#the way they taunt each other when doing any sort of competition is fantastic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gukyi · 6 years

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tutor | knj

⇒ summary: competition has always been a thing at hogwarts, but not even the house ghosts could be prepared for the volcanic explosion otherwise known as the culmination of the rivalry between you and fellow top student kim namjoon.

⇒ {hogwarts!au, enemies to lovers!au (what a shocker!)}

⇒ pairing: namjoon x female reader

⇒ word count: 11k

⇒ genre: fluff and like a very very little bit of angst? actually i don’t even think it counts. just fluff.

⇒ warnings: n/a

⇒ a/n: she’s back! it’s been actual months since i last posted part of my sorted series, rip. unsurprisingly, this is an enemies to lovers au. bc i can never stop writing them. i’m sorry that i’m not sorry. i actually have another e2l jimin au in mind. great. this is just a little twist on the typical tutor au! hope u enjoy!!

Present

Third year you would never even think about fighting Kim Namjoon. Small, lanky Kim Namjoon whose glasses are too big for his face and whose words stumble over each other.

Seventh year you can’t think about doing anything else. He makes you want to chuck a big, heavy textbook at him, one from the Restricted section that’ll bite his head right off after it hits him.

Maybe then you’ll finally get some relief from his obnoxious, egotistical, infuriating presence. But for now, you’re stuck with him, stuck in this endless fucking cycle of taunting and teasing and gloating, back and forth and back and forth, because neither of you can do anything that can risk the two of you getting expelled. Gotta love being top students with their whole potentials in front of them.

“Hey, Y/N,” his snarky voice catches your attention as he spots you working diligently in the Great Hall after school hours. You know it’s him without even looking up from your textbook, can hear the thundering footsteps of him and whatever members of his gregarious possy, but you refuse to give him the time of day like this. Namjoon always has a fantastic way of interrupting your lifestyle at the exact moment when you could do with zero distractions. “How’d you do on that essay for Binns?”

Keeping your head down, you continue to furiously scribble your notes, avoiding him at all costs, not wanting to let him have what he wants: your response. Namjoon wouldn’t be asking you about your most recent History of Magic essay unless he knew something you didn’t, had some sort of leverage on you that he gets to dangle above your head.

“Shove off, Kim,” you grumble, turning your head in the opposite direction as you feel him looming over you, leaning down by your side to boast in your face.

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” he coaxes. “Won’t kill you just to say it.”

“A 97, alright, asshole? Satisfied?” You spit out, sick of Namjoon’s shit and his better grades and charming life. The Binns essay hadn’t been your best work, you’re aware of that much, especially considering you had written it while running on minimal sleep and the ever-persistent pressures of future aspirations. You know. The usual. No need for Namjoon to brag about his probable 100 in your face. You know you can do better. You have.

“Very,” Namjoon grins, shooting you his precious face with his precious dimples. God, how you wish you could smack them right off of his face and watch them fall to the floor, useless. “Especially after getting a 103 on mine.”

Namjoon even whips out the scroll to show you, as if you need further proof that he got a higher grade, bright red 103 and a smiley face right next to it at the top of his essay, staring back at you like a reflection in a broken mirror. You didn’t even know Binns gave extra credit, the fuck? You want in on some of that. You’re second in that class only to Namjoon.

“How on Earth did you manage to trick your way into Binns giving you extra credit?” You ask, appalled and personally insulted. “You don’t deserve those extra three points any more than I do.”

“Hey, maybe if you had gotten those three points instead of me, you’d actually have a chance at beating me in that class,” Namjoon singsongs, taunting you with no qualms. He never seems to have any of those whenever he’s around you. It’s a poor characteristic to have, quite frankly. He should work on that.

“Bask in that perfect score in History of Magic, Namjoon, a class that has so much relevance to current events,” you sneer back, not permitting yourself to lose to him, cave in. Even if survival meant giving up your last shred of dignity on this godforsaken Earth to him, you’d choose to die. “Really. It’s outstanding. My 100 in Transfiguration is shaking in its boots.”

“Never said this was a competition, Miss Y/N. No need to be bitter about our scores,” Namjoon says patronizingly, patting your shoulder like he’s fucking reassuring you of your self-worth after finding out that you got a slightly lower score than him on an essay. What a tool. “See you in Potions, hey? Don’t wait up.”

��Wouldn’t fucking dream of it,” you respond, heaving a sigh as you roll your eyes, turning back to your work as Namjoon and his crew’s boisterous laughter echoes throughout the Great Hall as they leave to go play practical jokes on the ghosts or make a mess in the fairgrounds or chuck Quidditch balls at each other, or something like that.

But still, even as you finish up your note-taking for the chapter and move on to another assignment from your Astronomy professor, that bright red 103 flashes in your mind, brain stuck on it because god damnit, can’t Namjoon just give you one fucking break? Does he want a fucking prize for getting a better grade than you on a single essay throughout your entire Hogwarts career?

Scratch that. He’s already got his reward, and it’s your misery.

Life goes on, but time ticks by ever so slowly as you count down the days until graduation—until you never have to see Kim Namjoon’s face in your life ever again—that even a Time Turner would move too quickly.

Fourth Year

When McGonagall hands back your tests from the day prior and you see a shining 100% at the top of your paper, you smile. Your eager eyes scan the papers of your classmates, quickly glancing down at the red ink scrawled at the top of your page, and find that you’re the only perfect score within your view.

If this had happened during first year, you’d shrug it off, call it a fluke and just assume that you knew this single topic better than the rest of your peers, you suppose, but it’s not. You’re in your fourth year already, over three years worth of Transfiguration classes under your belt, and any student in your class would be an idiot not to realize your untapped potential in the subject. School has always come easy to you but Transfiguration in and of itself is like second nature. Like a key in a padlock, it clicks.

Humble as ever, you treat your 100% casually, like it’s no big deal, because it’s not. Not when you’ve been getting 100’s in the class ever since September 2nd of your first year with minimal battle. Another day, another test, another one hundred.

“Y/N,” your friend says as she nudges your arm, resting on the desk. You snap out of your distant haze and turn to her, eyebrow raised. “Can you explain number three to me? I don’t understand it.”

“Sure,” you say, happy to help. One thing that comes along with perfect grades (whether you like it or not) is people constantly asking you for explanations, answers, definitions, seeking the right from someone who’s never wrong. Not that you’re complaining. You love to help people. “What’s up?”

“I don’t understand the theory behind the cross-species switches,” your friend continues, scratching her head and furrowing her brows as she shows you her assessment, a big red X marking number three. “Like, I understand that the spells have to be adapted, but I don’t understand how to do that.”

You glance down at her paper before quickly letting your eyes scan over your own, comparing answers as you figure out how to explain the necessity of adaptation in cross-species switches to her without sounding like a pretentious asshole. “Well, you have to consider the scenario.”

Your friend looks at you like you’ve just grown four heads.

“Um, say… say you’re trying to give a mouse cat-like qualities,” you begin, going back to one of the example scenarios that McGonagall gave you a week or so ago. “You have to adapt the spell so you don’t screw up any of the mouse’s internal organs and kill it in the process. Or even leave it stuck in the weird in-between of mouse and mouse-cat. So how are you supposed to cater to the mouse?”

“You lower the spell’s impact since the mouse is smaller than the cat?” Your friend asks, wincing and unsure.

You snap your fingers, letting them morph quickly into some finger guns as you smile. “You got it.”

“Oh,” your friend realizes, that sweet, sweet look of recognition finally washing over her face. “Oh, I get it now. Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem,” you say happily, shrugging your shoulders. “I’m always happy to help you.”

Your friend beams in response, pleased that she’s got such a loyal pal like you to always assist with tests and quizzes and homework questions whenever needed.

It’s right then that McGonagall clears her throat to grab everyone’s utmost attention, standing up behind her desk to address the class. You turn back to face her, letting your eyes scan over all of the trinkets on her desk. You swear you see a Time Turner shining in a little box as it catches the light of the sun, but maybe that’s just your imagination. Time Turners are awfully difficult to get ahold of, these days.

“I trust that all of you had enough time to review your answers on the test and assess your mistakes,” she says sternly. Ah, your favorite no-nonsense teacher. “Some of you need not worry about this section on the theory,” she says, and your cheeks heat up when she narrows her eyes at you through her rounded glasses, curling in on yourself as other people turn to look at you, unsurprised. “And some of you need to start reviewing more and paying attention to the lessons in class. Your overall class average for this assessment was abysmal. I highly recommend seeking out extra help, either from myself or from your peers, some of which could teach you this subject very well. Most of you could use the assistance.”

The bell rings.

“Class dismissed. Miss Y/L/N, come here for a moment?”

Your friend shrugs helplessly as she gathers her stuff and leaves the room, sending you a sorry smile as you approach McGonagall’s desk with caution, unsure of what she wants from you. You haven’t done anything wrong, as far as you’re aware, and you know for a fact that she isn’t concerned about whether or not you’re grasping the curriculum, so what gives?

“Professor?” You ask, turning back to see the class empty.

“You did remarkably well on this test,” she compliments, lips curling upwards into a smile. “My only perfect score.”

Your cheeks heat up again and you can feel your ears getting clammy. Even if you’re used to doing well in her class, it’s always an honor to hear her directly praising you. Really helps with the constant desire for validation as a student.

“Thank you, Professor,” you say, tipping your head slightly.

“I do hope that you’ll consider becoming a tutor for your peers,” she says as she shuffles through her papers. “I believe you’d be a fantastic help to some of the students who are struggling in this course. I saw you help your friend. You teach very well.”

You stumble over your words. “Oh, um, that was just—”

“Consider being a tutor, Y/N. Not just for this subject, but for all of them. You are an incredibly gifted individual and your help is probably much-needed around here. I could help you arrange a schedule of sorts, if you’d like. Perhaps talk to Madam Pince?”

“I don’t know, Professor, I don’t think I’m very qualified to teach other students, I mean—” You say, wracking your brain for something to say. Tutoring at Hogwarts is a big deal, honestly, especially because the courses are so vigorous and require more than just a simple explanation to comprehend. You don’t think you have the credentials to be something of an assistant to your professors.

“You are more than qualified, Miss Y/L/N. I’m willing to give you a bit of extra credit as well, for your work outside of class,” McGonagall says, and damn, she’s good. Extra credit will always get you on board. Even if you don’t need the extra points (not with your perfect grade in her class), it’s always nice to have that backup just in case you majorly screw up a test or essay or presentation. Plus, boasting about your over-100 grades every now and then to people who bother you is kind of nice. Just a little.

“When would I do it?” You ask, suddenly more intrigued in the topic.

McGonagall beams to herself, happy to see that she’s managed to bribe you into doing this, and whips out a spare scroll, scribbling down schedules and suggestions.

When she’s finished, you’re twenty minutes late to your next class (Arithmancy, so it’s not like you’re missing anything important) and have a pretty substantial list of students and faculty to speak to, as well as a thoroughly organized schedule for the next month, at least.

Your first tutoring session begins tomorrow, right after your last class at 3PM sharp in the library.

Extra credit has never tasted so sweet.

The library is always busy the second classes let out. Nobody really wants to go back to their common rooms just yet, wanting the milk the time before curfew as much as possible away from their dorms. People scramble to grab a seat at the limited amount of desks among the bookcases before some other upperclassman hexes it to claim it as theirs for the night, but you’re in no rush. Pince knows that you’re coming.

You push open the door to the library with your shoulder, scanning for the first student you’ll be tutoring, a boy from your own Transfiguration class who apparently did poorly on the most recent test. As you do, you quickly glance at the bulletin board on the wall, glowing flyers screaming at you to sign up for the latest club, try out for the Quidditch team (even though first years never make the house team), audition for the frog choir. There’s one that has no slips of paper left to tear off, but you don’t have time to inspect it any further, wonder what on Earth could be going on at this school that so many people would be desperate to sign up for, before you have to begin the session.

The boy is loitering around by the checkout desk, books clutched tightly to his chest as you catch his eye. You reach your arm out and wave, signaling to him that you’re here.

“I, um,” you begin. “This is the first time I’ve done this, so I’m really sorry if this is kind of rough.”

The kid shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m desperate at this point. McGonagall will have my head if I fail the next test.”

You chuckle awkwardly, unable to relate but able to sympathize. “Then we should get started soon, right?”

You and the boy start to weave your way through the bookshelves, skirting through small groups of students gathering in the library to quietly gossip and books marching around by themselves, ordered to go back to their designated spot.

“McGonagall helped me set this up, actually,” you say in order to fill in the silence. “She had arranged with other teachers to coordinate and talked to Madam Pince about me formally doing this in the library, and—”

Your shoes squeak against the hardwood floor as you come to a stop in the table that McGonagall had specifically reserved for you for your tutoring, making all of the students around you wince as they turn towards the source of the noise. There’s a boy you vaguely recognize already camped out at your table, and what makes matters impossibly worse is that it looks like he’s tutoring someone too.

“Can I help you?” the boy asks as he looks up at your flabbergasted expression, a single eyebrow raised in annoyance.

“Um,” you start, unsure of how you’re supposed to deal with the situation at hand. Before you can stop yourself, you belt out a “Who are you?”

“Kim Namjoon,” the boy replies, frowning as he peers over his glasses to inspect you. He doesn’t seem very impressed, which in turn has you puffing out your chest slightly and straightening your posture. “Fourth year.”

“Well, Kim Namjoon, I—”

“Who are you?” Namjoon asks, interrupting you.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you respond, as confidently as you can muster.

“Is there a reason you’re hovering over my tutoring session, Y/N Y/L/N? If you need help with your schoolwork, you’re going to have to arrange something with me,” Namjoon says ever so rudely, making you furrow your brows in distaste.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m quite busy these days, so if you need me to tutor you in anything, you’ll have to schedule it beforehand. My apologies,” Namjoon says, clearly hoping to end the conversation and get back to whatever the hell he thinks he’s doing in your designated spot.

“I don’t need your help in anything,” you inform him matter-of-factly. “Though I do believe that you’re tutoring in my spot.”

“Your spot?” Namjoon asks, standing up with his palms pressed onto the table, doubtful look on his face. “What makes you think this table belongs to you? I don’t see your name on it.”

You’re speechless, mouth working desperately to say something in response, put whoever this kid thinks he is in his place. “Professor McGonagall had arranged that I tutor students here.”

“Sorry, Y/L/N, but you’ll have to find another spot,” Namjoon says, shrugging helplessly despite your wordless protests. “Maybe some other time.”

You can do nothing except turn to the boy standing behind you, whose eyes are wide in confusion, and smile apologetically. You glare Kim Namjoon’s way, bitter and petty and everything else a Ravenclaw should always be, and begin to search for a new place to tutor.

Kim Namjoon is someone you barely remember, left with only hazy memories of him at the sorting ceremony and perhaps in one or two of your classes during your time at Hogwarts. He’s a quiet kid, easy to overlook and disregard, because he never speaks, never raises his hand, never even looks up at people. You don’t know much about him, but you had always assumed him another harmless student who’s just letting their time at Hogwarts pass before they move onto bigger and better things.

Apparently, you were wrong.

Because now, quiet, geeky, timid Kim Namjoon has some sort of superiority complex ingrained in his mind, and it’s more than clear to you that you’ve got some competition, a sensation you’ve never had the luxury of experiencing before.

You and the boy end up camping out on the floor of the library by one of the windows, unable to find an empty table for you to do your work on. It’s out of view of whoever Kim Namjoon is and whatever he’s doing, but the only image that seems to stick in your mind as you teach this kid the theory behind cross-species switches and help him with his textbook reading is that of Namjoon’s unimpressed, judgemental face as he stares you down with his hands pressing down on your table, taking up your precious time with this stupid tutoring nonsense of his.

McGonagall never mentioned anything about another student. Especially one that’s already developed an obvious dislike for you. Not that it’s not reciprocated, or anything. Because it is.

Because this means war.

Present

As you enter the library, you quickly hex the poster on the bulletin board advertising Namjoon’s nonsense tutoring business and changing it to a picture of a couple of bright orange Kneazles, his least favorite animal. Just for good measure. You always knew Transfiguration would come in handy.

This isn’t the first time you’ve definitely tried to sabotage Namjoon’s tutoring… thing. It’s only one aspect of this ridiculously overgrown rivalry that’s settled in between the two of you. Neither of you happen to be Slytherins, but you have no problems spreading rumors and ruining each other’s posters in order to beat each other out. You don’t know how many times you’ve had to restore your posters and flyers to their original glory after seeing Namjoon deface all of them. All’s fair in love and war, except there’s no love here. It’s just war.

“Hey,” you say as you greet your tutoree of the day, a friend of a friend of yours who’s been lacking in Potions recently. She’s one of your most loyal students, not to mention the fact that the two of you both seem to share quite the dislike for a certain Kim Namjoon, making your sessions half-education parties and half-gossip fests. “Ready?”

She nods happily, and the two of you scramble to grab the last empty table before Namjoon can snatch it for himself with taunting grin on his face as he forces you elsewhere. It’s open, thank God, and you quickly take your seats so you can get down to business.

“What work do you have?” You ask, pulling out your Potions textbook and a quill.

“Uh, just some chemical problems. I have a really big Potions project that’s due next Friday, though, so I’d like to work on that, too,” she responds.

“Which you haven’t started yet, right?” You ask, an eyebrow raised.

She blushes. “You know me too well, Y/N.”

“Only because we’ve been friends for two years, already,” you shrug, taking a quick glance at her homework so you can open your textbook to some example problems that match up with the lesson.

“Listen,” she says in a much softer voice, leaning over the table to whisper in your ear. “My friend just had this awful experience with Namjoon.”

You can’t say you’re particularly surprised. You could probably count on one hand the amount of experiences that you’ve had with Namjoon that have even been somewhat bearable. “What happened?”

“You know how my friend writes in her journal, right? She’s the only kid in our year that still does.”

The girl in question rings a bell in your brain. She never lets anybody look into her journal, for obvious reasons.

“Yeah, she and that Min Yoongi kid both do,” you say, thinking of that quiet Slytherin boy you sometimes see hanging out with Namjoon and the rest of his boisterous gaggle. Every time you see them together, you wonder what on Earth could have led the universe to make them friends, because Min Yoongi seems so nice and reserved and Namjoon… well.

“Well, the other day—” the girl says as you begin to copy down the first homework problem, the answer already clear in your mind. Mental math is your best friend. That, and McGonagall. “—she spilled tea or something all over her journal and she had to lay it out on a bunch of copies of the Daily Prophet to let it dry. And then Kim just waltzes over and reads the damn thing.”

The story has you rolling your eyes in disappointment. It’s not even shocking that Namjoon has no concept of personal space nor personal belongings. After all, he’s spent the past three years vandalizing your property and breathing down your neck. But still, snooping in someone else’s private journal is rude, uncouth, and generally frowned upon. Not that Namjoon is any good at not being any of those things.

“I wish I could tell you that I’m surprised,” you say, shaking your head. “He’s always been like that.”

“Always been like what?”

You almost don’t even want to turn around to face the source of the voice, already knowing damn well who it is and why he’s there. You should have been trash talking him louder.

“We’re a little busy here, Kim,” your friend says, clearly not any happier than you in his presence.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Namjoon responds, catching a glimpse of the blank parchment in front of you, only the first problem written down, not even solved. “Should have signed up for my tutoring program, Mina. I would have had your homework done by now.”

“Because you do their work for them and they don’t learn anything,” you spit as you barge into the conversation. “You wanna know what you’ve always been like, Kim?” You ask, standing up to challenge him. Namjoon’s taller than you, always has been and always will be, but that doesn’t mean he’s any more intimidating.

“Hmm,” Namjoon says, looking up to ponder the question at hand. “Charming? Bright? Smarter than you?”

“An asshole,” you bite.

“That wasn’t anywhere near my top ten, Y/N. Your guessing game is really weak. Like you,” Namjoon comments, lips downturned.

Your hands are already curled into balls before the words leave his mouth. “You wanna see weak, Kim?” You ask, fists raised and your right hand shooting towards his chest.

Namjoon grabs it without a second thought, holding you dead in place with his hand wrapped around your knuckles, pale in anger, and he shakes his head disapprovingly. “Weak,” he whispers, staring you straight in the face. You’re shaking with fury and rage, refusing to bow down to his unforgiving gaze as you look right back into his brown eyes, twinkling with victory.

Mina places gentle hands on your upper arms, calming you down slightly as you take deep breaths, refusing to stoop any lower than you already have. By this point, any fucking dignity you have left is gone and it doesn’t even matter, because you’re a lot of things, but being ashamed of hating Namjoon isn’t one of them.

“Hope you finish your homework soon, Mina, or I might have to ask Snape tomorrow if he can double the workload, just because I don’t think that some of the kids in our class are truly grasping the lesson,” Namjoon bids the two of you goodbye, voice sickeningly sweet as he turns on his heel to leave the library. On the way out, you catch him Transfigure his poster back to its original state as the door closes behind him.

“Fucking Kim,” you mutter, body still on fire from the exchange. “I wish I could punch that fucker in the face.”

“The day we graduate, I know you will,” Mina assures you, rubbing your back as she turns her focus to the textbook problems in front of her.

You wonder what celestial body in the mass known as the universe decided to make KIm Namjoon the bane of your existence, this constant presence that you can’t get rid of, like a gnat buzzing around your head on a hot summer day. Namjoon’s no better than a damn horsefly, only every waking moment of yours is spent thinking about him, every day is a new challenge to beat him in.

There’s never a second when Kim Namjoon isn’t on your mind, and perhaps that’s the worst part of it all.

Because no matter how hard you try to get him to leave, he’ll always come back.

Fourth Year

You get over the table fiasco the day after it happens. Even though you definitely were taken aback by Kim Namjoon’s impudent behavior, you suppose it’s something you can look past if the two of you can just come to some sort of agreement and get on with your lives. No need to hold this massive grudge over a misunderstanding.

After asking around, you hear a few things about Kim Namjoon. You hear he’s good friends with that one boy who’s already in his sixth year, the good-looking one that’s most definitely going to be head boy next year. You hear that he’s also friends with some kids in the year below you, a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin, one of whom is a beast at Quidditch. He’s buddies with the Herbology whiz in your grade, the one that bounces around like there’s this constant flow of sunshine running through his veins. He even knows one of the first years, a kid you’ve never heard of but everyone else has.

Kim Namjoon is apparently friends with everybody in the school, you gather as you keep hearing things about him. Nobody knew who he was last year, but this year, everybody does, and you wonder what’s changed. What turned him from wallflower to center stage?

The problem with looking past the table incident, is that you don’t expect it to happen again. Too lazy to talk with McGonagall about arranging something different, you let it go and assume that Namjoon won’t be there the next day, and that you can tutor in peace. As suspicious as the boy is, you give him the benefit of the doubt and just hope that he won’t bother you again.

But you’re wrong.

Because the second you walk into the library you notice a flyer advertising his tutoring skills tacked right on top of yours, blocking every word on your poster from view. And with a quick turn of your head, you spot him settling down at the table. Your table. He’s smiling to himself as he chats casually with the girl across from him, who’s tugging her textbook from her bag.

The girl you’re supposed to meet up with isn’t here yet, which gives you plenty of time to either: think this whole thing through and act calm and composed as you politely ask Namjoon for the table, or storm up to him and tell him that you have every right under the sun to use this table, especially after yesterday. And, as good of a student as you are, your communication skills have always been a bit lacking.

“I’m pretty sure I get to use this table today,” you say, not really caring about what conversation you’re interrupting as you march up to Namjoon, scowl on your face.

“Ugh, it’s you again,” Namjoon says, frowning as he turns to look up at you, and honestly, how on Earth did this boy manage to befriend half of the student body? “Excuse me, for just one moment,” he says as he looks at the girl in front of him apologetically. “Can I help you with something, Y/N?”

“Could you go find somewhere else to tutor? Anywhere else?” You ask, eyes wide. “Because you were here yesterday, and I need this table to tutor my own students.”

“What, angry that you didn’t get here early enough?” Namjoon asks, pouting as he looks at you, patronizing and enraging. “That’s not my fault.”

“Can we work out some kind of schedule, or something? I don’t understand what’s so difficult about us compromising,” you say, rolling your eyes, already tired of this conversation.

“I thought you were supposed to be intelligent, Y/N,” Namjoon tsks, shaking his head. “But it’s clear that you can’t see why, so I guess I’ll have to spell it out for you.”

Your mouth drops open.

“You’re competition, Y/N,” Namjoon says, leaning over with his face barely an inch away from yours. Your eyes are stark wide as they stare into his, face frozen without a word on your tongue, nothing to get out in response. “And I don’t take kindly to competition, so you better step up your game if you want any shot at beating me.”

“I don’t want to play this game of yours,” you insist, but Namjoon just shrugs helplessly, sitting back down and turning his attention to the girl in front of him. You heave out a breath, appalled, offended, and seeking revenge. Maybe you told Namjoon that competition isn’t for you, but when you’re up against a grade A asshole and your entire reputation is at stake, well… let the games begin.

You see the girl you’re supposed to tutor as you march out of the library, footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor as you figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do next, because you can’t bear another floor session and Namjoon’s taunting. With a final turn back to the table that’s apparently no longer yours, glaring down Namjoon’s back with a scowl scrawled all over your face, you meet up with the girl and force out a smile.

“This place is too crowded,” you fib. “Let’s go to the Great Hall, instead. There’s more space there.”

Kim Namjoon deems you not only competition inside the library, but also outside of it, after a double Charms class between the fourth-year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. You didn’t even realize how many classes you actually shared with him until he became an unwelcome presence in your life, but now that you do, it seems that he’s always hot on your tail.

Charms is another one of those subjects that you could probably safely call “a walk in the park”, mostly because nothing in that class is ever difficult or particularly mind-boggling. You are positive that you’ve definitely fallen asleep in the class before, and you still have a perfect grade so hey, what does it matter?

It matters when the entire class is dedicated to perfecting the Summoning Charm, a spell you mastered the second time you ever uttered the words, and right out from under you, your quill is snatched away from you as you’re finishing up your Arithmancy homework for the next two days. It’s tugged right from your hand, and you barely have time to react to its rapid disappearance before you hear a familiar laugh.

From across the classroom, Kim Namjoon is sitting, grinning wildly with a devious smirk on his face, your quill dangling from his fingers. You know you can’t go up and get the damn thing and disrupt the whole class, but luckily for you, you know another way to get your quill back.

“Accio,” you cast with your wand pointed directly at the quill in question, lips curling up into a smile as you watch it break free from Namjoon’s grasp and fly right back to you.

The best part about this? Flitwick sees.

“Did you catch that, class?” He chirps happily as he beams up at you from the stack of books he stands on. “Miss Y/L/N did it! Wonderful job, Miss Y/L/N! Five points to Ravenclaw for your perfect pronunciation and strong wand movement. Did you see it? The quill flew right to her! That’s how the Summoning Charm should be performed.”

You feel your cheeks heating up as everyone turns to stare at you, some in pride and some in envy, but the innocent smile on your face soon morphs into that of sweet, sweet victory as you turn to meet Namjoon’s eyes. He’s got a smirk on his face, almost as if to say, “Smart move” as he nods slowly to himself.

Before you know it, your quill is back in his hands as he grins proudly, twirling it between his thumb and pointer fingers.

“Mr. Kim! You too!” Flitwick declares cheerfully. “Excellent form, excellent, excellent. Five points to Gryffindor for your fantastic job, as well. Students! Watch Miss Y/L/N and Mr. Kim, as they know extremely well how the Summoning Charm is to be cast.”

It’s a good move. Almost too good, if you think about it, but playing games on your own is no fun. The more, the merrier.

“Accio,” you say back, bringing your quill back to you. Hardly a second has passed before it’s back in Namjoon’s hands.

The two of you go back and forth like this, friendly fire across the room, much to Flitwick’s delight, both of you unable to let this go. Your smirks grow wider as you cast the charm over and over like it’s nobody’s business, completely outshining the rest of the class with your little battle, only one of the war. By the end of the period, you don’t know how many times you’ve said the word “Accio,” but it’s enough for each letter to have carved a space on your tongue as you happily grin down at the quill in your hand.

Flitwick stops the both of you when class is over, keeping you back from your next lesson to do nothing but shower praise.

“You two are the brightest students I’ve seen in a very long time,” he informs you with glee. “Your performances today were outstanding. I’ve never seen two people so engaged in a lesson before.”

You and Namjoon look at each other, stuffing down your scowls and replacing them with fake smiles instead.

“I should hope that every day will be like this,” Flitwick says. “You both are dismissed.”

“Think you got the best of me, hey, Y/N?” Namjoon asks on the way out, devilish grin on his face as he looks at you. “Finally managed to beat me?”

“You’ll never admit it,” you retort back.

“That I won’t,” Namjoon nods in assurance. “But we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

“What’s the last laugh supposed to mean when you could have the last word instead?” You challenge, stopped dead in the middle of the hallway as you stare at each other, each with untrustworthy smiles on your faces. Like this, Namjoon actually looks like someone whose company you might have enjoyed. Like this, there’s a little voice in the back of your brain that whispers promises of friendship, or at least, acquaintance-ship. But you shake those thoughts out of your mind, nearly scoffing aloud at the very idea of the two of you being anything less than mortal enemies.

Kim Namjoon leans in close, and he murmurs into your ear, “Better pick your words wisely, then, Miss Y/N.”

With that, he’s gone, and when you take a seat in Defense Against the Dark Arts and fish through your bag for a writing utensil, you find yourself quill-less. Almost as if on cue, Namjoon’s laughter rings through your ears.

God damnit.

Present

Visiting Hogsmeade is always your favorite part of the year. Always. Time away from schoolwork, from pressing teachers, and your very favorite, time away from Kim Namjoon’s obnoxiously omnipresent existence. You had calculated it two years ago—the odds of you seeing Namjoon on any given day at Hogsmeade is roughly 1 in 4258, a meager 0.023% of you even having to catch a glimpse of the boy. It’s the most satisfying basic arithmetic you’ve ever done. Nothing says sweet weekend vacation like the promise that you don’t have to lay your eyes on your one and only nemesis while there.

Hogsmeade is the one place where you can let your worries run free, scurry off into nothingness as you take in the scent of snow, butterbeer, and pumpkin pasties. You trust that luck is on your side, for if Namjoon really wanted to bother you while the two of you were both at Hogwarts, all he’d have to do is look a little bit harder. He’d find you. And so far, he’s made no attempts at tracking you down to terrorize you on your one weekend of freedom from his overbearing self.

Surprisingly enough, neither of you have resorted to those prank toys sold at the Zonko’s to outdo one another. Sure, your rivalry is childish and definitely worthy of a couple of fake quills and vanishing ink—at least, maturity-wise—but neither of you seem very drawn to the idea of them, and randomly bringing those nonsense tricks into the game now would just be breaking the status quo. The competition between the two of you is unnecessarily volcanic, but if there’s one thing you can agree on, it’s the fact that it is hardly based on petty tricks and practical jokes. No, you fight like real people. With words. And sometimes wands.

That is, until you somehow find yourself separated from your group of friends, and realize that you fight with snowballs, as well.

The first time, it sort of feels like someone just accidentally bumped into you, elbowed your back slightly as they’re weaving their way through the crowd. You almost make to apologize, the “Sorry” on the tip of your tongue, when it happens again. This time, there’s no mistaking the wetness on your back, damp clothes touching skin as you freeze up from the ice.

Kim Namjoon is standing by the entrance to the path that leads toward the Shrieking Shack lookout with his head tilted back, howling with laughter. You see a couple of his friends dart down the path when they notice your smouldering gaze, see how their feet make skidded footprints in the snow as they run.

Namjoon finally makes eye contact with you, but there’s no fear in his irises. He’s not scared of you, never has been, probably never will be, despite your best efforts, only grinning like he’s victorious. He’s bundled up tight but his hands are bare as they form another snowball, one you know will hit you right in the fucking noggin if you’re not smart with your next move. Either you reach down to hit him with a snowball first, or you run, desperate to wreak your revenge on him.

This is a new level of low for the both of you, you realize, having never done this before even in spite of the fact that you’ve definitely been on many a Hogsmeade outing together in your time. You had always done such a damn good job of avoiding him, pushing him to the back of your mind as you laugh with your friends as you trade Chocolate Frog cards and get Butterbeer foam on your nose. But this time, it’s different. This time, Namjoon wants to make himself known to you.

You dodge Namjoon’s next throw only barely, managing to move your head just in the nick of time as you gather up your own snowball, devious grin taking over your face as you run towards him, chasing him down. Namjoon’s smart, and he knows that you’re reckless and carefree, and so he bolts, turning down the path quickly as he follows in the footsteps of his friends. With his name on your lips, you chase him down, half-fuming, half-giggling.

It’s easy to track him down, following the sets of three different footprints to an area that you already know well enough. You keep your eyes trained on the prints in front of you, not wanting to get ambushed by a certain someone who may have taken another road.

When you reach the clearing, nobody’s there, and the footprints end.

“Stop being a coward and face me, Kim!” You shout to nobody, snowball held firmly in between your palms as you swivel around. You’re suspicious and wary, knowing that Namjoon wouldn’t lead you on some wild goose chase and make you look like a fucking idiot in the middle of the lookout to the Shrieking Shack.

Out of nowhere, a snowball comes hurdling right towards your head. You notice it at the last second, not enough time to cast a spell to deflect it but just enough to quickly move your head. It crashes onto the snowy floor behind you, collapsing into a million bits. Fuck, you forgot that one of Namjoon’s friends has an Invisibility cloak. They’re probably using that.

“Gonna hide behind a fucking cloak for this whole thing, huh, Kim? That’s low,” you shout in the direction of the source of the snowball, smirk on your face.

Crash!

Your neck and back are sopping wet, skin shivering from the dampness as you feel the ice fall off of your coat. Damnit.

“Kim!” You shriek, snowball at the ready.

Just then, two boys come scurrying out of a back path, one of them you recognize as the kid with the aforementioned Invisibility cloak. They’re giggling, but you make eye contact with both of them and they dash, not wanting to be involved in whatever battle is about to occur any longer. They’re young kids, probably no more than fourth years, but with them gone, you know it’s just you and Namjoon now.

“Found me yet, Y/N?” His voice echoes, body still hidden amongst the snowy trees and rocks.

“I see how it is,” you call back, crossing your arms over your chest in disappointment. “You’re just gonna taunt me from wherever you’re hiding and pelt snowballs at me from an unseen location instead of just dueling me like a real wizard.”

“You want to face me head-to-head, Y/N?” Namjoon asks. “Fine.”

Before you can even think about a snarky response, you feel an unmistakable thud on your head, and feel the ice dripping down your hair. It’s a small snowball, you know that much—Namjoon would never purposefully put you in danger—but it does the job and it does it well, because your body heats up in rage as you tilt your head straight up to the sky and see Namjoon casually sitting on one of the branches above.

“You asked for it, Y/N!” Namjoon shouts before jumping down, casting a wordless spell to break his fall. “Head to head.”

The first thing you do when he’s finally at your eye-level is pelt your snowball at him, watching in glee as it hits his chest and knocks the wind right out of him. Namjoon gasps slightly, but when he looks back to meet your eyes, ignited with flames, he’s grinning like a villain, dangerous smirk on his face.

Next thing you know, you have a full-scale snowball war on your hands, skids in the snow on the ground and laughter erupting from your lungs.

From a distance, the two of you might look like friends. Friends who are casually having a snowball fight in an empty clearing while on a school trip to Hogsmeade. Friends who are playfully competitive but enjoy each other’s presence regardless. From a distance, the two of you actually look like you might get along with each other.

But you can’t. You swear, you’d rather die than be the last person on Earth with Namjoon by your side, you swear that you’ll hate the kid until the end of time itself. There’s no fathomable way that you could ever get along with him, cooperate for even just one second. You’re enemies. You will always be enemies.

You’re firing at him rapidly now, snowball after snowball after snowball as you hide behind the white-covered park bench that looks out towards the Shrieking Shack, giggles bubbling in your voice as each one comes in contact with Namjoon’s body. With one final blow, you throw your largest snowball right at his torso, a loud thud erupting as it hits him, making him fall onto the snowy floor with a grunt.

Victorious laughter leaves your throat as you watch him fall, happy to see that you’ve finally fucking beat him in something, but the smile on your face soon dissipates when you notice his unmoving body. Suddenly, concern washes over your features as you run over to him. God, what did you do? The snowball couldn’t have been that strong, fuck.

“Kim? Kim, you alright?” You ask as you stand over him, nudging his still leg with your foot to see if it’ll get him up. “Namjoon?”

He’s silent, eyes closed softly, snowflakes dotting his eyelashes.

“Kim?” You repeat, leaning down as you look over him, head hovering above his. “Get up, Kim. Stop pretending. Kim!”

You’ll never admit it to him, but panic overtakes you for a brief second as you dwell on the worst thoughts that pop into your brain, that he hit his head on the hard floor, rendering him unconscious.

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself as you look around, hoping nobody sees the two of you like this, with your body hovering over his as your chest seizes up in fear.

Just then, something grabs the arm that’s loitering right next to him and tugs you down into the snow. You shriek in surprise as your head hits his chest and warm laughter bubbles up from his throat.

“Got you!” Namjoon taunts happily, craning his neck down to get a good look at your speechless expression, mouth open but no words coming out. “God, you looked so worried, Y/N. Does that mean you actually care about me?” He asks you, gazing into your eyes with his own victory scrawled all over his face.

You scoff, pushing yourself off of him as you dust the snow from your arms and chest. “As if. You just scared me, ‘s all. I didn’t want to be held accountable for your death while still a student.” You’re flustered, ears burning a hot red (and not from the snow), but you stand up anyway, refusing to meet his eyes. “When we graduate though, that’s a different story.”

Namjoon laughs, getting up off of the ground and brushing the snow from his body. “I always knew you cared for me, Y/N. You’re so easy to read.”

“I am not!” You shout in disbelief, resisting the way your mouth yearns to curve upwards. “You’re just awful.”

“Salty that I finally exposed you?” Namjoon asks cheekily.

You turn to him as you walk back up to the path, towards the bustling Hogsmeade center, and push his chest lightly, nose scrunched up. “Shut up, Kim.”

“Make me,” Namjoon responds, and with that, he’s pressing another snowball firmly into your chest and running off with a cackle, giving you hardly any time to react before he’s off.

“Kim!”

Fourth Year

“Y/N!”

You whip your head around at the source of the voice, turning only to see your friend, Seulgi bounding towards you, gleeful smile scrawled on her face. It’s especially nice to see her these days, what with all of the negativity in your life (cough, Kim Namjoon, cough), considering the fact that you hardly have any classes with her.

“Hey,” you say in response when she catches up to you. You’re walking down to the Gamekeeper’s hut to camp out on the fairgrounds, wanting to spend some time away from the castle. It’s the one damn place Namjoon hasn’t contaminated.

“What’s this I hear about you and that Gryffindor kid?” She asks, not even trying to beat around the bush. You’re surprised that news has travelled so fast, but you suppose that anyone would be slightly suspicious of that Charms class yesterday. It’s not every day you see two top students battling it out with the Summoning Charm.

“Who, Kim?” You ask, feigning ignorance. You know damn well who she’s talking about, you’re just hoping that maybe, maybe she means someone else and you don’t have to get a bad taste in your mouth every time you say his name.

“Yeah, the smart kid. Some Gryffindor was telling me yesterday about your Charms class,” Seulgi says as she stuffs a small mint into her mouth. “What’s going on? Are you guys friends, or something?”

You stifle a laugh.

She gasps. “Are you dating him? And you didn’t even tell me?” Her eyes are wide as they stare you down, and you panic.

“Oh my God! Oh my God, no, oh my God. We’re not dating,” you say sternly, a sick image of the two of you being all cuddly together coming up in your brain. The very thought makes you want to vomit. “We’re not even friends.”

“But the two of you were like… playing around together in Charms,” your friend says, unable to connect the dots. You don’t blame her. “It sounds like you guys are dating to me.”

“We’re not, I swear. I don’t even like him,” you insist, to probably no avail. Seulgi doesn’t look all that convinced. “He’s an asshole.”

“Strong word there, Y/N,” she chides.

“He is! He hates me, honestly,” you tell her, shaking your head. “I don’t know what the heck his deal is.”

“Why does he hate you?” Seulgi asks, an eyebrow raised in confusion. “He likes everybody.”

“Not me, I guess. But the feeling is mutual. I don’t like him very much either,” you admit to her.

“Whatever you say, Y/N,” she hums casually, not paying very much attention to the conversation. As you walk down to the fairgrounds, she’s kicking a rock along the way. “I find the thought of the two of you hating each other very hard to believe.”

You scoff, a little flustered. What on Earth could give away any other message about your relationship with Namjoon besides “mortal enemy”? You thought you had made it clear enough that you disliked the boy. It’s not like he treats you any better, with his honeyed words and condescending tone.

“Believe it,” you say, pressing a finger to her forehead as you push her back slightly, making her giggle.

When you reach the bottom of the hill, you and Seulgi camp out on one of the crumbling park benches, wood faded from use. The stone seat is cold, the temperature moving through your robes as goosebumps cover your skin, but you settle in comfortably regardless. You’ve already finished your homework, so being out here isn’t really helpful for your studying, but it’s peace and quiet as the sounds of nature consume you.

“Hey, Seulgi, wanna see this thing Flitwick taught me?” You ask, nudging her side as you pull out a spare piece of parchment.

“I can’t believe you’re doing so well in Charms that Flitwick just casually teaches you outside lessons, but sure,” she responds, rolling her eyes as she turns to you.

You quickly fold the paper into an airplane, having mastered the technique the second time you did it. The first time, your airplane was… meh, at best. “The Ministry apparently uses something like this all of the time,” you say informatively. “They’re called Interdepartmental Memos, or something like that. But Flitwick just taught me how to create my own.”

Nimble fingers perfect the wings of the airplane as you turn to Seulgi, excited expression on your face. She motions for you to fly it.

With a soft bit of force, the airplane takes off, flying gracefully through the forest air as your eyes follow its path. Unlike Muggle airplanes, gravity does not take its toll on this one as it continues to float gently in the wind. The sight is perfect, almost too perfect, and instantly broken as you watch a hand reach out to grab it.

“Excuse me,” you say, rolling your eyes as you get up to go confront whoever decided that they would snatch up your airplane mid-flight. “Would you mind giving that back?”

“Did you make this, Y/N?”

God damnit.

“Not you again, Kim,” you say, face morphing into one with a pained expression. “Can’t you just give me one break? I feel like everywhere I go, you show up.”

Namjon shrugs helplessly, inspecting your airplane between his calloused hands. “I guess our paths keep crossing.”

You reach up to grab the plane from him, happy to have it back in your grasp. “I wish they didn’t.”

Namjoon leans down to look at you, an unreadable smile taking over his lips. “I’m glad that they do.”

Present

Namjoon’s poster is back to normal, you notice as you enter the library. To combat this, you quickly transfigure it into a lost Kneazle poster, just to bother him. You have no tutoring session after class today, seeing as you need all of the time you can get to finish this group project by yourself (because your classmates are incompetent at best), so you’re just here to jinx a couple of posters and check out some spellbooks. This potion isn’t going to brew itself.

Someone that does have tutoring today is Namjoon, because, for some reason, he feels no sense of urgency to keep his grades up (yet another quality you despise about him—how can he be so careless and still maintain the ranking of top student?). He’s sitting right out in the open with his student of choice, pointing to something in a book as he lectures the kid. You pay them hardly any attention, not wanting to give Namjoon the recognition he craves.

Still, with them being out in the open like that, it’s hard to avoid them as you go back and forth between shelves and cases on the hunt for the textbooks you need. You feel Namjoon’s piercing gaze on you with every step you take, keeping your head down as the pile of books in your hands grows taller and taller.

You spend probably about an hour in the library, skimming through textbooks to see which ones are worth checking out and getting distracted with light reading from textbooks about Dragons of the Stone Age and Wizards and Witches of the 18th Century Framed for Other’s Crimes. Shit’s interesting, man.

You’ve just checked out about five books when you hear thundering footsteps approaching you, which can really only mean just one thing.

“No tutoring today, Y/N?” Namjoon asks as he moseys on up to you.

“I’m busy today, Kim,” you quip back, keeping your answer short so as not to indulge him. “Don’t have time.”

“Grades falling?” Namjoon suggests, taking a quick peek at the books in your hand. “That’s a shame, Y/N. I would typically expect better from you.”

“You know what, Kim?” You ask, stopping in your tracks and turning to face him, scowl ever present. “You can take your expectations and you can shove them up your ass.”

“No need to be rude, Y/N, I know you’re trying hard to beat me out,” Namjoon says, patronizing smirk on his face. “You might get there, eventually.”

“God, you’re such a tool, you know that? You drive me up the fucking wall,” you exclaim, breathing out a sigh of annoyance. “I just want to… God, I don’t even know what the hell I want to do to you.”

“I could think of a few things,” Namjoon comments, making you gasp as you whip out your wand.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re casting whatever the first jinx to come to mind is, the Jelly-Legs one, aimed right at Namjoon’s face. He dodges it swiftly, but not before retaliating with his own curse, the Trip Jinx leaving his mouth as a flash of purple heads straight to you. You hold your textbook up as a shield, watching the streak bounce off of the cover and dissolve into the carpet. You’re livid.

“Mr. Kim! Miss Y/L/N!” Madam Pince shrieks from where she’s standing behind the checkout desk. “This behavior is highly inappropriate for the library! Detentions, for the both of you!”

Fuck.

To see the two top students, always on time, always polite, always active, trapped in an hour-long detention after class together would be a shocker for any teacher or student. The two of you show up to an empty classroom with frowns on your faces, wishing for the time to pass by. Sinistra’s in there, probably to watch over the two of you to make sure that you don’t get up to any funny business. You know, like hexing each other again.

“Welcome to Detention, take a sea—” She says without even glancing up from the pile of work on her desk, but she makes to look to see who the troublemakers of the day is, and her mouth drops, almost comically, when she sees you and Namjoon standing awkwardly at the entrance. “You two? What on Earth could have gotten you here?”

You and Namjoon look at each other guiltily.

“We had a bit of an argument,” Namjoon says, as if that’s any explanation.

“I never thought I’d see the day where the two best students in this school would land up serving a Detention with each other,” Sinistra comments as she stands up, gathering all of her papers in a neat pile. She walks down from where the desk is, meeting the two of you. “Well, since it’s only you two, I’m going to go back up to my classroom so that I can finish grading. I trust that neither of you will try to pull anything funny. You are Hogwarts’ best, after all.”

She exits the room swiftly, locking the door on the way out with some magic probably immune to Alohomora (though you wouldn’t put it past her if she didn’t) just to make sure the two of you stay trapped in this stuffy classroom for the next hour. That’s the beauty of being the best—teachers trust you with anything.

“Ugh,” you say as you collapse onto a desk, taking a seat on the top of the table. “Great.”

“We wouldn’t be in here if it weren’t for you,” Namjoon says, scrunching his nose up as he sits down beside you. “I was only acting in self-defense.”

“You provoked me,” you respond. “I’m just surprised I didn’t try to hex you sooner. It’s been over three years and I only tried to hex you now.”

“Well, you missed, so it’s not like you would have done any better as a fourth year,” he comments sarcastically. “Not a hexing kind of person?”

“You’re the only person I’d ever want to hex.”

“I’m touched.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes as you lean your head back, letting it rest on another desk. Staring up at the ceiling, you notice how the clouds slowly move across the vast expanse of blue through the skylights. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“What?” Namjoon asks.

“Why do you hate me? I don’t understand. What did I ever do to you?” You repeat, deciding that now is as good a time as any to figure out the mystery. It’s not like you have anything better to do.

“I don’t hate you,” Namjoon says softly, making you sit up in surprise.

You meet his eyes, swirling with brown wonder. “What?”

“I don’t hate you. I never said I did,” he says. “Why do you hate me?”

“Because I thought you hated me,” you respond, almost entirely at a lost for words. “Because you’re always so rude, and obnoxious, and taunting, and you push all of my buttons and make me want to punch you in the—”

There are many ways that Namjoon has shut you up before, with a sneer, a spell, a sentence, but never with his lips. At least, not until now.

You gasp into his mouth when his lips meet yours, but all other reasoning flies out into the courtyard at the sensation, all the parts of your brain that would typically be shouting “What the hell are you doing?!” rendered completely ineffective. You’re a good multitasker—you’d have to be to get the top spot, after all—but with his mouth on yours you can only focus on him, on the warmth that emanates from his whole body as he presses it into you. His hands come to hold your cheeks, cradle them in his palms as he lets the kiss work, eyelashes fluttering.

The second you part, your senses are finally coming back to you, and you react, albeit weakly, by pushing him away.

“What the hell?” You ask, more to yourself than to him, keeping your eyes trained on the floor. “Kim, what on—”

“I’ve wanted to do that since fourth year,” Namjoon interrupts, cheeks flushed a deep red. “You just never realized it.”

“Since fourth year?” You ask, still shaken. “You’ve been taunting and teasing me since fourth year and you think that one kiss is going to change all of that?”

“I—I should have done it sooner,” Namjoon admits, rubbing his arm awkwardly as he approaches you with a romantic sort of hesitance, one that has your heart shaking a little. “I know. I regret it.”

“I—” you begin, unable to finish your exclamation, come up with a coherent sentence. All you think about is the feeling of his lips on yours, how it made your heart thump a thousand times faster and all your worries dissipate.

“I treasure your presence in my life, Y/N,” Namjoon says. “I do. You never fail to make me smile or laugh. You’re so giving, you know. You’re sweet and grateful and you know what you want and you know how to get it. I think it’s admirable. I think you’re admirable.”

“Namjoon, I—”

“I understand if you don’t want to give this a shot,” he says, coming up to you as he takes your hand in his. “But I want you to know that I think that I’m in love with you, and that that won’t ever change. No matter what happens to us.”

God, you cannot cry in front of him, you refuse, so you furiously blink away the tears in your watering eyes. “You’re such an asshole, you know that?” You ask, voice choking. “All this time… all this time.”

“Y/N…”

“I think I love you too, Kim. I really, really do,” you admit, the words feel like a weight is being lifted off of your chest. Like with him, you can finally float.

Namjoon’s face breaks out into a smile, a warm, beautiful one, as he reaches out to press a light kiss on your forehead. One filled with promises of a better tomorrow.

You leave detention an hour later with a new outlook on life, a new boyfriend, and one hell of a joint-tutoring program, coordinated by only you and a special someone.

Third year you would never even dream about dating Kim Namjoon, but seventh year you can’t think of anything better than him by your side.

⇒ hmu with feedback or just talk to me here!

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awkwardnessandbaseball · 6 years

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Galentine’s Day

Happy Valentine’s Day @pearlmackie :)

I’m your CS Secret Valentine! It’s been so lovely to get to know you over the past few weeks, and I hope you like this fic I put together for you ;)

AO3

GALENTINE’S DAY , Emma began to type. She’d been assigned a story on the phenomenon and was less than eager to get started.

“It’s like Valentine’s Day, but with your friends. The girls. The gals, if you will,” Regina had said earlier that day.

“Right but… I don’t have any ‘gals’ to celebrate with. I’m the worst person to assign this story to. Give it to, like, Mary Margaret. She’s probably got enough friends to have Galentine’s Day every day of the week.” Emma really didn’t like to turn an assignment down, but this was just so out of her realm of expertise. She normally did stories that required hours of research and difficult-to-obtain interviews. She’d nearly forced her way into politicians’ offices and snuck into at least three press conferences she hadn’t been invited to.

Storybrooke Press was a no-name newspaper in a no-name town, but it was Emma’s paper and it was her town, too, dammit. She loved stories that exposed hard truths and made people question everything they were being told.

“Mary Margaret’s got some sort of special romance story she’s working on,” Regina had rolled her eyes. “She wants it to be a surprise, but I told her I obviously have to give the ‘OK’ before it goes to print. Regardless, she’s busy. Galentine’s Day is yours.”

Knowing there would be no arguing with Regina anyway, Emma left her office in a huff. Now, she sat in front of her computer, the cursor blinking at her, taunting her.

It wasn’t just that Emma didn’t have any ‘gals’. She didn’t have any… anything. She’d grown up alone, bounced around within the foster system until she’d finally aged out of it. She’d tried her hand at romance, but Neal Cassidy had been the wrong person to try it with. He’d done nothing but lie and cheat, but at the very least, her story about him had gotten her onto the paper to begin with.

When he’d left her broken-hearted and just plain broken, Emma had written a detailed account of all of the jobs they’d pulled – every store robbed and every pocket picked – right up until the stolen watches he’d left in some locker on the other side of the state. She’d written it as a form of self-healing, posting it to a blog she’d kept anonymous.

Regina had been intrigued by her writing style and her voice and had emailed the address Emma had created for the blog. She’d asked her to come into the office. Regina promised to keep the blog separate from the conversation, to never bring up Emma’s past that she’d revealed.

It was unconventional, but it was the first time Emma had seen a future for herself. From the moment she’d walked into the Storybrooke Press offices, she’d felt a sense of comfort that she could only assume felt like coming home.

But just because the writing world had welcomed her with open arms, that hadn’t mean her co-workers needed to do the same. Emma knew she came across as a bit prickly and standoffish, but she’d been alone for… ever. She didn’t know how to approach people with anything less than a large amount of distrust and a small dose of fake smiles. The ladies at the paper all knew she was faking, and made no attempt to coerce her into conversation.

Except Mary Margaret.

The lead writer for the Lifestyle section, Mary Margaret Nolan was the kindest, most giving and open person Emma Swan had ever met in her life. There were times – like when she was sick, and Mary Margaret reached into her purse for tissues and cold medicine; or when she’d locked her keys in her car and there was Mary Margaret with a wire coat hanger, shimmying the window down – when Emma really wished that she could have been adopted by the Nolans. They were the same age, of course, but there was something distinctly motherly about Mary Margaret and Emma felt like a kid again whenever she came around with her freshly baked cookies or collecting signatures for someone’s birthday card. Her husband, David, had come to visit once, delivering a full bouquet of flowers to his wife, but also a single flower for everyone else in the office.

It was part charming, part ridiculous. Emma secretly loved it.

Still, even Mary Margaret was no match for the sky-high walls Emma had built around herself. At first, Mary Margaret had tried inviting her to group outings – trivia night, bowling, happy hour, you name it – but Emma declined, and she stopped asking.

Staring at the yet-to-be-written story on her screen, Emma nearly jumped out of her skin when the very subject of her thoughts spoke from behind her.

“Oh, Regina gave you that story? That’s so lovely!” Mary Margaret was nothing if not genuine, despite all the times Emma had tried to see some sarcasm or skepticism in her tone, a darkness behind the light in her eyes. “Have you decided who you’re going to take?”

“Excuse me?” Take where? , Emma thought to herself.

“Well, which girls you’ll be taking out for Galentine’s Day, of course!” Mary Margaret was bouncing on the balls of her feet, and Emma breathed out a deep sigh.

“I hadn’t really planned on throwing a Galentine’s Day… thing. I’m not sure who to invite.”

Mary Margaret’s jaw dropped.

“Oh, Emma, you should come to mine! We’re going to that restaurant across town with the silly pirate statue out front. They do a really great brunch special to celebrate!”

“I’m sorry, The Jewel of the Realm does a special for Galentine’s Day ?” Emma tried to keep the nasty tone out of her voice, she really did. She snorted, despite herself. “They probably just want all the girls to come in so they can hit on them.” To Emma’s surprise, Mary Margaret giggled.

“Probably! But it’s worth it – all-you-can-eat for two people for twenty dollars!” She bit her lip. “Please come, Emma. I’d love to help you with your story, and some of the girls from the office will be there, and some of my other friends, too.”

“How many… how many people, exactly?” Emma really didn’t relish the idea of sitting at a table with a ton of strange women, watching to them get champagne-drunk on mimosas and listening to them talk about… what did large groups of women talk about? Emma assumed that on a day like “Galentine’s”, they didn’t talk about men.

“Hmm,” Mary Margaret silently counted on her fingers. “I think I’ve got five for sure, including myself. Six, if you agree.” And there she went, bouncing again. Emma resisted the urge to put her head in her hands and instead forced a smile.

“Sure, I’ll be there.”

“Oh, Emma, that’s fantastic! We’ll be there at ten in the morning, and stay till about noon.” Before Emma knew it, Mary Margaret was hugging her, bending down and wrapping her arms around both Emma and her chair.

The things we do for journalism , Emma thought to herself.

~~~~~~~~~~~

At roughly quarter after ten, Emma strolled into the Jewel of the Realm. It was packed, with laughter echoing in every direction. Emma heard champagne glasses clinking and smelled a whole lot of bacon.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Emma! Over here!” Mary Margaret was waving her arms over her head from a round table with one empty seat. Emma made her way over and Mary Margaret jumped right in with introductions. “So you know Ruby and Elsa from the office,” the two brunettes waved and looked at each other, seemingly surprised that Emma had actually shown up for something, “and this is my neighbor Belle and my childhood best friend, Ashley.”

Emma lifted her hand up in a small wave and promptly took her seat, eager to have all of the attention focused on literally anything in the entire world but her .

The conversation picked up quickly, and Emma felt a bit lost. Here were five women who’d clearly known each other forever. They were talking about memories Emma wasn’t a part of, stories she hadn’t been present for. She had nothing to share, nothing to add.

“Emma, what was your favorite birthday party theme when you were a kid?” Mary Margaret asked her suddenly. “Ashley and I had a joint party one year and everyone dressed up as princesses. It sounds so silly, but it was so fun at the time!”

“I um… I never had a themed birthday party.” It would have been easy to lie, to say she’d had a princess theme too, and to simply agree with everything the other girls said, but Emma was never going to get a story out of this ridiculous day if she didn’t participate on some level.

She was a journalist, dammit.

The table went silent for a moment.

“Me neither,” Elsa said. Every head at the table turned her way and Emma instantly felt herself cool off. “My parents passed away when I was very young. My sister and I were raised by our aunt, and she didn’t really believe in large birthday parties. We each got a cupcake or a few brownies, but never a party.” Her eyes met Emma’s from across the table.

“I was raised by my Grandma,” Ruby jumped in. “She’d bake me a cake or something, but I almost always had to work at the diner on my birthday once I was old enough. No bouncy castles for me, either.”

Emma cleared her throat.

“I was raised in the foster system.” Oh God, what have I done? She hoped Elsa and Ruby didn’t think she was trying to out-do their stories, make her own childhood sound worse, as though it were a competition. “I get myself a cupcake on my birthday every year now, though,” she added with a shrug. “We all have our traditions, I guess.”

She looked around, and all the women at the table were smiling at her.

On her second trip to the buffet, she was so focused on the seven different bread options, that she completely missed the man behind the station talking to her.

“Miss?” he said, and he sounded exasperated, as though he’d said it more than once. Emma looked up and instantly felt herself blush.

A man with dark hair and blue eyes, who looked as though he hadn’t shaved in three days, was staring at her. And he was hot .

“Sorry, yes?” Emma blinked a few times. He grinned, clearly pleased with himself for catching her off guard.

“I was asking you if you’d like bacon, ham, or sausage.” He winked. Oh, God . Emma tilted her head.

“This is the bread station,” she replied, instantly feeling absolutely ridiculous. The man laughed good-naturedly.

“Yes, it is. But the meat station is up ahead, and my brother asked me to find out what you’d like, so he can have it ready for you. That okay?” He raised an eyebrow and smirked at her, waiting.

“Oh. Okay.” He was far too good looking to be taking her breakfast order on a day when she wasn’t supposed to be talking about men. Or was she? Was that rule ever actually established? “Bacon, I guess.”

“Excellent.” He walked away and reported her order to the man at the grill. The man handed over the spatula and Emma watched as the dark-haired man started cooking her food himself. It shouldn’t have been hot, but she found herself biting her lip. Focus, girl!

“I thought you said your brother was manning this station,” she said as she reached the grill, plate half covered with a slice of wheat toast alongside an everything bagel.

“I told him this was a special order, so he could take a break.” The man looked up from the grill, his eyes meeting hers. “That okay?”

“You ask that a lot,” Emma mused.

“I try to make sure I’m not offending anyone,” he grinned, passing the sizzling bacon from the grill to her plate.

“You’re not,” she smirked at him. Belatedly, as she sat back down at the table, Emma realized they’d been flirting.

By the time noon came around, Emma was full of mimosa and eggs and toast and bacon… and a little more mimosa.

Spilling her past about the foster system had been tough, but once it was out in the open, Emma found it easier to relax and tell stories – good and bad – about her childhood. She listened to Belle’s stories about her beast of an ex, and shared her own gripes about Neal. Mary Margaret talked about her struggles to get pregnant and Emma found herself tearing up.

“You can adopt me,” she said before she could think better of it. The whole table laughed, and for a moment, Emma was embarrassed.

“Um, me too, please!” Ruby shouted.

“You and David have enough room for three grown adult women to become your adopted children, right?” Elsa was nearly crying with laughter.

And then they all had tears streaming down their faces, and Emma wasn’t sure how much of it was out of sadness for Mary Margaret’s struggles or their own pasts and how much of it was out of pure, unadulterated amusement at the idea of David Nolan being surrounded by four adult women, three of whom were proclaiming to be his children.

She was nearly out the door, check paid and phone numbers exchanged with girls she’d barely even known a few hours ago, when Emma caught the eye of the man who’d made her bacon.

“How was it?” he shouted from his post – he’d moved onto eggs, apparently.

Emma found herself walking back into the restaurant towards him.

“It was decent,” she shrugged. His jaw dropped.

“Just decent?”

She shrugged again.

“Let me cook you something else.”

“I’m pretty full, actually. Mimosas and eggs and toast and all that.” She looked up at him, wondering what his next move would be.

“Tomorrow then.” He was determined, the set of his jaw and the furrow in his brow told her as much.

“Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” she laughed. He raised an eyebrow.

“Have you got plans?” She couldn’t read his face or his tone anymore.

“Well, no, but—”

“Great. We’re having a Solo Special. If you come in and let me, Killian Jones, co-owner of The Jewel of the Realm, cook you the meal of your choosing, it’s on the house.”

“I’m sorry, you’re offering a free meal tomorrow?” A short gentleman serving himself some eggs interrupted. Killian didn’t turn away from Emma’s stare.

“Only for her,” he said simply. “She said my bacon cooking skills were decent. I’m simply out to prove her wrong.”

Jaw hanging open, Emma was speechless.

“What do you say, then? One-time only offer. Unless you like the food. And me. Then you can probably come again some other time and chances are, I’ll cook you something on the house again.” He winked at her.

Flirting, again.

“Okay,” Emma was surprised to hear herself say. It must have been all of the mimosas. She’d see if she actually felt like showing her face in this restaurant again when she woke up clear-headed.

“What shall I place the reservation under?” he asked her as she turned to leave.

“Emma Swan,” she told him, and she left.

~~~~~~~~~~~

GALENTINES DAY , Emma typed in a brand-new Word document. She hadn’t gotten any further than the title in her original attempt, but starting fresh with a brand new perspective felt like it would be good for the story.

For someone who grew up on the outside looking in, Galentines Day seemed like little more than an excuse for a bunch of women to get drunk on mimosas and complain about their lives. There didn’t seem to be a point to it – don’t ladies get together all the time to talk about menial things? Why a whole day dedicated to it?

But then I realized Galentines Day is about more than just champagne served before noon.

Valentine’s Day is about showing the person you care for romantically that you cherish them. You show them love every day, but on one day every year, you’re allowed to get as cheesy and romantic and heart-eyed as you deem fit. You can get sappy and wax poetic about the first time you met, and how their eyes struck your soul or some other over-used line that would seem out of place on any other day.

Galentines Day is about showing your friends that you cherish them. It’s about sharing your past and your present and your hopes for the future, and about making new friends when you didn’t think you could. It’s about appreciating each other in a way that maybe you don’t go out of your way to do the rest of the year.

And maybe it’s also about drinking champagne before noon.

It turned into a late night and an early morning, Emma writing and editing and writing and editing. She made it strictly factual, then added opinions back in. She shared one of her own experiences from brunch, then erased it for fear of exposing some part of herself she wasn’t ready to share.

She handed in exactly 700 words to Regina exactly nine minutes late, but there were no complaints, and both women seemed to think they’d won, somehow.

“So, are you going back to see that hot guy today?” Ruby asked Emma at lunch. Apparently, making friends also meant that Emma didn’t have to eat her lunch alone at her desk anymore. She was invited to the diner next door, owned by Ruby’s grandmother, with the rest of the girls.

“What hot guy?” Emma, of course, knew exactly what hot guy, but she hadn’t realized that anyone else had even noticed their interactions from the day before.

“Don’t play dumb,” Ruby grinned. “I came out of the bathroom and saw you talking to the guy at the egg station. I thought I heard him offer you a free meal.”

“Wait, the owner of The Jewel of the Realm offered to cook for you?” Elsa’s voice reached a record-high pitch.

Ruby, Mary Margaret, and Emma all turned to her, surprised by her reaction.

“I’ve had a crush on Liam for forever ,” Elsa admitted. “I go there, like, once a week, hoping I can get his attention somehow.”

“Liam? Oh… that must be Killian’s brother,” Emma realized.

“There, now you have to go back!” Ruby grabbed Emma’s hands. “If only to set poor Elsa over here up with Liam.” She gave her best attempt at a puppy dog pout, but only ended up looking like a model posing for a photograph.

By the end of lunch, Emma was pretty sure she was going back to The Jewel of the Realm.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hello, do you have a reservation?” The hostess smiled at her.

“Um, maybe? If I do, it’s under Emma.” She couldn’t believe she was here. It was Valentine’s Day, and some stranger was cooking her dinner. Was this a date? It seemed like a date. But did dates generally cook you food… in the restaurant you were eating in?

The hostess grinned even wider, somehow.

“Emma Swan?” Emma nodded. “Yes, there’s a reservation here. You can follow me.”

The girl led her to a table off to the side, somehow just a bit quieter than the rest of the restaurant. There were two place settings and a candle in the center of the table.

“Killian will be with you shortly,” the hostess told her, as though Killian were just another server and not the owner of the damn restaurant .

What the hell was Emma doing here?

She sat for a moment and considered getting right back up and walking about, but a man approached her with a wine list and she decided that if nothing else, alcohol would certainly help her feel a bit more at ease. She’d done all of the flirting in the world yesterday with just a bit of champagne in her system after all.

She chose a cheap white from the bottom of the list, but she knew as soon as she tasted her glass that it was top-shelf. Cheap wine didn’t go down that smoothly.

“I hope you didn’t order a low-grade wine because you thought you’d have to pay for it,” Killian said as he sat down, seeming to appear out of nowhere.

Emma blushed.

“I told you this was on the house,” he raised an eyebrow at her.

“You said the food was on the house,” she pointed out, unfolding her napkin across her lap, simply for something to do.

He sighed.

“The whole thing is on the house, Swan. You’re lovely and I would have asked you on a proper date for Valentine’s Day, but I own a restaurant, so this is pretty much the best I can do.” He bit his lip, and for the first time, Emma realized that he might be as nervous as she was. “Is this okay?”

“This is nice,” she assured him. “It’s great, actually. I’ve never had anyone cook me a meal before, so you’ve got a low bar set for you.”

“No one’s ever cooked for you?” He looked far more surprised than she’d expected. She shrugged and shook her head. “What’s your favorite food? We’re talking, last meal before the electric chair, guilty pleasure, absolutely cannot live without it meal.” He stood as he spoke.

“Um, I don’t have a very refined palate,” she admitted. She admitted that she’d grown up on lukewarm French fries and day old peanut butter sandwiches, mostly.

He smiled.

“Chicken tenders and onion rings it is.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Wine with a kids meal , Emma thought to herself. The epitome of romance .

Killian came back with a huge pile of onion rings and a basket of chicken tenders. It smelled incredible, and Emma’s mouth began to water.

“I know it’s not exactly a romantic meal, but I find that eating whatever food makes you happy also helps you enjoy the company you’re with.”

“Is that some long-winded cliché you just made up on the spot?”

He grinned.

“Maybe.”

“So, did you make all of this fresh, just for me?” She hadn’t kept track of how long he’d been gone, not wanting his staff to catch her glancing at her phone constantly. They were no doubt all watching her, and she didn’t want them telling her she was an impatient jerk who couldn’t wait for her food to come out.

“I did,” he said. He at her, and she met his eyes. She believed him.

The food was unsurprisingly delicious.

“How are you able to sit and enjoy an entire meal in the restaurant you own on such a busy night?” She asked him as she finished her third glass of wine.

“My brother’s running the floor right now, he’ll come and get me if he needs me.” Killian sipped his water, still working despite the fact that this was very clearly a date.

“Speaking of your brother, I have a friend—”

“That blonde girl from your party yesterday? Oh God, please tell me she’s interested in him.” Killian rolled his eyes. “She’s in here constantly and all Liam does is whine about how pretty she is, but he won’t just go and talk to her.”

Emma laughed, and Killian tilted his head.

“She is,” she said when she caught her breath. “When she heard the owner of this place was cooking me dinner, she almost lost her mind. I had to tell her it was you, not your brother.”

This time, Killian laughed with her, and they must have looked quite the pair, cracking up with a half-empty bottle of wine on the table.

“Bring her with you next time, then.”

“Next time?”

“Yes, if… if you want to come back, that is.” There was that nervous smile again.

Emma nodded.

“I do. This was… nice.”

“Killian!” came a voice from the opposite end of the restaurant. Killian’s eyes closed as his head fell forward.

“I’ll be right back ,” he assured her, reaching over and squeezing her hand before he went.

He was only gone a few moments, but he looked much more disheveled upon his return.

“I’m afraid we’re down a cook, so I’ve got to head into the kitchen and take over. I’m so sorry. I hope—”

“Do you have time to walk me out?” Emma bit her lip, feeling the buzz from the wine bring a flush to her cheeks. She pulled out her phone to order an Uber. “I’ve got… six minutes until my driver arrives.” She looked back up at him.

“Yeah, I can spare that,” he grinned. He helped her into her jacket and offered her his arm. They walked out of the restaurant together, and the hostess erupted into giggles as soon as they passed her.

“This was a really nice night, Killian. Thank you.” Emma told him as soon as they were outside.

“I’m glad. I was a bit nervous you wouldn’t come.”

“I almost didn’t,” she admitted. “But the girls at work convinced me that it was a good idea.”

“I’ll have to thank them sometime.” He took a step closer to her.

“When should I come back with Elsa?” she asked, feet glued to the spot they were in. Would he come closer still?

“Whenever you like. I’m usually not here Tuesdays and Liam’s not here Thursdays. Other than that, I’m all yours.” He was nearly flush against her now.

She tilted her chin up, wondering if people still kissed on the first date. She thought for a moment about how horrible her onion breath probably was, but before she could consider it too deeply, he was kissing her.

He stopped quickly.

“Was that ok—”

She grabbed his jacket and kissed him again. Her phone buzzed with the arrival of her Uber. She pulled away and sure enough, there was the blue Ford Focus she was supposed to be waiting for.

“I’ll be in on Friday,” she told him before she could think better of it, and climbed into the car. She could see him through the passenger side mirror, touching his lips and staring after her, and she smiled.

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