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Chapter Text

As the title indicates, this is a fem! gojo satoru x tom marvolo riddle fanfiction. 

Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and Jujutsu Kaisen was created by Gege Akutami. I do not own the rights to either of these works; this is a work of fiction created purely for entertainment purposes. Also, while I am writing a HP fanfic, I do not support J.K. Rowling's anti-trans sentiments. Trans rights are human rights. 

It's been a while since I read the harry potter series and the jjk manga, so some characters may not be as canonically accurate. I'll try my best to keep them so, but there may be some divergences.

Also, this work has some shorter chapters (kind of like interludes) that I've denoted with decimal numbers on Wattpad and Quotev (think 1.5 - Weight of the World). Since AO3 doesn't allow that, at least to my knowledge, I have instead marked the shorter interludes with an asterik. 

Finally, I've slightly adjusted ages to make the story's pacing and dynamics flow better. I've aged down Satoru so that she's 22 during Shibuya (and around 16-17 when she kills suguru, just imagine that she was born 5 years later). 

The wizarding world has also been restructured so that students begin Hogwarts at age 14 instead of 11, meaning that fifth years are 18 or 19 years old (depending on when their birthday is). This change helps the timeline align more naturally with the emotional arcs I'm building, and yes, it also means that when the tom/satoru relationship eventually develops, both characters are adults. 

All of that aside, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy the story. 

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

It was too still.

Steam hissed from somewhere overhead. Broken pipes, maybe. A vending machine gave one last wheeze before it went quiet. Somewhere under the rubble, a cellphone buzzed once, then stopped. The sound didn't repeat.

Satoru stood barefoot in what used to be Shibuya Station.

She wasn't sure when she'd lost her shoes, but she honestly couldn't bring herself to care.

The floor beneath her was a disconcerting blend of warm and slick (oh god, the blood). She didn't look down, though. She didn't want to see what she was standing in. Her steps were uneven, her body moving without asking her first, hoping to carry her away from this god-forsaken mess.

Her blindfold still clung to her face, soaked with sweat and blood, but she didn't lift it. Her Six Eyes were still active behind it, still feeding her everything. Feeding her too much. Her brain was burdened with sharp, meaningless details, littered with the sense of death. Cursed energy soaked the air. Thick. Rancid. Wrong.

She walked past bodies.

Some were people she knew. One kid still had a half-burned ofuda clenched in his fist. A civilian couple lay curled together, fingers still intertwined. Their faces looked peaceful.

That made it worse.

Suguru had said once, "Dead people shouldn't look like they're sleeping. Makes you wonder if they'll wake up."

She hated how clearly she remembered his voice.

Her hand lifted, fingers trembling as they hovered near her temple. She didn't touch the blindfold. She didn't need to see it again.

The station was drowned in cursed energy. It clung to her skin, heavy, grief wearing a different face.

A few curses still lingered, the small, passive ones. But they kept their distance. She didn't have to warn them. They felt it too.

Then she saw it.

A backpack. Purple. Partially buried under a fallen beam. A little yellow bunny keychain swung from the zipper.

Her feet stopped moving. Her heart stuttered.

"Riko," she whispered. The name caught in her throat.

She hadn't said anything in hours. Maybe longer. Not since—

Her cursed energy surged before she could stop it. A crack split the ground beneath her feet, just a fracture, barely a whisper of what she could still do.

She stepped forward. Her legs felt too slow. Too heavy. Her sense of motion lagged behind the act of walking, like she wasn't entirely in her body anymore.

She reached for a wall, looking for support. Leaned her shoulder into it, felt the warm smear of blood it left behind.

Something metal fell nearby, a sign or a pipe. She didn't react.

What could it possibly do?
What could anything do, now?

She pressed her fingers to her side. The wound there was still open, blood ran freely. She could feel the way the muscle had torn, could feel the bone beneath it.

She stared down at her hand. At the red streaks that marred her flesh.

And laughed. A small, empty sound.

"So much for the strongest."

The words didn't carry weight anymore. Not even to her.

"I held back," she said. To whom, she didn't know.

She slowly turned. The air around her was still thick with energy. It pulsed. Breathing felt like drowning.

"I always held back."

Another laugh broke in her throat. Then her knees gave out.

She sank down. Sat there. She didn't know how for how long. Time had long stopped meaning anything.

"I should've burned it all," she said quietly.

Her cursed energy rose again, but she didn't try to stop it. She let it out, let it pour from her, uncontrolled.

There was nothing left to protect.

Grief spilled into the air like vapor. Hers, but not just hers. Everyone's. Everyone she couldn't reach in time. Everyone who died waiting.

A quiet sob wracked her body.

She didn't mean to cry.

And then, the air changed.

She felt it before she saw anything. Something foreign had entered the space. Not cursed energy, and she would know. Something else. Something colder. Something older.

She looked up.

A seam had appeared in the air in front of her. Like the space was being folded, creased in a way that shouldn't be possible. Then something gave. The world tore open.

Magic flowed through.

Not hers.

It didn't feel like jujutsu. It didn't feel like anything she'd ever known.

She stood.

Her cursed energy reacted, an extension of her subconscious. Infinity snapped into place around her. Her skin tingled with tension. Her instincts screamed. To run away, to get away from this mess.

She didn't want to go near it.

But that didn't matter. The rift reached for her anyway.

Her feet left the ground. Her cursed energy drained, her body twisted. Her Infinity stuttered. She reached for her Domain, blindly, out of habit.

It didn't come.

"No!"

Her voice tore through the air as the pull intensified. She reached out, blindly, hoping to grab something, anything.

But there was nothing.

And then—

She saw him.

Not the station.
Not the backpack.
Not Riko.

Suguru.

Not the real one.

The version she hated the most.
The stitched-together face.
The one that smiled like it still remembered her.
The one that didn't belong to him.

Her breath hitched.

Not because he was there.

Because she couldn't stop seeing him.

He'd said it once, on a rooftop, quiet, almost like a favor. 

"Don't follow me."

She hadn't listened. She never did.

He meant a lot of things by that.
Don't try to save me. Don't try to reach me. Don't make my death your burden.

But she had followed him. Always had.
Into battles she didn't believe in.
Into grief she didn't know how to name.
Into silence that stretched between them like a curse.

And even now—even with him gone, body stolen, face desecrated—she was still chasing him.

Still trying to understand the person she lost before she ever let herself grieve.

She followed.

And now—

She was gone.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

There was a time when Satoru thought being "the strongest" would be enough.

She didn't choose to be born with the Six Eyes. Didn't ask to master the Limitless before she was old enough to drink. But the world made space for her like it had been waiting. They called her a miracle, a monster, a god in a school uniform. Depending on who you asked.

The higher-ups called her "Gojo."

They smiled when she followed orders. They frowned when she didn't. Every mission was a test. Every breath she took, a performance. They trusted Gojo to kill—but they never trusted Satoru to choose. Not who to protect. Not why. Not how.

But Satoru wasn't made to kneel.

And that? That, they never forgave.

She remembered standing in front of them after Riko died. After she failed to protect the one person she swore, with everything in her, to keep safe. A girl who smiled like sunlight and said "Satoru" like it was something soft, not sacred.

They told her to move on.

They called Riko's death an acceptable loss. A necessary casualty.

They told Gojo to stop grieving and prepare for the next mission.

Satoru didn't cry. Not in front of them. She never would.

But her hands curled into fists at her sides, and that was enough to drain the color from the room. Because she was the strongest. Because even then, she could've killed them all before they blinked.

And she didn't.

Because someone had to be the adult.

Because someone had to be the obedient weapon.

Because Gojo was who they leaned on, even as they flinched from the weight of her shadow.

She hated them for that.

But she hated herself more.

She told herself it was fine. That if Satoru just kept winning, kept saving people, it would mean something.

But she didn't save Suguru.

She didn't save Riko.

She didn't save Nanami, or the kids, or the voices buried beneath Shibuya, calling out for help she never reached in time.

So what was the point?

What was the use of her title, her cursed technique, the infinite space between her and everyone else if all it did was make her too late?

They called her the strongest.

That was the joke.

They called her Gojo.

But all she ever wanted was to be Satoru.

Chapter Text

───── TOM ─────

Tom Riddle was bored.

The feast should have been a moment of joy, a moment to celebrate being out of that dastardly orphanage he resided in during the summer. Instead, it gave him a headache. The feast was noisy, full of laughter and the usual prattling about summer vacations. Across from him, Abraxas Malfoy was whispering something about his summer trip to his residence in Paris. Rosier nodded, eagerly following Malfoy's every word. Lestrange was his only saving grace, looking as bored as he was (although Tom made sure his face didn't show it).

Tom's thoughts drifted to his own summer. He kept thinking about the name. Gaunt. The ring. The records confirming that his mother, his pureblood mother, had belonged to a line descended from Salazar Slytherin.

It should've satisfied him. That he wasn't a filthy mudblood or a destitute half-blood. That he was descended from, was related to one of Hogwart's greatest lines.

Instead, it made the throbbing in his head louder.

Sure, he had the blood, the Slytherin name. But the Slytherin legacy was still incomplete. The Chamber hadn't opened. The castle hadn't acknowledged him. And, to his detriment, he was no richer than he was before. Not yet.

No, Tom Riddle had marvelous plans for the year. And sitting in the Great Hall picking at his dinner just seemed like a colossal waste of time.

And so Tom sat, waiting for something, anything, to make the night less tedious.

Then, as if the heavens itself were answering his prayers, a girl fell from seemingly nowhere, slamming into the center of the Gryffindor table. Cutlery flew. A few students screamed. The room fell silent.

Tom stood halfway, craning his head to get a better look at the girl. She was tall, barefoot, and soaked in blood. Her clothes were weird, and didn't seem to belong to any house. Her hair clung to her face in damp white strands. And her eyes? He couldn't see them. They were covered in a blindfold. The air around her rippled, strange and off. The castle could feel it; the enchanted ceiling above him, the one that was supposed to always shine like stars, flickered.

You weren't supposed to apparate into Hogwarts. Not even Aurors could force it. Not unless something was broken.

" Stupefy! " A young gryffindor fired out the hex, too young and stupid to control his fear.

The girl lifted her hand. The spell died in the air. No wand. No incantation. No hesitation.

The Great Hall fell silent. And for the first time in months, Tom felt the edges of his thoughts sharpen. Whoever that girl was, he would make sure he learned everything about her.

And if she didn't join him?

Well, she would be dealt with.

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru's first thought was that it was too bright.

The second that her breath came too easily. Her joints didn't throb, her knees didn't sting. She frowned. That was wrong. She opened and closed her hand, waiting for the accompanying tension, the blood grinding in her knuckles. Nothing. The motion was too smooth.

Her cursed energy still buzzed beneath her skin, albeit reacting strangely. Like it was mixed with that messed-up rift that brought her here.

Her cursed energy buzzed just beneath her skin. Still hers, but reacting strangely. The air tasted wrong. Magic pressed in around her, but it wasn't jujutsu. It wasn't anything like it.

She knew this body.

Too well.

Fifteen.

Younger than she was during Shibuya. Older than when Suguru—

She didn't allow herself to finish the thought. She sat up slowly, muscles unsure. Somewhere in the room, a student whimpered.

A man approached. Tall, white-haired, bearded, composed. Magic clung around him too, clean, orderly, almost academic.

"You're safe," he said gently. "You're at Hogwarts."

Satoru blinked beneath the fabric. Hogwarts?

"Scotland," he added. "This is a school."

Her voice scraped its way out. "That explains the screaming children."

The man didn't flinch. "My name is Professor Dumbledore. Transfiguration."

She didn't know what Transfiguration was, but there was no point in asking. She turned her head. Someone else was watching. Not the professors. Not the girl who'd hexed her. Someone else entirely.

He was sitting across the hall, straight-backed, still. Dark brown eyes staring straight into hers. Or would be, if she wasn't wearing a blindfold.

She didn't need her Six Eyes to feel the focus in his stare. It was surgical. He didn't look curious. For a moment, just a flicker, he reminded her of Suguru.

Back before everything fell apart.

Back when they were both too clever for their own good.

The resemblance faded. This boy didn't have warmth behind his thoughts. Only hunger.

"Who are you?" Dumbledore asked.

She opened her mouth, hesitated.

"...Satoru." No surname. Let them wonder.

Another man—older, kinder—stepped forward. "You're hurt."

"No shit," she muttered. "Thanks, doctor."

The sass came easily. Easier than honesty. Easier than explaining how her heart still felt like it hadn't finished breaking. The questions came next.

"Do you work with Grindelwald?"

"Was that Apparition?"

"What sort of spell did you use?"

She tilted her head. "Is Grindelwald a fungus?"

That got a laugh from one brave student. The rest stayed quiet.

She tried to smile. Just a little. Her mask was still up.

It was always easier to pretend. Easier to hide behind snark than to feel. Easier than Shibuya.

Dippet, the Headmaster apparently, stepped forward. He looked more worried than frightened. "Come. The school nurse, Madam Pomfrey will see to you."

"Great," Satoru muttered. "Can't wait to be told I have internal bleeding and bad manners."

She pushed herself off the table. Her legs wobbled once. Dumbledore's hand didn't touch her, but the magic around it steadied her anyway.

As she walked out of the Great Hall, she felt the silence close behind her. Every step was heavy. And still, still, she felt his gaze on her. Sharp. Cold. Watching.

He hadn't blinked.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

The infirmary smelled like burnt herbs and honey.

Satoru stirred under crisp white sheets, the light still glaring, even through her blindfold. Her body felt good. Better than it had in the Great Hall, at least. No broken ribs. No torn skin. All that was left was a dull soreness in her joints. Satoru found that she much preferred it this way.

Having something that reminded her of her failure.

The nurse moved quietly beside her, spooning a pale potion into a tiny glass. If Satoru didn't know better, she would say she looked more like a saint than a nurse – robes the color of warm cream, silver hair twisted into a knot, golden embroidery that caught the light when she moved.

"Drink," she said gently.

Satoru didn't take it. "What is it?"

"For the bruising around your ribs. It's mild."

Satoru took it with a sigh. "Mild. You people and your potions."

Satoru took a sip. It was almost unpalatable, tasting like a confusing blend of honey and pepper. She gagged, but the throbbing in her ribs eased.

"I didn't think you people did things without sticks,glowing lights and chanting," she muttered.

"We use what works," the woman said. "You were lucky. It wasn't as bad as it looked."

"That's usually how people describe me ," Satoru said dryly. "Bloody mess. Not as bad as she looks."

The woman chuckled. "It worked, though, didn't it?"

That was the strange part. It had worked. All of it had.

There was no cursed technique. No reversed energy. Just the nurse's soft hands, strange liquids, and murmured incantations she didn't recognize. And now, she was upright, breathing properly. Clean.

It was kind of remarkable, honestly.

"I'm Sana Aurelius. School healer," she added, "You're lucky it wasn't worse. There were no internal tears. Just a few cracked bones. Nothing worse."

Satoru raised a brow. "Where I'm from, that's considered pretty good."

"Thank you," she added, as an afterthought.

Aurelius smiled faintly. "Well. You'll be up and walking soon."

Just as the nurse turned to store her vials, a knock sounded at the door. It opened before anyone responded.

Dumbledore stepped in, pale blue robes sweeping around his feet.

"Nurse," he greeted.

"Professor," Aurelius returned, eyes narrowed slightly.

He nodded once, then turned to Satoru.

"You're to be sorted," he said without preamble.

"Sorted?" she echoed, sitting up more. "What, like fruit?"

He didn't smile. "Sorted into a House. Every student at Hogwarts must belong to one."

"Wow," she said, swinging her legs off the bed. "You people really commit to the bit."

He looked like he'd bitten his tongue. "It's tradition."

Satoru tilted her head. "You sound thrilled."

"I sound," Dumbledore said coolly, "like someone who would prefer answers before traditions."

Her lips twitched.

He escorted her through the halls in silence. Every part of the castle, she found, pulsed faintly with magic; the stone beneath her bare feet whispered as if it remembered her, even though she was from another world. She didn't speak, though. Neither did Dumbledore.

When they reached the Great Hall, it was mostly cleared out. A few lingering students and professors remained, as well as a stool. A ratty old hat sat atop it.

Dumbledore gestured to the stool. "It won't take long."

She eyed it with suspicion. "What is the hat going to do, talk?" By the student's choked laughs, she realized she was correct.

"You know," she said, stepping up slowly, "where I'm from, if a hat starts talking to you, it means you need a nap. Or an exorcism."

The remaining students snickered. Someone whispered, "Is she serious?"

Satoru sat.

The Sorting Hat fell over her head.

Oh. You."

Satoru blinked. "We've met?"

"Not officially. But I remember magic like yours."

"Yeah," she muttered, "it tends to leave an impression."

The hat was quiet for a moment, as if sorting through static.

"You're hard to read."

"I'm trying."

"You're not here by choice."

"No kidding."

"You think if you're clever enough, rude enough, distant enough, no one will ask what happened to you."

"I don't want to be here," she said. "Pick a house or don't. But I'm not making friends, and I'm not trying to start over."

"Slytherin," it said eventually. "You'd do well there. Clever. Ruthless. You wear your arrogance like armor."

"No thanks," she muttered. "I've had enough of charming sociopaths to last me a lifetime."

"Gryffindor, then?"

She snorted. "You know I have no idea what Gryffindor is, right?"

"No," the Hat said slowly, tuning her out. "You want silence. Space. Not challenge, not power. You want the world to leave you alone so you don't have to explain why you're still breathing."

Satoru didn't answer.

" Hufflepuff would try to fix you."

"I don't want to be fixed."

A pause. The Hat's voice softened.

"Then you want space. You want silence. Not because you enjoy it, but because it keeps the grief quiet."

She tightened her jaw.

"RAVENCLAW."

The word rang out into the hall.

Satoru yanked the hat off and dropped it back onto the stool.

"You need a new hat," she said to no one in particular, and stepped down before anyone could applaud.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

They brought her next to Dippet's office, a spiraling tower full of warm lamplight and dusty scrolls. He looked older up close, stooped, kind-eyed, fingers faintly trembling as he poured tea.

Dumbledore stood off to the side, unreadable.

"Miss Satoru," Dippet began. "It's clear you are not from anywhere familiar to us. But you are here. And until that changes, we'll treat you as we do all our students."

She tilted her head. "With suspicion and weird robes?"

He coughed into his cup. "With welcome. Eventually."

He explained Hogwarts in brief, the four houses, the magical world, the laws that bound it. She listened, nodded occasionally, didn't write anything down.

When asked where she came from, she gave him a tired smile.

"Somewhere far enough that none of this makes sense."

He didn't push. She silently thanked him.

They told her she'd go to Diagon Alley the next day for supplies. Dippet mentioned Professor Slughorn would accompany her. She didn't ask who that was.

"Before we dismiss you," Dippet added, "you'll be assigned someone to help you adjust."

"Is that really necessary?" she asked.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. His tone left no room for argument.

A beat.

"It will be Tom Riddle."

She paused. She didn't know the name. But the moment he stepped into the office, perfect posture, eyes too still, she recognized the feeling.

That boy from the Great Hall. The one who hadn't flinched. Who hadn't blinked. Her fingers twitched beneath the folds of her sleeves.

"Great," she muttered. "A guided tour from a human dagger."

"Miss Satoru," he said politely, although his eye twitched.

She didn't offer a greeting.

Dippet gestured between them. "Mr. Riddle is one of our top students. If you have questions about classes or the school he's an excellent resource."

"Great," she said. "Can't wait to be micromanaged."

Tom smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "I assure you, I don't micromanage. I just notice things." Their eyes met. Well, hers were still hidden, but they weren't any less sharp.

───── TOM ─────

As they spoke, Tom tilted his head slightly.

He probed her mind. Or attempted to, anyways. Her mind pushed him away. Hard.

Tom's eyes widened just slightly. Satoru just smiled lazily.

"Bad idea," she said. "Try that again and you might forget your own name."

Tom's voice was calm, betraying none of his emotions. "Fascinating."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "That will be all."

They were dismissed. As they left the office, Tom walked just a little behind her.

"You're not from here," he said under his breath.

"Nope."

"But you've seen war."

She stopped walking.

Then smiled without warmth.

"Everyone's seen something," she said. "It's just louder in my head."

Then she walked away. And Tom watched her go.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

By the time Satoru was led to the Ravenclaw dorms, the castle had gone quiet.

The prefect guiding her didn't say much. Just walked ahead with tired steps and a practiced, neutral expression. He stopped in front of a large bronze door embossed with an eagle-shaped knocker.

The prefect lifted the knocker, then rapped once.

"What flies without wings, strikes without warning, and leaves silence behind?" the eagle intoned.

"A headache, " Satoru said.

The door clicked open.

The prefect blinked. "Most people get stuck the first time."

"I'm not most people," she replied, stepping into the tower. In truth, it was a pure accident. She was merely describing the eagle.

The Ravenclaw common room was serene, a domed ceiling glowing with soft moonlight, velvet armchairs arranged in a circle, abundant bookshelves that towered over the room. An elegant white marble statue of a woman stood gracefully in the alcove.

"Your dormitory is up the stairs," the prefect said, drawing her out of her thoughts. "I'm afraid I can't escort you further, but your suitemates should be waiting for you upstairs."

He gave a polite nod and turned away.

Satoru exhaled and glanced at the spiral staircase ahead. Then, without a word, she began to climb.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Her suite was nice, or at least what she'd seen of it so far. Plush blue chairs with silver cushions were arranged around a central coffee table, the color scheme a common recurrence across the space. Overhead, a floating candle chandelier cast a warm glow. But it was the walls that caught her attention, deep indigo, scattered with starts that slowly shifted. An enchanted star map?

She turned, looking at the main wall. A fireplace took up the bulk of the space, flanked by several armchairs. Three girls sat nearby, their robes rumpled after a long day. They looked up as Satoru approached, not startled, just expectant.

They'd been waiting for her, then.

The first to speak was a tall girl with skin the color of warm chocolate. Her hair framed her face in loose curls, and a faintly glowing bracelet circled her wrist – warding charms, Satoru presumed. Her voice was warm.

"Amari O'Connell," she said. "You're the girl from the feast."

Satoru nodded. "Yes, I am."

"Selene Greengrass," said the next. She was pale, her long blonde hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Her green eyes were vibrant. They felt like they saw too much. "Nice of you to skip the whole train-sorting-dinner thing."

"Thought I'd make an entrance."

The third girl was shorter, a brunette with freckles dusting her nose. She blinked nervously over the rim of her cocoa mug – the soft one in the trio, Satoru guessed.

"I'm Cordelia Clarke. Do you ... need anything?"

"A nap and a new world," Satoru muttered. She didn't offer her name. They already knew it.

Nobody laughed, but no one pushed her either. Satoru figured the Hat had made the right call by placing her in Ravenclaw, not that she'd tell him that.

Cordelia stood, walking her through the room. "We each have our own bedrooms. You should have a desk and vanity. We share the bathroom, though."

Her room was nice. A queen-sized four-poster bed, privacy curtains in blue, Ravenclaw blue, with a silver trim. The bed had already been made. She sat down on the edge, letting out a deep breath.

"Thank you," she whispered. It was soft.

But Cordelia heard. She nodded in acknowledgement, then slipped out.

They were polite girls, Satoru decided. Smart enough to know that pressing her wouldn't get them answers. But they weren't unkind, either.

She could work with that.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Satoru didn't sleep.

It was too quiet. Too clean. There was no city noise, no cursed hum of energy, no war.

The peace should have been comforting. It was alienating instead.

When the early morning light bled into the sky, she got up, washed up and headed for the Great Hall. She made sure her blindfold was still tied.

Breakfast was already underway. The long tables bustled with sleepy conversation. She slipped onto the end of the Ravenclaw bench, grabbed toast and tea, and tried not to think.

"Morning," came a voice beside her.

Amari. Same soft tone as the night before.

Satoru nodded back. "Sleep?"

"Enough."

They ate in silence for a minute. Then Selene appeared, sliding in across from them with a yawn and a satchel full of books.

"I suppose you're famous now," she said, sipping her tea. "The wandless wonder."

Satoru raised an eyebrow. "That going to be my nickname?"

Cordelia appeared next, clutching a half-burnt scone. "I like it."

"You would," Selene muttered.

Satoru glanced sideways at Marina. "Is it always like this?"

"It's worse on exam days."

Satoru let herself half-smile. "You know, I thought Ravenclaws would be more intense."

Selene lifted an eyebrow. "I'm insulted."

Amari smirked. "You'll get used to the tower."

"I'm already annoyed about the riddles," Satoru muttered. "If a door talks, you should either burn it or seal it."

Selene sipped her tea, stifling a laugh. "Here, we solve it. Or sulk until someone else does."

Cordelia reached across and quietly nudged a second piece of toast toward Satoru. "You don't have to sit alone."

Satoru blinked.

Selene caught her eye and said, bluntly, "I like you."

Satoru blinked again.

"...Okay."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

It was a Saturday. No classes.

But Professor Slughorn had sent for her. Whoever he was.

They met near the Entrance Hall. He reminded her of a walrus, except a mustached one in velvet robes. He was beaming, though. Practically vibrating where he was standing.

"Miss Satoru! There you are! I trust your night wasn't too dreadful?"

"You say that like you expected it to be."

"Well," he chuckled, "you did fall from the sky."

Before she could reply, another voice cut through the corridor.

"Professor."

Tom Riddle stood a few steps behind Slughorn, dressed impeccably. Black coat, sharp color, boots so shiny she swore she could see her reflection.

"I thought I might accompany you to Diagon Alley," he said. "I have some work to attend to."

Slughorn beamed. "Excellent! It's great to see you're fostering inter-house relations, Tom."

Satoru didn't say anything. Just adjusted her blindfold.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Gringotts, the wizarding bank, was cold.

Satoru stood at the teller's desk while a goblin checked records and ledger lines, muttering in an incomprehensible language. Slughorn was beside her, adjusting his cuffs and casting a sidelong glance at the goblin.

"Merry met, Grobnar," Slughorn said with an exaggerated smile, nodding deeply. The goblin barely acknowledged him, continuing to scratch at the ledger. "I trust you're in good health today?"

Grobnar grunted, and then turned to the next page. "Blood test required," he said, without looking up.

Slughorn nodded. "Ah, of course!"

Satoru blinked. "A blood test?"

Grobnar didn't look up. "Yes. For verification."

Satoru frowned but held out her arm. With a swift motion, the goblin pulled out a knife and slashed her hand, letting it drip onto the paper below. The parchment glowed.

"Episkey," Slughorn muttered. Her wound stitched up.

Satoru stared at the glowing parchment. Beneath it, her name appeared, along with a string of obscure properties. But then, the goblin's eyes narrowed as he scrolled further.

He turned the paper over to her.

Satoru had never seen that many zeroes before in her bank account. Or lack of zeroes, rather.

"No account found," Grobnar said.

Satoru stared.

Her name glowed faintly on the page. Under it: Balance – 0 Galleons .

"Zero," she said slowly. "Wow. That's generous."

Slughorn looked mildly horrified.

Tom said nothing. Just watched.

"Well," Slughorn huffed, smoothing his cuffs, "perhaps we'll handle supplies ourselves, hmm?"

She didn't respond. Not really. Not until they stepped outside.

"Do I get a cardboard sign too?" she asked. "Or is being broke just part of the Hogwarts starter kit?"

Slughorn patted her arm. "Hogwarts has always looked after its own. I'll arrange for something. But there are small jobs available such as ingredient prep, notes, tutoring. And, of course, my Slug Club . If you attend my little gathering next week, I'll personally see to your wand and robes."

She blinked. "You're bribing me with party favors."

"Call it patronage . "

She glanced sideways at Tom. "Is this normal?"

He shrugged. "For him."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Ollivanders was not what she expected. Tall stacks of boxes crowded the aisles, so tightly packed that she had to move carefully in fear of knocking over a stack. The store, in all honesty, felt more like a maze than a shop. The wooden floor creaked under her feet, a sure reminder of the centuries the store had endured.

"You've arrived," said a soft voice.

Mr. Ollivander emerged from the corner, his tall, gaunt figure almost blending into the shadows. His pale eyes were unsettling, almost glassy, like he wasn't in the room with her. She couldn't help but feel like he could see something no one else could.

"I've been waiting," he murmured.

Satoru frowned but didn't respond. There was no point in arguing.

He began to move in slow precision, measuring her arm with a practiced motion, his fingers cool and indifferent.

After a few moments, Ollivander turned to the shelves behind him, his fingers dancing in the air as he pulled wands from the ether. He presented the first one, a slender, dark mahogany wand.

"Try this one," Ollivander instructed.

Satoru took it in her hand, feeling its surface. Despite her numerous attempts to force a connection, the wand pulsed weakly in her palm before the core rejected her touch entirely.

"No," she said, handing it back.

Ollivander didn't flinch. His fingers were already reaching for another box.

"This one," he said, presenting another wand. It was lighter and made out of a pale birchwood.

Satoru took it with a raised eyebrow. She twirled it in the air, but her cursed energy reacted violently, as though it wanted to shatter the wand into pieces. The wood crackled under her grip, the wand heating up.

"No," she said quickly, letting it drop back into Ollivander's waiting hand.

"You're resistant," Ollivander remarked quietly.

He moved to the next shelf, his fingers brushing over boxes until he found a thick, dark wand with strange black markings. A twisted, gnarled vine seemed to wrap around the length of it.

"Give this one a try."

Satoru's fingers closed around it. Once again, she raised the wand and flicked it, and as soon as the motion was completed, the air shifted. Her cursed energy didn't reject the wand, but it didn't fully accept it either. Instead, it tugged, twisted, like it was caught between opposing forces. The magic was fierce, too fierce. The power was wild and uncontrolled. It didn't belong to her.

"Too rebellious," she muttered, almost under her breath. "I can't tame it."

"Perhaps something more in line with your nature?" Ollivander murmured, almost to himself.

He moved toward the far corner of the room, where the oldest wands were kept. The boxes here looked ancient, faded and worn. He brought one down, and handed it to Satoru.

It was a darker wood, one she'd never seen before, its texture almost alive, rippling under her fingers. She held it hesitantly, then raised it to the air. This time, her cursed energy didn't pull away. There was no resistance. No wild, chaotic surge. The connection was immediate. Seamless.

Satoru turned the wand in her hand, feeling the subtle hum of power, how her chest seemed to have calmed. She finally understood why wizards loved their wooden sticks so much.

"Yew," Ollivander said, his voice softer now. "Twelve and a quarter inches. Cursed-core ash blend."

Satoru's eyes narrowed as she held it up, inspecting every inch of its surface.

"That one," Ollivander said, almost whispering, "was carved from a tree that grew where a battle ended."

Satoru almost snorted. "Fitting," she agreed.

Ollivander studied her for a moment longer before speaking again, this time with a quiet reverence. "The wand chooses the witch, Satoru Gojo. And you've found your match."

She didn't respond. Instead, she handed the wand back to him, her fingers reluctant to let it go. It felt too much like part of her now.

Slughorn, who had been waiting in the background, handed over the payment without fuss. His usual jovial smile was gone, replaced by a look of quiet respect.

As they turned to leave, Satoru felt the faintest flicker of a smile tug at the corner of her lips. All things considered, this was a good day.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Outside, Tom lingered at the corner of the street.

"Thank you for the company," he said.

"You didn't talk much," she said. She was surprised.

"I was watching."

He glanced back at Gringotts. "Inheritance tests. Interesting little tools, aren't they?"

She didn't answer.

"If you take one and your family's dead," he continued, "it opens access. To vaults. Titles. Rights."

Satoru's brow furrowed.

Tom just smiled. "Useful, if one knew the right moment to try."

Then he nodded once, turned, and disappeared into Knockturn Alley.

Slughorn adjusted his scarf and gave a low hum. "Charming boy."

Satoru stared after him.

"Yeah," she muttered. "The same way poison's pretty in a glass."

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Tom Riddle's silhouette was a still statue beside a Slytherin window, candlelight playing tricks across his face. He shouldn't be thinking of her. And yet, here he was, drowning in thoughts of Satoru.

He hated how often she occupied his mind, hated that she'd become the one puzzle he couldn't solve. He replayed moments: her snarkiness, the sharp turn of her blindfolded face, the way she silently mocked him. Hated how ever since she'd arrived, he'd made no progress in his grand plans.

Satoru was an enigma. There were too many facts that he couldn't ignore. She didn't exist in Gringotts' ledgers. She had no surname, no guardian. Her wand, made with cursed-core ash, (yes, Tom was secretly listening in at Ollivanders) was unlike anything he'd ever seen. She'd blocked his Legilimency attempt. Yet she was unfamiliar with Hogwarts. Who didn't know Grindelwald, for god's sake?

It wasn't like Tom was attracted to her. No, this was curiosity. Scientific. Clinical. Detached. She was a puzzle he didn't understand, and he intended to solve her.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Tom summoned them past midnight.

The Slytherin common room flickered with firelight, shadows curling like serpents along the cold stone walls. Rain drummed faintly against the windows, casting ripples of moving silver across the floor.

His knights had gathered.

Abraxas Malfoy, his right-hand man, lounged in one of the armchairs, long legs crossed, an expression of practiced boredom on his face. His blonde hair was slicked back neatly, his robes still perfectly pressed, even at midnight.

Evan Rosier had his feet on the table, wand twirling between his fingers with idle precision. Gideon Nott leaned against the hearth with arms crossed. Lestrange lounged half-asleep in a high-backed chair, a flask tucked into his robes. He perked up only when Tom entered.

Only Mulciber and Avery, the most devoted of his followers, bowed as he walked in. Tom would have to remind the rest of his knights to respect him, it seemed.

None of them spoke until Tom did, their only saving grace.

"I want dossiers on her by sunrise," Tom said. His voice was clipped. "Family registry. Wand records. Ministry files. Gringotts, any mention of yew or cursed ash. Someone unmasks this girl."

Abraxas frowned. "Should we ask the headmaster for clearance?"

Tom shook his head. "Discretion is a virtue. If she is what she seems, untrackable, then it's because someone wants it that way . We find out who."

His knights nodded. They had orders.

Tom watched his knights disperse. He would find out what she was hiding. And then...

Oh, it would be fun watching her break.

───── DRUELLA ROSIER  ─────

That morning, Druella was waiting.

She stood near the portrait of the Singing Mermaid; Tom always made his morning rounds there. When Tom passed, she didn't move, just murmured his name.

"Tom."

He stopped, but didn't look surprised. Of course he wasn't. He always knew everything.

"You're chasing a girl who shouldn't matter," she said, voice low. Controlled. "Why?"

He arched an eyebrow, didn't even ask how she knew. As if she weren't worth the effort of surprise.

"She's interesting," he said simply. "That's enough, isn't it?"

His voice left no room for discussion, but Druella stepped forward anyway. She knew him. The real him. And she knew the pattern, obsession always came disguised as interest.

"You want to break her, don't you?"

Tom didn't hesitate. "Curiosity is not cruelty."

He didn't say no.

And that stung more than she expected it to.

Because Tom only broke things he was attached to. So that he wouldn't be burdened in his desire for power.

Because Tom Marvolo Riddle—sharp-tongued, always two steps ahead—had never softened his words with her. He'd never bothered with politeness. And now he was cutting around the truth.

God, he was going soft. And she hated it.

Her eyes darkened. "It looks a lot like cruelty."

He stepped close enough that the air shifted between them. His voice dropped, quiet and deliberate.

"My personal affairs," he said, "are not your concern."

Druella stared at him. For the first time in a long while, she felt something flicker. Hurt. Something bitter. He wasn't even angry with her. He was dismissive.

Like she didn't matter anymore.

She stepped back, spine straight. The anger shimmered behind her eyes, but she didn't let it show. Not fully.

Then she turned and descended the spiral stairs, her footsteps silent on the stone.

Tom didn't watch her go.

───── SATORU ─────

The invitation sat on her pillow. Heavy parchment, gold trim. A wax seal bearing an ornate S for Slughorn. Satoru stood at the edge of her mattress, staring at it like it might explode.

"I see he's wasting no time," Selene drawled from across the room, brushing her hair out. "Slug Club means you've officially been claimed."

Cordelia peeked over with wide eyes. "You're going?"

Satoru sighed. "I have to. I owe him. What is a party like, anyways?"

"Boring," Selene said. "Except for the food. But you can just smirk and pretend you're better than everyone."

Satoru smirked. "That's my default setting."

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

The Slug Club was gaudy. Nauseating.

Gold lanterns floated overhead. Music spilled from a bewitched phonograph. Platters of sugared figs and floating cheese wheels drifted through the air like enchanted hors d'oeuvres. Another too-fancy name.

He hated the way his eyes flicked toward the door the moment she entered. Hated how he froze.

Satoru had changed. Not into anything extravagant, just a pair of fitted navy robes likely borrowed from a friend. Her white hair tied back with a thin silver ribbon. He hated how she immediately became the center of attention.

Tom's jaw tightened.

Slughorn swept to her side. "Ah! There she is! My newest curiosity."

She muttered something like thanks and slid past him toward the firelit alcove.

Which, unfortunately, was where Tom stood.

Slughorn clapped his hands. "You two simply must speak. Two of the most unusual minds I've ever had the pleasure of meeting."

Satoru's smile was cool. "That's one word for us."

Tom nodded once. "It's an honor."

"You don't mean that," she said.

Slughorn blinked. "Now, now..."

"It's fine," Satoru said smoothly, not looking away from Tom. "He doesn't have to lie. I don't."

Tom raised a brow. "Do you always speak like that, or am I special?"

"I've only just met you. Why ruin the mystery?"

A beat.

Slughorn laughed awkwardly. "Brilliant! Oh, I adore cleverness." Then he excused himself, thankfully.

Silence stretched between them.

"You don't like being looked at," Tom said, after a moment.

"Neither do you," Satoru replied. "Difference is, I don't pretend otherwise."

His gaze flicked over her again, sharp, clinical. "I heard you chose Ravenclaw," he said.

"I didn't choose it. The talking hat did."

"You could've refused."

She tilted her head. "Why? Slytherin too full of people like you?"

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You don't know me."

"Good," she said. "Let's keep it that way."

He stepped closer. Just an inch. Close enough for his voice to drop.

"You're powerful."

"Observant."

"But scattered," he said. "Unmoored. You're not afraid. You're untethered."

"And you're what, dissecting me already?"

"I like knowing what I'm dealing with."

"I don't," she said. "That's the difference between us."

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then she reached for a floating glass of elderflower cordial and turned to go.

"Leaving already?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "The room's getting crowded."

She didn't look back. But she knew he watched.

And that he hated himself for it.

───── SATORU ─────

When Satoru exited, the hallway was nearly empty. The castle's warmth did nothing to thaw the tension thrumming in her chest. Tom wasn't friendly. And he noticed her. Wanted to know the truth about her, a truth she wasn't ready to give up yet. That was the dangerous part.

She didn't notice the cold steel pressing against her throat.

"Leaving before dessert?"

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru’s breath caught before the blade even pressed against her throat. A whisper of moonlight caught the blade, illuminating it in an almost heavenly glow. The blade had no right to look like that. Not when it had her at its mercy. Her heart thundered in her chest, her body paralyzed. Why couldn’t she move? The voice beside her was soft, practiced.

"I saw that stunt in the Great Hall," the voice murmured in her ear, female, controlled. No tremor, no rush. "So I figured I’d never stand a chance with a hex."

The blade pressed, just enough to remind her of what it could do.

"But spiking your elderflower cordial with a little powdered suppressant? That’s easy."

Her limbs ached with sluggish weight. Her wand sat useless in her holster. Not that she really knew how to use it. She hadn’t noticed anything off with the drink. Not the taste. Not the smell.

"You’ve clearly never had it before," the voice continued, circling around now, coming into view, "so you wouldn’t notice the difference."

Satoru's pupils tried to focus, but the edges of the corridor blurred faintly.

"You may have noticed your senses are dulled. Body temporarily paralyzed. And lucky for me–" she smiled, cruelly gentle, "–I’m good with a knife."

Satoru didn’t flinch. Not visibly. But her brain, fogged though it was, moved fast. So did her mouth.

"What do you want?"

The girl stepped fully into the moonlight.

Tall. Pale. Silver-blonde hair in perfect waves, not a strand out of place. Hauntingly beautiful. 

Satoru blinked at her. She didn’t recognize her.

"Who the hell are you?"

The girl’s lip curled. "You’re moving in circles you don’t belong to," she said quietly. Her wand, which Satoru hadn't even seen, glinted in her other hand. “Tom’s interest, it’s not casual.”

That made Satoru pause. Her heart, sluggish but stubborn, kicked against her ribs.

A breath steadied her. "Is this your concern?"

The girl tilted her head. A cruel parody of curiosity. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"I’m protecting what’s mine."

Then, she pressed forward. The blade glided up, resting just beneath Satoru’s jaw.

"Enjoy the spotlight while it lasts."

Satoru studied her. Up close, the mask cracked just slightly. Her hands were steady, but her eyes–brown, glassy, wounded–flickered with something sharp and aching. Not hate. Not really.

Satoru knew that look.

She inhaled slowly, not daring to move her neck. "You love him."

Druella’s mouth flattened.

Satoru’s voice was softer now, but no less direct. "You’re scared. Of what it means that he’s looking at someone else. Scared that maybe you never had him at all."

"Shut up."

Satoru didn’t. "I get it. I do. Suguru… he was my center. For a long time. And when I lost him... I did worse than this."

Druella’s fingers twitched.

"You think hurting me gives you power," Satoru murmured. "But it doesn’t. It just makes you smaller. You don’t have to do this."

Something cracked in Druella’s expression. Just faintly. A line near her eye. A quiver in her lip. The knife didn’t move, but her wand lowered an inch.

"You don’t know anything about me," she said.

"I don’t have to. Pain’s a universal language. And you’re fluent."

Satoru held her eyes, slow and unblinking. The weight of the threat was still there. But she leaned into it.

"You still have a choice. Even now."

The steel wavered.

Druella stared at her, and for one long second, the only sound was their breathing.

Then, the knife dropped.

Druella stepped back, slowly. Almost reluctantly. But her wand was holstered. Her face shuttered.

"Tell Tom whatever you like," she said flatly. "It won’t matter."

She turned and vanished into the dark, leaving Satoru alone with her frozen limbs and the afterimage of pain in someone else’s eyes. Eyes that looked too much like hers when Suguru left her. 

A hoarse laugh left her body. Even now, after all Suguru had done, she couldn’t escape him. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The Ravenclaw corridor was dead silent as Satoru dragged herself up the final set of stairs, one hand still pressed to her ribs, the other barely keeping her upright against the stone wall. Her vision was clearer now, but her legs (and the rest of her body, for that matter) still felt like they were made of pudding. 

She stopped in front of the tower door. The familiar bronze eagle gleamed in the moonlight, already swiveling its head toward her.

"Answer me this," it said crisply, "What comes once in a minute, twice in a moment, but never in a thousand years?"

Satoru blinked at it.

“I just got roofied and threatened by a girl who could model for a villainous fragrance ad,” she said hoarsely. “I am not in the mood.”

"A true Ravenclaw would–" the knocker began primly.

“I will rip you off this door and throw you in the lake,” Satoru responded, frustrated.

The eagle paused, its sculpted beak slightly ajar, as if it were appalled at her audacity.

Satoru stepped closer, pointing at it like she was giving a lecture. Like the rare times she got mad at her students. 

“You smug doorknob. If you don’t let me in right now, I will start giving you wrong answers. Out loud. At top volume. Until every person imaginable in this fucking castle reports you for sleep disturbance.”

"That is against protocol–"

“Are you testing me? I will name every wrong answer. A clock. A sneeze. Dramatic irony. Do you want to do this tonight? Do you?”

There was a long, tense silence. Somewhere in the castle, Rowena Ravenclaw burst out laughing.

Finally, the door clicked and opened, stiffly.

"Welcome back, Miss Satoru,” the eagle said. “I see your intelligence is of a different variety.”

“I call it emotional terrorism,” she muttered, limping past the threshold.

"Charming."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Satoru shut the door to her dorm with more force than she meant to. The soft whispers of her roommates fell silent. She couldn’t bring herself to meet their eyes, see their concern. It had been a long time since others were concerned for her. 

She just pulled off her borrowed robes and reached for the buttons on her shirt with trembling fingers. Hurried. So that she could go to bed without any questions. But they noticed the blood. A thin, red line that trailed below her jaw. It wasn’t deep, but it rose a lot of questions.

Amari was the first to move. “Do you want water?” she asked, like they weren’t all staring at the cut. Her voice was warm, even.

Satoru shook her head.

Selene leaned back against the couch, legs crossed. “So,” she said, almost too casually, “how was the party?”

“Fine,” Satoru muttered.

“You look like it wasn’t,” Cordelia said softly.

There was a beat of silence. Then Satoru asked flatly, “Who’s Druella Rosier?”

That made them pause.

Selene’s face sharpened. “Why?”

Satoru gave a half-smile. Acted like it didn’t matter. “Just curious.”

She didn’t miss the glance Amari and Selene exchanged.

“She’s old blood,” Selene said finally. “As in, her family’s one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Wizards who’ve stayed ‘pure’ for generations. No Muggle blood. No half-anything.”

Satoru squinted at her. “What the hell is a Muggle?”

Cordelia blinked. “Non-magic. Like–-non-sorcerers, where you’re from, I guess?”

Satoru’s brow furrowed. “So people here sort families by whether or not they have magic in their blood?”

“Basically,” Amari said. “It’s deeper than that. Political. Financial. Stupid.”

“Sounds like a cult,” Satoru muttered. “Or a dying empire.”

Selene chuckled under her breath. “Sometimes both.”

Satoru sank onto her bed, hand trailing over the slash at her throat. “And what’s the obsession? Why does this Druella chick care so much that I exist?”

Selene leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Because Tom Riddle looked at you.”

That caught her attention.

Cordelia nodded. “He doesn’t look at anyone. Not like that.”

“And because,” Amari added gently, “you don’t come from anywhere. No last name. No record. No vault at Gringotts. You don’t fit into their categories. That terrifies them.”

Satoru looked between them. “And you three?”

“Greengrass,” Selene said, lifting her chin. “Pureblood. But I prefer facts over tradition. I don’t care who your great-great-grandfather married.”

Amari smiled faintly. “Half-blood. Mum’s a respected Auror. Dad’s a Muggle cartographer. He still thinks Hogwarts is an elite art school.”

Cordelia gave a tiny wave. “Muggle-born. Mum bakes. Dad sews. I found out I was magic after accidentally levitating a whole dining table.”

Satoru blinked. “You’re all freaks.”

Amari grinned. “Guilty.”

Cordelia looked up. “It’s weird to you, isn’t it? The whole blood thing.”

“It’s archaic,” Satoru said flatly. “Where I come from, power isn’t about blood. It’s about ability. You’re strong or you’re dead. No one gives a damn what your great-aunt’s surname was.”

Selene sighed. “Wish that applied here.”

Satoru’s voice dropped. “I hate that this place runs on fear of difference.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Amari said. “But you’re still new. People will project onto you. Especially the old-name purebloods.”

Cordelia’s gaze fell on the cut at Satoru’s throat. “Can I help?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re really not.” Cordelia crossed the room, pulling a small vial from her nightstand. “It’s just calendula and a little dragon’s milk. No hexes. No curses. I made it myself.”

Satoru didn’t move.

Cordelia met her gaze, soft but firm. “Can’t let you start your first day of classes with a throat like that, can I?”

Satoru finally nodded, just a little. Cordelia dabbed the salve gently onto her skin.

It stung. But she could feel the welt heal. 

The three girls returned to their beds slowly. No one asked more questions. No one pushed. She was grateful. 

Satoru climbed into bed and drew the curtains shut. Her hand brushed the edge of her blanket, where a stitched patch read Ravenclaw Tower, Fifth Year.

She stared up at the canopy and exhaled.

She’d promised not to get attached. Not after Shibuya.

But these girls? They made it hard not to.

Chapter Text

───── DRUELLA ROSIER ─────

She was born in winter. They told her it suited her.

A Rosier daughter. First of her name, third of her generation, second in disappointment.

The men were always the ones who mattered. Evan especially. The golden boy. Her parents’ pride, the shining heir. He inherited their eyes, their politics, their venomous charm. She? She was told to smile and make sure her sleeves never wrinkled.

Druella learned early that perfection was armor. That poise could be sharpened into a blade if wielded properly. She wore her bloodline like a corset: tight, elegant, suffocating. They never praised her talent, though she had plenty. Her wandwork was precise. Her spellcraft was innovative. But no one wanted a clever girl. They wanted a pretty one. A quiet one.

A Rosier heiress didn’t duel in the corridors.

She didn’t speak unless asked.

She married well.

That was her fate.

Tom was the logical conclusion of that script. Tall. Brilliant. Ruthless. The room bent around his silence. She thought if anyone deserves me, it’s him.

She mistook silence for fascination.

She mistook indifference for mystery.

He never chose her. Not once.

But it wasn’t just rejection that broke her. It was the dismissal . Like she was nothing more than dust on his sleeve. Something inconvenient. Forgettable.

And Satoru?

Satoru appeared and, within hours, carved out a place in his attention. Uninvited. Undeserving. Unapologetic.

So Druella did what Rosiers did best.

She planned.

The powder in the cordial had been easy. The knife was easier. She hadn’t wanted to kill Satoru, just remind her she didn’t belong. Just enough pain to send a message. Tom’s attention was hers. That had to mean something.

But Satoru didn’t plead.

She spoke. Not in fear, but in understanding.

“You have a choice,” she’d said.

So simple. So devastating.

Druella hated how it broke something in her.

Because no one had ever said that to her before.

No one had ever handed her a choice. Only instructions. Only expectations.

And for the first time in her life, Druella didn’t follow them.

She didn’t erase Satoru’s memories. Didn’t clean up her mess. She left the cut and the truth behind.

And she knew Tom would find out. He would be furious. He would make her pay.

But maybe, just maybe, she could make a different kind of legacy.

She didn’t need to be loved by Tom.

Maybe she could be more than the blade in someone else’s hand.

Maybe this time she could be the hand.

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE  ─────

Tom was having a good day.

This morning's research had finally paid off. He’d uncovered fragments of an obscure diary, half-burned and forgotten in the Restricted Section, detailing a great serpent buried beneath the school. A basilisk. A legend brought to life. If it was true, and he would make it so, it would be his. His to control. His to unleash. Another step closer to the power he was owed.

And then there was Satoru.

Whose abilities didn't align with any known magic he'd known. Whose wand, according to Abraxas, wasn't supposed to exist. Nobody had ever heard of cursed-core before. Whose heritage remained a mystery. 

Still, today was a good day. Because today, as her academic advisor, Tom Riddle would finally get some answers.


───── SATORU  ─────

Satoru groaned as she yanked on her robes. Her first full day of classes, and from what her roommates had told her, she was sure that she would hate them. Jujutsu, she could handle. Wizarding magic, not so much.

And her timetable? Nothing short of cruel. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Charms at 9:00.

Professor Flitwick greeted them with a barely contained enthusiasm, his tiny form practically vibrating with excitement. 

“Today, we’ll be practicing the Banishing Charm, Depulso !” he announced, eyes sparkling. “A vital spell for any duelist. 

Satoru pointed her wand at a pillow. "Please don’t embarrass me," she muttered, then flicked. " Depulso ."

The pillow shot backward, ricocheted off the wall, and embedded itself in the stone.

She flushed, mortified. A Slytherin in the back whispered, “Overkill.”

“It was supposed to be gentle,” she muttered, sinking lower into her seat.

Flitwick, ever the optimist, cheered. “Well done, Miss Satoru! On to the next! Protego , Shield charms! Useful for defending yourself when spells fly unexpectedly!”

She raised her wand again, tried to focus, but the shield shimmered weakly before fizzling away. Her brow twitched.

Tom's voice, barely audible, "Charm unstable. Intention clear. Control lacking."

She flipped him off. He didn't look up.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Transfiguration at 10:30 with Dumbledore. Wonderful.

"Chair to bird," Dumbledore instructed, crisp and cool, as if it wasn’t an absurd request. "Transfiguration requires not only knowledge, but intent."

Satoru eyed the chair skeptically. "Please don’t explode," she muttered to herself. 

"Miss Satoru," Dumbledore said without looking, "Furniture does not respond to pleading."

She cast. The chair cracked, then combusted. Her second attempt was only slightly better; the chair morphed into a twisted mess of feathers and wood that flopped pathetically to the floor. 

Tom spoke from across the room. "Effort present. Finesse absent."

She imagined staple-gunning his lips shut. It brought her peace.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Lunch. Then Herbology with Professor Beery. Satoru stared down at a pot of shrieking screechsnaps.

"Repot carefully," Beery said.

The plant hissed.

Satoru narrowed her eyes. "You hiss at me, I hiss back."

"You need a gentler touch," said a nearby Ravenclaw.

Satoru turned her gaze on him. "Do I look like someone who owns a gentle anything?"

He blinked, clearly unsure of whether he was being mocked or not "...No?"

Tom, at the far end of the greenhouse, was already on his third pot, to her chagrin. 

She considered throwing dirt in his hair.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Potions at 3:00. 

Finally. A class she didn’t loathe.

Professor Slughorn was enthusiastic, but not overbearing, greeting her with a warm smile as he set them to work on the Draught of Peace.

She followed the recipe exactly. Stirred clockwise thrice. She was pleased when a soft steam rose from her potion. 

Slughorn passed by her cauldron, sniffing the air. “Textbook, Miss Satoru! Exceptional work! You’ve got talent, girl!”

Tom eyed his potion, then hers. "Impressive," he said.

Then, low enough so only she heard, "Did you cheat?"

She smiled sweetly. "No, Riddle. I just know how to follow instructions. You should try it sometime."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Defense Against the Dark Arts was last. Professor Merrythought was ancient but sharp.

"Spell deflection," she introduced. "Who’s brave?"

Satoru raised her hand. The spell came at her, fast and deadly, but with a flick of her hand she froze it mid-air. 

She lifted her hand.

The spell stopped. Froze in mid-air. Then dissipated.

The class gaped as it slowly dissipated. Even Merrythought’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

Tom’s gaze was fixed on her, his expression unreadable. “Wandless magic. Intriguing,” he muttered, eyes gleaming with that unsettling hunger.

Satoru simply shrugged. “It’s not hard.”

She lied. She wasn’t about to give him any answers.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

She was summoned to Dumbledore’s office for their “advising session,” but Dumbledore wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Instead, Tom sat behind the desk, watching her with that unnerving intensity, his eyes flicking to the chair across from him. He gestured for her to sit, and with a silent snort, she did.

He slid a folder across to her; it contained her class scores. Charms: T, Transfiguration: D, Potions: E, Herbology: E, Defense Against the Dark Arts: O.

He looked up.

“You’re reactive. Defensive,” Tom remarked, voice calm and analytical. “You have control issues in Charms and Transfiguration, but you excel when it matters. You perform when cornered, but you deliberately deflect, ignore your weaknesses.”

Her eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a tight smile. “Gee, thanks for the insight.”

He didn’t flinch. "I could help you."

Her hand slammed the folder shut. "No. You don’t help. You dissect. You watch people bleed and wonder what makes them tick. I’m not one of your puzzles. I’m not one of your followers."

He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. Instead, his eyes sharpened. “Who taught you to use that magic?”

She stood, the room suddenly feeling too small, too suffocating. “Stop stalking me.”

“I’m your advisor,” he said, his voice low and steady.

“That’s a threat,” she countered, meeting his cold eyes. “Should I tell Dippet? Get you removed from your position?”

Tom didn’t budge, his gaze boring into her like ice. “You think I’d need someone else to do the work for me?” he asked, his voice a quiet, dangerous whisper.

"Truthfully? Yes. I know you sent people to find out what I am. To dig through what little past I might have. To follow me. Intimidate me."

He stilled. The room felt colder.

"To hurt you?" he asked, voice low.

She didn’t answer.

"Who?"

"Drop it, Tom."

He stood, slow and deliberate. Walked around the desk.

"You think I’d send someone to threaten you?"

She turned away.

"You think I’d need to?" he asked again. 

That did it.

Her hand twitched, her cursed energy flaring briefly before she reined it in. She wouldn’t let him see how close he was to pushing her too far.

The quill on the desk cracked. Books trembled on their shelves.

Tom’s expression faltered for a split second, and Satoru knew he was afraid .

With a step forward, she whispered, “I’m done. Done being watched. Done being studied. I’m not afraid of you.”

"You should be."

She met his eyes, unflinching. "I’ve seen worse than you. And I’m done being a pawn in another person’s game." 

Because she’d been the willing pawn for too long. Just another piece biding the wishes of the higher-ups.

His expression faltered at that. "You’re not a pawn," he said.

She laughed once, harshly. "No? Then what am I? The queen? Your new obsession?"

He didn’t answer. 

"You don’t scare me, Riddle," she said.

She turned away.

"I know," he said softly. "That’s what makes you dangerous."

He didn’t even move as she turned to leave. The door clicked shut behind her, and this time, he didn’t follow. 

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

The castle was too quiet.

Satoru never thought she’d miss Tokyo this much. Miss the constant honking, the scent of streetfood curling the alleys at midnight, the annoyance at police sirens blaring. Miss the crowded mess of public transport, the constant hum of cursed energy thrumming beneath her skin.

But Hogwarts, in contrast to Tokyo, was unnaturally still.

She rolled over in her bed. The velvet canopy above flickered with enchanted stars. They were meant to be calming. But she hated them. Because the stars still shone after Shibuya as if the sky hadn’t noticed her world collapsing.

When she got dressed, her limbs moved on autopilot. Her shirt was wrinkled, her robe uneven, her tie not perfectly knotted. But she didn’t fix it. Let Tom complain if he wanted polish.

By the time she had reached the Ravenclaw common room (her roommates preferred to get away from the Great Hall), her roommates were already sprawled on the velvet couches, conversing over toast and orange juice.

“You’re late,” Selene remarked, folding a page corner without looking up.

“Didn’t know we were grading punctuality now,” Satoru muttered, dropping into the chair nearest the hearth.

Amari glanced at her. “You’re being talked about. Might as well get ahead of it.”

That made her pause.

Cordelia passed her a plate of toast, still warm, buttered to the edge. “Everyone’s saying you stopped a spell. With your hand.”

“I did.”

“Wandless magic isn’t exactly normal,” Amari added.

“Good,” Satoru said. “Neither am I.”

Selene snorted. “Finally. Someone honest.”

An owl swooped down with a scroll in its beak, cutting through the conversation. Cordelia caught it, then silently handed it to Satoru.

It was just Ministry garbage—new wand registration protocols, a note about “unusual activity.”

“It’s about me,” Satoru said flatly.

“Obviously,” Selene yawned.

“They’re scared of you,” Amari murmured. “Because you don’t fit in one of their tidy little boxes.”

Cordelia gave her a careful look. “You okay?”

Satoru shrugged, automatic. “Being treated like a threat is nothing new.” Because she’d always been a weapon in someone else’s war; the higher-ups certainly treated her as so, never caring about her feelings.

She didn’t elaborate any further. And lucky for her, they didn’t push.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Slughorn’s office, if Satoru described it, was a museum of curated nostalgia, featuring several portraits of past students mid-laugh, mid-toast. Eerily impersonal. Not memories of them with Slughorn, no these were just proof that he collected people.

Satoru reminded herself to stay away.

“Miss Satoru! What a morning it’s been! Come in, come in!”

His chair was too soft.

“I wanted to speak privately,” he said, fingers steepled. “About your future.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Which part? The one where I’m apparently failing half my classes, or the one where the Ministry’s targeting me?”

He winced. “Don’t be flippant.”

“Why not? You are.”

Still, he powered through. “You’re special. I see that. So do others. Hogwarts takes care of its own.”

“What do you want?”

“Straight to it, then?”

“Always.”

“An apprenticeship. With me. You’ve got potential. Real potential. Together, we could refine it.”

“And in return?”

“I want you to be transparent with me. Do an interview now and then, reassure the ministry that you’re not a threat.”

She stood. “No.”

“Miss Satoru—”

“I’m not your project. I’m not a Ministry specimen. Find someone else to parade around.”

She left before his smile could recover.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Dueling Club was held that evening. Of course it was. Right when the rumors about Satoru reached their boiling point; right when the air in the castle practically vibrated with tension. It was no coincidence. It was a performance, a pressure test. One Satoru had no choice but to walk into.

The Great Hall had been stripped bare. There were no more banners, no more house tables. Instead, a raised platform stood in the center. Students crowded the edges, waiting for the real show to start.

Satoru was paired with Gideon Nott. He bowed to her, but she didn’t return the gesture.

He cast the first spell, a spiraling bolt of light meant to disorient her. Satoru shifted her weight, sidestepping easily. She didn’t raise her wand to counter his attack. Instead, she raised her hand, and her cursed energy unfurled around her.

The spell struck the invisible wall and fizzled into sparks. The audience gasped, but Satoru paid them no mind. Gideon narrowed his eyes and launched a second spell, faster than the first. This time, she didn’t dodge. Instead, she activated Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue. A vacuum pulled the spell off its path mid-air, yanking it to the side as though gravity itself had shifted.

Seeing an opening, Satoru closed the distance between them in three steps, then struck. Her palm cracked against his chest with a sharp force.

Reverse Cursed Energy. In theory it was harmless, meant to heal a person. But when slammed into a human body, it was devastating. Gideon was sent flying backward, his wand skidding across the floor.

The duel was over.

She didn’t bow. Just turned and stepped down.

Tom didn’t applaud. But his eyes hadn’t left her since the moment she started moving.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

She passed Druella near the arch.

"You didn’t tell him."

Satoru halted, her eyes briefly catching Druella’s. The words were soft, almost careful. "You had every reason."

Satoru turned fully toward her. "I didn’t tell him."

"Why?"

Satoru stepped in closer, their faces mere inches apart. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I know what it’s like to want someone to look at you and see you—not your name, not your family, not the legend they’ve built around your bones."

Druella didn’t flinch, but there was a crack in her eyes, a fleeting vulnerability.

Satoru's gaze hardened, her tone sharpened with finality. "Next time," she said, "don’t come at me with a knife."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked away.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Later, Tom found her.

He walked beside her in the corridor, matching her pace. "You’re being watched."

"No shit."

"You’ve made enemies."

"I always do."

They stopped walking at the same time.

"What are you hiding?" he asked.

"Why do you care?"

His voice was clipped, colder than before. "Because I don’t like being surprised."

"There’s the Riddle everyone warned me about."

He stepped closer. "I know what it’s like. To be feared. Scrutinized. Alone."

"We’re not the same."

He didn’t argue. Instead, he held out a folded note. "Someone sent this. For you."

She didn’t ask how he got it. Just unfolded it. Vault 332. Bring blood.

Her cursed energy pulsed, sharp and instinctive. He noticed.

"You’re not the only anomaly here," he said quietly.

"Why give this to me?"

"Because I want to know what brought you here. And because if it’s dangerous, I want to be the one who understands it first."

She stared at him. "You think I owe you answers because you’re curious."

"I think you’re terrified of being seen."

Her voice cut low. "Don’t mistake obsession for empathy."

She turned and walked away. She didn’t look back.

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

He knew, even before she stepped onto the platform, that she wouldn't cast spells. He also knew it wouldn't matter.

The way her body moved was not the movement of someone raised in classrooms. That wasn’t wandwork. That was war.

Tom had seen duels before. But this wasn’t a duel. This was restraint.

She’d struck Nott with her bare hand. Not to kill. But to warn.

He should have been unnerved. He should have filed her away as a variable to eliminate. But watching her—cold, controlled, lethal—something deeper stirred.

Possibility.

He understood now. She didn’t just survive where she came from. She’d ruled it.

And if she did, once, she could again.

But only if she stayed close. And only if he figured out what she was first.

Because the difference between a weapon and a legacy was who held the handle. And Tom had never intended to be anyone’s casualty.

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE  ─────

The note hadn't arrived by owl, a detail that, in itself, was unusual enough to catch Tom's attention immediately. It had been waiting for him on his desk the previous night, sitting there with no indication of its sender, no wax seal, no signature, and no visible traces of any spellwork. It was simply a folded piece of parchment, entirely blank on the outside save for Satoru's name, but when opened, it revealed two lines of precise, narrow script.

Vault 332. Bring blood.

That alone was enough to give him pause.

It was clear to him that the note had to originate from somewhere outside Hogwarts, for he would have surely noticed if someone had been able to approach his desk without his knowledge. No student knew about Satoru like this. Knew about him . About them . About the secrets he was trying to uncover, about their weird dynamic, about the weird magnetic orbit that drew him to her.

No, this wasn't simply a message. It was a challenge. A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, meant to test him in some way.

He'd done his research. The vault wasn't on any standard registry. It was a name that appeared only in a forgotten side ledger, hidden away, never meant to be found. Tom had stumbled upon it by accident, while leafing through a dusty, long-forgotten account book wedged behind a pile of ancient files in the Restricted Section of the library. There was no family name beside Vault 332, no distinguishing crest, no official record. The only mark on the page was a faded emblem, two interlocking rings bisected by three vertical lines, and a handwritten note in cramped, almost illegible script: Access requires blood. Last opened 1876.

Something about it reminded him of Satoru. There was no official account of her existence, no family name, no clear origin. Magic seemed to cling to her in a way it shouldn't, as if she were something beyond the world's understanding of the magical laws.

Maybe it was a game. A trap, sent by Grindelwald or one of his agents, testing his boundaries.

But Tom wasn't the type to ignore invitations. Especially when the sender was that powerful.

Because Tom wasn't powerful enough. Yet.

Not until he unlocked the Chamber. Not until he claimed the lordships that were his by birthright.

So, with that in mind, he had given the note to her. If she posed any kind of threat to Hogwarts or to his plans, he wanted to be the first to understand it. If she possessed any knowledge that might help him in his rise to power, then he would be a fool not to learn it.

He had expected her to ask questions, to express some curiosity about it. What he had not anticipated, however, was for her to corner him in the hall that very morning, her presence looming over him as she pressed one arm firmly against the stone wall beside his head.

"Take me to the vault," she demanded, her voice low and certain.

He raised an eyebrow, feigning boredom. "Realizing you finally need my help, are you?"

She rolled her eyes. "I don't like you. But you're the strongest person here. And you're too selfish to let me die if I could be useful."

He blinked once, then smiled. Just a little. "You know me too well."

"Unfortunately."

They left at dawn.

Gringotts was closed, but it didn't matter. The wards didn't recognize Tom as a threat. Not yet. Which allowed them to easily apparate into the walls.

The cart ride down to the vault was steep, fast, and unnerving. For her first time being on the cart, Satoru was oddly calm. She didn't seem to notice the winding tunnels. Instead, she was watching him.

The vault sat apart from the others, its stone door veined with silver. No keyhole. No handle. Just a shallow slot.

Tom stepped forward, sliced his palm, and let his blood drip into the slot.

Nothing happened.

He frowned.

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru didn't hesitate.

She stepped up beside him, slashed her own palm, and let the blood fall.

The vault groaned, the ancient stone shifting and cracking as it began to open.

Inside, to her surprise, there was no treasure. No scrolls, no gold. Just a stone chamber.

Empty, save for a single pedestal at the center. Upon the pedestal rested a white box, etched in symbols she didn't know.

She stepped forward.

Tom didn't move.

"It's blood-activated," he murmured. "The room responded to you."

Satoru didn't answer. She opened the box.

Inside was a stone tablet, smaller than a book, cracked at one edge. Etched into its surface was a strange, ancient sigil.

Tom exhaled slowly.

"You recognize it." Not a question.

"It's not wizarding. Not British. Grindelwald mentioned it once, at least, according to a translated copy of his early journals. The Sigil of the Hollowed Sun. It predates the Founders. An alchemical mark. From the East."

Satoru touched the tablet.

Her cursed energy flared, in recognition. Her palm glowed, mirroring the same sigil now etched into the stone wall behind her.

And in that moment, Satoru felt a strange sensation, like being seen by something older than herself. Something that had been waiting. Not for her, specifically, but for what she carried. For the blood in her veins that didn't belong to this world, but was tied to it in ways she couldn't yet grasp.

She stumbled back, eyes wide, her thoughts spiraling.

This world wasn't supposed to recognize her. It wasn't supposed to remember her.

Her mind flashed to Suguru, to something he had once said. "You don't belong to them. You belong to the ones who came before."

At the time, she hadn't understood what he meant.

Until now.

The sigil pulsed again. She stepped away quickly.

"It's not cursed," she said. "It's waiting."

Tom didn't respond. But his eyes never left her.

The vault rumbled once, then fell still.

On the way up, neither of them spoke. Not until they reached the surface.

"You should tell someone," Tom said. "Dippet. Slughorn. Someone you trust."

"I don't trust anyone."

He nodded, a faint acknowledgment. "Then keep it secret. But someone sent that note. Someone who knows who, what, you are."

She looked at him, the weight of his words sinking in.

And that was the part that terrified her. Because she didn't know who she was here. Not really.

"But that sigil, that tablet," Tom continued, "It links you to something the Ministry doesn't understand. Which means they'll fear it."

"And you don't?"

His voice was quiet, but sharp. "I don't fear potential."

She stared at him for a long moment, then turned away.

But she didn't miss the way his fingers twitched at his side.

He wanted the tablet. He wouldn't say it. Not yet.

But he would try to understand it, and through it, her.

For now, she would have to be careful.

Because even though this world didn't have her people, it had her blood.

And blood always remembered.


───── TOM RIDDLE  ─────

Tom watched her closely.

If she was connected to a bloodline older than Hogwarts, older than the Ministry, if she was an heir to something this powerful, then keeping her close was no longer optional.

It was strategy.

Because if he could understand her, if he could control her, then he would become unstoppable.

But first, he had to figure out who sent the note.

Because someone knew about her.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

The note was supposed to bring Satoru answers.

Instead, it left Satoru with even more questions. She sat alone in the astronomy tower, well past curfew, the wind tugging at the edges of her cloak as she stared up at the stars. Those damned, twinkling stars. The vault’s sigil still burned faintly against her palm; it had stopped glowing hours ago, but the sensation lingered. A phantom weight she couldn’t shake.

The tablet was gone now. She had handed it off to Tom, which had clearly made him happy. It wasn’t that she trusted him, but that she trusted herself less. The tablet, which pulled at her cursed energy like it recognized her, which whispered in a language her bones somehow remembered, was something to stay away from.

Or something she should have stayed away from. But she’d gone deeper instead.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Classes resumed like nothing had happened. Which was ridiculous, because something had.

The professors went on like always, droning on about lessons and essays, never once noticing how the ground had shifted beneath her feet, how the world had cracked open and whispered in a voice only she could hear. I remember you .

She tried to keep up, she honestly had. Tried to focus, to stay present. But the words in her textbooks blurred together, spells slipped from her lips in the wrong order, and more than once she found herself leaning on Cordelia and Selene for their notes, too tired to explain why she couldn’t quite keep things straight.

Luckily they didn’t ask questions, but the silence didn’t help. The not-knowing pressed against her. How could this world know her? How could the sigil respond to her cursed energy, her blood, when she was sure she’d never been in this world before?

She’d been so sure that this world was new to her. But now she wasn’t certain. And the idea that it might not be, that some part of her had always belonged to this world, was terrifying.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

In Defense class, Professor Merrythought paired Satoru with Abraxas Malfoy.

“You expect me to duel her?” he sneered, as though the suggestion was beneath him.

“Try not to embarrass yourself,” Satoru replied, her tone even, but the glint in her eyes dared him to test her.

She didn’t reach for jujutsu this time; she had spent the last few nights preparing for this. Alone, in the stillness of her room, she'd been honing her magic. Her wand, she’d found, drew not from one’s magical core like other wands, but from her cursed energy.

At first, using the wand extensively was painful, her power almost too much to control through such a small conduit. But Satoru was no stranger to pain. No stranger to pushing herself beyond her limits.

So she refined her control, learned how to coax the energy, how to give it purpose. And now, it obeyed her.

The downside? Without the wand, she was unable to channel her cursed energy into spells.

“Expelliarmus!” Malfoy’s disarming charm shot toward her, sharp and fast, but she was already moving.

“ Protego! ” she cast, a shield of light blossoming in front of her, deflecting the next series of hexes Malfoy fired off. The shield flickered with each hit, but it held.

Malfoy grimaced, clearly not expecting her to counter so effectively. He jabbed his wand toward her again.

“Serpensortia!” A serpent shot from the tip of his wand, slithering towards her with unnatural speed. Satoru didn’t flinch. She had seen this before, the spell a clear Slytherin favorite.

With a quick flick of her wand, she shouted, “ Vipera Evanesco! ” The serpent vanished in a puff of smoke.

“Wingardium Leviosa!”

Satoru rose off the ground briefly, but before she could float too high, she quickly countered with a spell of her own.

“ Peskipiksi Pesternomi! ” she called out, the charm forcefully yanking the spell back from its intended target, causing the levitation effect to falter. Her feet hit the ground again.

Malfoy was growing more frustrated by the second, his next series of spells even more reckless.

“ Tarantallegra! ”

Satoru moved quickly, narrowly avoiding the uncontrollable dance spell aimed at her feet. She cast another shield charm, this time with more force.

“ Confringo! ” Malfoy uttered. 

The blast of flame was hot and swift, but Satoru was ready. With a snap of her wrist, she shouted, “ Defodio! ” Her spell created a deep trench in the floor, absorbing the force of the flame and redirecting it away from her.

The heat from the blast stung her face, but she kept her focus. She could feel the cursed energy pulsing within her, sharp and waiting for her next move.

“ Impedimenta! ” she cast, sending a jet of force toward Malfoy, slowing his movements just enough to catch him off guard. He staggered back, but before he could recover, Satoru closed the distance between them.

“ Expulso! ” A blasting curse shot toward her, but Satoru was faster. With a sharp motion, she used the shield charm again.

Malfoy was getting desperate now, his movements erratic, as he raised his wand one last time.

“ Petrificus Totalus! ”

Satoru barely had time to react, the spell coming too fast for her to dodge. She cast a quick shield, but not in time. The full force of the body-bind curse hit her shoulder, freezing her in place for a split second.

But Satoru had learned to twist even the most common spells to her advantage. Her wand flicked downward. “ Incarcerous! ”

Ropes of magical energy shot out from her wand, wrapping around Malfoy’s body and pinning him down to the ground before he could fully react. He struggled, but the more he fought, the tighter the ropes grew, tightening around his limbs until he could barely move.

Without a word, Satoru stepped off the platform. Merrythought was clapping, but Satoru didn’t look back.

The silence that followed her departure was deafening.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

That night, Satoru lay awake in bed, her eyes fixed to the ceiling above her, unblinking. Sleep didn’t even try to come.

The memory of the vault came back.

The pendant had been beneath the tablet. She hadn’t even noticed it at first; it was nestled in a hollowed groove. But when she picked it up, it burned slightly, enough to let her know the pendant recognized her. Somehow.

She hadn’t told Tom.

She had slipped it into her pocket and kept it to herself. Because some small part of her, the weak part of her, couldn’t resist the connection.

And now, alone in her bed, she could still feel it. Feel the pendant pulse softly, in sync with her heartbeat.

Why does this world remember me?

She thought of Suguru again. The way he’d said, “You don’t belong to them. You belong to the ones who came before.”

She had always assumed he meant the sorcerers. The old clans. But what if he hadn’t?

What if jujutsu didn’t start in her world? What if it started here?

That would explain the cursed resonance. The way the vault had responded to her blood. The way her wand functioned, not through traditional magic, but by channeling her cursed energy.

Her energy.

Maybe the clans in her world had come from this one. Maybe they had crossed over, long ago, and passed down what they could. Maybe jujutsu had evolved from something older, something buried in the foundations of this place.

If that was true, then she hadn’t just slipped into another world by accident.

She hadn’t been lost.

She had come home.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The next day, she caught Malfoy after class.

He looked startled at first, then quickly guarded. “Come to gloat?”

“Just wanted to say…” She hesitated, the words unfamiliar in her mouth. “You fight well.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that. Some of the sharpness in his expression faded. “Tom told me to keep an eye on you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And are you?”

He paused. “No. Not really.”

“Good.”

She glanced down the corridor, then back at him. “I haven’t seen him around.”

Malfoy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s busy.”

Tom had always prided himself on being the model student. He hadn’t missed a single day of class since he first stepped foot in Hogwarts, the teachers all loved him, and he was always three chapters ahead.

Until now.

He hadn’t attended classes in two days.

Because of Satoru. Her duel. The power she had. The sigil. It was a reminder, one he could barely stomach, that there were still forces in this world he couldn’t understand. That, above all, was what angered him. His carefully curated world of knowledge had always been within reach, and Satoru had exposed a chink in his armor.

So he withdrew. Spent hours in the dark, whispering to the stone walls in Parseltongue.

And the walls, initially silent, were beginning to whisper back. The basilisk, ancient and half-asleep, was starting to stir.

But he was still behind now. Behind in his research, in his efforts to claim the Chamber and the heirships owed to him. Satoru had distracted him. And he didn’t know whether to resent her or be fascinated by her all the more for it.

That evening, Satoru sat motionless at her desk, her gaze locked on the pendant.

The pendant’s glow reflected in her now-bare eyes, shimmered with the same sigil that had been etched into the tablet in the vault.

And as the pendant’s glow brightened, as her cursed energy surged stronger than ever before, Satoru felt the horrifying truth settle deep within her.

This world had been waiting for her all along.

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Tom was used to being obeyed.

Professors listened. Students bowed. The castle itself seemed to lean closer when he passed, its magic curling toward him in recognition. So it was with great displeasure that he found himself, on the fourth day of his self-imposed exile, crouching alone in a pitch-black tunnel beneath the castle, trying to convince an ancient, homicidal serpent not to eat him.

"Come now, " he hissed in Parseltongue. " I am your heir. I speak the tongue. You will listen. "

Nothing.

The silence in the Chamber of Secrets was, despite the name, loud. The air pulsed faintly with the lingering magic of Salazar Slytherin, but the creature it had left behind was decidedly unimpressed.

A low, echoing hiss finally returned. "You smell wrong."

Tom straightened. "Wrong? I am of your line. I carry Slytherin's blood."

"But you are young. Loud. Your thoughts stink of ambition. I was promised silence. I was promised a master who knew patience."

Tom swallowed. His pride curled in on itself. "You were promised a master who could wake you. And I have."

"Barely. You smell like fear. And her. The girl with two names."

That stopped him. "Satoru?"

"Her blood was here before. Her blood is older than yours. She burns. You call yourself my master, but you bring me prey that sings louder than you."

Tom's fists clenched. He had come down here to reaffirm control. To remind the creature of its place. But the basilisk, a beast older than Hogwarts itself, a myth given flesh, had instincts that ran deeper than bloodline.

He needed another tactic.

So Tom sat. On the cold, wet stone. Cross-legged, annoyed.

"Fine," he muttered. "Then teach me."

The basilisk laughed. "Teach you? You are a boy. A clever boy. But a boy."

Tom's voice was steady. "But I listen. And I wait."

"Then speak less. Listen more. You want to tame me? Learn what I hunger for. It is not conquest."

Tom exhaled. He closed his eyes.

And the basilisk, with eyes like molten gold, slithered just a little closer.

"And stop shouting. Parseltongue is meant to be sung, not barked."

A pause.

"Duly noted," Tom muttered.

And somewhere above, far away in the castle, Satoru sneezed. As if sensing someone was blaming her for a snake's refusal to cooperate.

Because of course she was part of this too.

Even here. Even now. He couldn't get her out of his head.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru hadn’t seen Tom in nearly a week. 

She told herself it didn’t matter. Repeated it under a breath, every morning when she passed his empty seat. She had better things to worry about. Like finally understanding charms, getting her poor transfiguration grades up, or figuring out why this backwards world insisted on everything being written on parchment. It wasn’t like scrolls had ever saved anyone from a cursed spirit. She’d seen what real magic looked like, she’d been the strongest sorcerer, for fuck’s sake! And none of that came from writing until her hand cramped. 

But still, she noticed. And hated herself all the more for it. 

How quiet it had been without his constant observation, without his dry remarks. She hadn’t realized how used to him she’d become, how his silence had started to mean something, how even his absence now had a shape and sound. 

She tried not to think about Suguru. 

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? The parallel.

That same heavy, quiet confidence that wrapped around their words, a contradiction of silk and steel. That same unnerving stillness, as if chaos bowed in their presence instead of breaking them. The dangerous curiosity. Suguru had looked at her like she was his mirror, like she was the only person who truly saw him.

But Tom looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t wait to solve, someone he could pull apart until she fit into whatever picture he already had in his head. 

And the worst part was how familiar it all felt. How easily it could all unravel again.

Because she didn’t need another Suguru. She didn’t need to be reflected or deconstructed. She didn’t need to be someone else’s fascination.

She needed a future. One not chained to ghosts of boys who looked at her like she was an answer to some question they couldn’t stop asking. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

To her surprise, Satoru was actually improving in class. 

Yes, she had already noticed a difference in Defense Against Dark Arts. But fighting was the one language her body had always understood fluently. It was the other subjects, the ones built on theory and precision and patience, that had been more of a struggle.

Alas, progress was progress. And she could cast basic transfigurations without scorching the table. Her Charms work no longer exploded in soft bursts of frustration.

Selene was pleased. "Your feather didn’t catch fire today. That’s progress."

Amari grinned, brushing ink off her fingers. "And your shielding spell lasted a full ten seconds. Which is impressive, given your aversion to anything textbook."

Cordelia offered her a chocolate frog. Satoru took it without hesitation this time. 

Which wasn’t always the case. 

The first time she’d been handed a frog, a few weeks ago now, she’d looked at it like it was cursed. 

Which, in her defense, wasn’t entirely irrational. The thing moved. Actually jumped. No one had warned her about that. She’d dropped it on instinct, then nearly blasted it across the room with a burst of raw cursed energy before Cordelia snatched it back with quick reflexes and a very patient, “You’re supposed to eat it, not exorcise it.”

She hadn’t lived that one down.
But now? Now she caught it mid-hop and bit off its leg without blinking.

Still, the writing. The damn writing.

"This is cruel and unusual punishment," Satoru groaned, staring at her half-finished essay on transfiguration theory. "In my world, we train with our fists, not our pens.” Because nobody had time to write essays when curses were trying to eat your face. Back home, it was kill-or-be-killed, not write-or-be-wrong.

Selene rolled her eyes. "Well, here, we write. Get used to it."

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Satoru hated being broke.

Out of all the things she disliked about this new world, and there were many, her lack of money ranked frustratingly high on the list. Her friends were kind and more than willing to cover small expenses here and there, and Hogwarts itself offered a few necessities out of what she assumed was a sense of obligation or pity, but it still wasn’t the same. Because money meant freedom. The ability to indulge in the small comforts that made everything else bearable. 

Yes, there were many things that she hated about this new world, but being broke was definitely at the top of the list. Her friends were nice, and were willing to pay for a lot of her requests, and so was Hogwarts, to an extent, but money afforded her luxuries in her old life that she didn’t have now. 

Take shopping, for example.

It was something she hadn’t realized she would miss until the option was gone.
And now, with the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend looming on everyone’s calendar, the absence hit even harder. Butterbeer, enchanted trinkets, shelves stacked with magical sweets, everyone was talking about it. Cordelia was practically buzzing with anticipation, rattling off plans and dragging Selene into discussions about which shops had the best fudge or the best sweaters.

Satoru, meanwhile, had nothing.

No permission slip. No gold. No family member to forge a signature or send a convenient owl with last-minute approval. All she had was a neatly worded note from Headmaster Dippet, summoning her to a meeting during the exact hours when everyone else would be out enjoying their freedom.

Great.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The meeting went exactly how she expected.

“You understand,” Dippet began, his tone measured and impersonal, “that Hogwarts cannot permit students to leave the grounds without proper documentation.”

Satoru nodded silently, her expression unreadable.

“And given the Ministry’s current interest in your file,” he continued, pausing as if the weight of that implication might somehow be softened by a dramatic pause, “we are unable to make any exceptions at this time.”

Of course not. There were never exceptions, not for her.

She left the office with a dull headache blooming behind her eyes and the sharp, restless urge to hit something until her knuckles split. Anything to distract from the hollow tightness in her chest.

Her roommates were kind about it, though. Too kind, in that way that made her feel both grateful and claustrophobic all at once.

“We’ll bring you something back,” Cordelia said, squeezing her hand with a warmth that only made the ache worse.

“I’ll smuggle a Butterbeer,” Amari offered, her tone light but sincere.

“And a cursed comb, if you want,” Selene added cheerfully, clearly unfazed by the idea.

Satoru smiled, because she appreciated them. She did.

They meant well, every single one of them. But kindness like that had a weight of its own, one she wasn’t sure she could keep carrying.

Because she hated something more than missing Hogsmeade, more than being stuck under Dippet or Dumbledore’s careful eye, more than the Ministry’s looming shadow. She hated needing people. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

That night, Satoru couldn’t concentrate. 

Her thoughts spun in tight, restless spirals, looping back to the same question she’d been asking for the past couple days: if jujutsu had existed here, like she suspected, if cursed energy had ever touched the castle, there had to be traces. Residual energy. Lingering spirits. Echoes in the walls. Something . 

So she wandered. 

Near the Ravenclaw Tower, she saw her.

A ghost, pale and flickering, drifting like a whisper across the corridor. She looked young, maybe sixteen, with tangled hair and hollow eyes that glowed softly. 

“You’re not from here,” the ghost murmured, her voice almost drowned by the silence.

Satoru paused. “Neither are you.”

The ghost tilted her head. “I died in this castle. But not completely.”

Satoru stepped closer, her cursed energy buzzing faintly beneath her skin. “Why stay?”

The ghost was silent for a long moment. Her hands twisted in the folds of her robe, and when she finally spoke, her voice trembled. “Because something in me never let go. Because pain doesn’t end just because the body does. I left so much unfinished… I thought if I stayed, maybe I could still fix some of it.”

“Could you?” Satoru asked softly.

The ghost gave a faint, broken smile. “No. But leaving felt worse. Like forgetting. Like it would all be for nothing.”

Satoru’s breath caught, her throat tightening around words she didn’t know she had. “I know that feeling.”

The ghost’s eyes focused on her. Really saw her. “You carry grief.”

“Don’t we all?” Satoru whispered.

Satoru’s cursed energy stirred again, instinctively reaching toward the echo of pain in the ghost’s form. She could feel it now, unmistakable, residual energy clinging to the girl’s soul. Not magic. Not in the way this world defined it. But her world’s.

“This world doesn’t call it what it is,” she murmured. “But it’s here.”

The ghost nodded. “They gave it prettier names. But it’s still the same pain.”

Satoru stared at her, heart pounding from something like recognition. “What’s your name?”

The ghost hesitated. “It’s been so long. I don’t remember.”

Something inside Satoru ached. “I’ll remember for you.”

A soft silence fell between them, heavier than before. Then the ghost smiled, gently, gratefully, and began to fade into the walls once more.

“Be careful, sorcerer,” she whispered. “This castle forgets things too easily.”

Satoru stood there for a long moment, heart pounding, the words echoing in her mind.

It was here. Cursed energy. She could feel it now, threaded through the castle’s bones like veins. Subtle. Misunderstood. But undeniably familiar.

Her feet moved before her mind caught up. Drawn by a pull she couldn’t name, guided not by reason but by instinct, the same instinct that had always led her to danger, to answers, to power.

She moved deeper into the castle, following a whisper of energy that made her skin prickle and her cursed energy stir.

Until she found it. A door that hadn’t been there before.

She stepped through. It wasn’t a room, it was more of a forgotten collection. Shelves lined with dust-covered artifacts, cracked wands, broken magical instruments, things either discarded or hidden away. But more than that, she could feel the cursed energy, faint but volatile. Objects that hadn’t been properly sealed or cleansed. 

She reached out, fingers brushing over a cracked mirror with a jagged, blackened frame. It hissed at her touch, but her cursed energy flared, holding it steady. Another object, a delicate locket, glowed faintly in her presence before dimming.

She slipped both into her bag. Slowly. Carefully.

She wasn’t sure why she took them. Maybe because she recognized something in them. Or maybe, just maybe, because they recognized something in her.

She was halfway back to her dorm when a voice sliced clean through the silence.

“Out after curfew?”

Tom.

She turned sharply.

He stood just beyond the torchlight, half-shadowed, expression unreadable, but his eyes, as always, missed nothing.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“I didn’t go to Hogsmeade.”

“No,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “I mean why haven’t you been in class?”

He tilted his head, mouth twitching. “That’s none of your business.”

“Everything you do becomes my business eventually.”

He didn’t argue.

Her bag shifted slightly, and his gaze dropped to the movement. He saw it. 

“What do you have there?”

She didn’t answer.

He stepped closer, reached into her bag with deliberate ease, and pulled out the cracked mirror. His eyes widened slightly.

“Do you know what you’re holding?”

“A very cursed mirror.”

He gave a low, impressed hum. “A very valuable cursed mirror. That’s third-century Veela glass, hexed during the Goblin Rebellions. Worth at least a few thousand galleons.”

She blinked. “You just know that?”

He smirked. “I work at Borgin and Burkes. I know cursed artifacts. And more importantly, I know how to sell them.”

She frowned, suspicion flickering behind her eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we’re both broke, Satoru.”

She hesitated. He was broke? He certainly didn’t look it, always immaculately dressed, poised like someone born with a silver spoon in his mouth. 

“Split the profit,” he said casually. “You find them, I sell them. We don’t have to like each other. Just use each other.”

“Charming,” she muttered.

“But you’re interested.”

She didn’t deny it.

She glanced down at the objects inside her bag, then thought of her empty Gringotts account and the bitter ache of being left behind while her friends laughed their way at Hogsmeade.

“Fine,” she said. “But I purify them first.”

He nodded. “Deal.”

For once, they walked together in silence. And for once, Satoru didn’t feel entirely alone.

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Tom had made it a point to never tolerate incompetence. 

He held people to a standard they could never reach, and when they failed, as they always did, he made sure they remembered. A single misstep in Potions could earn you a biting comment. A poorly cast charm meant five points lost and public humiliation. But a broken rule? That earned far worse. 

He prided himself on being fair. Sharp. Precise. Impartial.

And yet when Satoru broke rules, he hadn’t deducted a single point.

Hadn’t corrected her. Hadn’t even threatened her.

Instead, he’d offered her a deal.

Even though she infuriated him. Bright, arrogant, and entirely disinterested in his approval. But he’d seen what she could do, the way she’d handled that cursed mirror. No wand. No incantation. Just her hand hovering above the glass, her presence suppressing something ancient and malignant.

She’d looked at him afterward. “It’s done.”

He hadn’t asked how.

And she hadn’t explained.

Now, the mirror sat on his desk. 

It was time to make use of it.

───── SATORU ─────

Knockturn Alley stank of mildew.

Tom walked ahead, sharp-shouldered and silent, the mirror wrapped in thick velvet and cradled beneath his arm like a relic. His pace was unhurried, precise. Calculating.

Satoru stalked beside him with hands jammed deep into her coat pockets, her collar turned up against the cold. Her gaze flitted from window to window, unimpressed by the collection of necrotic curiosities and grinning skulls. Half the signs blinked or bled. One dripped something that steamed when it hit the cobblestones.

“This place looks like a disease,” she muttered.

“It is one,” Tom said, not even glancing at her. “But this disease pays well.”

The shop he chose was wedged tightly between a skeleton cleaner and a tooth extractor. The door creaked open, sounding vaguely like bones grinding together. 

Shelves buckled beneath the weight of cursed heirlooms, twitching amulets, and bone-handled daggers Several items turned toward them as they entered. One mirror cracked, despite not being touched. 

Satoru wasn’t one to be scared easily. But this place? It gave her the creeps. 

Behind the blackened iron counter sat a goblin, hunched and still, his eyes a dull, ancient gold. Rings glimmered on every gnarled finger. 

He didn’t smile when they entered. Just stared.

Tom stepped forward and laid the mirror gently on the counter. His movements were slow, deliberate, careful not to jostle the velvet too suddenly. When he pulled it back, the surface of the glass gleamed dark and deep, no longer humming with cursed energy.

The goblin blinked once. Then leaned forward. His long fingers hovered over the mirror, hesitantly. 

He touched the glass.

No backlash. No screech of curse wards. Just stillness. 

“Greymalkin Manor,” the goblin said at last, his voice low and flat. “This was thought lost.”

“It was,” Tom replied. “We recovered it.” He nodded once toward Satoru without looking. “She cleansed it.”

The goblin turned his head toward her, sniffing like he was trying to scent something strange in her blood.

“How?”

Satoru gave a thin smile. “Carefully.”

A long pause.

Then the goblin nodded, grudgingly. “Such items fetch five thousand. Assuming no residual magic. And assuming the buyer isn’t cursed into blindness.”

“There isn’t,” Tom said. “We checked.”

The goblin’s eyes narrowed, flicking between the two of them like a pendulum. Then, with deliberate dryness, “I’ll offer twenty-two hundred.”

Tom didn’t blink. “Twenty-four,” he said. “Or we find a private collector.”

The goblin stared at him. And then, with a grunt, slid two fat leather pouches onto the scale.

“Done.”

Tom didn’t count it. Didn’t need to. He simply nudged one pouch toward her across the counter like it meant nothing.

Outside, the cold wind nipped at her coat, but Satoru hardly noticed. She opened the pouch, stunned into stillness by the sight of it, the wealth, the weight of it, the reality of what they’d done.

“This is…” she said, then stopped. Her voice was too soft. She cleared her throat. “This is more than I’ve ever held in this world.”

“You earned it,” Tom said.

She looked sideways at him, the pouch still cradled in her hand. “So did you.”

“I said fifty-fifty.”

She gave a dry little laugh. “People usually don’t mean it.”

“I do.”

Satoru stared at the pouch, her brow furrowed. “I don’t even know what to do with this. I don’t have a vault. Or a Gringotts key. Or anything. What am I supposed to do, hide it in my pillowcase and hope no one robs me in my sleep?”

“We’ll set up a vault later,” Tom said, tone lowering slightly. “Once certain things are handled.”

She didn’t ask what he meant.

She didn’t need to.

His voice had that edge again, that clipped stillness he only used when talking about his family. His past. Things he hadn’t burned away yet. She hated that she understood that feeling.

“In the meantime,” he added, reaching into his coat, “I can enchant a pouch. Only you can open it.”

He handed her a small, velvet bag already thrumming faintly with warded magic. There were ancient sigils stitched into the seams in silver thread. She recognized none of them.

“Speak your name to seal and unseal it.”

She hesitated, just a second, then tapped the bag with two fingers and said, “Satoru.”

The gold shimmered, vanished into the folds like it had never been.

The pouch shrank to the size of a coin and lay motionless in her palm.

She stared at it. Then at him.

“Thanks, Tom.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s practical.”

A beat passed. 

Satoru smirked instead. “Do you think the professors know we’re selling cursed artifacts to pawn shops?”

“If they did,” Tom replied smoothly, “they’d ask for a cut.”

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

They met again two nights later.

The old potions lab was cold, barely lit. But it was secluded. 

Tom was already there, seated, fingers steepled in thought. He didn’t rise when she entered.

Satoru stepped through the door like she owned the room. She’d become awfully confident since she got richer, it seemed. She dropped a canvas bag onto the nearest table with a heavy thud, then stretched, arms high, spine arched, as if she hadn’t kept him waiting. 

“You’d be amazed what gets left behind in this school,” she said, casual and offhanded.

He said nothing. Instead, he reached for the bag and tipped it out.

A rusted dagger. A wand, hairline cracks spidering its length. A ring, glinting with runes. And last, a brooch, coiled in the shape of a serpent, which began to hum the moment air touched it.

“Productive,” he murmured.

She arched a brow. “What, am I your servant now?”

He didn’t answer. But he smiled.

With a dramatic sigh, she pulled her wand and shook out her sleeves. “Fine. Let’s try it your way.”

She started with the ring. A quiet incantation—Latin, clean—and a deft flick of her wand. The object gave a single shudder, then stilled. The curse stripped clean. 

Tom tilted his head slightly, considering. “Not bad.”

Then she reached for the brooch. The moment her fingers closed around it, it trembled. She hesitated. Not for long, just a breath. But he noticed.

The spell she cast barely left her lips before the brooch rebelled. It flared, violently, uncontrollably.

She hissed a curse and let it drop. It sparked as it struck the stone.

Tom laughed before he could stop himself.

She shot him a dark look. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“You’re not trying.”

“I am. ”

He took a step closer. “No. You’re holding back.”

She stilled.

“You don’t want to show me what you can really do,” he said, quieter now. “You’re afraid to give me everything.”

Their eyes met.

“I don’t want to,” she replied. Honest. Cold.

And that was the truth. But not all of it.

Tom didn’t speak. Just studied her. And, for once, she let him.

She was dangerous. And she was lying.

“You’re not a sheep, Satoru,” he said.

She didn’t blink. “No. I’m not.”

Then stop pretending you are. The thought hung in his mind, unspoken but sharp. Her gaze flicked away.

Without another word, she turned. Her coat caught on the edge of the table; she tugged it free without breaking stride.

She didn’t take the brooch.

Tom stayed behind, listening to her footsteps fade, then vanish.

The brooch was still humming, faint, dissonant.

He reached out, lifted it gently, and placed it apart from the rest.

───── SATORU ─────

That night, the castle whispered.

Satoru walked the quiet corridors back to Ravenclaw Tower, her steps slow and careful. She’d never liked Hogwarts after dark. The walls felt too close. The air too quiet.

And then she heard it.

“Ssatoru…”

She froze.

It wasn’t exactly a sound. But it came from stone. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

No footsteps. No one behind her.

The shadows along the walls shifted, longer than they should’ve been. The torches flickered, once, then again. Her body tensed, her technique flaring quietly beneath her skin. 

But nothing moved.

Out of instinct, she let Infinity activate. The world pulled back, slowed. Distance settled between her and everything else.

Still, nothing.

She didn’t sleep well that night.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The dream came anyway.

She stood in a hall of mirrors. 

None of them reflected her.

They reflected versions of her—ghostly, broken, dead-eyed, weeping, bleeding, laughing. Some were dressed in Jujutsu robes. Some in Ravenclaw blue. One had no eyes at all.

A voice surrounded her. No mouth. No face.

“Go back.”

The mirrors cracked in unison.

One didn’t.
It smiled.
And opened its eyes.

She woke gasping.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“You heard what?” Selene asked the next morning.

Satoru curled her fingers around a teacup. “Something in the castle. It hissed my name.”

“In a dream?”

“In the corridor. Then again in my dream.”

Cordelia’s brow creased. “A warning, maybe?”

“I think so.”

Selene leaned back. “Maybe you’re just stressed.”

“I’m sure I’m stressed,” Satoru said. “I’m also sure I heard it.”

Amari bit her lip. “It felt like it was inside the walls?”

Satoru nodded once.

Amari bit her lip. “Maybe the castle knows you’re different.”

Amari’s voice was quiet. “Maybe the castle knows you’re different.”

“I am different,” Satoru said. “And it knows it.”

Cordelia picked up her notebook. “Then we find out why.”

Selene groaned. “We’re mapping again?”

“We’re investigating,” Amari said, more firmly. “Any magical disturbances. Whispers, cold spots, objects that move. Patterns.”

Satoru murmured, “If something’s buried here, we’ll find it.”

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Meanwhile, Tom was writing.

His dorm was silent, the others still sleeping.

He opened the diary, leather-bound, pulsing faintly. Salazar’s diary. The one that responded.

The book he’d found deep in the Chamber.

He began to write. She disarmed the mirror with her bare hands. No wand. No Latin. No fear.

The ink shimmered. She is older than the curses she breaks.

Tom stared at the page. Who is she?

A blade not drawn. A wolf not fed.

Can she be trusted?

No. But neither can you.

He hesitated, then pressed the quill harder.

What do I do with her?

The ink bled.

Open the door.

He slammed the book shut.

But the whisper lingered.

Not hers.

Not his.

Older. Deeper.

And still watching.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Something was wrong with this world.

And Satoru was ashamed it had taken her this long to realize it.

The signs had been there all along. She just hadn’t wanted to see them. 

She’d like to think it all began the moment she touched the pendant from Vault 332, but if she was being honest, it had started before that. Maybe from the very first second she had landed here. Maybe when her cursed energy reached out instinctively and met resistance she couldn’t quite name. The rules of this place didn’t fit her. 

Or maybe it began the night Druella held a blade to her throat. 

Back then, she’d brushed it off. Told herself Infinity had failed because of the potion in her system, because she was exhausted, because her mind wasn’t sharp. She convinced herself it was a one-time lapse, unfortunate, but explainable. 

But her cursed energy had never needed her to be focused. It didn’t care whether she was tired or lucid. It was a manifestation of her soul, protecting her on pure instinct. Shielding her, sparking at danger before her conscious mind ever caught up. 

So the knife should’ve stopped. Should have hovered, suspended in the air the moment it threatened her life. 

But that night, nothing happened. 

And now, the signs were growing too loud to ignore. 

Her wand still obeyed her. Spells, charms, transfigurations all came easily. Too easily, maybe. As easily as jujutsu had came to her before. 

But jujutsu?

That part of her, the part of her that mattered, was fading. 

Techniques she could conjure from her sleep were slipping through her hands. Her infinity trembled. Her Six Eyes blurred, fractured at the edges. Her timing was off, her instincts dulled. 

She missed things. 

She hesitated.

It terrified her more than she'd admit.

Because all her life, she had been The Strongest .

Because she didn’t know who she was without her cursed energy. Without her strength. 

And if she wasn’t The Strongest anymore… then what was she?

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“You’re sure this leads back to the central staircase?” Cordelia asked, frowning down at the half-scorched map they’d spent the last week piecing together. 

“Positive,” Selene muttered, her wand tucked between her teeth as she penciled in a new line.

“Unless the castle decides to shift again,” Amari added, not looking up.

Satoru stood a few paces behind, silent. 

She didn’t offer a correction. Didn’t laugh along. Just let them move ahead, their chatter a distant hum. Her shoulders remained loose, her boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. 

Roommates , she called them in her head. Because calling them friends felt dangerous.

She’d had a friend once.

And she knew exactly how that ended. 

Her fingers brushed the wall beside her, a habit she couldn’t quite unlearn. Something grounding. A way to spread her cursed energy gently across her surroundings, the way she always had.

But now?

Wherever her skin met stone, it burned.

Literally.

A sigil flared to life beneath her touch, etched in light that seared itself into the rock and into her thoughts.

She’d tried to hide them. Brushed snow over one. Hung a tapestry to cover another.

So far, her friends roommates hadn’t noticed. 

But still, she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t keep her hands off the walls.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

They split up shortly after. Cordelia and Selene took the upper stairs, while Amari dashed off in pursuit of a ghost—Peeves, she called him—who’d allegedly made off with her ink pot.

Satoru lingered near the north hall, struggling to keep her breathing steady.

She stared at the wall once more, and pressed her hand to the same spot.

The sigil flared briefly, only to vanish a moment later, as if it had never existed.

“Practicing new art?” came a voice, cool and drawling behind her.

She didn’t jump, but her eyes narrowed instinctively.

Abraxas Malfoy stood in the archway, pale, poised, and every bit as insufferable as ever.

“I could say the same,” Satoru replied with a calmness that barely masked her irritation. “Did Tom send you again?”

He didn’t deny it.

“You know,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, “when I first saw you duel, I thought you were some kind of prodigy. Ridiculous wand control. Brilliant footwork. But now…” He stepped closer, his gaze sharpening. “You’re better. Your magic, your wandwork, isn’t just improving. It’s changing.”

Satoru gave a sharp, thin smile. “Maybe I’m just a fast learner.”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he studied her with that signature Malfoy detachment. “Riddle told me you were dangerous. But he didn’t mention that you were unraveling.”

Her fingers twitched, just for a moment, at her side.

“You spying again?” she asked lightly, her voice too calm for comfort.

“No,” he said, but there was something in the way he said it that made it worse. “I was just curious.”

“Curiosity’s a good way to get hexed,” she replied, a quiet warning threading through her words.

He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read her. “You’re losing something. And gaining something else. Magic doesn’t rebalance itself like that.”

Satoru turned on her heel, forcing her steps to remain steady, but the words dug deep.

“Let me know when you figure it out,” she called over her shoulder, her voice a touch lighter than she felt.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

She made her way to the old potions lab.

Tom wasn’t there.

He hadn’t been there for days, actually. She kept meaning to talk to him, but the thought always made her uneasy. She hated relying on him, hated the way that smirk of his made her feel both irritated and oddly comforted. But the truth was, they’d been working well together lately. 

She still didn’t trust Tom.

But she trusted him to notice.

And that was enough, for now.

She pulled a crumpled scrap of parchment from her coat, her fingers brushing against the ink stains as she scrawled quickly:

𝘝𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵 332 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘊𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦.  𝘕𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬.  

—𝘚

She left it on the old table, the edges of the paper crinkling as she let go.

Then, without looking back, she walked away.

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Tom found the note hours later.

But before he did, he encountered someone else waiting for him.

“Hello, darling,” Druella said, perched on the stone railing. Her hair was braided back tightly, her boots spotless. 

He didn’t stop walking.

She slid down gracefully, falling into step beside him silently.

“I have something for you.”

Tom didn’t look at her. “I’m not interested.”

“You will be.”

She held out an envelope, unsealed, its faintly waxy parchment catching the dim light. There was no address, no signature. Only a symbol pressed into the corner, a twisted, interlocked G.

Tom stopped.

He took the envelope, turned it over in his hands, and unfolded it. His eyes traced the ancient, slanted handwriting. The ink shimmered faintly.

 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘴.  

 𝘗𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴.

His heart slowed, a chill creeping up his spine.

Druella watched him, her eyes sharp yet unreadable.

“I didn’t write it,” she said, her voice flat.

“Where did you get it?”

“It came by owl. No name. No sender. But the wards let it through.”

Tom turned his gaze on her at last, his stare cutting, cold.

Her expression didn’t flicker. But her posture was looser now, more tired. “I don’t want to be on the wrong side of history,” she added quietly, almost as an afterthought. “That’s all.”

Tom said nothing.

He turned on his heel, moving faster now, his steps quick and measured. He slipped down the corridors like a shadow, leaving Druella and the mystery of the letter behind.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The potions lab was empty.

The note lay there, waiting. 

Tom recognized her handwriting immediately, the sharp angles of the ‘S’, the short, clipped rhythm of someone who despised wasting time.

He picked it up, scanned the words, and cursed under his breath.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

At Ravenclaw Tower, Cordelia opened the door just a crack.

“She’s not here.”

“She left me a note,” Tom said, his voice tight. “She said we needed to talk.”

The girls exchanged a quick glance.

“She didn’t come back after patrol,” Selene explained. “We assumed she’d stayed out.”

Tom frowned. “Can I check her dorm?”

They hesitated for a long moment before nodding. 

The room fell into an uneasy silence. 

But the air… the air thrummed with the same magic that had filled the vault, the same foul energy Satoru herself increasingly reeked of.

Tom’s gaze darted to the floor beside her bed.

A dark, circular scorch mark marred the stone.

Not fire, not even wand magic. But something else entirely, something he didn’t know. 

He crouched, fingers brushing the edge of the mark.

The stone pulsed beneath his touch.

And in the center lay a sigil. Twisting, shifting as if it breathed.

Symbols that didn’t belong in this world. 

“What the hell is that?” Amari whispered, her voice a mixture of awe and fear.

Tom said nothing.

And she—

She was gone.

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

It had been two days since Satoru vanished.

And Tom, despite the increasingly desperate inquiries from her so-called friends, was not actively searching for her. He wasn’t combing the castle or questioning professors or consulting divination as some last-ditch effort to find answers (not that he really believed much in divination anyways). Because, yes, Satoru had been a fascinating anomaly, a potential asset, somebody whose power was worth understanding. 

But dead girls couldn’t help him achieve immortality. Dead girls couldn’t conquer death. 

And that, Tom had to admit to himself, was what she likely was. A dead girl. 

Still, it made something twist unpleasantly in his chest.

He chose not to look too closely at that.

So instead, Tom Riddle sat cross-legged in the Chamber of Secrets, pushing the discomfort aside as he always did. Above him, the massive carved head of Salazar Slytherin stared in stony silence, lips parted just enough to house a nightmare.

And Tom was trying, for the fifth time that hour, to bend the basilisk to his will.

“Come forth, ” he hissed in Parseltongue. “You will obey me.”

A scraping sound filled the cavernous space. Stone shifted, a faint hiss echoing through the tunnel before fading into nothing. The basilisk did not respond.

Tom narrowed his eyes, irritation creeping into his voice. “Obey me. I am your master.”

“I am the Heir of Slytherin,” he added, the words a familiar chant, meant to hold power and claim dominion over the creature.

The basilisk did not move. Its eerie golden-green eyes remained hidden in the shadows, a flicker of movement that was too swift for Tom to follow.

“You’re lucky I haven’t turned you into a handbag yet,” Tom muttered.

Still, the basilisk withdrew, disinterested, its ancient patience unwavering.

Tom let out a frustrated sigh, sinking back against the cold stone. His robes, soaked through from the dampness of the Chamber, positioned as it was beneath the castle’s sewage system, clung uncomfortably to his skin. But it wasn’t the wet robes or the damp stone that bothered him. It was the mockery. The damn basilisk was mocking him again, ignoring his every command.

He pulled the tattered old book from his robes once more, Secrets of the Darkest Art . A book he’d taken from the restricted section, a book whose pages crackled under his fingertips, their thinness betraying their age, their ink speaking of dark enchantments long forgotten. What mattered the most, however, was what he’d found within its ancient pages, the thing that had caught his attention the night before. He traced his finger over the words he’d circled in a heavy, angry red: Horcruxes . 

The word alone sent a thrill down his spine, already anticipating the power he would acquire. 

Because Satoru’s disappearance had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Not because she was important; she wasn’t even his friend. She was a business acquaintance, a tool. But because even he could admit that she’d been powerful. Strange, yes, but she had magic he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. And if even she could vanish without warning, then so could he.

He despised the thought.

He despised his mortality.

Horcruxes were the answer. Of course, he would need confirmation. Perhaps from Professor Slughorn; the man had always admired him, after all. 

And a kill. Luckily for Tom, he had a basilisk at his disposal. 

He flipped through the pages, his fingers brushing lightly over the text. 

Perhaps one Horcrux wouldn’t be enough. There was power in symmetry. Three was a magical number, seven even more potent. If he could split his soul into multiple pieces, there would be no chance for death to ever touch him. He would become untouchable, a force beyond any wizard’s comprehension.

If only the damned basilisk would cooperate.

He closed the book with a sigh. “What do you want? If I want you to cooperate.”

A slow, amused hiss came from the shadows.

Now you’re learning. If I were to cooperate, if I were to listen to you, you would have to listen to me too. I could eat you alive if I wanted to, so show me some respect. And, by the way, the name’s Ouroboros. Not “you”.

Tom blinked in surprise. “You have a name?”

Of course I do. You think I just hiss for fun?

“Oh,” Tom rubbed his eyes in disbelief. “Right. Of course. Ouroboros. ”

Also, one hundred rabbits a day. Live ones. Preferably plump.

Tom stared at the basilisk for a long, stunned moment. His voice was half-baffled, half-horrified as he asked, “You want… a hundred?”

Rabbits. Yes. One hundred. Every day. I get cravings.

Tom stood still, then muttered, “You’re utterly deranged.”

So you do know how to listen. Progress.

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Tom turned and walked away.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Later, Tom found himself in a dimly lit nook within the castle, his quill scraping against parchment as he drew intricate runes, the ritual for soul-splitting slowly taking shape before his eyes. But just as he was sketching the final sequence, he froze. The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, quick, light, and growing louder with every passing second. Voices.

Without a second thought, Tom slipped deeper into the shadows, concealing his book with a subtle charm. The voices continued, rising in volume.

“—he doesn’t care, Cordelia! He hasn’t even looked for her!”

“I know, but shouting at him won’t change—”

Amari rounded the corner first, her eyes wild and her wand gripped tightly in one hand. Cordelia was just behind her, equally winded. Tom stepped out of the shadows, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his robes as he met their gaze.

“Can I help you?”

Amari stopped dead in her tracks, her expression a mix of fury and disbelief. “You.”

“I see your observational skills remain unmatched,” Tom replied smoothly.

Cordelia gave her friend a warning look, but Amari didn’t seem to care.

“Where the hell have you been?” Amari demanded, her voice sharp with frustration. “Do you even care that Satoru’s gone?”

Tom tilted his head, his voice low and cool. “She’s powerful. If she’s dead, that’s unfortunate. If she’s not, she’ll return.”

Amari’s eyes flashed with anger. “She wasn’t your pawn. She was a person.”

Tom’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. But he said nothing.

“She’s not dead.”

The voice didn’t belong to either of them.

Selene came running around the corner, breathless, her words spilling out in a rush. “She’s back.”

For the first time, Tom’s expression changed. He didn’t speak, but his heart began to race, the significance of her words sinking in.

“She’s in the infirmary,” Selene continued, her voice strained. “We think she— I don’t know. But she’s covered in markings. Sigils. Burned into her skin. And she won’t talk.”

Tom didn’t hesitate. His feet were already moving, carrying him toward the infirmary before he had even fully processed what had been said.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Satoru lay motionless beneath the pale blue sheets. Her eyes were open but unblinking, and Tom realized, for the first time, how striking her eyes were. Without her blindfold, her vibrant blue gaze was unsettling in its clarity. Her gaze seemed to read every corner of his soul. 

His gaze dropped downwards. Sigils, dozens of them, coiled up her arms like living tattoos, glowing faintly in the light. Some of them matched those from Vault 332, but others were new. 

Tom approached slowly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the markings.

“She’s not speaking?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Selene shook her head. “Not to anyone.”

Tom stepped closer, his gaze fixed on Satoru’s still form. Something twisted inside him again, a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

He ignored it.

Instead, his gaze fell to the note she’d left in the potions lab. The one he had kept, for some inexplicable reason, despite his better judgement. 

He folded the parchment with deliberate care, as though the act could somehow erase the knot of uncertainty it stirred in him. The letter from Grindelwald, too, (he knew it was him the second he saw the cursive G) was hidden deeper in his robes, tucked away where no one, least of all, himself, could reach it for the moment.

There were too many questions. Too many unknowns.

And Satoru wasn’t ready to answer them.

But she was alive. That was all that mattered. Alive.

But in the deepest corner of his mind, Tom had the nagging feeling that Grindelwald’s game was far from over.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru lay awake in the infirmary, staring up at the ceiling. 

The sigils on her skin had stopped burning. Now they pulsed faintly, shimmering with a soft glow. When she turned her arm towards the light, they caught it, a pale gold, not black like before. 

She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign.

Her memories drifted in fragments. She could recall the wall of her dormitory, the sigil blooming beneath her fingers, and the pull that followed, like the very rift that had brought her here, to this world. Then a darkness so absolute, it swallowed sound. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

There had been whispers. 

“Why don’t you remember, Satoru?”

“You must remember. To gain one is to lose another.”

“You will have to choose.”

Satoru had floated there, for lack of a better word. She hadn’t been alone, though. The sigils, almost alive and glowing on her arms, had lit the dark like constellations. Like the same cursed stars she hated. And then, from the darkness, a voice had spoken. 

It wasn’t Grindelwald. Not even close. She’d learned about the Dark Lord from her friends, but this wasn’t a person at all. It was a voice she almost remembered, but couldn’t quite place. 

The sigils hadn’t harmed her. 

In fact, they’d protected her. She felt it in her soul, the same way she once felt her cursed energy before it started malfunctioning. The sigils had flared, warm and sharp, when the voice had pressed too close. They formed a shield, a subconscious extension of her will, protecting her from whatever lurked in the dark. 

The sigils were hers . She knew that. 

But she didn’t understand them. Not yet, at least. 

From what she could recall, scatter though it was, the symbols on her arm rippled like waves. Her Six Eyes had uncovered layers of meaning woven into their design, ancient spell forms, runes not even the Hogwarts library cataloged, and for that matter, not even Tom. 

She didn’t question how she was able to decipher runes. But there was something about the sigils, something that felt eerily familiar. 

“Until then,” the voice had said, “ your powers will be skewed.”

“Until you remember.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Satoru sat up slowly, gingerly. Her body ached, but less than it should’ve; that was Nurse Aurelius’s doing. She’d been fussing over her, but also giving her space. And her friends, yes, her friends , had respected her wish for space as well.  

Cordelia had brought her a small stack of books, though Satoru wasn’t sure how much she wanted to read. Selene had sat vigil, quietly keeping her company without pushing for conversation. Amari had left her a small origami fox with a note. When you’re ready, we’ll be here.

Satoru had stared at the fox for longer than she cared to admit, the weight of those words feeling surprisingly heavy on her chest. When you’re ready. But she wasn’t ready. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

The truth was, she didn’t know how to be ready.

Instead, she did what she always did. She buried it all, pushed it deep, tucked it away behind layers of deflection and distraction, because it was easier to pretend nothing had changed. Easier to go on, day by day, wearing the mask of normalcy, even though the weight of it all felt heavier with each passing hour. Because if she could just hold everything inside long enough, maybe it would all go away.

But the stares.

Because people would look at her now, with pity or fear or curiosity, wouldn’t they? There would be questions she didn’t want to answer. People whispering, unsure if they should approach or keep their distance. 

But I’ve never cared about stares, she reminded herself, the old defiance flickering to life. They don’t matter.

The truth was, though, it wasn’t the stares she feared. It was the questions. The ones she didn’t know how to answer. What happened to you? Are you okay?

She wasn’t sure if she even knew the answers.

Satoru exhaled, the decision made. She couldn’t lie in bed forever.

So she swung her legs over the side of the cot, holding a breath to see if anything changed. To her satisfaction, the sigils didn’t pulse in protest. 

She stood slowly, testing her balance, pleased at how there was no vertigo. No pain. 

The infirmary was empty, Nurse Aurelius long gone. Good. 

She padded barefoot to the door, pulled it open, and slipped into the corridor. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The bathroom was quiet. 

Satoru gripped the edge of the porcelain sink and stared at her reflection. Her eyes, usually covered with a blindfold, were fully visible. She looked pale, well paler, than she normally was. Tired. The sigils curled beneath her collarbone, barely visible beneath her loose infirmary robes. 

She turned on the tap, letting cold water spill into the sink before splashing her face.

The water didn’t wash away the confusion, but it brought clarity, if only a little.

The voice hadn’t felt threatening. It was more of a warning. So, the sigils weren’t a curse. They were a fail-safe.

In this world, where her cursed energy faltered, where the magic system was warped and rejected her power, the sigils were an anchor. A new structure. Something old, older than the castle, maybe older than this world itself .

Her head throbbed with the weight of it all.

“Everything hurts more when you’re clever,” said a voice. 

Satoru turned sharply.

A girl stood at the edge of the bathroom, near the row of sinks. She wore rumpled Ravenclaw robes, round glasses slipping down her nose, her hair was pulled back haphazardly. Her eyes were wary but curious.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said quickly. “You’re in Ravenclaw, right?”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah.”

“I thought so. I’m Myrtle. Myrtle Warren.”

Satoru blinked. “Moaning Myrtle?” She vaguely remembered having heard that name in passing. 

Myrtle grimaced. “Ugh. I mean, some people say that. But it’s not true. Anyway, you’re the one with the glowing arms, aren’t you?”

“You can see them?” Satoru asked, more surprised than she expected.

“Of course I can. I think they’re beautiful. Weird, but beautiful. They kind of look like the old engravings down in the library’s sealed archives.”

Satoru’s eyes sharpened. “What archives?”

“Oh, it’s past the third corridor on the right, near the back. You’d need Slughorn’s permission to get in, though. Or, you know, creative problem-solving.”

“Creative problem-solving,” Satoru echoed, amused despite herself.

Myrtle shrugged. “I’m top of my class in theoretical charms. Doesn’t mean anyone likes me for it.”

Satoru nodded, lost in thought.

Satoru smiled faintly, her mind elsewhere. There were so many questions. What had pulled her into that void? Who, or what, had left those sigils on her skin?

She could see only two possibilities: ancient magic from Hogwarts, maybe even from Salazar Slytherin himself, or someone from her own world.

She wasn’t sure which option was worse. But at least now, she had a direction.

Myrtle’s soft voice drew her out of her thoughts. “I think you’re very brave. To walk around with magic on your skin. Everyone stares at me too. Because of my acne.”

Satoru blinked, taken aback by the raw honesty in Myrtle’s words.

You remind me of someone , she wanted to say. Because Myrtle, she realized, carried burdens that were far too heavy for someone her age.

Instead her voice came out low, surprisingly raw. “You remind me of someone I used to teach.”

Myrtle tilted her head, regarding her closely with that same look Yuji would always give her. “Were they clever?”

“No,” she said, almost a whisper. “He was kind. Really kind. Even when it would’ve been easier not to be.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of it almost unbearable.

“And it scared me. Because I was supposed to protect him. I thought… I thought I could carry everything so he wouldn’t have to.”

Myrtle was silent for a moment.

Then she drifted closer, her expression gentler than before. “Did he know how much you cared?”

“I think so.”

“Then maybe,” Myrtle’s voice was a soft whisper. “You still did your job. You were there for him, even when you couldn’t protect him. And that’s enough.”

Satoru’s gaze dropped to the floor, and she fought back the sting behind her eyes.

"Maybe," Satoru whispered.

The words felt like a release, even if they didn’t provide the answers she was searching for. But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel quite so alone in her grief.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Back in her dorm, she found her friends waiting.

Cordelia. Amari. Selene.

No one asked where she’d been. No one scolded her for disappearing. Amari just pushed over a blanket. Cordelia slid a plate of fruit toward her. Selene said, “You look like shit.”

Satoru smiled.

“Yeah,” she said. “But I’m back.”

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

It had been three days since the sigils first scorched themselves into Satoru's skin. Three days since she'd blacked out and come to on the infirmary bed, her arms etched with those same marks, black and angry and wrong. They had since faded, now a faint golden shimmer that barely registered unless you were actively looking.

But Satoru didn't have to look. She could feel them. Quietly pulsing. A constant, shimmering mockery.

And she was pissed.

Because blacking out? Not her style. She was the break-the-laws-of-reality-with-your-pinkie-finger person. Someone who didn't faint, but obliterated. Or at least, she used to be.

Because while she might've been the strongest in her world, here? She was apparently some kind of cosmic glitch.

And Hogwarts had begun to notice.

Which was just the cherry on top of her slowly burning dumpster fire of a week.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

It all began with the staircases.

One morning, as she stepped onto one of the moving staircases, it froze mid-spin. It wavered briefly, then simply refused to budge. Satoru, not one to be easily deterred, jumped off sideways in a fluid motion, landing gracefully atop a suit of armor.

Or as graceful as one can be in those situations, anyways.

The suit of armor, as though deeply amused by the whole situation, clapped its metal hands in applause. And she would have been proud of that had the staircase not collapsed into a pile of rubble.

Professor Flitwick, who had been watching with mild concern from a nearby corridor, sighed and mumbled to himself, "Give it a week before the castle starts retaliating in earnest."

Satoru groaned. Could it even get any worse?

It did.

The portraits, already prone to bowing or whispering at her, now simply stopped speaking altogether. As if they'd seen something they weren't meant to, and decided silence was safer.

One portrait, a retired dueling champion, bowed with excessive creaking and vanished. Another, a wizened old wizard in a velvet hat, crossed himself and disappeared into the seam of his canvas.

The Fat Friar drifted backward out of the wall, stared at her, muttered something about "unresolved planar bleed," and was gone.

The space felt emptier after that.

Selene noticed, of course. She noticed everything.

She always did.

She'd started keeping track of the phenomena on paper.

One evening, while Satoru was drawing a cat wearing sunglasses in the margins of her Charms notes, Selene looked up and said, "Your presence weakens localized enchantments."

Satoru, not looking up from her very important drawing, raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a you problem."

Selene didn't flinch.

"No," she corrected, her voice firm. "It's a castle-wide issue. There are destabilization spikes occurring every time you pass near the North Tower. It's growing worse with every step you take."

"Maybe the tower's just dramatic," Satoru shrugged, still absorbed in her drawing. Did she make the head too big? 

Selene fixed her with a sharp look, unbothered by her flippant response.

"Or maybe," she said, her words measured and deliberate, "you're contaminating the magical ley flow."

Satoru tilted her head, her expression momentarily one of mock contemplation. "Again," she said, casually tapping her pencil on the desk, "sounds like a you problem."

She didn't want to admit that Selene was likely correct.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Then came Transfiguration.

The transformation was supposed to be simple; turning a beetle into a button. First-year work, according to Dumbledore's preamble.

Satoru gave her wand a lackluster flick, barely sparing the beetle a glance. Sure, she'd once sucked at transfiguration, but now, she was decent . Yet, to her utter surprise and mortification, what emerged could only be described as a magical identity crisis.

The beetle rearranged itself that loosely resembled a button, if one imagined a button sculpted entirely from twitching beetle legs.

There was silence. Then laughter. Abraxas first. Tom stifled his behind a cough. Assholes.

"Well," Slughorn offered brightly from the back of the room, "it's not... incorrect , technically. I mean, structurally it is—"

Satoru didn't even question why nearly the entire Hogwarts faculty had assembled in her Transfiguration class that morning. She already knew. This wasn't a normal lesson; it was an observation. To which she was unfortunately the subject to.

Flitwick stood on a tall stack of books by the front row, arms crossed, wand ready. Beery was hovering near the windows, as if prepared to fling someone, or something, outside. Sinistra stood stiffly by the blackboard with a notebook in hand, recording observations in neat, hurried script. Even Binns, who had floated through the wall with his usual disinterest, had chosen to stay.

She was used to being watched. Just not like this.

"Transfiguration doesn't like me," Satoru said, breaking the silence. Her voice was casual, helpful. She gestured at the beetle-button hybrid. "See?"

"Nothing likes you," Flitwick muttered, mostly under his breath. "That's the problem."

In another situation, Satoru might've fired back, some jab about his stature or how enchantments apparently did like her, just not enough to work properly. But she didn't. Because Dumbledore was still watching her.

Behind him, Headmaster Dippet shifted his weight, hands clasped behind his back, expression thoughtful rather than alarmed.

"It's as if the magic is attempting to reorient itself around her," Dippet murmured to no one in particular. "The effect isn't chaotic. It's more like the structure is being nudged sideways."

"She bends everything," Dumbledore said, almost to himself, his tone sharper now. "Magic doesn't know what to do with her."

Satoru smiled faintly, her gaze still fixed on him. "Honestly, neither do I."

The thing on the desk gave one last twitch, then stopped.

That night, Selene found the room.

It wasn't supposed to exist.

Tucked into a corridor that looped behind Ravenclaw Tower, the hallway was half-lit by dying sconces, their flames flickering low and uncertain. The walls gave off a faint hum when she let her fingers skim across them.

And then Satoru stepped into view.

The room convulsed.

The sconces sputtered violently, casting wild shadows across the stone. The walls dipped, softening, subtly sagging inward as if exhaling. The geometry folded on itself in a way Selene had no words for.

Satoru passed through without noticing.

The moment she was gone, the space snapped back into shape. The flames steadied. The walls rigid again.

And Selene, standing alone in the dark, found herself very aware that she had just witnessed someone moving through a reality that had not been designed to hold them.

The faculty meeting was called the next morning.

No one said who'd summoned it. Everyone knew it was Dumbledore.

Dumbledore stood at the far end of the staffroom, not seated with the others around the long table. His gaze remained fixed on the window, where the clouds loomed low and gray over the castle's grounds. It wasn't raining. Not yet, at least.

Behind him, the voices of his colleagues filled the room, softer than usual, edged with unease. Even the tea had gone untouched, cooling in mismatched cups.

"She's incompatible," Flitwick said, without preamble or emotion. "Magic recoils around her."

Dumbledore's eyes didn't move from the window, but he listened carefully.

"She's also a student," Slughorn said, in the same tone he might use to defend a particularly questionable wine. "Technically."

" Technically, " Flitwick repeated, biting off the word like it tasted bad.

"She hasn't broken any rules," Dippet added. His voice was calm, as it always was, measured, thoughtful.

" Yet, " Flitwick said, not missing a beat.

The others murmured, Beery, Sinistra, even Vector. They didn't disagree. But they didn't agree either. Dumbledore could feel it, that pull between instinct and reason, between their fear and the responsibility towards their students.

He said nothing.

He hadn't said anything since arriving, despite being the one to call the meeting. His hands were folded behind his back, fingertips pressed lightly together. He watched the sky shift, slow and thick with tension.

It wasn't just her. It was the way the castle had begun to twist around her. How it seemed to resist her presence while simultaneously... bending to accommodate it. The way the air folded, the way enchantments thinned in her wake.

She wasn't tearing the magic apart, she was moving through it like something foreign to its laws.

Like something that didn't belong in this world.

"Perhaps," Dippet was saying now, more gently, "we should ask her what she wants."

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment, just one breath.

And what if she doesn't know? he thought.

Behind him, thunder rumbled somewhere distant. The storm was just beginning.

Back in Ravenclaw Tower, Satoru lay sprawled across her bed, her face pressed into the pillow, feeling the soft indentations of it against her cheek. She could hear Selene's pencil scratching furiously on paper from across the room, the sound rhythmic and oddly soothing. Her friend was probably still trying to map out her magic.

Satoru had stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago.

"You're bending ambient magical field lines," Selene's voice cut through the silence, still focused on whatever she was drawing.

Satoru didn't look up, but she couldn't help the smirk that tugged at the corners of her mouth. "I'm what?"

Selene didn't miss a beat. "Basically, magic doesn't know what to do with you. So it panics."

"Relatable," Satoru mumbled into the pillow, almost muffled. "I panic every time I touch a wand." Because lately, her wand was malfunctioning too.

Selene's voice didn't change, not a flicker. "You feel... different. Like you're not from here."

"Guess what? I'm not," Satoru said, pushing herself up slightly, eyes half-lidded, still not really looking at her.

The words hung in the air for a moment before Selene spoke again. "I mean more than that. You don't feel like this world's magic. Not even like foreign magic. You feel like something older, like something that shouldn't be here."

Satoru's head jerked slightly, and she turned her face toward Selene, one eyebrow arched in feigned offense. "That's extremely rude. I moisturize."

Selene didn't even blink. Of course she didn't. The girl was built like a wall of logic, stone-faced and unmoving.

"You're a contamination vector," she said, as casually as if she'd just mentioned the weather.

Satoru let out a long, exaggerated groan, flopping back onto the bed, covering her eyes with the crook of her arm. "That sounds worse."

"I'm being clinical," Selene replied, her voice cool and matter-of-fact.

Satoru let the silence stretch between them, the weight of it pressing down. It was the kind of quiet that made her feel things she usually shoved to the back of her mind.

After a long moment, Selene spoke again, softer this time, as if the words were testing the air before they landed. "Do you think you're making it worse? Just by being here?"

Satoru didn't answer.

Not because she didn't hear, or didn't understand the weight of the question. She did. She had her own version of it echoing around in her head every day.

But maybe she didn't have an answer for it yet.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Later that night, Satoru stood in front of the Ravenclaw common room door.

It didn't glow.

The usual warmth in the bronze was gone. Like something had drained it of life. She reached out, fingertips brushing the cold surface.

Nothing happened.

The knocker stayed still. No question. No riddle.

It didn't want her inside.

She stared at it for a long time.

She wasn't offended. No, that word felt too small. This wasn't about exclusion, it was about recognition. The quiet, certain knowledge that the door, an object meant to serve, had made a decision.

A choice.

It wasn't just the door. It was the castle. The magic. The world. None of it had been made for her. And the door? It simply confirmed what she'd already suspected: there was no place for her here.

Her fingers lingered on the metal, tracing the edge of the design like she could will it to understand. To let her in.

Then, without a word, she stepped back.

She wasn't angry. Not anymore. Anger was something you could hold. Something you could weaponize. But this, this was heavier.

This was sadness. And sadness had nowhere to go.

She turned away, the tremor in her hands barely visible.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn't know where to go next.

Chapter Text

Tom had died once. Maybe even twice. Time had started to unravel somewhere between Horcrux fragmentation and reversal. (Satoru had chewed him out for the Horcruxes, of course. Something about "emotional cowardice disguised as magical arrogance.")

But waking up in a world steeped in the same kind of energy Satoru carried, that was new.

He blinked against the fluorescent glare of a city that roared louder than any he’d known. Cars. Billboards. Towering glass. Things he wouldn’t have recognized, had it not been for Satoru and the memories she’d shared with him. Tokyo.

Then he noticed his body. It was different. Younger. Seventeen, maybe.

A passing window confirmed it. And normally, he might’ve smirked, appreciated being back in his prime. But now? He didn’t care. Because across the street, beneath the red paper lanterns of a ramen shop, stood her.

Satoru.

His wife.

Her hair was tied up in a loose bun. She was laughing.

And she was touching another man.

Tom’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Tom’s first observation was that Suguru, whom he recognized from his wife’s memories, was leaning far too close.

The second was the smirk. That lazy, self-satisfied curve of the mouth that came from a lifetime of getting away from things. Sleazebag. 

He watched as Satoru flicked a noodle at him, her eyes crinkling with genuine joy.

That lit a fire in Tom. 

He crossed the street. Every step was controlled, deliberate, measured down to the inch. He made sure not a hair was out of place, then stopped at the edge of the table where Satoru and Suguru sat. Shoulder to shoulder. Close enough to make his skin crawl. 

Satoru looked up and blinked once.

And blinked. Once.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

Tom didn’t answer. He just looked at her. Looked through her. At the fraying edge of her memory, at the ghost of something he almost reached. But he didn’t. Couldn’t reach the memories of them.

Almost broke. 

Instead, he tilted his head. “You’re laughing with him.”

Satoru’s brow furrowed. “Do I… know you?”

Suguru offered a slow, calculated smile. “Hey, if you’re a fan, she doesn’t sign anything until after dessert.”

Tom turned his gaze on him. Flat. Cold. Measuring.

“Touch her again,” he said softly, “and I’ll remove your spine.”

Suguru laughed.

Which was a mistake.

Tom moved.

He didn’t need a wand. He never had. The table cracked down the middle. The ground shifted beneath their feet.

Satoru shot to her feet. “Whoa. Let’s not commit murder in front of the tempura.”

Tom’s eyes snapped to her.

God, she was exactly the same. Same voice. Same ridiculous confidence. Same silver thread of power weaving through her aura.

But she didn’t remember him.

That part was new.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

They stood facing each other in the alley behind the ramen shop. Lanterns swayed gently overhead, casting a soft red glow across her face.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said. The words sounded so sweet on her lips. 

Tom stared at her.

“In another world,” he said, “you were my wife.”

She raised a brow. “Bold opener.”

“I don’t lie.”

“You look like you do. A lot.”

He didn’t smile, but something in him eased. Just slightly.

“I know your voice when you’re angry. I know how you like your tea — hot, two sugars, no milk. I know that your left knee aches before storms. And I know,” he added, quieter now, “that you only laugh like that when you’re with someone you trust.”

Satoru’s expression shifted.

Not in recognition. But something, nonetheless. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I believe you believe it. But that’s not me.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Tom didn’t follow her home. He could have.

But for all the raging instincts in his blood, he didn’t want to frighten her.

Instead, he found a rooftop with a clear view of the city and stayed there all night, watching cursed spirits slither through alleys below. It was strange, in a way, seeing this world for the first time.

He’d only ever heard about it from Satoru’s lips.

The next day, he appeared at Jujutsu High.

He didn’t explain how he got past the barriers.

He didn’t need to.

When Satoru stepped into the training field and saw him standing there, arms folded, coat billowing slightly in the wind, she stopped mid-step.

“You again.”

Tom inclined his head. “Me.”

Suguru groaned from the sidelines. “You invited him?”

“I did not.” Satoru snapped.

Tom glanced at Suguru. “Still alive, I see.”

“Uncomfortably.”

Satoru pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are you planning to stalk me, or just crash every meal I eat?”

Tom stepped forward. And handed her something.

A tiny, hand-folded origami fox.

Satoru blinked.

“What is this?”

“You used to leave them on my desk,” Tom said. “Whenever you were annoyed with me.”

She stared at the fox, unmoving.

Suguru looked between them. “Okay, what the hell kind of enemies-to-whatever is this?”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Later that afternoon, Suguru cornered Tom in the hallway.

“I don’t know what your game is,” he said, voice low and tight, “but you should know that she’s not yours here.”

Tom didn’t flinch. “She’s always been mine.”

Suguru smirked. “She loves strawberry milk. Can’t stand pickles. She hums old anime openings when she thinks no one’s around.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “She bites her nails when she’s anxious. She used to sleep facing the door, even if it meant back pain. And she’s never told anyone, but she cried when she saw snow fall for the first time outside my window.”

A pause.

Suguru’s smile faltered.

Tom stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper. “You know the her of this world. I know the rest.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Satoru found them moments later. The tension was practically palpable. 

“Okay,” she said, stepping between them. “Either kiss or kill each other, but move.”

Tom looked at her. Then, he made a decision.

“Let me show you.”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

Satoru blinked. “Show me what?”

Tom reached out, brushing his fingers gently against her temple.

And let her see—

A memory. A thousand moments. A rainy day and a kitchen full of laughter. Her lips on his in a quiet hallway. Her hand in his beneath a trembling sky.

Every version of her. All the ways she’d looked at him. All the ways he had loved her.

Satoru gasped, her knees buckling beneath the weight of the vision. And then, without thinking, without even wanting to stop herself, she surged forward.

Their mouths collided in a desperate, reckless rush. The kiss was clumsy, frantic. His lips were hot, and she was drowning in him, her senses spinning as if she’d finally, finally found the missing piece of herself.

His hands found their way to her waist, to her spine, trembling with the weight of something too big to name, like they’d been searching for her all this time.

They kissed like they were starving, like they couldn’t breathe unless they were this close. Like they’d remembered each other in ways words never could—flesh, heartbeats, a thousand lifetimes' worth of longing.

Her sighs melted into him, needy, desperate, and her fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer.

Time fell away in a blur of heat, pressure, and something painfully, violently familiar. It was too much. Too fast. Too right.

And then—

A cough.

Suguru stood at the end of the hall, eyebrow raised, arms crossed.

“Gross,” he muttered, voice flat, before he pretended to gag. “She’s like my sister, dude.”

He turned on his heel, muttering something about needing bleach for his eyes, and disappeared down the hallway. 

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

The Chamber of Secrets was beginning to feel like home.

Not in the measly, pathetic way that Wool’s had ever tried to be, where everything seemed to be a dull, suffocating effort to make him fit into a mold he never wanted to inhabit. The perfect, non-freak kid. The orphanage had been nothing more than bleak, cold walls; tasteless, bitter porridge; and the constant hum of annoying children. 

The chamber was cold, but it was his cold, a cold of his own volition. One that he could control, not one that was simply endured beneath the threadbare blankets at Wool’s where nothing ever belonged to him. Down here, at least, there was no one to tell him he wasn’t enough, no one who could try to make him feel small. 

He sat cross-legged beneath the towering statue of Salazar Slytherin, the carved face of the founder staring down with its eternal, unreadable scowl. His wand rested across his knees. A conjured rabbit wriggled beside him. Nervous magic made flesh, a living being born from his own whim.

It wouldn’t twitch for long.

He was beginning to like Ouroboros.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud. The serpent was ancient, opinionated, and wholly indifferent to flattery, a quality Tom found surprisingly refreshing. Where others had bowed or simpered or whispered his name like it meant something holy, Ouroboros just looked at him. Spoke plainly. Challenged him.

Much like Satoru, in that way.

But Tom didn’t like Satoru nearly as much.

A sharp hiss echoed through the pipes. The rabbit froze mid-hop. 

Then the basilisk, no, Ouroboros, came.

His tongue flicked twice, as if he were tasting the air, the scent of the rabbit undoubtedly filling his senses. His gold-green eyes fixed on the rabbit. Then on Tom. Then, back to the rabbit.

He stopped a few feet short and gave a low, amused rumble.

“That’s one,” he said. “You still owe me ninety-nine more.”

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“One hundred?” he echoed.

“That’s the deal,” Ouroboros said, tail curling lazily behind him. “What, did you think one rabbit was enough to sustain this massive body? Don’t be daft, lad.”

Tom couldn’t help but laugh at that, the absurdity of the situation catching him off guard. A giant serpent, centuries old, more in touch with modern slang than he was. The universe had a sense of humor, he decided.

The rabbit vanished with a snap of the basilisk’s jaws. No blood was spilled. It was, Tom thought, an impressive feat for a creature of such monstrous size.

Ouroboros gave a sigh that almost sounded pleased. “Much better. Meat first. Then questions.”

Tom allowed himself a small smile. “You’re developing standards.”

“I’m centuries old. Why do you keep on thinking that I survived this long on scraps and human sentiment?”

Tom said nothing. He watched the great serpent slither closer, coils piling into deliberate, languid spirals as Ouroboros made himself comfortable beneath Salazar’s feet.

One eye half-lidded. Always watching.

"So," the basilisk drawled, tone deceptively idle, "what do you want me to do?"

Tom leaned back against the statue, stretching out his legs. “Nothing yet. You’ll start by mapping the pipe systems. Make sure you’re quiet.”

The serpent hissed low in his throat. “Scouting. Spying. Slithering. How boring.”

“Essential,” Tom countered, already unfolding a battered parchment from his robes. “If we’re going to do this right, I need to know every corridor, every bypass. Every secret crawlspace that connects this place from the dungeons to the Astronomy Tower. And you…”

“Know it better than the bricklayers who built it,” Ouroboros finished, yawning his jaws wide in a stretch. “Yes, yes. You’re not the first heir to try to give me this speech.”

Tom ignored the interruption, tracing a line on the paper with the end of his wand. The map was incomplete, fragmented, stitched together from guesses.

But Ouroboros could complete it.

“Planning something?” the serpent asked, tongue flicking.

Tom paused. Folded the parchment again.

“Eventually,” he said. “There will be someone who needs to die.”

Ouroboros perked up, eyes narrowing with interest. “Ah. There it is.”

“But not before Yule,” Tom added.

“Because you're leaving.”

“The Malfoys invited me,” Tom said. “Their manor in Wiltshire. A week, maybe two.”

The basilisk gave a long, theatrical sigh. “A family of vipers. Fitting company.”

Tom didn’t bother arguing.

Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a worn, weathered book, the diary. Salazar’s diary. 

He set it beside him on the stone.

Ouroboros tilted his head, eyeing it with vague interest.

“That the thing that talks to you?” he asked.

“It listens more than it talks.”

“How dull. Like you. All blabbery about your great plans for the future. But you never hold a conversation. ”

Tom snorted softly, raised an eyebrow. “Fine, Ouroboros, I’ll humor you. What do you do when I’m not here? Sleep?”

“Sleep?” Ouroboros scoffed. “What do you think I am, a cat? No, lad, I watch movies.”

“…You what?”

Ouroboros gestured with his tail toward a niche in the wall, clearly enchanted. A slight shimmer of magic framed it.

“Got one of those Muggle projector things enchanted for magical playback. Casablanca is amazing. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’ Bloody masterpiece.”

Tom blinked. “…You’re joking.”

“Absolutely not.”

“How?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Tom considered. “No.”

Ouroboros gave a satisfied nod. “Smart.”

Tom glanced down at the diary again, then up at the serpent. “You know you’re completely insane.”

“I’ve been stuck in a pit for a thousand years. What’s your excuse?”

Tom smiled. Real, this time. Just for a moment.

Yes, the Chamber of Secrets was beginning to feel like home.

And, for once, he wasn’t entirely alone.

He shook his head, lightly, as if to scatter the thought, and let his gaze drift back to the diary besides him. 

He remembered that meeting with Slughorn a few nights ago. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The firelight in Slughorn’s office flickered low, casting amber light across the room. Slughorn was in fine spirits. His cheeks glowed pink, and he laughed too easily, voice bubbling like the wine in his glass.

“Oh, you lot,” he said fondly, waving a pudgy hand at the group of well-groomed Slytherins lounging around him, “brightest bunch I've had in years. Your whole year, remarkable, truly.”

Tom smiled. The others preened. But he didn’t care about their flattery or Slughorn’s nonsense.

He had come for one reason.

And now, the moment was right.

Tom waited until the others were too distracted, talking about Quidditch, or their families’ vaults in Gringotts, and then leaned forward, just slightly.

“Sir,” he said smoothly, “I was wondering... I came across something rather curious in the Restricted Section the other night. A reference to something called a Horcrux.”

The room stilled, almost imperceptibly. Slughorn’s eyes flicked to Tom, still warm, but a touch wary.

“A what?” he said, too quickly.

Tom tilted his head, eyes dark and inquisitive. “A Horcrux. I didn’t get much. Just that it has to do with very dark magic... and the soul.”

Slughorn gave a forced chuckle. “Nothing to worry about, nothing to dwell on, really. Just academic nonsense, very theoretical, old, dangerous stuff.”

Tom didn’t look away. His gaze was steady. Polite. Curious. Disarming. He made sure of it. 

“But how does it work?” he asked. “What does it do, exactly?”

Slughorn shifted in his seat. “That’s not... that’s not the sort of thing we ought to be discussing. Not at your age. It’s, well…”

“Is it true,” Tom interrupted softly, “that you can only split the soul by committing murder?”

The words hung in the air.

Slughorn stared at him, genuinely taken aback now.

“My boy,” he said, voice low and alarmed, “this is very dark stuff. Very dark indeed. You shouldn’t—”

“But it’s possible, isn’t it?” Tom pressed. “To split the soul. To anchor yourself to the world. To live forever.”

Slughorn hesitated.

He looked into Tom’s face. No doubt seeing how he was the golden boy. The prefect. The prize of Slytherin. 

And for just a moment, drunk on his own pride in his favorite student, Horace Slughorn cracked.

“Well,” he muttered, “it’s been theorized. Yes. That one could separate the soul. Anchor it to an object. But it’s highly unstable. The soul is meant to remain intact; splitting it damages the person irrevocably.”

Tom leaned forward slightly, expression unreadable.

“How many times can you split it?” he asked. “Seven? Isn’t seven the most powerful magical number?”

Slughorn stared at him in horror. 

“Merlin’s beard, Tom, what on earth have you been reading? Seven? That’s beyond anything, surely no wizard’s ever—”

He stopped.

Then Slughorn laughed again, forced and brittle. “You’re very clever, Tom. But don’t go poking your nose into things best left alone, hmm?”

Tom smiled. Smooth. Perfect. Calculated.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Slughorn had confirmed it. Even though he wasn’t meaning to. 

But murder did anchor the soul. A Horcrux was real. And if one was possible, then seven were too. 

He would begin with one. The first.

And he already knew which object it would be.

Except for one problem.

Tom glanced upward, toward the statue. Towards where Salazar Slytherin stared down from his stone throne, his carved eyes locked in permanent judgement. 

The diary wasn’t empty.

“He won’t want to share,” Tom murmured.

Ouroboros stirred. Just a flick of movement, barely more than a twitch of his tail. Didn’t question who Tom was talking about, just knew. “He never did.”

“I’ll have to remove him.”

“You think that’s possible?”

Tom’s smile was thin. “It will be.”

The basilisk gave a long, thoughtful hum. 

Then, after a beat, he asked, slowly, carefully, “When will you bring the one whose blood is older than yours?”

Tom froze.

“Don’t play games, Ouroboros.”

“I’m asking a question.”

“You’re baiting me.”

“You’re thinking about her,” the serpent said, voice quiet but certain. “Right now.”

Tom’s jaw clenched.

Satoru.

Those glowing sigils. That impossible, erratic energy. The way the air bent and listened when she walked into a room, as if the world itself hadn’t decided whether to worship her or fear her. 

Even now, even here, in his home , she lingered.

A smudge on his thoughts. An aftertaste he couldn’t scrub clean.

“She’s useful,” he said stiffly. “An asset. If she loses control, I lose a source of power.”

“You mean cash cow.”

Tom shot him a flat look. 

Ouroboros only smiled. Or rather, stretched his jaw in that slow, toothy curl that served as one. A serpent’s version of amusement. More hungry than humorous, to be honest. 

Tom turned without another word.

His footsteps echoed through the tunnel, soft against stone, but steady. Leaving the diary behind. Leaving the basilisk.

Leaving the questions that refused to stay buried behind.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Tom nearly collided with Druella Rosier halfway down the corridor leading from the third-floor landing. 

She was walking quickly, deliberately. With too much purpose for someone who claimed to want to be uninvolved. 

So he stepped into her path, blocked it. 

“The note,” he said, voice low and controlled, “The one that ended up on my desk, the one signed with a G.”

She raised a brow, but said nothing. 

“I always wondered how it got in,” he went on, gaze locked on hers. “Hogwarts’s wards don’t break. Not from the outside. Not even Grindelwald could manage that.”

No one could. Except for Satoru, somehow. 

Still, she said nothing. Which meant he was right.

“It came from inside,” he said. “From someone already here.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You’re not wrong.”

“You passed the message. But you didn’t create it,” he added, after a pause. 

She didn’t deny it.

And that silence twisted something cold under his ribs. A suspicion blooming into certainty.

Tom felt something cold twist beneath his ribs.

“He wants her,” Tom said.

“Not dead,” Druella replied softly. “ Used .”

Tom didn’t answer. 

Because deep down, in the hollow parts of him that still flinched at words like loyalty and trust, he knew.

He wanted to use her too.

And maybe the only thing stopping him was the fact that he hadn't yet figured out how.

He turned away, jaw tight, his pulse a steady drumbeat in his ears. The corridor stretched ahead, dim and flickering, torches throwing warped shadows across the walls.

And then he heard it.

A whisper.

Soft. Familiar.

“She’s not yours to use.”

Tom froze. Whipped around.

Nothing. No one.

Just the empty corridor behind him, its silence suddenly too loud.

And for the first time that day, Tom Riddle felt something he didn’t quite have a name for.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Charms wasn’t supposed to be a battlefield. 

And yet today, it felt dangerously close to being one. 

Satoru stepped into the classroom 5 minutes late, trailing behind the rest of her friends. Her hair clung damply to her cheeks, still wet from the rain that had started halfway between the Ravenclaw tower and the Charms corridor. Her robes were half-unbuttoned in her rush, her wand jammed behind one ear like a forgotten pencil. 

Not that the wand functioned properly these days, anyway. 

She scanned the room, taking in the usual arrangement of students. She hated the way her gaze automatically landed on Tom. His eyes, flat and unimpressed, met hers across the rows of desks, as if he could feel the weight of her stare behind the blindfold. Satoru lifted an eyebrow, silently challenging him. He held her stare for a second longer than necessary, then looked away, choosing silence. Smart.

Professor Flitwick’s voice sliced through the tension like a guillotine. “Miss Satoru,” he chirped, voice clipped, “five points for every minute you’ve kept us waiting. That’s twenty-five. Do try harder.”

Satoru gave a lazy two-finger salute and pretended not to see the way he pinched the bridge of his nose. 

The classroom was nearly full. Cordelia, Amari, and Selene had claimed their usual spots near the front, their backs straight, quills poised, the epitome of Ravenclaw brilliance. Abraxas lounged like he owned the place, boots carelessly propped up on his desk, laughing at something one of the Lestranges had said. He caught her eye, smirked. She didn’t return it. 

Her gaze snagged, instead, on Myrtle.

Curled in on herself at the end of a bench, she looked smaller than usual, half-hidden behind her inkwell and her body. Her eyes, wide and red-rimmed behind thick glasses, darted up for just a moment, cautious, unsure. The others didn’t seem to notice her. Or worse, they did, and ignored her anyway.

Satoru hesitated, one foot still angled toward her usual seat. Toward her friends. Toward safe. 

But one look at Myrtle, how she seemed so lonely, had her veering of course. She passed her friends, past the whispering Slytherins. Her bag landed with a soft thud beside Myrtle’s, drawing a few curious glances.

Myrtle blinked up at her, startled. 

“You sure you want to sit here?” she asked, her voice quiet but brittle, each word carefully measured as though she'd learned the hard way that anything too hopeful might crack under its own weight.

Satoru shrugged. "Better than front row to Flitwick, or sitting anywhere near Tom’s little fan club" She sank onto the bench with practiced ease. "Backbenchers have more fun, anyway."

For a heartbeat, Myrtle didn’t respond. Then something softened in her expression, just a little, and a laugh escaped her, brief and unexpected. Her nose crinkled slightly when she smiled, which Satoru noticed and filed away without meaning to. Adorable . 

“Fair enough,” Myrtle murmured, ducking her head.

At the front of the room, Professor Flitwick climbed onto a precarious stack of books, clapping his hands with the excitement only he could summon at this hour.

“Today,” he announced brightly, “we begin our unit on spell refractors! A challenging but crucial element of advanced charmwork, especially for those interested in dueling!”

Around them, the usual chorus of groans rose from the class

“And,” Flitwick added, far too pleased with himself, “you’ll be working in pairs!”

A ripple of movement passed through the room as everyone scrambled to lock in partners. 

Myrtle cast Satoru a sideways glance. 

Satoru raised a brow. Your call . 

Myrtle hesitated, then nodded. Just once.

"Cool," Satoru said, cracking her knuckles. "Let’s wreck it."

The spellwork itself was deceptively difficult. The charm had to bounce off a mirrored surface and hit a target placed behind it, something Satoru could only compare to searching for a middle of a haystack while blindfolded. While her cursed technique remained inaccessible. 

Myrtle went first. Her spell arced neatly from her wand, struck the mirror dead center, and bounced neatly into the target with a muted pop .

Satoru let out a low whistle. "Damn. Alright, show-off."

Myrtle flushed a violent pink, but didn’t deny it. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, pretending not to smile.

Satoru took her shot next and things went sideways. Literally. Her charm careened off the mirror’s edge like a drunken Bludger, ricocheted wildly, and smacked into a nearby bookshelf. Three ancient, dust-caked volumes tumbled to the floor in protest.

"Oops," she muttered under her breath.

Myrtle coughed into her sleeve, failing to stifle a laugh. “You, um... might want to adjust your wand angle.”

Satoru rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Charms Queen."

Myrtle ducked her head, embarrassed. “I’m not—It’s just the one subject I’m decent at.”

Satoru grinned, flicking a speck of dust from her sleeve. “Still counts.”

And this time, Myrtle didn’t argue.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Satoru could feel the weight of Abraxas’s gaze bearing down on her, steady and unrelenting. He’d been watching her for the entire class, eyes tracking her movements, posture twitching with the urge to rise and approach, only to settle back down again, as if weighing the moment.

Eventually, he stood, crossing the room with that effortless, infuriating grace that always made Satoru grit her teeth. He moved like someone who believed the world revolved around him, like he was the protagonist in a story and everyone else mere extras in his spotlight.

"Satoru," he said smoothly. "Didn’t realize you’d switched pairs."

She didn’t bother looking up, focused instead on adjusting the angle of her mirror. “Felt like being unpredictable.”

“Charming,” he replied easily, before his attention flicked to Myrtle. “Miss Warren. That was an excellent cast.”

Myrtle blinked, clearly suspicious, but said nothing. 

Abraxas turned back to Satoru, eyes gleaming with intent. “If you’re interested in refining your technique, I’d be happy to offer a private tutorial.”

That earned him a glance. Satoru turned her head, finally meeting his eyes. “Private tutorial? Is this homework help or cult recruitment?”

He laughed, seemingly delighted by the jab. “Only the elite may apply.”

“Tempting,” she said dryly. “But I already pledged my soul to Professor Myrtle over here.”

She nodded toward Myrtle, who went utterly still at the mention.

Abraxas smiled, sharp-edged and gleaming, like something beautiful that shouldn’t be touched. Not entirely friendly, but still compelling.

“I just think someone with your raw ability shouldn't waste her time with rote drills and textbook exercises,” he said. “You’ve got something different. Something rare. It would be a shame not to use it.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what kind of use are we talking about?”

“Dueling Club, maybe,” he said with a casual tilt of the head. “Or something... more advanced.”

“It’s when you start pausing like that between your words that I start to worry.”

Myrtle glanced between them, lips drawn into a tight line.

Abraxas offered a theatrical shrug, as if to say he couldn’t help being misunderstood. “Just thinking aloud. That spell you cast last week in Defense? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I coughed and waved my hand.”

“And yet it was elegant. You should try it again.”

There it was.

The push.

Satoru smiled, all sweetness and teeth. “Only if you go first.”

His smile remained intact, but something in his gaze sharpened, eyes flicking, calculating.

Myrtle muttered something under her breath.

Satoru caught it. “What was that?”

“He’s testing you,” Myrtle said, eyes fixed just past her shoulder. “He doesn’t want to help. He wants to see what you can do.”

Turning back to Abraxas, Satoru cocked her head. “Tell me something, do you actually think I’m stupid?”

He raised both brows, mildly offended. “Of course not. You wouldn’t be nearly as interesting if you were.”

“Flattering.”

“Truthful.”

“Well,” she said, brushing him off with a small wave. “Thanks for the chat. But I’m sticking with my partner.”

She shot Myrtle a wink, who responded with a tight but genuine smile.

Abraxas gave a shallow bow, all theatrical courtesy. “As you wish.”

He turned and walked away, but paused near the door to glance back, just once.

Satoru watched him go, jaw set, lips pressed together in quiet calculation.

Myrtle exhaled beside her. “He always acts like that. Makes everything feel like a game.”

“It is a game,” Satoru said. “They just haven’t realized I’m playing too.”

When class ended, she took her time packing up, waiting for the crowd to thin. Myrtle lingered nearby.

“Thanks for sitting with me,” Myrtle said softly. “Most people don’t.”

Satoru tilted her head, a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Their loss. You’re kind of terrifying when you’re confident.”

Myrtle blinked, caught off guard, then smiled, small, pleased, and a little pink. “Really?”

“Really. Let’s sit together again next time. If you want.”

Myrtle nodded.

Satoru slung her bag over one shoulder, and the two of them walked out together, side by side, leaving the lingering tension of the classroom behind.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

They didn’t get far.

Tom stood just outside the classroom, arms crossed, gaze locked onto her, like he’d been expecting her, like he’d been calculating her next move before she made it. 

Myrtle stiffened at Satoru’s side, faltering mid-step.

But Satoru didn’t pause, didn’t flinch. She kept walking, voice dry as ever. “If you’re here to offer me private lessons too, get in line.”

“I’m here,” Tom said evenly, “because you’ve been avoiding me.”

Satoru scoffed at that, at the sheer audacity behind his words. Who’d been avoiding who?

She tilted her head, the motion lazy, deliberate. “I’ve been attending classes,” she said coolly. “That’s not avoidance. That’s suffering. There’s a difference.”

His gaze sharpened, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “I saw what Abraxas tried.”

She smiled, all teeth. “Didn’t bite. Though I’ll admit, the little bow almost got me. He’s very polite when he’s being manipulative.”

Tom didn’t return the smile. “You should be more careful. Charm is a weapon.”

“Then why,” she said, the edge of her voice sweet, even though the words were anything but, “are you so bad at it?”

That landed.

Something flickered behind his eyes, not quite anger, but not quite surprise. Something she couldn’t name, and didn’t care to.

Myrtle, hovering awkwardly beside them, cleared her throat. “I’ll—um. I’ll wait up ahead.”

Satoru nodded once, without looking. Tom didn’t even pretend to acknowledge her.

And when Myrtle was gone, he stepped closer.

Not enough to touch. Just enough to be unavoidable.

“You think you’re clever,” he said, tone quiet but tight. “Ducking questions. Playing neutral. But you’re not the only one people want to use.”

Satoru didn’t flinch. “Neither are you.”

He studied her for a beat, like he was trying to read something between her words. Trying to measure how far gone she really was, or maybe how far from him she’d let herself drift.

Then, “Don’t forget about our agreement. Same place, same time.”

Satoru let out a slow, deliberate breath. Almost a laugh. “Do I look like one of your followers, Riddle?” she asked, voice dropping, quiet and cutting. “Do I strike you as someone who jumps when you snap your fingers?”

There was a long silence after that. 

And maybe it wasn’t what she said that landed hardest, maybe it was what she didn’t say. Maybe it was the fact that she didn’t wait for a reply. That she didn’t linger to see if he flinched.

Because she turned her back on him with the same casual cruelty he’d shown her in the infirmary, when she’d come back bruised and burned and barely breathing and he hadn’t said a word.

And now, she left him standing in the corridor, alone.

Like he’d left her.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

The dungeons always smelled faintly of damp stone and salt, a briny tang that always clung to the air. The dungeons were fairly dark and chilly too, no matter how many candles flickered along the walls or how many spells were cast to keep the chill at bay.

Satoru adjusted her blindfold, pretending it was just to keep the fabric from slipping, not because she could feel someone’s gaze on her back.

Myrtle’s steps, light and hesitant beside her, echoed unevenly against the flagstones. The other girl kept fidgeting with the worn strap of her satchel, her fingers working it into tighter knots of anxiety, glancing at Satoru every few moments like she was working up the nerve to say something. Whatever it was sat heavy behind her teeth, and it was clear she couldn’t quite find the right words, or perhaps she knew the words, and simply didn’t believe Satoru would want to hear them.

She would have been right. The last thing Satoru needed right now was a heart-to-heart, no matter how kind Myrtle's intentions were. Satoru wasn’t ready to let anyone else in, not yet, not while the world continued to tilt beneath her feet with every breath she took.

She still hadn’t shaken Tom’s voice from earlier. The clipped way he’d said, Same place. Same time. As if they’d never gone three weeks, nearly a month, without speaking. As if she hadn’t wanted to shove the words back down his throat.

But she knew Tom. Unfortunately. And she knew that despite telling him to shove it, that she wasn’t one of his followers, he’d be there. Worse, he knew she’d be there.

Because Tom Marvolo Riddle was an ass. A magnetic, infuriating ass who could carve out space in someone’s head whether they wanted him to or not.

“Are you listening?” Myrtle’s voice cut through the thoughts in her head.

Satoru hummed softly, noncommittal. “Always.”

Myrtle shot her a skeptical look, her brow knitting slightly, but she didn’t press the matter. Perhaps she already knew it was a lie. They were nearly at the staircase when something changed, barely perceptible, but unmistakable to Satoru’s senses. A brush against her cursed energy.

It came from the far end of the corridor.

Satoru slowed, instincts sharpening in an instant. “Go on without me,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I’ll catch up.”

Myrtle hesitated, her frown deepening. “You’re not going to do anything stu—”

“—stupid? No promises.” Satoru offered her a crooked half-smile and a lazy wave of her hand. “I said I’ll catch up.”

Reluctantly, Myrtle left, the sound of her steps fading until the dungeons swallowed them whole.

Satoru turned toward the source of the ripple.

The wall at the end of the corridor didn’t match the rest, its stones narrower, uneven, the seams between blocks misaligned. She pressed her palm to the cold stone, let her cursed energy trickle forward in a delicate weave, just enough to feel what was beyond.

Hollow.

The bricks gave way with a muted grind, and behind them was an opening just large enough to stoop through. She ducked beneath a warped beam, noting the silence that followed. No footsteps above. None of the noise of the castle. Just stillness. She found it nice actually, like she was finally allowed to breathe, to be herself.

The corridor twisted twice before revealing a cramped chamber barely larger than a broom cupboard.

And there it was.

The mirror leaned crooked against the far wall, its frame the color of old bone, etched in lines of script that she didn’t recognize from this world. But her body knew the script, somewhere imbued deep in her bones.

bone-pale frame etched with a script she didn’t recognize from this world, but her body knew it. The lines thrummed against her cursed energy in a way that made her spine lock, equal parts recognition and warning.

Cursed script. Old. Older than her era, at least.

She stepped forward slowly. The mirror’s surface was cracked in three places, but still uncannily clear, swallowing what meager light was in this part of the dungeons rather than reflecting it.

Her hand hovered a second too long over the surface. Touching cursed objects without knowing their origin was idiotic, and she’d said as much to first-years a hundred times.

And yet she touched it anyway.

The moment her fingers met the surface, the mirror rippled.

And then she saw Shibuya.

Smoke curling up from a broken street. Yuji’s blood-bright grin through the chaos. Geto’s back, black robes dissolving into a crowd she couldn’t follow.

Satoru’s breath caught in her throat.

Because it wasn’t just a memory. It wasn’t even just a curse.

It was her.

Everything she had tried to bury in the aftermath, every shattered promise, every broken bone, every body she hadn’t been fast enough to save, it had all clawed its way back to the surface. The mirror didn’t show what she wanted.

It showed what she couldn’t let go.

For a single, excruciating moment, the cracks in the glass vanished, and her reflection looked whole again.

Then they splintered back into place, shattering her image into jagged fragments, each one reflecting a different kind of guilt.

For a few long seconds, she stood in the dim silence of the chamber, her breath shallow.

But then she heard it. Footsteps, measured and deliberate, stopping just short of the doorway. Tom. And if she were in a better state of mind, she would have hated the way she instantly recognized his footsteps.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice smooth and low.

Satoru didn’t turn to face him. “For once, we agree.”

He stepped fully into the room, eyes already scanning the mirror’s bone-white frame with the sort of calculating attention he never tried to hide. Not with her at least, who knew his true nature. “Where did you find it?”

She tilted her head slightly, the edges of a smile tugging at her mouth. “The real question,” she murmured, “is where did it find me?”

His expression didn’t change, but she caught the shift anyway, the smallest tension in his shoulders, the almost-imperceptible pause in his breath. He didn’t press, though. Not yet. Instead, he moved closer, stopping just short of the glass.

“What did you see?” he asked, voice quieter now.

She tilted her head. “Ladies first.”

He blinked, clearly unimpressed. “You’re not serious.”

“Fine,” she said, her voice flattening into something distant. “People I know. Somewhere I’ve been.” The deliberate vagueness in her words made it clear she wasn’t about to elaborate. “You?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the mirror, on the sharp, distorted version of himself staring back. “Nothing I wasn’t expecting,” he finally said.

A lie.

“That’s not Hogwarts magic,” he said after a moment, his gaze flicking back to the script along the frame.

“And you sound awfully sure for someone who claims they didn’t see anything new,” she replied evenly, not looking at him.

His eyes found hers then, behind her blindfold, at least. “You’re being watched.”

Her smile didn’t falter, but her cursed energy instinctively coiled tighter, “By who?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and the admission made the space feel smaller somehow. “But I felt it the moment you touched it. Like something snapped tight, like a thread being pulled.”

His words provided little comfort. She’d felt it too, that unnatural tug.

Tom’s voice dropped. “If this is your magic, control it. If it isn’t…”

“—then it’s someone else’s problem,” she cut in, stepping past him. “Preferably theirs when I find them.”

She should have walked away then. Should have left it.But the mirror still hummed against her skin like an open wound, like an itch she couldn’t reach, whispering with a voice that wasn’t hers.

“Feels wrong leaving it here,” she muttered, half to herself.

Tom didn’t move, but his attention followed her. “You’d prefer to take it with you?”

“No,” she said, a little too fast. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that comes back to bite you.”

A silence stretched between them, broken only by the flicker of the torchlight against the frame. Then Satoru exhaled, let out a dry laugh. “Guess that leaves option two.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t give him the chance.

Her hand came up, a swift and deliberate strike. Her cursed energy sharpened, crashing down with the force of will alone.

The mirror didn’t break like glass.

It screamed. The sound was wrong, too low, too old.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, though his voice remained calm. “You could have just left it.”

“And let someone else use it to track me?” she replied, brushing imagined dust from her sleeve as if the moment hadn’t just tried to claw its way inside her. “No thanks.”

She took one last look at the now-dead glass, the silence where its hum had been.

“Besides,” she said, not quite softly, “sometimes things are better broken.”

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Tom looked down at the blackened shards. Whatever tether had been there was severed, but not cleanly. Whoever had been watching would know.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then I hope you’re ready for them to come looking.”

Her smirk returned, sharp and certain. “I’m counting on it.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Tom didn’t follow her right away.

The remnants of the mirror still pulsed faintly where she had struck it, the surface catching and bending the light in strange, almost liquid-like folds. Whatever magic had shaped it was not his, and it certainly wasn’t Hogwarts’. It was older, older than the Founders, older than the castle’s stones, and woven through its core was a current he recognized, sharp and unmistakable.

Hers.

He had felt it the instant her palm met the glass: a sudden pull, precise and unnatural, as though something, someone, had been waiting on the other side of that reflection. Waiting, watching, patient.

And for a single breath, just before she’d broken the connection, it had turned its gaze on him, too.

Tom’s jaw tensed. Because whatever had marked her had now seen him. That would have to be dealt with. Preferably sooner than later.

He’d known she was lying. Was used to others keeping secrets from him. But her secrets weren’t like anybody else’s. Hers had teeth.

And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t certain who was holding the leash.

He turned to face the mirror, the remaining shards that were left. The pull was weaker now, but still there, a faint thread stretching outward into somewhere that wasn’t this castle.

Somewhere that wasn’t like anything he’d seen in this world.

He let his hand drop.

If she thought he’d let her walk into that alone, she didn’t know him at all.

No, he’d be there. Not because he trusted her. But because whoever was watching her had just made the mistake of noticing him.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru’s dreams were haunted that night. She thought that everything was getting better, and the sad part was that it was getting better. For some time, at least. But this universe had always seemed to hate her, and yesterday’s events still clung to her.

Smoke curling over the remnants of Shibuya. Her old pupils, hurt. And Suguru, walking away into a crowd that she could never follow. 

She’d cracked the mirror. Had smashed it, watched the light die in its cracks. Heard that horrible, low sound as whatever lived inside fell silent, whatever remnant of a curse. She was surprised that her cursed technique even worked, honestly. Maybe it was getting better? 

But Satoru knew better than to hope, at least in this world. No, everything that she wanted would have to be achieved through her own merits, not hope alone. Because what did hope offer besides a broken heart when her expectations failed to be met.

Because she’d hoped for so long that somehow Suguru would come back to her, be the same best friend she’d had long ago. Be the same carefree teenager always on her side. She had hoped right up until the moment she’d killed him. 

God, it had been so long, but she hated that she could never forget, the way Suguru and Shibuya still haunted her, mind, body, and soul.

She woke before dawn, the castle still dim, with no morning light streaming in. The castle was just beginning to stir when she went down to breakfast, the long windows finally letting in the pale blue of the morning sun.

She sat where she always did, enjoying the few moments of silence. She truly enjoyed her friends' company, but there was a blissful feeling in finally being alone, in not having to put on a mask or a fake smile. Her own thoughts were loud enough; it was hard to deal with the bustle of the dining hall, too.

A while later, her friends slid into the spaces around her. She could feel their gazes on her, likely wondering what she was doing and where she had been the day before. But their curiosity stopped a moment later, and they adopted that sense of normalcy she loved so much.

Selene made a face at the food. "I swear, if this porridge gets any grayer, I'm writing to the Board of Governors."

Satoru bit back a chuckle, wisely choosing not to comment that Selene's face was slowly tinging the same color as the porridge she claimed to despise.

Amari, on the other hand, was less lucky, a snort escaping her. "Do they even take your complaints seriously?"

Selene made a face. "Please, as if? Half the board is either my family or allied with my family. My word carries a lot of weight, you know, maybe even more than Malfoy who parades around saying, 'my father will hear about this.' "

Satoru’s lips curved in the faintest ghost of a smile, though her thoughts were far away. She realized Selene wasn’t paying much attention either, the thread of her conversation with Amari having unraveled, leaving Amari turned toward Cordelia instead.

When Satoru caught her looking, she raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t sure if Selene could see it behind the blindfold (maybe it was time to shop for some sunglasses now that she was rich) but Selene could clearly feel the weight of her gaze. She immediately looked away, murmuring something to Amari about the weather.

She could tell that they were concerned about her, albeit quietly. Still, she could feel them gently pressing her for answers. So she kept her answers light, laughing here and shrugging there, her movements almost robotic. She was careful not to give anyone a real place to dig their nails in, to decipher the truth behind her exterior.

Because the last time Satoru had let somebody in, she’d been burned badly. 

Classes passed by in the same blur. She went through the motions with the same robotic indifference with which she'd addressed her friends. Her wand was in her hand, of course, her lips forming the incantation, but without a hint of concentration. Her spells worked half the time, fizzling out the other half.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

By mid-afternoon, Satoru was nearing the common room when a voice stopped her.

“Miss Satoru.”

She didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Of course it was him . 

“Tom,” she said, her voice dry, “as much as I know you would love to be graced by my presence, I don’t have time for you today.”

“It’s about your proficiency,” he cut in, already falling into step besides her. 

The sound she made was halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Since when are you my professor?”

“I’m your academic advisor,” he corrected blandly. “Professor Dippet thought you’d respond better to a peer as opposed to a conference with him.”

That almost dragged a laugh out of her. “Right. Because you’re so good with people.”

He ignored the jab. “You’ve been here for months. And while you had a few weeks of brilliance, now you can barely pass for a third-year in most subjects. A second-year in Transfiguration. And that’s being generous.”

“I get by.”

“That’s not enough,” he said, his voice sharper now. “If you’re hiding something, it will catch up to you. And when it does—”

The warning cut off.

Because the air shifted. Quite literally, actually. 

It started as the faintest change in pressure, like the cabin of a plane climbing altitude too fast. And then the light in the corridor bent , warped across the stone walls in a way it wasn’t meant to. 

Satoru felt it before she saw it, felt the pull threading through her cursed energy, unraveling pieces she hadn’t meant to give. Her breath hitched. Then the surge slammed into her, fast, brutal, tearing at the edges of Infinity. Tearing at the castle itself. 

Her breath stuttered. Because for the second time in her life (and both coincidentally at Hogwarts), Satoru was vulnerable. 

Fuck. She would have to figure out what was wrong with her cursed energy, and soon. 

Tom moved without hesitation, closing the space between them. One hand braced against the wall beside her, the other cutting sharp arcs through the air with his wand. His magic flared, not enough to smother the surge entirely, but enough to shield them both from the worst of it.

The castle seemed to groan under the strain, dust drifting down from the vaulted ceiling.

And then it was gone, leaving nothing but Satoru’s thundering pulse behind.

Satoru could see the edges of Tom’s lips move to speak, start to shape a word. 

“Don’t” she said flatly. 

She wasn’t in the mood to thank him for saving her. And she sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for more questions.

But his footsteps followed when she turned and walked away. She didn’t know where she was going, only that her body moved as though it already knew. Instinct carried her, unkind and unerring, straight to the place she never wanted to see again.

Her breath halted at the sight in front of her. 

The mirror.

Whole again. No cracks. No shards. Not even dust where it had been shattered. Its frame gleamed the same bone-white that had haunted her dreams the night before, etched with that same cursed script that set her teeth on edge.

Tom stepped into the doorway, his voice low. “I thought that you destroyed it.”

She didn’t answer, but her silence was enough.

And in her worst mistake of the day, she stepped in front of the mirror. Saw her reflection ripple one, twice , until it wasn’t her that was staring back. 

Until it was Shibuya staring back at her. Corpses scattered like debris. The hollow of a subway station, black with ash. Her vision of Suguru, the ways that he had haunted her every thoughts. 

Her stomach twisted. 

Tom’s voice cut through the heavy air. “Who is that?”

She spoke without thinking. “No one you’ll meet.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “What happened there?”

Her breath caught. Because he’d seen it. Because she’d admitted, without meaning to, that this was real, that it belonged to her.

And Tom was too sharp, too clever, to not notice the way the station gleamed with lights and steel from a century ahead of their world, ruined as it was. Too clever not to understand what it meant.

Because this, this , was her worst fear realized. Not just the mirror remembering, not just her world bleeding into this one. 

Because he had seen it. Knew she was from a different world. 

And now she couldn’t hide from him anymore. Couldn’t hide from him, couldn’t hide from her friends. Not here, not anywhere. 

The truth had been dragged out into the open, bare and waiting.

Chapter Text

───── SELENE ─────

Selene Greengrass had been raised a Greengrass before she had ever been allowed to be Selene.

She had learned the rules of pureblood etiquette before she had learned magic. Knew which fork to use at dinner, how to hold a teacup so her wrist looked graceful, when to smile and when to nod, and most importantly, when to keep her mouth shut.

Because Greengrasses did not pry. They didn’t ask, didn’t press for information. Not into business that wasn’t theirs. Not into affairs that people chose not to share.

Not even when someone began to vanish in front of them, inch by silent inch, day by patient day. 

Greengrasses did not reach out. Greengrasses did not hold on.

Because the polite thing, the respectable thing was to let go.

But Selene knew all too well that the polite thing was also how people disappeared for good.

The rain that night was a hollow, listless rhythm against the windows of the common room. A dull persistent tapping, a sound that she couldn’t quite get out of her head. 

She hated that, hated the sound. 

Because it had rained that night, too. 

Her gaze drifted, unfocused, yet searching, and landed on her friends. 

Cordelia sat cross-legged in her armchair, pretending to read, her eyes frozen on the same paragraph for the last ten minutes. Amari sat hunched over her desk, her quill trembling over the scroll, never quite touching it, as she twisted it between her fingers until the feather bent at an odd, broken angle. 

Not that Selene was doing much better herself. 

Her book lay open on her lap, but the words bled together, meaningless shapes floating on the page. None of them said it aloud, but they all knew.

Satoru should have come down the stairs by now.

“She’s late again,” Cordelia murmured, not bothering to lift her eyes from the unmoving page.

“Maybe she’s got a secret admirer,” Amari said, too breezily. But her hands betrayed her, tight, fidgeting, restless. 

Selene smoothed a crease in her skirt with deliberate care, the motion too sharp, too precise to be casual. “She’s been distracted.”

“That’s one word for it,” Amari replied dryly.

Distracted. Absent. Different.

Selene had seen it before, the way someone’s posture stiffened just slightly, as if they were bracing for a blow they expected but couldn’t name. The way their eyes darted too quickly, then too slowly, as though they were seeing a different world entirely.

Because her aunt Cressida had worn that look, quietly unraveling as the world failed to notice, until the rainy night she left without a word. No one knew where she went. Selene wasn’t sure her aunt had known either. 

No one ever talked about it. Her parents, her family hadn’t talked about it, not during the long months afterward. Not in the many years that followed. 

But Selene remembered. 

Remembered the empty seat at family dinners. The forced, brittle laughter echoing through rooms that had once held warmth. She remembered the way Cressida would look through her instead of at her, like nothing was solid enough to hold on to. 

Perhaps worse, she remembered the things people had said after.

If only we’d noticed. 

If only we’d said something. 

But no one had. Because Greengrasses didn’t ask. 

And so Cressida had vanished, quietly, tragically, politely.

And Selene refused to say those words about Satoru. 

“She’d tell us if something was wrong,” Amari said, though her tone made it sound more like a hope than a certainty.

Cordelia shook her head. “Not unless she wanted to. And if we push too much, she’ll shut us out.”

That, too, was true. Satoru had never liked meddlers. 

But Selene had been called ice queen herself more times than she could count, the girl who cared for nothing, who kept her friends at a polite distance, whose smile was thin as frost. They never understood that she cared too much. To the point where everything became a blade. 

And the only way not to bleed was to freeze.

Her eyes drifted back to the window. The rain was heavier now, each raindrop trailing down the glass like tally marks.

A count she was afraid to finish. 

But if they stayed silent, if they remained polite , if they let Satoru drift the way she’d let her aunt…

Then they would lose her. And this time, there might be no coming back. 

Selene closed her book, the sharp thud cutting through the quiet.

She would speak to Satoru. 

She had to. 

She could bear Satoru’s anger.
She could endure being shut out, frozen out, pushed away.
She could survive the cold.

But she could not, would not , live with the weight of another regret.

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Tom had always known that Satoru was different. He’d known it from the very first moment he saw her in the Great Hall, when she stopped a spell mid-air, wandlessly, wordlessly, with a kind of magic he couldn’t name. Something raw and unfamiliar, something he’d never seen before, not even in the restricted sections of the library.

But not even in his most fevered imaginings had he guessed the truth: that she wasn’t just different, she was from somewhere else entirely . Another world, if the mirror was to be believed, and judging by the way she’d paled, the way her magic had flickered and flared in sheer panic, it most certainly was.

And he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.

It was all there. Her flippant answers to the most basic magical history questions, her complete ignorance of Grindelwald— Grindelwald , of all people—who in their right mind didn’t know him? Her bizarre incompetence in nearly every class that required theoretical precision, contrasted by a strange kind of intuitive genius when it came to Defense or anything grounded in raw instinct. Even those fleeting weeks of brilliance had faded back into mediocrity.

But if anything, learning about her origins only deepened the mystery.

Because Tom was no fool. He recognized power when he saw it, and she was powerful. Not in the polished, cultivated way of the old families, but in something deeper, wilder. She’d created a ripple in Hogwarts’s very magic, an almost imperceptible surge he could feel in the walls, in the wards. Even Ouroboros had acknowledged her strength (and Tom knew just how long it had taken for that creature to so much as look at him with anything other than veiled disdain). Yet it had mentioned Satoru’s name before it had mentioned his own.

That alone was enough to make Tom wary.

But the notes... the first of them had the unmistakable imprint of Grindelwald. If Grindelwald knew about her, if he was already watching, already planning, then Satoru wasn’t just some curiosity from another world. She was a target. And by extension, so was Tom.

Still, this changed things. Gave him options.

And if Tom Riddle hated anything, it was being dragged into someone else's game without compensation.

Oh, he would make sure he was paid for this inconvenience. Handsomely. 

And fortunately for him, he now had something very valuable, leverage.

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru had always believed she was good at compartmentalizing.

She’d learned to box up her pain, lock it tight behind a carefully constructed facade, and smile through the cracks. Because if she never acknowledged the fracture, if she never looked directly at it, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t really there.

Maybe that was how she’d survived as long as she had. By pretending. By keeping the illusion alive, even when the world beneath her feet was already crumbling.

But now?

Now, after the mirror had shattered her reflection into jagged, unrecognizable shards, after it had dragged Shibuya back from the depths of her memory and thrown it in her face, after Tom’s eyes had seen it too?

She was fucked.

There was no softer word for it. No polite euphemism. Just that: completely, irreparably fucked.

As if summoned by the thought, the devil himself spoke.

“Now I know your secret,” he said simply.

Her lips curled into a humorless smile. “Congratulations. Do you want a medal? Or perhaps a gold star?”

He pushed off the wall, his movements slow, deliberate, closing the space between them until his lips were mere inches away from her ear. “The question isn’t whether I know. The question is what price are you willing to pay to keep your secrets?”

Her shoulders tensed, but she held her voice steady. Barely.

Slowly, almost ceremoniously, she reached for the knot at the side of her head, her fingers tugging once, twice , until the black cloth slid free. Until the blindfold fell into her palm like a discarded tie.

Her six eyes, cold and luminous, snapped open in the dim corridor, locking onto his. She was sure they gleamed with a clarity that didn’t belong to this world, a power so precise it cut through the air between them. For a moment, the torchlight itself seemed to bend, refracted and scattered in their crystalline depths.

And subconsciously, she thanked whatever higher being there for allowing her six eyes to work that day.

“This,” she said, her tone almost defiant, “is the truth you’ve been clawing at.”

“I’m from a world nearly a century away from this one, a world that’s torn to pieces. Ruined. Dying. A world where I failed the people who mattered most. That’s what you’ve been chasing. That’s the truth.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Happy now?”

For once, she wished her words could wound him. Wished the sight of her eyes could shake him, unsettle him, do anything . But this was Tom Riddle.

He didn’t do regret. He didn’t do guilt. He would only take her truth, twist it into something sharp, and hold it against her.

“And sure,” she added, the bitterness bleeding into her voice, “go ahead. Tell the professors. Tell Dippet, tell Dumbledore, tell every last one of them that I’m from a different world. See how far that gets you.”

She laughed, sharp and hollow. “They’ll laugh you out of the room, Tom. You’ll sound completely unhinged.”

His expression didn’t flicker. “Maybe. But I don’t have to convince everyone.” He leaned closer, unblinking. “Just one.”

His words fell like a whisper, calculated, inevitable. “All it takes is a seed. One person, one whisper, one question at the right moment. And you know better than anyone how fast doubt spreads.”

And there it was. That smile. Thin. Cruel. Inevitable.

Her stomach twisted.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

But she refused to give him the satisfaction of watching her flinch.

“You do that, Riddle,” she said coolly. “But you’d better pray I don’t run out of patience before you finish your little speech.”

She shouldered past him before he could respond, her pulse pounding against her ears. And still, his presence lingered behind her, silent, watchful. Like a curse she couldn’t shake.

Because this time, maddeningly, he wasn’t wrong.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Her dormitory was warm when Satoru slipped inside, the firelight flickering low across the stone walls. Selene sat at her desk, quill in hand, though the parchment in front of her was more inkblot than essay. Cordelia was sprawled across her bed, a book open over her chest, though she wasn’t reading. Amari sat cross-legged by the fire, tapping her quill absentmindedly against her chin in a distracted rhythm.

All three of them looked up the second the door shut.

“Where were you?” Selene asked, her voice sharp, too precise to be casual.

Satoru hesitated. She hadn’t planned an excuse. She hadn’t planned anything. But when she met their eyes, Selene’s guarded worry, Cordelia’s furrowed brow, Amari’s restless frown, something inside her cracked, as though the weight she’d been carrying finally had an escape.

“Satoru,” Selene started again, softer now, but no less firm. “We know you’re hiding something. And it’s okay if you hate us after this, but you need to tell us. You need to tell us you’re okay.”

Satoru could have deflected. She could have made some snide remark, spun the truth into something less real. But Tom knew now. And for the first time in a long while, it might be nice to have someone, anyone, in her corner.

The words slipped free, like a dam breaking.

“I’m not from here.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with the weight of something unsaid.

Satoru let out a breath, a hollow laugh that lacked humor. “I mean, obviously, I’m not from here. But I’m not from this world. Not this time.” She swallowed, feeling her throat tighten. “I’m from somewhere else. A century ahead, give or take. A world that’s… ruined.” The word felt like ash on her tongue, cold and brittle. “A world that I ruined. Or at least, I wasn’t fast enough to stop it from breaking.”

Selene’s eyes softened, though she didn’t speak.

“Shibuya,” Satoru whispered, the name itself carrying the weight of years. “There was a city. Lights, trains, more people than you could ever imagine, all in one place. And it burned. Thousands of them… gone. And Suguru—”

Her voice faltered, and the words that followed felt like the final confession of a long-buried grief. She wasn’t sure when it had become this much easier to speak of it, but there it was. She found herself unloading years of pain, of guilt, onto her friends, who, to their credit, didn’t flinch. Not once.

And when she reached the part that still hurt most, the one memory that cracked her heart open every time, they didn’t judge. They listened.

“Suguru was my best friend. My brother, in every way that mattered.” She stopped, the weight of the admission too much to bear. “And he… he broke. He broke in a way I couldn’t fix. And I had to—”

Her voice cracked, the words choking her. “I had to kill him.”

The fire popped loudly in the silence that followed, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Cordelia sat up slowly, her book forgotten. Amari put her quill down. Selene was the first to speak, her voice steady but gentle. “And you’ve been carrying that ever since.”

Satoru let out a bitter laugh. “Carrying? Try drowning.”

Amari, never one to shy away from practicality, pushed her hair back and spoke too briskly. “Well, at least now we can stop guessing in circles. We can go back to mapping the walls, figure out what that sound you heard was. Start researching why your magic, your cursed energy I guess, is reacting like this.”

Satoru almost laughed, but instead, her throat tightened again. She blinked fast, fighting against the sting of tears. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Practical,” Amari corrected, shrugging.

Cordelia’s voice was quieter now, but there was a certainty in it that Satoru hadn’t heard before. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore. Not here. Not with us.”

And then, Selene, blunt as always, added, “Yeah, you’re stuck with us whether you like it or not.”

And for the first time in what felt like ages, Satoru let herself laugh, a shaky, imperfect thing. But it was a true laugh, nonetheless.

And for once, the weight in her chest eased, even if just a little. Enough to breathe.

She leaned back against the bedpost, allowing herself to sag into the quiet that had fallen over the room. She hadn’t realized how heavy the silence had been until it broke. How much effort it took to keep every secret locked away, sealed behind a thousand walls.

Because for as long as she could remember, she’d been the one holding everyone else’s burdens. The strong one. The shield. The one who carried it all.

But now, sitting here in the dim firelight, surrounded by her friends, quiet, steady, unwavering, they were offering to carry some of it for her. And for the first time, she remembered what it felt like to let go.

Even if just for a little while.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Hogwarts felt smaller now. Satoru couldn't decide whether it was a blessing or a curse.

A blessing perhaps, because for the first time, it didn't seem as though the world was stretching endlessly outwards without her. The corridors no longer seemed to mock her with their vastness, the castle in fact, felt contained, almost intimate, as if it were finally allowing her to hold its gaze instead of letting her slip through the cracks.

And yet, perhaps it was a curse. Because smaller meant tighter, meant being more suffocating. And she could feel it in the way that every hallway seemed to press in closer, every stone listening to her too carefully. And then there were the people.

Selen, Cordelia, and Amari, god bless them, were very kind, too kind even. Yet they had all cracked her open in ways that she hadn't even thought possible. Had drawn words from her mouth that she'd buried years ago, words she'd sworn she'd never speak aloud again, words she swore she'd take to her grave.

It was relieving having the words off her chest, of course, but also dangerous. Because once the words were released, there was no putting them back, no containing the truths they carried. No way to hide.

It was dangerous, Satoru decided, remembering. Far too dangerous. Because memory was a flood, unstoppable once it began, and now the castle, the people, the very air itself seemed to conspire to keep it flowing. Once she started down that current, there would be no resting, no pause, no undoing what had begun.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Satoru had heard the whispers since she was a toddler, barely old enough to stand without wobbling or falling. Yet the whispers never stopped.

She's the next head of the Gojo clan. The Six Eyes incarnate. The strongest.

Even from the start, she'd never been Satoru. She had been Gojo. A name first, a person second.

They'd never looked at her like a child. They had looked at her as if she was a weapon being forged, as though she was a blade to be sharpened, honed and displayed. Every mistake, every weakness, had been met with a cold reminder.

You are Gojo. You cannot falter. You cannot fail.

She had hated it. She had hated the clan. She had hated her name. She had hated the burden stitched so deeply into her bones that it felt inseparable from her own skin.

There had been nights when she had dreamed of running away, when she had imagined herself simply as Satoru, a girl who could eat sweets without anyone measuring the sugar against some imaginary standard, a girl who could laugh without having her joy judged as a flaw in discipline, a girl who could exist as a person rather than as the sum of expectations laid down centuries before she was born.

And then she had met Suguru.

And for the first time, her name hadn't felt like a curse.

Suguru had been... everything.

Suguru had been the first person to see her without the weight of her family pressing down. The first to see Satoru before Gojo. He had been a balance to her storm, her moral compass. With him, she could forget the clan, the expectations, even her own power.

He had reminded her that strength was more than power. He had reminded her that being human was not a weakness. He had reminded her that she could exist without carrying a legacy on her shoulders.

He had seen her. Not the weapon, not the title, not the brilliance. Just her.

When Riko died, grief had threatened to consume her. The pain had curdled into something sharp and dangerous, something that could destroy everything in its path. It had been Suguru who had held her back. His hands, his words, his presence had tethered her to life, had reminded her that surviving meant more than winning.

When she laughed off her scars, it was Suguru who had reminded her that they were proof she had endured, proof she had chosen to stand. He had never flinched from her pain, never demanded that she hide it. He had made it possible for her to feel without shame.

And that's why it had hurt so much when he'd broken.

Because it wasn't just that Suguru had massacred a village. It was that he had taken his hatred for the higher ups — their suffocating rules, their hypocrisy — and turned it outward. Against innocents. Against people who'd never asked to be part of the sorcerer's curse.

It was that he'd stepped onto the very path she'd once been tempted by.

And the thought that haunted her, that gnawed at her every time she closed her eyes, was simple, cruel, unshakable. What if in saving me, he took my fate instead?

If she had been weaker, maybe she would have been the one to fall. Maybe she would have been the one consumed by hate. And maybe Suguru would have been the one left to save her.

But it hadn't been that way.

Instead, it had been her blade that had ended his life.

Killing Suguru had been the hardest thing she had ever done.

And in that moment, something inside her had died too.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

After Suguru's death, she had sworn never to be a Gojo again.

The clan and the higher ups were the reason everything had turned to ash. If they hadn't forced their rules on them, if they hadn't treated them like tools, maybe Suguru wouldn't have broken. Maybe they would still have been laughing in the summer sun, side by side.

So she'd tried to cast it all away. The clan. The name. The title. She tried to be just Satoru.

And now, at Hogwarts, she had doubled down on that lie, burying it beneath the routines of ordinary life, pretending she was just another student, pretending she could fumble through charms, scribble essays, sit through classes as though she were not carrying an entire broken world inside her chest.

But it was a lie.

Because "Satoru" was as false as "Gojo." She could never erase what she was, never become the girl she pretended to be, never separate herself from the blood, the legacy, the history that had carved her so deeply, that had shaped her even before she had been able to speak her own name.

And yet, she could never go back to being only "Gojo," either. Refused to go back to that hellhole, go be someone's weapon again.

What was it the voice had said?

You must remember. To gain one is to lose another. You will have to choose.

Her chest tightened.

Because for the first time, she understood.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

She had wanted too much.

She had wanted Hogwarts magic. Wanted to learn charms and transfiguration, to sit at a desk like a student, to carve out a small, fragile space for herself here, a space where she could be Satoru, the girl her friends could laugh with, the girl who was not always carrying the title of "the strongest" like a weight around her neck.

And she had wanted her cursed energy. Wanted Infinity, wanted her technique, wanted to be the Gojo who could stand unshaken against curses, the one who could bear everything the world threw at her without bending.

She had wanted both.

And in wanting both, she had torn herself in two.

That was why her cursed energy had frayed, why her Infinity had faltered, why even her soul had buckled under the strain, unable to hold the impossible weight of living as both. Because balance demanded sacrifice, and she had been too blind, too proud, too desperate to see it.

"To gain one is to lose another."

She had been blind not to see it sooner. Her lips twisted bitterly. Idiot. Stupid, blind idiot.

In her quest to be Satoru, to wear Hogwarts like a second skin, to pretend she could belong somewhere without the shadow of her power trailing her, she had lost herself. Because she had never been just Satoru. Never been just Gojo.

She was Gojo Satoru. Both names. Both weights. Both truths.

The girl who had laughed in the summer sun with Suguru, who had run with him through long afternoons, who had felt the warmth of a life that might have been. And the sorcerer who had killed him when he fell, who had carried the memory of that moment like a scar that could never fade, who had endured what no one should ever have to endure.

The strongest. The survivor. The reminder.

And in that moment, clarity struck.

Her cursed energy surged, no longer jagged, no longer warped, flowing instead with a smooth, endless rhythm. For the first time since Shibuya, she felt whole, stable, and deadly in a way that made every previous hesitation seem inconsequential.

Gojo Satoru had returned.

But the victory came with a cost.

She would never truly belong here. Her wand lay on the desk, inert and meaningless. She now understood that she would never master Hogwarts magic, would never become a prodigy. Charms and transfiguration were illusions, fleeting shadows of a power that had never truly been hers, and she could not bend herself to fit within them. She could not fix Yuji. Could not undo Shibuya. Could not bring Suguru back.

And Hogwarts? Hogwarts would never be home.

Yet she was Gojo Satoru. Her cursed energy was real. Her power belonged to her alone. And if that power set her apart, if it made her a world unto herself, then she would embrace it without apology, without hesitation, without regret.

Because she had chosen.

"To gain one is to lose another," she murmured, voice low but steady, carrying the weight of every lesson, every failure, every hard-fought truth she had ever learned. Her lips curled in unwavering resolve.

"Fine. I've chosen."

And the castle seemed to respond, tremors imperceptible at first, then growing, as her Infinity pulsed outward, whole and undeniable. A reminder to the world that Gojo Satoru had returned, unbroken and unbowed.

Chapter Text

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

For Tom Riddle, it felt as though the stars had at last remembered his name, after years of scorning him, of turning their indifferent faces away, of refusing him even the smallest glimmer of fortune. 

At Wool’s, Tom had stopped believing in things like luck. Luck was for fools. For the weak who waited for scraps the world might toss them. No, he had learned early that the only thing worth trusting was his own brilliance. His own hunger. His own unrelenting will.

And yet, just this once, he allowed himself the thought that perhaps he was lucky. 

Because now, at last, he had leverage, despite what Satoru so arrogantly claimed. She could sneer, she could laugh, she could smother the truth beneath her brittle pride and her hollow disdain. But Tom had seen.

He had stood before the mirror and watched it ripple with visions no Hogwarts student could ever fake: a city ruined and broken, built of glass and steel that did not belong to this world, its carcass gleaming with the memory of fire. 

And her eyes — God. Her eyes were worse than all of that. Not human, not even wizard, not anything he had read about in all his years of slipping through the restricted section in search of the forbidden. And for the briefest, most damning moment, they had seen him. 

Truly seen him. Not as the boy he pretended to be, not as the charming mask he so carefully wore, but as the boy he was beneath it all. Him. 

That knowledge infuriated him. 

She had cursed herself by revealing it, and her words still echoed, sharp and mocking. Go ahead, tell them. They’ll laugh you out of the room.

Perhaps they would. 

But Tom Riddle had built his survival on doubt. Had learned at Wool’s how to plant them like seeds in the minds of others, to water them with charm and careful suggestion until they grew into truths. 

He did not need the professors to believe him, had never needed a crowd. He needed only one person. One whisper. One doubt. One question asked at the wrong moment, by the wrong lips.

And when that seed took root, when the wildfire of rumor began to spread?

Then she would learn what it meant to fear him.

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru flipped her hands over like she half-expected them to vanish, still not entirely convinced this was real, that her cursed technique was back, that she wasn’t trapped in using just the flimsy scraps of Hogwarts spellwork anymore. 

And all it had taken was acceptance. Admitting who she was, discarding the pretense that she belonged in their tidy world of wands and quills. That was it.

If she’d known the solution was that pathetically simple, she would’ve done it ages ago.

Still, she wouldn’t take it for granted again. Losing her cursed techniques once had been lesson enough. And God, the feeling of them roaring back to life, the hum of cursed energy in her veins, was intoxicating.

For the first time in too long, she felt like herself again. Like the strongest.

So no, she didn’t care about finals. Not one bit. 

At least, that’s what she told herself every time she walked past her housemates bent over parchment at two in the morning, whispering incantations like their lives depended on it. She told herself she was above all that. 

And yet, the ugly truth sat right there, she was absolutely going to fail. Unless she did something about it. 

Charms? A joke (a cruel one at that). Her incantations came out crisp and clean, every syllable perfect, and still the magic fizzled like wet fireworks. Not that she expected any better. 

And Transfiguration? That was a horror show. Her objects never finished their transformations, just twisted into half-formed stuff not even in her deepest nightmares before collapsing. A goblet shivered into a rat with glass paws that cracked and bled wine before shattering into pieces. A quill sprouted fur, squeaked once, then withered into ash in her hands. 

And it would’ve stung, if she weren’t riding the high of having her real power back.

Gojo Satoru. The strongest. Reduced to dreading baby exams twelve-year-olds breezed through.

Almost funny. Almost.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Dumbledore’s disappointment came back to her in flashes. The look in his eyes had been worse than any scolding.

“You cannot continue this way,” he had said, standing across his office desk, voice firm and mournful, his eyes narrowed behind half-moon spectacles. “Hogwarts is not built to harbor students who will not grow.”

Satoru tilted her head lazily, fingers drumming against the arm of the chair. “And yet here I am.”

His mouth tightened. “Not for long, if you continue to treat your studies as a joke.”

That earned a dry laugh. “My studies? Tell me, Professor, did my little ‘joke’ feel funny when the wards groaned because of me? Or when I single-handedly stopped a curse from tearing your castle apart?” 

Her cursed energy flared, small, precise, enough to make the air bend. Portraits shifted uneasily in their frames.

“Be honest, you don’t understand half of what I am. But you know you can’t afford to let me go.”

The light in the office seemed to bend, just slightly. A reminder of what she could do.

Dumbledore’s knuckles whitened against the desk. “Careful, Miss Satoru.”

Her smile was sharp. “Always.”

The silence that followed was taut, brittle. At last, though, Dumbledore exhaled, voice colder now, stripped of its earlier sorrow. “You will not remain here unsupervised over the break. That is final. If you wish to continue at Hogwarts, you will abide by this condition.”

It was not a victory. But it was not expulsion either. 

Satoru rose, her blindfold catching the light as her grin turned mocking. “Fine. Send me away for Christmas. But don’t fool yourself, it isn’t because you can. It’s because you’re afraid of what happens if you don’t.”

Because when had she ever let another get the last word?

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“Due to certain unforeseen circumstances,” Dumbledore announced over the clatter of forks and knifes at breakfast, his tone calm but carrying a subtle edge, “some students will not be permitted to remain at Hogwarts over the Christmas holidays. I encourage any families willing to host such students to make themselves known.”

The bastard, Satoru thought, amused. He hadn’t said her name. He didn’t need to, though, everybody knew who he was referring to. 

And then, of all people, Abraxas Malfoy spoke up.

 “My family would be happy to host her,” he said smoothly, platinum-blonde hair catching the morning sun, his expression carved from aristocratic ease. “It would save the staff the trouble of making other arrangements.”

Satoru didn’t bother asking how he already knew. Malfoys always knew things they shouldn’t.

Dumbledore’s agreement came quickly, too quickly. She didn’t bother pondering it, though. 

Satoru had stared at Abraxas, blindfolded but unerring. He wants something. He always does.

But refusing would have been foolish. Dumbledore would’ve found some other excuse to usher her out. So she inclined her head with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Thanks, Malfoy. I’ll try not to steal the silverware.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The days leading up to exams blurred together. Satoru went through the motions, skimming books she had no intention of memorizing, doodling in margins, poking at spells that fizzled in her hands. Her friends tried to help, Amari quizzing her on theory, Cordelia smuggling notes, Selene pretending not to notice when she fell asleep in the library, but even they couldn’t bridge the gulf.

And yet, for the first time in months, Satoru felt alive again.

Her cursed energy thrummed steady beneath her skin, Infinity spinning effortlessly at her fingertips. She’d caught herself smiling in the corridors just because the world finally felt hers, and embarrassingly had been asked more than once if she was a lunatic. But she didn’t have to wonder if her technique would fail when she needed it. It was back.

And Cordelia had smuggled in a pair of round, dark sunglasses from Hogsmeade, technically against school rules, which made them twice as fun.

“You’re ridiculous,” Selene had muttered when Satoru first tried them on, but Satoru had seen the faintest smile tug at her mouth.

She wore them in class anyway, ignoring the professor’s glare, luxuriating in the small joy of it. Let the others fidget over exams, she was going to look good failing.

Except she didn’t fail. 

Somehow, impossibly, she had passed them all.

It was, frankly, disappointing. She’d lie if she said she hadn’t been looking forward to the drama.

Defense was easy; she breezed through with instinct and her cursed technique. Potions she scraped by with Cordelia whispering subtle corrections under her breath. 

Even Charms and Transfiguration, where she’d been certain she’d fail, came back with an Acceptable. She could feel Dumbledore’s fingerprints all over it, like he’d leaned over the exam board and told them to pity the blindfolded menace, just this once. 

It stung, sure. The great Gojo Satoru, reduced to charity passes. But still when the parchment landed in her hands, she leaned back in her chair, sunglasses perched like a crown, and grinned.

Let the rest of the students sweat over E’s and O’s. She was still here. Still standing.

Gojo Satoru. Against all odds, and most importantly looking good while doing it.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

It was after she got her results back, the corridors half-empty and buzzing with relief, that Tom cornered her.

“Miss Satoru.”

She didn’t stop walking. “Riddle. Again? You really should take up a hobby.”

“Perhaps you’ll do,” he murmured, falling into step beside her. His voice was smooth, calculated. “I hear you’re having… difficulties.”

Her head tilted, a slow grin curving her mouth. “Funny. I always thought strength was something you either had or you didn’t.” 

Her cursed energy flared, Infinity brushing against him like the hum of a blade. “Tell me, Riddle. Which is it for you?”

For the first time, just barely, he faltered. His breath hitched.

Her smirk widened. She brushed past him, savoring the silence.

Behind her, his voice followed, low and deliberate. “See you at Yule. The Malfoys do make excellent hosts.”

She froze mid-step. Turned just in time to catch his smirk, sharp and inevitable.

And in that instant, it clicked.

That was why Abraxas had spoken so quickly. Why the Malfoys had been so eager.

Her smile sharpened to match his. “Neither can I.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

That night, her friends laughed in the dorm, Amari mocking Cordelia, Selene rolling her eyes, but Satoru stood at the window, silent.

The moon spilled pale silver across the snow-dusted grounds. Hogwarts looked small from here. Smaller than Shibuya. Smaller than the weight she carried.

She pressed her palm to the glass, cursed energy humming steady beneath her skin. Stronger than ever.

Dumbledore could watch. Tom could whisper his doubts.

But if this castle thought it could push her out—

It would burn before it broke her.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Saying goodbye was harder than Satoru remembered.

Or maybe it was just that she hadn’t had very many people to say goodbye to in her old life. Friends? Sure. Students? Colleagues? Even enemies. But family? People she wanted to cling to? People who made her hesitate at the thought of leaving?

No.

Back then, in her world, she hadn’t been the kind of person who had to say goodbyes. She was the one others said goodbye to, before they went to die.

But here, in this world, she had more of them than she knew what to do with.

Cordelia and Amari had both hugged her tearfully in the common room, hands clinging too tightly, words tripping over one another as they told her to be careful. And even Selene, Selene, who was the iciest, the coldest of all her friends, had dropped the facade for just a moment. She’d clasped Satoru’s hands in both of hers and held on so tightly that Satoru almost forgot to breathe.

“There’s something dangerous going on, Satoru,” Selene whispered, low and quick, her dark eyes locking with hers. “You and I both know it. And I think it’s tied to Tom. Something’s not right with him. Be careful. Please.”

One more squeeze, hard enough to sting, before Selene let her go.

Satoru swallowed hard. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much Selene had been watching. How much she’d seen.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The last class of the year was surreal too. The desks half-empty, quills scratching out distracted notes while most students were undoubtedly thinking about holiday feasts and warm firesides. Satoru slid into her usual seat beside Myrtle, only to stop short.

The girl’s face was wet with tears.

“What, did something happen?” Satoru asked, alarm threading through her voice. For all her easy humor, she didn’t do well with crying. But Myrtle only shook her head miserably, tears spilling fresh down her round cheeks.

And then, to Satoru’s absolute horror, Myrtle lunged forward and hugged her.

She froze, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, before finally letting them settle against the girl’s back.

“I just—” Myrtle hiccuped into her shoulder. “I just realized how much I’m going to miss you. And you’ve been so—so nice to me. No one’s ever been that nice before.”

Satoru’s throat constricted in a way she didn’t expect.

“Silly goose,” she murmured, her voice breaking on the edge of a laugh and something more fragile. Her hand rose almost of its own accord, brushing Myrtle’s hair back from her face. “It’s not like the break is that long. I’ll see you in two weeks. Enjoy your Christmas, okay?”

Myrtle sniffled and nodded, pulling back with watery eyes.

And Satoru, traitorously, felt her own eyes burn.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“So how do I even get to this Malfoy Manor?” Satoru asked her friends later, trying and failing to make the words sound casual.

Selene gave her an incredulous look. “I keep forgetting you weren’t raised here. There’s a train, the Hogwarts Express, that takes us home for the holidays. Same one that brings us here at the start of the year. The Malfoys will pick you up from there.”

Train.

Satoru’s stomach plummeted.

Not fear, she wasn’t afraid of trains. But after Shibuya? After watching a station collapse into fire and blood, after hearing the screams echo down smoke-choked tunnels? She’d promised herself she’d never step foot in a train station again.

And now here she was.

As if sensing the tightness in her shoulders, Cordelia slipped her hand into Satoru’s, giving it a soft squeeze. “I know it’s the last thing you want, but I promise we’ll be with you the entire time. The train ride’s actually… fun. You’ll see.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Cordelia didn’t lie. Not that Satoru was surprised, the girl had always kept her word.

True to her word, her friends never left her side. Every shaky step onto the platform, every glance over her shoulder at the arching ceiling and the black smoke curling from the scarlet engine, they were there.

And the train itself?

Well, maybe Hogwarts had gotten one thing right.

Because the trolley had come rolling by, and in the span of ten minutes, Satoru had accumulated a mountain of sweets. Chocolate frogs, cauldron cakes, licorice wands, and, most pressing of all, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

The moment she bit into one, she spat it into her hand with a gag.

“What the hell is this flavor?” she demanded.

Amari wheezed with laughter. “Some are less good than others.”

“No shit,” Satoru muttered, glaring down at the half-full box.

Then her Six Eyes caught the faint shimmer of the beans, little threads of light outlining their flavors. And suddenly she could see the difference. The good ones gleamed with a sweetness, the bad ones dulled with sour edges.

Her grin turned wicked.

She plucked out the bad ones and tucked them neatly into her pocket.

“What are you doing?” Cordelia asked, confused.

“Saving the bad beans,” Satoru said cheerfully.

“For what?”

Satoru’s grin sharpened. “You never know when you’ll need ammunition.”

The girls groaned in unison, but she caught the twitch of Selene’s mouth, like even she was fighting a smile.

Then came the chocolate frog.

She’d barely opened the box when it sprang to life, leaping straight for the window.

Satoru shrieked and flung it away. “What the… chocolate isn’t supposed to jump!”

Amari collapsed into laughter. Cordelia tried to explain through tears in her eyes, “It’s enchanted, they all do that!”

“You people could have invented anything with your magic,” Satoru ranted, stabbing a finger at the empty box, “and you went with chocolate frogs? Really?”

They laughed until their sides hurt, and Satoru finally, finally, let herself laugh too.

And when the laughter died down, her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the rhythm of the train. “Love you guys,” she said.

They pretended not to hear, but the warmth in their smiles was answer enough.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Finding the Malfoys at the platform was easier than Satoru had imagined.

Abraxas’ platinum hair gleamed like a beacon through the crowd, his expression as effortlessly smug as ever. Tom stood beside him, of course, dark and calculating, the snake in the grass Selene had warned her about.

“Be careful,” Selene had whispered.

Satoru readjusted her sunglasses and squared her shoulders. She’d be a fool to forget.

Abraxas had, at one point, offered to sit with her on the train. His voice dripping arrogance, his smirk carved in place.

She’d cut him off flatly. “If you try it, only one of us will get off this train. And it won’t be you.”

That had shut him up, to her delight. 

Now, he smiled coolly as she approached. “Our house elf is here to fetch us.”

“House elf?” she repeated.

Tom’s voice slid in, smooth and sardonic. “A servant bound by magic. You’d know that, of course, if you’d grown up in our world.”

Satoru’s jaw clenched. He knew what he was implying, had been there that day with the mirror, knew that she in fact was not from this world. 

She wanted to punch his face until it cracked. But she only smiled, sharp and dangerous, feeling proud of her restraint. 

“Thanks for the lesson, Professor. Do I get extra credit?”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Malfoy Manor was sprawling.

Even Satoru, who had grown up around old wealth and power, had to admit it was impressive. The iron gates swept open into manicured lawns, peacocks strutting across the grass like they owned it, reminding her remarkably of Abraxas. Towers rose against the winter sky, windows gleaming like watchful eyes.

Lavish. Arrogant. Beautiful in a way that made her teeth ache.

“Home,” Abraxas announced with a faint flourish.

He led her through echoing halls lined with oil paintings and glittering chandeliers.

“My parents are away in France,” he explained smoothly. “They’ll be back tomorrow.”

He showed her into her quarters, sprawling, sunlit, with a bed that could have fit her five times over. Velvet blue curtains the color of her eyes, silver gilded frames, a wardrobe already stocked.

“Hope you like it,” Abraxas said, and for once his tone wasn’t smug but almost soft.

Satoru raised a brow. “Not bad.”

“Not bad,” he repeated, amused, before slipping out and closing the door behind him.

Satoru stood for a moment in the middle of the room, taking in the room. For all their supposed wickedness, Abraxas had given her a room tailored to her preferences exactly. 

Then, with a sigh, she flopped onto the bed.

The Malfoys, Tom, all of it, they were problems for later.

For now?

She would take her victory where she could.

For now, she would sleep.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Growing up, Satoru had never really understood what people meant when they talked about family. Sure, she had a clan, had elders, expectations, and a thousand watchful eyes measuring her every step. But one thing she never had was a family. 

She never had people who softened her, people who pulled her close because they wanted her, not because of the cursed techniques pulsing through her veins. 

No, the Gojo clan had never cared about who she was. Instead, they only cared about what she could be. 

The strongest. The next head. A weapon they could never be but desperately hoped to wield.

And so sometimes, when she was younger, Satoru would catch herself wondering what it might be like to have something different, something other than the cold indifference of power and expectation. She wondered about the warmth she’d read about in books: a mother’s embrace, a father’s laughter. Someone who saw her as a person, not the cursed techniques wrapped in flesh.

Suguru had come close to filling that void, in his own way. He’d been her warmth, always shining through the coldest winters, laughter when her hands trembled with anger. At least, that was before he spiraled into the darkness. But even then, he never quite quieted the ache that whispered to her in the dead of night.

Eventually, she convinced herself it was just how things were. Some people had families, and others, like her, had legacies. And legacies, she had learned, weren’t meant to be warm. They were meant to be enduring. She couldn’t change it, so she would have to live with it.

That was why, when the Malfoys had welcomed her, she hadn’t known how to respond. It was something she’d never anticipated. Something she wasn’t sure she deserved.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, to be honest. Maybe a cool distance, a sense of aloofness? Perhaps something akin to Abraxas’s sharp edges, hard, cutting, cold. But when the Malfoy parents returned to the manor that first evening, their reaction was nothing like she had imagined.

One glance at her, just one, and Mrs. Malfoy’s eyes welled up with tears. The woman swayed on the spot, as if her knees had given way, and Mr. Malfoy rushed to steady her, a hand gently placed on her back. His smile trembled, fragile as if it might shatter under its own weight.

“My son,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “You’ve finally done something great.”

Before Satoru could even process the words, she was being drawn into arms that trembled, wrapped in a warmth that enveloped her with an unexpected tenderness. For a long moment, she stood frozen, her mind scrambling to catch up with the sensation.

And then, without thinking, something inside her cracked.

Her body leaned into the embrace, almost instinctively, melting into their warmth. Into something she had never known, yet had always longed for.

God, it unraveled her.

Because here she was, trying on dresses and robes she would’ve never even considered before, all for the Malfoys—who had insisted on taking her shopping, on buying her a wardrobe that could rival royalty’s finest.

Because here she was, answering questions from the Malfoys, questions she would’ve typically brushed off or responded to with sarcastic indifference. What did you enjoy doing in your free time? What foods did you miss from home? Who were your friends? What colors did you like?

Because she wasn’t used to parental figures genuinely caring about her. 

But perhaps the greatest shock of all came when the Malfoys returned from Gringotts, grinning from ear to ear, informing her that her name had been added to their vault and a trust fund had been set up in her name.

And when Satoru stammered a protest, Mrs. Malfoy simply shushed her, “I adopt you now.”

If Satoru had been a weaker woman, she would have broken down right there.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

But the Malfoys didn’t stop there. They didn’t just ask about her life; they tried to fold it into theirs, as if they wanted her to feel as if she belonged.

When she mentioned that she was from Japan, they didn’t simply nod and forget about it. No. They ordered the house elves to learn how to cook Japanese dishes. The very next morning, the entire dining room was flooded with scents that, for the first time in too long, felt like home. Tamagoyaki. Tonkatsu. Miso soup steaming in delicate porcelain bowls.

The first bite nearly broke her.

It was absurd, so absurd. She could face curses that would tear nearly any others apart, survive the chaos of Shibuya, stare down Tom Riddle without flinching, but here she was, choking back tears over a simple plate of tamagoyaki.

It was just food. But the taste of something so real, so honest, placed before her because someone cared enough to make it, that was almost too much to bear.

And as the Malfoys clumsily fumbled with their chopsticks, save for Abraxas, Satoru didn’t comment. She simply offered a small, knowing smile, a gentle word of advice here and there. She could tell they were trying, trying so hard to bridge the cultural gap between them.

Except for Tom, of course. He was struggling too, and Satoru found herself savoring the slight curl of his lips in displeasure. There was something satisfying about watching him fumble with something so basic, something she had never even had to think twice about. Watching him, of all people, be reduced to a position of discomfort made it all the more amusing.

Their conversation buzzed with her name, her favorite dishes, her childhood in Japan, topics she never thought anyone would be interested in, let alone the Malfoys. For once, she was the center of attention. And Tom, with all his sharpness, was left on the periphery, squirming just a little.

She couldn't deny that it felt good. Too good.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Later, Abraxas found her in one of the manor’s long, chandelier-lit corridors.

“My parents can be overwhelming,” he admitted, words uncharacteristically careful.

She raised a brow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “That’s one word for it.” It didn’t bother her, though, not really.

He didn’t smile, his posture as rigid as ever, hands tucked neatly behind his back. “They’ve wanted a daughter for a long time.”

Satoru blinked.

Satoru blinked, caught off guard by the weight in his voice.

“They see you,” he continued, his gaze unwavering, the most serious she’d ever seen him look, “and you’re the spitting image of everything they never had.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but the urge to laugh was overwhelming.

Her? Gojo Satoru? The strongest sorcerer alive, a walking disaster wrapped in sarcasm and unfiltered chaos? The spitting image of a Malfoy daughter, poised, aristocratic, all icy grace and subtle power?

Satoru wasn’t sure she had a subtle bone in her body. 

It was absurd. It couldn’t be true.

But when he left, she found herself staring into the mirror a little too long, the weight of his words sinking in. She took off her sunglasses, and for the first time, truly looked at herself, at the pale face, the sharp jawline, the glacial blue eyes. 

It was uncanny how she looked like a Malfoy. Unsettling, even. And though she wanted to shake it off, the thought haunted her long after he was gone.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

And Satoru was definitely not prepared for Yule. 

“We call it Yule here, Satoru,” Mr. Malfoy said, voice warm but edged with something proud. “Yule’s older than Christmas, older than Hogwarts itself. The solstice is a turning point, the longest night of the year, a promise that light will always return. The old families still honor it.”

Satoru had hummed, trying not to look as awkward as she felt while an elf adjusted a wreath of holly above the hearth. “So… wizard Christmas.”

Cadmus Malfoy’s smile had curved, strangely indulgent. “In its truest form.”

And so, Yule came.

The manor was transformed, the vast dining hall was washed in evergreen and silver, boughs of pine trailing from the chandeliers, peacock feathers threaded through garlands. A great fire roared against the far wall, said to burn away ill fortune for the coming year.

And despite herself, Satoru found herself swept into it, into the carols sung in a language she didn’t know but was apparently older than English. Raised toasts to health and abundance, participated in the gift exchange. 

Mrs. Malfoy had pressed a velvet box into her hands. Inside lay a necklace, a fine chain of platinum with a single sapphire the color of her eyes. “For our daughter,” Aurelia murmured, brushing Satoru’s cheek with a trembling hand.

Mr. Malfoy gave her a dagger, its hilt carved with protection runes, clearly made to last for decades. “A warrior should always be properly armed,” he said simply, as though the matter were already settled.

Even Abraxas surprised her. His gift wasn’t flashy like his parents’, no grand display of wealth or power. Instead, it was a silk ribbon, midnight blue, the precise shade of her blindfolds. The ends were embroidered with delicate silver sigils. “For practicality,” he said, his tone cool, as if the softness of the gesture might somehow ruin him.

And Satoru could only weakly smile, hoping that she wouldn’t burst into tears. She’d stared at it for a long moment, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness behind it, behind all their gifts, before she slipped it into her pocket.

But she nodded. A nod softer than any thanks she’d ever given. 

And she was grateful, absurdly grateful, that she’d let herself be bullied into shopping earlier that week. She had debated not buying gifts, what did Gojo Satoru know about gift-giving? But now, handing out small parcels to the Malfoys, knowing there were others for her friends and even Myrtle waiting at Hogwarts, a quiet satisfaction settled in her chest. 

And for once, she didn’t feel like a weapon, or a curse, or even the Strongest. She just felt… wanted.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The days that followed were sweet. Sickeningly so.

She lounged in silk robes far too expensive for their own good, slept in a bed that could have swallowed her whole. The Malfoys asked her opinion on dinner menus, invited her on long winter walks through their sprawling grounds, even pressed heirloom jewelry into her hands like it meant nothing.

And Satoru knew she should be suspicious, that this wasn’t how life worked. People didn’t just give like this. They always wanted something in return.

But for once, she let herself sink into it.

For once, she allowed herself to imagine that this could be her family.

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Tom had grown accustomed to being the center of gravity in the Malfoy household. They admired him. Respected him. Fawned over him as the boy with promise, the boy with brilliance etched into his very bones. Every year, the Yule Ball had been his stage, the night he dazzled. The night old families whispered his name across candlelit tables, when ancient magic seemed to bend in his direction.

But this year, there was no ball.

No grand introductions. No carefully orchestrated web of connections.

Instead, there was her.

Satoru, laughing at the long table, Mrs. Malfoy doting at her elbow, Mr. Malfoy watching with something dangerously close to paternal pride. She sat in the spotlight that should have been his, white hair gleaming in the dim light, her impossible power humming beneath her skin, wearing it all without effort.

And Tom hated her for it.

Not enough to discard her, not yet. She was still useful, now irreparably tied to the Malfoy vaults, still a figure he could not quite excise from his plans. But he despised the way she bent the household around her orbit, until it seemed even the walls of the manor leaned toward her.

Then came New Year’s Eve. His birthday.

Normally, he marked it in silence. At Wool’s, it passed without mention, just another cold night in a room that didn’t care he existed. But here, in the Malfoy household, it had always been different, Aurelia fussing, Cadmus congratulating him as though he were already heir to something greater. It was the one day that belonged entirely to him.

This year, it should have been no different. But once again, she stole it.

“I may not like you, Tom,” she said that evening, her sunglasses glinting in the candlelight, her voice light but steady, “but I’m not cruel enough to ignore your birthday.”

As though she knew exactly what it was to be ignored.

And then, with that disarming audacity of hers, she organized a celebration. The dining hall glittered with floating candles, not for Yule this time, but for him. The Malfoys raised their glasses, Aurelia kissed his cheek, Abraxas clinked goblets with a smirk. At the center of it all was her, not outshining him with noise, but weaving him into her brightness all the same.

She even gave him a gift.

A book bound in green leather, his initials pressed into the spine. Thoughtful. Exact. The kind of thing that suggested she had been paying attention.

He hated her for that most of all.

Because for one treacherous heartbeat, it warmed him. For one fleeting crack in the armor, he felt seen.

And then it curdled instantly into fury.

It wasn’t kindness. It was intrusion. She had taken the one day that was his and folded it into hers, weaving his silence into her laughter, his ambition into a spectacle.

He smiled, of course. Blew out the candles while the Malfoys cheered. Thanked her with all the polished charm he could muster.

But later, he found her in a quiet corridor. 

“You’ve disrupted everything,” he said, his voice low, precise.

Her head tilted, sunglasses catching the firelight. “Funny. I seem to recall you’re the one who told Abraxas to keep me here. Looks like this is your fault, not mine.”

For the briefest moment, he faltered. Because she was right. Because he had, once, and this was the result.

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He simply stepped past her, his mask sliding back into place, his mind sharpening into new plans.

But even as he walked away, her words clung, irritating and undeniable.

This was his fault.

And he hated her all the more for being the only one who could make him admit it, even if only to himself.

───── SATORU ─────

The funny thing about happiness was that it made the days blur.

One moment, she was laughing at Abraxas struggling with a pair of chopsticks, Mrs. Malfoy’s laughter bubbling beside her like she was part of the joke.

The next, she was sitting by the fire with Mr. Malfoy, who listened with sharp interest as she rambled about her “school friends,” warmth threading every word.

Evenings slipped into mornings. Dinners slipped into days. And before she knew it, the Yule break, as the Malfoys called it, had passed faster than she ever thought possible.

The realization hit her like a curse. She almost dreaded the thought of leaving.

And that was the strangest part of all.

Gojo Satoru did not dread leaving anywhere. She was the storm people feared, the strongest, the one who had never clung to anything or anyone.

But when she looked at Mrs. Malfoy’s tearful smile, at Mr. Malfoy’s trembling hands, at the way Abraxas stood too stiff and too careful like he was holding something fragile, she felt something twist inside her chest.

Something dangerously close to belonging.

And God help her, she wasn’t sure she was ready to let it go.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Returning to Hogwarts felt strange, though not for the reasons Satoru had expected.

Sure, the towering spires loomed overhead, and the halls were as draughty as ever, colder than Malfoy Manor. The staircases still moved in their usual unpredictable manner, a stark contrast to the stillness of the manor. But that wasn’t it, no Satoru was used to all of that by now. 

What was odd, she realized, was that for once, she didn’t feel as though she was dragging herself back into a cage. No, she felt good. Too good, in fact. 

It was strange, in a way that made her almost uncomfortable. As if something had shifted inside her, like the weight in her purse, which now felt heavier than it ever had before. Heavier, but in the best way. Coins, her coins, clinked quietly in the leather folds, each one a reminder of promises, both whispered and formalized. Or maybe it was the soft brush of silk against her skin when she shifted, a reminder of the finer things now woven into her life, things she had never dared imagine since waking up in this world penniless. The touch of a material smoother than anything she'd ever worn in years, a silent echo of the soft promises the Malfoys had given her.

Then there was the necklace, Aurelia Malfoy pressing it into her hand with a murmur of “our daughter,” and in that single gesture, Satoru felt something crack inside her. She’d sworn she wasn’t the sentimental type, but who wouldn’t have been shaken by that?

Whatever it was, something inside her seemed lighter as she stepped off the train, a bounce in her step, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips, her sunglasses perched arrogantly over her eyes. The strongest had returned, not just as the most dangerous, but as the richest, the most secure. The most untouchable. And god, did it feel good. 

And it didn’t take long for her friends to notice. Cordelia, ever sharp, narrowed her eyes as soon as Satoru dumped her unusually large trunk onto her bed in the Ravenclaw dorm. And if Cordelia, the most trusting of her friends, was suspicious, Satoru knew it had to be obvious.

“What in Merlin’s name did they do to you over the break?” she asked, her voice soft.

Satoru just shrugged, as if her words didn’t matter. “Adopted me.”

Amari, who had been rifling through her own things, nearly choked on a laugh. “What?”

“Mhm. New family, new wardrobe, new vault. Y’know, the usual,” Satoru smirked, standing and brushing off her hands as though the topic were nothing. She rose from crouching by her trunk and, pausing, peered over the top of her sunglasses, watching their faces intently. “Oh, and of course, I got presents.”

It was funny, watching them shift so quickly. Selene, who had been leaning against the wall with that trademark indifference, straightened just slightly, eyes sharpening in suspicion. Satoru knew that look all too well. She’d tease her about it later.

“Presents?” Selene echoed, her voice flat but her gaze laser-focused.

Satoru’s grin grew, and she flicked open the trunk.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

She handed Cordelia her gift first: a quill made from a sleek raven feather, its nib charmed to correct any grammatical mistakes in mid-air, automatically erasing errors as they formed. Cordelia froze the moment she unwrapped it, staring down at the gift like she didn’t quite believe it was real.

“You—how did you—” she stammered, her eyes flicking between the gift and Satoru’s smug grin.

“You mutter every time your quill blots,” Satoru said with a shrug, her tone nonchalant. “Figured I’d put us all out of our misery.”

Cordelia’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she muttered something under her breath, half annoyed, half touched. But her hands curled tightly around the box, like she’d never let it go.

For Amari, Satoru had found something a little more extravagant: a stack of enchanted sheet music. When tapped, the notes would float from the parchment and play themselves. Amari’s reaction was immediate, her eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open. 

“No way. You found these?”

“Paid for them, actually,” Satoru replied with an exaggerated smirk, trying to hide how Amari’s words warmed her heart. “Don’t say I never listen when you ramble about composers I’ve never heard of.”

Amari let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, her hands practically trembling as she opened the first sheet, watching in awe as the notes began to drift into the air. She pressed the parchment to her chest as if it were gold, her expression equal parts incredulous and delighted.

Lastly, Selene. Truth be told, Selene had been the hardest to find a gift for; Satoru had debated for hours. In the end, she’d gone with something deceptively simple, a silver locket, its chain thin as spider silk, engraved with runes that strengthened shielding spells.

When Selene unwrapped it, her lips parted. For a long moment, she just stared. “You…” she said finally, voice softer than Satoru had ever heard it. “You shouldn’t have.”

Satoru smirked. “Too bad, princess. I did.”

Selene closed her fist around it, but not before Satoru caught the faint shine in her eyes.

Satoru was kind enough to not comment on it. 

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

And then there was Myrtle.

Satoru gifted her a book the next time she saw her, a journal, bound in soft leather, enchanted so no one could open it but her. 

“For writing things down,” Satoru said with a shrug when Myrtle blinked at her. “Or doodling. Or, I dunno, drawing mustaches on all your bullies’ faces. Whatever.”

Myrtle’s round face crumpled. “No one’s ever—”

“Don’t say no one’s ever,” Satoru cut in, her throat tight, holding back tears. How heartbreaking was it that a girl was thanking her over a journal? “Just say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Myrtle whispered, half laughing, half sobbing, hugging it to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world.

And God, Satoru thought, maybe it was. Not the journal, but Myrtle.

The moment faded, and then Myrtle leaned in, her voice low and shaky.

“Satoru,” she said, pausing, “do you ever feel like the castle is watching us?”

Satoru blinked, taken aback. “Watching us?”

“Yes,” Myrtle whispered, eyes darting to the stone wall, afraid to look at her. “Like something’s watching me, watching all of us. When I use the bathroom. It’s like it’s following me, breathing down my neck. I think—” She broke off, shivering. “I think it wants me.”

Satoru forced a laugh, though it caught in her throat. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Myrtle. It’s a drafty old castle, I’m sure everything creaks.”

But the look in Myrtle’s eyes, wide, glassy, terrified, didn’t leave her mind, even as she tried to shove it aside.

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Ouroboros’s eyes were molten gold in the torchlight, vast and unblinking, kind of creepy, Tom realized. 

“I see you brought my rabbits,” Ouroboros drawled, tongue flickering. “About time. I thought you’d forgotten again.”

Tom exhaled sharply through his nose. “You know I didn’t.”

“And yet last time,” the serpent continued, lips curling in what passed for amusement, “you brought only two. What was I meant to do with two rabbits? Pick my teeth?”

Tom’s hand tightened around his wand, finding the urge to hex Ouroboros increasingly appealing. “You’re a basilisk, not a gourmand.”

“Excuse me,” Ouroboros hissed, a flicker of indignation in his voice. “I am a king. Kings require feasts.”

Tom almost laughed. Almost. “You’re fortunate I humor you at all.”

Still, he complied, flicking his wand, and a cluster of rabbits appeared on the slick stone floor. They squealed, scrabbling desperately until Ouroboros’s jaws unhinged, and in a single, horrifying snap, two were gone.

The serpent swallowed noisily, then hissed with satisfaction. “Better. Now you have my permission to speak.”

Tom’s jaw ticked. Permission. He, Tom Riddle, heir of Salazar Slytherin, did not wait for permission. But he let the word slide, for now. Patience, always patience.

“You’ve grown,” he said at last, stepping closer, his voice low, deliberate. His eyes traced the glimmering scales, the coils that rippled with restless strength. “Stronger. Wiser.”

“Of course,” Ouroboros preened, golden gaze narrowing. “I am what you made me.”

Tom’s lips twitched. “No. You are what I unleashed.” He let his hand brush the damp wall, feeling the way the chamber seemed to curl into his touch. 

“You’re not a beast, Ouroboros. You’re a king. My king. And kings do not sit idle. Go where you please. Feed where you please. And when the time comes, you will help me cleanse this castle.”

The basilisk tilted its head, tongue darting out in a mocking grin. “Free will, and yet you still give orders.”

“Suggestions,” Tom corrected smoothly. “You and I want the same thing. Purity. Power. A world remade in our image.”

For a long moment, a dreadful silence stretched between them. Then Ouroboros struck again, jaws snapping up another rabbit with obscene finality.

Tom didn’t flinch. Instead, his mind turned inward, cataloguing his progress, how he had everything he needed for a horcrux other than a murder. Something that put him above Grindelwald, even Satoru, for God’s sake.

It didn’t matter. Not yet.

What mattered was that Ouroboros, the great basilisk, bent to his will. Not to Grindelwald. Not to Satoru. To him.

The serpent’s massive head lowered, molten eyes leveling with his. Its tongue flicked again, slow and taunting. 

“Very well, little king. Amuse me. Prove your purge is worth my time. And maybe next time, bring the girl. I would like to meet her.”

And if Tom’s resulting smile was thin and cruel, Ouroboros didn’t say anything. “I will,” he murmured. But as Ouroboros’s hiss curled like laughter through the chamber, Tom felt the balance tip just slightly closer to his hand, acutely aware, in some stubborn corner of his mind, that Satoru would have laughed in his face and bent the serpent to her will without even trying, if Ouroboros’s fascination with her was any indication.

That thought alone was enough to make his blood boil.

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru should have known Tuesdays were cursed. It was the same day as Shibuya, the same day as when she’d been kidnapped by that unknown entity. 

She was striding down the corridor, Cordelia and Amari bickering at her sides, when the scream rang out.

They froze.

Another scream, far more shrill and panicked, echoed from the far end of the hall. Satoryu could make out students clustered together, whispers rising, someone shouting for a teacher.

And then Satoru saw it.

A Ravenclaw boy, sprawled against the floor, stiff as stone, eyes wide upon yet unblinking, skin an ashen gray.

And through the crowd’s gasps, Satory swore, as Myrtle’s words rushed back into her head, unbiddent. “I think it wants me”. As well as the horrifying realization that she’d laughed, that she’d dismissed Myrtle. 

And now here was proof, that something was wrong.

Something was watching.

Something was hunting.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

Because this wasn’t just Hogwarts being Hogwarts. This was war. And she couldn’t catch a break, could she?

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru hated the way her eyes were drawn to the Ravenclaw boy’s body. She’d never seen him before, but that was of little consequence. 

And it wasn’t like death was foreign to her; she’d seen it too many times, far too many, faces she loved and faces she didn’t, strangers whose screams had threaded themselves into her memory like parasites. She’d watched entire crowds collapse at Shibuya, their lives stolen in the span of a breath, as though the world had blinked and arbitrarily erased them from existence. 

And yet—

This was different. 

The boy wasn’t dead, not exactly, but he wasn’t alive either; his skin had turned a ghastly shade of gray, his eyes wide, empty and glassy, body frozen like a grotesque doll. Almost hollow, as though all life had drained from him, leaving nothing but the faintest trace of the terror he had endured, a terror locked in his expression, frozen there for eternity.

She hated even more the way the sight clawed a ragged sob from her throat, sharp and broken, before she could swallow it down.

And she was ever so grateful for the way Amari and Cordelia were there, Cordelia’s small hand warmly pressing at her shoulder, rubbing her thumb in circles to comfort her, Amari’s steadier, firmer hand grounding her like an anchor. Neither of them said anything, and that was a mercy.

And Satoru almost hated the way that her eyes dragged over the crowd, instinctively, looking at the students pale with shock, the hush of nervous whispers, professors pushing through, trying to control the chaos that had already taken root. Almost hated the way she seemed intent on torturing herself on the fact that she had not predicted this, just like she had not predicted Shibuya.

Almost hated it.

Almost. Because, amid all the confusion, there was one person who wasn’t surprised.

And who else could it possibly be but Tom Riddle?

He stood at the edge of the crowd, just far enough to remain untouched by the chaos, posture straight and unmoving as though it didn’t matter what had happened. His face remained unreadable, a mask of composure, but Satoru saw the truth in his eyes. Cold. Detached. Unbothered.

No, Tom wasn’t surprised. Not even a little.

No his gaze was as if  he was observing something he’d already seen unfold in his mind a dozen times before, unfearful. His calm was not borne of confusion, but of certainty. Of a chilling, undeniable satisfaction.

As if this had all gone exactly as it was meant to.

Something inside her twisted, low and sharp, a certainty she couldn’t explain. She didn’t have proof. She didn’t need it, though, to know.

Of course. Of course it would be him.

Tom Riddle.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

She cornered him later. It had been almost laughably easy; he’d been waiting, or at least it felt that way, lingering in the shadows of a dim corridor like he had known she would come. He didn’t so much as flinch when she approached.

Not that she had made any real effort to be discreet.

“You knew,” she said flatly. 

She hated the way his brow arched, sharp and mocking, his eyes still glacial, unreadable.

“Knew what?”

“Don’t play with me, Riddle,” she warned, pretending she didn’t notice the way that the portraits in the walls shifted, gossipping with each other. “Everyone else was horrified. You weren’t.”

His lips curved into a faint approximation of a smile, one that didn’t even try to reach his eyes. “Perhaps I don’t rattle as easily as the others.”

She stepped closer, her Infinity humming faintly around her, a soft but unmistakable threat. 

“Bullshit,” she murmured. “You knew. Maybe you didn’t cause it, but you knew something was coming. And you didn’t say a damn thing, which, in my eyes, makes you guilty.”

Something flickered then, his eyes catching the light, a glint like the edge of a blade. “And if I did?” 

His voice dropped lower. “What claim do you have on my secrets?”

Her chest burned hot, anger rising. “Because people are almost dying, Tom. Kids. And you know me, or at least you know enough about my past to understand. So what makes you think I’m going to let you stand here smiling while they end up hollow-eyed on the floor?”

“You misunderstand me.” His tone was infuriatingly calm, indulgent even, as though she were some stubborn child. “I don’t smile my way through games. I win them.”

Her patience cracked like glass.

“Fine,” she spat, stepping back, but not breaking eye contact. “Keep your little secrets. But know that if you’re behind this, you’re making yourself my enemy. And trust me when I say that you don’t want to be my enemy.”

“Your enemy,” Tom echoed, his mask slipping. “As if I wasn’t already yours.”

“No,” she said quietly, a sad smile curving her mouth. “You were never my enemy before. But if there’s one thing I won’t tolerate, it’s the loss of innocent lives. And you should know that.”

For a fraction of a second, his mask cracked. A tightening of the jaw, a flash of something raw in his eyes. His mouth opened like he might speak, something unguarded, something dangerous, but no words came.

But Satoru was damned if she would let someone else get the last word.

“It goes without saying,” she continued, voice cool and even, “but whatever agreement we had before? Consider it gone.”

And for good measure, she called on her cursed blue to draw the stones beside his ear to her, grazing his skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood. 

She smirked, sharp and cold, and turned on her heel.

“Just a warning” she threw over her shoulder, “of what being my enemy means.”

Her footsteps echoed down the corridor, deliberate, fading into the dark. Behind her, as the silence stretched long and brittle, she was sure he was still standing there with his perfectly sculpted smile cracked open just enough to bleed.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

That night, Satoru rolled out parchment across the Ravenclaw common room table, disregarding the mess on the table, as her friends gathered around her. 

“We forgot to finish the map,” she said simply. “And perhaps that’s why we don’t know what’s behind what happened to that Ravenclaw boy.”

Because what if what was watching Myrtle was the same voice that she had heard earlier? The one that had warned her that she didn’t belong, earlier in the term, the same voice she’d dismissed.

Then she was an idiot, a fool, to forget about the map. And she’d be an even bigger fool to not address it now. 

“We’ll have to go out and map the castle again,” Satoru groaned. “I can’t really make heads or tails of this map.”

“And you’re sure about this,” Selene said, her gaze holding Satoru’s beneath her glasses. “That this map is the key to finding out what’s behind the petrification?”

And Satoru was grateful that Selene took her answering nod as reason enough. “Okay, that’s good enough for me.”

Amari, though, muttered, “If I die in some drafty corridor mapping bloody pipes, I’m haunting you forever.”

Satoru snorted, grateful for the break in tension. “Joke’s on you, I don’t scare easy.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Later, Satoru found herself in an empty corridor, her parchment folded under her arm, taking note of the castle’s contours, the pipes, the walls, until she felt the faintest brush in her infinity.

“You think maps will save you?”

Satoru didn’t even bother turning around.

“Hey Druella. Long time no see.”

“Aww, you’re taking the fun out of it,” Druella drawled, walking over to lean against the wall. Satoru hated how elegant she looked. 

“I thought spying was beneath you, Rosier,” Satoru remarked, arching her brow. 

“Observing,” Druella corrected, her lips curving faintly. “But maps won’t save you; this castle eats clever children alive.”

The strange part was that her words weren’t even mocking, weren’t even cruel. No, they were flat, neutral. 

Satoru smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good thing I’m not a vulnerable child, then.”

Druella’s head tilted, hair falling like silk across her shoulder. “The castle won’t care.”

There was something cold about the silence that stretched between them. 

Satoru stepped closer, folding her arms. “Then why are you still here?”

For the first time, Druella’s smile sharpened. Not cruel. Not kind. Just sharp. “Because it hasn’t eaten me yet.”

And then she was gone, slipping into shadow.

Satoru stood alone in the corridor, fists tight around her parchment, and wondered, not for the first time, if Druella was right.

If the castle wasn’t just resisting them.

If it was hunting them.

Chapter Text

───── ABRAXAS MALFOY ─────


Abraxas Malfoy had been raised on loyalty.

Loyalty to the Malfoy name. Loyalty to its legacy. And though the weight of expectation, of being a Malfoy, had been carved into him before he even spoke his first word, he had never regretted it. To be a Malfoy wasn’t a choice. It was an inheritance. Malfoys endured. Malfoys obeyed. And most of all, Malfoys survived.

It was no surprise, then, that Abraxas’s loyalty had extended to Tom Riddle. Tom was brilliance personified, the rising star, the one whispered about in reverence by every elder. A boy with promise stitched into every word, every gesture. Abraxas knew it. Everyone knew it. If the Malfoys were to secure their future, it would be in his shadow.

And yet…

His gaze flicked to the folded parchment on the library table. Ink bled into crooked arrows and jagged X’s, the margins filled with scrawled notes, evidently Satoru’s work. His newfound sister’s. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. 

She had left it behind earlier, tossed carelessly when Cordelia’s sharp remarks distracted her. Typical. Satoru treated the secrets of the castle as recklessly as she did silk robes and traditional wizarding concerns, unconcerned, as if everything could be discarded and easily forgotten.

He should have taken it straight to Tom. Should have handed it over, let Tom sneer at her arrogance, and burn it before it could become anything more than a scrap of nonsense.

But instead, Abraxas smoothed the map flat.

It was messy, yes, but there was power in it. Weak points. Places where the wards faltered. Corridors that hummed when her cursed energy bled through the stone. And one room circled over and over, the second-floor bathroom.

She was closer to the truth than she realized.

Closer than Tom knew.

That thought settled into him, heavy and unwelcome.

Satoru should have unnerved him. She did unnerve him. The way she wielded her power, careless, almost mocking, as if the world itself were a game rigged in her favor. Reckless. Defiant. Alive.

For someone like Abraxas, who had spent his life being forged into a blade for the family name, that kind of freedom was dangerous. It was addictive.

And Tom, Tom hated it. Abraxas could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his composure slipped ever so slightly when she entered the room. Tom was supposed to be inevitable. Unshakable. But she shook him.

Abraxas’s fingers lingered on the parchment. The thought slipped in, silent but undeniable.

If it came down to a choice, Tom Riddle, or her?

His loyalty to Tom had been drilled into him. Expected. But his loyalty to Satoru, that was what Malfoys did right? Were loyal to their own until the very end. Unasked for, and yet unbidden. Unavoidable.

And that made it far more dangerous.

He didn’t hear Druella until she spoke.

“You stare at that parchment like it might bite you,” she said, her voice smooth, echoing faintly between the shelves.

Abraxas turned, closing the map with a practiced, fluid motion. Druella stood beyond the reach of the torchlight, her eyes sharp, they were always sharp though, always noticing more than she said.

“It’s nothing,” he replied, hoping his voice held steady.

Her smile was thin, humorless. “Nothing never keeps you awake.” She stepped closer, her gaze flicking to the map. “She left it behind, didn’t she? Careless. But then, she always is.”

Abraxas didn’t answer.

Druella tilted her head, her voice soft but cutting, as always. “You can’t hold two loyalties forever, Abraxas. The castle eats clever children alive, and it will eat you too if you don’t choose.”

He hated the way her words lingered in the silence long after she disappeared.

Abraxas stared at the spot where the map had been, his expression the practiced pureblood heir. But deep inside, his heart already knew the answer. The answer he would never say aloud.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Satoru had never really known what "normal" was. It wasn’t because she didn’t crave it, she did, more than she liked to admit. But for as long as she could remember, she'd been shackled by others' expectations of who she was meant to be.

She hadn’t chosen to be the strongest, nor had she chosen to be the one everyone leaned on when the world threatened to crack. But that’s what she'd become. The protector. The fighter. The winner. She served their needs, their wishes, as though it were second nature, and in time, she’d come to believe that normalcy, the simple, uncomplicated kind, was a luxury for the unburdened. People who weren’t weighed down by responsibility or power. People who didn’t carry the weight of others’ hopes on their shoulders.

And yet, here she was, standing in the halls of Hogwarts, pretending, desperately that she could be something close to that elusive normal. Because if she was being honest, Hogwarts, and the perpetuating sense of silence in the face of the petrification, was disorienting. 

It unnerved her more than she cared to admit. 

Unnerved her that her professors were stricter, that the prefects patrolled the halls looking like anxious dogs, that students whispered in the corners like the walls were listening. And perhaps the walls were listening, Satoru wouldn’t it past the castle.

Still, she tried, forced herself into routine. She went to classes, even if she ended up sketching absentmindedly on scraps of parchment when her attention wandered or using her cursed energy to move things around, a desperate attempt to make the mundane feel just a little bit more tolerable. 

She ate breakfast, talked with her friends, and smiled when they tried to make her laugh. She went through the motions, pretending she was ordinary.

Because truth be told, the castle’s irregularity terrified her more than she cared to admit. 

She’d never known how to be normal, but this world had been normal for the most part. The fact that now, it seemed anything but, had unsettled her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. 

And the irregularities were becoming harder to ignore. 

Her cursed energy hummed wrong, not the wrongness before like when it was malfunctioning. Now it was just plain wrong. 

Normally, her cursed energy flowed clean and effortless, a steady current that thrummed through her veins like second nature. But lately, when she walked through certain corridors, her cursed energy felt static, as though something was trying to intrude, pushing against her very energy.

The first time it had happened, she’d almost brushed it off. Hogwarts was weird; its magic and hers were oil and water anyway. But when it happened again, in the same corridor, near the same stretch of wall, she slowed.

Her Six Eyes flickered open beneath her sunglasses, faintly glowing as the world sharpened, unfolded into layers. 

Magic threaded through the stones, that much she expected. The castle’s foundation was soaked in centuries of layered charms, wards, enchantments, protection spells so old they practically had personalities. But lately, something new pulsed under it.

Not the usual steady hum of Hogwarts magic. This one was jagged, shifting, like something was breathing just beneath the stone.

And worse, it tried to resist her Infinity. She reached out, slowly, brushing her fingers near the wall. Usually, her Infinity blurred the space between her and the world, an endless distance that nothing could cross without her explicit permission. But when her cursed energy met that wall, it weakened. Just for a heartbeat.

Her Infinity weakened.

That had never happened before.

She snatched her hand back immediately, shaking it as if it had burned her.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, “that’s new.”

The wall didn’t react. Of course it didn’t. It was a wall.

But she could have sworn, and she hated herself for even thinking it, that the stones had pulsed. Like a heartbeat.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The next day, she found herself dragging Cordelia, Amari, and Selene along again. She couldn’t quite explain why, only that something, something deep inside her, insisted that she didn’t making the same mistake again. Didn’t ignore the signs. 

“I know I roped you into that map business earlier this week,” she began, her voice softer than usual, almost hesitant. It felt strange, weak even, but she didn’t pull back. She needed this. Needed them. “But… I was hoping you’d help me investigate the castle a bit more.”

Satoru tried to ignore the flutter in her chest when none of them rejected her, instead offering gentle reassuring smiles. It was hard to though. 

And so they spent hours tracing the castle again.

This time, they marked not just corridors and classrooms, but places where Satoru’s cursed energy reacted strangely. There were a few at first, some small flickers near staircases, faint hums by windows, but as the hours went on, a pattern began to form.

The lower they went, the stronger the reaction.

By the time they reached the second floor, near the girl’s bathroom, the air itself had shifted into something charged, pushing against her infinity. Satoru didn’t even need her Six Eyes to sense it; it thrummed through her bones like a fact she already knew. 

“Here,” she murmured, crouching by a section of the wall where the floor met the pipes. Her Infinity flared, and for a second, the light bent around her fingertips. “This spot. It’s dense.”

Amari leaned in, curious. “Dense how?”

Satoru frowned. “Like there’s something coiled up behind it. Old. Big. Watching.”

Cordelia shivered. “Maybe it’s just—”

“No,” Satoru cut in quietly. “It’s not just anything.”

There it was again. That flicker, that half-second tremor where her Infinity weakened.

Because for Satoru, the strongest, her control was unthinkable. It wasn’t just power. It was identity. Infinity was her.

And now something beneath Hogwarts dared to touch it.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Later that night, she went back alone.

Her friends had begged her not to, Cordelia with her soft pleading, Amari with her rational protests, Selene with a clipped, pleading “You’ll regret it.” 

But when had Satoru ever been one to listen?

So here she was, back in the cursed place where her cursed technique had pulled tighter. The second floor bathroom was empty, she noted, unnervingly cold, colder than winter itself.  Every sound echoed: her steps, her breath, the quiet creak of a door that hadn’t been touched.

Satoru almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. She was exploring the bathroom like a typical horror movie protagonist. But she was stronger than them. And she couldn’t not explore the bathroom, could she?

Doing so would mean that she didn’t try all the possible avenues, would mean that she wasn’t the strongest that she claimed to be.

A soft sniffle disrupted her thoughts. 

“Myrtle?” she called out, her voice soft, more careful than usual, knowing the bathroom was one the girl came to frequently when she was feeling particularly lonely. 

A familiar head popped out from one of the stalls. “Satoru?”

“Yeah,” she said, giving a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s me.”

Myrtle walked closer, her face marked with shiny tear tracks the dim light couldn’t quite hide, her nose red and smudged. “You shouldn’t be here. They say it’s not safe.”

“Then you shouldn’t be here either,” Satoru said gently. “But anyways, they always say that about the fun places,” Satoru said with a half-smile, glancing toward the sinks.

Myrtle hesitated, her hands twisting together, looking oddly vulnerable. “Did you hear it too?”

Satoru’s brow furrowed. “Heard what?”

“The noises,” Myrtle whispered. “In the pipes. The hissing.”

“Hissing?” she echoed.

Myrtle nodded, her expression fearful. “It’s been happening sporadically. It sounds like… it sounds like something big is moving. Like it’s crawling through the walls.”

As if summoned, the pipes behind them let out a low creak, old metal shifting under pressure, or perhaps something else?

Satoru’s heart lurched, her body reacting faster than her mind. Her Infinity snapped into place instinctively, her cursed energy pulsing outward, seeking what lay beyond the surface of the floor. But instead of clarity, instead of the sharp sensations she was used to, she felt only a dull, dragging thrum. A weight. A slow, steady beat.

Like a heartbeat.

She swallowed, her voice quiet when she finally spoke. “You didn’t imagine it, Myrtle.”

Myrtle drew back slightly, eyes wide, “You believe me?”

Satoru turned to her, really looked at her. And something in her chest, something that had been held rigid for days, softened.

 “Yeah,” she said simply. “I believe you.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

That night, Satoru lay awake in her dorm, staring at the canopy above her bed.

Infinity hummed softly within her, a quiet, constant pulse that anchored her in the way it always had. Comforting in its steadiness, familiar like a heartbeat. 

But every time her eyelids fluttered closed, the images came rushing back, the gray boy, his eyes hollow, lifeless, the silent scream of frozen terror etched into his face. And beneath it all, the faint, unsettling ripple of power, pulsing like an undercurrent just below the surface.

But worst of all, she heard it. That whisper. Faint, like the wind skimming the edges of a forgotten dream, yet unmistakably clear.

You cannot save them.

Her fists clenched, the fabric of the sheets twisting beneath her hands as she struggled to push the words out of her mind. The voice lingered, wrapping around her like a noose, tightening with every breath.

Satoru gritted her teeth, her jaw locking as her body tensed. The whisper only grew louder, more insistent. But she didn’t flinch.

“Watch me,” she whispered into the dark. Because she’d be damned if she let another tragedy happen. 

And if this castle wanted war, she’d give it one.

Chapter Text

───── SATORU ─────

Truth be told, Satoru had never been a morning person. She'd always considered herself a night owl, thriving when the world went still, when the chaos of the outside world finally quieted down. And trudging into the library now, her dislike for mornings was only deepened.

God, it was deafening.

She'd thought Hogwarts could be strange in its quiet moments, but this, this was something else. This was unbearable.

Books being slammed down, chairs scraping, dozens of voices rising and overlapping, each one stabbing at her ears, the noise was crawling under her skin, pressing into her skull.

She preemptively pinched the bridge of her nose, already bracing herself for the headache that was sure to follow.

It was strange, she thought seeing this many students gathered here. She supposed she couldn't blame them for thinking there was safety in numbers. Because maybe once, she would've agreed with them.

But that was before Shibuya. Before she'd learned that crowds didn't protect you; they just made the dying louder.

And yet, here they were, all of them, clinging to each other in silent desperation, their anxiety betraying itself in restless fingers and darting eyes. As if another one of them would be petrified next.

Satoru cursed under her breath, muttering at Hogwarts and its absurd curfew that had left her no choice but to study at the library in the morning instead of at night. With a deep sigh, she grabbed her books and carried them to a table in the farthest corner of the room, as far away from the maddening noise as possible. She set them down with a soft thud, then sank into the chair.

For a moment, she allowed herself to close her eyes. She imagined the castle at night, the corridors quiet, the noise finally gone, her thoughts settling into something like peace. That was the time she loved best, when the world stopped demanding and just let her think.

But for now, she'd have to endure.

She hadn't even lasted five seconds before the voice cut through her thoughts.

"Gojo."

Her eyes opened. Of course.

Tom Riddle, it seemed, had a way of appearing wherever and whenever she least wanted him, interrupting her in her few moments of peace. And yet he had the audacity to look perfectly composed every time.

He looked completely at ease, standing a few feet away, his dark hair catching the light streaming through the high windows. It was almost cruel, the way he could look so effortlessly put-together while managing to annoy her at the same time.

The gods, it seemed, had a terrible sense of humor, giving such an infuriating person such a beautiful face.

"You're out of bounds," he greeted smoothly.

It was weird, hearing him use her surname. Her clan's name. Like it belonged to him now, too. She supposed she only had herself to blame for ever mentioning it.

"Technically," she said, without looking up, "you're interrupting my studying. So who's really out of line?"

He didn't smile, but his mouth twitched, in fury, maybe. "You've been wandering again. My prefects say you were on the second floor last night."

"Your prefects need hobbies," she muttered.

"Or maybe," he said, stepping closer, "they know danger when they see it."

Satoru leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. "You mean me," she said, "or whatever's crawling through your walls?"

That hit. Barely. But she saw it, his jaw tightening for half a second before smoothing out again.

"I know you're behind the petrified kid, Tom," she said, softer now. "And I'm this close to proving it. So maybe rethink whatever you're planning before I decide it's my problem."

He didn't answer.

But his eyes met hers, unreadable and ice-calm as usual. "Careful," he said. "You sound like you're accusing me."

"I am."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to hear a pin drop.

Tom moved first, circling the table, his shadow sliding along across the wood. "You think you see everything. But you don't. You never have."

Satoru stood too, slow and deliberate, sunglasses catching the light. "You're right. I don't see everything. But I see enough."

If only he knew how much she actually saw, what with her Six Eyes.

"You think this castle's a puzzle you're here to solve," he said. "But you're just a guest. A foreign piece on a board that doesn't belong to you."

"And yet," Satoru said, letting the smile come, "I'm still the strongest piece on it."

Because she was, wasn't she? The strongest, and that was the same in this universe or her old one.

Neither of them moved.

His gaze flicked toward the faint shimmer of her Infinity, well she was letting him see it, rather, a silent warning of what she could do.

"Power," he said quietly, "won't save you here."

"Then tell me," she said, voice like steel, "what does?"

His eyes narrowed. "Obedience."

She laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. "You actually think that's gonna work on me?"

"No," he said. "But it works on everyone else."

That was what caught her. Everyone else. Not everyone.

"Why are you doing this, Tom?" she asked quietly. "What are you trying to prove?"

He didn't flinch. "That this place bends to those strong enough to claim it."

"Then we're after the same thing," she said. "Only difference is—" she stepped closer, "—I don't need to kill anyone to get there."

Something flickered in his eyes, disdain, maybe. Or was it intrigue? It was hard to say, and that only made it worse.

"You're exactly like him," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Tom stilled. "Like who?"

She didn't answer right away. Her gaze was fixed somewhere past his shoulder, on nothing in particular. For a second, the world around them blurred, the echo of another rooftop, another boy, another life.

It was almost funny. Ever since she'd met Tom Riddle, she couldn't shake the feeling that the universe had a sick sense of humor. Suguru had died, and then it had sent her him, a boy with the same hunger behind his eyes, the same cold brilliance that made destruction sound like philosophy.

He just couldn't leave her alone, huh?

The same desire for power. The same loneliness disguised as conviction. The same unspoken plea that said please, understand me before you stop me.

Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Nothing," she said finally. "Just a thought."

Tom tilted his head, a spark of irritation breaking through that calm veneer. "If you're going to compare me to someone, at least have the decency to finish the sentence."

"I did," she said lightly. "I just didn't say it out loud."

He frowned. "And what was it?"

Satoru met his eyes then, or would have, if her sunglasses hadn't been between them. "That I already killed a boy like you once," she said quietly, voice almost gentle. "When he became a monster."

Silence.

The corridor stretched wide and hollow around them, thick with everything neither of them said.

Then she brushed past him, her sleeve catching briefly against his coat. She didn't look back, but she felt his stare like static against her spine, curious, calculating, maybe even human for a split second.

The words had been meant as a warning. But the truth was, she hadn't been speaking to him at all.

She was warning herself.

Because she knew how this story went. She'd try to save him. She always did. And if history insisted on repeating itself, if Tom Riddle fell the way Suguru Geto had —

Then she'd kill him too.

And god, she really hoped she wouldn't have to.

───── TOM RIDDLE ─────

Tom watched her leave.

He always did.

Satoru Gojo wasn't someone you could ignore. She was an anomaly that demanded attention, the kind of presence that distorted every room she entered.

And he hated every minute of it.

It wasn't admiration, he reasoned. It wasn't attraction. It was fascination. A puzzle wrapped in contradictions, a girl who laughed like she was unburdened, a mortal, and yet carried herself like she was a god.

Tom had seen power before. Grindelwald. Dippet. Even Dumbledore. But none of them wore it the way she did, carelessly, as if it weighed nothing at all.

And that was what made her dangerous.

His gaze drifted to the table where she'd stood. The air hummed faintly, still charged with her cursed energy. It lingered, unlike anything he had felt before. A force unstructured, foreign, uncontrolled.

He'd thought he understood strength.

Then she'd arrived and rewritten the definition.

But all power could be understood. All power could be claimed. Eventually.

He turned toward the nearest wall, running a hand across the cool stone. Her words echoed in his head.

"Something crawling through your walls."

She was close. Closer than she realized. The Chamber had never been meant for anyone else, but somehow, she was tracing its outline, seeing through the magic even Hogwarts had tried to bury.

She wasn't supposed to be able to do that.

Deep below he could feel Ouroboros stirring, a whisper against his mind, a promise waiting to be uncoiled.

He pressed his palm to the stone. "Patience," he murmured, the word barely leaving his lips, a reminder to himself.

The wall pulsed beneath his fingers. Faint, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She had the audacity to threaten him like that, threaten to kill him?

But now she thought she was unraveling the mystery. She didn't realize she was walking straight into its mouth.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Later that night, Tom sat alone in the Slytherin common room, the green light from the lake shifting across the ceiling in restless waves. Abraxas, his most loyal knight, sat nearby, a book open in his lap, though his eyes hadn't moved in minutes.

"She's reckless," Abraxas said at last, his voice low, careful not to break the quiet.

"She's predictable," Tom corrected.

"And yet," Abraxas murmured, finally glancing up, "she keeps surprising you."

Tom didn't reply. He didn't have to.

Abraxas studied him for a moment, something close to concern flickering behind the practiced calm. "You're underestimating her."

Tom's lips curved, not quite a smile, but close. "No," he said softly. "I'm studying her."

He leaned back in his chair, gaze fixed on his reflection trembling across the windowpane. The green light fractured his features, making him look almost unfamiliar, someone older, colder.

"You see, Abraxas," he said after a moment, "she believes this castle is alive."

"And you don't?"

Tom's smile deepened, slow and deliberate. "Oh, I do," he said. "But she's wrong about one thing."

Abraxas frowned. "What's that?"

"It doesn't hunt her."

The words hung in the air, quiet and final.

A tremor passed beneath their feet, faint, steady, unmistakable. The sound of something vast moving through the dark.

Tom looked down, eyes calm, voice almost tender when he spoke again.

"It listens to me."