Rain in England was not like rain back home.

In Japan, the skies wept with elegance—gentle mist, soft wind, the kind of melancholy you could fold a haiku into.

In England, the rain punched you in the face.

Satoru Gojo stood stiffly on the wet gravel, suitcase beside him, hood pulled up too late to save his hair. The wind howled like some ancient beast across the lake, dragging his robe sleeves back and slapping water against his face. His boots were soaked. His wand hand was cold. His patience? Already bleeding thin.

It wasn't just the rain.

It was the fact that he'd spent the last seven hours on a train from London with no heating, no conversation, and no visible signs of magic—save for the occasional cursed trolley cart that bit when you tried to take a pumpkin pasty without asking. Apparently, they thought it was quaint.

He, however, did not.

Gojo squinted into the downpour, ignoring how the water dripped off the edge of his tinted glasses. The fog clung to the hills like a second skin, and somewhere across the darkness, an owl screamed like it, too, hated being here.

No fireworks. No floating lanterns. No enchanted drums playing his entrance music. Just the mud. The rain. And a very large silhouette lumbering toward him like a hill come alive.

Gojo's grip tightened on the handle of his suitcase. For one wild second, he wondered if this was some final British hazing ritual. Maybe they just let the forest beasts eat their transfer students and called it cultural immersion.

But then the creature got close enough to speak, and—

"You're Gojo, then? Brilliant! Name's Hagrid. Welcome to Hogwarts!"

Gojo blinked.

The man—beard down to his belly, lantern swinging wildly—grinned at him like they were old friends. His umbrella was pink. His boots could crush furniture. His scent was... damp wool and cinnamon?

"...You're not here to kill me, right?" Gojo asked flatly.

Hagrid let out a booming laugh that echoed off the cliffs.

"Kill you? Merlin's beard, no! Come on then, let's get you out of the rain. Got a parchment here with your guide's name. School paired you up with one of the local lads, since you're new and all."

He fished around in one of his many coat pockets and pulled out a tiny, water-wrinkled scrap. Hagrid held it out to him between two sausage-sized fingers.

Gojo took it, glancing down.

No surname. No house. Just the name, scribbled in sharp, messy handwriting.

"He'll show you round the place," Hagrid continued cheerfully, already turning toward the castle, "Good lad, that one. Bit mouthy, but clever. I think you two'll get on just fine."

Gojo wasn't so sure. He didn't come here to get on with anyone.

The parchment burned a little in his chest. Not literally—he would've known—but something about this whole thing made him feel younger than he liked to admit.

He hated feeling unsure.

By the time they reached the castle, the sky had surrendered into full night. The lanterns along the stone path flickered dimly, casting gold halos through the rain. The gates groaned open with dramatic flair—not that anyone was watching. There was no crowd to greet him, no headmaster with open arms.

Just a castle that had stood longer than most empires. And a single name in his pocket.

Gojo sighed, slicking his wet bangs back with one hand, water trickling down his neck. As he stepped over the threshold, the warmth of the enchanted torches kissed his skin. Magic stirred softly beneath the stone, humming like something half-asleep.

He could feel it already—this place was nothing like home. And maybe that was exactly what he needed.