. Specialists have been trying to decode them at the Ministry, but there hasn’t been any luck so far."

Utahime stares at the symbols for a moment longer, then exhales, shaking her head slightly.

"Well," she murmurs, "at least now we’re sure we’re going in the right direction."

"You wouldn’t know the right direction if it hit you in the face, Iori," Gojo mutters.

You elbow him before he can say anything else, rolling your eyes as you glance back at the map. The golden marker is still there, a single pulsing point in the vast, twisting pathways now revealed on the parchment. And extending from it—

A path. A single line, leading forward, winding deep into the tunnels.

"Alright," you say, voice heavy with something unnameable. "Up straight ahead so far."

The silence that follows is different now. It is no longer the quiet of an abandoned place, nor the hush of the unknown. It is oppressive, lingering, as if the air itself is thick with something unsaid. Every step echoes too loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls in ways that don’t feel natural.

It is not like the One-Eyed-Witch Passageway.

It is way, way worse.

Here, the air is damp and stale, laced with something metallic. You can hear water dripping, here too, slow and steady, but it is not a comforting sound. It is wrong. Everything is wrong. Each drop is sharp, ringing out against the stone like something waiting, something watching.

A knife at the back of your throat, waiting to cut.

"Fawkes," Gojo murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "you okay?"

You nod, though your grip on the map tightens slightly.

Behind you, Utahime and Shoko are murmuring, their voices low as they trace their fingers over the runes, trying to make sense of them as they walk. The symbols seem to shift under the flickering light, twisting into something unrecognizable whenever you look away.

And then, a sound. Not footsteps. Not water. Something else. You take another step, turning the first corner, and freeze.

A song. High-pitched. Piercing. Not melodic, not harmonious, but shrill, discordant—something between a wail and laughter. The hairs on the back of your neck rise, and before you can react, Gojo moves.

Fast. His hand is on your shoulder, shoving you back, pressing you against the wall as he raises his wand.

"Lumos Maxima!"

Light explodes outward, flooding the passage.

And there, Erklings.

Lining the path ahead, their bodies hunched, composed of wood and thorns, twisted and gnarled like something out of a nightmare. Their eyes gleam yellow in the wandlight, and when they grin, their sharp teeth glisten with something wet.

Bavarian Erklings.

You scramble for your wand, reaching for the hidden sheath in your boot, fingers fumbling against the leather. But they are fast. And one of them is already lunging, your breath catches, heart hammering, and before you can even react—

"Crucio!"

The word slams into the air like a physical force.

The Erkling shrieks.

A sound unlike anything you've ever heard—raw, agonized, its body twisting, writhing as it collapses onto the stone floor, limbs convulsing. Your head jerks toward Gojo, mouth wide open. His wand is still raised, expression unreadable. He holds the curse for a second too long. And then he stops.

The Erkling slumps, twitching, gasping in short, ragged bursts. And then—

"Pullus," Gojo mutters.

The Erkling barely has time to react before its body shifts, contorts—feathers sprouting in jagged tufts, limbs shrinking, warping, until all that remains is a dazed, disoriented chicken.

There is a silence that stretches between all of you. Your lips part, a protest forming, but nothing comes out.

Gojo does not look at you. Instead, he turns back to the others.

"Keep moving," he says.

And then the fight begins in earnest. Utahime, Toji and Nanami are already moving, wands raised, throwing jinxes faster than you can process.

"Melofors!"

"Pullus!"

A burst of magic surges through the tunnel—Erklings dropping one by one, their bodies warping, twisting, shifting into harmless forms. A pumpkin-headed creature stumbles into a wall, its shrill shriek cutting off abruptly. Another chicken flaps wildly before darting into the darkness.

Shoko dodges an incoming attack, flicking her wand sharply.

"Expulso!"

The force of the blast sends the creature flying, colliding against the stone with a sickening crunch. And then, it is silent. The last Erkling crumples, transformed, defeated.

Your breaths come fast, uneven.

Gojo exhales, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of an unseen thing. You clutch the map, pulse still unsteady.

And then, you step forward.

"Come on," you say, voice quieter than before. And you keep walking, deeper into the dark. This time, with your wand clutched tightly in hand.

This is silent in the way that a tomb is silent. A silence so complete it feels wrong, heavy, pressing against your skin, against your ribs, like the weight of the catacombs is threatening to collapse inward and swallow you whole. You listen to it, to the near-absence of sound: the shuffle of cautious footsteps against the uneven stone, the slow drip of water from unseen cracks above, the occasional intake of breath as someone stifles their unease. Even your heartbeat sounds loud in your ears.

You keep moving forward, leading them through the winding passage. The walls narrow and widen unpredictably, swallowing you in shadows one moment, then spilling out into dimly lit chambers the next. The light from your wands does little to dispel the oppressive blackness that lurks beyond its reach. Shadows stretch unnaturally, warping against the stone. You swear they move when you're not looking directly at them.

There are creatures here, but nothing large. Small, skittering things that vanish into cracks when light passes over them. They don’t bother you. Not yet. But something about them—about all of this—itches at the back of your mind.

You swallow down the lingering feeling of failure. You hesitated before. You could’ve been hurt. Worse, someone else could have. And you don’t know why it happened. You’ve been in fights before, but when that Erkling lunged for you, for a split second, you did nothing. You don’t have the luxury of hesitation now.

You glance back. Gojo is near the rear now, keeping pace with Nanami, his head on a constant swivel, eyes sharp, searching for threats before they find you. He hasn't looked at you since—since before, when the Erkling nearly reached you and he cast the Cruciatus Curse without hesitation. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he did it, or the fact that you didn’t say anything.

“Hey,” Toji’s voice is quiet beside you. You flinch before you can stop yourself. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He places a hand on your shoulder as you walk, firm, grounding. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

“I know,” you say quickly, avoiding his gaze, “I got distracted for a second. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s okay, y’know,” he continues, easy, unreadable. “Happens when it’s your first time. Can’t really blame yourself.”

“Right,” you nod, tightening your grip on the map. And then you feel it—the shift in the air.

It’s almost imperceptible. A sudden drop in temperature, the taste of damp stone thickening on your tongue. The hair at the nape of your neck stands on end.

You stop. “Wait.”

Toji furrows his brows but listens. The rest of them come to a halt as well, footsteps trailing off into silence. You exhale sharply, steadying yourself, rolling the map back up as your fingers tighten around your wand.

You step forward and whisper, “Lumos.”

The soft glow barely reaches the darkness ahead. Toji doesn’t hesitate—he flicks his wand, sending out a small burst of light, something like a spark, and you watch as it streaks forward, down the corridor.

It travels far. Farther than it should, down the endless stone passage, before it hits the end of the tunnel.

And for a moment, it illuminates them.

Inferi.

The sight slams into you like a physical thing. A suffocating, all-consuming wrongness that crawls up your spine and wraps around your ribs, constricting, pressing the air from your lungs.

They stand in the clearing where the tunnel widens into a vast chamber. Hundreds of them. No—thousands. Lurking at the edges of the light, motionless. Pale, waterlogged skin stretched thin over bone. Empty, milky eyes turned toward you in eerie synchrony. Their mouths hang open, twisted into expressions that were once screams, their fingers curled like claws at their sides.

They don’t move—not yet.

The spark dies. Darkness returns. And then, they move.

A sharp, jagged inhale rips through your throat. “Prepare yourselves!”

Shoko stiffens beside you. “What—what are they?”

You don’t take your eyes off them as you force the words out. “Inferi.”

Toji exhales sharply, a humorless, disbelieving sound. “You’re telling me Sukuna left an army of dead bodies here before he died?”

Your grip tightens on your wand as the Inferi lurch forward, slow at first, dragging, unsteady, like they are remembering how to move.

“Yes,” you whisper.

Then they run.

“Incendio Maxima!”

A torrent of fire erupts from your wand, surging forward like a wave, roaring through the tunnel and slamming into the first line of them. They ignite instantly, collapsing into heaps of smoldering ash before they can even scream. But there are more. So many more.

You glance at Gojo. He understands immediately. “Incendio Maxima!”

His fire burns hotter, brighter. The tunnel is bathed in violent orange and gold, casting nightmarish shadows along the walls as the Inferi burn, as they keep coming.

“There are thousands,” you yell over the roar of the flames. “Do your best.”

“Thousands?” Utahime breathes, horrified, but there’s no time for fear.

Gojo pushes past you, casting another massive burst of fire that incinerates twenty, thirty at a time, but they don’t stop.

They will reach you. They will consume you. You can already see it happening—how their hands will grab at you, how their fingers will dig into your skin, how their rotting, open mouths will close around your flesh.

You will die here.

No. No, you won’t. You can’t. You promised Gojo’s mother that you’d put your life before his.

“Satoru?” Your voice cuts through the fire and footsteps and snarling groans. “Firestorm Charm! I can’t do it—I’m not powerful enough.”

His head jerks toward you, and there’s fear in his eyes, something raw and wrong, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know the incantation for it. Trust me, I would do it if I—”

An Inferius lunges for him.

“Satoru!”

Toji grabs the back of Gojo’s coat, yanking him away just in time, spinning on his heel. You don’t see him cast, only see the eruption of fire that follows.

It spreads fast—a ring of flame roaring to life around all of you, crimson and gold, alive in a way magic shouldn’t be. The Inferi reel back, screaming, but they can’t reach you anymore.

Toji exhales, glancing back at everyone. “Move with me.”

And he does, stepping forward, the fire moving with him, a living shield, a boundary between you and them.

Your throat is dry. “How do you know how to do this?”

Toji doesn’t look back. “You kept your secrets all year and now expect me to tell you things?”

You swallow. “Sorry.”

“’S alright,” he says.

Then, above you, movement.

You glance up. The Inferi that didn’t burn are crawling across the ceiling. Your stomach twists violently, but you don’t hesitate this time.

“Incendio Maxima!”

They burn. They fall to the ashes. And Toji gives you a triumphant smile, “See? You didn’t get scared.”

You can’t help it—you return the smile, the edges of your mouth curling before you even think to stop yourself. A quiet, fleeting moment, as fragile as the flickering light of your wands.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I didn’t.”

Then, you turn to Gojo. He’s a step away from you, close enough that the heat from his body lingers in the space between, close enough that if you reach out, you could touch the soot-smudged sleeve of his coat. You don’t.

“You okay?”

His lips press together for half a second, then, “I’m fine.” He says it lowly, almost grumbling. His voice is rough at the edges, worn thin, like he’s been pushing it too much, yelling over the roar of fire and moving bodies. Then, softer, but still urgent, “Check the map. We have to keep going.”

Up ahead, Toji moves steadily forward, his wand raised, the firestorm curling outward as he walks. Behind him, you all stay huddled, feet shifting carefully across the uneven stone floor, the remnants of charred bodies crumbling underfoot. Nanami, Utahime, and Shoko move in rhythm, their wands flicking up in quick, precise motions, sending bursts of flame whenever an Inferius manages to crawl too high, whenever the walls shift with the weight of something overhead. You don’t let yourself think too much about how many of them are left, how many still lurk just beyond the reach of your fire.

You kneel slightly, unrolling the leather of the map, fingers trembling just enough to make it frustrating, the heat of your skin bleeding into the parchment. Your breath is quick, uneven, but you don’t stop, don’t hesitate. You press your fingers against the worn edges, trying to smooth it flat against your thigh, eyes scanning over the markings—

And then you see it.

Your breath stills. The end. It’s near.

The pulsing light of the map—the magic leading you forward—stretches just past the clearing, just past the sea of Inferi. Then it stops. No, not stops. It pauses. There’s a break. A small indentation in the ink. In the light. Not a dead end. A doorway.

Your eyes trace the markings carefully, slowly. Beyond the doorway, there is another corridor, another tunnel, drawn in the same narrow lines as the one you stand in now. But there is no light there. No pulsing glow, no magic guiding you forward. The path just continues into nothing.

A door before the grave. A tunnel leading into blackness before the grave.

You exhale, forcing yourself to swallow down the thick knot of unease in your throat. You roll the map back up, standing swiftly, turning to Gojo. He’s already watching you.

“It’s not that far ahead,” you say, voice steady, despite the way your hand still burns with sweat seeping into the cut from earlier, despite the way the air still hums with distant, unnatural movement. He doesn’t respond, just tilts his head slightly, waiting. You shift, just enough that the distance between you is reduced to inches. No, centimeters. Close enough to feel him. But you ignore it, focus back on the map, lifting a hand to point. “This, however, may prove difficult.”

Gojo’s eyes flicker downward, watching the movement of your fingers, the subtle indentation on the map. His voice is softer when he speaks now, no longer rough with urgency, just quiet, questioning. “How so?”

You shake your head, stiffly. “The Inferi are here.” You tap at the clearing. “The grave is where the light stops.” Another tap. Then, finally, your finger hovers over the break in the ink. “This indent. It’s a doorway. There’s a tunnel past it, but I can’t see anything there. No markers. No details.” You exhale, slowly. “That means it could be worse than what’s out here.”

Gojo is silent for a moment. Then his lips press together, flattening into something grim, something careful, before he finally says, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I hope you know that.”

You blink, startled by the sudden sincerity. Then your shoulders tighten, your breath catches slightly. But it’s gone quickly, replaced by something sharp, something certain. You shake your head. “That’s not what I’m worried about, dummy.”

He exhales. A laugh, maybe, but too short, too quiet.

“I can’t let anything happen to you, either,” you say.

Gojo looks at you for half a second too long. Then his expression flickers, shifts—eyes widening just slightly. And before you can react, before you even register why, his wand is already raised, aimed just above your head.

“Incendio!”

A sudden burst of fire, sharp and white-hot, surges past you. You jerk backward, the heat searing the air above as something screeches—a raw, grating, inhuman sound that echoes through the tunnel, bouncing off the stone walls. You look up, breath caught in your throat.

The Inferius is falling, already burned, already gone, its hollowed-out face twisted into something monstrous, something not quite human anymore, something that might have once been a person, long ago. It collapses into ash before it even reaches the ground.

“Thanks,” you murmur, barely above a breath, before turning to Toji. He’s just ahead of you, his body silhouetted against the flickering wall of fire, his grip on his wand unwavering despite the exhaustion evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

“Hey,” you call, voice low but firm, “can you see the hall up ahead? There’s a small tunnel past it. We have to go through there. Be careful.”

Toji doesn’t turn, only grunts, his eyes locked onto the shifting mass of the dead just beyond the flames. “Not many left. Barely a few hundreds now,” he mutters.

Your pulse stutters as a handful of Inferi lurch forward, nearly breaking through the barrier of fire. You raise your wand in an instant, fingers slick with sweat, and send out a burst of white-hot flames. “Incendio!”

The heat flares across your face as the creatures crumble, bodies collapsing into blackened ash, and the smell of charred, rotting flesh thickens in the stagnant air.

“Keep going straight,” you say, voice softer now, but urgent. “Stop just before the big hall. If we go in there, we won’t be able to control them. There’s too many.”

Toji gives a stiff nod. “Right.”

Gojo moves beside you, stepping forward slightly, his wand still raised. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter—just sends another torrent of flames into the darkness, clearing more of the army of the dead so the group can push forward. The firelight catches against his skin, his white hair glinting gold for brief, fleeting moments before flickering back into shadow.

And Toji does exactly as you told him. He stops just at the entrance of the hall.

You freeze beside him, eyes widening at the vast, open space before you. It’s circular, cavernous, the walls stretching high into a dome of blackness. You can’t see the ceiling, can’t even see where the walls end. It’s just dark, an abyss of stone and silence. But it’s filled—packed—with the Inferi, bodies stacked, pressed, twisted together in a sea of the undead.

There’s a tunnel at the other end. Barely visible. If not for the firelight, you wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between the walls of the cavern and the creatures standing in front of them. The way they move—it’s not all at once, not a coordinated attack. Just slow, unnatural twitches, heads turning sharply, bodies shifting awkwardly in reaction to the flames. But they don’t stop. They can’t stop.

Gojo exhales sharply beside you, gaze locked ahead. “Keep the wall up.” His voice is gruff, lower than usual.

Then, he raises his wand. And this time, it’s stronger than anything before.

A single, roaring inferno bursts forward, crashing against the Inferi with devastating force. It engulfs the first hundred instantly, burning them to nothing in seconds. You can barely see beyond the sheer brightness of it, your vision flickering between gold and black as the flames spread outward, stretching past Toji’s firestorm, devouring.

Some of them try to retreat. But they don’t—can’t—make it far. It’s in their very nature to chase, to seek out the living. And so they keep moving, even as their bodies burn, even as they collapse into nothing.

Gojo exhales, lowering his wand slightly, turning to you. A question in his eyes. You nod.

And this time, you do it together. “Incendio Maxima!”

The flames that erupt from your wands are immense, combined into something unstoppable. It surges forward, past Toji’s wall, past the clearing, past the horde—a monstrously magnificent burst of gold and white, twisting into shapes you can’t even comprehend, consuming everything.

The heat is unbearable. The light nearly blinding. The screams—horrific, unnatural, echoing endlessly against the stone walls—fill the cavern like a terrible chorus of the damned.

By the time the flames die down, the cavern is silent. There are only a few left now. Twenty, maybe forty. Easily manageable.

A breath escapes you, unsteady, but relieved. A grin breaks across your face, triumphant, and before you can stop yourself, a quiet laugh slips past your lips.

Shoko and Nanami step forward, raising their wands, sending their own bursts of flame into the few remaining Inferi, finishing them off.

And then, finally, Toji lowers his wand.

A harsh breath leaves him, something between a sigh and a quiet grunt, and you watch as Utahime claps a hand on his back, murmuring a small, “Thanks.”

You catch her eye, and give her a small, tired smile.

“Hey,” Shoko then says, nodding up ahead. “There’s the tunnel.”

You follow her gaze. At the very back of the cavern, beyond the burnt remains of what was once a horde, there is an opening. A tunnel, carved into the stone.

But it splits.

“There’s three paths,” Utahime murmurs.

You glance down at the map, scanning it quickly, before looking back up. “Go straight.”

A chorus of “Lumos” follows, each voice low, exhausted, but clear.

Your steps are slow now, careful, as the group moves through the charred remains of the Inferi, past the blackened bones, past the ruined, hollowed-out eyes that no longer see.

And as you walk, you look up.

The vastness of it unnerves you. The way the stone stretches up, up, up—higher than you can see, disappearing into the darkness above. The walls are carved, etched with runes, scattered across the cavern in patterns that feel deliberate, that feel ancient. You can’t make out the inscriptions anymore, not now that the fire is gone, but you’d caught glimpses earlier, words you didn’t recognize, shapes that felt wrong.

Your fingers tighten around your wand. “There might be a doorway up ahead,” you say.

You step into the tunnel, and the sound of your footsteps echoes against the dark stone, each step swallowed by the weight of the silence pressing in around you. The air is coagulated, lifeless, untouched by anything living for centuries. The only light comes from the glow of your wands, flickering against the uneven walls, casting elongated shadows that twist and stretch with every movement.

Behind you, the others fall into step, their breathing shallow, quiet. No one speaks. There is something about this place—something about the way the tunnel narrows, the way the walls close in—that makes words feel too loud, too dangerous.

You glance down at the map again, eyes tracing the inked lines. It’s supposed to be just ahead.

You stop. Only a few feet away, you see it. The incantation, faintly marked on the stone beneath your feet.

Your grip tightens around your wand, and you whisper, “Nox.”

The light dies instantly, plunging the tunnel ahead into darkness. For a moment, the silence is deafening. Then, you lift your wand and flick a single spark forward.

It dies before it reaches the ground.

Your pulse thrums in your ears. Now, you see it—it’s not exactly a doorway. More of a gate. A metal door with bars, stretching from floor to ceiling, its iron-blackened with age, embedded deep into the rock like it had been built into the mountain itself.

It’s locked. You step forward, staring at the intricate mechanism, and exhale slowly, murmuring, “Alohomora.”

Nothing. The gate doesn’t budge. Not even a shift, not even a sound. Your heart sinks as you turn back to the others, the cold metal reflecting the dim light of their wands.

Shoko presses her lips together, stepping beside you. She raises her wand, whispering the spell again. Still nothing. The tunnel falls into stillness, thick with expectation, with unease. The metal gate looms before you, unmoving, impenetrable.

Nanami shifts, his voice low. “What now?”

You stare at the gate, pulse quickening. Then, the realization practically hits you in the face.

A slow grin spreads across your face as you turn to Gojo. “Hagrid.”

He frowns, brows furrowing. “What?”

You shake your head, already reaching down, stuffing your wand back into your boot before carefully, delicately, peeling back the embroidered fabric of your chest pocket. The Gryffindor crest is still warm against your fingertips.

And inside, two tiny, beady black eyes peek up at you.

A quiet breath of relief escapes as you gently lift your hand, offering your palm, and the small creature blinks before climbing onto your fingers with its delicate, twig-like limbs.

Gojo steps closer, eyes widening. “That’s what Hagrid gave you?”

You nod, extending your arm slightly. “Everyone, meet Twig. He’s a Bowtruckle.”

There’s a pause.

“Oh my God,” Shoko mutters then, running a hand down her face. “They can open practically any lock.”

“Exactly,” you say, grinning now. The tension in your chest loosens, just a little, as you bring Twig closer to the iron gate, whispering, “Sorry, Twig. I promise I’ll take you back to Hagrid after all this, okay? But I need your help.”

Twig chitters softly, tilting his tiny head, before gingerly stepping onto the cold metal. He moves with careful, deliberate precision, scuttling down toward the lock like he already knows exactly what to do.

For a moment, there’s only the soft sound of his small limbs scraping against the metal. Then, he reaches the keyhole, pressing his tiny branch-like fingers into its intricate gears.

He twists. Turns. A quiet, rapid chitter fills the space, echoing through the tunnel.

Then—

Click.

The lock releases. The gate swings open, groaning loudly as it moves.

A breathless laugh escapes you. Relief floods your chest as you extend your arm again, and Twig eagerly clambers back onto your sleeve.

“Thank you,” you murmur, brushing a gentle finger against his tiny head before opening the pocket of your sweater again. He slips inside, curling up in the fabric, and just as he settles, you swear he yawns.

You shake your head, smiling. Then, you look back up, past the open gate. The last tunnel stretches before you, silent, waiting.

“One last tunnel,” you say. Your voice is steady, despite the pulse thrumming in your throat. You lift your wand.

“Lumos.”

You step forward, and the tunnel seems to shrink around you. The air grows impervious, heavy, pressing in from all sides like an invisible force, as if the walls are breathing, as if the tunnel itself is watching. Your breath curls in front of you in thin, silver wisps, barely visible in the dim light of your wand.

You exhale, and the cold deepens.

It is the kind of cold that seeps into the marrow of your frame, that settles in the hollows of your chest, that burrows beneath your skin and stays there. It is unnatural, empty, a cold that has nothing to do with winter. And yet, your mind scrambles for something logical—maybe it’s the mountain, maybe the temperature is dropping outside, maybe it has started to snow in Japan. Maybe—

But no.

Something is wrong. Again.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in the air, the way it suddenly thickens, curdles, as if time itself has slowed, as if the world has bent, imperceptibly, just enough for you to notice. A sharp ringing begins to crawl up your ears, a muted, suffocating silence swelling, pressing against your ribcage and sternum.

And then, a slow, creeping shadow.

You see them.

Dementors.

A dozen. No—more. Their cloaks billow, though there is no wind, ragged, tattered, stretching as they move. The darkness around them is thick, almost living, swallowing the dim light of your wand, suffocating it. You can’t see their faces. You don’t need to. The emptiness they carry seeps into your lungs, into your chest, into the marrow of your bones, twisting through your mind like a silent, insidious poison.

The temperature plummets.

It is not the kind of cold that bites at your skin. It is worse. Deeper. It is the kind of cold that drags—drags every happy memory from you, drags every warmth, every safety, until you are hollow, until you are nothing but this moment. This tunnel. This darkness.

Your heart pounds. You can hear it in your ears, beating too fast, too frantic, but even that sound is starting to feel distant, as if the Dementors are already working, pulling something from you, something you can’t lose.

A soft, keening breath escapes from behind you.

You turn, and you see them—Shoko, Utahime, Nanami—standing frozen, rooted, paralyzed by something deeper than fear.

Shoko is breathing too fast, her eyes too wide, her fingers trembling around her wand. Utahime has a hand clamped over her mouth, as if trying to keep something inside, as if she is already hearing something she cannot bear to hear. And Nanami—Nanami, who is always steady, always sure—Nanami is pale, his gaze locked on something beyond what anyone else can see, something inside himself, something that is being taken from him.

Gojo doesn’t move. Toji doesn’t either.

But they feel it. You know they do.

You can see it in the way Gojo clenches his jaw, in the way his fingers tighten around his wand, in the way he forces himself to stay upright, as if holding onto something only he can see. Toji is the same—face impassive, unreadable, but there is a tension in his shoulders, in his stance, in the way his fingers twitch.

And then, a slow, rattling breath. One of the Dementors shifts forward.

Your lungs seize. You can feel it—something pulling, something peeling away, something you cannot afford to lose.

You react before you can think. Your wand is already raised. Your voice is already there.

“Ready?” Toji asks, his voice low, steady.

You nod, pulse thrumming.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Light erupts from your wand—brilliant, silver, cutting through the suffocating darkness like a blade. Toji’s does the same, but his is different—his is mist, a wave of shapeless silver fog rolling forward like a shield, casting long shadows against the stone walls.

You glance at him, breathless. He catches your look and shrugs, his voice as casual as ever. “I have a corporeal one. This is just easier.”

You shake your head, turning back as your own Patronus fully forms. A phoenix. Its wings spread, luminous, searing against the darkness. It rushes forward, cutting through the closest Dementor, pushing it back, driving it away—

But then—

The Dementor stirs, its tattered cloak billowing, its skeletal hands reaching, and the moment your Patronus dissipates, the cold rushes back, fast, suffocating, merciless.

You lower your wand, chest heaving.

The Dementors are still there.

And they are still coming.

“This is why Gojo calls you Fawkes,” Shoko murmurs, the realization settling over her like a slow-burning light.

You glance back at her, the ghost of a smile flickering at your lips, but it’s fleeting—momentary—because the cold is still here, wrapping its fingers around your throat, pressing into your chest, tightening. You nod once, sharp, before turning forward again, gripping your wand just a little bit tighter.

You try again.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The words leave your lips, the spell bursts from your wand, but—

It is weak.

A flicker, barely a glimmer of light before it fades, like a candle snuffed out by an invisible hand. The cold is too strong now, seeping into your bones, rotting through your veins, pulling at something deep, deep inside of you, something you need.

You try to breathe, but the air is thick, heavy, pressing down. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, faster, faster, thudding like a frantic drum. It feels wrong. It feels impossible. You have done this spell a hundred times before, practiced it enough, but now—now—your hands are shaking, your fingers numb, your breath short, your mind clogged with something like fear but worse.

They are coming closer.

You see them, gliding forward in eerie, silent unison, their tattered cloaks swelling, their hollow, faceless voids of heads tilting, as if they can already taste your fear, as if they are already pulling from you. And you feel it—you feel the emptiness coiling in your stomach, reaching into your chest, clawing through your memories, through everything that makes you you.

Your lungs stutter. It is not a scream that leaves your mouth but a gasp, a ragged, breathless sound of realization—

You can’t do it. Your Patronus isn’t strong enough. The Dementors keep coming.

And then, there’s a sharp pull at your jumper from behind you.

You yelp, the ground disappearing from beneath you as you fall, hips slamming against cold stone, your hands catching against the rough surface just in time to keep you from falling completely. The world lurches. You hear your own breath, fast, shallow, a mess of panic as you scramble for your wand—

Gojo shoves Toji back, arm slamming across his chest, because there are simply too many of them.

Too many.

You push yourself up, eyes wide, head snapping toward him as you scream, “Satoru!”

You reach out, reaching for him, reaching for something, anything—

But he is already moving. Already casting.

“Expecto Patronum!”

His voice shakes the tunnel.

It does not echo—it rings. Resonates. The walls tremble, the air splits apart, the darkness shatters beneath the weight of it. It is not just light that bursts from his wand—it is power, raw and absolute, swallowing the Dementors whole before they can even think to move.

Your breath catches.

The Patronus takes shape. And then you see it.

Something so vast, so impossibly enormous, you cannot tell where it begins and where it ends. You do not even breathe as it rises—tall, monstrous, majestic.

A dragon.

It is the most powerful Patronus you have ever seen, will ever see, in your entire life.

The silver light is blinding, molten, burning through the tunnel with an intensity that is almost too much, almost impossible to look at. The heat of it reaches you, even through the numbing cold, even through the stagnant air. Its wings spread—massive, a single beat sending a shockwave through the space, parting the Dementors like dust in the wind. Its body coils in a great, arcing motion, a beast of light and fire and fury, silver scales reflecting like mirrors against the stone walls.

And suddenly, you understand. You understand why the Marauders’ Map had that strange name written across it. The nickname Gojo had given himself.

Ashen.

Because this is what he is. It’s what his patronus is.

Something untouched by the dark. Something that burns through the shadows, something that refuses to be swallowed.

The Dementors flee.

And Gojo Satoru stands, Patronus burning, face illuminated in silver light, untouched, unshaken, like he was always meant to be here.

He turns once the last of the light fades, once the dragon—vast and towering, ancient and blinding—dissolves into thin air, leaving behind only echoes, only the remnants of a power that felt like it had been carved from something greater than magic itself. The tunnel is silent now, the Dementors gone, but the cold remains, a whisper of what once was.

Gojo’s breath is heavy, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven motions as he stares at you. There is something in his eyes—something raw, fragile beneath the usual arrogance, something that flickers, almost unsure. He is waiting. You are not sure for what.

You push yourself to stand, legs still unsteady, the weight of what just happened pressing against your bones, curling itself into the hollow space beneath your ribs. There is a strange pressure in your chest. You cannot name it, so you exhale sharply and place a hand on his shoulder, awkward but grounding, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his robes.

“That was…” you start, but the words do not come. They falter, caught somewhere between your throat and your teeth, so you click your tongue instead, shaking your head.

Gojo tilts his head at you the way he always does—like he knows something you don’t, like he is already laughing at the words you have not spoken yet. His eyes soften, but only for you. Only ever for you. And you cannot stand it, cannot stand how infuriatingly charming he is, how easily he wears that ridiculous, tender smile even after nearly dying.

“Incredible,” Shoko cuts in from behind, walking toward the two of you with her hands shoved in her pockets. “You’re teaching me that. I want a fake pet dragon of my own.”

“It’s not a pet, stupid,” Gojo scoffs, rolling his eyes, but there is no bite in his words, only amusement. “It’s a Patronus.”

“You’re teaching me, anyway,” she insists, shaking her head, before glancing around the now-empty tunnel. “All of the Dementors are dead. I thought they only existed in Azkaban.”

“I’m guessing someone left them here,” Toji mutters, his voice low, unreadable. He nods toward the tunnel’s exit. “After Sukuna was put into a tomb.”

“To keep people from coming,” you murmur.

The words leave your mouth before you have fully processed them, before you have even considered the weight of them. But it makes sense. Too much sense. A defense mechanism—an ancient one, old magic twisted into something cruel, something meant to deter rather than protect.

And then, another thought. One colder than the last.

“Then how did Suguru make it through?”

Gojo turns to look at you, his brows furrowing slightly. You can tell he is thinking it through, letting the pieces fall into place as his fingers flex at his sides.

“Salazar fucking knows,” he mutters.

You don’t miss the way he glances toward the end of the tunnel, toward the dim light that filters in from beyond, its glow stretching across the stone floor in uneven patches. It calls to him, the way all things dangerous and unknown seem to. And before you can say anything, before you can stop him, he moves, fast, as if something is pulling him forward, as if his life depends on reaching that light.

You follow after him, matching his pace, the air growing thicker around you as you near the exit.

The tunnel ends suddenly. One moment, you are walking through a tight corridor of damp stone, the walls pressing in, the air thick with the scent of decay and age, the sound of your breath loud against the silence. The next, the passage opens up into something vast, a space so cavernous it takes your breath away. You slow to a stop, blinking against the dim light, your fingers twitching at your sides.

It’s an amphitheater. Circular, ancient, impossibly large. The stone steps curve downward, layered in rings, leading to the center like a pit meant for something dark and long buried. The walls curve inward, enclosing the space, trapping the air inside so that every movement feels weighty, every breath thick with something old, something forgotten. The torches lining the walls flicker low, their glow too weak to chase away the shadows. You get the feeling that the darkness here is not merely the absence of light but something more.

Your breath catches when your eyes find him. Suguru.

He stands at the very heart of the amphitheater, next to the tomb that sits heavy in the center like an altar. His head is bowed, his wand raised, his lips moving in some hushed murmur, the words slipping from his mouth like smoke, curling into the air before vanishing. In his other hand, something glints—just barely—a locket, swaying gently with the movement of his breath.

It’s him, but it isn’t him. Not really.

When he hears you, hears the soft shuffle of boots against stone, his head snaps up. His eyes, when they meet yours, widen—but only for a moment. Then they land on Satoru, and the expression shifts.

“Satoru,” he breathes, like the name alone is enough to steady him, enough to pull him out of the trance, enough to make the thing inside him loosen its grip. For a moment, there is hesitation, a flicker of something familiar, something real.

Satoru steps down the stairs, once, twice, slowly, measured, like approaching a wounded animal. He tests the ground beneath him, the weight of his own voice, before he speaks, low but firm, echoing across the cavernous space.

“Don’t do this, Suguru,” he says, voice cracking. “I’m begging you.”

You feel it then. The weight in your pocket, pressing against your thigh. The phial.

And then, your eyes are on the locket, gleaming dully in Suguru’s grasp, and everything clicks into place.

Your mind churns, the realization dawning not gently, not slowly, but all at once, a violent kind of clarity that makes your stomach turn. The way his eyes look hollowed-out, the way his movements have been wrong for months, the way he speaks like something is pressing against his throat, curling around his words, twisting them into something they were never meant to be. You know what this is. You’ve read about it in books, whispered about it in dark corners of the library, terrified at the implications of what something like this could do to a person.

The Horcrux. It’s controlling him. Twisting him. Suffocating him.

It has been for months. Maybe longer, depending on when and how he found it.

A sharp breath leaves you, too sudden, too loud. Toji turns his head at the sound, his scarred lip pressing into a thin line, but you barely register it. Your legs move before your mind does, carrying you forward, down the steps, just a few, toward Suguru.

“Suguru,” you call out, voice steadier than you feel, “it’s not you. It’s the Horcrux.”

His brows knit together, his lips parting, his fingers tightening around the locket.

“What?” he asks, but his voice is strange. Not confused, not questioning, but defensive. Like you’ve accused him of something, like he’s already made up his mind. “Of course not, this is what I want. This is what I must do. Don’t you understand?”

His gaze shifts from you back to Satoru, his grip still white-knuckled around his wand.

Satoru is nearly at the bottom of the steps now. Almost. Just a few feet away.

Suguru whispers something under his breath. You don’t hear it, but you feel it.

A chill creeps up your spine, and instinctively, your eyes dart around the amphitheater, searching, scanning, waiting.

Then, the doors opposite you groan open, slow, deliberate.

And the Inferi begin to pour in.

Dozens of them. No—hundreds.

A choked breath leaves your throat. Behind you, you hear Shoko, Nanami, Utahime—the way their bodies tense, the way their wands rise in unison. They do not have to wait. They understand immediately. They know what must be done.

But you don’t have time to think about that now. Because Suguru has turned back to Satoru. And he raises his wand. You feel something sharp twist in your chest. It happens fast. Too fast.

“Satoru!” you scream, his name leaving your lips like a prayer, like a plea, as you move without thinking. The map slips from your fingers, fluttering uselessly to the ground, forgotten.

Suguru does not hesitate. He attacks. The duel begins.

Satoru does not attack back. He blocks. He dodges. He steps lightly, carefully, every movement calculated, precise, defensive. Every spell deflected, every curse sidestepped.

Suguru does not hold back. He moves quickly, viciously, every spell sent with intent, with force, with fury. His eyes burn, dark and wild, his body thrumming with something unhinged.

You watch, horror creeping up your throat, as Suguru raises his wand and sends out a curse. An Unforgivable one.

Satoru deflects it. Barely. Your heart jumps.

“Suguru,” Satoru breathes, dodging another curse, his voice low, aching, “please—”

“Stop talking!” Suguru snaps, eyes glinting with something terrible, something feverish, sending another curse, and another, and another.

Satoru does not stop trying.

But you—

You cannot focus on them anymore. Because you see it. The Horcrux. It sits atop Sukuna’s tomb, heavy, waiting. You scramble toward it, down the steps, heart pounding, breath ragged, feet slipping against the stone as you rush forward.

You are close. You can reach it. Just a little more.

Suguru turns. His wand flicks toward you. He whispers the curse before you even have time to react.

“Sectumsempra.”

You don’t see it happen.

But you feel it. A force slamming into you, knocking you backward, knocking the breath from your lungs.

Toji.

You hear the impact before you register what has happened. The way his body crashes against the ground. The way he lands in front of you, crumpled, still.

His blood pools too quickly.

Too fast, too much, blooming across the stone floor in a deep, viscous red, the edges of it creeping outward like fingers, like something alive, and reaching. You stare at it, at the way it spreads beneath him, at the way it gleams in the dim light, and your breath—

Your breath doesn’t come.

It is stuck somewhere between your lungs, between the moment before and the moment after, between understanding and denial. You sink to your knees beside him, your fingers hovering just above his chest, your hands trembling too violently to touch him. The wet sound of his breathing, ragged, uneven, clotted with something thick, echoes between the stone walls, and you watch—helpless—as his entire body begins to bleed.

There is too much blood.

He tries to say something, but it comes out wrong. The sound wet, bubbling, choked at the edges. A protest, maybe. A warning. A curse. You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

“No, Toji,” you whisper, shaking your head, “don’t—don’t say anything, please.”

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because if he speaks, it means it’s real. Maybe because if he doesn’t, you can pretend for a little longer that he isn’t slipping away beneath you, his body torn open, his breath shallowing. Maybe because there is something so much worse about the idea of him trying to say something—to say anything—only to be cut short by the weight of his own dying.

Your throat tightens. Your hands curl, helpless, into fists.

Then, you remember yourself.

You rip your gaze away from him, from the ruin of his body, from the way his blood spills across your knees, seeping into the fabric, staining you. You look up, eyes burning, and search for Utahime.

She is up the stairs, her wand raised, sending bursts of fire toward an Inferius. Her face is sharp with focus, her body taut with it, every movement deliberate, decisive, honed by something deeper than just skill.

You scream her name, the sound of it raw, cracking, echoing against the stone.

“Iori!”

She turns at once, her head snapping toward you, eyes wide. Then, she is running, moving without hesitation, feet pounding against the steps as she descends, as she falls into place beside you, kneeling on the opposite side of Toji’s body.

She opens her mouth, about to speak, about to ask, but you grab her hand before she can.

“Iori,” you say, voice breaking, “go. Go back to Hogwarts. Take him to Snape. Snape will know what to do.”

Her face twists in something stricken, something close to refusal. “What?” she breathes. “I can’t just leave you all to fight here.”

“And I can’t let Fushiguro die when it was supposed to be me,” you say, firmly.

Your voice does not waver. Your hands do not either as you press hers against one of Toji’s wounds. You feel the heat of his blood soak into your palm, feel the unsteadiness of his pulse beneath it. You meet her eyes, hold them.

“Take him to Snape, Iori. I can’t Disapparate. You have to be the one to do it.”

She swallows hard. You can see the way her hands shake now, stained with blood, the way her chest rises and falls, the way she wants to argue, to tell you no, that she won’t, that she refuses. But she looks at Toji, at the way he is barely breathing, and she knows. She knows there isn’t another choice.

She nods. Then, she closes her eyes.

A second later, they are gone. The only thing left is the blood.

It stains the stone, pooling in the cracks, seeping into the seams. It stains your hands, thick and hot, clinging beneath your fingernails, pressed into the weave of your sweater. You can feel it drying already, the edges of it tacky, the scent of it thick in the air.

You exhale once, shoving the locket into the back pocket of your jeans. You stand, legs unsteady beneath you, and lift your wand. There is no time for hesitation.

Shoko and Nanami are holding the line on the steps, their wands moving in sharp bursts, handling the Inferi with precision. You do not need to look long to know that they will hold their ground.

Your eyes scan the amphitheater. And then, you find them.

Satoru. Suguru.

They are still fighting. Your breath leaves you in a shudder, your fingers enclosing around your wand.

You cannot waste another second.

You watch them fight. Your breath pulls short, uneven, catching at the back of your throat as your fingers tighten around your wand.

Suguru is relentless. His magic is not just offensive—it is furious, a ceaseless barrage of Unforgivable Curses, one after another, his wand moving in sharp, decisive arcs, his face twisted into something that doesn’t look like him, something too empty and too full all at once. His curses slice through the air like blades, hurtling toward Satoru with a kind of merciless precision, the kind that suggests he is not hesitating, not holding back.

And Satoru—Satoru is barely keeping up.

He does not counter. He does not send anything back. He only dodges, barely, stepping away at the very last second, twisting, deflecting, shielding, moving, but never attacking. He does not raise his wand in offense. He does not even try.

He is only trying to safeguard Suguru from himself.

Your heart is too loud.

Your fingers tighten, and a drop of blood—Toji’s blood—escapes the ridges of your palm, slipping past the gaps between your fingers, trailing along the length of your wand, clinging to the wood before finally reaching the tip and falling.

The droplet splatters against the stone.

Small. Insignificant. Except it isn’t.

Because Suguru is trying to kill him. Because Satoru won’t fight back.

Because it is terrifying, the way he is hesitating, the way he is choosing to hold himself back even as death comes hurling toward him, again and again and again.

You swallow. Your throat feels tight, like something is closing up from the inside, like something is pressing down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe. Your head rings with the promise you made to Mirai—to Satoru’s mother—that you would put his life before yours, that you would not let anything happen to him.

Your breath stills. Your feet move.

“Suguru, I can’t lose you!” Satoru shouts, voice cracking, desperate, his breath heavy with exertion. “This isn’t you. Please—”

Suguru grits his teeth. His wand snaps upward, another curse ready at the tip of it, his movements sharp with conviction, unwavering.

“I have to do this, Satoru.”

And then, before Satoru can lift his wand—before he can block it, before he can react—you reach him.

Time slows. You see it all, as if from a great distance.

Suguru’s wand flicks. A spell shoots toward Satoru, dark and green, the magic sizzling through the air, fast, too fast—

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You shove him. Hard. Your hands collide with his chest, and you feel the impact reverberate up your arms as he stumbles, falling, his eyes widening in shock as he goes down, wand pointed at you.

The curse is coming.

Your body locks up, lungs closing, heart hammering itself into something frantic, too loud, too fast. You brace yourself, brace for the impact, brace for the pain, brace for something terrible and irreversible, for the kind of agony that will bring you to your knees—

You shut your eyes.

You wait.

And wait.

But nothing happens. Your eyes snap open.

There, right in front of you, is a golden shield, pulsing, shimmering, strong enough to stop the curse just before it can reach you. The magic flickers, glowing, warm and brilliant, radiating from something.

Your gaze drops, then.

The phial.

You watch, frozen, as it falls from your pocket, slipping free, tumbling through the air as if in slow motion.

It hits the stone, shattering. The sound is small, fragile, like the breaking of something ancient.

Suguru’s eyes widen. His head snaps toward the phial, his breath catching, something flickering across his face. He looks at Satoru, then at you, his grip tightening around his wand, his entire body tensing—

And then, silence.

“You told her,” Suguru whispers.

His wand dips slightly, falling slack at his side, his fingers twitching as if he isn’t sure whether to hold on or let go. His gaze, sharp and searching, is fixed on Satoru, but his voice is barely audible, something small and breaking, something not meant for anyone else to hear.

The amphitheater is still. The fight is over, but the air remains charged, thick with something unspeakable, neither victory nor defeat, something much heavier. The smell of blood lingers from your hands and sweater, the echoes of magic still whisper against the stone, and somewhere, behind you, the sound of battle continues—Nanami and Shoko holding their own against the Inferi. But here, within the amphitheater, there is only silence.

And yet, something shifts.

You see it before you feel it.

It is not visible, not something you can touch or grasp, but it is there, in the way Suguru’s shoulders loosen slightly, in the way his breath stutters, in the way Satoru remains frozen, watching him with something unbearably raw in his expression.

Their blood pact has broken.

Your stomach twists. You know what this means.

Satoru can betray Suguru now, however many times he wants.

And Suguru—

Suguru can read Satoru’s mind.

You see it in the way Suguru looks at him, eyes dark, almost unfocused, his lips parting slightly as he stares. He is already doing it. Already slipping into Satoru’s thoughts, already pulling apart his mind, unraveling him thread by thread, seeing everything that has ever been unspoken between them.

Your breath catches.

You don’t know what he is seeing.

But you can see how it changes him.

Suguru exhales sharply, a sound caught between a scoff and a laugh, a hollow thing, humorless and bitter. His free hand clenches into a fist at his side. His expression does not shift much, but something in his face tightens—his jaw, his brow, the corners of his mouth pressing inward, as if he is struggling to hold something in.

“I just tried to kill you,” he says, voice quieter now, rougher, like something raw has been scraped open inside of him. He gives a short, sharp breath of laughter, devoid of any real amusement. “At least curse at me a little at the very end.”

Satoru shakes his head.

And then, as if it is the easiest thing in the world, he says, “You’re my one and only best friend.”

The words fall between them, and you feel something in your chest tighten, something unbearably fragile.

Suguru looks at him.

You shouldn’t be here.

That realization washes over you all at once, a cold, creeping sensation curling up your spine. This moment is not meant for you, not meant for anyone else. It is something sacred, something years in the making, built on a foundation only the two of them understand.

And yet, you are here.

You swallow, exhaling softly, watching as Suguru extends a hand.

For a moment, neither of them move.

Satoru just stares at him.

Suguru, silent, waiting.

And then, slowly, cautiously, Satoru reaches up and takes it.

There is no relief in their faces. No triumph. Only exhaustion, only something that lingers between regret and understanding, something neither of them is willing to say out loud.

They both turn to look at you.

You let out a slow, steady breath, gathering yourself, willing the weight of this moment to settle somewhere deep in your ribs, somewhere it will not break you open.

“We should get back to Hogwarts,” you say quietly.

Neither of them respond, but you don’t need them to.

Because the fight is over.

But the war isn’t.

There is a reason you made Gojo Disapparate directly into the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office.

It is quiet here. Removed from the castle’s hum of voices, from the frantic energy that must still linger in the halls, from the echo of footsteps in the Great Hall and the whispers that will follow in your wake. It is calm. The kind of quiet that feels undeserved, like something borrowed, something that might slip away if you breathe too deeply.

The five of you land in an unsteady heap, the force of the sudden reappearance sending a tremor through your bones. The shift from the suffocating darkness of the catacombs to the familiar candlelit stone of Hogwarts should be comforting, but it isn’t. The world is still moving, and you are still caught in its momentum.

“Merlin’s beard—”

Nanami staggers forward, a hand clamping over his mouth, his other arm thrown out for balance. Shoko wavers beside him, grip tightening around her wand as she presses the back of her hand to her lips, her entire body recoiling at the violent lurch in her stomach.

You almost laugh.

Gojo has finally run out of vials of Pepperup Potion.

Neither of them seem capable of forming words beyond a weak groan, and then, without a second thought, they both take off toward the infirmary, shoulders knocking against each other as they go.

You watch them go, shaking your head. The nausea will pass. It always does. Then, slowly, you turn to the other two.

Satoru and Suguru.

There is something different about them now.

You don’t know what it is—not fully, not yet—but something in the air between them has shifted, weighty, unspoken. Suguru stands still, his hands slack at his sides, his expression unreadable. Satoru, beside him, doesn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze cast downward as if studying the stone beneath his feet.

You exhale through your nose, forcing yourself to steady the rhythm of your breath.

“I’ll take the locket and the map to Dumbledore,” you murmur, voice quieter than you intend. “You two should get some rest.”

Satoru looks up at you then, blinking as if registering your words a second too late.

“What about the Bowtruckle?”

Suguru’s brows furrow, his expression twisting in confusion, but Satoru doesn’t acknowledge it—his eyes remain on you, waiting. You blink, momentarily lost in the sheer absurdity of the question. Then, slowly, your lips curve upward.

You bring a hand to your chest, pressing against the pocket of your sweater. There, curled up against the fabric, the tiny creature stirs, its little limbs shifting slightly, warm and small and impossibly delicate.

“I think I’ll keep him,” you say finally, shrugging. “Hagrid probably has plenty more.”

Satoru exhales, nodding, his lips pursed in something like approval. Suguru watches the two of you in silence, his gaze heavy, unreadable. You let out another breath, quieter this time, before turning toward the gargoyle statue before you.

You hesitate only once, just for a moment, glancing over your shoulder at Satoru.

Then, softly, you murmur, “Sherbet Lemon.”

The statue shifts, stone grinding against stone, revealing the spiraling staircase beyond. You take the first step. The stairs move on their own, spiraling higher and higher as the stone walls tighten around you, the space narrowing, twisting, the light from the torches casting long shadows that flicker and stretch, stretching over your hands, over your face. Your fingers brush against the locket in your pocket, its edges sharp and cold against your palm, and for a brief moment, you wonder how something so small, so insignificant in weight, could feel like this—like a millstone around your neck, like a wound pressed too deep to close.

The stairway ends before you are ready for it to.

The door opens with the faintest creak.

Dumbledore’s office is as it always is—large, circular, lit by golden candlelight, filled with the quiet hum of things too old and too wise to remain silent. You step inside, your movements slow, deliberate, as if to disturb nothing, as if to exist within this space as lightly as possible. You feel, for a moment, like a visitor in a temple.

It is a beautiful room. No matter how many times you enter it.

On spindle-legged tables, curious silver instruments whir softly, twisting in place, delicate and intricate, like living things made of metal and smoke. Some emit thin tendrils of white vapor, curling into the air like whispers. Others tick quietly, measuring something unseen, something vast. The walls are lined with portraits, framed in gold and heavy wood, each depicting a former headmaster or headmistress of Hogwarts. They are sleeping now, their breath slow, their hands resting in their laps, their expressions peaceful. You wonder how many of them died knowing what was coming.

At the center of it all, there is the enormous claw-footed desk, its surface polished to a dark sheen, and behind it, upon a shelf, a hat—shabby, tainted with age, the folds of its fabric as familiar as an old friend. The Sorting Hat.

You move toward the desk. The locket and the map feel heavier now than they ever have.

You place them down carefully, the metal of the locket clicking softly against the wood, the parchment of the map settling with a faint rustle.

You exhale.

Soft footsteps descend from the spiral staircase tucked into the far corner of the office, each step slow and measured, unhurried, deliberate. A figure appears at the top of the staircase, stepping down into the warm light of the room.

Albus Dumbledore, dressed in robes softer, looser than those he wears during the day, his expression mild, his eyes twinkling with something unreadable. His hands are folded before him, long fingers resting gently against each other.

“Ah,” he says, voice gentle, as if he has been expecting you. “Miss [L/N].”

He smiles.

“Good evening.”

You inhale, steadying yourself before you gesture toward the desk. “Sir,” you say, voice quieter than you mean for it to be, “That would be the Horcrux. And the map you gave us earlier.”

Dumbledore does not move at first. He smacks his lips together, his eyes narrowing, not in suspicion but with something resembling amusement. And then, after a moment, he steps forward, tilting his head as if seeing something delightful, as if inspecting an old book he has not opened in decades.

His hand, aged and veined, finds your shoulder. His grip is gentle, but firm. “You have outdone yourself,” he says, eyes twinkling, “and many experienced witches and wizards, I might add. You might just be the brightest witch of your age.”

The words should make you feel proud. They should make you feel something, at the very least. But all you can do is swallow. You think of Toji bleeding out at your feet, of Suguru’s face as he looked at Satoru, of the way time had seemed to slow when you pushed Gojo aside. It is not pride that sits in your chest. It is exhaustion.

“Thank you, sir,” you say softly. And then, after a pause, you lift your gaze to his. You can feel the question waiting at the back of your throat, feel the weight of it pressing against your tongue.

He sees it before you say it. He always does.

“Go on,” he urges, his voice light, pleasant, as he takes the rolled leather map from the table and places it back onto one of the many shelves.

You hesitate. But only for a moment.

“Why us, sir?” you ask, finally. “We’re just a bunch of teenagers. You sent us there, and we almost died.”

At this, he turns to you fully. The light from the candle beside him flickers against his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes, across the sharpness of his cheekbones. He does not answer immediately, only studies you, gaze quiet, knowing.

“No, you didn’t, Miss [L/N],” he says after a beat. “I sent you there precisely because I knew you could handle it.”

Your brows furrow, lips pressing together. “But, sir—”

“One of you got hurt quite terribly,” he finishes for you, nodding slowly, as if to acknowledge the truth in your words. “Yes.”

He strokes his beard thoughtfully, his fingers moving with slow deliberation. “Miss Iori arrived at Severus’ office an hour ago,” he continues, voice calm, steady. “I trust Mr. Fushiguro is already healed, and resting in one of the stretchers at the infirmary, with Madam Pomfrey caring for him.”

You blink. You are not sure why the confirmation makes your throat feel tighter, why the knowledge of Toji’s recovery does not bring the relief you thought it would. Perhaps it is because it does not change the fact that he almost died. That you had sent Utahime away with him, with nothing but the hope that he would make it.

“Don’t you think, sir, with all due respect, that it wasn’t fair to us?”

Dumbledore looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a fleeting second, something shifts in his expression. A weariness, perhaps. Something more ancient than his years.

He does not answer. Not at first.

Instead, he pulls his wand from his robes, long and strange, different from any wand you have seen before. He points it at the locket.

“Incendio.”

A burst of fire leaps from the tip, bright and hot, crackling in the quiet. It hits the Horcrux squarely. And yet, nothing.

The fire licks the surface, skitters across it, but it does not consume it. The locket remains, cold and untouched, as if mocking the very laws of magic.

Dumbledore watches the flames die out. He exhales, slowly, before he turns back to you.

“You see, Miss [L/N],” he murmurs, slipping his wand back into the folds of his robe, “I didn’t have a choice. If I had informed the Ministry of this precarious situation, one of you—and you know exactly who—would have certainly lost his life.”

Your breath catches. You do not need him to say it. You know exactly who he means. Suguru.

“And this Horcrux would never be destroyed,” Dumbledore continues, quiet but certain. “It cannot be undone by spells, nor by force. Only by things more powerful than it.”

You stare at the locket, at the way it gleams in the dim light, cool, unbothered, as if it has not spent decades housing something unholy.

“You hate that I’m right,” Dumbledore muses, watching you.

You blink. Exhale sharply through your nose. “I do.”

He chuckles at that, a small sound, but there is something tired in it, something that feels less like amusement and more like regret.

Silence stretches between you, the candle flickering again, the portraits along the walls still snoozing in their frames.

After a moment, you shift your weight, rolling your shoulders. “Is that all, sir?”

He studies you for a second longer. Then, he nods. “Yes, Miss [L/N]. That is all.”

You turn on your heel, making your way toward the door. Your hand reaches for the brass handle, cool beneath your fingers.

But before you can step out, his voice stops you.

“Miss [L/N]?”

You pause. Glance back.

He is watching you, expression unreadable, eyes old, too knowing.

“Rest,” he says. “There is still much more to be done.”

You swallow.

And then you leave.

The infirmary is dimly lit, the only light coming from the low-burning lamps hovering above the beds, casting long, sluggish shadows against the floor. The room smells of old parchment and disinfectant, the kind that sticks in the back of your throat, mingling with the faintest traces of blood and burnt cloth. The night is quiet outside, heavy with the hush of something ending, something settling, and for the first time since the mission, since the chaos of it all, your pulse slows. Just slightly. Just enough.

You see him the moment you step inside.

Toji is stretched out on one of the hospital beds, his shirt discarded somewhere, his skin marred with fresh scars and hastily applied healing spells that haven’t quite settled yet. He is talking to Madam Pomfrey, his voice low, teasing, that familiar lilt of amusement in it even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his words.

She tuts at him, smacks the side of his head with a practiced sort of impatience, before pressing a small cup into his hand. “Take this, and go to sleep,” she tells him, her tone clipped but not unkind. “You’ve lost enough blood to be declared a ghost, and I do not have the time nor the patience to deal with any lingering dramatics.”

He grins at that, lazy, lips twisting around something smug, but he downs the potion obediently.

And then, Madam Pomfrey sees you.

Her eyes soften, just a little, but she still sighs, rubbing her temples as she jerks her chin toward Toji’s bed. “Five minutes,” she says, a note of warning in her voice. “That’s all you have until the medicine kicks in.”

You nod, murmuring a quiet thanks as you make your way over. Your legs feel heavy, slow, like they are moving through water, like the exhaustion from before has finally caught up to you now that everything is over.

Toji smirks when he sees you, the scar on his lip twisting with the movement, his dark eyes catching the faint glow of the lamps. He looks at you like you’re funny. Like you’re something fragile, something foolish, something not worth worrying about, even though it was him who had nearly bled out, him who had collapsed against you in that godforsaken amphitheater, him who had made that choice without hesitation, without a second thought.

You exhale, relief and frustration and something else you do not want to name swelling in your throat. “You’re okay.”

“I’m saint-like,” he drawls, stretching his arms over his head, fingers flexing against the sheets. “Practically holy.”

You frown, brow furrowing in confusion, but he only chuckles, tapping a finger against his ear. “See this? Almost got cut off completely.”

You stare. And then, slowly, you realize what he’s saying.

“Out of all the ear jokes in the world, you go for holy?” you ask, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

At that, he grins. “At least you smiled.”

Your breath catches. You shake your head. “You almost died because of me.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Just reaches out and grabs your arm, his fingers warm, solid, grounding. “Hey,” he says, “I took the hit because I wanted to.”

“Quite the masochist, aren’t you?” you mutter, narrowing your eyes. “What if you’d died? What then?”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “You made sure Utahime got me here.” A pause. Then, “I knew nothing would happen as long as you were there.”

Your stomach twists.

“You are a scaredy-cat, sure,” he continues, like it is just a fact, like it is something that has always been true, “but you wouldn’t just let me die. I knew it when I took the hit for you. I knew it before I even went to that stupid forest.”

You swallow. Look away. The cup of medicine is empty on the table beside him, the remnants of the potion clinging to the sides in thin, translucent streaks.

He exhales, shifting against the pillows. “Oh, Shoko was here a while ago,” he says after a moment. “Got nauseous from Apparition.”

You nod, trying to gather yourself, forcing your thoughts back to the present. “Yeah. So was Kento. They ran immediately when we got back.”

Toji hums, thoughtful. “That’s what the blond guy’s name is?” He frowns slightly. “Didn’t know.”

You let out a breath, half-exasperated, half-disbelieving. “You are,” you tell him, voice flat, “so stupid. Almost like a Neanderthal.”

His smirk returns, but this time, his eyelids are drooping, his fingers twitching where they rest against the blanket. The potion is starting to work.

“You owe me,” he murmurs, words slurring just slightly.

You shake your head, grin slipping onto your lips before you can stop it. “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

“Oh, before you go,” he slurs, falling onto the bed. You pull the covers over him, as he murmurs, “Gojo was here. Idiot went to the Room of Requirement, I reckon.”

His eyes close. The rise and fall of his chest evens out.

And for the first time in what feels like hours, you breathe.

When you step into the Room of Requirement, the door shutting with a muted click behind you, the air inside is thick, weighty, filled with something you can’t quite name but feel all the same. It presses against your skin, settles in your throat, clings to the dried blood on your sweater, to the scent of earth and iron and damp wood still lingering on your clothes. You inhale, slow and deep, trying to shake it off, trying to collect yourself, but all it does is make you more aware of the heaviness curling around your ribs, winding itself into your limbs.

The room has reshaped itself again. The long table at the far corner is still there, but the walls are closer now, lined with flickering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows. Shelves stand tall along the edges, some filled with books, others stacked with old maps and parchment and artifacts neither of you have had the time nor the patience to move. And at the far end of the table, beneath the dim glow of the lanterns, sits Gojo.

He doesn’t notice you at first. He is leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers loosely intertwined. His eyes—bleary, unfocused—are fixed on the pinboard in front of him, its surface littered with hastily scribbled notes, torn-out pages from textbooks, maps with charmed markings glowing faintly in the dark. The exhaustion is all over him now, seeping into the sharp lines of his face, dragging down the corners of his mouth, making his normally bright eyes look dull, worn, like he’s been ground down to his last nerve.

You swallow.

"Hey," you murmur. Your voice is hoarse, rough from disuse, from the cold air outside, from everything that’s happened in the past few hours. You trudge toward the seat next to him, slow and heavy-footed, as if the weight of the night is still pressing down on you, anchoring you in place.

Gojo blinks, once, twice, like he’s only just now realizing you’re here. “Hey,” he mumbles back, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand before letting it drop limply onto the table.

You sink into the chair beside him.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The silence is thick, stretching between you like an invisible thread, fragile but unbroken. The lantern light flickers, casting shadows that dance across the wooden surface of the table, across the maps and notes spread out before you. You stare at them without really seeing them, tracing the edges of the parchment with your eyes, watching the ink shift and swirl where spells have been used to keep the writing from fading. You hear the faint crackling of the flames, the occasional creak of the chair as Gojo shifts beside you, the slow, measured rise and fall of his breathing.

And then, you swallow, straighten, turn your head just slightly toward him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gojo doesn’t react at first. He keeps staring at the pinboard, fingers twitching faintly against the table, like he’s trying to work through the exhaustion clouding his mind, like he’s waiting for you to say more.

You exhale, watching the way the lamplight catches against his skin, the way the bruises are starting to darken along the curve of his jaw, along the ridge of his cheekbone. “About your Patronus,” you say, voice quieter now, the words more careful, more deliberate. “About how you knew exactly where to go back in the forest.”

At that, Gojo finally looks at you. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—surprise, maybe, or something close to it—before he leans back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair.

For a moment, you think he isn’t going to answer.

And then—he exhales, slow and steady, and says, “Because you didn’t need to know.”

His voice is quiet, but there’s something firm in it, something that leaves no room for argument.

But you argue anyway. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Gojo watches you for a long time.

Then, finally, he sighs, tilts his head back, and says, “No. I suppose it’s not.”

You look at him, watching the way he exhales, long and slow, as if debating how much he should say, as if weighing the value of the truth against the burden of speaking it aloud. His fingers curl slightly against the wood of the table, knuckles faintly whitening before they relax again. Finally, after what feels like minutes rather than seconds, he sighs, tipping his head back slightly, blinking at the ceiling as if the answer is written there. When he speaks, his voice is softer than you expect.

"I knew where to go because it’s what my family has taught me. It’s what has been passed down in our bloodline for generations." He pauses, then adds, quieter, "It’s called the Six Eyes."

Your brows knit together. The name alone feels ancient, weighty and revered, something that sounds less like an ability and more like an inheritance. Like a curse. You wait for him to go on. He does, but not immediately. His fingers drum once against the table before stilling. His gaze drops, just slightly.

"You know how I said the Kamo family practices blood magic?" He asks. You nod. He exhales again, slower this time, measured. "This is what mine does."

The words settle between you. His, not his family’s. His alone.

"My father doesn’t have Six Eyes. Nobody in my family has had it for generations. I’m the first in four hundred years." He says it so simply, so plainly, but the weight of it is crushing. "I suppose that could be one of the reasons why my father made sure I was adept at everything. And so good at magic from a young age."

You don’t miss the way his jaw tightens on the word father, nor the way his shoulders stiffen for the briefest of moments before he forces them loose again. You wonder how long he’s carried this knowledge, this burden, before saying it aloud. How much of his life has been dictated by it.

Your gaze flickers to his hand. His fingers are long, elegant, but tense, curling slightly where they rest against the table. Without thinking, you reach out, hesitating for only a second before placing your hand over his. His fingers twitch beneath yours, as if startled by the contact, but he doesn’t pull away.

"And the Patronus?" You ask.

His lips press together, but there’s something faintly amused in the way his eyes move to you, something softer. "I really just wanted to keep it a secret for as long as I could." He admits, voice quieter now, less weighted than before. "You can’t go around telling people that you can conjure a dragon for a Patronus now, can you?"

You blink, absorbing it all. The room is silent except for the faint crackling of the torches lining the walls. Then, finally, you sigh. "I guess."

But your hand is still on his. And he hasn’t moved away.

He sighs, heavy and exhausted, before pushing himself to his feet. The warmth of his hand vanishes from yours, and you watch as he turns, crossing the room with long, deliberate strides. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling into loose fists before stretching out again, as if he's trying to shake off something he can't quite name. He stops near the bookshelves, glancing at the spines of the dusty tomes without really seeing them, then shifts his gaze to the sofas, as if debating whether to sit or keep standing. Then, finally, he turns to you.

"Back at the forest, I was going to—"

"Don’t." You shake your head, rising to your feet so quickly that your chair scrapes against the stone floor. The sound is sharp, almost violent, cutting through the thick silence that has settled between you.

"Don’t what?" He laughs, but there is nothing lighthearted about it. The sound is brittle, humorless. "You don’t want me to tell you what I must?"

"Satoru," you whisper, but his face hardens. His shoulders are taut, his entire body held in place by something unseen. His jaw clenches for half a second before he forces himself to breathe, to school his expression into something blank, something unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes are burning.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "You’re angry that I didn’t tell you everything from the beginning. You’re angry that I didn’t tell you I knew it was Suguru. That he can read minds. That we had a blood pact." He shakes his head, his tone tightening, sharpening. "But don’t let all of those muddled things affect this. Affect what has been clear to me for so long. What you have been blind to."

"I’m blind?" Your voice rises, incredulous. Your heart is hammering now, quick and unsteady. "You almost sacrificed yourself to the Dementors for me today!"

"And you jumped in front of the Killing Curse for me!" He yells, his hands flying up, his voice echoing off the stone walls. His eyes are wide, wild, his hair disheveled from where he has run his fingers through it again and again. "Do you not see how demented of an act that was? Are you mental? You could’ve died!"

"So could you!" You throw the words back at him, stepping forward, heat rising in your chest. "What do you think the Dementors do, Gojo? You could have had your soul sucked out for what?"

"For you!" He snaps, the words spilling out before he can stop them. His breath is uneven, his chest rising and falling with the force of it. "For you. You know that. You’ve always known that."

Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you say anything. The only sound in the room is the distant crackling of the torches, the slow shifting of the wooden beams overhead.

Then, quieter, he speaks again. "You jumped in front of the Killing Curse for me, and you didn’t even think twice about it. Do you realize how insane that is? How terrifying? Do you think I could just stand there and watch that happen? You would have died if I didn’t put up a shield for you!"

"I didn’t think—"

"Exactly!" His voice is sharp, but not unkind. His fingers twitch at his sides again. "You didn’t think. Because it was me. And I didn’t think, either. Because it was you."

Your hands are shaking. You don’t know when they started.

"Gojo," you start, but the name barely makes it past your lips before he speaks again.

"Do you know what it felt like?" He asks, his voice lower now, his anger tempered by something else—something raw, something that makes your throat feel tight. "Watching you do that? Watching you throw yourself in front of a curse that should have killed you? Do you have any idea—" He stops, dragging a hand down his face before looking at you again, exhausted, furious, something else entirely. "You can’t ask me not to be angry. You can’t ask me to be okay with that."

"I’m not asking you to be okay with it," you say, and your voice is quieter, but no less fierce. "I’m asking you to understand that I would do it again."

He stares at you. He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to shake you, like he wants to grab your shoulders and make you see sense. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just exhales, long and slow, pressing his fingers against his temple. When he speaks again, his voice is different. Softer.

"And that’s the problem, isn’t it?"

You blink, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. It’s piercing—too much and yet never enough, overwhelming and impossibly familiar all at once. His eyes do not waver, do not flicker away, do not grant you even a moment’s reprieve. He watches you like he is memorizing you, like if he dares to look away, you might vanish entirely.

Your breath shudders. The air between you is thin, stretched too tightly, as if the very room itself is holding its breath, waiting. You take a step forward, then another, and another still, until there is no distance left at all, until your forehead presses against his chest, right over the steady, thrumming heartbeat beneath his ribs.

A slow inhale. A slow exhale.

"You are the most infuriating person I have ever met," you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, but he hears it, of course he does.

And he laughs. A quiet, aching thing. A laugh dragged from somewhere deep inside of him, where things are fragile and breakable, where things are real. His hand comes up to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with an unbearable gentleness, as if you are something precious, something he cannot risk shattering. The other rests at your spine, stroking slow, deliberate circles, grounding you, grounding himself.

"I have fought against this," he murmurs, and there is something raw in his voice now, something stripped bare, "against you, against myself. And yet, here I stand, utterly ruined by you."

You close your eyes. His touch is warm, his hold steady, and it is too much, too much, too much. Your chest tightens, your throat constricts, and when you finally tilt your face up to look at him again, there is a tear threatening to spill over, clinging to the edge of your lashes.

His breath catches. He lifts a hand, thumb grazing the corner of your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. The touch is reverent, devastating in its tenderness.

"You have undone me," you whisper, and the words are not easy, are not light. They weigh heavy on your tongue, on your chest, but they are true. "In ways I never thought possible. There is not a moment, not a breath, where I do not think of you."

Something in his expression cracks, but he does not look away. He never does.

The silence stretches between you, but it is not empty. It is filled with the quiet rise and fall of your breaths, the press of your bodies against one another, the unspoken things that have lived between you for too long.

His thumb strokes over your cheek, slow and deliberate, as if he is committing the shape of your face to memory. His voice is quieter when he speaks, but no less steady. "When I look at you," he says, as if he has never been more sure of anything in his life, "I see every reason to believe in something greater than myself."

Your breath shudders again, but this time, it is not because of fear.

You stay like that, standing in the quiet, in the wreckage of everything that has led to this moment. It could be minutes or hours or lifetimes. It does not matter.

"If you asked me to stay," he says, his voice softer now, like a confession, like a promise, "I would not need to hear it twice. I’m quite a selfish person, as you know."

You let out a breath, one that carries everything with it—all the hurt, all the longing, all the things you have tried to swallow down for so long. And then, you meet his gaze, unwavering.

"Stay, then," you say, voice steady. "I’m selfish too."

He lets out a breath, unsteady and quiet, as if he has been holding it for too long—years, maybe lifetimes. It shudders as it leaves him, and you feel it too, the way his chest finally collapses under the weight of everything he has carried, the burdens he has never allowed himself to set down. His head dips, and for a moment, he hesitates, just barely, before his lips brush against yours.

A touch—just a whisper of warmth, of desperation, of something so gentle it is nearly reverent. Then, he presses in, and you feel it all at once. His hands ghost over your back, over your spine, over every part of you he has nearly lost tonight. He pulls you closer, as if that alone will be enough to keep you from slipping through his fingers. And you let him. You let yourself fall into him, hands reaching up, fingers trembling as they frame his face, as if you are afraid he might pull away too soon.

But he doesn’t.

And when he finally does part from you, it is slow, lingering. His forehead rests against yours, and his breath is uneven. He exhales against your lips, and the sound of it, quiet and weary, breaks something inside of you.

“Don’t put yourself in danger for me,” he murmurs, and his voice is thin, threadbare, as if he is saying it more to himself than to you.

You close your eyes, shaking your head against him. “I’ll do it again and again if it means keeping you safe. I hope you know that.”

He sighs, long and slow, as if he expected you to say that. As if he knew you would. His hands slide up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pressing, holding.

“You’re an idiot, Fawkes,” he mutters, but it is not unkind. It is exasperation, affection, exhaustion, all at once. It is everything.

You feel him shift, feel the way his hands tighten just slightly before he pulls away enough to look at you properly. His gaze flickers downward, to your sweater, to the stain smeared across the fabric, dried now, rust-colored under the dim light. You feel the question before he even asks it.

“Not mine,” you murmur, shaking your head. “It’s Toji’s.”

His brows knit together, lips parting slightly, but no sound comes out at first. You watch as he exhales through his nose, his shoulders loosening just slightly.

“Oh,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I went and thanked him for… you know.”

You nod. “He told me.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is full but not heavy. There is something lighter in it now, something softer. You step forward again, pressing against him once more, seeking warmth, seeking something solid. You press your forehead into the space where his collarbone meets his shoulder, where the fabric of his robes is soft and worn from too many years of use.

His body stills at first, just for a fraction of a second, but then—then his arms come around you, wrapping you up, holding you as if he never intends to let go. And you think maybe he doesn’t. Maybe neither of you do.

His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist, gripping, anchoring. He breathes you in, and when he speaks, it is barely a whisper, barely anything at all.

“I’m never letting you go,” he says, as if it is a promise. As if it is an inevitability.

Your eyes slip shut. You could stay here forever, wrapped in this moment, in this breath, in this fragile, quiet thing between you.

“Me neither,” you murmur, your lips brushing against the fabric of his robes. “You’re stuck with me for life.”

He chuckles then, low and quiet, the sound reverberating through his chest. And it is not the kind of laughter you are used to from him—not sharp-edged or arrogant, not teasing or cocky. It is something else entirely. Something softer. Something real.

You do not pull away. Neither does he.

And so, you stay.

to everyone who came on this journey with me, thank you so, so much. i am so happy, so glad, so soft with all my feels, that something i wrote received so much love. it's really such a wonderful thing to receive sm love for smth you create — and i'm so grateful to be on the receiving end. speaking of ends, this isn't it. there's two epilogues still left to go. stay tuned, my loves.

#gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru fluff #satoru gojo angst #satoru gojo fluff #gojo satoru x you #jjk gojo #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk angst #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen fluff

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myownwholewildworld · 10 months ago

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acta, non verba - i. a badge of honour

series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter 2 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. synopsis: scotland, 83 AD after the battle of mons graupius. the romans have come up to the boundaries of their empire with a relentless desire to conquer the savages that inhabit the highlands. they won't rest until the Caledonian tribes are subjugated. Marcus Acacius is in charge of your clansmen's fate, but if such fate is similar to your family's, you know you need to do something about it. as the only living daughter of the tribe chief, your people look to you for leadership. power plays, treason, deception, rebellion, war, love, heartbreak, betrayal. and two souls, destined to despise each other, trying to navigate it all. a/n: well, here it is! the first chapter of my new series, set in what is now scotland, during the romans' conquest of the british isles in the 1st century. hope you guys like it! as always, all interactions welcome. thank you so much for reading! <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. death, aftermath of a battle, burial of family members. reader is an original character - female, has a name (callie) and a physical description, family history, etc. i'll try to keep the references to a minimum though. age gap (callie is 26, marcus is 48). mention of infidelity and becoming a widow. marcus’ and reader’s pov. i have taken some historical licenses for ease of writing (use of "clan" as synonym for "tribe", references to irish/celtic gods, the caledonian people speak modern scottish gaelic instead of a (proto-)brittonic language). w/c: ~4.2k. dividers by @saradika-graphics i'll be tagging some people at the end of the chapter who interacted with this post. dw, i won't tag you in the next chapters unless you ask me to! also, if you want to be removed from this post, please send me a dm.

A light breeze whistled through the nearby standing stones. The dying sun provided no heat, and the ethereal landscape was cold with hues of blue and grey. Despite the shimmering wildlife that came with the first hints of spring, the meadow was uncannily silent.

The crows cackling in the distance broke such tranquil peace and woke you from your slumber.

Slowly you blinked, something wet and warm covering your eyelids. You felt it slide down your skin, pooling in the dip of your collarbone. Your limbs felt so heavy, you couldn’t lift a hand to rub your eyes clean. In fact, you were so tired that even taking a deep breath hurt.

Your orbs fluttered shut, shattered and defeated.

Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, was calling you to His side. His presence was soothing, so inviting, the most melodic sounds guiding you to Him. With the eyes of your dying imagination, He extended a welcoming hand towards you, a soft smile on His mythical features.

“Come with me, sweet child of the tribes.” A guttural voice escaped His lips, so dark and sombre it enveloped you.

You nodded, gaze down, submitted to Him.

“You can’t just take her, Dhuosnos. Callie is yet to avenge them — her purpose must be fulfilled first before she can greet you as an equal.” A second voice, feminine, otherworldly and reassuring, interrupted your exchange.

Morrígan, Goddess of War, placed Her hand on Dhuosnos’ forearm as to stop Him from reaching you. A stone of relief, but also of disappointment, sat low in your stomach when He took a step back, head bowed towards Her.

Steadily you undid your curtsy, your green eyes locking on Hers. They were black as the night sky, Her pupils and irises indistinguishable from one another. You looked into the abyss of Her sight and felt a deep-rooted longing, one you never experienced before.

“You are not done yet, mo leanabh (my child). Your people await your return.” Morrígan palmed your trembling hand, escorting you back to the earthly plane.

“But…”, you turned around to look at Her, ask for Her advice.

But She had already vanished, a sweet scent of lavander left behind.

You gasped awake, your eyes so widened, the cloudy, sunset sky above felt like it was crashing down on you. You were laying down on a pool of mud. A deep, raspy grunt escaped your lungs as you tried to move your arms. When you couldn’t, you looked down, confused.

Aengus’ lifeless body was resting on top of yours. Your father’s henchman had made the ultimate sacrifice by hiding you underneath him, away from the prying eyes of the Romans. The dense liquid caressing the skin on your face was none other than his blood. A trickle of thick red dripped from the gnarly wound in his neck on to your cheek. His eyes were staring at you emptily, his soul had already left this world when you regained consciousness.

Your father, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis, the Caledonian Overlord, had come to the aid of the Taexalian Overlord, whose territory was succumbing to the legions of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, a Roman governor with a high desire to impress his Emperor, Titus Flavius Domitianus.

Your father had gathered as many fighers as the Caledonian lands could give him. Both men and women were called to arms when the tribes were threatened. Being the daughter of the Chieftain would not spare you. You would not have chosen differently anyway, had you been given the opportunity. Fighting for land, clan and honour was your duty as much as your brothers’ and sister’s.

The journey from Inbhir Nis (Inverness) to Cala na Creige (Stonehaven) had been unforgiving, with illness and evil lying in wait. But you all had been warmly welcomed by the Taexali tribe and were fed copiously, the uisge-beatha (whisky) being served like water.

Your combined armies, shy of fifteen thousand folk, had been ambushed at Raedykes during a repositioning exercise by the Roman troops led by Agricola’s most trusted man.

General Marcus Acacius.

His mere name made you sick, anger crawling under your skin.

Fighting off your own opponents, you had seen the Roman General charge against your father like a beast, wielding a gladius over his head. The metallic impact of their swords rang loud across the landscape. The men looked into each other’s souls, an exchange of words shared between them. You were too far to listen, too far to fully see what was really happening as warriors from both sides danced through the grass.

Then you foresaw it before it happened: the heavy Roman sword fell on your father, who was struck to his knees with the General’s blade lodged in his belly.

You tried to get to him, screaming “Athair (father)!” at the top of your lungs. His eyes locked on yours before he fell sideways. You lunged forward but didn’t get to him, Aengus stopping you in your tracks.

“No, Callie, it’s too late now”, he had sorrowfully whispered in your ear before throwing you off to one side to fend off an attacker.

And then blackness swallowed you, an enemy hit you in the head so hard you lost consciousness.

That was how you came to be where you were — with your back flat on the silt and Aengus’ body blanketing yours. The grey sky above you sensed your pain, and, at Taranis’ command, it parted in the middle. The God of Thunder released a downpour to clean the blood, soot and woad’s blue dye off your face and hair.

You cried your sadness away, rainy tears sliding off the corners of your eyes — your anger, your loss, your torment, you purged it all, sobbing until you were devoid of all emotion. Taking a deep breath, which caused a needling pain on your ribs, you pushed Aengus to one side to free yourself from his weight.

The thudding sound he made almost brought more tears to your eyes.

“Sorry, uncail (uncle)”, you muttered, hovering your fingertips over his eyelids to shut them for him. Now he could finally rest.

You stood up, your knees trembling like a newborn calf. A searing pain stabbed your skull, dried blood and dirt gathering on the wound on your scalp. With a straight back, you dared to look around you. The bodies of your own men and women were scattered around the hills of Raedykes. So many lives lost, you heard all your ancestors screaming from above, their cries falling upon you in the way of rain. The green, long grass was reddened with blood, but the weeping sky had started to wash away the atrocities committed by the Romans.

Then you saw him. Your athair.

“No, no, please, no...”, you whispered as your sight became blurry again, dragging your feet towards the fallen body of your dad.

Your soul tried to tear itself apart, become its own entity. You had to summon the last drop of the royal blood that ran through your veins to keep yourself in one piece. You knelt before him, craddling his bloody hand between yours. Unconciously your body rocked back and forth until you hugged him, laying flat on top of him.

Time stood still, like a thread on the expert hands of a wool weaver. It could have been minutes, hours or days, your pain too great to bear, to comprehend.

And then you felt a hand lightly tap your shoulder.

You startled, your mind and body jumping back into survival mode, gripping your sgian-dubh (small knife) close to your chest.

“It’s okay, mo phiuthar (my sister). It’s me, Torcall”, a raspy, masculine voice forced you to focus on the man in front of you.

He was your father’s most important tacksman and also husband to your older sister Mairead — your sweet Maisie, as you always called her. She was the eldest of the four siblings while you were the youngest. Always so witty and quick with a joke, Maisie kept up the spirits even when the circumstances were dire — in fact, before your paths had parted during the battle, she jested about your H-shaped shield being larger than you.

When you turned around, Torcall flattened his hands on your shoulders, slightly shaking you so you would come back to reality.

His blue eyes pierced through you, the situation becoming clearer in your mind. Thousands of your tribesmen were dead. Your father too.

“Maisie?”, you asked in a hush. Your heart clenched when your brother-in-law shook his head no. You were afraid to speak, but you did nonetheless. “Aodh and Somhairle?”

Torcall stared at you, his silence speaking loudly. “They are all dead.”

The air evacuated your lungs, feeling as if a spear had run through you. Learning about the death of Maisie and your twin brothers broke something within you, something fundamental and primal. They were your everything, your most trusted confidants. Despite being of different ages, you all were so tight-knit it was difficult to find one of you alone.

A heart-shattering wail escaped your lips as you bent over yourself, your chest snug against your knees.

Morrígan had unashamedly claimed most of your family that day, except for your beautiful mother. Now Her words made sense: you were yet to avenge them, to fulfil your purpose. She had spared you for a reason, not so you could pity yourself, knees deep in the mud.

To avenge them, you had to kill the hand who showered this tragedy upon you.

General Marcus Acacius.

A raven’s strident, gurgling croak forced you to look up to the skies — a subtle reminder that Morrígan was watching closely. The massive bird was circling above your heads, like a vulture waiting to feast on a carcass. With resolution, you wiped away your tears, your sobs now silent, and nodded at Torcall.

“I understand. How many…?”, your voice faltered before you could finish your question.

“A couple of thousands. We have found cover in the Dunnottar Woods while we regroup and… bury our dead.” Torcall replied, his eyes averted with the last sentence.

You had lost a sister, but he had lost a wife, the mother to his now half-orphaned children. “I’m sorry”, you muttered, your lips pouting once more.

“She died fighting, the death of a warrior.” His proud voice did not waver. “And your father?”

Your heart wept at his mention but managed to control the anxious fluttering.

“The General killed him.” Your teeth gritted with hatred.

“Mo bana-phrionnsa (my princess)”, one of your father’s retinue members bowed his head to you once you walked into the circle they had formed in a meadow between the trees.

A few dozen men were scattered around the area, fires lighting the dark night while shades of red and orange flickered, creating fiery, dancing shades. You held a torch and carefully waved it in front of you, looking at the faces who watched you back eagerly.

You saw in your men what was brewing inside you: despair, defeat, sorrow. All your souls grieving in unison — all of you had lost someone that day.

At six and twenty, you did not expect to be in this position. You were the youngest daughter of the Overlord — you were never meant to lead your people. The task ahead of you felt titanic, unachievable.

But you had no other option. General Marcus Acacius had forced your hand.

He came, he saw, he conquered.

And now you had to deal with the gut-wrenching outcome of his departure.

“We’ll go back home to Inbhir Nis. But before that, we must give burial to our people.” You had to make a herculean effort to infuse your tone with steadiness.

Torcall first, and then the rest, bowed their heads to you.

“As you command, mo bana-phrionnsa”, he replied, and quickly barked orders around in your stead.

Your chest felt heavy with responsibility and grief. What pained you the most was not being able to carry your brothers and sister with you back home. They would not be buried under the cairns near you family home with the rest of your ancestors.

And what was worst — thousands of lives now depended on you. The weight of your tribe's destiny heavily rested on your shoulders now, like Atlas carrying the heavens.

Maisie, Aodh and Somhairle had been lined up on a patch of wildflowers that you had picked yourself the night prior — their arms were threaded together with your sister in the middle. Your clansmen had also surrounded the makeshift burial pit with wood to aid the combustion.

As you placed the last stone on top of them, you also deposited a bright, bloomed thistle. The flower that blossomed in every nook and cranny of your beautiful motherland, despite the harsh winter or conditions it faced. Like the phoenix rising from the ashes, it would always come back, stronger and more brightful than ever.

Devotion, bravery, determination, and strength — the thistle was a badge of honour for the Caledonians.

With a renewed brawn unbeknownst to you, you threw the lighted torch and watched as the fire consumed the bodies underneath the stones.

There were no tears left within you. Only purpose and resolution.

The way back to Inbhir Nis was tiring and soul-crushing. Hiking through the Cairngorms had been a difficult task with so many people behind you, but luckily you all managed to make it through without any losses.

With each mile covered, you saw the devastation left behind by the Romans. If this was any indication of what awaited ahead, you should start bracing yourself for what you would see. It seemed that the Romans were set towards the northwest — Inbhir Nis was right in their path.

You quickly recognised the landscape as you walked towards Loch Moy. A thick, dark column of smoke towered above the pine trees. Your heart raced as you picked up your dark green skirt and ran towards the loch, ignoring the calls of your brother-in-law.

You could run through those woods blindly — this was the land where you were born, the land you were named after. Your name was an unusual one — Caledonia, in honour of the earth beneath your rushing feet. Just a few people called you Callie, mainly your family and closest friends. With your bright, fiery red hair, green almond eyes and a face dotted with freckles, you were the epitome of your people. That was probably why when someone new learned your name, they always said it suited you.

Dodging the last few trees, you made it to the edge of the loch. In the shallows, the crannog of Naimh, your community’s healer, was burning down to its foundation. You covered your mouth with a sombre expression, your eyes itchy because of the dense smoke and unspent tears.

The Romans had gotten to your settlement before you did.

“Callie, wait up”, said Torcall behind you, struggling to catch up with you.

He halted right behind you, the silence between you was almost tangible.

“The rangers have returned from their reconnaissance mission.” His voice was plain, contained. You turned your heard towards him, slowly, hardening yourself for his next words. “Your mother is dead.”

The last glimmer of hope within you vanished. A single tear skidded through your cheek — angrily, you wiped it off.

You were alone in this world. Everyone you cared for had been taken from you.

“Is everything to your liking, Dominus (Master)?”, the male roman servant asked in a low hush, head bowed, eyes fixed on the cobblestone.

“Yes, now leave”, Marcus dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

The General looked around him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. He was accustomed to much more elegant surroundings. Although the barbarians did try, their architecture was nothing in comparison to Rome’s.

The castle he was in was small and it only had two floors. It was mainly made of sturdy, grey rocks and dark wood. The design was not very sophisticated, all square and rugged edges. It had two towers and a barbican. The decoration inside was bare, with just enough furniture and no luxuries.

The only warmth was brought by the colourful tapestries adorning the cold, thick walls — one had caught Marcus' attention at his arrival when he first entered the dais. It told a story he had not heard before.

A dragon-like figure lurked beneath the rippling surface of a lake, attracting the attention of the villagers. At dusk it would emerge, a guttural sound echoing in the dead of night, as if it was calling another. Any bìrlinns (wooden vessel) left on the shore would appear destroyed the next morning. Fishermen were worried and called upon the town's druids, afraid of the Loch Ness monster. To appease the beast, every full moon, the druids would whorship the creature, bringing oblations and sacrificies to quench its thirst.

Marcus made a mental note of keeping his distance from that Loch Ness. As a devoted Roman, he was wary of the mystic creatures that skulked in the depths of human fear.

Although he missed his home, he had several debts to pay. The Emperor would not accept no for an answer, so he had to be a reluctant participant in this incursion — in fact, neither Domitian nor Agricola had really asked him to tame the highlanders up in Caledonia. They knew his skills would be most needed in combat, having been praised by bards and poets alike after his many years in the battlefield.

At eight and forty, Marcus Acacius had had his good share of tragedy and death, both personal and in war. His life had not been easy, having to forge a name of his own since childbirth and then having been recently betrayed by his own spouse.

The thought of Livia still angered him — she had had the audacity of blaming him for her infidelity, accusing him of always being away, of loving Rome more than his own family. Her cheating had been going on for as many years as their arranged marriage, throwing a doubtful shade on his paternity to both his children.

His life had come crumbling down in the last few months, so maybe coming to Britannia had not been such a bad idea. Female adultery was a crime penalised with death and that was a decision that Marcus had yet to make — outing Livia’s unfaithfulness would condemn her to Pluto's realm. Did he really want that for who had been his wife for more than thirty years?

Pinching the bridge of his hooked nose, Marcus walked towards the only window in the room. The roman took a deep breath and exhaled steadily — he needed to think of something else.

His mind went back to the battle of Mons Graupius. The spilling of blood never became easier with time — if anything, it had become harder, splintering his soul further. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the piercing, pained shriek of a woman as he imparted death on Murdoch of Inbhir Nis.

Her hair was dyed with black soot and tied back, her face covered in a blue paste and ash. He was too far to catch the colour of her eyes, but he thought them dark azure. The fierceness of her expression took him aback, her voice shouting a word he did not recognise. But his eyes did not have time to linger on the feral woman a few yards away, because a savage attacked him.

His hand stilled on the rocky window’s sill. The barbarians called this place Inbhir Nis. The stone castle was that of the chief’s family, atop of a hill with views to the scenery underneath. It was rudimentary and lacked many commodities — nothing comparable to his villa in Rome. The tribal settlement was formed of huts made of stone, timber and hay.

Agricola had decided to burn down the outskirts of the town and killed the wife of the clan chief making a macabre example of her, so the people would submit to the Roman’s yoke quickly, crushing any opportunity of rebellion. The message was clear: Rome would not tolerate being challenged. Anyone who did, would face the most painful of deaths. The governor left to go northward, leaving Marcus behind to rebuild the area to Rome’s standards. The emperor had deemed the location an important enclave for his empire, being the main town in the Moray Firth.

Marcus was standing in what he thought was the bedchamber of Murdoch. With the Overlord and his family alienated, the primitive people of the highlands needed educating and he had been given the task of doing so. Not a welcomed one, but he had a duty to Rome that had to be fulfilled.

With a heavy sigh, he undid the brooch at the base of his neck, relieving himself of the heavy, white sagum (cape) that was part of his attire. He threw it on the uncomfortable bed. He unfastened the golden, laurel-shaped bracelets around his wrists, and then proceeded to undo the tight knots that held his armour in place.

Then a knock on the thick, wooden door broke the silence of the room.

“Come in”, thinking it would be his male servant, he didn’t turn around.

“Dominus, dinner is ready”, a very soft voice with a very marked accent made him look over his shoulder.

A pair of very bright, almond-shaped, emerald-green eyes locked on his, framed by what he would describe as fire hair — so red it looked like a hellish aura crowning your head.

So bright were your eyes, he almost felt his soul being examined by your hypnotising gaze. Marcus had never seen eyes like those.

How dared he stand where your father did? Anger shimmered under your skin, but you kept it in check. When you realised you were holding his gaze for longer than what was appropriate for a servant girl, you averted your eyes, inspecting the stones under your feet.

Torcall called you mad for doing this, but you had made up your mind. If you really wanted to overthrow the Roman General and win back your family’s castle and land, you would need to sew yourself into his everyday life. Gain his trust, learn his secrets and use that information against him. Your people were counting on you for freedom, and you would not allow yourself to disappoint them. Even if it was the last thing you did.

“Who are you?”, his raspy voice filled the atmosphere as he resumed the task of undoing the ties on his armour.

Did he have no shame, undressing himself in front of a maid? Mind you, you were not an innocent servant, having been widowed recently. But still. The romans had no modesty, you assumed.

You had to think quickly. You had learnt that the governor and the general both thought the whole chief’s family dead, so you could not out yourself. A very few, selected people called you Callie, almost always in the intimacy of your home, when strangers were not around. Your nickname was precious to you because it was only used by those you loved.

“My name is Callie, Dominus”, you offered your nickname in a rusty Latin. It had been a while since you had to use a language that was not your native one.

“Callie.” The way your name rolled off his tongue gave you goosebumps. You didn’t like the way he pronounced it — it lingered in his mouth for too long, dragging each letter. You wished your words back, but you couldn't change it now.

Instead of clenching your jaw, you nodded. “Yes, my lord, I’m one of the servant girls who tended to the clan chief’s family before you.” You explained, your head still bowed.

You ventured your eyes up for a second, catching a glimpse of his naked torso. Unconsciously, you pursed your lips. The way your heart pounded loud for that one second made you furrow your brows in confusion.

He might be a gorgeous man, but he was a killer. And you had no taste for soulless murderers, that much you knew about yourself.

“Call my attendant, Atticus, to help me get ready for supper. I have no need of you. And ask the kitchen staff to heat some water and bring it up here.” His tone was emphatic, unwavering.

His rejection, in other circumstances, would have been most welcomed, but you needed him to trust you, to confide in you so you could plot his demise — to destroy him. This was not a good start to your plan, but you needed to play the long game.

“I could certainly help you with a bath now, Dominus, but your wish is my command.” You forced the words out, when in reality you wanted to spit them to his murderous face.

He just nodded in your direction, his movements stiff and measured. “Just my attendant will suffice, now go.”

With your fingers laced on your back, you curtsied, walking backwards towards the door of your father’s bedchamber. You could not seem too eager, or he would become suspicious.

When you were in the corridor with the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath and straightened your back.

You would not take no for an answer. Marcus Acacius would yield to you, whatever the cost.

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