Chapter Text
*ੈ‧₊˚⋆° ☾⛧☽° ⋆*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since the Incident—capital I, as Yoongi insists on calling it with a smirk ever since Jimin burst into his office and confessed the whole thing in one mortifying breath, italicised in the whispered hallways, immortalised in student gossip and punctuated by their fainting sighs every time Jeon Jungkook so much as stretches, as if the whole thing was a grand tragedy rather than a single badly measured potion and an assistant too heroic for his own good.
Terrible weeks, if you consider how meticulously curated Park Jimin’s existence used to be : organised and orderly and predictable. Everything in its place. Potion shelves alphabetised by toxicity. Wardrobes arranged by cut, then colour, then level of intimidation. Loneliness, yes, but neat loneliness. Solitude you could polish until it gleamed.
Now ? It’s all heavy glances across benches, bitten lips traded day after day, and the casual and unbearable habit Jungkook has of being right about things Jimin has been pulling his hair out over for months. Equations he’d agonised over for entire evenings ? Solved in one insufferably bright conversation over lunch, and so months of brewing headaches returned with answers, and his assistant wagging his metaphorical tail like a golden retriever who’d fetched Jimin’s soul instead of a stick.
Terrible.
And of course, the devil hasn’t forgotten that moment after the burn—the salve, the hands, the shirt. Jimin has certainly not forgotten, though he pretends valiantly otherwise, and if he thinks about the cut of Jungkook’s shoulders more often than he should in silence, that’s his private crucifixion. Jungkook, meanwhile, is loud about it.
The burns have long since healed, Jimin’s salves being what they are, but the man still winces theatrically in lectures and sighs about phantom pain until Jimin sighs back and gives in with another round of treatment.
Nonsense. It’s nonsense. One : he should be capable of ignoring it. Two : it should mean nothing and yet he finds it harder and harder to say no, which is both unprofessional and also, apparently, his life now.
So yes, terrible.
But if you were to ask him in weaker moments, he might admit it’s also been... surprisingly good.
The kind of good he doesn’t know how to talk about, the kind that creeps in sideways and makes him ache in strange places, because now he’s not alone in the lab at midnight. Now he eats with someone who understands when silence is needed and when to fill it with chatter about nonsense or clever questions. Now he has someone who listens to his tangents about obscure potion lore, the ones that have made other men yawn and ex-lovers roll their eyes, listens and doesn't glaze over, doesn’t fake it, doesn’t make him feel like too much.
Now, someone’s making him feel seen in ways he hadn’t realised he’d been starving for, and it’s dangerous, how grateful he’s starting to feel.
Today, however, is different.
Today is his birthday, which he fully intends to ignore.
Most of the students don’t know, thank the gods.
Yoongi knows, obviously, but Yoongi is mercifully uninterested in dates unless they involve blood moons or deadlines. Hoseok and Namjoon know, which is already perilous, but they promised last week not to orchestrate a serenade. Seokjin and Taehyung definitely know, which is catastrophic, but Jimin has avoided both of their offices like it’s cursed ground, and until now, it’s worked every year.
The true threat, again, is Jeon Jungkook, who three weeks ago swore up and down that this time would be different, and Jimin lives in dread of finding out what that means.
His mirror, to its eternal credit, does not soften the blow.
“You’re stalling,” it says, tone identical to his own voice, but crueler, always crueler and always too right. “And you know you’re stalling.”
“I’m dressing.”
“You’re sulking.”
Jimin adjusts the collar of his robes, cinched at the waist, dark green velvet cut sharp with a daring panel of black mesh across chest and shoulders, which is, objectively, a choice.
“You look like a forest deity on their way to seduce a village,” the mirror drawls. “If that’s the assignment, full marks.”
“I’m not going for anything.”
“Mmh. And yet. Mesh.”
Jimin glares. “It’s appropriate. Hallow Eve is coming”
“It’s thirsty.”
“It’s elegant.”
“It’s desperate.”
He smooths the sleeves, fixes the cuffs, and very quietly mutters, “…It’s my birthday. I can wear what I want.”
“Ah. Finally the truth,” his reflection tilts its head with a smirk too sharp to be his own. “So you do want someone to notice.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Otherwise you’d be in your usual funereal anniversary wool, terrorising students with high collars and icy glares. Instead you’re here in cleavage and velvet, broadcasting tragic but touchable to anyone with eyes. Shall we guess why ?”
“Nothing changed.”
“Jeon Jungkook changed.”
Jimin freezes, then scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, please. You’re so transparent… You’re dressing for the one pair of eyes you pretend not to crave. You patched his burns with trembling hands. You brew him tea you swore you’d never make for anyone. You sigh, you scowl, you mutter about responsibility, but when he speaks, you listen ; when he leans too close, you lean back just far enough to prove you noticed ; when he grins, you glow like a fool and then spend hours convincing yourself you didn’t… and now you stand here, pink as a schoolboy, because you know he’ll look at you the way he always does, like you hung the stars and poisoned them for fun—and worse, you’ll like it.”
“...I should smash you.”
“You wouldn’t dare. I’m the only one who tells you the truth.”
“I’m not—”
“Cut the act, pretty boy. You want this day to mean nothing, and yet you’re hoping—desperately, and pathetically—that he’ll make it mean something. Admit it.”
“I want peace.”
“You want him to celebrate you, and if he does, you’ll let him. You’ll pretend to protest, but you’ll bask in it, because for once you’ll be wanted exactly as you are—and isn’t it the gift you’ll never ask for ?”
Jimin exhales, long and furious and spine rigid. “...This will do.”
“Mmh. It’ll undo him.”
“...And how would you know ?”
The mirror leans closer, and his eyes are glinting. “Because I know his reflection, and unlike you, he doesn’t lie to himself.”
“What—”
“Mirrors talk, Jimin. We whisper across glass. Normally I’d keep it to myself, but consider it a birthday indulgence : he’s tried on half his wardrobe at dawn and cursed at every stitch. He’s practically vibrating today. Trust me, I’ve never seen a man so eager to be undone.”
“...”
“Happy birthday, darling.”
*ੈ‧₊˚⋆° ☾⛧☽° ⋆*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The trick to going unnoticed, Jimin reminds himself, is composure.
Not speed—too suspicious, but not slowness—too conspicuous.
Just the quiet glide of a man who belongs exactly where he is, wearing exactly what he wants, and entirely unremarkable, which would be easier, of course, if the corridors weren’t already thick with students loitering between lectures, and if he didn’t catch the first glance barely two steps out of his tower.
...
He makes it as far as the professor’s corridor without too much damage, that is to say ears warm but not aflame, before the universe decides to betray him.
The door to the common room swings open on its usual creak, the faint smell of burnt coffee and overused glamour charms spilling into the hall, and the moment he steps through, heads turn, and not all at once, no, because that would be merciful.
It’s a ripple, subtle but undeniable, and Jimin feels it crawl up his spine and up and upper. Eyes skim him and a few too-bright smiles spark in the lamplight.
“Professor Park,” Lee Goeun greets, her grin as sweet as poisoned honey. “How very... daring of you.”
“I do try to embody the spirit of late autumn. Quiet. Withering. Decay.”
There’s a smattering of chuckles. He hates it.
“Not decay,” Professor Choi from Transmutation ventures, gaze lingering too. “More like... evergreen.”
“Ever exhausting,” Jimin corrects crisply as he slides into his usual seat at the long oak table and unslings his satchel. “Which is exactly why I’ll be spending my morning communing with the sacred art of grading.”
A ripple of laughter again, softer this time, and more indulgent maybe, too. He refuses to blush.
His quills arrange themselves. Essays spill across the table in an orderly fan. Six years’ worth of half-baked genius and catastrophic misunderstanding, waiting for his red ink to slice them open.
That much is safe, and that much is manageable.
He sighs, opens the first parchment, and by the fifth, he’s almost forgotten the eyes. There are even signs of hope : two students capable of stringing logical thought together, one borderline brilliant analysis of etheric decay, and only three essays featuring doodles in the margins. Not entirely doomed.
He exhales, relieved, reaches for the next, and freezes, because Seokjin has arrived ; read : Professor Kim Seokjin, head of Divination, relentless purveyor of chaos disguised as handsomeness, and currently sliding into the chair opposite with all the subtlety of a cat that’s decided your lap is public property.
“Morning, Jimin,” he says, voice too bright for this hour and smile positively wicked.
Jimin narrows his eyes. Seokjin does not usually haunt the common room before lunch, and this reeks of sabotage. “You’re early.”
“Mmh. Thought I’d get some work done… Funny, isn’t it, how some days just feel special ?”
Jimin feels the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes. “It’s just another Friday.”
“A particularly auspicious Friday, you mean. Stars aligned. Air practically sparkling.”
“...If you’re here to distract me, I will hex your tea again.”
“Please do,” Seokjin purrs, entirely unfazed and pouring himself a cup just to prove a point. “That last hex gave me three days of singing kettle whistles. Everyone adored it.”
“What do you want ?”
“Just conversation. As I said—it’s a special day.”
Something in his tone, too smooth or maybe simply too knowing, makes Jimin’s stomach drop. He presses two fingers to his temple. “Every day is special if you—”
“Speaking of special—did you hear about the broom race ? They’ve set the date. Five weeks from now. Should be spectacular.”
“...I did. Students won’t shut up about it.”
“You’ll participate, won’t you ?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Oh, you should. All the colleagues will go. We might even make a night of it, dinner afterwards… wine, gossip. Could be fun.”
Fun with Seokjin usually equals catastrophe. Jimin lifts an eyebrow, but some of his suspicion eases… perhaps the man isn’t here to torment him after all.
“I’ll consider it,” he says cautiously, before signing the margin of yet another essay.
“Good,” Seokjin beams, and the conversation meanders on : exams on the horizon, his proposal for a celebratory dinner once the marking season is over, the latest fashion show he’s attended, and for one precarious moment, Jimin finds himself relaxing and even smiling at one of his friend’s most ridiculous anecdotes.
It might almost be called comfortable, if a voice hadn’t rung out at his back.
“Well, well... I was wondering what had the common room glowing brighter than usual. Turns out it’s just you sir, in greens and outshining autumn itself. Who knew ?”
“...”
“Professor Kim,” Jungkook says as he greets Seokjin with a bow so polite it borders on parody. “You look devastating as always, but I hope you’ll forgive me—I think I’ve just had my breath stolen.”
“Pull up a chair, won’t you ? Plenty of room.” Seokjin snorts into his cup. “And by what, pray tell ?”
“By who.” Jungkook corrects and drops into the empty chair at Jimin’s side, knee brushing his under the table and arm grazing his sleeve in a way that cannot possibly be accidental.
Jimin stiffens. “Jeon. Do behave, please.”
“I’m trying,” Jungkook leans in, until his breath skims his ear, and it’s warm and it’s evil. “But you’re making it very difficult… You look incredible today, sir.”
Across the table, Seokjin props his chin on his hand. “If this isn’t entertaining—”
“Don’t you have students to terrorise, Kim ?”
“Not until noon. Besides, I’d hate to interrupt such… chemistry.”
Jimin nearly chokes on his own dignity. “There is no chemistry, I don’t—”
“Oh, there’s chemistry,” Jungkook cuts in, bold as sin and knee pressing just a little harder against his. “In fact, I’d say it’s volatile. Needs careful handling.”
“Hear that, Jiminie ? Even your assistant knows.”
Jimin exhales through his nose like an enraged bull, forces his eyes back to the essay, and tries to focus on the abysmal handwriting in front of him, but his pulse drowns the letters out, and every shift of Jungkook’s body radiates heat like a curse.
“Lots of essays today,” he muses, plucking one off the stack before anyone can stop him. “Shall I help ?”
“You—”
“Of course you should let him,” Seokjin chimes. “Delegation builds trust.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
And so it begins, Jungkook, correcting efficiently, and beautifully, even. His handwriting loops neat and elegant across the margins, his comments precise, and his insight sharp, and every so often, he reads something aloud, always low and always tilted just enough toward Jimin’s ear to make it indecent.
“Interesting argument, but structurally weak,” he murmurs. “They’ve confused astral vectors with etheric channels. Classic mistake.”
“I know.”
“You explained it so clearly. They should have paid attention.”
“They should have, but that’s not relevant anymore.”
“I think it’s very relevant.” A pause, deliberate. “By the way, you might want to pace yourself, sir. Long day ahead. Wouldn’t want you too tired before... later.”
Jimin freezes mid-mark, quill hovering. “...What later.”
“Nothing. Just later.”
Seokjin sips the last of his tea. “Mmh.”
The sound is smug, and it’s definitely conspiratorial, and possibly Jimin’s paranoia—or worse, that cursed whisper of hope his mirror keeps accusing him of—but the two of them are plotting something. He can feel it.
He does not ask though, because if this is the end of him, he will not give them the satisfaction.
Sweet mercy, he thinks, he should never have left his rooms this morning.
*ੈ‧₊˚⋆° ☾⛧☽° ⋆*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The rest of the morning unfurls without disaster, unless one counts the small tragedies Jimin suffers each time Jeon Jungkook exhales too close and leans too far, which is often.
One might argue, too, that the involuntary huffs of laughter slipping from his own mouth encourage it, but Jimin is not prepared for that conversation, and regardless, essays are marked, every one of them cross-checked and now stacked with military precision.
Outside, rain begins its ritual descent : fine silver at first, then heavy sheets sluicing down stone walls, gliding past the red leaves clinging stubbornly to autumn branches, beading against warded windows like scattered jewels. The sound is steady and the kind of storm-song that makes the whole university feel cocooned.
The common room, once loud with chatter and quills and the rustle of robes, begins to thin as professors peel away in twos and threes, bound for lunch or lessons or meetings, and one by one, voices fade.
Seokjin rises eventually. “I’d linger, but I suppose I must go wrangle my second-years,” he announces, smirk in place as it always is, “They’ll wilt if left unsupervised.”
“Good. Let them.”
Seokjin tilts his head at Jungkook. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, professor.”
It’s only when the door shuts behind him that Jimin realises, a beat too late, that they are alone.
They won’t be for long, obviously—people will filter back sooner or later—but for now, it’s the only two of them, the hush of rain, and the steady beat of his own pulse reminding him of every stupid thing he’s done and said this morning... and that Jungkook hasn’t spoken for a whole minute and is instead shifting in his seat and fidgeting in a way that doesn’t suit him, gaze fixed on the satchel at his feet.
“...Something wrong ?”
Jungkook startles, then looks up, and that’s somehow worse, because he smiles, and not his usual grin, not the smirk sharp enough to draw blood, but something smaller and shy.
He bends, rummages in his bag, and when he straightens, he’s holding a small box wrapped in black paper, tied with a thin silver thread.
Jimin’s heart drops somewhere into his boots. “What is that.”
“Nothing dangerous,” he promises, as he slides it across the table. “Happy birthday, sir.”
“...You—you didn’t need—I told you—”
“I know, and that’s why I waited… Didn’t want to make a scene earlier. Thought you’d prefer it this way.”
He says it so simply and so lightly that Jimin has to press his lips together to smother the ache in his chest and the tug at the corners of his mouth. Endearment is a dangerous thing, he knows. Deadly, but gods, it’s here, and it grows, and it grows, and it grows, even as his fingers twitch before he caves and undoes the ribbon, folds the paper and lifts the lid.
Inside... a pendant.
A clear shard of moonstone, its surface carved with runes so fine they look grown from the crystal itself, threaded with a faint glow that pulses with his own breath.
Jimin recognises the craft, delicate runic etching, old fashioned binding, and the kind of thing you don’t find in shops anymore.
“...Where did you...”
“I made it,” Jungkook blurts, suddenly bashful and eyes too bright. “It’s a focusing charm. Won’t amplify power—I know you don’t need that—but it’ll steady channels when you’re tired. Easier flow. Less strain.”
“...When did you find the time ?”
“After classes ? Nights, mostly. The runes took forever—I almost botched the fifth.” He laughs, quiet and oddly self-conscious for how precious the gift is. “After we talked about birthdays, I went back to the Moonwell.”
“The Moonwell,” Jimin echoes, half-stunned.
“Yeah. Took some fragments from the base. Clean ones. Asked permission first, of course—spirits don’t exactly answer in words, but they felt enthusiastic. Anyway, thought you might keep a piece of it with you ? I was hoping you’d like it.”
Jimin nods and touches it carefully, and beneath his fingertips, the stone hums, already familiar yet entirely new. “This is... rare.”
Jungkook shrugs, but his breath comes heavy. “Only if you want it to be.”
For the briefest fraction, Jimin considers refusing. He should hand it back, thank him politely, make some cutting remark about boundaries and the unnecessary folly of gifts, just to preserve the careful walls he’s built brick by meticulous brick, but instead, he nods again and holds it, still staring.
“Attach it.”
“...Sir ?”
“My necklace.” Jimin gestures, as his fingers graze the thin silver chain at his throat. “Attach it.”
The words linger in the empty room, and in their wake the air bends, a little awkward but mostly something else, something raw and too intimate for what it ought to be, and he tastes autumn on his tongue, honey and smoke and ripe wind through thinning branches as Jungkook rises and approaches him with the caution of a man reaching for a rare spell on the verge of breaking.
His hands are gentle where they graze his collarbone and deft as they unclasp the chain, thread the moonstone into place, fasten it again, and let it fall back into place against skin, but even then, he lingers.
Lingers.
Lingers.
Lingers at his chest, thumb tracing the stone once then twice, as if coaxing it into belonging, and though the touch is no more than the weight of a leaf on water, Jimin feels it everywhere.
The window reflects them both, framed in rain and vine-shadow, the world outside blurred to amber and silver, and in the enchanted glass, they are closer still, twin silhouettes bent toward each other, for the storm had carved out a space just for them. His mirrored self throws him a wicked wink but he lets it pass, because today, what’s real doesn’t sound cruel.
He looks back, and Jungkook is already looking at him, gaze unguarded and open in a way that he’s never been.
“There, sir... Perfect.”
And gods, in a terrifying way, it is perfect, because for one suspended breath, Jimin feels it all : the warmth of a hand, the sincerity in these eyes, the safety in being cared for rather than endured, a moment carved out of stormlight and autumn air, fragile and irrevocable.
“...Thank you,” he replies, and means it far, far too much.
In the window, the rain keeps falling.
In the room, something new takes root.
*ੈ‧₊˚⋆° ☾⛧☽° ⋆*ੈ✩‧₊˚
The Great Hall is crowded when they arrive, and it’s not surprising, equinox feasts may be over, but it’s midday, the storm is battering the windows, and every student, familiar spirit, and professor who’d planned to eat outdoors has retreated inside, all dripping rainwater and chatter in equal measure.
And yet, when Jungkook falls into step beside him and they slip into a quieter corner table half-hidden by a charmed willow branch drooping from the rafters, the noise seems to hush.
Plates fill themselves with steaming stews and roasted roots, goblets brim with wine and spiced cider, and Jimin, for once, doesn’t bother mapping escape routes or plotting conversational evasions, just slices a sugared pumpkin and listens.
To the season turning in the elements outside.
To the laughter of his colleagues.
To Jungkook, mainly, who is smiling at the rain streaking down the glass.
He talks about storms, how they smell sharper up there in the mountain, like iron and pine, how lighting seems to be weaving itself into the runes along the windows ; mentions a story his grandmother used to tell, about thunder spirits who braided rain into the hair of children they favoured and how he’d race them across the fields as a boy ; describes the moss behind the North Tower, how it glows after rainfall, and wonders aloud if Jimin has ever walked the path at night.
“You should. The forest would like you, sir.”
Strange, how his heartbeat, so often skittish in moments like this, slows instead of quickening... how it soothes.
Jungkook steals half a moonfruit off the nearest platter, bites into it with one of those stupid grins that would usually grate on Jimin but doesn't right now, maybe because the juice runs down his wrist and glows where it brushes the runes etched into his skin, maybe because he only laughs at himself before murmuring, “It’s nice, isn’t it ? Just sitting here. Food. Storm. No exploding cauldrons.”
And maybe that’s why Jimin’s fingers drift to the moonstone at his throat, and why he shares, in the way people do when they forget to guard themselves :
“When I was younger, I hated storms. The noise, the light—it felt too big. Too much. I used to hide under the bed until my mother fixed it… She introduced me to Bellamy when I was seven. He was only a scrap of shadow then, arrogant as ever, but he dragged me to the window and made me watch the lightning with him. Said storms were only the sky reminding us it was alive. That lightning was the Moon’s handwriting. That thunder was—”
“—a drum. A song to keep time with your heartbeat.”
A beat.
His fork scrapes softly against porcelain. “...Yes, something like that. I—I never hid again after that.”
The moment the words leave him, Jimin regrets them, wants to gather them back, fold them tight where they belong, but when he risks a glance upward, Jungkook is wearing the same expression he wore in the common room only an hour ago.
“That’s beautiful,” he whispers. “Most people would’ve told their child to stop being dramatic, but your mother gave you a familiar. No wonder you turned out...” His lips twitch. “Like this.”
“Like what, precisely ?”
“Brilliant. Untouchable. Terrifying.” His grin gentles. “And braver than you think.”
Heat prickles at the back of Jimin’s neck and he sets his goblet down a little too firmly. Wine slosh against the metal. “You have a terrible habit of saying things no sane assistant would say to his superior.”
“Maybe... I also have an equally terrible habit of meaning them.”
...
Cursed gods.
What exactly is happening to him ?
Park Jimin from two months ago is still alive somewhere in him, cold and sharp-edged, the version who would’ve snapped at such insolence, cut that line down where it stood, raised walls higher than before, and never, never, looked back, but the Jimin sitting here now is not that man. This one grips back his goblet like it might steady him, presses the rim to his mouth, and finishes it in one undignified swallow that tastes of cinnamon and surrender.
Jungkook, merciful or perhaps dangerously clever, doesn’t comment on it, and clears his throat instead. “You know… I meant what I said about the woods. I could take you, show you the Moonwell trail. The trees like to be greeted. It’d be quiet. Safe.”
“I know the woods,” Jimin replies, too quickly, because he does. He knows every path, every rune-stone and every silence, taught too many coven students how to respect their shadows, but that isn’t what’s being offered, and both Jimins, the past one and the present one, recognise it.
The old Jimin bristles, the new one listens.
“Still. You might like them differently with me.”
“...You’re relentless.”
“Persistent,” Jungkook corrects immediately. “Relentless sounds cruel, and I don’t want to wear you down, sir. I just… want to stay close enough that, if you ever decide to let someone in, I’ll be here.”
It is, Jimin admits to himself and against all reason, the most absurdly earnest thing anyone’s ever said to him, and somehow instead of scoffing, impossibly, he laughs.
It escapes him like a slip of light, startled and sudden, and once it’s loose, it doesn’t stop, rolling into a low and rare sound that shakes his shoulders and fogs the air. He hasn’t laughed like this in years, can’t even remember when he last let himself go.
It seems to knock the breath clean out of Jungkook, who goes very still, ears and throat flushing scarlet before he mumbles, “You could’ve warned me.”
Jimin wipes at the corner of his eyes, still chuckling. “Warned you ?”
“...Would’ve been considerate, yes. Colleagues should take care of each other’s mental health. You—gods—you can’t just… laugh like that and expect me to survive it.”
“You make it sound like an ordeal.”
“It is. A very pleasant ordeal. Fatal even.”
Damn it, the corners of his lips refuse to flatten. Nothing about this year is going the way he planned, and the worst part is he isn’t sure he minds, and so he lets the silence hang just long enough for his breath to return, then asks, before he can talk himself out of it :
“...Can I ask you something personal ?”
Jungkook’s head snaps up, his eyes brighten, pupils dilating the way skies fill with stars the moment you dare to look up. “You want to ask me something personal ?”
“Is that such a shock ?”
“Yes… But in the best way. Go on, sir. You can ask me anything.”
Jimin stirs his wine. He tells himself he doesn’t care about the answer, that it’s idle curiosity, and yet his heart gives the tiniest and traitorous stammer. “Have you ever been in a relationship ?”
There’s a beat, then Jungkook giggles, all boyish and entirely delighted, like he’s been waiting all week for this exact line of questioning. “That’s what you want to know ?”
“You don’t have to answer.”
“Oh, I’m answering : Yes. A few... Nothing worth remembering, though.”
“How convenient.”
“No, really. Puppy crushes. Messy flings. A little chaos when I was younger... Nothing serious, not for years now.”
“You’re still young,” Jimin reminds him.
“And you’re not old,” Jungkook fires back without hesitation, before his tone softens. “Not even close. You talk like a ghost who’s seen centuries, but you’re—” He stops himself, swallows, then mutters, “You’re exactly the right age.”
“...That’s debatable.”
“Not to me.”
Jimin chooses not to reply, turns his glass instead and watches the candlelight scatter through the wine. “I asked because… you react so much, whenever I do something. A smile, a word. It’s like you’ve never—”
“It’s specific, sir. It’s not… people in general. It’s you.”
“...Me.”
“Yes, you. The way you walk into a room and the temperature changes. The way your voice drops when you’re serious. Even your handwriting. It’s ridiculous, but...” Jungkook shrugs, shy for a second, ten years younger for another one, curls falling into his eyes and cheeks dusted pink. “I can’t help it.”
Here. Right here.
That’s where Jimin should end it, where he should cauterise the possibility before it grows teeth, but drunk either on wine or on the boy’s endless warmth, he keeps asking : “And what else, then ? What else can’t you help ?”
Jungkook looks like he’s about to combust under the weight of it, yet answers anyway. “The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The way you’re kinder than you want people to notice. The way you look at storms like they’re poetry… Do you want me to keep going ? Because I could. For a very, very long time.”
Jimin’s mouth goes dry, and as he’s done for years, takes refuge in sarcasm, because what else is there ? “...You’re appallingly sentimental.”
“And you keep asking me questions... I take it you like the answers.”
Jimin glares at his plate, heat crawling beneath his collar and sweat prickling at his temple. “I regret indulging you.”
“With all due respect, sir... I don’t think you do.”
And cursed gods, Jimin doesn’t.
*ੈ‧₊˚⋆° ☾⛧☽° ⋆*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Jimin cannot decide if the day is unusually long or impossibly brief.
Hours pass without leaving a mark, and yet every second seems loud, loud, loud, and louder.
It shouldn't, not with a schedule as brutal as his : two classes, one third-year cohort prone to sneezing fits and mismeasured sprigs, and one seventh-year specialisation group who, if the gods are merciful, might graduate without setting themselves or him on fire, and yet through both, Jimin keeps hearing Jungkook’s words from the Great Hall. It’s specific. It’s you.
He replays their every encounter—the fountain, the Equinox, the shield, the long evenings in the lab, the laughters in the classroom, the birthday gift—through this new prism of sincerity, and the result is disarming, because if Jimin occasionally doubts his own objectivity, his familiar has always been an unerring judge of character, and Bellamy has already chosen.
Halfway through the final lecture, he catches sight of the Marquis’ silhouette past the open threshold : a streak of black fur, a tail curling with the kind of smug satisfaction only a cat can wield. “The pendant suits you... Happy birthday, dear,” Bellamy’s voice threads silk-smooth into his mind, followed by a low purr of approval before he’s gone again.
It gets worse.
Much, much worse and it comes the moment his mind drifts too far.
He’s been teaching long enough that most answers to students’ questions live in his marrow, ready to spill out with the ease of breath, but today, when Miss Yin asks about the interaction between powdered celandine and astral dust, nothing comes, only a blank and a stammer.
Before he can strangle himself with mortification, Jungkook leans forward, smiles for them both, and answers with calm authority. Explains not only the right formula, but its expansions and variations, gives examples, draws diagrams mid-air with a flick of chalk, and does not stop there : he keeps the thread, keeps the momentum, lets the rest of the class roll in his voice while Jimin can do nothing but stand rooted in place like some ridiculous statue of academic failure, guilty and grateful all at once.
By the time it ends, the windows are steeped in late autumn gold, the forest beyond burning with bruise-light and evening shadows, and he barely notices the scrape of chairs or the shuffling exodus of students eager for their Friday evening freedom.
Too many questions.
Too many fears.
No clear answers.
...
It is only when Jungkook perches on the window ledge, long legs folded carelessly and stormlight gilding his face, that Jimin startles back into himself.
“You’re quiet.”
“...I’ve been… unprofessional today. It won’t happen again, I’m sorry.”
Jungkook huffs a small laugh and shakes his head. “You ? Never. You were—human. Everyone’s allowed to be that sometimes, even you.”
Jimin stares at the floor. “That’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t be distracted in class.”
“And yet the sky didn’t fall, the cauldrons didn’t explode, and the students probably learned more hearing me miserably fumble through their questions than if you’d dazzled them with perfection. You don’t owe me an apology, sir. Not for being yourself.”
The words loosen something in Jimin’s chest, though he resents the relief, resents how indulgent it feels.
“Do you... want to talk about it ? Whatever’s weighing on you ?”
He exhales and looks out at the forest again. “...It’s just—there are moments in life where you have to take a leap, you know ? Or turn aside. Stay safe, or risk undoing everything.”
“And you’re at one of those moments?”
“...Perhaps.” His lips tighten, but his voice holds steady. “It feels like it.”
Jungkook studies him for a span of heartbeats that might be seconds or hours or no time at all, unblinking until he nods, as if answering some unspoken question only he can hear. “Then trust your instincts. If it feels like a moment, then it is.”
Jimin’s throat clicks. “...You put far too much faith in me.”
“I don’t put enough, you mean. You’re... you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met, and I’ve met people desperate to be remembered. Not just because of your mind, but because you keep choosing, again and again, to care even when no one thanks you. That’s rarer than magic.”
“...And if caring makes me a fool ?”
“Then be a fool. The world could use more of them, and I’d rather follow a fool like you than a hundred men incapable of feeling anything at all.” Jungkook leans back at last, gentle where he could have pressed. “I only hope you choose what’s best for you.”
Heavy.
Heavy.
Heavy, his heart ; heavy, his soul, heavy his mind.
Jimin drags in a breath and forces himself to roll his eyes before the weight swallows him whole. “And now, I suppose, you’ll tell me it’s time to go to the Divination tower.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“I knew you and Seokjin were up to no good.”
“Guilty,” Jungkook spreads his hands, grinning but oddly quiet. “But if you don’t want to go, we won’t. Not if it makes you uncomfortable.”
Jimin almost believes him.
He reaches over and brushes a smear of chalk-dust from his assistant’s shoulder, considers him, then sighs as he pulls back and straightens.
“Let’s go, Jeon.”
“...So that’s a yes ?”
“Make a social butterfly out of me if you must,” Jimin mutters, as he adjusts his robe. “But don’t expect me to flutter.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jungkook beams, hopping down from the ledge to fall into step beside him and slinging both their satchels over his shoulder. “I like you better as you are. Sharp edges and all.”
*ੈ‧₊˚⋆° ☾⛧☽° ⋆*ੈ✩‧₊˚
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COVEN EYE : HEX & TELL — Story-Tell Edition
~ Your Official Source for Unofficial Truths ~
Filed from inside the Divination Tower by a very brave, very small informant hidden in a drape.
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You were right to linger, witchlings. The toast ended, the stars winked, and then the night… spilled.
✦ The Seokjin Situation: Queue or Be Square
Music swelled, lanterns dimmed to “flattering”, and—as is tradition at any party hosted by Professor Kim Seokjin—a queue began to form for his readings. It always happens : he pretends to resist for three seconds, then starts scrying in goblets of wine like the drama king he is.
Students lined up. Staff sidled up. The Tower sighed.
Sampler platter of prophecies (wine-read, lightly paraphrased, perfectly delicious) :
- To a frantic caster : “You will not fail Enchantment ; you will fail to measure sleep. Correct the latter, and the former brightens.”
- To a thunderstruck first-year : “Stop trying to charm your ex’s mirror. It has a grudge and excellent memory—and so does your ex.”
- To a nervy TA : “Beware free pastries labelled ‘experimental’. If it hums, it’s not food ; it’s a familiar.”
Enter Professor Min Yoongi, late, sharp, and looking like a threat that moisturises. He ghosted to the front with the casual menace of tenure.
Kim Seokjin (peering into Yoongi’s wine) : “December wants your lungs. Invest in a scarf. Steam pears with honey, skip necromancer’s wine after midnight, say ‘no’ to two extra committees and one reckless curse.”
Min Yoongi : “Predict this : I ignore you.”
Kim Seokjin : “Predict this : you don’t.” (He won. Min muttered something about pears.)
✦ Kim Drags, Park Dodges
Then Nurse Kim Taehyung arrived, curls, kits, and chaos, spotting Professor Park across the room like a hawk spotting a rabbit in couture. He latched onto Park’s sleeve and tow-roped him towards Kim Seokjin’s little stage.
And our elegant terror ? Horrified. Fully. You could hear his soul say absolutely not all the way to the rafters.
Those who know, know.
And before you ask, we don’t. None of us know what last year’s ultra-classified Crystal Ball Catastrophe™ showed Kim Seokjin about Park, because not a word has escaped. Our sources are not students and still hit a wall. We only know it was scandal enough to turn half the Restricted Section shy.
Park’s friends know the lore. Jeon Jungkook does not. Park would like to keep it that way.
⛧
Help wanted : got a lead on The Prophecy ? A phrase ? A symbol ? A whisper from a mirror ? Send tips via ash-sealed note to the clock gargoyle (left eye, not the right). Discretion is our kink and a tasteful reward (and eternal glory) awaits.
✦ And then the assistant opened his mouth
While Park kept dodging the goblet, Jeon Jungkook—ours and fate’s favourite menace—asked for his own reading.
Yes, we heard it. Yes, Park pretended not to.
Kim Seokjin → Jeon Jungkook (verbatim, we bled for this) :
“Two doors. One swings wide to applause ; the other stays shut, guarded by a cat with a title. The open door offers speed and spectacle; the shut door hides a key. I see gloves adjusting, again and again, and a moon that brightens under careful hands. A masked hall approaches—bells muffled, candles loud. Two will arrive misaligned, one in peace, one in dread, and the wards will swear they came as one. A name slips like a leaf in wind—once, twice—until only touch remembers it. If you chase, you scorch the page. If you fix, the ink returns, and the page becomes a sky. Knock only when the cat purrs. Bring salt. Bring patience.”
Jeon Jungkook’s ears : scarlet
Park Jimin’s face : the high art of I heard nothing and will continue to hear nothing
Kim Seokjin : drank to his own accuracy
Foreshadow file : Hallow Eve Hex Gala. Masks ? Keep your cravats clean. And if someone’s memory goes wandering, don’t say we didn’t warn you.
✦ The Party Did. Not. End.
Park did not flee after that. He endured three toasts (one heartfelt, two felonies), accepted one slice of star-cake, declined another with a look that shaved five years off the speaker’s life, and proceeded to be civil until 02:03. Yes : two in the morning.
Timestamped Observations (because you’ll ask):
- 00:41 — Ship-name caucus near the plum tarts. Frost & Runes edged ahead ; an agent of chaos shouted SirKook (detention, we told you). Late surge for Mesh & Moonwell when Park’s collar caught the light.
- 01:12 — Constellations above the dais subtly shifted into Vesper when Park and Jungkook leaned, separately, toward the same quiet corner. Interpret recklessly.
- 01:46 — Kim Taehyung pressed water into Park’s hand (nurse), then gossip into Yoongi’s ear (criminal). Hoseok seen laughing with Yoongi five minutes later ; pears may have been involved.
- 02:00 — Jungkook returned two borrowed goblets (of course he did), thanked the harpsichord (he would), and slipped to the west balcony corridor.
- 02:03 — Park departed the same way, posture perfect, pulse reportedly not. Stars : smug.
Were they together ? We confirm nothing. We imply everything.
✦ Scandal Meter™
- Seokjin’s queue in wine : 4/5 lanterns
- Taehyung Park-wrangling : 5/5 velvet hooks
- Jungkook’s reading : Cat Purr + Moonstone (off the chart)
- Park staying till 2 a.m. : Apocalypse, but make it chic
✦ Scarlet’s Final Word :
We’ll keep our ear to the doors and our heart where it belongs (in other people’s business). Until the Gala, breathe, study, and practise saying: “I’m waiting.” Apparently that’s the spell.
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— Scarlet Hex
Editor-in-Familiar, Coven Eye Zine
We see it so you don’t have to
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*ੈ‧₊˚⋆° ☾⛧☽° ⋆*ੈ✩‧₊˚