Magic isn’t common nor public. You cannot teach magic. You cannot inherit it cleanly. Witchcraft is a genetic anomaly; a blood-borne gift that chooses its host. It may skip generations, fading into myth, till someone is born with the old blood soaring through their veins. Of course, witches cannot exist publicly. That’s not surprising; one can imagine the things that’d happen to witches if they were found.

You were a fluke. A natural-born witch. Extremely rare – mostly told in legends. Signs show early, hands spark quickly. Plants may grow wild around you; crows may follow you home from school. It is the kind of magic that does not require a coven, but mere will. Whilst other witches study their goals, they practice, they focus their intentions – you do not need that. It merely happens for you. That is how loud your magic was.

Your grandmother noticed from the second you were born. She taught you everything she remembered from the old ways; basic magic to get you started – sigils, bloodwork, wards, ancestral work. A natural-born witch like you inevitably learned fast, everything clicking into place with ease. Living with her now, the two of you reside in an overgrown cottage in the middle of a half-forgotten wood. Cats roam nearby, crows fly overhead, and any unwanted being feels repelled from the space.

The house is filled with jars of crushed bones, dried herbs, moth wings. Candles on every surface. Charms lying around. Incense sticks around. Drawings of spiders, rats, crows – all misunderstood creatures. The floorboards covered in patterns of protection sigils and runes, disguised with rugs. Windows always open, so the spirits may come and go as they please.

The entire energy of the house keeps the unwanted beings away. Like vampires, for starters. Those live like shadows – still among humans, masked, but if you look close enough, you know how to spot them. They’re too perfect. Too still. Blank eyes. An easy charm. Easy to fall in love with them. A spell in its own right.

They arrived months ago. That family of brothers - four of them. Beautiful, smart, wise. They kept to themselves, despite everyone fawning for their attention. Suguru charmed the staff with practiced ease and gained the attention of all the girls. Toji looked half-asleep most of the time, slouched in his seat, complaining about the constant boredom. Sukuna didn’t bother pretending at all – all sharp lines and red scars. They were all in the years above.

Then there was Choso. The one in your year. In your classes. He was always on time, though he barely spoke. He always wore the same black clothes; typically black hoodies. He never spoke to you. He switched seats the week you were assigned next to him in one of your classes. It’s clear, from the get go, that he’s made it his personal mission to avoid you at all costs. Yet, when you look over sometimes, you notice him already looking. Perhaps it has something to do with what your grandmother said: witch blood is sweeter than normal blood to them. The older ones may be more experienced, they may know better, but it’ll never stop them.

Yet, as you run through the hallways, already late to your class, you round the corner and the inevitable happens. You collide with a cold figure. Even as you collide, he does not budge. It’s like hitting a brick wall. Choso looks down at you when you bounce back, and merely stares at you with a deadpan. He’s most definitely judging.