In the Wake of Magic

by secondofnovember

Summary:

Centuries ago, elemental magic was the highest form of spellcasting—pure, emotional, and rare. Only the most powerful ancient magical bloodlines could harness it. Air, Water, Earth, Fire, and Storm. But it faded from use over generations, replaced by wandwork and stuctured spellcraft.

Or so people thought.

Notes:

Hello! This is still a work in progress, so bear with me if I slowly update this. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

The quill snapped in his hand the moment the wind shifted.

Tonfah stared at the broken stem. The parchment beneath his fingers curled at the edges, the ink on his hand long dry—though the windows were closed and no draft stirred the dormitory. It was subtle, not wrong, exactly—just... new.

A different kind of air. One heavy with memory.

He stood up slowly when he heard an owl tapping against the glass—the Headmistress's seal.

"Prefect Tonfah Prasert, report to the Sorting Chamber. Immediate."

Tonfah's stomach dropped. They never used the old chamber unless... unless it was private.

He grabbed his robe, left the tower, and walked the halls with the pull of the wind brushing at his heels like it remembered a name he hadn't spoken in years.

 

---

 

He wasn't surprised to see the other prefects already gathered when he arrived. Johan stood to the side, arms crossed, expression stoic. Daotok only nodded at him in quiet acknowledgement and North was pacing with too much energy in his steps. He smiled at Tonfah as he approached.

The double doors opened. Headmistress McGonagall stood there, flanked by a few Ministry representatives, but Tonfah barely noticed them.

Because behind them—was a boy the hadn't seen in five years. Older, pale, a little taller than he remembered, still wrapped in Durmstrang cloak like it hadn't let him go.

Their eyes met and the air, the wind, and the magic in Tonfah's very bones—shuddered.

 

The Sorting was brief. The Hat had barely touched Typhoon's head before it shouted "Slytherin!"

No hesitation, no applause, just silence.

The others had been dismissed. North had gone off muttering, Daotok shot Tonfah a loaded look before following Johan.

Tonfah lingered by the door as he watched Typhoon stood alone by the stone railing of the antechamber's balcony, looking out into the night. The silence between them was unbearable.

"You could've written." Tonfah said quietly. "One letter. Even just to say that you're still there. Still alive."

Typhoon didn't turn. "You're a fifth year prefect now. Congratulations."

The unexpected coldness stung. Tonfah forced a bitter laugh.

"That's it? After everything, you're going to pretend that none of it mattered?"

"I'm not pretending. You are."

That cut deeper than he expected.

Tonfah took a step forward—but the moment shattered as Johan appeared.

"We're leaving." Johan said, voice clipped. "I'll escort you to the dungeons."

Typhoon didn't look at Tonfah again as he walked past him. And Tonfah stood there, breath caught in his chest, the wind swirling at his fingertips with nowehere to go.

 

---

 

The Slytherin dorms were colder than what Typhoon had expected. They hadn't spoken since they got to the room. Typhoon unpacked with silent efficiency. Johan sat on his bed, hands folded, unmoving.

The room was simple—elegant, like most things in Slytherin—but with only two beds, a bit unusual compared to the other rooms.

Johan broke the silence first.

"I'm surprised you came back."

Typhoon didn't answer.

"You could've stayed at Durmstrang. They're better suited for your kind of magic."

Typhoon glanced toward him. His voice was low, like the wind before a storm.

"You mean broken magic."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Johan finally looked up. His eyes weren't angry. Not exactly, just... exhausted.

"Do you remember what you did?"

Typhoon didn't blink. "Do you?"

Johan stood and almost approached him but stopped himself.

"You lost control. You nearly collapsed the east wing. You—"

"I was twelve."

"You were dangerous."

"I was alone."

Johan stilled.

"You think I wasn't?" Johan said, quieter now. "We only had each other Phoon. I defended you until I couldn't anymore."

Typhoon's breath hitched.

"You stood by." He said bitterly. "That's not the same thing as defending."

A beat of silence. Typhoon turned from where he stood, facing his cousin fully now.

"Do you remember when we were little? You used to pull me behind you when Father raised his voice. You said, 'He's smaller. Yell at me instead.' You protected me back then."

"I tried to protect you now."

"No. You protected the family. The name. The illusion."

Johan didn't reply.

"I begged them not to send me away," Typhoon continued, voice tight. "I begged you. You looked me in the eye and said nothing."

"Because I didn't have a choice."

"Neither did I!" Typhoon snapped. "But I still paid the price."

The silence between them thickened., saturated with everything unsaid. A low wind howled down the dungeon halls just outside.

Typhoon turned away, voice barely a whisper now.

"We were all we had, Johan. And you let them take that away from me."

 

---

 

Tonfah sighed. He hated how attuned he still was. He hated that his magic still reached out without permission. But most of all, he hated that somewhere inside, he didn't want to turn it off.

He finally stood and reached for the window, pressing his hand to the cold glass. A breeze brushed past him even though the window was sealed shut.

"Still reckless," he muttered under his breath. "Still loud."

And yet...

Tonfah closed his eyes. "You could've written." He whispered. "You didn't have to shut me out."

But the wind offered no answer. Only a hush, like guilt.

Chapter 2

Tonfah was eleven again.

Bare feet on cool stone as he faced the altar made of old wood and wind-carved stone. His ceremonial robe too long at the sleeves. Typhoon stood beside him calmly—too calm. His eyes were sharp, like he already knew that this wans't just a ritual. It was a chain.

"Do you accept the bond of wind and storm?" The priestess asked.

Tonfah didn't speak at first but he met Typhoon's gaze—steady, unreadable.

"I do." Tonfah said softly.

A pulse of wind spiraled around them, lifting the edges of their sleeves.

"Do you accept to carry him in storm, as he carries you in air?"

"I do." Typhoon replied.

Their fingers touched.

"Then let it be bound."

Typhoon flinched as they felt the garden hum when their magic sealed in silence. It resonated within them, like the world took a breath—and never let it out again.

 

The scene shifted, this time, Tonfah was standing outside Typhoon's estate. The sun was setting, gold bleeding into gray.

Typhoon didn't have much time. The carriage waited at the gates, flanked by silent Aurors.

"You'll hate me for this someday."

Tonfah didn't flinch.

"Then I'll hate you. But I won't break the vow."

Typhoon blinked hard. "Even if I do?"

"Especially if you do."

 

Tonfah gasped for air as he jolts awake. The dream was too vivid. The vows, the garden, the wind.

He hadn't dreamt of the engagement in years. He had trained himself not to. It wasn't supposed to matter anymore. It was political, symbolic—and forgotten.

He reached out—and the air met him, curling around his fingers like it remembered.

Like it never really left.

 

The ceiling in the Great Hall reflected a sky in limbo—clouded, soft gray, the kind that made it hard to tell whether rain was coming or not.

Tonfah sat near the end of the Ravenclaw table, spreading jam on toast he wasn't going to eat. He hadn't said anything much since waking up. Didn't trust his voice. The dream still clung to him—vague but heavy, full of wind and childhood and words he hadn't spoken aloud in years.

He told himself that it was just a dream. Except... the air felt wrong this morning. Not dangerous, not magical, just... aware.

Around him, his housemates laughed about someone's potion exploding last night. A first-year was crying over spilled ink, someone was complaining about a miscopied homework. Hill said something from across the table, but Tonfah only nodded, not really listening.

The doors opened and everything shifted. Tonfah looked up—just as a few students turned their heads too.

At the entrance, walking clamly between two professors and Headmistress McGonagall was Typhoon, now dressed in green-trimmed robes. Around Tonfah, the whispers started.

"Is that the transfer?"

"From Durmstrang?"

"He was sorted last night I heard. Private."

"Private sorting? That exists?"

Tonfah refused to look at him as they walked past the Ravenclaw table. He didn't need to look to know that every step Typhoon took down the asile between the tables pulled something taut inside him. Like a string wound around his ribs, tightening with each second.

The air around them was no longer neutral. It stirred around his sleeves, cool against the underside of his wrist, a soft curl of presence. He felt a crack on the walls he spent years building inside himself and he hated it. He hated how he felt the old magic stir. The one that had once answered to only one person.

Don't look at him. Don't react.

And yet.

Their eyes didn't meet but the sudden coldness of the air around them wrapped around Tonfah's knuckles like it was remembering something too.

By the time he looked down again, his tea had gone cold.

 

Johan was already seated when Typhoon approached the Slytherin table. He heard whispers ripple across the hall the moment the doors opened. He didn't need to look up. He already knew.

A shadow passed by the green banner above, and then Typhoon stood across from him.

The last time Johan had seen him this close, there had been blood on Typhoon's hands and terror in the air—uncontrolled magic, crackling like glass under pressure.

Now?

Typhoon looked... calm.

Johan didn't move.

But the space beside him—though crowded with Slytherins eyeing the newcomer like he was a riddle to solve—somehow opened without a word. A strange silence pooled around them as Typhoon slid into the empty seat beside him.

Typhoon reached for the toast, slow and precise. Johan passed him the pumpkin juice out of habit—an old one, from before everything had cracked between them.

Typhoon didn't take it. Didn't even look at him.

Johan kept his expression neutral "How long have you been back in the country?" he asked without looking up from his plate.

Typhoon's hand stilled. "A while."

"And no one knew?"

"No one important."

"Hmm."

The words were quiet and casual but Johan felt the cut in them. He turned slightly, just enough to glance at him.

"Durmstrang changed you."

Typhoon meeting his gaze, "You think I didn't change before I left?"

Johan looked away first. The air felt colder than the Great Hall should've allowed.

 

---

 

Daotok wasn't in a rush, which was rare. He liked moving fast, filling silence with sound. But this morning, the sun hit the stone path just right, and the breeze smelled like fresh mandrake leaf and early frost. It made him slow down.

He was headed toward the Greenhouse. Professor Sprout had promised him a glimpse of the rare Emberroot—and he didn't want to miss it.

And then—he saw him.

There, seated on a low wall in the shade of the greenhouse ivy, hood pushed back, fingers tracing something near his knuckle.

Typhoon.

Daotok froze mid-step.

The last time he'd seen him, he was small, skinnier, guarded. Not like this—not quiet in the same way. Not heavy with years.

But the eyes were the same—he could tell, under the mask, it was still soft, still watching the world in ways that only Typhoon could understand.

"Hey..." Daotok said softly.

Typhoon looked up and for a moment, that wariness returned. Shoulders tensed, like he was waiting for judgement, or pity, or fear—or maybe all of it.

But then, Daotok smiled.

Typhoon blinked. "Daotok?" His voice cracked around his name like he couldn't believe it.

"You got a bit taller," Daotok said, stepping closer. "Also, your robes are still too big for you."

Typhoon huffed a breath—part laugh, part exhale. "You haven't changed."

"You have." Daotok said, eyes soft. "But not in the way people think."

The silence around them stretched, not awkward or uncomfortable—just old and familiar.

"I didn't think I'd see you again." Typhoon said, breaking the silence. His thumb brushing his wand through the fabric of his sleeve.

"I knew you'd come back."

"Why?"

Daotok shrugged. "Because we promised, remember? That if it ever got too loud, we'd find each other again."

Typhoon looked down, biting the inside of his cheek.

"And did it get loud?" Daotok gently asked.

Typhoon gave the smallest nod that Daotok almost missed it.

"Then I'm glad I'm here."

And for the first time since he had returned, Typhoon smiled. Not fully, not freely—but enough.

 

The moment was broken by two very different voices approaching from behind.

"Daotok! We're late!"

"Again."

Daotok turned to see Easter, arms folded, and North, frowning like it physically pained him to have to search for him before class.

Easter jogged forward, and grinned when he saw who Daotok was with.

"Oh. You're the transfer." He said, glancing at Typhoon. "From Durmstrang, right?"

Typhoon blinked. "...Hi?"

North gave a polite but suspicious nod. "We're headed to class shared by all houses. Are you coming?"

Daotok grinned as he looped his arm through Typhoon's. "He's already coming. I'll drag him if I have to."

Easter chuckled. "Well then. It's decided, you'll be coming with us."

Typhoon shot Daotok a look—half panic, half resigned amusement.

Daotok winked. "I've got you."

And for the first time in years, Typhoon let himself be pulled forward—not into danger, or defense—but into belonging.

Chapter 3

The once-familiar Quidditch pitch had been altered. The tall goalposts still framed the edges, but the grass was gone—replaced with patterned stone, charmed soil, and softly glowing runes etched into the earth in wide concentric rings. A strange kind of hush settled over the air.

Eight students gathered at the center—Johan, Typhoon, Tonfah, North, Hill, Easter, and Daotok.

Professor Solenne walked towards them, her forest-green robes trailing behind her. Her hair, black with streaks of silver that shimmered faintly in the morning light. A carved staff rested lightly in one hand—ancient wood, wrapped with faintly pulsing vines.

She stopped before them, and when she finally spoke, her voice was low but carried a clear tone.

"I am not a professor of Hogwarts."

The students blinked, unsure if what they had heard was right.

"I was invited," she continued, "not to teach, but to watch—to listen for what cannot be taught in textbooks, and what has not been seen in centuries."

She slowly circled them now, walking over the outer ring without a sound.

"Elemental magic is not a subject. It is not a class you select as an elective. It is a response—of magic to self, of power to balance, of earth to heart. And whether you believe it or not, each of you was chosen. Not by me. Not by the Headmistress—but by the magic itself."

A pause.

"Because you've shown signs. Some loud, some soft. You may not have noticed. But it did."

Easter's eyes darted to Daotok, who looked pale. Johan glanced at Typhoon, but he didn't meet his gaze.

Hill looked quietly down at his fingers, flexing them. North's eyebrows knit as he shifted closer to Arthit, whispering, "What if it picked the wrong guy?"

Tonfah didn't move.

Professor Solenne stopped before him. Her gaze met his for a second longer than the others.

"You may have heard of it whispered—old stories, wild power, dangerous affinity. Let me be clear, it is older than Hogwarts itself. And it never calls to only one house."

The runes at their feet pulsed.

"Sometimes, it calls four—one from each house. Sometimes eight, rarely sixteen. The number shifts, but the pattern remains; it always chooses across the four houses."

She stepped back and lifted her staff, and the runes brightened.

"This is not Defense Against the Dark Arts, or Charms, Transfiguration, or Care of Magical Creatures. This is you—and your magic."

The runes brightened once more. "Let's begin."

"Mr. Thanawat, if you would please step inside the circle."

Johan stepped forward—precise but wary.

"Do not use your wand. Do not try to control it. Let your magic remember what it was before you told it what to be."

As he stepped towards the center ring, the runes flared white, then shifted to a deep, storm-grey, tinged with blue. Lightning cracked softly over the stone beneath him, tiny sparks skittering across his fingertips before he could react.

His expression faltered.

Professor Solenne said nothing, only nodded.

"Storm." Tonfah muttered under his breath.

Hill glanced at him. "Fitting."

"Mr. Hiranchai."

Daotok hesitated before stepping into the next circle. Easter gave his shoulder a squeeze, a silent reassurance.

He stepped in—and gasped.

Water swirled up around his feet, rippling like a pond touched by rain. It shimmered, rising to his hands like it was greeting him—gentle, familiar.

Daotok stared at it. "I—I didn't know."

Professor Solenne smiled at him. "You do now. Next, Mr. Lueangsuwan."

Arthit barely walked inside his designated ring when the air around him rippled, then flashed—fire, sudden and fierce, spiraling upward around his arms like a shield. The fire bowed to him.

"Fire Mr. Lueangsuwan, reflecting your fiery nature." Professor Solenne then turned to Hill. "Mr. Ayutthaya."

Hill cautiously entered his circle. The ground beneath him pulsed softly.

Then, a breeze picked up, cool and sharp. Mist formed around his feet, then climbed upward, trailing ice crystals in its wake.

His breath caught.

"You are quietly awakening your element, Mr. Ayutthaya. Air, but it seems that you can manipulate it into another form—ice."

"Mr. Ritthirong." Professor Solenne nodded at North.

North walked in with a small smirk on his lips. When the circle didn't answer, he frowned.

Then—a single spark. Followed by another.

The moment he stopped expecting something grand, fire sparked from his fingertips—playful, wild, untamed.

"Very fitting for both Gryffindors to have the affinity for fire. Mr. Charoensuk?"

Easter stepped into his circle. As he settled, the ground itself responded—soft moss bloomed beneath his soles, small flowers pushing through cracks in the stone. The vines wrapped loosely around his boots.

"Earth." Professor Lucienne said nothing more.

"Mr. Prasert."

Tonfah quietly walked forward. He didn't need his circle to tell him—not really.

Still, the moment he stood still, the wind stirred around him in slow, sweeping circles. A current built beneath his robes, tugging upward.

But there was something else there too—a resistance, a pulse under the surface, like his magic recognized another that had once touched it.

"Interesting, Mr. Prasert. It seems your wind recognizes another affinity." Professor Solenne looked at him. Tonfah quickly averted his eyes.

"Mr. Ratanaporn."

Typhoon stepped forward in silence. The moment he crossed the ring, a gust of air burst outward, followed by dark clouds swirling overhead. Thunder cracked—not loud, but sharp and focused. Lightning coiled around his hand like it belonged there.

"Storm. Interesting how it is touched by shadow, Mr. Ratanaporn."

Typhoon lowered his gaze, jaw clenched. He didn't speak.

"The elements have spoken. Now let us see if your elements have something important—resonance. Partner up with your respective houses."

They all moved towards their housemates and stood together.

"Now, Slytherins first. Step into the inner circle and try to feel the tug of magic between the two of you." Professor Solenne looked at Johan and Typhoon.

Johan and Typhoon faced each other—lightning already crackling between their hands. Neither moved, but the ground beneath them pulsed.

Professor Solenne's voice cut across the tension like cold steel. "Begin."

Stillness. Then, Johan moved—slow and deliberate. Typhoon's jaw tightened. "You're really doing this? Now?"

"Yes."

Typhoon laughed without humor. "Still blaming me for something I couldn't control back then?"

Johan didn't answer, but his magic did. A bolt of sharp, precise lightning crackled from his hand—controlled and clean.

The air around them shuddered.

He stepped forward slowly, voice shaking with fury. "You think I wanted it to happen like that? You think I didn't try to stop it?"

"I think," Johan finally snapped, "that you never took responsibility for what happened."

"I was a child!"

Lightning exploded from Typhoon's palm. Raw power tore through the air like a scream. Johan staggered backward, raising his hand just in time. The field sparked. The runes beneath them glowed brighter—red now. A warning.

Another lightning exploded from Johan, fast and furious. Typhoon didn't flinch. He caught it—absorbed it—let it crawl across his arms like second skin, then hurled it back tenfold. Johan stumbled back.

The impact cracked the rune circle beneath them. Wind spiraled out violently, forcing the others to shield themselves.

Easter grabbed Daotok and pulled them back. "Get behind me—!"

North ducked instinctively, shielding Arthit. "They're going to bring the whole field down!"

Tonfah stepped forward—but Hill caught his arm "Wait—"

Tonfah shook free "He's losing control."

"Phoon." Tonfah, breathless, pushed forward, shielding his face from the harsh wind.

"Phoon, enough." Typhoon's breath hitched, the storm hesitating.

But Johan was already back on his feet, magic humming again, fury in his eyes. "You haven't changed. You're still dangerous."

That's when Typhoon snapped.

"And you're still pretending that you're not at fault!" His voice thundered with the storm.

Lightning flashed between them—this time, neither held back.

Johan was hit. Typhoon stumbled, recoiling from the impact of his own spell—burned by the magic he couldn't soften in time.

But he stayed standing. Barely.

"ENOUGH!" Professor Solenne raised her staff and slammed it down.

The storm shattered, the pitch fell silent, and ash and sparks drifted like snow.

"I told you to resonate, not kill each other."

Johan stood still, his shoulder bleeding from a glancing strike.

Typhoon stood with his fist clenched, eyes glowing with leftover stormlight, but his magic was pulsing away from Johan.

"Tonfah, North, please take them to the infirmary. We will resume next week. Dismissed." Professor Solenne turned her back on them and walked away.

Neither of them resisted.

Tonfah reached for Typhoon's arm, and looped it around his shoulders, grounding him gently, careful not to touch the burned skin.

North was already helping Johan, who turned his head away, shame and pain tangled in his silence.

Typhoon finally looked at Tonfah—not with rage, but with a quiet defeat in his eyes.

"You could've stopped." Tonfah murmured gently.

Typhoon didn't pull away.

"So could he."

Chapter 4

The infirmary air smelled of herbs and antiseptic.

Johan sat on the edge of the cot, shirt peeled halfway down, as Madam Pomfrey bound the burn on his shoulder with a cooling charm. His muscles twitched at the cold sensation but he didn’t flinch. He stared ahead, jaw clenched tight.

North leaned against the wall just within arm’s reach, arms crossed. Madam Pomfrey left them briefly, North finally broke the silence.

“You’re shaking.” He said, handing Johan a glass of water.

“I’m fine.” Johan muttered.

“Hm.”

“You’re not going to say anything?”

“You both nearly blew up the field. Figured you didn’t need a lecture.”

Johan exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him. Not really.”

“I know,” North said gently, moving to sit on the stool beside him. “You weren’t trying not to.”

“I didn’t mean to go that far.”

“But you did,” North replied gently. “Because part of you wanted to. Didn’t you?”

Johan set the cup down on the bedside table and leaned back on the bed, closing his eyes. “He was gone for years. I didn’t ask to be left behind, and yet—I disappointed him. No one ever talked about it again. Because when they did talk about it, it was always my fault.”

“You were both children when it happened, but you don’t hate him.” North said, not a question. “You just wanted him to feel it. You don’t have to pretend, just don’t lose yourself in it, Johan.” North then reached out and squeezed his hand.

 

Typhoon sat on the far end of the infirmary, away from Johan, his left arm cradled to his chest, sleeves burned and torn.

Tonfah sat beside him and reached into the basin of cool water, gently wrung out a cloth, and pressed Typhoon’s injuries. The silence between them wasn’t cold—just hesitant.

Typhoon winced but didn’t pull away. Tonfah worked in silence, carefully brushing away the soot and sweat, eyes flicking between the wound and Typhoon’s face. His brow furrowed.

“You didn’t have to use magic like that,” Tonfah said softly.

Typhoon didn’t answer.

“You could’ve stopped before it got that far.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You wanted him to fight you, didn’t you?” At that, Typhoon looked up. His eyes were storm-shadowed. Heavy but not cruel.

“I wanted him to see me.”

Tonfah paused, cloth suspended mid-ar. “By hurting him?”

Typhoon’s lips curled slightly—not into a smile, but something bitter. “I was always the broken one. The unstable and destructive one. The one who wasn’t strong enough to control the magic within me. The one who brought shame to the name.”

“So I showed him what he thought of me.”

Tonfah dropped the cloth into the basin. “You showed him what you wanted him to see,” he said tightly. “And that’s not you.”

“Not me, huh.”

Tonfah stood slowly. “I know who you were. And I know who you aren’t.”

Typhoon stared at his retreating back.

 

Easter sat with his fingers laced together, eyes distant. The four of them were in the Room of Requirement. An accidental discovery by Easter in their third year, and now, a constant place where they sometimes gather.

“I keep replaying it,” he finally said. “That moment when the air changed. Before they even started fighting.”

Daotok looked up. “You felt it too.”

Hill nodded, his jaw tight. “It was like… pressure in my chest. Not fear, just—something waiting to break.”

“They were trying to make each other bleed.” Arthit muttered.

Easter folded his arms. “They can’t keep doing that. Not in class. Not in front of all of us.”

Hill scoffed. “They can’t even look at each other without sparking something.”

Arthit sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “So what? We wait around for them to explode again?”

Daotok looked towards the window. “Or we talk to them.”

Easter blinked. “You think they’ll listen?”

“No,” Hill said plainly. “But they’ll hear us. They have a history. So do we. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending we’re just classmates.”

That settled into them like a quiet truth.

Arthit tapped the table twice. “Alright. So we’ll find them tomorrow. We talk to them.”

“And if they don’t want to talk?” Daotok said, unsure.

“Then we make them listen.” Easter replied.

They all nodded to each other as they set their plan in motion.

 

As it turns out, their plan was harder to execute than they thought. Their professors piled the essays on and doubled their readings. Tests appeared without warning. Herbology suddenly required group outputs. Transfiguration introduced an unexpected revision exam. Even the Elemental Magic class, which had once like a curious outlier, began demanding more attention.

And before they knew it, a week had passed. A week-long of rushed breakfasts and tired nods across the hallways in between breaks. No proper conversations or confrontations happened.

By Thursday morning, they had no choice but to push their plan back.

 

---

 

“This next charm,” Professor Flitwick begins, “is not typically taught until NEWT-level, but given your scores last term—and a bit of trust on my part—we’ll attempt it early.”

His wand draws shimmering script in the air:

Luminex Tetheris

A spell that creates a magical tether between two willing participants. Useful in search and rescue, an anchor warding, and a connection between the caster and the receiver.

“This charm only works when intent aligns. That means no half-hearted attempts. And yes, that means you must work with your partner, not against them. This charm is useful in advance dueling.” Professor Flitwick looks pointedly at the Slytherins and Gryffindors. “Now, pair up. You’ll have until the bell.”

The students dragged their feet with groans and a roll of their eyes.

Perfect. Arthit grinned as he stood up and walked towards Typhoon. “Partner with me.”

Typhoon looked up, a flicker of surprise flashing across his eyes. He raised a brow. ”You sure?”

“I thought about it,” Arthit replies, smirking. “But I’m curious.”

“Dangerous trait.”

“So I’ve been told.”

The move to an open practice area, joining the others who are attempting to practice.

“Have you done this before?” Arthit asks as they face each other.

“Yes.”

“Of course you have,” Arthit mutters, then lifts his wand. “Alright. Teach me.”

Typhoon hesitates—not out of arrogance, but precision. He watches how Arthit stands, how he grips his wand—confident, a little too tight, like someone always ready for a fight.

“You’re trying to control it too much,” Typhoon says. “This isn’t like Expelliarmus. It’s not force, it’s intent.”

“You keep saying that like it means something.”

Typhoon sighs and steps forward, lifting his wand slowly.

“Luminex Tetheris.”

From the tip of his wand, a thin, glowing thread of golden-white light snakes forward, warm and quiet. It arcs gently toward Arthit before fading into the air. “See?”

“Elegant as a Slytherin can be,” Arthit says, raising a brow. “Now let’s see what a Gryffindor can do.” He flicks his wand and steadies his voice.

“Luminex Tetheris.”

Spark erupts from his wand and quickly fizzles. The thread arcing towards Typhoon is too wild and uncontrolled. It bursts and vanishes with a snap.

“Too much force.” Typhoon says. “Try again. But this time, reach. Don’t push. Imagine you’re not casting it at me, but for me. Remember, intent must align. It’s like asking.”

Arthit raises his wand again, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

“Luminex Tetheris.”

The light flickers, then extends. A golden thread meets the one from Typhoon’s wand, and the two intertwine, forming a warm tether between them, soft and radiant.

They both blink.

“I did it.”

“You did.” Typhoon nodded at him.

Arthit tilts his head. “You know, I think you’re less of a bastard than everyone says.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

 

“Brilliant! Strong casting, both of you, ten points to both Slytherin and Gryffindor.” Professor Flitwick beamed at Arthit and Typhoon.

“Now, before you go—homework.”

Groans rippled through the class.

“Two feet of parchment on Luminex Tetheris—it’s application, magical theory, and the emotional consequences of failed resonance. Due next class.”

“Emotional consequence?” someone muttered.

“Yes,” he said sharply. “Resonance failures can break bonds. I expect insights, not regurgitated textbook nonsense.”

 

---

 

The library was quiet, save for the occasional flutter of turning pages and the soft scolding from Madame Pince behind the desk.

At a table near the windows, Typhoon sat alone at the far end of the Charms section, bent over his notes, two open books flanking his parchment. One of the was thick and battered, clearly used far more than the others—his own journal. The other was a textbook assigned for the recent Charms class. His wand rested near his hand, his ink barely smudged despite the speed of his handwriting.

He wasn’t hiding but he wasn’t looking to be found either.

“This is the quietest table in the entire library. I should’ve known you’d pick it.” Tonfah’s voice made him freeze for just a second. Typhoon didn’t look up immediately. Instead, he let the words settle, then closed his book with deliberate calm.

“I was here first.” He said without venom.

“And I’m a prefect,” Tonfah replied, sliding into the chair next to him. “So technically, I outrank you.”

That earned a faint twitch of Typhoon’s lips. Not quite a smile, but close enough. They sat in comfortable silence, interrupted only by the shared rhythm of ink and breath.

A few rows down, Arthit wandered into the Charms aisle with an air of uncertainty around him. His parchment was messily rolled in one hand, and a copy of the textbook tucked under his arm. When he spotted the pair, he blinked.

“Typhoon.”

Typhoon looked up and raised a brow.

“Can I go over the tether spell with you again? Uh. Sorry—am I… interrupting something?” Arthit mumbled before setting his things down in front of the pair.

Tonfah looked amused. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you ask for help.”

Arthit gave him a half-glare and slid into the seat across from them.

Moments later, North entered with Johan trailing close behind. North looked distracted, mid-ramble, until he stopped abruptly.

“They’re all there,” he whispered to Johan when he spotted the trio, then added under his breath, “And we’re going to sit with them, without you brooding.”

Before Johan could reply, North tugged him forward towards the table.

“This table full?” he asked brightly.

“It’s wide,” Tonfah replied. “Use your imagination.”

Johan gave Typhoon a lingering look, but Typhoon simply made space without a word. Johan sat beside him. It was the first time they’d done so in weeks without saying anything cruel to each other. The table was growing louder—books rustling, parchment being shared.

Then came Easter, Daotok, and Hill—still chatting quietly from their shared Herbology class. Daotok’s eyes drifted towards the table and blinked. Without a word, he makes his way towards it, which results in Easter and Hill following him. They pulled chairs into the remaining gaps at the long table. Their presence didn’t disrupt the rhythm—they simply joined in.

It was natural, as if finding each other was a normal occurrence to them.

It was Daotok who broke the silence around them.

“Phoon… would you mind showing us the tethering spell? Arthit said you taught him.”

“One by one?” Easter added. “It would help us write our homework if an input is added.”

“That’s a waste of time,” Typhoon said, standing. “It doesn’t need to be cast individually. The charm can tether more than two points. You just need to sync your intentions.”

“Wait, all of us? At once?” Hill asked, uncertain.

“In theory, the original spell was designed to test the resonance between the caster and the recipient. But when cast in proximity to others, the threads tangle. Adding a stabilization sigil to the casting core should work best with multi-point tethering. Watch.”

He raised his wand and whispered the spell. The effect was immediate. Thin, glowing lines shimmered into existence—gold threads weaved through each of them, barely visible. The spell connected all eight, linking their magic briefly. Then it faded. “The spell forms a network of threads that temporarily connects the magic. Though this depends on how many wands are present. More magic, more resonance.”

“That’s… advanced,” Hill said under his breath, exchanging a look with Arthit.

“Is it dangerous?” North asked.

“If done wrong, yes.” Typhoon tilts his head slightly. “The caster and the receiver must be willing to give and receive. If one resists the connection, the backlash affects the whole ring. Physically and emotionally.”

Everyone paused.

“How are we supposed to explain that in an essay?” Arthit asked, wide-eyed.

“No one will believe it unless you have a source.” Daotok muttered.

Typhoon sighed as he reached down and lifted an old, hard-bound book. “It’s in here,” he said, sliding it to the center of the table. “Page 37. Multi-anchor resonance theory.”

Johan opened it.

There, they saw a page full of meticulous handwriting—Typhoon’s handwriting. The charm. Its origin. Variants. Emotional resonance. Physical aftermaths. The theory behind multi-point tethering. An entire page bore the spell he had just demonstrated and explained.

“We can cite this?” Johan asked in disbelief.

“I’ve already submitted it to the Hogwarts archives,” Typhoon replied. “It’s been accepted for citation, though not yet registered.”

They all stared at Typhoon but didn’t say anything else. They settled into a comfortable silence. And for the first time, none of them were thinking about the past or their differences. The were just eight students sitting at one table.

 

---

 

It was unusual that the Charms were held in the Great Hall, but considering how all fifth-year students from all houses were gathered, it only makes sense that the Great Hall was utilized. The long tables were rearranged to the sides to accommodate all of the students. There was a buzz in the air as students piled in the joint class.

Professor Flitwick stood in the middle of the class with his arms crossed, lips pursed thoughtfully. “It has come to my attention,” he began, voice cutting cleanly through the chatter, “that eight of my students have submitted essays citing… a non-listed source.”

Tonfah exchanged a glance with Typhoon. North lifted a brow, casually nudging Johan with his elbow. Daotok gave Easter a look that clearly said, ‘I told you he’d notice.’ Hill and Arthit averted their eyes.

He slowly turned, gaze landing directly on Typhoon. “Mr. Ratanaporn, would you care to explain?”

The room went silent.

Typhoon, seated with arms crossed near the back, didn’t flinch. He stood with quiet composure, wand tucked behind his sleeve. His green-trimmed robes shifted as he stepped forward, all eyes on him. “It exists,” he said. “It’s just not in your curriculum.”

“Please enlighten us.”

Typhoon raised the book he carried. “This journal contains my observations, experiments, and spells—starting from my second year onward. It includes the resonance tether, multi-anchor connections, and emotional backlash theory.”

Professor Flitwick arched a brow. “So you wrote the source yourself.”

“I did.”

A wave of murmurs spread across the classroom. One Gryffindor snorted. “How do we know it’s not made up?” Typhoon turned toward the professor.

“Would a demonstration suffice?”

Flitwick’s eyes gleamed with intrigue. “Please.”

Typhoon turned toward the others and nodded at them. One by one, they stood and moved into a semicircle with him at the center. They raised their wands without hesitation. “Now,” he calmly said, “don’t resist. Let your magic meet mine.”

“Luminex Tetheris”

The light was immediate. Eight threads burst into life—thin, golden-silver lines weaving like strands of magic through the room, pulsing with light. The tether resonated in full form, connecting their magic. The threads pulsed, then slowly faded into a soft glow.

Professor Flitwick didn’t say anything at first. He walked forward, approached Typhoon, and gently held out a hand. He placed the book in it. He flipped to the marked page. Then flipped further. Then stopped.

“You recorded every reaction,” he said. “You quantified emotional instability after severance. You named risks the Ministry barely publishes in advance Auror training…”

Typhoon stood still.

“You did this alone?”

“Durmstrang has… fewer boundaries on magical theory,” Typhoon said.

A beat of silence before he turned to the class. “Let it be known,” his voice now rising, “that you have just witnessed original magical theory by one of your classmates—a piece that will be added to the restricted archives by the end of term, and one that any of you who cited it may keep in your footnotes.”

A pause, his gaze softening. “Well done, Mr. Ratanaporn. Please stay after class.”

 

The last of the students trickled out of the Great Hall, voices still buzzing with wonder and disbelief at the spell demonstration. Typhoon followed Professor Flitwick through the castle halls, steps echoing in the quiet. The halls felt heavier somehow, like the weight of what just happened was slowly settling on Typhoon’s shoulder. They arrived at Professor Flitwick’s office.

As soon as the door was clicked shut, Professor Flitwick looked at Typhoon. “Did you ever submit this work to Durmstrang?”

Typhoon hesitated. “They weren’t interested in… emotional implications. Only power.”

“And Hogwarts?”

He exhaled through his nose. “I wasn’t trying to be noticed.”

“You weren’t trying to hide either.”

Typhoon was quiet. Then, finally, he murmured. “I needed a place to write it down. To… try to understand it.”

“Do you understand what you’ve done here, Mr. Ratanaporn?”

“I wrote about resonance,” he said. “It’s not revolutionary. I just added emotional consequences and multi-threaded theory.”

“You grounded advanced magic in empathy,” he corrected. “That is revolutionary.”

He stepped around his desk, arms folded, gaze firm but not unkind. “I’ve been teaching Charms for a long time, Mr. Ratanaporn. I’ve seen talented students—brilliant ones. But I’ve rarely seen a student document their magic with such discipline. You didn’t just cast a spell. You studied yourself. Do you know what that tells me?”

Typhoon looked away, slightly flinching. “That I have too much time on my hands.”

“That you’ve been alone,” he said, voice gentler now. “And you had to teach yourself what should’ve been taught to you.”

That struck deeper than he expected, but Professor Flitwick continued, “You were sent away as I had heard. I don’t know why, and I won’t pretend to. But you came back with knowledge—dangerous, yes, but powerful. The choice is yours if you choose to build or to destroy.”

Typhoon finally looked at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you need to hear it,” he replied. “From someone who sees what you’ve done. And what you’re trying to become.” He placed the book back in his hands.

“If you’re willing, I’ll submit excerpts to the Board and the Headmistress for the approval of the archival inclusion. It will remain credited to you.”

Typhoon blinked. “You’d… do that?”

“With your permission.”

A pause, then Typhoon nodded once. “You can.”

“You’ve made something brilliant, Mr. Ratanaporn. But more than that—you’ve survived something difficult. Don’t let anyone make you ashamed of either.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his fingers curled protectively around the book. His voice, when it came, was soft but steady. “Thank you, Professor.”

He nodded. “Now go. Your friends are waiting.”

He paused at the door, turned his head slightly. “You think they’re my friends?”

“They stayed,” he said. “That’s usually where it begins.”

He didn’t answer—but the faintest smile tugged at his lips before he slipped out the door.

Chapter 5

The office door shut softly behind Typhoon. The corridor outside was mostly empty now, the sounds of shifting footsteps and fluttering parchment fading as students moved on to their next classes. Except for one person.

Tonfah leaned casually against the wall across from the door, arms folded, his eyes flicking upward the moment Typhoon stepped out. "Took you long enough." He said, voice light, teasing.

Typhoon blinked, brow arching slightly. "Were you waiting?"

Tonfah pushed off the wall with a small shrug. "Maybe."

Typhoon didn't answer right away, but something in the tight line of his shoulders loosened at the sight of him. They fell into step without needing to say it. The castle was now golden with early afternoon light, spilling across the floors and flickering through stained glass in moving colors. Their footsteps echoed faintly, neither of them rushing.

Tonfah glanced over, then back ahead. "You handled that class well."

"I just did what I knew." Typhoon replied.

"Exactly," Tonfah murmured. "You know more than you let on."

"Professor Flitwick offered to submit my work for archival inclusion."

"Did you accept?"

Typhoon shrugged. "If it meant broadening the magical syllabus here, how can I not?"

"You deserve it." Tonfah said softly.

Typhoon let out a breath. "That's the part that's hard to believe sometimes."

"Then believe me." Tonfah said, brushing his shoulder gently. "Because I've always known."

Typhoon hummed, neither agreement nor denial. They turned a corner, a corridor widening as they neared the courtyard steps. Through the archways, they could already see the others—Easter and Daotok sitting in the shade of a tree, books spread across their laps, North and Johan softly arguing over something in a shared notebook, while Arthit and Hill laughed at something they couldn't hear.

The sun made everything feel a little softer. Typhoon stopped for a second before stepping into view. Tonfah noticed and quietly said, "You don't have to keep bracing yourself every time we're with them." 

"Habit." Typhoon murmured.

"Then, break it," Tofah gently replied. "Start here. Even if it's not easy, I'll walk beside you anyway."

This time, Typhoon did smile—just faintly.

 

Daotok was the first to spot them. He lifted a hand lazily from where he sat cross-legged beside Easter, his Hufflepuff scarf trailing from his shoulders. Next to him, Easter tilted his head, following his gaze. "Fah, Phoon." He called, waving them over with an exaggerated flourish. "Come bask in the sun and pretend we're not hunted by homework and lectures."

Tonfah huffed a laugh under his breath and glanced sideways at Typhoon, who remained quiet. "They saved us a spot," Tonfah said, voice low. "We should go."

Typhoon nodded once.

As they approached, Johan shifted slightly to the side to make space, and without a word, Typhoon lowered himself onto the grass. Tonfah followed, sitting close enough that their knees brushed when the wind nudged them.

"Now that we're all gathered here," North started. "We need to get back on track. Elemental resonance."

Arthit groaned, flopping back on the grass. "I was hoping we'd have at least one more lesson before Professor Lucienne asks us to actually do something with it."

Hill looked at Arthit. "Knowing our luck? They'll partner us up randomly and expect us to know what to do."

"I don't think it's random," Tonfah murmured. "Last time wasn't."

Johan leaned back on his elbows, glancing toward Typhoon. "What do you think?"

Typhoon didn't answer right away. He was staring at the trees, eyes distant, listening. Then quietly, too quietly for most to notice, he muttered a faint incantation under his breath. The breeze stilled slightly, and the birdsong nearby went quiet. A faint shimmer of pale silver arched outward and sank visibly into the space around them.

Easter blinked. "Wait—was that a privacy ward?"

Daotok sat up straighter than intended. "Why did you just—"

"Because we don't know who might be listening," Typhoon said, calm but firm. "And this kind of magic... resonates beyond what you intend, if you're not careful."

The group fell into a brief silence.

Hill then gently asks, "Why? Is it illegal?"

Typhoon didn't look at him. "No. But it's powerful. And power, when not protected, tends to attract the wrong kind of attention. People like to take an interest in power they don't understand."

Arthit frowned, sitting up. "You're not just talking about people in general. You're talking about institutions."

Daotok tilted his head. "Is that a Durmstrang thing?"

"No," Johan answered before Typhoon could. "It's a family thing."

Tonfah sighed. "Some families are known to carry elemental magic in their bloodlines. Old magic. It's... not something talked about outside the home. Too dangerous. Too tempting."

Easter blinked. "Wait. So your families are—"

"Let's not get into lineage," Johan said quickly. "What matters is, some of us were taught to recognize it early. Doesn't mean we're ahead, it just means we didn't have to stumble blindly through it."

"Though, in my opinion, stumbling teaches more." Tonfah added with a faint smile.

"I just wanted to talk about our resonance as a whole." North muttered, a little pale now.

Typhoon softened slightly. "And we will. But first, always remember, wards up, even with the slightest mention of what we are about to discuss."

"But we can't just whip out our wands every time we have to put a ward up." Hill argued.

"You can." Tonfah sighed. "Wandless magic exists, a little practice won’t hurt."

Easter groaned.

"Going back," Johan, leaning forward. "Elemental resonance isn't just about syncing magic. It's... deeper. It ties your core to another person's—your intent, your energy, your emotion. That's why you can't force it."

"Then how do we prepare for it?"

"You learn how to recognize the edge of someone else's magic without recoiling. You let yours meet it halfway. Like wind curling around a flame, or water pressing gently against stone. Not colliding or controlling."

"But I still don't get what it's supposed to feel like." North admitted, frowning slightly as he tucked his knees up to his chest.

Typhoon's gaze flickered briefly to Johan, then to Tonfah. "May I?"

"Might as well show them." Johan said, rising to his feet and brushing off the back of his robes. Tonfah followed, calm and steady. Typhoon nodded and rose as well.

They moved into a small triangle on the grass. Tonfah extended his hand first, palm hovering in the air. Johan stepped in, lifting his own. Their hands didn't touch, then the air shifted. Tonfah's fingertips glowed faintly in silver-blue, the color of calm skies and still lakes. Johan's sparked with grey lightning, arcs dancing across his knuckles like flickering storm light.

And where their magic met in that space between their palms, a soft crackling halo shimmered—neither water nor storm, but a mingling of both, held in perfect tension.

No one spoke. They watched as Typhoon slowly stepped forward, raising his hand to hover just beside theirs. The energy shifted. Typhoon’s magic was darker, heavier—storm cloud grey tinged with something like obsidian. It moved slower than Johan’s, colder than Tonfah’s. But it pulsed with a force that made the hairs on everyone’s arm stand.

The resonance flared stronger, sharper. Wild and controlled, all at once. The grass at their feet trembled slightly. The lake behind them rippled, though no wind passed. The three of them then dropped their hands, and it vanished.

“Whoa,” Easter breathed. “That was… beautiful.”

Hill swallowed. “That’s what we’re supposed to do?”

Tonfah turned toward them. “Eventually, yes. That’s why it’s not commonly taught, because those who are gifted with elemental magic are not that attuned to their magic.”

“But it’s not something we can study out of a textbook,” North said, glancing at Tonfah, then Johan. “And even if we could… I haven’t found any useful materials in our library.”

Typhoon, silent until now, “Then let’s stop theorizing if the visual presentation is not enough,” he said, calm but purposeful. “Let’s test the resonance.”

Arthit shifted. “What, right now?”

“It’s safer here than anywhere,” Typhoon replied. “But I’m not that reckless. I want to anchor the courtyard with a rune—a stabilizer, just in case the resonance lashes out of control.”

“You have one prepared?” Daotok asked, curious.

“Not yet,” A pause. “But I can make one.”

That earned a raised brow from North. “You can just conjure a rune like that?”

“Not alone,” Typhoon said, glancing between Johan and Tonfah. “I need someone attuned to the same frequency and someone who knows the counterweight.”

Wordlessly, the three of them moved. Johan pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. Typhoon crouched beside him, and Tonfah knelt, conjuring a flat stone slab from the ground. It glowed faintly with residual magic.

Typhoon began first, etching the baselines of the runes in the air with his wand. The lines hovered above the stone glowed in sapphire blue. Johan followed next, adding the internal structure, sharp and angular strokes that pulsed like lightning. Tonfah’s magic came last. A circular emblem of three distinct magics forged into one.

Typhoon stepped back and gave a slight nod. “This will contain whatever surges will happen. You’ll each stand at a cardinal point. If you resonate with anyone, you’ll feel it.”

“And if we don’t?” Easter asked.

“Then your magic stays dormant. It’s not a failure,” Tonfah said. “Just… not time.”

Hill stepped forward, but paused. “How will we know?”

“An instinct.” Johan simply said.

They began to move, taking positions around the rune. The air shifted, not violently, but thick, charged, as though the very space between them started to hum. Then the rune pulsed. A low glow, then a flash of light, and in that moment, brief but infinite, something passed between them all. They all felt a thread tugging at their cores.

Johan’s voice cut gently through the silence. “It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.”

No one answered at first. Then, Hill gave a crooked grin. “That… was kind of terrifying.”

Daotok huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. At least it didn’t try to kill us.”

One by one, they all settled back into a comfortable silence.

“Phoon, I don’t get it,” North said, arms crossed. “You’re clearly brilliant. Why aren’t you in Ravenclaw?”

Typhoon let out a slow breath. “Because sometimes… blood decides where you’re sorted.”

Johan’s jaw tightened.

“My family’s old. Respected, feared. Take your pick. We’ve always practiced dark magic.”

Daotok shifted but said nothing.

“That doesn’t mean evil,” Typhoon clarified, lifting his gaze to meet theirs. “Dark magic isn’t inherently bad. It’s just… shadowed. Heavier. It takes more from the caster.”

Easter frowned. “But at school, dark magic’s treated like it’s forbidden. Dangerous even.”

“It is dangerous,” Typhoon agreed. “But so is fire. Or even light, in the wrong hands.”

“There’s a difference,” Tonfah added quietly, leaning a bit towards Typhoon. “What they don’t teach in books is that magic—real magic—isn’t just split into light and dark. There are mediums too. Like mine.”

“You’re saying your magic’s… neutral?” Arthit asked.

Tonfah nodded. “Not bright, not dark. It bends with intention. But it resonates best with…” he paused, then glanced at Typhoon. “… with dark-aligned magic. It always has.”

Hill blinked. “But we’ve never heard of that.”

“You wouldn’t,” Johan said. “The stigma is so thick, most families burned the records. Pretended they never used it. That magic is either pure or corrupted. But look hard enough… and the history’s still there.”

Daotok tilted his head. “Why isn’t it taught?”

“Because fear is easier to teach than balance.” Johan said, voice dry.

Typhoon dug in his satchel and pulled out a small stack of worn leather-bound books. “Here,” he said. “These might help. The theories here are older, mostly pre-regulation era. You’ll need to read between the lines. Take turns in reading it.”

Hill stepped forward and took the books. “You’re just… giving us these?”

“Borrow,” he corrected. “I want them back.”

 

---

 

The wind was gentle tonight. Not cold, not biting—just the kind that played with your robes and whispered like an old friend. Tonfah leaned against the stone railing of the Astronomy Tower, eyes scanning the glittering grounds below. He didn’t look up when the footsteps came, slow, deliberate, yet familiar.

“I thought you’d come here,” Typhoon said softly, stepping beside him.

“I needed air.” Tonfah’s voice was quiet. “And height. I think clearly when I can see the sky.”

Typhoon nodded, folding his arms. “I do too.”

They stood in silence for a moment, both staring outward, their breaths steady. Then Tonfah turned slightly. “You didn’t have to tell them. About the dark magic. The stigma. Your family.”

“I did.” Typhoon’s voice was calm, but his jaw clenched. “I don’t want to lie anymore. Not when we’re going to need each other.”

“You never lied. You just didn’t say anything.”

“Same difference.”

Another pause. Tonfah’s hand brushed the cool stone beside him.

“Do you think they’ll look at you differently now?”

“Probably.” Typhoon’s shoulders rose and fell. “But I think they’ll also try to understand. That’s more than I expected.”

Tonfah let out a soft laugh. “We used to think the world would fall apart if anyone found out. About you. About us. About what we could do.”

“Back then, maybe it would’ve,” Typhoon said, glancing at him. “Now? I think we’re holding it together.”

Their eyes met. “I saw your face earlier,” he added. “When you mentioned your magic was a medium.”

“Because it is.” Tonfah leaned in slightly, voice just above a whisper. “I used to think my magic was… incomplete. But it was just waiting. Waiting to find something to align with.”

Typhoon’s voice was low. “Someone.”

Neither of them said anything for a beat. The wind rustled through the stone arches above them like a secret. Tonfah finally smiled, slow and a little tired. “They’ll understand soon enough that my magic resonates with yours—not because of light or dark magic—but because we’ve always been two halves of the same spell.”

Typhoon exhaled slowly. “I missed this.”

“Me too.”

The bell in the distance tolled midnight. Neither of them moved. Because here, in this quiet hour, away from the stares and whispers, they were just Tonfah and Typhoon again.

 

The fire had long since died into embers, leaving the common room bathed in a warm, amber hush. Books and scrolls were spread across the floor by the arched window, where Hill sat curled in an oversized armchair, hunched over a worn leather-bound journal, lips pressed in concentration. Tonfah slipped in silently through the Ravenclaw common room entrance, the Astronomy Tower’s crisp wind still clinging to his robes. He paused mid-step when he saw the figure by the window, soft curls tousled, moonlight glinting off his spectacles.

“You’re still up,” Tonfah said softly, voice low to not wake the others.

Hill didn’t flinch. He glanced up briefly, eyes tired but sharp. “Could say the same to you.”

Tonfah smirked and walked closer, shrugging off his cloak. “Star-gazing clears my head. You?”

“Trying to understand this.” Hill held up the journal. “Typhoon’s. Or at least… it was in the pile of books he lent us.”

Tonfah raised an eyebrow and came to sit across from him, cross-legged. “That one’s… not exactly beginner material.”

Hill tapped a finger against the open page. “These runes. The ones about elemental tethering. It talks about resonance, sure, but it’s more than that. There’s something layered underneath.”

Tonfah’s gaze flickered to the symbols. “That one’s meant for soul-bond testing. It’s ancient. Not often used.”

Hill tilted his head. “Soul-bonding. That’s not just magical compatibility, is it?”

Tonfah’s silence was telling. Hill leaned forward slightly. “Fah… this doesn’t read like pure theory. Whoever wrote this wasn’t guessing. They knew what it felt like.”

“They did,” Tonfah said, voice softer now.

Hill’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not just speaking academically.” A pause. “You know what this feels like.”

Tonfah smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re too sharp for Ravenclaw.”

Hill blinked. “Is that your way of saying yes?”

Tonfah looked out the window, and the stars reflected faintly in his eyes. “It’s… not something I can explain in a sentence. It’s not about love, not entirely. It’s deeper. A pull. A thread. Magic that listens, even when you’re silent.”

Hill closed the book gently. “And it listens to Typhoon, doesn’t it?”

Tonfah’s lips curved slightly. “It always has.”

There was no judgment in Hill’s eyes—just curiosity. “So, are you saying your soul is… bonded to his?”

Tonfah didn’t answer right away. “It was never really a choice.” Hill let that settle, his gaze thoughtful.

“I used to think bonds like that were fiction,” Hill murmured. “Poetry in textbooks. But the way you two… exist around each other—it’s different.”

Tonfah smiled, tired but fond. “It’s not always easy. Especially not now. But it’s real.”

Hill returned the smile, then nudged the book toward him. “Then maybe you should help me decode this.”

Tonfah raised an eyebrow. “You trust me to teach you magic theory past midnight?”

“I trust the person who understands what the book is really about,” Hill said simply.

Tonfah reached out, pulling the journal closer. “Alright. But no quoting me in the essay.”

“No promises.”

They both chuckled.

 

---

 

The sun cast a soft orange glow through the dusty windows of the abandoned classroom on the third floor. The desks were pushed to the side, giving Hill just enough space to kneel on the floor, his wand clenched in one hand, a faintly drawn rune glowing on the worn stone beneath him.

The quiet hum of residual magic lingered in the air.

“This is just theory,” Hill muttered under his breath, echoing Tonfah’s words from the night before. “Nothing happens unless it’s mutual. Nothing happens unless it’s consented. Just a test.”

His wand hovered above the center of the rune.

“Let’s see if it responds to intent alone…”

A heartbeat before he could speak the incantation, the door creaked open.

“Hill?” Easter’s voice cut into the silence, casual, confused. “You left your Herbology notes in my bag again.”

Startled, Hill flinched. His wand slipped, the rune flared, and in a flash of quiet gold and silver light, it pulsed.

Easter blinked.

Hill froze.

The classroom fell completely silent again. Except… for the unmistakable pull. Not physical. Not magical in the conventional sense. But something deeper. Easter’s fingers twitched slightly, brushing against the air. “What—what was that?”

Hill’s breath caught. “No. No, no, no, no. That wasn’t—You weren’t supposed to—You weren’t even—You were supposed to be outside!”

“I came to return—What did you just do?” Easter asked, wide-eyed.

Hill looked at the now-faded rune. “It wasn’t finished. It shouldn’t have done anything! Unless—unless…”

Easter stared at him, brow furrowing. “Unless what, Hill?”

“…Unless your intent answered mine.” Easter blinked slowly.

Hill ran a hand through his hair, heart pounding. “We’re… connected. You—accidentally consented.”

Easter stared, jaw slightly slack. “You’re telling me I just bonded with you because I came to return your notes?”

“Technically, I think it’s because you were thinking about me and walked in right as I activated the rune, but—yes?” Hill paced like a trapped creature, muttering things under his breath that made no sense to Easter. “Okay. Okay. It’s fine. It’s not fine. But it’s fixable. Is it fixable?”

Easter leaned against the stone wall just outside the classroom door, arms crossed tightly, staring down at his hand like it might suddenly glow. It didn’t. But it felt like it could.

“Hill,” Easter said, voice level despite the weight in his chest. “We need to find Tonfah and Typhoon. Now.”

Hill stopped pacing and looked at him, wide-eyed. “Do you think they’ll be mad?”

Easter gave him a look.

“Okay, yeah, stupid question,” Hill muttered.

“Tonfah literally warned you, didn’t he?”

“I didn’t mean to drag you into this!”

“Well, maybe next time don’t activate a soul-bonding rune while I’m in a ten-foot radius!”

They stared at each other. Then—“…Sorry,” they both said at the same time.

A beat.

“Courtyard,” Easter said firmly. “They usually go there after classes.”

Hill nodded, heart hammering as they half-jogged through the stone corridors, ignoring the questioning glances from other students. They turned past the library, down the stairs, and out the side door onto the courtyard.

And there—under the overhang by the long benches—Tonfah sat cross-legged on the stone ledge, writing in his journal. Typhoon leaned against a nearby column, arms folded, eyes half-closed, probably listening to the wind or something equally dramatic.

Easter grabbed Hill’s wrist. “Come on.”

They skidded to a stop in front of them.

Typhoon blinked. “You two look like you’ve seen an Inferi.”

“We have a problem,” Hill said, out of breath.

Tonfah thumbed his book slowly. “What kind of problem?”

Easter shot Hill a look. Hill hesitated. “I may have accidentally… bonded with Easter.”

Typhoon’s eyebrows rose. “Soul-bonded?” Hill nodded.

Tonfah stood immediately. “What happened?”

Easter took over. “He was experimenting. I walked in. The rune reacted. There was a flash, and now we’re—” he gestured vaguely between them “—bonded.”

Tonfah closed his book with a sharp snap. “Hill,” he said calmly. “You’re a Ravenclaw. You’re supposed to be logical.”

“I was being logical! It was controlled conditions—”

“You used a soul-bonding rune unsupervised.”

Typhoon sighed, stepping forward. “What you’ve done can’t be undone.”

Hill flinched. “So that’s it?”

Typhoon looked at Tonfah. They exchanged a glance. Then Typhoon said gently, “The rune won’t activate unless there’s some kind of emotional intent on both sides. It might have been subconscious, but it was real. It’s why we warn people.”

Hill buried his face in his hands.

Easter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “So we’re stuck like this.”

“You’re bonded,” Typhoon said. “Which means your magic will respond to one another’s state. You’ll feel what the other feels during casting. Surges, fear, pain—it will echo.”

“We’ll help you,” Tonfah added, his voice soft. “It takes time, but it doesn’t have to hurt.”

Hill groaned. “I dragged him into this. This is my fault.”

Typhoon gave him a look. “And you think that changes the reality? That the bond would’ve forced itself if Easter didn’t resonate with you?”

Hill fell silent.

Easter said gently, “We’re in it together. Might as well learn.”

Typhoon sighed, shaking his head with a faint smile. “Honestly. Ravenclaws and curiosity.”

 

The tower was nearly deserted, save for the occasional flicker of enchanted stars moving across the domed ceiling. The real night sky stretched endlessly above the open terrace, a sea of ink and stardust. A soft wind swept through the arches, cool and dry, curling the ends of Hill’s hair.

He stood near the edge, hands curled around the stone railing. From here, you could see the entire courtyard, the lake glimmering in the distance. So much space—and yet he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Found you.” Easter’s voice was gentle behind him. Hill didn’t turn right away.

“How’d you know?” he asked, barely audible over the breeze.

Easter came to stand beside him, leaning on the railing, their shoulders nearly brushing. “You disappear when you’re overwhelmed.”

Hill gave a tired smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “So you do know me.”

“More than you think.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The air between them shifted—not tense, just heavy. Not with guilt. Not with blame. Just... the unspoken. “I’m sorry,” Hill finally said, voice raw. “For the rune. For dragging you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me,” Easter replied quietly.

“You didn’t consent, Ter.”

“I didn’t say no.”

Hill turned to him then, frowning. “You didn’t know what would happen—”

“But some part of me allowed it.” Easter’s eyes were steady. “Runes don’t respond to just magic. They respond to intent. You said that yourself.”

Hill swallowed, looking away again. “I panicked,” he admitted. “I saw the rune. I remembered the theory. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I just wanted to understand. And now we’re bound. And that terrifies me.”

Easter watched him for a long moment. “It terrifies me too.” That stopped Hill. He glanced over, startled.

“But,” Easter continued, “not because I don’t trust you. I’m scared because this matters. And because I don’t know what it means yet. But I don’t regret it.”

Hill blinked rapidly, his voice cracking, “Why?”

Easter exhaled softly, his breath visible in the cool night air. “Because it’s you.”

Hill lowered his gaze, voice trembling. “I’ve always admired how easily you talk to people. How sure you are of what you feel.”

“I’m not,” Easter replied, his voice hushed. “I’m just... willing to admit when I do feel something.”

Hill turned to face him fully this time, and they stood close under the stars.

“I don’t know what this bond means,” Hill whispered. “But if it’s you on the other end… I think I can learn.”

Easter smiled, eyes soft, but bright with something close to hope. “Then we’ll learn. Together.”

They didn’t touch, but the bond thrummed faintly between them. “Next time you want to test a rune,” Easter added with a teasing grin, “let me read the fine print first?”

Hill laughed, a small but genuine sound. “You got it.”

They stayed there a little longer, watching the stars arc overhead. The kind of quiet that only exists between people who are beginning something fragile and real.

Chapter 6

Notes:

I changed the Professor's name from Lucienne to Solenne. :)

The classroom was different today. Instead of desks, the stone floor was cleared and chalked with ancient runes—wide concentric circles, intersecting with elemental sigils, pulsing faintly with dormant power.

Professor Solenne observed them with quiet anticipation. “You’ve worked in pairs before. You’ve resonated with one or two of each other. Today, you’ll stand together. Let your magic meet—no control, no commands. Just the presence of your magic.”

North was the first to exhale, fire sparking at his fingertips. Not a flare, but a quiet ember. Across the circle, Arthit responded without realizing his own flame responding, curling upward as if seeking North’s warmth. Their eyes didn’t meet, but their fire did, weaving softly between them before settling back into their palms.

Easter released a low pulse of earth, a grounded vibration beneath their feet that rippled outward through the soil. It bumped gently against the fire, didn’t extinguish it, only tempered it. Beside him, Daotok’s water shimmered, coiling out from his palm. It slipped between Easter’s earth and Arthit’s fire, cooling and steadying. His water rippled once and circled back around him, as if testing the boundary of the circle.

Across from him, Hill’s air swirled in slow spirals, threads of wind edged with frost catching the water’s edge. The frost brushed Daotok’s water, acknowledging it. Tonfah’s wind rose quietly. Not sharp like Hill’s air, but warmer, smoother, like a breeze that coaxed leaves into dancing. His magic nudged Hill’s gently before slipping sideways, curling behind Easter and Daotok like a current trying to knit them together.

Johan’s storm flickered like tension waiting to snap. But he held it back. A crackle of static rippled under his skin, drawn instinctively toward North’s fire like lightning drawn to heat. It pulled but didn’t strike. Then Typhoon’s storm surged quietly in his chest. He didn’t call it forward, but it was already there. Buzzing faintly beneath his skin. He extended a hand, and the magic stirred. Lightning arced softly from his fingertips, but instead of attacking, it curved toward Tonfah’s wind, drawing it in like breath to thunderclouds.

Tonfah’s magic responded immediately, wind wrapping around the arc of storm light like a ribbon twining around lightning. Their eyes met for the briefest second. Typhoon gave nothing away. Tonfah smiled just a little.

Around them, the circle pulsed. The magic didn’t align perfectly. There were overlaps, resistance, jagged intersections. But still—it held. Hill’s wind brushed Johan’s storm and sparked. Daotok’s water twined briefly with North’s flame before pulling back. Arthit’s fire flickered brighter when met with Typhoon’s storm, then subdued itself, learning balance. Easter’s earth pulsed again, grounding the whole circle, a steady base for them to fall into if things broke.

Professor Solenne watched them with a calculating eye. “It’s not harmony,” she said. “But you’ve crossed the threshold.”

Professor Solenne stepped into the center of the circle, her robes brushing over the last fading pulse of residual magic. "You've made progress," she said. “Not just as casters, but as individuals. And that matters more than you know.”

The eight of them stood quietly. No one really wanted to be the first to speak. Their magic still hummed under their skin like a second pulse.

Professor Solenne continued; her voice gentler now. “For your next task… no essays, no parchment submissions. This won’t be graded. You’ll submit it only to yourselves.” She paused, letting that settle. “I want each of you to spend time with your element—not just using it, but listening to it. Magic has personality, rhythm, and memory. It doesn’t just obey, it reflects. You cannot master what you do not understand.”

She made a slow turn around the circle, meeting each of their gazes. “Some of you are in tune already,” her eyes brushed over Johan, Typhoon, and Tonfah. “Some of you are learning to trust what responds to you.” A glance at Hill, Daotok, and Easter. “And some of you… need to learn that your element is not just a weapon, but a mirror.”

North flushed faintly under her gaze. Arthit looked at the ground, his shoulders tense but not combative.

“I want you to write privately for yourselves. What you learn, about how your element reacts to emotion, to stress, to joy. Who does it respond to, and why? What it says about you.”

Typhoon tilted his head, quietly intrigued. Tonfah’s eyes softened. Easter, ever grounded, gave a small, thoughtful nod. Professor Solenne smiled faintly, hands clasped behind her back.

“Magic is deeply personal. We categorize it by schools, by nature, and by elemental type—but don’t mistake that for understanding. Knowing your element is like knowing your own mind. You don’t control it. You walk beside it.”

She paused at the edge of the circle, near the doorway. “There is no due date. No right answer. But if you can finish this before your time at Hogwarts ends…” Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial, “You might surprise yourselves.”

Then, with a sweep of her cloak, she turned and exited the room.

 

---

 

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, save for the low murmur of a dying hearth. Arthit sat on the stone floor before the fire, cross-legged and unmoving, as if willing himself to feel something more than warmth. His journal lay open to a blank page beside him. A quill rested on the spine, untouched. He hadn’t written a word. He wasn’t even sure what to write.

Professor Solenne had given them a simple homework assignment: “Spend time with your element. Observe it. Listen.”

No grades. No deadline. No wand works. Just… presence.

So here he was, watching the fire, waiting for it to do something. The flames swayed gently, licking at the charred logs, throwing flickers of amber against the stone walls. It didn’t roar. It didn’t rage. It just… existed.

“I don’t get you,” he muttered, eyes on the flame. “You’re supposed to be my element. But all I’ve done with you is lose control.”

There was no response, of course. Just a soft pop from a knot in the wood, and a flurry of sparks that danced for a second before fading into the air. He leaned forward, resting his arms over his knees. “You’ve always felt like… something I should fear. You hurt. You scorch. You don’t think.”

He paused.

“But maybe that’s just me.”

The words settled into the room like ash. Still, the fire didn’t react. It simply continued—steady, warm, constant. He could feel it brushing against his skin. And, somewhere deep inside, the word surfaced. Quiet and unexpected.

Protect.

It wasn’t something he meant to say, even in his head, but the moment he thought it, something shifted.

He saw Daotok.

Not clearly, just the shape of his face. The way his eyebrows furrowed when he concentrated, the small smile when he handed Arthit apples, the warmth in his voice, and the softness in his hands.

Protect.

And that was the first time the fire leaned toward him—subtle, just a curl of heat reaching his fingers. Not harsh and dangerous, just present. Arthit swallowed and looked down at his palm, held near the flame. “You want to protect,” he said softly, breath almost catching. “Not just burn.”

A knot built in his chest, an ache he couldn’t name.

“Is that what you’ve been trying to say?”

The fire didn’t answer. But it no longer felt like a stranger.

He sat in the silence, watching the light play across his skin, and realized for the first time that maybe fire wasn’t only about rage or destruction. Maybe it waited. Maybe it watched. Maybe it remembered. He picked up his journal and finally wrote:

It doesn’t yell, it listens. Fire doesn’t just burn. It protects. And sometimes, it looks like someone is handing you an apple without asking why.

He stared at the words for a long time. Then closed the journal without signing it. And smiled, just a little.

 

---

 

The hum of the Great Hall had faded behind them, torches flickering low against stone walls as Johan and Typhoon made their way down the long corridor leading to the Slytherin dungeons. Their steps echoed softly. The silence between them was not awkward, but not easy either.

Typhoon had his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he was bracing for something. Johan walked beside him, a little more relaxed, but glancing sideways now and then. They hadn’t spoken since sitting at the far end of the table during dinner—close enough to hear each other’s silverware, far enough not to say a word.

It was Johan who finally broke the quiet. “You still walk fast,” he muttered. “Some things don’t change.”

Typhoon gave a soft, short laugh. “I learned early on that staying still made you a target.”

Johan blinked, eyes flicking to him. “Durmstrang?”

Typhoon didn’t answer right away. He turned a corner first, then said, “Every school has its monsters. Durmstrang just… teaches you how to become one before anyone else can.”

Johan’s steps slowed a little. “Is that what happened?”

Typhoon stopped walking altogether. “What do you think happened, Johan?”

The use of his full name made Johan stiffen slightly. He turned to face him. “I think—I think you were angry. I think your magic was too much, and no one helped you figure it out. I think you nearly hurt someone, and that scared everyone, including me.”

He paused.

“I also think I should’ve defended you anyway.”

Typhoon looked down at his hand, fingers brushing the slim ring on his pinkie—a familiar comfort. “They wanted someone to blame. I made it seem easy.”

“No,” Johan said, stepping closer. “You were twelve. You were scared.”

Typhoon gave a humorless smile. “I wasn’t scared, not then. Not until I got there. That’s when I realized no one was coming.”

Johan’s jaw tensed. “I wanted to. I should have.”

Silence again. Then, softly, Typhoon asked, “Why didn’t you?”

Johan exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “Because I was stupid. And angry. And I kept thinking, maybe it was your fault. That if you had just—” He stopped himself and shook his head. “I was too proud to see that you needed help.”

Typhoon watched him for a moment. “I hated you for it,” he said. “Not for choosing silence. But for pretending like it didn’t matter when I came back.”

Johan flinched, but he nodded. “I deserved that.”

Silence passed between them. Typhoon eventually pushed off the wall and started walking again. Johan fell into step beside him. “You changed,” he said.

“So did you.”

They turned the final corridor toward the Slytherin common room. The portrait was still a few paces ahead. Typhoon added quietly, “You were my cousin first before you were my friend. But I wanted to believe you could be both.”

Johan glanced over, surprised. “Still want that?”

Typhoon shrugged. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Johan gave a crooked smile. “Yeah. And I meant it when I said I missed you.”

They reached the stone wall. Typhoon gave the password, and it slid open with a low rumble. Before stepping through, Johan hesitated. “Hey.”

Typhoon turned slightly.

“I’ll make it up to you. I don’t know how yet, but… I will.”

Typhoon raised an eyebrow, something soft flickering in his expression. “You can start by not hexing me during class.”

Johan huffed a quiet laugh. “No promises.”

They stepped inside, the green flow of the Slytherin common room spilling over them—two boys, no longer twelve, trying to walk forward from the pieces left behind.

Chapter 7

The Hogwarts library was quieter than usual. An odd peace settled over the stone shelves and high-arched windows as most students began counting down the days until the Yule holidays. Snow had started to drift against the tall panes, blurring the outside into white stillness. Inside, the soft scratching of quills and the occasional turning of pages filled the space with a gentle rhythm.

At one of the tables at the far end of the Charms section, Tonfah and Typhoon sat together. A half-dozen books were already stacked between them, parchment unfurled with diagrams, notes, and spells scribbled in meticulous handwriting. Tonfah sat with one ankle resting over his knee, quill tapping against his chin in thought, while Typhoon had his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a lazy sort of focus in his storm-colored eyes as he annotated the margins of a borrowed Arithmancy tome.

“You do know,” Tonfah said without looking up from his notes, “that most students aren’t still working this close to the holidays, right?”

Typhoon didn’t even blink. “And yet here we are.”

Tonfah faintly smiled at the dry tone and dipped his quill again. He glanced up and his breath hitched. Typhoon’s left hand, resting on the tome, was slowly and absentmindedly spinning a silver ring around his pinkie finger. He would slide it off halfway with his thumb, only to slide it back down again.

“You’re going to wear out the metal doing that.” Tonfah said softly, before he could stop himself.

Typhoon blinked, as if startled out of his thoughts. He looked down at his hand, the ring now paused halfway off his finger. “Hm?” He offered a lazy sort of smile, like he hadn’t realized he was doing it. “Oh. Habit.”

Tonfah swallowed. “Left hand?” he said, glancing down at Typhoon’s hand again.

Typhoon gave a soft laugh. “Hm. Just felt right.” Then, more quietly, “Just a feeling… that if you were still wearing yours, it’d be there.”

Tonfah didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He reached over, pretending to adjust a scroll, but the sleeve of his robe slipped just enough to show his hand, ring, and all. A little worn, and a little looser now, but still there.

“Hey,” Tonfah said lightly, “Have you decided where you’ll be for the holidays?”

Typhoon didn’t look up at first. He finished scribbling something at the edge of the tome before replying, tone quiet, like he hadn’t thought much of the question. “Home.”

Tonfah nodded slowly, resting his chin on his palm. “Right,” he said, glancing back at his parchment. “Makes sense.”

Typhoon looked up then, noticing the pause in Tonfah’s voice. “What about you?”

“My family’s manor,” Tonfah said with a small shrug. “Same as always. Though it’ll be quieter this year, I think.” He tapped the edge of his quill, then smiled. “I’ll write to you.”

Typhoon tilted his head, a quiet sort of amusement crossing his face. “Hm. Sure, I’d like that.”

They fell into a companionable silence. The kind that required no effort, just the occasional turn of a page and brush of a quill. Tonfah caught him toying with the ring again, this time with a hint of amusement on his face.

Eventually, the quiet silence was broken by the familiar shuffle of shoes and the whisper of parchment. Johan arrived first, dropping into the seat beside Typhoon with an exhale. “Thought I’d find you two here.”

“Hm. And where else would you look for us if not here?” Tonfah said lightly, not even looking up.

Johan just hummed in response, pulling out a half-folded essay. North came next, his Gryffindor scarf slightly askew, carrying a copy of Intermediate Transfiguration under one arm. He slid in beside Tonfah. “You two always beat us here.”

“Some of us enjoy the quiet.” Typhoon murmured.

“You say it like that, but you tolerate our presence.” North countered.

Hill and Easter arrived next, side by side, voices low as they discussed something about transfiguration. “Library again?” Hill said, already sliding into a seat across from Tonfah. Easter offered them a faint smile as he set his satchel down.

Daotok followed a moment later with Arthit in tow, arms full of scrolls, cheeks slightly pink from the cold. He didn’t say anything, just gave a small wave and took the last seat beside Hill.

No one remarked on it. The table just filled, as always. Books were opened, notes passed around, and someone asked if anyone had last week’s essay. Someone else muttered about the upcoming exams. It was quiet, in its own way. Not because they weren’t speaking, but because it felt like home, familiar, and comfortable.

Later, Johan leaned toward Typhoon with a question about a spell syntax. North quietly argued over a theory with Hill, who offered a counterargument without ever raising his voice. Easter caught Daotok’s quill when it rolled too close to the edge and handed it back. Tonfah would slide his parchment with his annotations over to Arthit.

It was like this now. Quiet threads, all woven together. They didn’t speak about what tied them; they didn’t have to. And in the stillness of the library, beneath the ever-turning hands of the great clock, they studied. Together. As always.

 

---

 

Hogsmead was blanketed in soft snow, the kind that muffled footsteps and dusted eyelashes in silence. The sky above was pale grey, casting the village in a quiet glow. Typhoon hadn't planned to go, but Daotok cornered him at the Great Hall after breakfast and said, "We thought you might like to come."

Easter was already wrapped in three scarves. North stood beside him with a soft smile handed him a scarf, and for once, Typhoon didn't say no.

"We're just looking," North said as they walked through the cobbled streets. "A few things before the holidays. Nothing big."

"I know we didn't mean to make this a supply run too," Daotok said, unfolding a list with a guilty little smile. "But we're running low on ink, charms, and—"

"Resonance stones." North murmured, tracing a finger down the margin. "The ones we have for elemental class are flawed."

"I need a charm bracelet that won't react with mine of Hill's magic," Easter added, more to himself. "Everything here is pre-made and cheap."

Daotok hesitated. "I also wanted to look for something for Arthit," cheeks flushing, "A fire-salve for practice or a heat-proof quill."

Typhoon listened. They hadn't asked for help, they were just talking.

"I was thinking," Daotok continued, "If we found something small for the others too... Something useful, I think."

Typhoon's voice was quiet when he spoke. "We're leaving."

Daotok blinked. "Leaving where?"

"Hogsmead." Typhoon said, already turning and walking away.

North adjusted his coat and rubbed his gloved hands together. "Back to Hogwarts?"

"No." Typhoon's tone was calm. "Detour."

Easter fell beside him, brows knitting slightly. "You're being vague."

"No, I'm being precise." Typhoon corrected.

Daotok huffed out a soft laugh and followed anyway. "You do realize that's not comforting, right?"

Typhoon didn't answer. He led them down a narrow, sloped path behind the post office where the snow hadn't been cleared, and the cobblestones were slick with thin ice. They passed beneath an overhang of pine and frost until they reached a squat, ivy-covered stone cottage with no visible signage. He raised one hand, pressed his palm to the heavy wooden door, and whispered something that the others couldn't properly hear. The door unlatched with a soft click and creaked open. Inside was a small room, round, cold, and empty except for a single fireplace rimmed in old brass and a thin floor of runes carved into the stone. A Floo gate, but not like the ones the school sanctioned.

North stepped in slowly, cautious. "Phoon, this isn't on any of the Hogsmead maps."

"It wouldn't be."

Easter glanced toward the old runes. "Is this... legal?"

"Hm. Technically."

Daotok crossed his arms. "That's not a no."

Typhoon turned back to face them fully. "This is a private gate." He said. "Not connected to the school's Floo network. It's owned by a family friend. Protected, unregistered to most students, but not locked."

North studied him. "So it's a loophole?"

Typhoon nodded. "One that's safer than Apparating blind or settling for flawed charms. I trust you not to waste it."

He stepped toward the fireplace, the old brass markings glowed softly. He pulled a this satchel from his coat and opened a pouch of dark green Floo powder, sparkling faintly with shielding spells. He offered it out to them.

"Diagon Alley." He said quietly. "Ten seconds after me. You know how this should work."

Easter met his gaze. "You sure about this?"

Typhoon nodded once. "I wouldn't bring you if I wasn't." He then stepped into the flame, shadows licking up around him, and vanished in a curl of green light.

Daotok stared at the spot where he'd been. "I don't know whether I'm worried or impressed."

"Both." North murmured. But they followed him anyway.

 

The fire flared once, soft green, and steady. North stepped through first, cloak brushing snow onto the stone floor. His eyes adjusted quickly, gaze sweeping the corridor, curious was written on his face. Typhoon nodded at him when their gazes met.

The flame flared again when Easter emerged, a touch slower, brushing soot from his sleeve. His eyes landed on the runes along the archway first, then on North and Typhoon. He gave them a small smile, unsure of what to say yet.

The fire sparked again, brighter this time, when Daotok stumbled through slightly off-balance, landing in a small spin. "Okay. That was smoother than expected."

Typhoon was already holding out a handkerchief. "Soot."

Daotok blinked, took it, and started brushing at his collar with a sheepish grin. "Thanks. Also, where are we?"

Typhoon nodded toward the alley mouth. "Private access. Quiet side of Diagon Alley." He stepped forward, leading them down the cobbled path with easy confidence. "We're close, just one street over. Fewer crowds, better shops, and inventory."

The three said nothing but followed him anyway.

 

The first was soft-lit, nestled in a corner wth rune-scribed windows and tiny enchanted constellations flickering across the ceiling. Inside, North paused at the quiet alcove tucked behind a shelf of quills. There, lined up in a long velvet tray, sat a collection of rune-pressed stones, storm-aligned, but stabilized with complementary elements. He picked a small, pale stone and held it onto his palm.

"These resonate with him," he said under his breath, half to himself. "Johan."

Typhoon appeared beside him. "They were made for dueling partners. Matching fields."

North hesitated. "For a pair?"

Typhoon nodded. "Or a bond. One to channel, one to ground."

North took two. One for himself, and the other, he knew, would be for Johan.

 

The second shop they went to was tucked behind a leatherworker's, lit with flickering rune stones and strings of enchanted thread. The air smelled like cedar and magic ink. Easter lingered near a set of charm bracelets—each one threaded with a different elemental core. He tried them on his wrist quietly, testing the balance. Finally, he slipped one off its cushion. A slim obsidian bracelet, threaded with a nearly invincible vine of greenlight rune.

"That one is keyed to grounding." Typhoon said, voice low behind him. "Won't react to soul magic, it works best when worn on your wand hand."

Easter turned it over in his hand. "It's perfect."

 

At the third shop, Daotok insisted they split up to keep things interesting. He disappeared between rows of enchanted parchment and came back clutching a roll of spell-binding wax and a heat-proof quill that adjusts to the writer's hand temperature. "For Arthit," he grinned. "He'll pretend to hate it, but that's how I know it's perfect."

The three of them didn't say anything and just followed him to the front desk.

 

The Leaky Cauldron was warm in the way old places are, not just from the fire, but from the walls themselves. Typhoon led them to a table near the back, round, and tucked beside the windows. None of them had spoken much since they left the shop. A kettle of spiced black tea was brought to the table, with clove biscuits and lemon peel sugar. Typhoon poured the tea without looking up. "You still have time to owl them ahead of break."

Daotok took his cup with a small smile. "You sound like you've already thought six steps ahead."

Typhoon didn't reply but handed Easter a second sugar cube without needing to ask. North leaned back into the bench. "We're heading home tomorrow night, aren't we?"

Easter nodded. "Letters should go out before we leave."

Daotok looked at Typhoon. "You'll write to us, right?"

Typhoon paused mid-stir. The spoon clinked once against the rim of the cup. "I wasn't planning on it."

"Why not?"

Typhoon hesitated. "I don't usually write, people don't expect it either. It's easier that way."

Easter tilted his head, hands warming around the porcelean. "But we'd like it."

"You don't have to say that." Typhoon said as he glanced at him.

North stepped in, voice low but certain. "We're not saying it because we have to. We mean it."

Daotok leaned in. "Look, if you don't write, I'll keep sending you letters anyway. Long ones, pointless ones, take your pick."

Typhoon huffed out a breath of amusement. "That sounds more like a threat."

"Exactly."

North added. "We're not asking for an essay, just... something. Even if it's one sentence."

Easter looked at him, quiet and sincere. "Just write back, we'd appreciate it, especially if you've paid for these gifts. Yes, we've noticed you didn't let us pay anything."

Typhoon glanced down at his tea. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I'll write."

Daotok lit up. "Promise?"

"I said I would."

Easter raised his cup. "Then it's settled."

North clinked his cup to his. "We'll be expecting owls."

Typhoon took a long sip of tea. And for the rest of the afternoon, they stayed there—four cups, warm hands, and a promise to start the holidays.

Chapter 8

Notes:

I really liked writing this chapter. Enjoy!

The wind in Diagon Alley that morning wasn’t sharp, just steady, the kind that nudged your coat open no matter how tightly you’d buttoned it. Snow gathered in slow piles near the gutters, melting just enough to leave cobblestones slick underfoot.

North tucked a wrapped parcel deeper under his arm as he stepped out of the apothecary. A bookshop bag hung from his other hand. Ink, paper, mostly, and a charm-inked bookmark he hadn’t really meant to buy. He hadn’t expected to be out long—just errands. He was halfway down the street, gaze fixed on the patterned frost along the bakery windows, when he nearly walked straight into someone rounding the corner.

“Oh—sorry, I—”

He looked up.

Johan. Wearing a dark green coat lined with fur, arms full of a narrow paper bag, and a tin tucked into his arm. There were flakes of snow caught in his hair, curling faintly at the edges. For a moment, neither of them moved.

“…Hi,” Johan said first.

North’s fingers curled a little tighter around the parcel. “Hi.”

“I didn’t know you were still in London,” Johan said gently.

“Just for a few days,” North replied. “My parents are travelling. I thought I’d stay near the Alley. You know, walk, read.”

Johan smiled a little at that. “Sounds like you.”

North looked down at the small bundle Johan held, ribbon slightly askew. “Errand?”

Johan nodded. “Tea for my mum. Something with lavender. She said it helps her sleep.”

A soft sound escaped North, almost a laugh, nearly a breath. “Sounds like you.”

Johan glanced toward the nearby shop. Its windows glowed amber, a little fogged at the corners. “Do you… want to come in with me?”

North didn’t answer right away, but then he nodded, just once. “Alright.”

 

Inside, the tea shop was quiet. It was the kind of silence that settled. Gentle clinks of porcelain in the background, shelves lined with soft-colored tins, and magic laced so subtly into the air it felt like breathing.

Johan passed a tin to North—mild, airy, something light enough to settle into the background of a good day. North handed him one in return—grounded, calming, threaded with warmth. Their fingers touched once, reaching for the same blend. Neither of them pulled away.

 

When they stepped outside again, the sky had turned that soft shade of winter blue just before dusk. They held their warm cups carefully, as if the heat might run from them. They stood near the edge of the street, not quite facing each other.

“…It’s good to see you,” Johan said quietly.

North didn’t answer at first, but then, he turned, met his eyes, and said with a stillness that carried more than words ever could, “You too.”

Johan looked like he wanted to say something else, but he only nodded, thumb brushing over the edge of his cup, then, barely above a whisper, “Write to me?”

The pause wasn’t long. “I already started,” North said, smiling.

 

---

 

The parcel arrived just before the Eve of Yule, tied with uneven string and a note written in crooked, hurried ink. Arthit doesn’t open it right away. He sits with it for a while, studies the handwriting, the folds in the paper, the faint trace of cinnamon or something warmer still lingering. He recognizes it instantly. Daotok must’ve written it in the kitchen, probably wrote it while baking something.

He opened the parcel, and inside was a thin scarf, hand-dyed in a muted shade of red-yellow that matches Arthit’s favorite quill. Tucked into the folds is a small charm on the edge—an almost-invisible warmth spell, nothing more than a gentle comfort. Not strong enough for harsh winters.

There’s a note folded once, no greeting, no sign-off:

For the library. Don’t pretend you won’t fall asleep there again.

-D.

He smiled and pressed it once to his chest.

 

The owl arrived just past midnight on New Year’s Eve. Daotok found the parcel resting on the windowsill of his bedroom, wrapped in parchment folded with precision, corners perfectly aligned. There’s no note on the outside, only a wax seal in familiar silver-grey.

He opened it slowly, fingertips careful not to tear the edge. Inside was a journal, not store-bought, but hand-bought. The cover is soft, navy leather, and the pages inside are blank, but charmed to respond to the writer’s emotions. Whatever he writes will shift its ink hue accordingly. Blue for calm. Green for curiosity. Gold for joy. Red… for something else.

Inside, pressed between the pages, is a dried flower—not enchanted. Just… real, simple, and familiar.

Tansy.

He remembers mentioning it once, an offhand comment when they were walking the grounds in early autumn. Arthit hasn’t responded, just looked ahead. Daotok presses his thumb to the page. Tucked into the back pocket of the journal is a folded strip of parchment.

In case you get tired of sending letters. (But I hope you don’t)

-A.

Daotok held the journal like it’s something fragile.

 

---

 

Hill didn’t mean to leave. At first, it was just a strange feeling—one he couldn’t name. Restlessness curled beneath his skin like low fire, smoldering but never sparking. His home was beautiful this time of year: evergreen garlands, enchanted glass stars over every hearth, warm cider, and the scent of pinewood and spell wax lingering in the halls.

But it wasn’t enough. Not this year, not since the bond.

He tried ignoring it. He tried reading, training, sitting by the windowsill with his journal open and blank for hours, but his thoughts kept drifting to the same place—to Easter.

To the brush of fingers over a soul-rune not meant to be touched, to magic that moved between them like breath, to the way Easter had looked at him in that moment, wide-eyed and still. Like something had cracked open inside them both.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. And yet, here he was, days into Yule, coat half-buttoned, telling no one, heading for the Floo gate.

The countryside outside Easter's home was hushed in snowfall when Hill stepped out of the hearth. It wasn't grand like Hill's manor, but warm in a different way—mossy stone, soft light in the windows, a broom leaning crooked against the porch rail, and the smell of fresh-baked drifting on the wind. He hesitated on the path, the snow crunched once under his boot.

When the door opened, and there, stood Easter in the entry, hair tousled from sleep, a cardigan that is too big for him, and mismatched socks. He blinked once. "...Hill?"

For a moment, neither of the spoke. Then, Hill said, a little hoarse. "I didn't know where else to go."

Easter didn't answer, but he stepped back, and held the door open, letting Hill step inside. The warmth hit him slowly. Steam curling from a mug on the nearby table, the cottage smelling of orange peel and fresh baked cookies.

Easter handed him a cup of tea like it was the most natural thing in the world. Hill sat beside him on the rug, watching the snowfall through the frosted windows. Easter pulled a second blanket from the couch and tossed it over them both. Their knees touched underneath the blanket but neither moved.

"Thought you might show up."

Hill turned, eyes soft. "Why?"

"Because I haven't been sleeping well either."

Neither of them said anything after that, but they both understood in their silence.

 

It was a little later when Easter's mother appeared at the archway of the living room, drying her hands on a tea cloth. She paused, just a moment, taking in the scene, then offered a gentle smile. "I've made up the second room." She said softly.

Hill blinked, startled. "Oh—I didn't mean to impose. I only meant to—"

"You didn't."

She stepped farther into the room, setting a folded blanket on the back of the nearest chair. "You're welcome to stay the night. Or as long as you need."

Hill looked up at her, unsure, but she was already turning toward the kitchen, her tone light. "There's stew warming, if either of you wants more. And the kettle's charmed if you'd rather have tea before bed."

Then she paused, just once more, and glanced back. "And, Hill right?"

He looked up. "Ma'am?"

"It's alright," she said. "Whatever the reason brought you here. You don't need to explain it."

He didn't answer right away, just stared down at the rim of his mug, as if unsure what to do with something so quietly generous. Then, softly, almost inaudibly, "...Thank you."

She nodded once and left the room. Later, Hill stood in the doorway of the guest room, banket under one arm, unsure how to move. Easter stood beside him, arms folded loosely, shoulder brushing his. "You don't have to talk about it," Easter murmured. "Not tonight."

Hill nodded. "I know." He glanced once toward the bed, the soft golden light glowing against the quilt. "...It's warm here."

Easter smiled faintly. "It is."

Hill looked at him again. "Thank you."

"Thank you for staying."

 

---

 

The snow outside the Prasert estate had begun to fall again—fine and steady, dusting the windows like powdered sugar. Inside, the fires cackled and laughter echoed faintly down the halls but Tonfah barely heard it. Typhoon's words echoed louder than anything else.

"Home."

The word unsettled in him as he remembered how Typhoon said it without an afterthought. He also thought about the amusement that graced Typhoon's face when he said he'd write to him over the holidays. He stared at the half-finished letter on his table. He didn't know why, but something about finishing it and owling it to the Ratanaporn manor feels wrong.

 

"I think I'll go for a walk." He told his father as he entered the study.

His Father raised an eyebrow. "In this weather?"

Tonfah just smiled, "It's a quiet sort of day."

His mother tilted her head slightly. "Shall we send someone with you?"

He just shook his head and said nothing. They didn't stop him. He left with his wand, a cloak, and the small packacge that he tucked inside the pocket of his cloak.

 

The snow thickened as he traveled—light at first, then heavier, the kind that clung to gloves and eyelashes. He traveled until he reached the familiar gates that appeared through the trees, shadowed in pine and frost.

Hearthwend Manor stood like a memory carved in stone and frost, untouched and timeless. Ivy curled lazily over its eaves, and the light snowfall had blanketed its slate roof in silver. The wards shimmered as they recognized him, parting gently like an embrace. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the place until the air hit his lungs. The front doors opened easily under his touch.

The manor was warm, and lived in. There were boots by the door and a coat draped neatly on a nearby hook. The scent of cinnamon and winterberry tea lingered faintly in the air. He could feel the hush of magic settling somewhere deep in the manor. 

Tonfah crossed the hall slowly until he reached the drawing room. The door was slightly open, just enough for light to spill through, golden and soft. He pushed it wider with a hand that trembled more than he meant it to. Inside, the fire crackled low in the hearth—and Typhoon sat curled on the old velvet couch, legs tucked under him, a book folded facedown on the cushion beside him like he'd been reading and waiting at the same time.

He didn't look up, but only when the door clicked softly behind Tonfah did Typhoon speak, his voice low and unbearably gentle.

"It took you too many Yules to come home."

Tonfah froze. The firelight caught Typhoon's eyes when he finally turned toward him. Tonfah stepped closer, very slowly, until he stood at the edge of the rug. "I didn't know if I was still welcome."

Typhoon's lips tilted into something faint, fragile, and almost breaking. "You don't need an invitation to come home, Tonfah."

Silence fell between them again, heavy with all the things they hadn't said. Then, quietly, hopeful, but steady, "Will you stay a while?"

Tonfah closed the distance between them and sat beside him without asking.

"I will," he said, "This time, I will."

Chapter 9

Notes:

I broke my own heart writing this. Anyways, enjoy!

The first threads of winter sun cast a pale glow across the tall windows of the dining hall, softening the chill in the air with golden light. The snow hadn’t stopped overnight; it fell softly outside the tall windows of Hearthwend Manor, blanketing the grounds in white so untouched it looked unreal. Thin frost traced along the glass in delicate patterns, and soft golden light spilled across the cold floors and velvet rugs, creeping steadily toward the dining room.

Inside, the fire had already been lit, gentle flames dancing in the hearth, and the long table had been set in the way only house-elves with an eye for mornings could manage: calm and thoughtful. A silver teapot sat in the center, still steaming. Toast in a cloth-lined basket, poached apples glistening in a bowl, a ramekin of jam, and slices of warmed cheese arranged in quiet symmetry.

Tonfah stood in the doorway, barefoot, wrapped in a borrowed robe with his hair sleep-mussed and his expression unreadable.

At the far end of the table, Typhoon sat curled into one of the velvet-cushioned chairs, one leg tucked beneath him, hands wrapped around a teacup. Dressed in a sweater that is a size too large, sleeves falling nearly past his fingers. He looked up the moment Tonfah entered.

“You’re up earlier than I expected,” Typhoon said, voice still soft with sleep.

Tonfah stepped inside slowly. “You made breakfast?”

“I wish,” Typhoon replied. “Nimsy would kick me out of the kitchen before I could even step inside.”

Tonfah smiled faintly and pulled out the chair across from him. “Hm.”

As he sat down, a small pop! announced Nimsy’s arrival, holding a second teacup. “Master Tonfah,” he warmly said. “Warming charms are set under the table, and Whimsy will bring fresh tea in a moment. Please eat while it’s warm.”

Tonfah blinked. “That’s—thank you.”

He gave a polite bow of his head before vanishing again with a soft pop!

Tonfah turned back to the table and reached for the honey pot, trying to settle the sudden warmth in his chest. He glanced toward Typhoon. “Do they always take care of you like this every morning?”

Typhoon looked up. “No. Not like this. They’re fussing because of you. If you need anything, you can call them.”

Tonfah raised an eyebrow. “I’m not about to command your elves like some noble heir, Phoon.”

Typhoon’s eyes flicked up to meet his, amusement visible. “Our elves, Fah.”

The correction was gentle and immediate. Tonfah looked down, then smiled faintly. “…Right.”

They ate slowly after that, not out of awkwardness, but ease. Tonfah reached for the toast, and Typhoon passed him the jam without needing to be asked. They poured each other tea as if it were a habit long practiced, even if forgotten for too long.

A soft breeze from the enchanted window charms stirred the scent of cinnamon and apple through the room. “This is the quietest Yule morning I’ve had in years,” Tonfah said, leaning back slightly in his chair, balancing his cup between his palms. “So, what’s the plan for today? Or do you just go wherever the elves herd you?”

Typhoon glanced toward the door. “We used to have a routine,” he said. “Whimsy insists on candlelight dinners and the lights in the dining room. I don’t… do much anymore. Not really.”

“But this year?”

“You’re here.”

Typhoon smiled at the rim of his cup. He took a glance at Tonfah’s sleeves. “Whimsy.” And a small pop! was heard. “Check with Edevanne’s or Miremont’s in Diagon Alley. They’ll have his measurements. His last fitting should have been early autumn.”

Tonfah looked up, brows furrowed. “What are you—”

“They’re the tailor we’ve always used,” Typhoon said, sipping his tea. “I doubt the guest wardrobe has anything that actually fits you anymore.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Tell them to fetch winter robes,” Typhoon continued to Whimsy, ignoring the protest. “Layered. Subtle lining. Include three sets of day robes, lined, not embroidered, two dress robes for the evening, one pair of dragonhide boots, one set of fine layering silks—”

“Wait. What—”

Typhoon kept going, “dark neutrals, warm undertones. Add a few structured outer cloaks, something formal enough for dueling or courtrooms. Make sure that it won’t clash with his wand holster. Tell them to bill it to Hearthwend Manor.”

Whimsy gave a sharp nod. “By this afternoon, sir.”

“Thank you.” She vanished with another pop!

“…That wasn’t necessary.”

Typhoon looked at him. “You’re cold and underdressed. I don’t see how that’s not necessary.”

Tonfah gave a soft laugh. “Still so bossy.”

Typhoon just shrugged.

 

The snow had started falling again by midafternoon, in finer flakes this time, dusting the windows in soft spirals that caught the low golden light. The sitting room near the south parlor had become their retreat for the day. The fire was warm, the windows overlooked the orchard, and a half-played chessboard had been abandoned on the table between them. Tonfah was curled up in one of the armchairs, reading a charm book half-absentmindedly. Typhoon sat across from him, scribbling runes into a notebook, his brow furrowed in quiet focus.

A soft pop! broke the silence. Whimsy appeared near the door, a floating trunk trailing behind her, stacked with boxed packages in soft, charmed paper. “Delivery from Edevanne’s and Miremont’s, sirs,” she said brightly. “All freshly measured, charmed, and folded.”

The trunk settled gently onto the rug with a small thump. Tonfah blinked. “That was… fast.”

“Hm.” Typhoon hummed, not looking up from his notebook. “Gold does that.”

Whimsy beamed. “Would Master Tonfah like assistance unpacking?”

“Please, Whimsy. Color coordinate it if you have to." Typhoon said before Tonfah could say anything.

"Yes, Master Typhoon." She cleared her throat. "If I may, sirs. What shall the kitchen prepare for Yule Eve dinner?"

Typhoon glanced up, setting his notebook aside. "Is the kitchen ready?"

"Of course, sir! Nimsy has been humming about roast duck since breakfast."

"Then we'll keep the duck. Juniper-honey glaze. Citrus on the side."

"Candied carrots, too?" Whimsy asked.

"Yes. And the cloudberry tarts. Not too sweet."

She nodded. "And Master Tonfah?"

Tonfah straightened, startled. "Me?"

"It is your Yule too." Typhoon said to him.

He hesitated. "Do you know how to make those little buttered pastries? The ones shaped like a leaf?"

"Of course! Nimsy will make those for Master Tonfah, sir."

"Then those. And maybe..." He glanced toward Typhoon, tone almost playful. "Spiced cider?"

Typhoon raised a brow. "Again?"

"I like it."

"Noted," Typhoon said, lips twitching.

Whismy bowed lightly. "It shall be ready by nightfall." With another gentle pop! she vanished.

 

By the time the candles were lit, Hearthwend Manor had settled into a hush that felt almost sacred. The small dining hall had been set with warmth—long tapers in silver holders, a hearth casting low flickers across the walls, and rune-lit garlands hung above the mantle by Whimsy earlier in the evening. 

Whimsy and Nimsy worked quietly in the background, weaving between the floating platters. Tonfah and Typhoon sat opposite one another at the small round table. The roast duck had been glazed with juniper and citrus, just as Typhoon had asked. The buttered leaf pastries were warm and flaky, and the cloudberry tart was slightly sharp, perfectly balanced. And the spiced cider, which Tonfah insisted on, sat steaming in small carved cups, a cinnamon stick in each.

At one point, Nimsy brought out a floating lantern shaped like a snowflake and set it to hover just above the table. It faintly glowed blue and white, and cast slow, shifting patterns of light on their hands and robes.

“Does he do that every year?” Tonfah asked.

Typhoon nodded. “Hm. Used to be hundreds. They stopped putting them up.”

Tonfah’s voice softened. “You could’ve asked them to.”

“I didn’t think anyone would be here to see them.”

Tonfah lowered his gaze, then quietly added: “I’m here now.”

Typhoon didn’t say anything, but after a moment, he reached for the cider, fingers brushing the edge of the cup, and murmured. “Then stay.”

 

Tonfah sat curled into one of the armchairs, now dressed in one of the deep navy robes Typhoon had ordered for him. It fit perfectly, lined with silk that caught the firelight whenever he moved. Across from him, Typhoon had taken off his outer cloak and let it drape over the back of his chair.

Between them, a small polished table held two mugs of hot chocolate, steam rising gently into the air. Nimsy had dusted the surface with cinnamon and placed a dish of tiny ginger crisps beside them, which neither of them had touched yet.

“It’s quiet here,” Tonfah murmured, watching the fire.

Typhoon didn’t reply at first. Then, softly, “It’s always been quiet without you.”

The silence followed settled around them like a warm blanket. After a while, Typhoon reached beneath the side table and pulled out a wrapped parcel, simple but elegant, soft parchment ribbon, black wax seal with their shared crest. He set it beside Tonfah’s mug without a word.

Tonfah blinked. “You got me something?”

Typhoon gave him a flat look. “You’re surprised?”

“…You don’t usually do sentimental.”

He scoffed. “This isn’t sentimental. It’s practical.”

Tonfah raised an eyebrow, but unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a slim, cloth-bound book. Midnight blue, embossed with silver filigree that shimmered faintly in the firelight. Tonfah ran his fingers over the front cover.

Concordia: Theory and Application of Resonant Charms

by TF. P. & TP. R.

His breath caught. “You… wrote this?”

“Compiled,” Typhoon corrected. “Some of yours, some of mine. And the rest, we wrote together when we were still sneaking into the west wing of your family’s manor to cast runes on falling leaves.”

Tonfah flipped the book open. His handwriting, scrawled in charcoal from when they were children, had been transcribed and refined. Typhoon’s additions were annotated in silver ink. There were footnotes and diagrams, even evolved versions of half-broken charm chains they experimented with years ago.

“You finished them?” Tonfah whispered.

Typhoon leaned back in his chair, carefully watching him. “I reworked and redefined them, made them somewhat usable.”

Tonfah turned to the first page. There, in Typhoon’s clean and elegant handwriting, was a short dedication:

For TF. P.

For every charm we built, even when we weren’t speaking.

For every half-written spell you’ve finished without knowing why.

For every time you reached across the silence with ink and light.

This is ours. You were always part of the magic.

-TP. R.

Tonfah swallowed. “Phoon…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Typhoon quickly said. “It’s just—I didn’t want those spells gathering dust. They were yours too.”

Tonfah was still staring at the page, chest tight with something too large to speak. Then, with slightly trembling hands, he set the book down and reached for the small velvet box he’d kept tucked in his robe pocket all evening. He set it carefully on the table between them.

Typhoon’s brows lifted. “You too?”

Tonfah exhaled slowly. “It’s not much.” He gestured. “Open it.”

Typhoon did. Inside were five rings, all were elegant and minimalist. Each was a different metal: gold, silver, white gold, star-forged iron, and pale rose-gold that shimmered faintly. Each one is slightly different in design—a rune worked into the inner band, an etching around the edges, a spell-forged glint beneath the surface.

“I made one every year,” Tonfah softly said, staring into the fire now, “Since the first year we spent Yule apart. I never sent them. I just… kept making them. Couldn’t help it.”

Typhoon didn’t speak.

“You don’t have to wear them,” Tonfah added. “Or keep them. I just—I wanted you to have them. That’s all.”

Still, Typhoon didn’t move. He looked at the rings. Then, one hand reached out slowly, and picked up the rose-gold band—the smallest of the five, and turned it over in his fingers. On the inside was an engraving so tiny it could barely be seen:

Still yours. Always.

His thumb brushed it over it once and didn’t look at Tonfah when he spoke. “Will you… put it on?”

Tonfah blinked, unsure if he heard correctly. When Typhoon finally lifted his gaze, it was steady and sure. “Put it on for me.”

Tonfah’s breath hitched. “Typhoon—”

“I don’t know if I’ll wear it all the time,” he said, voice quiet now. “Or if I’ll be brave enough to keep it visible. But… if I’m going to have it, if it’s from you—” He held the ring out, palm open.

“Then I want you to be the one to put it there.”

Tonfah reached forward with both hands—more carefully than he’d ever done anything, and took the ring from his palm. He gently cradled Typhoon’s left hand in his own, thumb brushing across his knuckles slowly as if it were something sacred.

Typhoon didn’t speak, he looked down at it, flexing his fingers once like he was getting used to the weight. Tonfah pulled his hand back, but Typhoon caught it before he could.

“I’ll keep the others,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “But this one—I’ll wear this one.”

 

---

 

The manor was silent now, thick with the kind of quiet that settled into the bones. Only the slow echo of Tonfah’s footsteps down the dim corridor, his robe drawn tight around him. Sleep wouldn’t come. He found himself outside the door of the library. The door gave easily under his touch, as though it had been waiting.

Inside, the fire had long burned down, leaving only the faint blue of moonlight through stained glass. It caught on the edges of bookshelves that stretched like trees, and on the silvery swirl of a Pensieve bowl left open on the far table.

Tonfah paused and he recognized the faint pull of its magic, the slow ripple of thought just waiting for a mind to brush it. Tonfah moved toward it before his heart caught up to his feet. He leaned in, and fell.

 

Typhoon stumbled through the manor doors near midnight, robes torn, hands scraped raw, a faint burn scorched along his collarbone, his wand was clenched white-knuckled in one hand, a trembling, half-stabilized teleportation rune still glowing faintly on the sleeve of his coat. He collapsed just inside the threshold.

Whimsy rushed to him. “Master —! ”

“I made it,” he rasped. “I made it home.”

Blood soaked into his side —a failed spell. An experimental translocation burst that was dangerous and illegal. He had tried to come home before the wards were re-locked for the holiday. The elves worked in silence, healing spells whispering through the quiet.

Typhoon didn’t speak again. He lay on the couch, bandaged, eyes locked on the window. He then looked at the mantle above the fireplace, where a portrait of them at age five hung. He stared at the portrait until sleep claimed him.

—

Snow fell hard that year, piling against the glass until the whole world looked buried. Typhoon, aged fourteen, sat at the long dining table. Only one place was set. No elves hovered nearby. They had learned not to linger on this night. 

The roast duck remained untouched. The cider cooled in its silver carafe. A plate of leaf-shaped pastries, the ones Tonfah loved sat perfectly arranged in a spiral, untouched.

He sat there in silence. Long after the candles melted down to stubs. Only when the sun began to rise did he finally move—standing, slow and stiff, walking toward the mantle. 

"Are you trying to forget about me, Fah?"

—

Typhoon, now a little older, fifteen, sat alone in the upper library, surrounded by empty spellbooks and scattered parchment. A rune circle had been burned into the floor. The residue still smoked faintly.

He was slumped against a wall, half-conscious. A healing charm half-cast shimmered dimly on his palm, flickering as if it didn’t want to stay. Whimsy entered, clutching a salve jar. 

Typhoon didn’t speak. His lips were chapped, eyes unfocused, and he smelled of ash and old ink. Whimsy didn't ask. She only knelt and began tending to the burn that had started curling up Typhoon's wrist. 

On the nearby table was an old sheet of paper. On it, a handwritten charm belonging to Tonfah from years ago. Below it, Typhoon's edits. They had been trying to build something that could bind warmth to an anchor point. 

It never worked, but Typhoon kept trying. 

—

The manor was still. There were no decorations or music, just the slow, hollow echo of Typhoon's footsteps as he moved down to the small sitting room. 

He placed two cups of cider on the table, set out two matching plates, and arranged the plate of pastries in between. Then, he sat. 

He sat in silence, hands folded, spine straight, gaze fixed not at the hearth, but at the empty chair across from him. 

An hour passed. Then another. Then, finally, he whispered: "He's not coming." 

And still, he didn't move. Even when the cider went cold, even when the snow fell harder outside, even when Whimsy peeked in and quietly retreated. 

He stayed. Like someone who had given up hoping, but didn't know how to stop waiting. 

 

Tonfah stumbled out of the library, his chest felt tight, like the walls were closing in. His breath came in shallow draws as he braced a hand against the stone wall, steadying himself like the floor might shift beneath him. Every footstep down the dim corridor felt heavier and slower, like something inside him was caving.

The Pensieve’s final image still lingered behind his eyelids:

Blood on the floor.

A boy speaking to silence.

An untouched table set for two

Waiting. Always waiting.

His vision blurred, and he didn’t realize how fast he was walking until he nearly collided with a figure rounding the corner.

“Tonfah—”

Typhoon.

Typhoon was dressed in his sleep robe, a book tucked under one arm. He blinked in surprise. “You’re still awake?”

Tonfah looked at him. Then, looked through him, and something cracked. Tonfah stepped forward and buried his face into Typhoon’s shoulder.

Typhoon’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t pull away. “What’s—”

“I didn’t know.” Tonfah whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t know you—” He stopped, tried again. “You waited. Every year. You waited for me.”

“I saw it,” Tonfah said. “The Pensieve, the table set, the blood on the floor. You came home just to—just to try and see me?”

“I always came back to Hearthwend.” Typhoon’s voice came in a whisper.

Tonfah pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes red and glinting in the low light. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Typhoon exhaled slowly, gaze unreadable. “What would’ve changed?”

“It would’ve changed everything,” Tonfah whispered. “I would’ve come home. I—I should’ve come home to you.”

His voice cracked again. His hands, trembling slightly, found Typhoon’s. He turned it palm-up and held it with both of his hands as if his life depended on it. “I’m so sorry,” Tonfah breathed. “You spent all those years thinking I left you. Thinking I wouldn’t come back. And you waited anyway.”

He bent forward, knelt a little, like his body couldn’t hold the weight, and pressed his lips to Typhoon’s knuckles, where the rose-gold ring caught the light. He kissed it once, then again, this time, slower.

He rested his forehead lightly against the back of Typhoon’s hand. “You’ll never spend another Yule alone. I swear it, Phoon. On our bond. I’ll come home. I’ll always come home.”

The silence that followed was deep. Typhoon didn’t speak, he only reached up with his free hand and touched Tonfah’s hair gently, almost unsure, as if checking if he was really there. And when Tonfah looked up again, Typhoon’s eyes were glassy.

“…You’re late,” he quietly said. “But you’re here.”

Tonfah nodded, chest caving in with it. “I’m here.”

They stood there for a long time, hands still clasped, ring warm between them, and snow whispering softly against the windows.

And for the first time in years, neither of them felt the cold.

Chapter 10

Notes:

This is my favorite chapter that I've written so far. Enjoy!

The frost hadn't melted yet as sunlight filtered pale and gold through the tall windows of Hearthwend Manor, casting soft glows against ancient stone and the scent of tea beginning to steep downstairs.

Typhoon stood by the edge of his bed; his trunk half-packed. Double-checking his belongings when a soft knock sounded against the doorframe. He turned, unsurprised, to see Tonfah standing there. Wrapped in a long robe, hair sleep-mussed, he looked more at home in Hearthwend than he ever had at his own estate.

"Did you pack without me?" Tonfah said, a faint tease in his voice.

"No, I just prefer not to arrive at Hogwarts with wrinkled clothes and broken ink bottles," Typhoon replied calmly. "Which reminds me, Whimsy." A small pop! could be heard.

"Yes, Master Typhoon."

"Could you retrieve Tonfah's trunk at the Prasert estate?"

"Of course, sir! Would Master Tonfah be needing anything else?" Whimsy asked.

"Yes, my wand case, satchel, and the dark green robes. It should be in the room facing the east window." Tonfah replied. "The sigil is at the library; my mother should be able to recognize my magical signature on it."

Whimsy nodded and disappeared with a quiet pop!

Typhoon continued packing. Tonfah sat on his bed, eyes drifting towards the black velvet box on the bedside table. He reached for it and opened it. Sitting inside are the four rings, untouched. He picked up the silver ring, thumb brushing over the engraving inside the band. Then, without lifting his wand, he breathed magic into it. A subtle pulse of energy between his hands and the metal. Protection and warmth, a charm that would hum if the wearer is in danger, if he is scared, or is too far.

"Your hand," Tonfah said gently. Typhoon turned, surprised at the quiet authority in his voice, but held out his right hand without speaking. Tonfah took it, cradled it in his own, then slid the silver ring onto Typhoon's right middle finger. The metal shimmered faintly as Tonfah brushed it with his thumb before pressing a soft kiss on Typhoon's knuckles.

"There," he murmured. "Now it knows you."

Typhoon stared at the ring for a moment, not because of the magic he felt that settled, but because of the gesture. He met Tonfah's gaze for a moment, then picked up the star-forged iron ring, a bit heavier than the others. He held it between his fingers, took Tonfah's left hand, turned it gently, and slid the ring onto his ring finger.

Tonfah raised a brow, but didn't say anything. He watched Typhoon as he picked up another ring—the gold band, brushing it with his thumb, and breathing magic into it. He picked up Tonfah's right hand and slid it onto his middle finger, mirroring his own silver band, magic settling.

"To match."

Tonfah looked down at it, fingers flexing gently. "It's warm."

"It will be," Typhoon said softly. "Always."

Tonfah picked up the last ring, the white-gold ring with a subtle sapphire embedded deep in its band, turning it gently in his palm. "This one," he murmured. "We share this one."

Typhoon gently placed his hand on top of Tonfah's, ring in between their palms. Together, they breathed magic into it.

Come when called, rest when not. Find the hand that needs you most. Protect the one who wears you.

The ring shimmered in warmth. A faint hum pulsed between their joined hands. Typhoon smiled and tapped the band against his own fingers, then lightly pressed it to Tonfah's. The ring melted into the warmth and disappeared, as though absorbed by magic itself.

Moments later, with the briefest flicker of magic under Tonfah's skin, the magic shimmered into place on his left finger—on top of the star-forged iron ring.

He looked at Typhoon and gave a small laugh. "It chose me first."

"Of course it did."

Tonfah slipped it off and held it up. "Your turn."

Typhoon rolled his eyes but extended his hand, and as soon as the ring touched his skin, it shimmered again, vanishing for a heartbeat before materializing on top of his rose-gold band. He tilted his hand, rings catching light—rose-gold, white-gold, and the gold on his pinkie finger. "At this rate, there won't be room for a wedding band."

Tonfah didn't blink. "I want to marry you."

Typhoon froze.

"I know our engagement was arranged. Promised at five, bonded at eleven. I know it started because of family names, old magic, politics, and everything we resented. But that's not what it is now. I meant it. I meant every ring I had made each year, even if I didn't send it to you—I meant it."

Typhoon's expression softened, fingers curling at his side. "Say it again," he murmured.

Tonfah didn't hesitate as he took Typhoon's hand and pressed a soft kiss onto it. "I want to marry you."

A long breath passed between them. And then Typhoon, voice quieter than before: “You will.”

 

The hour was late. Typhoon stood before the window, eyes following the storm. One hand braced lightly on the windowsill, the other curled loosely at his side. The glow from the hearth caught in his hair, flickering soft gold across the sharp lines of his face.

He didn’t move when the door opened and when Tonfah entered. He didn’t need to. Tonfah crossed the room silently. He stopped just behind Typhoon, close enough to brush the back of his robes, but not touching him yet.

His arms slipped around Typhoon’s waist from behind, and his chin lowered slowly to rest on Typhoon’s shoulder. The heat of him settled in all the spaces Typhoon had spent years keeping empty.

“I was patient,” Tonfah whispered, voice low and dangerous in how tender it sounded. “For four Yules. I was patient.”

Typhoon’s hand twitched on the sill. Tonfah’s lips ghosted along the edge of Typhoon’s ears, breath warm and steady, before his voice returned, rougher now.

“You know you’re my only anchor, right?”

Typhoon’s voice was quiet, but sharp. “You always said you hated the weight.”

“I do.” Tonfah’s breath hitched into something close to a laugh. “But I never said I’d give it up.”

His hand slid up Typhoon’s chest, fingers splaying over his collarbone, before settling around the side of his neck. There, he pressed. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind Typhoon what it meant when someone chose to hold you there. When someone chooses not to let go.

Then, he bit.

Teeth pressed into the curve where Typhoon’s neck met shoulder, just beneath the collar. Typhoon gasped, low and involuntary, but Tonfah didn’t apologize. He lingered there, lips brushing against the mark he’d left, then breathed the words directly against his skin:

“You’re mine, my love.”

Typhoon exhaled shakily. His voice, when it came, was no louder than a thought.

“Say it again.”

Tonfah’s hand tightened slightly on his waist, but his voice didn’t rise.

“You’re mine.”

Another bite, lower this time, at the slope of his shoulder blade through the fabric.

“You always were.”

Typhoon’s fingers curled around Tonfah’s hand where it pressed against his chest, not to stop him, but to feel him. “Even when I wasn’t here?” he asked quietly.

Tonfah’s breath hitched again, this time less controlled. “Especially then.”

“You forgot how much I remember,” Tonfah whispered. “Every letter you didn’t write, every spell I rewrote in your voice, every time I dreamed in silver and woke up alone.”

Typhoon finally turned his head, just slightly, enough for their cheeks to brush. “Ï didn’t forget,” he said. “I just didn’t know if I could survive remembering.”

Tonfah drew in a slow breath. His lips brushed the corner of Typhoon’s jaw. “Too late now, love.”

The rings on their fingers pulsed faintly. Outside, the snow fell harder.

 

---

 

The castle had begun to stir. The first morning back was always quieter. Students wandered the halls in layered scarves and sleepy steps, still shaking off the weight of break.

Arthit was adjusting the ends of his scarf wrapped around his neck as he stepped into the corridor leading toward the Great Hall, yawning quietly behind a gloved hand. He had just turned the corner and nearly walked straight into Daotok.

"Oh—" Daotok blinked up at him, looking at him with a familiar look of mild distraction he always wore when his head was three conversations ahead at the moment.

Arthit stopped short, his words caught somewhere between surprise and something warmer. "You're here early." He said.

Daotok blinked, startled, then smiled. "So are you."

There was a beat of silence, and neither of them moved. Then, Arthit nodded toward the Great Hall. "Breakfast?"

Daotok nodded, tightening his scarf slightly. "I, uh—" he started, but stopped.

Arthit glanced at him.

"I liked the notebook," Daotok said, then, quietly, "The pages don't bleed ink. I already filled three."

Arthit smiled. "Good. I thought of you when I saw the paper. It looked like it could keep up."

Daotok flushed faintly, looking away.

As they reached the doors of the Great Hall, Daotok instinctively angled toward the Hufflepuff table. He scanned the table for an empty spot and headed towards it when he spotted one. He was startled when he felt Arthit still walking beside him, hands in his pocket.

"You don't have to—" Daotok started.

"I want to," Arthit replied easily.

They slid into the bench near the end of the table. A few Hufflepuffs gave Arthit curious glances, but no one questioned it out loud—not with the way he reached without thinking to slide the pitcher of warm pumpkin juice closer to Daotok, or how he tugged a clean plate toward him before his own.

Daotok looked down at the folded napkin that Arthit had laid beside his fork. He busied himself with his toast, but still glanced sideways whenever Daotok stirred his tea too distractedly or tried to butter a scone with the wrong side of the knife. Without saying anything, Arthit fixed both things, subtle in the way he moved.

Daotok turned his head slightly, watching him. “You’re being—” he started, but stopped again.

Arthit raised a brow, mouth full of toast. “What?”

“Nothing,” Daotok murmured, glancing away, but his cheeks were faintly pink.

 

Easter entered with Hill at his side, laughing quietly at something only the two of them seemed to understand. As they crossed into the Hall, Easter’s eyes swept the tables, and then, upon spotting Daotok and Arthit seated together, he paused. “Hmm,” he murmured.

Hill, raising an eyebrow, followed his gaze. Easter didn’t hesitate. He altered course and walked straight to the Hufflepuff table, sliding easily onto the bench directly across from Daotok. “Room for two more?” he asked, even though he was already seated.

Daotok blinked. “Oh—of course.”

Hill gave Arthit a long, calculating look before sitting beside Easter, and said nothing.

“Morning,” Easter said, grinning. “Good break?”

Arthit nodded. “Quiet.”

Hill reached for a croissant and tore it apart carefully. “You two seemed settled,” he said, eyes darting once between Arthit and Daotok.

“We’re just eating,” Arthit replied a little too quickly. Easter hummed, but said nothing.

 

Across the Hall, North and Johan had just stepped inside, already halfway through a debate about which electives would be the most disastrous for OWL season.

“…If you take Ancient Runes again and complain the whole term, I’m hexing your quill,” North muttered, dragging his gloved hands off.

“I’m repeating it to improve my score—”

North suddenly stopped walking. Johan, frowning, turned to see what held his attention, and found himself watching Easter and Hill with Daotok and Arthit at the Hufflepuff table.

“That’s not where Hill usually—” Johan began.

“I’m making a decision,” North said.

“What—”

North grabbed Johan by the sleeve just as Tonfah and Typhoon stepped into the hall, waling together. “Perfect,” he said, already marching over.

Johan groaned. “What now?”

“You’ll thank me later.”

North reached the pair just as Typhoon was scanning the tables.

“We’re sitting together,” North said flatly.

Tonfah blinked. “Where?”

“Hufflepuff,” North said, tugging Johan again. “Come on.”

Typhoon raised a brow and reluctantly followed with Tonfah at his side. When they reached the table, Daotok looked up and then blinked in surprise as Johan settled beside him, North beside Arthit, Typhoon beside Easter, and Tonfah sliding onto the bench at the end.

Neither of them said anything. Daotok glanced at Arthit, whose hand was resting beside his own again, close, but not touching. Typhoon glanced down at the table and saw Tonfah watching him, a slight smile curling on his lips.

North clinked his spoon against his cup. “This is going to become a thing, isn’t it?”

Easter, not looking up, “It already has.”

 

“Good morning, students,” Headmistress McGonagall said. “As most of you are aware, the new term marks the beginning of your OWL and NEWT preparation season.”

A few murmurs and groans could be heard throughout the Great Hall.

“You will be meeting with your Head of House today to finalize the list of core subjects you intend to take for examination. Electives may remain as-is, but you are expected to declare your formal intentions by the end of the week.”

“Students sitting for OWLs,” the Headmistress continued, “will receive your exam guides and practice materials following your House meeting. Those sitting for NEWTs will receive specific guidance per subject from your instructors over the coming days.”

She paused.

“This is not just about exams. It is about mastery, discipline, and growth. You are not just memorizing; you are proving what kind of witches and wizards you are becoming.”

Headmistress McGonagall gave a small smile. “I trust you will take this seriously. Speak to your Head of House after classes today. And… do eat your breakfast.”

With a flick of her wand, the Hall resumed its usual sounds, goblets refilled, porridge stirred itself, and conversation returned in a growing wave.

 

---

 

Professor Thorne’s boots echoed over the stone floor as he moved toward the front, eyes sharp beneath his lined brow. He lifted his wand with the familiarity of someone who’d survived more than one war.

“Today, we’re reviewing intermediate disarming and curse-breaking,” he said. “Some of you might be tested on this during your OWLs. Most of you will forget the theory the moment you pass. I’d recommend you don’t.”

His wand snapped toward the dummy.

“Expulso Remedium.”

The charm launched forward. The dummy’s hex-bound shield shimmered, cracked in the middle, and folded inward like a peeled rind. The wand it held dropped to the floor with a soft clatter. The class murmured in awe.

“Neutral-force dispel,” Professor Thorne explained. “Controlled enough to disarm hex-wielding opponents without shattering their ribs. You’ll find it under Curse Counterbalance Theory, page 213. Can anyone replicate?”

A few raised hands. Professor Thorne scanned the room, and then his eyes landed on one of the few students who hadn’t volunteered. “Mr. Hiranchai,” he said. “Front and center.”

Daotok blinked, startled. “Me?”

“You have a steady hand and above-average from. The brightest of all Hufflepuffs of your year. Let’s see if it translates.”

He stepped forward slowly, wand in hand, cheeks tinged pink. The dueling circle felt larger when all eyes were on him. He could feel the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors whispering to each other behind folded parchments, the Hufflepuffs watching in quietly, and the Slytherins watching and not caring. He inhaled deeply.

“Expulso Remedium.”

His magic surged. The disarming charm struck with the same clean force, but the energy shimmered differently. It twisted, black-gold, slightly denser. Where Professor Thorne’s had shimmered like a clear flame, Daotok’s burned darker at the edges. The shield around the dummy shattered, and the wand flew back harder, landing near the professor’s boots with a heavier thud.

Silence. Then, applause.

Professor Thorne raised a curious brow. “Well then. That’s how you execute restraint with strength. Five points to Hufflepuff.”

Daotok’s shoulder relaxed just a little.

“Return to your seat,” Professor Thorne nodded.

Class continued, moving on to other topics. No one brought it up again. The students whispered about Daotok’s control, his poise, his “surprising power for a Hufflepuff.” But when class ended, and the eight of them filtered out together through the archway, Johan walked just behind Daotok, and passed close enough to speak without anyone else hearing.

“Careful, Hufflepuff,” he murmured low. “You’re slipping.”

Daotok froze for half a second, then kept walking. He didn’t turn around, but the smile he wore for the others faded, just slightly.

 

“I thought you’d notice it too.”

Johan’s voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Typhoon didn’t turn. Tonfah did, faintly, just enough to let his eyes flick toward the Slytherin boy now standing a few feet away, leaning against the cool stone wall.

Typhoon murmured. “We did.”

“And you’re both awfully quiet about it,” Johan said, gaze dropping down to the worn floor beneath his boots. “He didn’t mean for it to show like that.”

“No,” Tonfah said softly. “But it’s always been there.”

Silence stretched between the three of them.

“You care about him.” Tonfah said.

Johan met Tonfah’s eyes without flinching. “Of course, I do.”

Typhoon stepped forward, his hands folded behind his back. “Careful, Slytherin.”

Johan’s mouth twitched. “Is that a threat?”

“A reminder,” Tonfah supplied before Typhoon could answer, his arms now folded across his chest. “But we both know you like those.”

Typhoon’s tone dipped, amused. “It’s cute you think we’d let you have him.”

Johan raised a brow. “Let me? You think I’d ruin something I understand too well?”

Tonfah tilted his head. “You think understanding’s enough to stop it?”

“Hm.” Johan tilted his head, mirroring Tonfah. “No. But it helps not to be the only one watching.”

Typhoon’s gaze turned cold. “Then keep watching,” he said. “But know he isn’t yours.”

“I know,” Johan replied. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

 

Daotok sat hunched on the small stone bench, hidden behind the flowering spines of a protective Honeysuckle bush. The enchanted leaves trembled softly with each breath he took—uneven and quiet, but not silent enough to muffle the ache in his chest.

The day’s lesson was still fresh in his mind. The spell and the way it felt when it left him. He wiped at his eyes, but the tears just kept coming.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean for the spell to feel like that.

His magic had responded before his mind had. Too fast, too… dark.

A shuffle behind him, and he snapped his head up. Tonfah stepped carefully around the Honeysuckle’s low-hanging leaves, eyes soft with quiet concern.

“Dao?”

He blinked, quickly turning away. “I—I needed air.”

“Looks like you needed more than that,” came another voice. Typhoon, appearing just behind Tonfah, hands in his pockets, a silver of moonlight catching the soft white of his collar.

Daotok turned away further. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Typhoon said nothing at first. He only stepped inside the bench alcove, looked at the leaves drooping in rhythm with Daotok’s unsteady breathing, then knelt in front of him.

“We’re not looking at you any differently,” he said. “You’re the one who is.”

Daotok’s breath caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean to do it like that. It just… happened. I didn’t even think. It came too easily, like I’ve done it before. Like I’ve lost control.”

Tonfah slid behind him without a word, sitting on the bench, and without asking, wrapped his arms around Daotok’s waist from behind, pressing close, warm, and safe. “You didn’t lose control,” he gently said.

“But I used it,” Daotok said, frustrated. “The wrong variant. The darker one.”

Typhoon moved closer; his voice soft, “It wasn’t wrong. It was yours.”

“That’s the problem,” Daotok snapped before he could stop himself. “My magic always drifts that way. Every time I reach for something—anything—it comes out too sharp, too shadowed. And it scares people.”

“You’re not lost,” Tonfah murmured. “You’re just finally coming home to yourself.”

“I was raised to hide it,” Daotok whispered. “Smile more. Be soft. Don’t let it show. And now, it’s leaking and I can’t stop it. I—what if I hurt someone next time?”

Typhoon gently tilted Daotok’s chin up. “Then we’ll be there. Every time. To catch you before it breaks loose. We promised, remember? When everything becomes too loud, we’d find each other.”

Daotok blinked fast. “What if I’m too much even for you?”

Typhoon reached out then, brushing a thumb gently over Daotok’s temple, then leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “You’ll never be too much for us. Don’t ever be ashamed of what’s yours.”

“You’re strong,” Tonfah said, tightening his hold from behind, cheeks pressing to Daotok’s shoulder. “And your magic is beautiful. Just like you. You are ours, Daotok.”

Typhoon reached out again, thumb affectionately caressing his cheeks.

“Our little darkling.”

Daotok didn’t speak for a long moment, but then, he closed his eyes and nodded once.

 

---

 

Arthit likes to think that he is logical.

He wasn’t dramatic; he didn’t snap in corridors or throw tantrums like Hill or North. But when he saw Typhoon kiss Daotok’s forehead, Tonfah hugging him from behind, and saw the quiet look Daotok gave them afterward, soft and full of trust—something inside Arthit cracked.

He was at the Astronomy Tower in minutes, fury pounding like blood in his ears. He shoved the door open—hard. Typhoon stood near the edge of the parapet, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the night sky like he was expecting this.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The door slammed shut behind him.

Typhoon didn’t even flinch. He let out a slow, exaggerated sigh. “You’ll have to be more specific, Gryffindor.”

Arthit stalked across the stone floor, fists clenched. “Don’t be a bastard. That kiss. That hug. And that little show you put on with Daotok. What was that?”

Now, Typhoon turned slowly. “Are we… fighting over a forehead kiss?” His smirk grew. “Or is this you realizing you’re a little late to the claiming party?”

Arthit’s hand twitched near his wand. “You don’t get to play games with him. He’s not like you.”

“No, he’s not,” Typhoon’s gaze sharpened. “He’s better.”

That made Arthit pause, but Typhoon wasn’t done. “Which is why you might want to start acting like he’s worth something more than just that stupid little look you give him across the library table.”

Arthit’s voice dropped, low and furious. “You don’t get to touch him like that. Not when I—”

“When you what, Arthit?” Typhoon cut in, stepping forward now, “When you’ve never even said it? Never told him what he is to you?”

Tonfah’s voice entered then, soft and distant, from the shadows behind Typhoon. He wasn’t stopping this, just watching.

“Phoon,” he murmured, almost warning.

Typhoon ignored him.

“You glare like a dog guarding its food bowl, and you think that’s affection? You get angry when someone else steps near him, but you’ve never reached for him yourself.”

“Maybe you don’t deserve him.”

Arthit shoved Typhoon—hard. The Slytherin boy only took a half step back, his grin widening. “There he is. The Gryffindor heat. Finally.”

“Shut up,” Arthit snarled. “You think you know me?”

“No,” Typhoon said, “I know Daotok.” He stepped closer again, voice lowering.

“And he doesn’t need protection. He doesn’t need tiptoeing. He needs someone who isn’t afraid of his darkness.”

Tonfah finally spoke, stepping between them. “Arthit, this isn’t about us.”

Typhoon’s voice followed, almost a growl now. “You want him? Then tell him.”

He turned his back. “But don’t come screaming at us for loving the parts of him that you’re still pretending don’t exist.”

“Tell Daotok. Not us.”

And with that, the two of them disappeared down the stairwell. Arthit stood alone in the tower, chest heaving, fists still clenched. It wasn’t the kiss that hurt, nor was it the hug. It was the truth. He hadn’t claimed Daotok.

And he wasn’t the only one who wanted to.

Chapter 11

Hill is reclining on the grass nearby, his head pillowed on Easter’s thigh. North is perched on the edge of the bench, humming while doodling nonsense spells in his notes. Arthit hunched over a Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook.

Typhoon and Tonfah sit close, Daotok in between them, half-whispering about something in Typhoon’s rune journal, and Johan is, as always, both observing and pretending not to.

Then, a soft shimmer of magic flickers near the table. A small glass-winged butterfly, enchanted and delicate, flutters in midair and gently lands near North’s quill. It glows softly, and a familiar voice speaks, not loud, not urgent—just warm and precise.

“Mr. Ayutthaya, Mr. Charoensuk, Mr. Ritthirong, please meet me in my office. I want to review your notes on defensive theory. — Professor Thorne.”

The butterfly sparkles once more and vanishes. Hill groans into Easter’s leg. “Merlin’s robes… now?”

Easter sighs and gives his knee a gentle pat. “Better now than during dinner.”

North hauls himself up with a dramatic sigh and gestures toward the castle. “Let’s go, before Thorne decides to summon us with a banshee next time.”

 

“You know,” Johan says idly, eyes on Daotok, “it’s been a while since we had him to ourselves.”

Daotok blinks from his book, caught mid-word. “Me?”

Tonfah hums from beside him, closing his own book with a soft thud. “You.” He reaches out and gently brushes a bit of leaf from Daotok’s shoulder. His touch is casual and tender.

“You always look more relaxed when they’re not around,” Tonfah says lightly.

Daotok immediately starts flushing. “That’s not—no, I mean, I—”

Typhoon rests his chin in his hand, eyes glittering. “He stutters when he’s flustered. So cute.”

“I am not—”

But before Daotok can defend himself, Typhoon reaches out and taps beneath his chin with a single finger. “Careful. You’re going to make our little darkling overheat.”

Johan leans his arms across the table, smiling in that lazy way of his. “No one to stop us now. Feels like the old days.”

Tonfah’s fingers ghost across Daotok’s wrist. “You’re always warm,” he murmurs.

Daotok’s voice is barely a whisper. “You’re doing this on purpose…”

Arthit slams his book shut. They all turn to him. He’s glaring at Typhoon, then Tonfah, and finally Johan. “What is this? A performance?”

Typhoon raises an eyebrow. “Is it working?”

“You’re making him uncomfortable!”

Daotok starts, “I’m not—”

“You don’t get to say how he feels,” Arthit snaps.

Johan tilts his head. “So, you get to?”

Tonfah, smiling faintly, says, “Careful, Arthit. We’ve known him longer than you have.”

“We grew up with him,” Typhoon adds, voice dark and teasing. “You’re just starting to want him.”

“You’re doing it again.”

Typhoon blinks innocently. “Doing what?”

“That thing. Where you act like he’s yours. Like you own him.”

Tonfah tilts his head slightly, voice maddeningly serene. “But he is ours, isn’t he?”

Daotok makes a noise halfway between a squeak and a protest. Arthit’s fists curl on the table. “You don’t get to say that.”

Johan leans forward with a crooked grin. “But you haven’t said he’s yours either, Gryffindor.”

That’s the last straw. Arthit stands abruptly, the bench scraping behind him. “You’re using him to get under my skin.”

Typhoon shrugs, utterly unbothered. “No,” he says smoothly. “We’re just reminding you who raised him.”

“And who’s been protecting him since he was five,” Tonfah adds gently, brushing a hand through Daotok’s hair. Daotok’s face is fully crimson now, somewhere between embarrassment and comfort.

And then Typhoon leans in just enough to press a kiss to Daotok’s temple, slow and indulgent. “Oh look, darkling,” Typhoon purrs with a grin, eyes locked on Arthit. “Someone’s very jealous.”

Daotok flinches. “Phoon—”

Arthit storms off without another word.

 

“Arthit!”

He didn’t stop.

“Arthit, please—”

That did it. Arthit turned, fast and furious. His fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with everything he didn’t know how to say. “You let them do that to you?” he snapped.

Daotok stumbled to a stop a few paces away. “They weren’t doing anything to me—”

“Oh, really?” Arthit barked a bitter laugh. “Kissing your forehead? Holding you like you’re some kind of—of claimed creature? And you just let them say those things?”

Daotok’s voice cracked. “I am theirs.”

The hallway stilled, and even the air seemed to freeze.

“I don’t mean like a possession,” Daotok said quickly, stepping closer, voice shaking. “I mean—they’ve always seen me. They don’t ask me to be brighter than I am. Or smaller. Or safer. They don’t look at my magic and see something wrong.”

Arthit stared, something breaking behind his eyes. “Do you think I see you like that?”

“You’re terrified of what I could be,” Daotok whispered. “Even if you don’t say it.”

“That’s not fair.”

Daotok’s eyes glistened. “Neither is watching the only person I’ve ever liked look at me like I’m slipping away and never once reaching out. Everyone expects Hufflepuffs to be warm and sweet. Gentle and light. That’s how I survived—being the easiest to like. But they don’t see it—the pull. The shadows in me. The things I can do.”

“I saw it,” Arthit says quietly.

Daotok blinks.

“I’ve always seen it. That fire. That darkness. That bite beneath the smile.” Arthit’s voice lowers. “And I never looked away. I didn’t walk away then, and I’m not walking now.”

Daotok’s breath hitches. “Even after all this?”

“I don’t care about your past.” Arthit’s voice softens. “I care about you. The one who leaves me enchanted and furious in the same breath. The one who hides behind smiles but shines brighter than most.”

He steps forward, now close enough that their foreheads nearly touch. “I don’t need you to be light for me, Daotok. I just need you to be you.”

Daotok’s eyes well up, his voice a whisper. “You really mean that?”

Arthit lifts his hand, fingers gently brushing Daotok’s cheek. “You could command shadows, and I’d still follow you into them.”

The words land like a spell. Daotok surges forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Arthit’s middle, burying his face in his shoulder. Arthit holds him back just as tightly.

 

Daotok’s footsteps fade into the darkening courtyard, swallowed by ivy-draped stone and golden dusk. None of the three moves.

Then Johan exhales a soft, knowing breath, lacing his fingers together on the tabletop. “Well… that was easier than I thought.”

Typhoon doesn’t look away from the path Daotok took, his gaze sharp beneath long lashes, still and hunting. “He always goes back to him when he’s hurting,” Typhoon murmurs. “That’s what makes him vulnerable.”

“That’s what makes him ours,” Tonfah’s voice follows, velvet and low.  “They still don’t understand. Not Arthit. Not the others.”

“Of course not,” Johan says, voice amused but colder now. “They still think affection is shared, that it’s soft.” He tilts his head, the shadows clinging to him like old friends.

“They haven’t realized what it means to be claimed.”

Typhoon finally leans back, the ghost of a smile curling on his lips, but his eyes are anything but kind. “Arthit’s waking up to it now,” he says. “And it’s driving him mad.”

Tonfah’s fingers press gently along the table edge. “Because deep down, he knows. That Daotok was shaped by us.”

“Marked by us,” Typhoon adds softly, darkly.

“Loved by us first,” Johan finishes.

Tonfah speaks again, his voice barely a breath. “Darkness leaves fingerprints, Johan.”

Typhoon’s smile twists, wolf-like. “And ours are all over him.”

Johan’s eyes gleam. “He doesn't belong to just anyone. He belongs to the ones who understand what he is. What he could become.”

“You should tell him, you know.”

Johan looks up from the runes he’s absently drawing on the table. “Tell who?”

Typhoon’s gaze slants toward him, expression far too knowing. “North, about what he is.”

Johan doesn’t answer immediately.

Tonfah continues, gentle but edged. “You already feel it, don’t you? That pull. His magic bends toward yours the same way mine answers Typhoon’s.”

Typhoon adds, “He’s not just light. Not anymore.”

Johan exhales slowly, gaze flicking toward the horizon, where Daotok and Arthit had vanished, where North had gone with the others, oblivious to the conversation brewing here in the dark.

“His magic is medium,” Johan says finally. “Bends into storm when I’m near. But he doesn’t see it yet.”

“He doesn’t want to,” Tonfah murmurs.

“Gryffindor pride,” Johan mutters. “He still thinks anything not golden is wrong. If I tell him now, he’ll deny it. He’ll break something inside himself just to be what he thinks he’s supposed to be.”

Typhoon leans in, voice soft but dangerous. “You’re not protecting him by pretending.”

“He needs to know,” Tonfah adds, tone firmer now. “Before someone else tells him. Before he learns it the hard way.”

Johan’s jaw tightens. “I know.”

There’s a pause, then, Typhoon’s lips curl slowly into a smirk, gaze glinting like obsidian. “Should we tell him then?” he says casually. “He does respond well to affection…”

Tonfah smiles, slow and indulgent. “We could always claim him. Call him something soft. Something like…”

“Duskling,” Typhoon offers, voice a purr. “It suits him.”

Johan sits up straighter, immediately. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Typhoon laughs under his breath. “Too late. I’m already thinking of how well it would sound.”

Tonfah sighs with mock concern. “Poor Johan. You’ve waited too long. He might wander.”

“You two are demons,” Johan mutters, rubbing his face.

“We’re patient,” Tonfah corrects. “You’re the one playing with fire and pretending it’s still just a flicker.”

Typhoon leans back, resting one hand behind his head, entirely too pleased. “And if you won’t take responsibility for your duskling,” he says lazily, “we might.”

Johan’s glare is sharp, but his ears are red.

They don’t push further. They don’t have to because they all know one truth: North is already leaning.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Will probably edit this later... or not :)

The air in the unused Hogwarts classroom was warm with the scent of parchment, candle wax, and a hint of lavender—courtesy of Easter, who insisted that calming charms improved concentration. Charms that Hill had scoffed at and then, quietly, copied. Books were stacked on every available surface. Scrolls were half-unfurled. Cups of tea steamed gently between ink pots and forgotten quills.

Tonfah sat cross-legged on the floor by the hearth, books open around him in a meticulous semi-circle. His handwriting, as always, was elegant and precise. His robes were shrugged off in favor of a loose blue jumper, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The way his hair fell over one eye made him look soft.

Hill sat across from him on a cushion, flipping lazily through an Arithmancy chart. He glanced at Tonfah’s work every few minutes, never commenting, but somehow syncing his pace to match. Their quiet rivalry was less about tension and more like two rivers running beside each other—never touching, always aware.

Johan sprawled across two chairs in a way that looked far too regal for how casual it was, flipping lazily through a Defense revision guide. Typhoon was perched beside him, bent over his own book, expression blank with focus except for the way his fingers tapped a silent rhythm on the desk.

“Fah,” Typhoon said without looking up. “What’s the incantation for the mid-range counter-curse on rotational hexes?”

“Verro circumvo,” Tonfah answered from the far corner without missing a beat, eyes still on his notes. “But that depends on if the origin point is internal or reflected. And if the caster was right-handed.”

Typhoon hummed. “Right. Internal, left-hand throw.”

Johan smirked. “And there it is, my two enchanted reference books.”

"And you are a distraction." Typhoon muttered.
"Jealousy is unbecoming, cousin."

Across the room, Daotok was lying on his stomach on the rug, his chin propped in his hand, a quill twirling lazily in the other. His notes were half-doodles, half-actual text, and he was humming softly under his breath. Every now and then he’d glance over at Arthit, who sat nearby with his legs pulled up under him, frowning as he tried to reread a passage in his Defense book for the third time.

Arthit was painfully aware of how close Daotok was. And Daoto wasn’t making it easier.

“Should I test you?” Daotok asked, tapping his quill against his lip.

“I’d rather you not,” Arthit replied. “I don’t trust your methods.”

“Then trust me.”

There was something too gentle in the way he said it. It made Arthit’s ears go pink.

North and Easter were sharing a windowsill, sunlight long gone and replaced with moonlight filtering through frosted panes. They’d been quizzing each other, occasionally erupting into laughter or mock arguments over the right pronunciation of ancient spells.

“It’s Levigo Calyx, not Cah-leeks,” Easter whined. “Why would you make it sound like a salad?”

“You make everything sound like a salad,” North grinned. “It’s a gift.”

Tonfah closed a book gently and leaned back against the hearth, stretching long limbs as the fire cast shadows on his cheekbones. “It’s strange,” he murmured, half to himself.

“What is?” Hill asked.

“This quiet. This peace.”

Johan, half-lidded eyes still on his notes, said, “Don’t jinx it.”

“Too late,” Typhoon said flatly. “Fah opens his mouth and the room immediately becomes emotionally complex.”

Tonfah snorted. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you.”

“Fond,” Johan repeated, amused. “That’s the word we’re going with now?”

Tonfah met Typhoon’s gaze for a second. “No,” Tonfah said softly, eyes still locked with Typhoon’s. “But we’re not ready for the other word yet.”

Daotok rolled onto his back and laughed.

Arthit looked between them, baffled. “What word?”

“Telepathy,” Johan muttered under his breath.

“They’re always like this,” North whispered to Easter.

“I know,” Easter whispered back. “I think they like confusing us.”

Hill set his book down. “Are you all… always like this?”

“Like what?” Tonfah asked innocently.

“So calm and composed.” Hill frowned. “Even when you’re saying something terrifying, it’s like you’re offering tea.”

Typhoon looked at Hill. Then really looked, and for a second, there was nothing soft in his gaze. “We were raised to never spill,” he said. “Not even when cut open.”

The room quieted. Even the fire seemed to crackle more softly.

Arthit swallowed. “But you’re not… cut open now. Are you?”

“Don’t worry,” Tonfah said, his voice honey-sweet but cold. “We keep our knives close.”

Daotok chuckled, too bright. “You’ll know if we ever stop.”

A silence followed.

Then Johan casually kicked his feet up onto the table. “Well, that got dramatic. Can someone pass me the chocolate frogs or am I meant to summon them like a first-year?”

Typhoon flicked a hand, and the tin of frogs levitated to Johan’s lap.

“Thank you, darling.”

“I will hex you.”

The others laughed—nervous, unsure, half-delighted. And the moment passed.

They returned to their books, their scrolls, their careful notes. The room softened again. But somewhere underneath it all, something dangerous still lingered — like a storm just behind glass.

 

---

 

It had been Johan’s idea, naturally.

“Why don't you have breakfast at the Slytherin table tomorrow,” he’d said last night, voice warm with mischief, "See what it's like to dine with the snakes."

Now, morning light spilled through the enchanted ceiling, the usual house cliques scattered across their respective long tables. But the Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, and Gryffindors—Tonfah, Hill, North, Easter, Daotok, and Arthit—were seated among emerald and silver.

Oddly, the Slytherins didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they gave them a wide berth.

“Is it always this quiet here?” Easter whispered as he spread jam over toast.

Johan lifted his teacup, sipped leisurely, and smirked. “Only when we’re hunting.”

That earned him a look.

Across from him, Typhoon was nursing a cup of bitter tea. Tonfah sat beside him, unnervingly silent, toying with a piece of bread he hadn’t touched.

The oddity wasn’t lost on Hill. He glanced across the table again, catching the way Tonfah's fingers idly rolled the gold on his middle finger. There was no glint of possessiveness in his expression. But the gesture itself was telling.

Still, nothing was said. Nothing ever was.

Easter sat stiffly. North glanced around like they’d entered restricted territory. Arthit watched the dynamic with increasing interest.

Then a Ravenclaw girl from fourth year stepped close. She approached Typhoon, parchment in hand, stammering politely, “Um, excuse me,” she said timidly, hovering near Typhoon. “I heard you’re… really good at Arithmancy. I just—I’m really struggling with the study guide. Could I ask you a few questions?”

Typhoon looked up slowly. His gaze wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t warm either. The girl froze under it. “Leave your notes on the desk by the library’s east alcove. I’ll return them with annotations.”

She blinked. “Oh—thank you!”

He didn’t respond. She quickly turned and left.

Beside him, Tonfah stilled. He didn’t look up, but Typhoon, for the briefest moment, exhaled as he felt the burn of the ring on his left finger.

“Fah,” he said quietly, not looking at him. “She’s a child.”

“Mmm,” Tonfah replied, still twisting the ring. “But even children know not to play with fire.”

Daotok, still buttering his toast, hummed. “That was brave.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Arthit asked with a frown.

“Depends,” Johan said, swirling his tea lazily. “On how long Tonfah’s temper holds.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tonfah said smoothly, still not looking up.

Across the table, Hill glanced sideways. Noticed the twitch of a jaw. The flicker of Typhoon’s eye toward Tonfah’s fingers. Arthit, beside Hill, frowned just slightly. Something was there.

The air cooled, only slightly. Barely perceptible like a storm warning too far off to be heard but felt in the bones.

Then, with practiced ease, Johan said, “So. OWLs are almost upon us.”

Typhoon’s expression didn’t change, but a slow smile tugged at Johan’s mouth.

“Shall we wager again?” Johan asked.

Hill blinked. “Again?”

“Tradition,” Johan said smoothly. “Keeps the blood moving. What did we do last time?”

“Antique collection,” Daotok replied, tone light, as if discussing tea. “Before that, the villa in Sicily.”

“And the Kyoto manor before that,” Johan added. “First year was just gold, if I recall.”

Arthit’s mouth opened slightly. “You’ve been doing this since first year?”

“Why do you think we’re top of our houses?” Daotok asked, tone teasing as he reached for the pot of tea. “And why the three of us have prefect badges?”

North blinked. “This is how you earned them?”

“It keeps things interesting,” Tonfah said, finally lifting his gaze. “Kept us competitive. And we had to make studying worth something. Gold is motivating.”

Typhoon didn’t speak yet, but there was an amused flicker in his eyes.

Johan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Alright, let's raise the stakes, then. Scores. Number of O’s and E’s. Loser surrenders the vault?”

“I’m willing to raise the stakes,” Typhoon said, voice calm, eyes still on his plate. “Gringotts vault. The one in Prague.”

Easter choked slightly. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“The Kyoto estate, then. If I win.”

“You already promised that to me,” Johan muttered, feigning offense.

“Fine,” Tonfah said, lips twitching. “The vineyard then.”

“You have a vineyard?” Arthit asked, stunned.

“Several,” Tonfah replied easily, without a hint of pride.

Hill frowned. “Wait, you’re betting… actual estates?”

Daotok, still calm, poured another cup of tea. “Might as well add something myself,” he said airily. “Old manor in the valley. Boring place, but still holds value.”

There was a stunned silence.

“You too?” North asked, incredulous.

Daotok shrugged. “It’s not like I’m using it.”

“It’s tradition,” Johan said again, tone smooth and unbothered. “It’s how we survived first to fourth year. Why stop now?”

Arthit shook his head. “That’s… mad.”

“It’s effective,” Typhoon said mildly. “We’re taking the full track, love,” he added, casting a glance at Tonfah. “They’ll be lucky to keep up.”

Tonfah’s lips twitched. “I expect ten O’s. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Raising the stakes again?” Daotok mused.

“I’ll throw in my book collection,” Hill said suddenly, voice steady but soft. “The rare ones. First editions.”

The four paused.

“Oh?” Johan blinked.

“Not a manor,” Hill said dryly, “but it’s worth something.”

“I’ve got a magical menagerie back home,” Easter added, shrugging. “Pureblood hobby. Half the creatures are probably extinct. That counts?”

Daotok looked impressed. “That very much counts.”

Arthit shifted. “I have a magical artifact collection. Not cursed, I think. Or… only lightly cursed.”

North frowned. “I… guess I have this coastal estate. Small. Family doesn’t use it anymore.”

Typhoon tilted his head slightly. “Are you all seriously joining?”

“You said it yourself,” Easter muttered. “Gold is motivating.”

Tonfah gave a sharp, amused smile. “Careful. Once you start betting with us, there’s no turning back.”

“We’re aware,” Hill said. “But we’re also tired of being left behind.”

“Very well,” Johan said, leaning back like a king addressing his court. “Write down your expected scores. O’s and E’s only. We’ll sort the distribution later.”

“And if someone loses miserably?” North asked.

Johan grinned. “Then they hand over everything and prepare to be mocked for the rest of the year.”

“Fair,” Daotok said.

“You’re all mad,” Arthit muttered.

“Absolutely,” Daotok replied, pouring tea with serene elegance.

As they scribbled down their subjects and predictions on the back of a transfiguration worksheet, a few nearby students tried to peer over, confused by the sudden excitement. None of the eight paid them any mind.

Tonfah leaned toward Typhoon again, voice soft. “What’s your minimum?”

Typhoon didn’t hesitate. “All O’s. I don’t do ‘enough.’”

“Mm,” Tonfah hummed. “That’s why you’re mine.”

No one commented, but Hill looked up sharply. Easter stilled. North narrowed his eyes.

And Johan? Johan just smiled knowingly and passed Typhoon the list to sign.

Chapter 13

The fire in Tonfah’s private quarters burned low, casting gold shadows across the old stone and rich navy walls. The prefect suite was silent—glamoured, warded, and sealed off from the rest of Ravenclaw Tower with a level of precision only Tonfah would take the time to build.

Outside, the castle stirred with pressure. The eve of the OWLs always brought it—restless magic humming in the walls, students clinging to textbooks, professors walking the halls like sentinels. But here, in the quiet of Tonfah’s rooms, the world had narrowed to something simpler and slower.

Typhoon stepped through the hidden door and quietly shut it behind him.

Tonfah didn’t look up from where he was seated on the navy settee, robes loosened, fingers lazily curled around a steaming cup of black tea. He looked composed, but the tension in his shoulders said he’d been waiting.

“You’re late,” Tonfah said softly.

Typhoon didn’t answer, but he crossed the room and sank down into Tonfah’s lap like he belonged there—because he did. Their bodies fell into place like the second half of a spell: familiar, balanced, and humming with unspoken resonance. Tonfah’s hand slid beneath Typhoon’s robe, resting at his hip. The other traced idle circles along the back of his neck, slow and grounding.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, Typhoon murmured, “Tomorrow begins the twelve.”

“I know,” Tonfah said.

“Scared?”

Tonfah gave a soft exhale, a wry smile touching his mouth. “Should I be?”

Typhoon leaned forward, his forehead brushing Tonfah’s. “I’m not.”

“I didn’t think you would be.”

Another silence. But it was comfortable, quiet, and steady. The kind that only existed between people who had long since stopped pretending they didn’t belong to each other.

Then Tonfah spoke again.

“I want to publish it.”

Typhoon blinked, slowly pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Concordia?”

Tonfah nodded, eyes steady. “I’ve been rereading it since Yule. You compiled everything—your spells, my failed prototypes, the shared charms, the rewritten sigils. You made my work make sense.”

Typhoon lowered his gaze. “I didn’t think you’d want it seen.”

“I didn’t,” Tonfah replied. “Not then.”

“And now?”

Tonfah brushed a strand of Typhoon’s hair behind his ear. “Now I want it finished. I want to revise it. Together. Clean up the harmonic passages, fix the sequence theory on page thirty-seven.”

Typhoon huffed a soft laugh. “You still think that sequence is unstable?”

“I know it is,” Tonfah said. “But it can be solved. With both of us.”

Typhoon tilted his head. “You want to publish Concordia: Theory and Application of Resonant Charms?”

“I want to publish what we created,” Tonfah said. “Under our initials. Let them wonder who wrote it. Let them dig. But they’ll never doubt it was real magic.”

Typhoon went quiet. Then, gently: “What’s the condition?”

Tonfah smiled, slow and fond. “Twelve O’s. Between the two of us.”

Typhoon gave a quiet snort of amusement. “That’s it?”

“All twelve,” Tonfah confirmed. “You said it yourself—you don’t do enoughs.”

Typhoon gave a soft laugh. “And you never accept anything less than mastery.”

“Exactly.”

Typhoon tilted his head. “And if we don’t get all twelve?”

Tonfah looked at him for a long, quiet second. “Then Concordia stays locked in Hearthwend. Just for us—for now.”

Typhoon shifted in his lap, draping his arms around Tonfah’s neck. “You think we won’t?”

“I know we will,” Tonfah said. “But I want us to earn it. That way, when they read it, when they quote us in textbooks years from now, they’ll know we were never accidents.”

Typhoon looked at him for a long time.

Then, in a softer voice than Tonfah was used to hearing from him: “I gave you that book because I didn’t want to forget what we’d built.”

“And I want to share it,” Tonfah whispered. “Because they don’t know what we are yet. But they will.”

Typhoon leaned in, pressing a kiss just below Tonfah’s jaw. “After the last exam… we write the final chapter.”

“And sign our names,” Tonfah said, threading his fingers through Typhoon’s hair.

“Together,” Typhoon murmured.

 

---

 

Monday morning arrived colder than it should have been for late spring, the kind of chill that pressed into your bones no matter how thick your robes were. The Great Hall had been transformed—long house tables vanished, replaced by rows of individual desks, each precisely spaced under the heavy eyes of Ministry-appointed proctors. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling mirrored a cloudless pale sky.

The first subject: Charms.

Tonfah arrived early.

He took his seat without a word, Ravenclaw robes sharp and pressed. He sat upright, fingers folded neatly on the desk. He didn’t look around. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly where Typhoon would sit.

And right on cue, the Slytherin heir swept in with the same quiet arrogance as always—robe swinging slightly at the hem, collar loose, eyes already half-lidded like he was bored before the exam had even begun. But as he passed by Tonfah’s row, his fingers brushed deliberately across Tonfah’s desk once—a whisper of a promise.

He took the seat one row behind and to the left.

Daotok strolled in not long after, already chewing something, a smirk on his lips. Easter trailed behind him, arms full of charms textbooks he wouldn’t be allowed to use, eyes darting nervously over diagrams in his memory.

North entered without speaking, head low, hands jammed into his sleeves. Hill gave him a soft nudge as he passed by, and North muttered something under his breath before slipping into his assigned seat. Arthit followed at a careful distance, hands clasped tight, lips moving silently—repeating spells like prayers.

Johan was the last of them to arrive, robe slung over one shoulder, expression unreadable. He walked the line between composed and dangerous better than anyone.

When the final bell tolled, the doors sealed.

The proctor’s voice echoed across the Great Hall:
“Wands away. You may begin.”

The parchment rolled itself flat, and quills flew.

 

By afternoon, the desks were gone, replaced with a semi-circular room setup. At the front stood five Ministry examiners, their robes a dull grey, their faces sharp with impartiality. Each student was called forward one at a time. The tests were randomized. Each spell had to be cast on the spot, under scrutiny, without notes.

Johan was called first. He cast Ardens Velo, the flame veil, with a flick so smooth one examiner blinked. His tone never rose, his posture never broke. He left the testing area with quiet pride.

North followed, and hesitated for a second, then flawlessly layered a Featherlight Charm and Momentum Buffer on a book mid-fall. The room was silent when he bowed and returned to his seat.

Daotok’s practical included the obscure Silencio Circuitum. He grinned, snapped his wand, and turned the entire perimeter of the charm station into a soundless zone. The proctor nearest to him looked mildly concerned.

Easter nearly forgot to breathe before casting Orbis Lumen, but when he did, it glowed a steady gold. Hill mouthed ‘There you go’ under his breath while Easter finished the final wand movement.

Arthit’s hand trembled during his first incantation, but once he locked into the rhythm, his magic sharpened with terrifying clarity, and every charm exact and controlled, like he was slicing spells from glass.

Hill was called next. He strode forward without looking at anyone. His Disillusionment Charm nearly knocked one proctor back from the force of it. His Reflexive Shield shimmered on cue.

Then—

“Typhoon Ratanaporn, Slytherin.”

Typhoon moved; his wand was already in his hand. He cast Mutare Volumen without a single word—transfiguring a scroll into folded parchment while applying a slow hover to keep it midair. Then, he added a whisper-light Resonare charm, letting it hum with frequency. The examiners watched. Wrote. One of them raised an eyebrow.

And last—

“Tonfah Prasert, Ravenclaw.”

Tonfah stepped forward. His wand spun once between his fingers before stopping. He raised it without hesitation.

His first spell was the Laminae Lux—a delicate charm that created shifting panes of light that responded to music. He layered it with a contained Sonorus Fragmenta, forming a resonance cube that vibrated precisely with the frequencies. The cube shimmered softly. When it ended, the examiners dismissed them with a nod.

 

---

 

Transfiguration had always been different. Less theory, more discipline. Magic that required precision, patience, control. It didn’t care about intent—it demanded mastery.

And the castle knew it.

Even the air in the Great Hall felt tighter as the students filed in. Gone were the nervous jitters of Charms. Now came silence. Focus and pressure in the lungs.

The Ministry proctors looked more alert today.

Tonfah took his seat at the front again, his ink and quill already prepped. He didn’t look up, not even when Typhoon slipped in through the side entrance.

But he felt him.

Typhoon took his seat just behind, just slightly to the right. His robe was open at the collar again, his wand already resting across his thigh. He looked calm. But only Tonfah would notice the twitch of his fingers against the wood.

North, Easter, and Arthit entered together, North murmuring last-minute formulae under his breath. Arthit’s jaw was set. Easter had ink stains on his sleeves.

Hill arrived with Johan and Daotok—neither speaking, but is aware of the room’s weight.

At the front, the examiner raised his wand and said, “You may begin.”

 

---

 

The third day of OWLs dawned beneath overcast skies. The castle was quiet in that specific way it always was before a Herbology exam—thick with anticipation, and something earthy in the air, like the greenhouses themselves were listening.

By the time the eight of them entered Greenhouse Five, the midday sun had dulled behind thick clouds, casting the glass ceiling in a soft, greenish hue. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of loam, crushed leaves, and faint magic. Rain threatened in the distance, but the plants here were already humming with quiet tension.

Each student was guided to a separate station, each one protected by containment wards. There were no introductions. No instructions beyond the examiner’s calm announcement:

"You have fifteen minutes to complete your task. Begin."

 

---

 

The fourth day of OWLs broke over a grey, wind-swept sky. The kind of weather that made the stones of Hogwarts feel older and colder

Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Scrolls unfurled. Quills scratched.

Define the limitations of the Patronus Charm in the presence of multi-source trauma triggers.

Identify three counter-curses effective against Unforgivable-induced magical bindings.

Describe the ethical variations of defense magic used in non-human dueling contexts.

The questions weren’t easy, but none of them flinched.

And the room fell into deep, scratchy silence—except for the furious scribbling of Tonfah and Typhoon, who both appeared to be writing in the margins already. Daotok wrote in clean, careful lines, pausing after every third question to think. Johan looked relaxed, but his parchment filled at an alarming speed.

Arthit, to his own surprise, was doing well—his recall sharper than expected. North jotted down spell variations with intense precision, overthinking every line. Hill finished a full page before anyone else, but reread it three times. Easter was sweating bullets but still answering correctly.

Three hours passed like a crawl through war.

And then:

“Time’s up.”

Scrolls rolled themselves closed. Quills lifted. The room exhaled.

 

The Defense Hall had been converted into a warded, circular arena. Professors from other departments sat in the observation gallery with clipboards and enchanted mirrors.

Each student was to be given one minute to prepare, and then a duel or scenario would begin, testing their reaction under magical pressure.

The group watched as a Slytherin was promptly disarmed and stunned.

“Well,” Easter muttered, “there goes my confidence.”

Typhoon smirked. “You should be more afraid of how you’ll look after we’re done.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” North whispered.

Names were called.

North was first. A conjured wraith leapt toward him—and he incinerated it mid-air with a nonverbal Incendio and Reversus combo. His hair was a mess when he exited, but his smirk was victorious. Easter faced two cursed daggers and a shifting floor. He tripped—but countered the curse before he hit the ground. Hill was precision incarnate. He disarmed the trap, restored the warded door, and stunned the illusionary attacker in under forty seconds.

Arthit faced a boggart that took Daotok’s shape—broken and bleeding. He froze for a second. Then, he casted Protego Maxima, Diffindo, Expulso. It vanished.

His hands were shaking when he stepped down. Daotok was waiting for him with water.

Tonfah didn’t duel. He out-thought the scenario. Every curse was unraveled mid-air with layered counters, turning the final blast into a harmless wind. Typhoon faced off with an actual cursed relic. He didn’t move. Just raised a finger and spoke a spell no one else had ever heard. The relic folded in on itself.

The professors were silent for five full seconds before someone whispered, “What was that?”

Typhoon smiled. “Custom spellwork.”

Johan was elegant, efficient. The wraith didn’t even appear fully before he struck with a paralyzing charm, then used Impedimenta to freeze time around it for bonus points.

Daotok... didn’t attack at all.

He waited. Let the scenario unfold. Then healed the cursed wound on himself, created a protective echo for the next wave, and reinforced the ground spell on the arena.

When he walked out, the panel of professors looked shaken.

 

---

 

By Friday morning, Easter and Hill could finally breathe, though not completely, but for now.

Their last exam for the week had ended the day before. Their scrolls were handed in, parchments sealed, quills set down with a finality that tasted almost like freedom. There were still exams next week, yes, but for these precious hours, there was nothing left to study, nothing left to memorize. They were lounging at the end of the long table in the Great Hall, sipping tea with a kind of dazed satisfaction.

“We survived,” Easter murmured, elbow on the table.

“For this week,” Hill corrected, but didn’t ruin it by saying more.

Across from them sat the ones who were not done.

Johan. North. Arthit. Daotok. Tonfah. Typhoon.

The six of them still had Ancient Runes today—written in the morning, practical in the afternoon—and even worse, more exams waiting just past the weekend.

Typhoon sat with one leg folded under him, eyes closed, whispering foreign runes like prayers. Reference sheets surrounded Tonfah that he’d written himself, annotated with citations. Daotok was flipping through a rune lexicon with delicate, obsessive care, like anything less would summon a curse.

Arthit had his notes clenched in both hands, reading without blinking.
North was tracing mirrored rune sequences on the table with his finger, lips pressed into a thin line. Johan was smiling, but it was the kind of smile you gave someone before you pushed them into a pit and asked if they wanted to play chess at the bottom.

Easter watched them from over his cup. “Do you think they slept last night?”

Hill raised a brow. “I think Johan dreamt in rune logic.”

Typhoon, eyes still closed, replied without missing a beat, “I did. I solved three translation problems in my sleep. Got up and wrote them down.”

Easter laughed nervously. “Please don’t be serious.”

“He’s always serious before exams,” Tonfah said mildly, still not looking up. “That’s how you know it’s Friday.”

“Any of you excited to be done after today?” Hill asked hopefully.

There was a long pause.

Then Daotok, softly said, “We’re not done. We have Potions on Monday.”

Arthit groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Also Divination on Wednesday,” North muttered.

“Oh gods,” Easter whispered. “We chose Divination?”

Johan grinned. “We chose suffering, remember?”

Hill and Easter exchanged a look. “We’ll save you seats in the infirmary.”

“Make it eight beds,” Tonfah murmured. “You’ll be joining us soon.”

Easter raised his cup. “To surviving the week.”

Hill clinked his spoon against it. “And to the six still in hell.”

From his end of the table, Typhoon finally opened his eyes and added, dry as bone:

“Hell has better lighting.”

 

---

 

By Monday morning, any illusion of recovery from the weekend had shattered.

All eight of them—Johan, North, Arthit, Daotok, Tonfah, Typhoon, Easter, and Hill—were seated at their desks in the dungeons, pale under torchlight, quills trembling slightly as they stared down their Potions O.W.L. written exam.

Typhoon solved a tricky equation by muttering an alchemical rune under his breath. Tonfah was cross-referencing a known antidote formula with a corrected variant he discovered last month. Johan wrote fast. Easter kept his scroll impressively clean.

North reread everything three times. Hill scribbled steadily, focused and frowning. Arthit gripped his quill hard enough to dent it—but didn’t stop writing once. And Daotok, who everyone assumed would breeze through it, tore a hole in his parchment from overthinking the caloric infusion question and had to start again.

Lunch was consumed in silence, and then they were back for the practical.

Cauldrons flared. Bottles hissed. Something exploded on Johan’s side of the room—he swore it was intentional.

Typhoon’s potion turned deep violet, perfect and poisonous. Tonfah’s shimmered like melted glass, ready to reverse mild petrification. North’s brewed the perfect calming draught. Hill’s Shrinking Solution behaved almost too well. Easter’s was steady, albeit unremarkable. Arthit’s smoked—then cleared. And Daotok’s potion was golden and gleaming.

By the time they got back to their common rooms, no one spoke for fifteen minutes. They just collapsed.

 

---

 

The sky was low and gray by the time they reached the paddocks, the kind of cloudy that promised rain but never quite delivered. The grass was damp beneath their boots, and the wind tugged at sleeves and cloaks, but none of them complained.

They were too far in now. Too close to the end to care about the weather.

Care of Magical Creatures.
Practical exam only.

The exam area was sectioned into five open circles across the field, each marked with hovering glyphs. The creatures waited inside—each one tamed enough to test them, but wild enough to fail them.

A Hippogriff stood in the far ring, proud and watchful.
A Skrewt hissed in a containment field.
A Fwooper chirped madly in a soundproof dome.
A Niffler eyed their pockets with glittering glee.
And in the final ring, a young Graphorn paced anxiously, separated from its herd.

The professor’s clipboard floated beside him. “Begin when ready.”

Johan bowed low to the Hippogriff with exaggerated flair. It bowed back. He grinned. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Later, the Skrewt singed his robe. He shrugged and kept walking, humming under his breath.

North handled the Fwooper like a scholar, eyes calm, muttering the silencing charm with perfect tone. He stayed steady even as it shrieked in his thoughts.
The Niffler took his watch. He let it. And retrieved it with a conjured string of sapphires — clever bait.

Arthit was precise and patient. His care with the Graphorn earned a rare, low huff of affection. The examiner nodded quietly. The Skrewt nearly got him, but he didn't flinch. Just countered it fast and silently.

Daotok approached every creature with quiet stillness. The Hippogriff bowed faster than it had to anyone else. The Niffler refused to steal from him. The Skrewt hissed—then stopped. It was as if his silence was a language they already understood.

Tonfah worked like he was solving a puzzle. He calmed the Fwooper by shielding his mind with runes and grounding himself on a looped charm he whispered under his breath.
The Graphorn kept following him long after he moved on.

Typhoon treated the creatures like equals. He didn’t coax or charm. He stared the Skrewt down until it backed away. The Fwooper quieted without a sound. He didn’t smile once — but the creatures responded all the same.

Hill was methodical, but kind. He soothed the Niffler with sweets. The Hippogriff liked him immediately. He gave the Graphorn a name. No one was sure if that counted for or against his grade — but it followed his voice afterward.

Easter nearly tripped over the Niffler, but laughed it off. He charmed the Fwooper to hum. The professor blinked. “How—?”

“Just asked nicely,” Easter grinned.

 

By the end of it, they were grass-stained, claw-marked, glitter-dusted, and tired.
But more than that — they were proud.

The kind of proud you didn’t say out loud.
The kind you wore in the way your shoulders sat straighter afterward.

Back at the castle, Hill flopped across the Room of Requirement couch. “We survived.”

“Barely,” Arthit muttered, holding up his singed sleeve.

“We passed,” Tonfah corrected.

 

---

 

By Wednesday morning, they took their seats in Classroom Seventeen, where numbers lined the walls like constellations and the chalkboard pulsed with rotating formulae.

Arithmancy was clean. No wands or explosions. Just logic and magical mathematics.

Johan grinned. Hill worked in steady strokes, calculating predictive values like inked equations on skin. Arthit bit his lip through most of it but solved the last theorem faster than anyone expected.

Tonfah barely blinked. His scrolls were already filled with alternate solutions in neatly sectioned boxes. Typhoon solved every equation silently, his quill moving in diagonal patterns, tracing the rune of clarity in the margins. He turned his paper in early.

They left the room without speaking, their thoughts still wrapped in magical integers and weighted probability threads.

 

The Divination Tower was warm, perfumed with cardamom and faint incense.

They sat on low cushions, hunched over crystal balls or tea leaves. It was less about right answers, more about interpretation—and how well you could read what wasn’t entirely visible.

North's notes were careful, measured. He never claimed certainty. Easter joked his way through the tea reading, but his cards showed a perfect Four of Wands. The professor smiled at him for the first time all term.

Hill’s gaze lingered too long in the crystal ball, like he almost saw something. Daotok’s cup shattered after his reading. He didn’t flinch. The professor wrote something quickly on his report scroll.

Tonfah refused to read the leaves—he asked to read the professor’s palm instead. He predicted she would develop a limp by autumn. She didn't argue.

Typhoon read a flame instead of cards and muttered, “It always ends in ash,” before flipping over the Death card.

Easter whispered, “Do you ever not make it ominous?”

“Only when I’m lying,” Typhoon said.

 

The Astronomy Tower was quiet by the time Easter, Tonfah, and Typhoon climbed the spiral stairs under moonlight.

The sky was clear, the stars sharp.

Easter leaned back against the stone railing, sketching constellations without saying a word. Tonfah adjusted his telescope twice, drew three perfect orbit charts, and passed the star alignment segment with a yawn. Typhoon didn’t use his telescope at all. He lay flat on the observatory floor, charting planetary angles from memory and mapping orbits against the pattern of his breathing.

They turned in their charts just past midnight.

As they descended the stairs, Easter whispered, “One more day.”

Typhoon nodded. Tonfah’s fingers brushed his as they walked.

The castle was sleeping. The stars remained, just faint enough to remind them that not all pressure came with noise.

Sometimes it was the weight of stillness—and the quiet knowledge that they were almost done.

Almost.

 

---

 

By Thursday morning, they were moving on instinct.

Eight sets of footsteps padded softly into the long exam hall. The weight of nearly two weeks’ worth of exams pressed into their shoulders like invisible sandbags.

Only one exam left today for most of them: History of Magic.
Three hours. Written. Long-winded. Memory-heavy.

The quills dipped into ink, and silence fell like snow.

North finished with five minutes to spare and reread every sentence twice. Daotok’s handwriting stayed perfectly straight even as his head drooped slightly near the end.

Hill made it to the final essay with his eyes half-closed but still managed to reference three obscure treaties no one else remembered. Arthit filled nearly a full extra scroll with cross-referenced sources. He didn’t even realize until he looked up.

Johan smiled as he wrote, halfway between bored and amused—like he’d seen the ending of the story already. Easter didn’t cry. But he looked like someone who very nearly had.

At the front, Tonfah and Typhoon didn’t speak or flinch.
Wrote until the professor called time with a final, echoing charm:

“Scrolls in. Quills down. You may leave.”

And in that moment, the room seemed to exhale.

 

The six who were done stood in a quiet huddle outside the corridor, blinking against the sudden light of freedom.

Hill leaned back against the wall and whispered, “That’s it.”

Daotok let out a shaky breath. “Done.”

Easter buried his face in his hands. “I could kiss someone.”

Johan raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Hold still, then.”

North laughed—not a polite one, but the kind that came from sheer relief.

Arthit leaned against Daotok’s side and let his shoulders finally drop.

Six of them, finally breathing. Finally finished.

Except—

They turned, and there were Tonfah and Typhoon, still at the door.

Hill blinked. “Wait. Don’t tell me—”

“Muggle Studies,” Tonfah said quietly.

“Afternoon,” Typhoon added, like it was nothing. But his grip on his satchel was white-knuckled.

Easter winced. “That’s brutal.”

Tonfah only smiled faintly. “We’ll live.”

Johan clapped Typhoon on the shoulder. “We’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to—”

“We will,” Daotok said simply.

They didn’t push further.

 

The room was quiet, with afternoon light slanting through open windows. No pressure. No audience. Just Professor Lintel, their last exam scrolls, and a soft breeze that smelled like early summer.

Tonfah and Typhoon sat side by side—again.

The questions weren’t hard. They were strange. Philosophical. Comparative.

Tonfah wrote quickly and clearly. An answer for everything. Typhoon wrote slowly, with sharp phrases and ink blotches in the corners. More instinct than analysis, but somehow more honest.

When they handed in their scrolls, Professor Lintel gave them both a warm nod. “Well done, both of you.”

Tonfah nodded politely.
Typhoon just murmured, “Thank you.”

Outside, the sunlight had shifted.

And waiting for them, leaning on the courtyard walls, were all six others—already free, already glowing with something like victory.

North waved. Hill lifted a cup of lemonade, and Easter held out a sandwich.

Typhoon glanced sideways at Tonfah.

“Now we’re done.”

Tonfah exhaled. “Finally.”

Chapter 14

Sunlight filtered gently through the tall windows of the Great Hall, softening the usual brightness, scattering across polished goblets and the folds of students' robes. The chatter was low and unhurried, as though even time itself had begun to exhale.

At the Gryffindor table, the eight of them sat together, even if not all of them belonged to that House. Their plates were half-finished, their tea slowly cooling in their cups. No one rushed. For the first time in weeks, they were no longer running toward the end; instead, they had reached it.

"Does anyone else feel like we're floating?" Easter murmured suddenly, spinning a spoon slowly in his teacup. "Like we finished running and forgot what our legs are for?"

Hill gave a soft sound of agreement. "There's nothing else to do. No exams, no revisions, just... this."

"Hm. I intend to burn my textbooks," Johan said, leaning back lazily.

"You're assuming I still have the energy for that," North murmured.

"I plan to sleep for at least four days," Arthit said.

"That's adorable," Daotok said, not looking up from his toast. "You think we'll get sleep."

Tonfah set his cup down gently. "We did agree to meet when the results arrive, didn't we?"

Easter perked up. "We're still doing that?"

"Of course, I look forward to winning that menagerie of yours, Easter."

Johan smiled faintly, not looking at anyone. "Thorngrave Hall is large enough. You'll have rooms."

That made Easter pause, "Thorngrave Hall?"

“An old manor,” Tonfah said. “Inherited.”

“It holds our name,” Typhoon added. “It’s… ours.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You all own a manor together,” North said flatly.

“We didn’t choose it,” Johan said. “But it chose it.”

“You’re not helping,” Hill muttered.

“Is it haunted?” Easter asked jokingly.

“No,” Typhoon said. “That would imply something left.”

“And you’re inviting us there?” Arthit asked slowly.

Typhoon’s eyes flickered to him. “Of course, and you’ll be safe.” There was something in the way he said it, like safety was conditional and had its price.

“Besides, we’ll have the elves prepare rooms,” Johan said, sipping from his teacup.

“Elves? As in… how many?” Hill asked.

“Enough.” Daotok shrugged. “But we’ll bring in more, if needed.”

“Besides, it feels like the start of a tradition. Might as well make space.” Tonfah said, almost amused.

Arthit gave a quiet exhale. Easter leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. None of them said yes aloud—but none of them said no either.

“We’ll plan to buy our supplies together before the next term,” Johan said, folding his napkin. “If you’d like.”

“We’d like that,” Hill said softly, before anyone else could.

 

---

 

The train moved steadily through the countryside, the gentle sway of the carriage lulling the compartment into a kind of drowsy calm. It was the final leg of their journey—from Hogwarts back to Platform ¾ —and with exams behind them, the eight sat together in a bubble of easy silence.

The windows were cracked open to let in the early summer air. Outside, the hills rolled past, green and endless.

Inside, their compartment was filled with soft rustles: North quietly rereading his Transfiguration notes, more for habit than purpose; Hill trading sweets with Easter across the aisle; Daotok leaning lightly against Arthit, legs tucked beneath him, content with silence.

Then a voice from the corridor called, “North! They need you at the prefect’s end.”

North sighed, folding the notes and rising. “Back in a bit. Don’t let Easter steal my seat.”

“No promises,” Easter called, grinning.

Arthit stood as well. “I’ll stretch my legs.”

“I’ll come too,” Hill added, already gathering the snack wrappers. “I want to ask about the train schedule for next term.”

The door slid shut behind the four of them, and the compartment exhaled as the four remained behind.

Daotok shifted to the center, the flick of his sleeve smoothing out a wrinkle in his robe. Typhoon turned to the small stack of letters he’d placed on the seat beside him and plucked one free, tapping it against his thigh.

“They’ve summoned us,” he said.

The others didn’t need to ask who they were.

Johan took the letter from him, scanning the immaculate handwriting. “Your estate.”

Typhoon nodded once. “Dinner. Next Friday. My father’s seal was on it.”

Tonfah scoffed softly. “So. A performance, then.”

“A test,” Daotok said, his voice even. “They’ll want to see the fractures. Measure what we’ve hidden.”

“Let them,” Johan said, handing the letter back. “We wear the same masks they taught us to fear.”

Typhoon glanced out the window, eyes catching the reflection of his own profile in the glass. “Be polite. Be distant. We are not four—we are fractured alliances stitched together in necessity. They’ll expect it.”

“Good,” Tonfah said. “Let them see what they want. It’ll buy us more time.”

Daotok reached for the velvet wrap at his wrist and adjusted it. “We smile. We thank them. And if they offer the knife with courtesy, we bow and sharpen it later.”

The compartment door slid open again with a soft whoosh.

“Still alive?” North asked, stepping back in, brushing dust from his robes. “Some of the Gryffindors nearly hexed each other over who gets to sit where next year.”

“Sounds like tradition,” Johan said, smiling faintly.

Hill followed behind, rejoining Easter on the bench with a tired sigh. “Remind me never to sign up for anything with committee votes.”

“We tried,” Typhoon murmured, his voice lighter now.

The room slipped easily back into its previous softness—conversation drifting from summer plans to favorite pastries and magical pranks they’d never been caught for.

“I still say the library ghost deserved it,” Easter muttered, reaching for a biscuit.

As the train began to slow, the station drawing near, Tonfah leaned forward, voice steady but warm. “We’ll see you again after three weeks.”

“Write to us,” Daotok said gently. “Let us know when your OWL letters arrive.”

Johan smiled. “Expect owls. We won’t be far.”

“And when the time comes,” Typhoon said, rising to pull his trunk down from the rack, “you’ll know where to find us.”

 

---

 

The manor loomed just as it always had—tall, cold, and beautiful in its indifference.

Typhoon stood before the great doors in silence, hands behind his back, robes pristine, boots polished to a shine. The air was sharp here, thick with old magic and the expectation of bloodline. He could feel the weight of the wards pulsing faintly beneath his skin as they read his signature—recognized, accepted, begrudging.

The doors opened without a creak. He stepped inside, and the silence followed him like a shadow. The marble floors stretched endlessly ahead. The paintings didn’t move. The walls didn’t whisper welcome.

It had been years since he last stood in this hall—not since the day they let the Aurors escort him and sent him to Durmstrang without even watching him leave.

He made his way down the corridor with slow, echoing steps. The house-elves did not appear. The light barely shifted. At the end of the hallway, two tall doors waited, open just enough to let him know he was expected.

He stepped inside.

The sitting room was elegant, harsh in its symmetry. His father stood near the window, wine glass in hand, untouched. His mother sat beside the fire, perfectly still, dressed in deep forest green.

Typhoon inclined his head slightly. “Mother. Father.”

His father’s voice was the first to break the silence. “So. You’ve survived Hogwarts.”

“Barely,” Typhoon said evenly. “They’ve a talent for underestimating things they don’t understand.”

His mother’s lip twitched. “I recall Durmstrang suited you.”

“It taught me how to sharpen edges I already had.” He took a step further into the room, dark eyes flicking between them. “I wonder if that’s what you intended.”

“We intended for you to learn control,” his father said. “You were… unstable.”

“Brilliant,” his mother corrected. “But reckless.”

Typhoon didn’t smile. “You called it an exile.”

His father’s hand tightened slightly around the glass. “It was necessary.”

“Was it?” Typhoon’s voice was low now, almost gentle. “Or was it just easier to send away the son who couldn’t be molded the way you wanted?”

His father exhaled once, as though speaking a thought aloud to no one. “And yet, here you are.”

“Summoned,” Typhoon corrected, gaze steady. “Formally.”

“There are politics you don’t understand yet,” his father said. “Moves are being made. Eyes on you. On your circle.”

“So you want to claim me again,” Typhoon said. “Remind the others that I still wear your name.”

“You are still our son,” his mother said. “Still the heir to this estate.”

They didn’t ask if he hated them. They didn’t care if he did. “I’ll attend your dinner,” he said finally. “I’ll smile. I’ll wear the ring, if that’s what you need.”

“But don’t pretend,” he added, “that this house still commands me.”

“You live because we allow it,” his father said calmly.

“No,” Typhoon corrected, gaze sharp and cold. “I live because I endured you.”

The silence that followed was absolute. He turned without bowing. Without waiting for dismissal. As he stepped into the hallway again, the doors closed behind him with a quiet click—and this time, it sounded like a coffin lid.

Chapter 15

Typhoon’s family estate was not warm. It was grand, carved from obsidian-veined marble and bone-white stone. Sprawling halls lit by floating lanterns, quiet staircases that echoed magic older than law. The dining hall was vast, cavernous. The long table was set in silence.

The four heirs stood together at one end. Their robes were dark, tailored. The candlelight flickered against the silver on their collars—house crests reworked into personal insignias. They were beautiful and distant.

The doors opened.

Their families entered.

Lord Thirakan, Typhoon’s father, strode in with all the silence of a closing trap. His robes were black velvet, no house colors. His wife, Lady Arunthia, elegant in a gown that shifted with runic threads, gave her son a single nod—neither warm nor cold. The other patriarchs and matriarchs followed—Johan’s grandfather, Lord Anuwat Thanawat with his calculating eyes, and Tonfah’s parents, Lord Siran and Lady Narisa Prasert, more elegant than any photograph, more detached than any painting.

Two elders, Warden Vorakorn Hiranchai and Matron Apsara Hiranchai, both cloaked in gold-trimmed brown robes—modest compared to the others, but no less watchful, both bearing the same tight-lipped expression as if even being at this table was a concession they despised having to make.

No greetings were made as they took their seats. Dinner began with silence and silverware. Then, Lord Thirakan spoke.

“We’ve reviewed your results.”

Typhoon didn’t flinch, nor did the others. The parchment had barely cooled before copies were sent by private courier.

Johan lifted his glass. “Acceptable?”

His grandfather chuckled dryly. “Only when it comes from someone beneath expectation. Which you’re not.”

“Expected,” Tonfah echoed, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “But disappointing, I’m sure. We’ve left nothing for them to criticize.”

“That, in itself,” Lady Arunthia said, “is its form of power.”

Johan’s grandfather cut into his venison without looking up. “Pride is not protection. The Ministry is shifting.”

That silenced the room.

Daotok’s voice was smooth when it followed. “Several council chairs have turned over in the last three months. Quietly. Without public record.”

“And replacements aligned with the Minister,” Johan added. “Not with the old blood.”

"They've begun knocking on doors that should never be opened," Typhoon sipped his wine. “Dark families. ”

“And those adjacent,” Johan added, eyes glinting toward the other end of the table.

“Pity they can’t find skeletons,” Tonfah said lazily, “so they’re now chasing shadows.”

“Some of those shadows,” Typhoon added, “still cast long lines.”

The tension shifted. One of Daotok’s elders leaned forward, speaking coldly. “You refer to bloodlines.”

“I refer,” said Johan’s grandfather, voice like a crack of thunder, “to allegiances.”

The elder woman narrowed her eyes. “The Hiranchais are not a dark family.”

“No,” Johan’s grandfather replied, a cruel smile touching his lips. “But do not forget to whom your family swore loyalty generations ago.”

All eyes turned to Daotok, but he didn’t blink. The male elder’s jaw tightened. “We have maintained neutrality.”

The silence that followed was broken only by the low murmur of enchanted goblets refilling themselves. Then Johan’s grandfather spoke again, slower this time, slicing through all pretense.

“Daotok. I assume you have not strayed far from what is expected of you.”

Daotok raised his head, gaze calm but lethal. He opened his mouth to reply, but it was Typhoon who answered first. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, without looking up from his glass. “Our darkling has never strayed too far.”

A small smirk tugged at Tonfah’s mouth. “Not far enough to forget who he belongs to.”

The conversation shifted.

“The Triwizard Tournament,” Thirakan said.

This time, all four heirs leaned back in near unison. “They’ve reinstated it,” Typhoon said. “After decades.”

Daotok set down his fork. “You intend for us to enter?”

“No,” Tonfah’s mother said, “You must not.”

Tonfah’s father finally looked up, eyes gleaming. “Let the Ministry play its games. They need champions. Heroes. Symbols.”

“We,” his wife said smoothly, “need heirs. With clean hands. And intact bones.”

“Let them beg for your participation,” Thirakan added. “Refusal is power.”

“Let them interpret it as disdain or strategy. Either serves us.”

“They want to use you,” added the elder woman beside Daotok. “As shields or sabers.”

Typhoon’s eyes narrowed. “We were not raised to be weapons.”

“Only tacticians,” Tonfah whispered.

Another round of wine was poured, darker this time—red as blood. The clink of silver on glass echoed across the hall.

Another silence fell—but it was heavier and decisive now. Then, Tonfah’s mother spoke quietly, and it nearly vanished into the firelight.

“There is one more matter. The engagement.”

The candles did not flicker. But something cold ran through the marrow of the room.

Typhoon didn’t move.

Tonfah didn’t blink.

Johan smiled.

Daotok exhaled. “Finally.”

The adults didn’t laugh. They nodded—some approving, others calculating.

Lord Anuwat raised his glass. “Before the Ministry gets any closer.”

“We’ll hold it after sixth year,” Tonfah replied, voice steady. “Before the summer ends.”

The Hiranchai elder looked faintly surprised. “So soon?”

“So necessary,” Tonfah said flatly.

His father nodded once. “It is time the two of you… stopped appearing estranged.”

His mother echoed, “Spend the summer at Hearthwend. Let the public see unity.”

Typhoon inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Johan raised his glass. “Then may we all survive until the summer.”

Daotok tapped his own against it. “And after.”

Eyes turned then to the other two.

“And you?” Tonfah’s mother asked lightly. “Johan? Daotok? Your summer plans?”

Daotok smiled thinly. “Undecided. Some rest, perhaps. Quiet study.”

Johan gave a lazy shrug. “I thought I’d disappear for a while.”

His grandfather’s mouth twitched. “Don’t disappear too well. We may need you visible soon.”

“We’ll write,” Daotok said.

“If we’re needed,” Johan added.

 

---

 

The long shadows of the dining hall gave way to the hush of the eastern study, quiet and warded, lined with bookcases that touched the ceiling and windows too tall for comfort. It smelled faintly of dragon parchment and winter—though it was summer—and the faintest wisp of spellfire danced in the hearth like a heartbeat.

Tonfah leaned against the windowsill, robes still pristine, a glass of peach-honey wine in his hand. Johan had taken the armchair beside the fire, legs stretched out, chin propped on one hand. Daotok occupied the couch—posture elegant but softening now, as if only here he allowed his body to rest. Typhoon had taken the floor by the low table, letters scattered in front of him like offerings.

In the center: four sealed scrolls.

OWL results. Official. Delivered by Gringotts courier, not owl post.

Typhoon opened his with no ceremony. “Let’s get it over with.”

The others followed suit. A beat.

Another.

Then Tonfah gave a low, almost musical hum. “Well.”

“All O's,” Typhoon said plainly.

“Same,” Tonfah said, rolling the scroll back. “With a Ministry footnote.”

Johan arched a brow. “Footnote?”

Tonfah turned his scroll and let it unroll again.

In a small Ministry script at the bottom:

"Congratulations. You are one of two students in the last twenty-seven years to receive Outstanding marks in all subjects taken. Your achievement has been formally noted by the Department of Magical Education and forwarded to the Department of Magical Affairs for record consideration."

Typhoon snorted softly, tossing his own scroll onto the low table.

“Let me guess. You’re the other one.”

Tonfah just smirked.

Daotok reached for Typhoon’s scroll and unrolled it. “Also with a Ministry seal. Identical footnote.”

Johan chuckled under his breath. “They’ll be sending offers next. Internships. Quiet invitations to tea.”

Tonfah raised his glass. “Let them. We already know how to host our own councils.”

“What did you get, Jo?” Typhoon asked, glancing over.

Johan rolled open his scroll, scanning it with the lazy confidence of someone who’d expected nothing less. “Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, Defense, Potions, History, Care of Magical Creatures—all O’s. Arithmancy and Runes, too. Nine.”

Tonfah glanced over. “They didn’t footnote you?”

“I didn’t take Muggle Studies or Divination. And you two overachievers sat twelve.”

Daotok unfolded his scroll next. “Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, Defense, Potions, History, Runes, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures. Nine as well. All O’s.”

He exhaled, a little quieter this time. “Astronomy was the one I dropped last minute. Good choice.”

Typhoon’s mouth twitched. “I liked the silence. Easier to think in the dark.”

“Still impressive,” Johan said mildly. “Four of us. All O's.”

Tonfah’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “They’ll hate that.”

“They’ll fear it,” Typhoon said. “Same thing.”

Daotok folded his scroll again, his tone light but edged. “The Ministry will say it's commendable. But they’ll read it as a threat.”

Johan stretched. “They’re not wrong.”

They sat in silence for a moment, each watching the parchments in their hands—not for the marks, but what the marks meant.

Twelve O's for Typhoon and Tonfah.
Nine O's for Johan and Daotok.

No weak subjects and no questions of competency. Results carved into the Ministry’s records, a quiet warning dressed as a list of grades.

A knock interrupted them. One of the manor’s elves, cloaked in slate gray and silver.

“Master Typhoon,” the elf said, bowing. “Letters from three estates arrived. They bear neutral family crests.”

Daotok looked at Johan. Johan looked at Tonfah.

Typhoon’s expression did not change.

“Put them on the desk,” he said. “We’ll answer them in the morning.”

The elf bowed again and vanished.

Back in the silence, the scrolls still lay open. Their names. Their futures. Their scorecards, for the world to read. And underneath it all, the hum of elemental power between them.

“Congratulations,” Johan murmured, folding his hands behind his head. “You two are officially the Ministry’s favorite students.”

Tonfah gave a slow, razor-edged smile. “Pity we don’t serve the Ministry.”

 

---

 

The sun had dipped behind the far hills, leaving behind streaks of amber and coal-grey. The heat of the day still clung to the stones, and the tall grass swayed faintly, as if the air hadn't decided yet whether to settle or stir.

North stood at the edge of the field behind his family’s estate—alone.

No wand. Just hands, calloused and steady.

He had done this dozens of times now. Small exercises. Practice. Trying to draw the element he was most aligned with.

Fire.

He didn’t always feel it—his magic, not in the way Johan did when the shadows answered him, or the way Typhoon walked like the very air bent around his thoughts. North’s was quieter. Simmering. But it was there.

He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply.

There was a trick to it, Typhoon once said. Don’t control it. Call it. Trust it will answer.
But Typhoon's storm felt more like rage. North’s… he didn’t know what his was. He just wanted to feel something honest.

He exhaled.

Beneath his palms, a warmth bloomed—first like sun-warmed stone, then stronger. Like breath caught in a hearth. He welcomed it.

“Easy,” he murmured to himself.

A flicker of heat licked across his fingertips. A curl of flame, dancing midair, spinning slowly as though listening.

North’s lips twitched. He almost smiled. “There you are.”

And then—something shifted.

A tremor, deep and low. Like a snap far underground.
The wind stopped. The birds went silent.

And from his fingers, unbidden, a slow line of magic cracked across the ground like veins of shadow spreading through stone.

The clearing looked the same—but his pulse was racing. The air had changed. The way it always did when Typhoon walked by. Or Tonfah lost focus. Or Daotok’s mood dropped too far.

It wasn’t neutral. It wasn’t light.

It was wrong, but it was his.

He stumbled backward, instinctively reaching for his wand—though it wouldn’t help him here. The flame hovered for a heartbeat longer, then snapped out like breathless candlelight.

“No,” he said aloud. “No, no, that’s not—” He took a step back. The mark on the earth pulsed once, then faded into nothing, like it had never been there.

His fingers trembled.

This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t the kind of power he had admired from afar. This wasn’t Hill’s gentle steadiness, or Easter’s strange intuitive calm. This was the kind of magic people whispered about. The kind that fractured things.

He looked around the clearing. No one had seen. No one had felt it.

And thank Merlin for that.

North bent down and picked up his wand with a shaking hand. Held it to his chest. Then he turned and walked quickly back toward the manor. He didn’t look back.

Chapter 16

The rain came steadily through the moors, hissing against the old glass windows of Hearthwend. The manor pulsed with low, ancient magic—restless in its silence, like it had been waiting too long for them to come home.

They hadn’t spoken much since they arrived that morning.

Typhoon sat curled on the velvet couch near the hearth, sleeves rolled, black tea steeping untouched beside him. He watched the flames dance, one hand resting lazily across his knee.

Tonfah stood near the tall window, one shoulder pressed against the frame, his silhouette cut against storm light and shadow. He turned only slightly when he spoke:

“This is ridiculous,”

Typhoon gave a humorless smile, eyes still on the fire. “That we’re here?”

Tonfah let his head rest back against the glass. “That they think we’re estranged.”

“We are estranged,” Typhoon said mildly, “in front of the Ministry.”

At that, Tonfah turned from the window and walked to where Typhoon lounged. He said nothing—just reached out, fingers brushing Typhoon’s jaw, tilting his head up to meet his gaze.

Typhoon didn’t resist.

Tonfah leaned closer. Their faces were breath apart, shadows carving their expressions into something older than sixteen.

“They want this to look like reconciliation,” Tonfah murmured. “It’s almost sweet how they’ve forgotten what we are.”

Typhoon hummed, his hand rising to curl into the fabric at Tonfah’s side

“You think they’d still approve if they saw what I let you do?”

Tonfah gave a soft laugh. “Love,” he said, low and deliberate, “they sent us here to play nice.”

And then, without ceremony, he lifted Typhoon easily and pulled him into his lap. Typhoon let himself be repositioned, knees folding at Tonfah’s sides, hands resting loosely on his shoulders. Their foreheads nearly touched. The fire crackled behind them.

“If they only knew,” Tonfah murmured into his ear, voice silk-dipped steel.

Typhoon’s eyes fluttered closed, a breath catching behind his teeth—not from surprise, but from the memory of every time this had happened before.

He tilted his head, lips brushing the curve of Tonfah’s jaw. A smirk flickered at Typhoon’s mouth. “They think a summer will fix us.”

“They think they own us.”

“They’re wrong,” Typhoon whispered, pressing a slow kiss to the line of Tonfah’s throat, a quiet vow not meant to be seen. “They always have been.”

Tonfah’s fingers brushed under the fabric at Typhoon’s waist. A long pause stretched between them. Then Typhoon leaned forward, nose brushing Tonfah’s temple.

“Do you ever think,” he said softly, “how funny it is that they gave us time alone and thought it would tame us?”

Tonfah gave a low hum, teeth grazing the edge of Typhoon’s ear in answer. “No,” he murmured, smiling, “I think it’s hysterical.”

The fire had settled to embers now, casting long, red shadows across the stone floor. Typhoon was still perched on Tonfah’s lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing the line of his collar, the space between them comfortably blurred.

Tonfah’s hand had found Typhoon’s again—more specifically, his left. He turned it over slowly, thumb grazing the cool metal of the rings there.

Then Tonfah looked over his shoulder lazily. “Nimsy.”

The elf popped into the room with a soft crack, dressed in his usual pinstriped livery and Hearthwend sigil stitched over his chest.

“Yes, Master Tonfah?” Nimsy bowed low, eyes bright.

Typhoon didn’t move from Tonfah’s lap—if anything, he leaned back more comfortably, like he belonged there, and had no interest in pretending otherwise.

Tonfah glanced at Typhoon briefly and then back to Nimsy.

“We’ve decided it’s time to prepare the master bedroom.”

Nimsy blinked. “The—oh! The master master bedroom, sir?”

“That’s the one,” Typhoon said idly, curling his fingers again under Tonfah’s collar. “You know, since we’re being good little heirs and playing nice.”

Nimsy recovered quickly. “Yes, sirs. I shall air the drapes, replace the linens, and renew the charms. It will be ready before dinner.”

“Have Whimsy help you,” Tonfah added lazily. “And bring the window silks up from the third storage wing, the deep green ones.”

“The ones with the silver embroidery?” Nimsy asked, already halfway into a list in his head.

“Exactly.” Tonfah gave a half-smile. “Let’s make it feel… ceremonial.”

With another polite bow, Nimsy vanished.

Typhoon finally shifted, sliding down just enough to stretch out across the couch, head landing in Tonfah’s lap. He stared up at the ceiling like it amused him.

“Do you think they’d scream if they knew what room we were using?”

Tonfah looked down at him, twisting the ring again. “They’d scream harder if they knew how long it’s been ours.”

Typhoon’s smile curled. “Then let’s not tell them.”

“No,” Tonfah said, voice like a slow promise. “Let’s show them.”

 

---

 

The sun fell low behind the west wing of Hearthwend, streaking the garden in bronze. In the old observatory turned study, the windows were cracked open, letting in the faint scent of lavender and old parchment.

They sat at a wide desk carved with runes worn soft by time—Typhoon cross-legged on the chair, quill in hand, Tonfah beside him, sleeves pushed up, annotating a margin in steady script.

Between them lay the book: bound in Midnight blue, embossed with silver filigree on the cover.

Concordia: Theory and Application of Resonant Charms

“Twelve O’s,” Tonfah said at last, not as a brag, just a fact.

Typhoon smiled, resting his chin on his hands. “You say it like you’re surprised.”

“No,” Tonfah said, reaching for his quill, “it was expected.”

“We start polishing it before we leave for Thorngrave.”

Typhoon flipped the book open, scanning the spells scrawled in precise tandem—his curved strokes interlaced with Tonfah’s sharper script. Some spells were already sealed with a finishing glyph. Others were half-formed, brilliant, and volatile.

“We’ll publish it,” Tonfah said, not as a suggestion, but as a plan.

Typhoon raised a brow. “Here? Or—?”

“No. Not here.” Tonfah reached for the teacup beside him, though it had long gone cold. “The Ministry’s watching. They’ll tear through every charm, every spell theory, trying to prove we’re arming a rebellion.”

“Which we might be,” Typhoon murmured.

“Which they don’t need to know.”

Tonfah, pulled out another leather-bound volume and dropped it onto the stack already growing on the side table. A dozen notebooks, grimoires, and charm journals—some from third year, others inherited or stolen from family libraries—had found their way into the chaos of their research.

Typhoon closed Concordia, and pushed it aside, setting it beside a second pile he’d been forming—half-formed potion theory revisions, alternate charm routes, corrections to published curriculum spells.

“These,” Typhoon said, tapping the top page, “are brilliant. Some of these corrections could fix half the disaster spells they still teach first-years.”

Tonfah raised a brow. “Then we publish them.”

Typhoon blinked. “What, all of them?”

“Yes,” Tonfah said. “Concordia for resonant charms. One for transfiguration theory and refinement. And one for potion reconstruction—ingredient behavior, advanced brew threading, timing calculations. We’ve had this for years, we just didn’t think to finish them.”

Typhoon laughed, setting down his quill. “You’re getting greedy.”

Tonfah turned toward him, calm and smiling. “We are greedy when we know we’ll have the upper hand.”

A pause, then Typhoon leaned back on his hands and exhaled. “And here I was thinking one book would be enough of a disruption.”

“Let them try to trace it back,” Tonfah said, already stacking the three would-be manuscripts. “We’ll publish abroad. Somewhere just outside the Ministry’s hand, but close enough they’ll still hear whispers of it.”

“Let them think it’s just a useful resource,” Typhoon added slowly, catching on. “Useful enough to implement.”

“Into Hogwarts’ curriculum,” Tonfah finished. “They’ll think they’re modernizing.”

“And we’ll attach magical signatures to each spell.” Typhoon sat upright, grinning now. “So anytime someone casts one of our altered spells—”

“We’ll know,” Tonfah said. “And if we need to, we can collapse them. Or redirect them.”

“That’s evil,” Typhoon murmured, grinning wider.

“That’s power,” Tonfah replied.

They were quiet for a moment, the only sound the rustling of pages as Typhoon reached again for the transfiguration book.

“Initials only,” he said. “Not our names.”

“Let them think it’s a translation, an ancient work rediscovered. A gift from the continent.”

“But only we know the truth,” Typhoon said, fingers brushing the inside cover where the initials TF. P. and TP. R. would soon be inked.

“Only we ever will.”

They looked at the three books not as publications, but as pieces of a chessboard no one else realized was already in motion.

“We’ll send them out before Thorngrave,” Tonfah said, running a hand down the spine of the transfiguration draft.

“Three pieces of a legacy,” Typhoon murmured. “Disguised as kindness.”

Tonfah turned to him, eyes glinting with mischief. “If they only knew.”

“They never will.”

 

The study had changed with the hour.

Candles floated midair in staggered rings around the desk, casting pale gold light across the open books. Ink bottles glinted like small vials of potion. The air was warm with the quiet hum of old magic—runes etched into the desk had awakened, stirred by what the two boys were about to do.

Three manuscripts sat in front of them.

Tonfah traced the edge of Concordia’s first page with his wand tip, muttering a soft rune-lock. The page shimmered slightly—just for a second.

“Start with Concordia?” he asked.

Typhoon nodded. “It’s the one that matters most.”

They moved in tandem—Tonfah holding the book open while Typhoon lifted a small obsidian dish between them, the contents glowing faintly blue. A sigil circle was drawn in the center, lined with powdered silver and a drop of each of their blood from earlier. It pulsed softly, in rhythm with their breathing.

“Once it binds,” Tonfah said, “no one can cast from the book without activating the trace.”

“And if they try to alter it,” Typhoon added, voice calm, “it’ll fragment the spell matrix. Not explode, just fail. Quietly and embarrassingly.”

They smirked. Then, together, they raised their wands and began.

Their incantation was not one taught at Hogwarts. It was old, crafted, and polished over the last year, with runes layered into syllables and intent stitched beneath breath. Their magic threaded together in the air, a long spiral of mist and sound that hovered over the open page.

The runes began to burn faintly into the margins, visible only when touched with specific resonance. A mark no one could mimic. A signature buried under charm and deceit.

“First seal complete,” Typhoon whispered.

“Next,” Tonfah said, already reaching for the transfiguration book.

They repeated the process—sigil dish refreshed; runes altered for the different type of spell craft. This signature wouldn’t just trace users. It would stabilize weak applications, subtly correcting errors mid-cast, and reporting them back to Tonfah and Typhoon, quietly.

“This one’s yours more than mine,” Typhoon murmured, watching Tonfah’s precision. “Every single casting chain.”

Tonfah shrugged one shoulder. “You’re the one who found the flaw in the reversal loop.”

Typhoon smiled faintly. “It’s easier to break things.”

“And easier to make people think we’re helping,” Tonfah said dryly.

When they moved to the potions book, the air felt heavier—denser with intent.

This seal was more complex: a signature that mapped the magical saturation of brewed potions, encoded into the brewing method itself. Anyone who followed their recipe would activate a tiny rune within the potion’s magical field—harmless, but traceable and reversible. Perfect for knowing who used their knowledge without permission.

“You know,” Typhoon said as he tapped the rune into the page’s footer, “if the Ministry ever finds out, they’ll call this subversive. Dangerous.”

“They’re not wrong,” Tonfah murmured. “But they’ll be too flattered to notice.”

They finished the final page. The dish went still. The magic sank deep.

Then, silence.

Three books:

 

Concordia: Theory and Application of Resonant Charms

Metamorphica: Principles and Chain Theory in Advanced Transfiguration

Essentia: Modern Reconstruction of Potion Craft and Magical Saturation

 

“Let the world read,” Tonfah said softly. “Let them cast. Let them thank ghosts.”

They leaned back in their chairs as the candles dimmed, satisfied.

Neither spoke for a long while.

The three books sat finished beside them, glowing faintly under layered concealment spells, ready for their distant destinations. Only one thing remained: The Dedication.

“Should we make it vague?” Typhoon asked finally. “Something poetic. Untraceable.”

“Something personal,” Tonfah said, not looking up. “But let them think it’s academic.”

“Let them think it’s about theory,” Typhoon smiled. “And not you.”

Tonfah finally looked up to him, eyes soft. “It will always be about you.”

Typhoon didn’t look up. “You’ll laugh.”

“I always laugh. Doesn’t mean I don’t frame your words in my head like scripture.”

Typhoon huffed a soft sound that might have been a laugh, but it might have been something closer to a sigh. “Alright, then.”

He slid the page across the desk.

Tonfah’s eyes moved, slow and careful, over the lines in Typhoon’s sharp, elegant script.

 

To the one who rewrote the laws beside me,
And never looked away, even when it got dangerous.
Even when I did.

To the quiet brilliance in every shield cast before mine.
To the hand that steadied me, before I even asked.

You are the rhythm beneath every spell I cast,
And the name no curse could ever make me forget.

You are my endgame.
You are my home.

—TP. R.

 

Tonfah didn’t speak for a moment. Then, smiling faintly: “You say I’m your endgame like I haven’t already destroyed half the rules for you.”

Typhoon tilted his head, a slow grin forming. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

“I do,” Typhoon said simply. “Write yours.”

Tonfah made a show of dipping the quill too dramatically in the ink pot. “Fine. If we’re baring hearts now.”

He turned the parchment, the other side still blank. His script was neater than Typhoon’s, but the fondness in it was unmistakable.

 

To the one whose resonance binds mine in silence and storm,
To the one who breaks and rebuilds every law of magic I thought I understood—
And every rule I never thought I’d break.

You are the theory I proved true,
And the spell I cast without a wand or word.

You are my constant.
You are my Concordia.

—TF. P.

 

He set the quill down with a flourish and raised an eyebrow. He leaned back when he was done, stretching slightly, as if that kind of vulnerability had taken something out of him.

Typhoon glanced at the lines. His eyes softened, but he said nothing. He reached across the desk instead. “You’re awful,” he said, voice too soft to mean it.

Tonfah’s hand met his halfway and pressed a kiss on the rings on his fingers. Tonfah didn’t move for a moment. Then, almost a whisper, “You think people will guess?”

“I want them to,” Typhoon murmured, still holding his hand. “Let them turn every page upside down. Let them suspect.”

Tonfah smiled faintly. “Let them wonder what we were to each other.”

Typhoon looked at him then. “What we are.”

Chapter 17

The marble doors of Gringotts loomed overhead like the gate to a colder kingdom. Sunlight slid down its pillars like water, but nothing warmed the steps leading inside.

Typhoon’s cloak was buttoned high. Tonfah wore his in old heir’s black—silent, precise, untouched by the bustle of Diagon Alley. They stepped in together, fingers brushing briefly before parting.

A high-ranking goblin—thin, silver-eyed, and ancient in posture—watched their approach from behind an obsidian-inlaid desk. His name was Krivnash, and his gaze flicked once to Tonfah’s brooch and once to Typhoon’s silver ring.

“We’d like to discuss private literary vaulting,” Tonfah began smoothly.

“And foreign distribution,” Typhoon added. “Neutral networks. Not through Ministry-sanctioned lines.”

Krivnash said nothing. He merely stood and gestured them toward a private negotiation chamber—deep within the bank, where no Ministry registry reached and no auror dared interrupt.

Once seated, Tonfah produced the sealed scroll case, placing it gently between them.

“Three works. Charm theory, transfiguration, and potions. Entirely original. Bound in our magic.”

“Magical signature embedded,” Typhoon said. “Invisible, but traceable. Each spell cast from these texts will route back to Vault 717.”

“You’ve already chosen a vault number?” Krivnash asked.

“We want it quiet,” Tonfah replied. “Unregistered. You know who we are, but we want the books published under initials only.”

Typhoon tapped the cover of Concordia. “TF. P. and TP. R.”

The goblin leaned forward, long fingers folding.

“And the terms?”

Tonfah’s voice was low, precise. “Establish Vault 717 as a literary holding vault. Use it for secure storage of manuscripts, payment routing, and publishing contracts. No name associated. Seal it with ancestral authorizations from Prasert and Ratanaporn—no house identifiers on paper.”

“The gold is unimportant,” Typhoon added. “But we will require full rights over reprints, translations, and educational licensing. If the Ministry tries to regulate the material, stall them.”

“Or sell it to them,” Tonfah said softly. “But slowly. Let it simmer. Let it spread.”

Krivnash’s eyes glittered. “You wish to become anonymous authorities.”

“We wish to become necessary,” Tonfah corrected.

Typhoon unrolled a small additional scroll—handwritten terms in silver ink.

“You will establish three intermediary vaults. Under the names we’ve provided. Each will receive staggered routing from publication royalties, keeping Vault 717 insulated.”

“And the distribution houses?” the goblin asked.

“Cairo, Geneva, and Japan,” Tonfah said. “Start in places that don’t care for British politics.”

“Avoid Scandinavia,” Typhoon added. “Too close to Durmstrang. Too many Ministry watchers.”

“And when the books are re-imported into Britain?”

“Let it seem like a rediscovery,” Tonfah said. “A ‘forgotten scholar’ whose theory aligns with current need.”

Krivnash tapped the edge of Essentia, nodding slowly.

“And if someone uncovers the magic signature?”

“Then they’ll owe us,” Typhoon murmured. “Every spell used will register. Every lesson taught, and every potion brewed—they will build our name without knowing it.”

Krivnash allowed himself a smile. “And the profit?”

“Enough to fund a war,” Tonfah said, “should we choose.”

A long pause. Then Krivnash lifted his clawed hand and pressed his seal into the terms scroll. It shimmered gold, then vanished into the table with a soft pulse of magic.

“Vault 717 is yours,” he said. “The goblins will speak no name. And your books will go far, quietly.”

Tonfah stood. “We will send amended drafts with cloaking enchantments in three days’ time.”

Typhoon adjusted his ring, eyes dark and amused. “And in five, you’ll send the first batch to press.”

Krivnash gave a single, approving nod. “It will be done.”

“Send our regards to your kind,” Tonfah added with a smile, “and our thanks—for knowing when to stay silent.”

As they left the vault chamber and returned to the sunlit main hall, Tonfah leaned toward Typhoon.

“Do you think they’ll realize what we’ve done?”

“No,” Typhoon said softly. “But they’ll teach it, preach it, and profit from it.”

“All while never knowing it was us.”

Tonfah’s smile was sharp. “Let the Ministry believe we were just clever boys.”

“Let them,” Typhoon whispered, “pay us to stay quiet.”

They stepped into the sun, unread books tucked beneath their cloaks.

But already, the world was shifting.

 

---

 

The sky above Thorngrave Hall was heavy with the weight of dusk, clouds bruised purple and ash-grey as they drifted over the estate’s high hedges and silver-trimmed greenhouses. In the garden’s heart, beneath the awning of the south veranda, Johan and Daotok sat at a wrought-iron table, steam rising from delicate teacups, the scent of bergamot drifting through the air like memory.

They looked up when the gravel path crunched under polished boots.

Tonfah and Typhoon appeared between the columns—postured like they’d just stepped from a portrait, all robes, rings, and unreadable expressions.

“You’re late,” Johan drawled, not looking particularly surprised.

Tonfah arched an eyebrow and adjusted his gloves without breaking stride. “Oh, we had to play the part of fiancés who enjoyed their summer too much at our shared estate,” he said smoothly, the edge in his voice feathered with mockery. “You know how appearances must be kept.”

Typhoon didn’t speak—he simply smirked, hand brushing Tonfah’s lower back as they stepped into the garden proper. His rings caught the light.

“Of course,” Daotok said, eyes glinting as he lifted his teacup. “You had to make the role believable, after all.”

A soft pop! signaled Vaelen, Tonfah’s sharply dressed house-elf, appearing at his side with a crisp bow. “Shall I prepare your rooms, Master Tonfah?”

Tonfah waved a hand in a lazy arc toward the west wing. “Just one room, Vaelen. We’ll be residing in the same quarters this time.”

Vaelen bowed without question. “At once, Master.”

Another pop! and Sythril, Typhoon’s elf, arrived—thin, pale-eyed, with long ears. “Tea, Master Typhoon? Shall I bring another pot?”

Typhoon’s gaze slid sideways, amused. “Yes. And a plate of something sweet. We’ve had a long journey.”

“Of course, sir.”

As the elves vanished again, Daotok gave a soft snort of laughter behind his teacup. “Well, then. We’ll have to keep the appearances up ourselves, won’t we?”

Tonfah slid into one of the spare chairs with practiced grace, crossing one leg over the other. “We’re all getting quite good at pretending, aren’t we?”

“Pretending?” Johan echoed, pouring another cup for himself. “No, love. I think we’ve all simply chosen our truths.”

Typhoon sat beside Tonfah, shoulder brushing his. He glanced down the garden path, toward the manor's great silhouette in the distance.

“They’ll arrive soon,” he said, voice low.

“Let them,” Tonfah murmured, reaching across the table to pluck a cube of sugar from Daotok’s saucer without asking. “We’ve already decided who belongs here.”

“Were the letters sent?” Typhoon asked after a beat, folding his hands over one knee.

“They were written,” Daotok answered, calm and composed. “But we didn’t trust the owls. The Ministry’s fingers are too long, and they’re still sniffing for anything tied to us.”

“Intercepted mail would be more than inconvenient,” Johan added, his tone sharper. “So, we’re sending our own.”

He snapped his fingers, and with a soft pop, a dark-robed elf appeared: silver eyes, lean form, arms folded behind his back in perfect stillness.

“Maeluin,” Johan said. “Deliver the letter and portkey to North and Easter. Do not be seen.”

Maeluin bowed, murmured, “As you command,” and vanished with another quiet crackle of air.

Daotok’s fingers tapped his teacup once before he nodded. “And Nimrielle will go to Hill and Arthit. She knows the alleys near the manor—she’ll not be followed.”

A second elf emerged—smaller, softer in step, her eyes a dusky lavender. She inclined her head gracefully, then vanished just as Maeluin had.

Tonfah smiled slightly, clearly approving. “Ever efficient.”

Typhoon’s gaze lingered on the space they left behind. “And when they arrive?”

“We’ve arranged for them as well,” Johan replied. “We’ve brought in more elves—Selvine for North, Oribeth for Easter, Brennick for Arthit, and Tharne for Hill.”

“Names?” Tonfah echoed, glancing at Johan with amusement.

“Proper ones,” Daotok said with a shrug. “They deserve them.”

Typhoon smirked. “You’re sentimental when no one’s looking.”

Daotok rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

“And are the rooms prepared?” Tonfah asked, turning to Johan now, voice casual, but his hand still toying with the silver ring on Typhoon’s finger.

Johan nodded once. “East wing. Separate, for now. Let them settle before they learn that nothing here is separate for long.”

A quiet hum settled over the garden.

“They’ll be here by morning,” Daotok said softly, eyes turned toward the sky. “Then we begin.”

“Then we begin,” Tonfah echoed, lifting his teacup in silent toast.

Typhoon raised his as well, though his gaze didn’t leave Tonfah’s hand still resting on his.

Johan smiled faintly. “To the start of the new order, then.”

And the four of them drank, while the last threads of the old world quietly burned behind them.

 

---

 

The garden behind Easter’s home was small but well-tended—rows of flowering herbs and softly swaying plants nestled under the shade of plum trees. There was nothing grand or old-blooded about the place, and that was what made it feel like breathing.

Easter knelt by the rosemary bush, fingers covered in damp earth, his sleeves rolled to the elbows.

A crack split the air, soft and polite.

Hill stood just past the gate, wind stirring the edge of his jacket. His satchel was slung over one shoulder, and the portkey glowed faintly at his side—tied to a brass ring shaped like an arrowhead.

“You’re late,” Easter said without looking up.

“I stopped for honey cake,” Hill said, holding up a small paper-wrapped bundle. “I know how irritable you get when you don’t eat.”

That made Easter glance up. His mouth tugged into something almost like a smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Hill stepped past the little gate into the garden. He still wore traveling robes, boots dusty from the walk, but his presence—solid, steady—brought something grounded into Easter’s world of wind and earth.

“I take it you got yours?” Easter asked.

Hill nodded, tapping the ring. “Daotok’s elf showed up. You?”

“Maeluin. Arrived at dawn. Didn’t say a word.” He rose and brushed off his trousers, dirt dusting the air.

There was a long silence between them, not tense, but heavy with thought.

“You didn’t have to come all this way,” Easter said quietly.

“I wanted to,” Hill replied.

Easter turned toward the cottage, flicking his fingers in a lazy motion. “Come in, then. I’ll make tea.”

Inside was dim and cool, sunlight spilling through sheer curtains and lace-framed windows. The sitting room was small but comfortable, with overstuffed chairs, a threadbare rug, and old shelves filled with both magical texts and gardening books. A kettle hissed softly in the hearth.

Hill leaned against the kitchen counter as Easter moved around the space like he belonged in it—which he did. He brewed the tea with practiced care, spooning dried lavender and thyme into the pot, then adding just a sliver of lemon peel. The scent curled through the room like a lullaby.

“Smells like you,” Hill said.

Easter shot him a dry look. “Don’t be poetic. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Then stop doing things that make me poetic.”

Easter rolled his eyes but didn’t hide his smile.

They settled into the low cushions near the hearth, a small tray of tea and honey cake between them. Hill poured, Easter passed the cups, and for a while, they said nothing—just sipped, listening to the wind brush against the windows.

“Did you tell your family?”

“They said to be careful,” Hill murmured. “And then they left the room.”

Easter’s lips quirked. “Sounds about right.”

They sat in silence for a while. The smell of herbs lingered in the air.

Hill glanced sideways at the other boy. “I wanted to see you before we left.”

“I was hoping you would,” Easter replied, quietly.

They didn’t speak for a while after that. Just drank the rest of the tea in silence. The honey cake went mostly untouched.

When Easter stood, Hill followed.

He grabbed his satchel and tossed it over his shoulder, brushing a bit of leaf from Easter’s hair.

“Morning,” Easter said. “We go at dawn.”

“From here?”

Easter nodded. “If we’re doing this, we’re going together.”

“I don’t know what we’re stepping into,” he said, voice hushed. “I know they trust us enough to bring us into it—but I also know they don’t show everything.”

“No,” Hill said. “But I don’t need all their secrets. I just need to make it through this with you.”

Easter blinked at him. Then, slowly, he reached up and tugged the arrowhead ring from the chain Hill wore.

“Don’t lose this,” he said, threading the portkey into Hill’s palm. “We leave in the morning. You’re staying the night.”

Hill smiled softly. “Bossy.”

“You like that.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Easter smirked, but the curve of it faltered into something more earnest. He reached up and tucked a wild strand of hair behind Hill’s ear.

“Pack lightly,” he whispered. “We’re not coming back the same.”

Hill only nodded.

Chapter 18

The gates of Thorngrave Hall groaned open like a breath held too long.

Easter, Hill, North, and Arthit stood just beyond the old iron threshold, carrying their summer trunks and portkeys, still faintly humming from use. Behind them, the long drive stretched like a silver thread toward the manor, flanked by ancient trees whose canopies wove together above the path, casting dappled shadows on the cobblestones.

The manor itself stood at the top of the rise—tall, solemn, and grand. Pale stone wrapped in creeping ivy, towers stretching toward the overcast sky. The windows gleamed faintly gold despite the hour. It did not feel abandoned, nor empty.

It felt expectant.

“I… wasn’t sure if this was real,” Hill murmured, shifting his grip on his trunk.

“Me neither,” said Arthit, eyes scanning the spires. “I didn’t know they still built places like this.”

Before any of them could say more, the front doors opened with graceful timing. An elf with silver eyes and a tailored deep-green waistcoat stood on the top step, bowing low.

“Welcome to Thorngrave Hall. Please follow me. The young masters await.”

 

Inside, the halls were vast and polished, lit by floating lanterns and soft wall sconces enchanted with an old, steady glow. The ceilings curved like cathedral bones, and quiet spells pulsed beneath the surface of every wall and archway.

As they stepped into the drawing room, a wave of faint, spiced warmth welcomed them.

Daotok was already there, curled on a settee with a cup of tea in hand, looking entirely at home in a place none of them had seen before. Johan stood by the hearth, one hand in his pocket, the other resting idly on the mantle. He looked up with a flick of amusement. “You’re late.”

Tonfah and Typhoon sat on the armrest and cushion of the same wingback chair, comfortably close, a quiet hum of familiarity between them. Tonfah toyed absently with the rings on Typhoon’s finger as if it were second nature.

Typhoon nodded once at the new arrivals. “Welcome.”

A second elf appeared behind them. “Shall I prepare tea for the guests, Master Typhoon?”

“Yes,” Typhoon said, voice low. “And let the kitchens know we’ll need dinner ready by sunset.”

Another elf emerged from the hallway. “Shall we prepare their rooms, sirs?”

“We’ve arranged rooms for each of you,” said Daotok, setting down his cup. “Though one of the wings had to be re-warded. Old magic. Complicated.”

Tonfah didn’t even glance over. “We’ll assign elves accordingly. And yes,” he added casually, “we’ve brought in more to accommodate you.”

North, looking half-impressed, half-overwhelmed, raised a brow. “More elves?”

Typhoon responded with a shrug. “We don't mistreat them. Ours are compensated and bound by choice.”

“You may meet yours tonight,” said Johan, eyes sharp but voice even. “Consider them extensions of the house itself. They’ll protect you, and they’ll keep your secrets.”

There was something quiet and ominous in the way he said it.

Arthit turned slightly toward the hall behind them. “You really expect us to… live here?”

“For the summer,” said Typhoon. “Unless you’d prefer to be intercepted elsewhere.”

“They’ve already been added to the wards,” Daotok added smoothly, standing. “No one sets foot on this land with ill intent unless you allow it.”

There was a pause. Then Hill stepped further into the room, eyes lingering on the high arched windows. “I’ve never been somewhere like this.”

“You’re welcome,” Johan said. “It belongs to us, but you’re not guests.”

Easter looked toward the others, uncertain. “Then what are we?”

Tonfah smiled faintly, finally letting go of Typhoon’s hand.

“You’ll figure it out.”

 

The corridors of Thorngrave Hall stretched long and high-ceilinged, the walls lined with old oil paintings and runes etched into the wooden frames of every doorway. The sconces lit up as they passed, casting golden light across velvet runners and aged stone.

The four followed the elf who had greeted them—Sythril, they’d been told—with light footsteps and an air of elegance that seemed to belong to the house itself.

They passed a tall set of windows that looked out over the sloping valley below. The distant trees swayed in the breeze, and the manor watched in stillness.

“You’ll find the manor adjusts to those it accepts,” Sythril said gently, voice soft but strangely resonant. “You’ve been added to its wards. It will protect you now.”

North glanced toward Easter, who blinked in mild surprise.

“Wait,” Easter said quietly. “We’ve been—accepted?”

“Yes,” the elf said, pausing at the top of a long corridor lined with four polished wooden doors. “By them. And by the hall.”

 

They were led into their rooms one by one.

Easter’s room smelled faintly of herbs and rain. There was a quiet little window seat tucked into the corner, and a desk already set with parchment and ink. A soft quilt layered with enchanted stitching covered the bed. In the far corner, a tiny shelf housed a small selection of magical veterinary texts.

“This… wasn’t here a moment ago,” he whispered, hand running across the titles.

“It was always meant for you,” said the elf named Oribeth, who appeared beside him with a bow. “We listen.”

 

Hill’s room was next—simple, quiet, elegant. Not cold. A worn tapestry hung near the bed; a history of wandless dueling sewn into it in shifting thread. The wardrobe was deep oak, and a faint hum of defensive wards tingled beneath the floor.

“Is this—?” Hill turned toward the elf who now stood by his side.

“Warded, yes,” said Tharne, bowing. “Subtle, but strong. Like you.”

Hill opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know what to say to that.

 

North’s room was warm, lit with golden firelight even though no torches had been lit. A fireplace with unburnt wood flickered with quiet embers, like it had been waiting all day for him to arrive. The room smelled of smoke and orange peel, clean and sharp. His wand thrummed the moment he crossed the threshold.

“Who enchanted this?” North asked, uneasy.

“Master Tonfah and Master Typhoon left specific instructions,” said Selvine, her voice gentle but firm. “They said fire needs space to breathe—but not to burn.”

North stared at the room for a long time before stepping in.

 

Arthit’s room felt like it had always belonged to him.

The walls were pale grey, veined with ward stones worked directly into the structure. There was a long-arched mirror over the fireplace, and a small table where a collection of tea blends had been arranged beside a silver kettle—perfectly Gryffindor red in the details, though no one mentioned it. The elf Brennick stood beside the wardrobe, which had been engraved with protective sigils.

“These are old,” Arthit murmured, running a hand across the carving. “Older than me.”

“Older than most,” Brennick agreed softly. “But strong. And quietly loyal.”

Arthit didn’t ask what he meant by quietly.

He just nodded, stepped into the center of the room, and let the door close behind him

 

The dining hall of Thorngrave was tall and quiet, lit by floating candles that cast flickering shadows on the long mahogany table. Carved into the high rafters above were ancient runes—wards that whispered softly when one looked too closely.

The table already set with polished silver, porcelain plates trimmed in storm-blue, and steaming dishes charmed to stay warm beneath stasis enchantments. At the head of the table, where none of them sat, a candelabra of twisted silver flickered with seven steady flames—and one darker, dancing violet, as if the house itself acknowledged the new additions.

They took their seats slowly.

Tonfah and Typhoon sat beside each other without needing to speak. Typhoon rested one hand on the stem of his glass, the other brushing against Tonfah’s beneath the table. Johan and Daotok sat opposite them.

At the far end of the table, Hill and Easter exchanged glances, unsure of whether to speak first. North kept his eyes on the bread plate for a moment too long, fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to fidget. Arthit watched it all, quietly calculating.

It was Johan who finally spoke. “The house accepted you,” he said. “That’s rare.”

“Feels… weirdly easy,” Easter admitted.

“Nothing about this place is easy,” said Typhoon, tone mild but sharp around the edges. “It just knows who it will protect.”

“And who it won’t,” added Tonfah, his fork tapping once, absently, against his wine glass.

North finally looked up. “So it’s… alive?”

“In a sense,” Daotok said. “It’s old magic. And old magic doesn’t ask permission.”

There was a pause. The only sound was the clink of cutlery and the soft ripple of enchantments keeping the wine at the perfect temperature.

Then Hill asked, quietly, “Is this how you always eat?”

Johan smirked. “Why? Too quiet for you?”

“No,” Hill said, swallowing, “just… different. Formal, but not fake.”

“Thorngrave was never meant for show,” Typhoon said. “It was meant for survival.”

Daotok, without looking up, added, “You’ll find there’s little here that’s performative.”

Easter glanced at the ornate carved chairs. “Could’ve fooled me.”

That earned a soft, sudden laugh from Tonfah, then he turned to the four across from him, tone warm—just barely. “We’ll adjust. You’ll adjust.”

“Have we already?” Arthit asked, voice low, curious.

Johan lifted his wine glass. “You’ll know soon enough.”

Another beat passed.

 “Your rooms. Are they satisfactory?” Typhoon asked.

“They’re perfect,” North said.

“Too perfect,” Hill added, but without complaint. “It’s like the rooms were… built for us.”

“They were,” Daotok said simply.

No one responded to that. The food was exquisite—roast pheasant, glazed root vegetables, herb breads—but few touched more than a few bites. The heaviness wasn’t the food.

It was the realization that they had made room. Not just in the house.

By dessert, Easter leaned back slightly. “Is this a tradition now? Dinners at Thorngrave?”

Tonfah met Typhoon’s gaze across the candlelight. Then looked to the others.

“It could be.”

And no one argued.

 

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting gold across the dark velvet armchairs and the silver-threaded rug beneath their feet. The drawing room at Thorngrave Hall had shifted with their presence—lighter somehow, as if the house itself tolerated a little humor when the walls were full.

Johan sat on the edge of the hearth, sleeves rolled up and a wine glass loose in one hand, looking untouched by the stress of exams. Daotok was curled sideways on one of the armchairs, legs folded beneath him, chin resting in his hand as he watched the others.

Tonfah leaned back into the settee, one arm thrown lazily across the backrest, while Typhoon sat beside him, knees pulled up, an untouched cup of tea balanced on one hand, the other flicking sparks into the air and catching them again.

“So,” said Hill, propped near the window with a biscuit half-eaten in his hand, “do we all just pretend OWLs didn’t happen?”

“No,” Arthit muttered from his seat, flipping through the letter still in his hand, “because some of us are still haunted by the Potions essay on non-verbal brewing theory.”

“I told you it would come up,” Daotok said smugly.

“You say that about everything,” North said. “You also said Divination would involve a firebird skeleton, and it didn’t.”

“It should have,” Daotok replied with a sniff.

Easter sat cross-legged on the rug, back to the couch, sipping from his cup. “Alright, then. Let’s hear it. How many Outstanding?”

Johan raised a brow. “We’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this,” said Typhoon dryly, reaching for a biscuit.

Arthit cleared his throat and rattled off, “Nine subjects. Seven O’s. Tow E’s.”

Daotok nodded approvingly. “Solid.”

“North?”

The Gryffindor shrugged. “Nine subjects. Six O’s. Two E’s. One A. Divination,” he added before anyone asked.

“I got the same,” Hill said. “Except my A was in History of Magic.”

“That’s fair,” Tonfah said, lifting his teacup. “That exam was designed to be cruel.”

“And long,” added Easter. “I got seven O’s. Two E’s. That essay on the Goblin Rebellions? I don’t even remember what I wrote.”

“You probably caused a few more rebellions by the sound of it,” Typhoon said with a smirk.

Daotok laughed softly.

Tonfah rested his chin in his hand. “Twelve subjects. Twelve O’s.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Typhoon lifted his own cup, eyes gleaming with quiet mischief. “Same.”

“Oh, come on,” Hill groaned, flopping back into the chair.

“You two are freaks,” North said with a shake of his head.

“Gifted,” Johan corrected.

“Insufferable,” Daotok said, smiling faintly. “But yes, same here. Nine subjects. Nine O’s.”

“Johan?” Easter asked.

“Nine subjects. Nine O’s.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Then Tonfah added, with a pointed glance at Typhoon, “We received a footnote in our letters. ‘Congratulations, you are one of two students in twenty-seven years to receive straight O’s in all subjects undertaken.’”

Typhoon sipped his tea without looking up. “Wonder who the other one is.”

North rolled his eyes. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t,” Daotok said lightly.

“I want to,” North insisted.

Johan leaned forward slightly, amusement dancing behind his sharp eyes. “Should we bet on our NEWTs now?”

“Absolutely not,” said Hill. “I just recovered from these.”

“Speak for yourselves,” Tonfah murmured. “Typhoon’s already outlined his study plan.”

Typhoon gave him a long look. “You wrote half of it.”

“Which is why I plan to deviate entirely,” Tonfah said with a faint smile.

They all laughed at that. 

 

The gardens of Thorngrave Hall were ancient things.

Not in the way of overgrown wildness, but in the manner of quiet dignity—hedges trimmed just enough to allow roses to spill over their edges, old stone paths softened by moss, and enchanted lanterns that floated lazily among the trees even though the sun hadn’t yet begun to set.

Johan walked a few steps ahead at first, hands tucked behind his back. North followed, slightly out of rhythm, eyes on the slow sway of the ivy climbing the stone arches along the path.

They had slipped out without saying much—just a glance across the drawing room, a subtle incline of Johan’s head, and North had stood and followed. No one questioned it.

They passed a silver fountain with softly falling water, its surface glimmering faintly with what looked like moonlight, though it was only late afternoon.

"You have a nice stride for someone who never stops reading in a moving train,” Johan said without turning, a small curl in his voice.

North blinked, caught off guard. “Was that... a compliment?”

“I don’t give compliments.”

North stepped beside him. “So it was one.”

Johan exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”

They walked in silence for a while. The path curved around a grove of thorn-touched plum trees, and Johan reached up absently to tug a low-hanging branch aside for North without thinking about it. North brushed his shoulder lightly as he passed beneath.

Neither commented on it.

“You’ve been quiet,” Johan said after a few more steps.

“I always am.”

Johan glanced sideways. “That’s not what I meant.”

North hesitated. His fingers brushed against the edge of a rosebush as they walked, not quite plucking one, just... touching.

“I’ve just been thinking,” he said finally. “About... this summer. About what comes after.”

“Afraid?”

“No,” North said quickly, too quickly. Then quieter, “Not exactly.”

Johan hummed. “You’re not like the rest of us.”

North raised a brow. “That sounds like an insult waiting to happen.”

“It’s not,” Johan said. His voice had lost all sharpness. “You’re steady and honest.”

North gave him a small grin. “You’re not exactly easy to ignore either, Johan.”

They reached the edge of a low wall, worn smooth by time. Johan sat on it. North stood beside him, arms folded, staring out into the trees. 

“Did you know Daotok once turned an entire greenhouse upside down trying to charm flowering patterns?” Johan said suddenly.

North blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “No, but somehow I’m not surprised.”

“He insisted it was a ‘restructuring of natural hierarchy.’ Professor Sprout nearly fainted.”

North smiled into his teacup. “That sounds about right.”

A pause.

Johan tilted his head. “What about you? Any misdeeds we don’t know about?”

North gave him a long-suffering look. “I was a model student.”

“Lies.”

“Alright—once, I tried to use a heating charm to keep my tea warm during lectures. Melted the table.”

Johan’s mouth quirked. “That’s adorable.”

“I was twelve.”

“Still adorable.”

North hid his face behind his hands, ears turning faintly pink. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“That thing. Where you tease me and act like you’re not.”

“Me?” Johan said. “I’d never.”

North glanced at him sideways, biting back a grin. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Johan said, “you’re still here.”

They both let the silence settle again. This time, it was warm. The kind that comes after shared meals and shared victories, after a long term where they’d nearly destroyed themselves with spells and sleepless nights.

“I’m glad we’re here,” North murmured after a moment.

Johan looked over at him, something unreadable behind his expression.

“At Thorngrave?”

North nodded. “I didn’t think... I mean, when I first met you all, I didn’t think I’d end up being invited to a manor with elves and rose gardens and... secrets.”

Johan smiled faintly. “You still don’t know half of them.”

“Good,” North said, “I like earning them. Bit by bit.”

Johan turned his head to hide the way that answer affected him, fingers drumming softly on the wall again.

“You’re strange,” Johan said quietly.

“So are you,” North replied, equally soft.

They sat there until the moonlight was at its peak. They spoke of favorite books, of which teachers they were hoping not to see again. Of Quidditch, of breakfast pastries, of strange library corners where they’d accidentally fallen asleep.

And that was enough for now.

 

The halls of Thorngrave Hall were dimly lit by floating sconces and silver-tinted wardlight that hummed softly in the walls. The marble underfoot held the echo of their steps. They said little as they walked. The quiet was companionable. There was no need to fill it.

North glanced at Johan once or twice, trying not to smile each time he remembered a joke from earlier or the flicker of amusement in Johan’s expression when he had slipped up and nearly walked into a hedge.

Johan caught him looking, once. Didn’t say anything. Just let a corner of his mouth twitch, enough to be seen, enough to be meant.

They stopped at the door to North’s guest room—dark wood carved with runes Johan had helped reinforce himself last summer. North turned to him, his hand resting on the doorknob. “Thanks for walking me.”

Johan shrugged. “Didn’t want you getting lost in the west wing. Some of the portraits bite.”

“Are they cursed?”

“Worse,” Johan said seriously. “They gossip.”

North huffed a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He looked down at the floor briefly, then back up, his eyes thoughtful. The flickering light caught on the reddish hue of his hair, casting warm shadows across his jaw.

“Today was... nice,” North said. “I don’t think I’ve had quiet like that in a while.”

Johan’s voice dropped, just a little. “Then we’ll have more days like it.”

That gave North pause. His hand slipped from the doorknob, falling to his side.

There was a beat of silence. Then Johan stepped forward—not too close, but enough. His gaze lowered for a moment to North’s hand before lifting again.

“Goodnight, North.”

North swallowed. “Goodnight, Johan.”

And just before Johan turned to go, North added softly, “Thank you. For the walk. And the quiet.”

Johan paused. Glanced over his shoulder. “For you,” he said, voice like a low hum, “I think I could get used to quiet.”

And then he was gone—boots silent on stone, coat sweeping behind him like a shadow. North stood at his door for a moment longer, alone now, but not lonely.

Not tonight.

He opened the door to his room and slipped inside.

And he smiled as he closed it.

Chapter 19

Sunlight spilled lazily into the eastern breakfast room, filtered through tall glass windows draped with pale, velvet curtains. The soft scent of summer citrus and buttered pastries hung in the air, and somewhere in the distance, enchanted songbirds hummed a quiet tune through the wards.

It was nearly ten. But no one rushed here.

Easter was the first to the table, hair still damp from a shower, his sweater slightly oversized and sleeves rolled back. He was sipping from a delicate glass teacup when Hill arrived, eyes half-lidded, hair tousled, and wearing one of Johan’s too-neat button-downs like he’d stolen it from a wardrobe he wasn’t supposed to open.

They didn’t speak at first. Just sat together, passing the honey jar back and forth in a sleepy kind of silence.

North wandered in next, barefoot, a book tucked under his arm and a plate already summoned by one of the manor’s elves. He mumbled a thank you to Selvine, who promptly adjusted his napkin with a proud sort of fuss.

Arthit followed, already dressed for the day, but his usual alertness was dulled by sleep. Brennick had brought him coffee before he even sat down, as though he anticipated his exact mood.

“...Do all the elves here read minds or is it just mine?” Arthit muttered, raising an eyebrow at the perfect ratio of milk to coffee.

From the end of the table, a languid voice answered, “If they do, it’s because you’re terribly easy to read in the mornings.”

Tonfah sat sideways in his chair, legs crossed at the ankle. He was toying with a slice of blood orange on his plate, not eating it—just letting the sun catch the stained-glass red of the fruit.

Beside him, Typhoon had one hand curled around a teacup and the other resting lightly on Tonfah’s knee beneath the table, absent and steady. His eyes flicked lazily over the room as he sipped. “You’re all awake,” he observed mildly. “How unfortunate.”

Daotok entered with Johan just behind him, both holding scrolls—OWL results that had been glanced at again for the tenth time since they'd arrived. Johan looked pristine, naturally, while Daotok was wearing a crumpled cardigan over his robes, looking sleep-deprived.

“You’re late,” Tonfah said without looking.

“You’re annoying,” Daotok said sweetly as he took his seat. An elf passed him a plate, and he gave them a grateful nod before pulling it closer.

Johan didn’t respond. He merely sat, unfolded a napkin, and said, “Is it too early to bring up our plans for the week?”

“Yes,” Hill said.

“Definitely,” Easter added.

Johan paused. “Noted.”

“Let them adjust,” Tonfah murmured. “They’re new to the madness.”

Typhoon smirked into his teacup. “They’re doing better than I expected. Look, North hasn’t threatened to run yet.”

“I’ve considered it,” North muttered into his toast, “but the tea is too good.”

That earned a ripple of laughter across the table. Even Johan smiled faintly.

 

The East Courtyard of Thorngrave Hall was rarely used.

Surrounded by overgrown stone arches and low garden walls, it had long become a quiet, secluded space meant more for wandering thoughts than formal gatherings. A patch of sky stretched wide above, unclouded, blue, and endless. The old wards shimmered faintly in the morning light, humming in anticipation.

“Is this safe?” North asked, eyeing the center circle of runes etched faintly into the cobblestone.

“As safe as anything we do,” Typhoon said blandly, rolling up his sleeves.

Tonfah had arranged the practice. He stood with his arms behind his back, watching them all gather, barefoot in the grass, golden rings glinting on his fingers.

“It’s just play,” he said calmly, “not dueling. Let’s see what we can do when we’re not trying to destroy each other.”

“Can’t promise anything,” Johan muttered, already crackling with low storm light beneath his skin.

Easter pressed his hand to the ground beside the ivy wall. Earth shifted slightly under his touch—the soil blooming upward into tight spirals of moss and flower.

“Don’t worry,” he said lightly. “I’ll keep the terrain from eating you.”

Daotok crouched nearby, fingertips skimming the shallow stone basin they’d filled earlier with rainwater. It lifted slowly at his call—a floating orb of silver between his palms. He nudged it toward Hill, who caught it midair with a light gust of wind and sent it arcing toward Arthit.

Arthit blinked, instinctively bracing, then snapped his fingers.

The water hissed into steam. North let out a low whistle. “Show-off.”

Arthit smirked. “That was tame.”

At the edge of the circle, Johan and Typhoon stood together. Storm gathered at their feet, quiet and waiting. Their magic crackled when their hands brushed briefly, unintentional or not.

“We could short the wards,” Johan murmured. “Not that I mind.”

“We could,” Typhoon said. “But we won’t.”

A single breath later, lightning snapped between their palms. White-blue, sharp enough to sting the air. Tonfah and Hill, both air-aligned, were the most difficult to track, their magic threaded in the wind, subtle and elusive. Hill lifted his hands slightly, stirring the breeze into sudden sharpness. Tonfah tilted his head, then twitched his fingers—shifting the current entirely so it circled them gently instead.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Hill muttered, trying to mimic the twist.

“Watch your wrist,” Tonfah said softly. “Air doesn’t like being dragged.”

Meanwhile, North crouched near the edge of the circle, drawing runes into the dirt, trying to concentrate. A single spark flickered from his fingertips, steady, then flared too hot for a moment, scorching the rune.

He cursed under his breath and shook out his hand. But no one commented. Instead, Daotok gently poured a cooling charm in his direction, and North looked up briefly, surprised.

Daotok didn’t say anything. Just nodded once.

“Let’s try something together,” Tonfah said eventually, stepping to the center.

The eight of them circled loosely, facing inward, watching one another. The wind whispered. The water shimmered. Earth steadied. Fire simmered just beneath the surface. And storm flickered like a pulse between Johan and Typhoon’s fingers.

They didn’t cast anything and just let the magic breathe.

A clearing had been prepared in the grass: runes etched carefully by Tonfah, enchanted chalk still faintly glowing where it marked the ring. A circle of tourmaline stones—one for each of them—surrounded the space.

“Are we sure about this?” Hill asked softly, turning the smooth stone over in his hand.

“No,” Daotok replied, voice calm, “but that’s never stopped us.”

Typhoon crouched to adjust one of the inner sigils. “This isn’t a summoning. It’s just alignment. Element to element. Intention to will.”

North glanced toward Tonfah, who stood at the center, one hand pressed lightly to the inner circle. “You’ve done this before?”

“We’ve tried,” Tonfah murmured. “Not all eight. Only four. Never… like this.”

Johan moved next, stepping into place across from Typhoon. The wind picked up faintly when he did, tousling Easter’s curls. Easter narrowed his eyes at him playfully.

“Don’t break anything,” Easter said.

“No promises,” Johan replied, deadpan.

They each moved into place—clockwise.
Typhoon, storm.
Tonfah, air.
Daotok, water.
Johan, storm.
Easter, earth.
Hill, air.
North, fire.
Arthit, fire.

The runes beneath their feet shimmered to life—reacting to their presence, reading their intent.

“Join hands,” Tonfah said softly.

They obeyed. Some more hesitantly than others.

North’s hand slipped into Arthit’s—a little warmer than he expected. Daotok’s grip was steady in Typhoon’s hand, and Johan’s touch was cold with quiet power.

As the circle closed, something shifted. The wind inside the ring quieted. The sounds of the garden hushed. The air grew thick, heavy, humming low.

And then—

The resonance began.

It wasn’t a spell that was cast, but it was the sound of eight magics remembering each other. Of different elements brushing against one another. Storm met fire in crackling pulses. Earth answered water’s gentle pull. Air danced around it all, threading between heat and silence.

The glow beneath their feet began to shift. It didn’t burn. It recognized. Then came the pressure—like the circle was sealing shut.

Hill winced. North’s jaw clenched. Typhoon’s breath hitched slightly.

But none of them let go.

Johan, eyes half-lidded, murmured, “It’s working.”

“Not perfectly,” Tonfah said. “But enough.”

Enough to feel each other. Enough to know. It wasn’t just their elements. It was them. Bound here. Pulled together not by force, but by choice.

When they released their hands, the glow faded slowly. The runes dimmed. The pressure lifted.

Silence stretched.

Then Easter, voice hushed, said, “That felt like… something waking.”

Typhoon smiled faintly. “It was.”

Arthit, who had not spoken since the resonance started, looked at the palms of his hands. They were still warm. Still buzzing.

No one moved to leave.

They just stood together in the lingering magic, quiet and changed as if the circle had reminded them of something deeper than power.

Something binding.

 

---

 

It was Easter’s idea. After days of training, resonance experiments, and dark corridors filled with study and whispers, a long quilt had been stretched across the grass, scattered with plates of finger sandwiches, sugared fruit, and a silver teapot that refilled itself whenever anyone reached for more at the lawn behind Thorngrave Hall, and no one had objected.

Daotok was on his stomach near the edge of the blanket, chin propped on his hand as he teased the air with a floating apple slice, letting it hover just beyond Arthit’s reach.

Arthit made a noise of annoyance. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m adorable,” Daotok corrected, smiling lazily, and let the apple fall into Arthit’s palm.

Tonfah sat cross-legged, teacup balanced effortlessly in hand, while Typhoon rested against his side, practically folded into him. Every now and then, Tonfah idly adjusted the rings on Typhoon’s fingers like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

Johan was stretched out on the grass beside North, one arm draped behind his head, watching clouds drift by. Their knees occasionally bumped. Neither of them moved away.

Easter sat between Hill’s legs, leaning back into him. He was eating grapes like it he was a Roman Royalty.

A sound of approaching footsteps could be heard, and Nimrielle appeared at the edge of the grove. She bowed. “Master Daotok,” she said softly, “you have received a letter. Delivered by hand, not owl.”

The atmosphere shifted.

Daotok sat up, brushing crumbs from his sleeve, and took the envelope without speaking. The seal was waxed in pale gold. His family’s mark pressed carefully into it. His expression didn’t change, but his silence lengthened as he slid the letter open, read it once, then twice.

“What is it?” Johan asked.

Typhoon didn’t look away. “It’s a summons.”

Daotok folded the letter slowly and tucked it away. “They request my presence,” he said calmly. “This evening. A carriage will be waiting.”

“‘Request,’” Tonfah echoed. “So polite, when they’re not here to sneer.”

Arthit looked at Daotok, carefully. “Do you want to go?”

Daotok shrugged. “I never want to. But I will.”

Hill’s voice was quiet. “Do you think it’s because of your O.W.L. results?”

“Or the company I’ve been keeping,” Daotok added, glancing at the others with a dry smile.

Easter reached out and squeezed his wrist. “We’ll wait for you.”

Daotok gave a nod. “I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone.”

Typhoon’s gaze followed him carefully, his voice even. “If you’re not, we’ll notice.”

No one laughed. But Daotok did smile faintly—faint enough to be real.

 

The carriage pulled to a stop before the towering gates, its lanterns still lit despite the lingering twilight.

Daotok stepped down in silence.

The manor before him rose out of the valley like a tomb carved from old stone—high windows veiled in sheer black, iron lanterns burning low along the path. The air was cooler here, stiller. He could feel it in his ribs.

The moment he passed through the doors, he was greeted not with family but with formality.

Two of the family’s house-elves bowed. No names were spoken, and no greetings were offered. They took his coat and gestured for him to follow.

They led him through the central corridor, past the painted portraits of generations who never smiled. Through the hush of the echo chamber, where only whispers survived. Into the drawing room, lit by green glass sconces and a fire that did not warm.

There were three elders seated there—figures he had not seen since he was eleven.

Elder Chaokhun spoke first, a tall man with eyes like wet ash. “You took your time.”

“I came as requested,” Daotok replied calmly.

Elder Ampha, his mother’s aunt, gestured toward a seat. “We expected you might delay. You always were a little... easily distracted.”

He took the seat anyway, legs crossed neatly, back straight.

The third elder, Elder Suradej, did not look at him when he spoke. “We have received word of your… academic results.”

A pause.

Daotok inclined his head. “Nine Outstandings.”

“Yes,” Ampha said. “That was noted. And your choice of company.”

Silence again. He did not flinch.

“We’ve heard whispers,” Chaokhun continued. “Of where you’ve spent the summer. With whom. And of the… nature of your magic.”

Daotok’s gaze didn’t shift. “I’ve kept up appearances.”

“Appearances,” Ampha echoed dryly. “Daotok, you know what this family is. What it stands for.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “A family of legacy. Of power and discretion.”

Suradej’s eyes, darker than the others’, turned to him at last. “Then you also remember,” he said softly, “that our family is not… dark.”

The room cooled.

“I remember,” Daotok said.

“Then see that others do too,” Chaokhun murmured. “You are watched. And you will be expected to represent us properly when the time comes. Do not forget your roots.”

There it was. Beneath the ash and dust—the harsh truth.

Daotok gave the faintest smile. “I haven’t strayed far from what is expected of me.”

Ampha looked at him for a long moment, then rose. “See that you don’t. We’ve arranged for your chambers to be refreshed.”

“You may stay through the new moon,” Suradej added. “But we expect you to return to school with your path… clarified.”

Daotok stood. “Of course.”

He bowed slightly, turned, and left without another word.

Chapter 20

It was supposed to be quiet.

The drawing room of Thorngrave Hall was bathed in warm lamplight, old decanters on the sideboard, chess pieces frozen mid-game. The fire murmured gently, glasses half-full with wine and tea gone cold. Johan sat reclined; one leg crossed over the other. Typhoon and Tonfah were curled into one corner of the settee, fingers lazily entangled. Daotok had not yet returned.

Until now.

The door slammed open, the crash of wood against stone shaking a candelabrum loose from the wall. The flames flickered.

Daotok stood there, dripping night and fury.

His hair was slightly windblown. There was dirt on his boots, one sleeve of his coat torn near the cuff. But it was the look in his eyes that made North freeze halfway through his cup of tea.

It was not the Daotok they knew. His face was taut—lips pressed white, eyes near glowing, chest rising and falling like something barely held back.

The silence stretched.

Then—

SMASH.

The crystal bowl from the mantle exploded as it hit the hearth, shards tumbling into the fire. The glass screamed.

Another—CRASH—the glass decanter. Shards scattered like bloodless stars.

“Dao—” Arthit started, standing.

But Johan only sipped his wine. “Let him.”

“Are you mad?!” North hissed. “He’s bleeding—”

CRACK. The stem of a chair splintered as Daotok hurled it into the corner. THUD. The ornate wooden table was kicked aside, books sliding off it like broken birds.

“They told me—” Daotok’s voice was hoarse. Dangerous. “They told me to be gracious. To behave. To remember my place.”

Another vase. This one didn't just break—it shattered against the stone.

“We are not dark, they said,” Daotok mocked in a whisper, then screamed, “Lies!”

Typhoon watched him with a strange, quiet calm. Like he was watching a star collapse.

“They sat me down like a child and told me not to stray from the path.” Daotok’s voice trembled now—not from sadness, but from the violence it took to keep breathing. “They looked me in the eye and dared to pretend they weren’t the very darkness they warned me against.”

Blood dotted his knuckles now, torn from glass and splintered wood. He didn’t care.

“I bowed to them,” he spat. “Smiled like I wasn’t burning. Like I hadn’t already made the choice to leave them behind.”

CRACK. He struck a wall with his bare hand. A painting fell with a heavy, echoing thud. The gilded frame cracked clean in two.

And still, they did not stop him.

Tonfah reached over to refill Typhoon’s glass. “Let him finish. He’s earned it.”

Daotok was breathing hard now, shoulders shaking. He grabbed the broken frame and hurled it across the room, where it skidded to the base of a bookshelf.

Hill stood rooted to the spot. “He’s not—he’s not usually—”

“He’s always been like this,” Typhoon said quietly. “You’re just finally seeing it.”

The firelight flickered. Daotok stood in the chaos of his own making, panting, knuckles bloodied, the threads of his composure in ruin around him.

Johan set his glass down, finally rising. “Feel better?”

Daotok let out a bitter laugh. “No.”

But his voice cracked on the word. He stumbled back a step. Not weak—spent. His body no longer capable of holding in the rage that had sustained him for days.

Typhoon walked over and gently took his hand, bloodied fingers curling around his own. He pressed a clean handkerchief into the palm. “You held it in too long again, darkling.”

Daotok didn’t answer. Just squeezed the cloth.

“Your elders?” Tonfah asked.

“They still pretend we’re not what we are,” he whispered. “Still pretending I’ll bow.”

“Will you?”

“No,” Daotok breathed. “Not again.”

The silence returned, but this time, it was heavy with understanding.

Easter crouched to pick up a broken shard of porcelain near his feet. “We can fix this, you know.”

“No,” Johan said, “Let it stay. Let it remind him.”

“Of what?”

“That this house is his now,” Johan said. “Not theirs.”

The four of them stood like silent sentinels in the wreckage—dark crowns unseen, hands bloodied not by accident but by choice.

And the other four watched, shaken, finally understanding:

Daotok didn’t just wear the heir’s mask.

He was the mask. And now, it had cracked wide open.

 

The manor had gone still.

Thorngrave’s corridors, grand and cold, held the kind of silence that came only after something had broken. Beyond the drawing room, the vases lay in shattered halos. The bloodstains had dried.

Daotok hadn’t gone far.

He stood barefoot in the corridor just outside the guest rooms, a loosely wrapped bandage around one hand. The rest of him looked the same—quiet and soft. But there was something different about his posture now. A tension in the shoulders. Like a violin string pulled taut.

Arthit found him there, still as a painting.

He didn’t speak at first. Just walked over, reached for the bandaged hand, and gently unwrapped the linen. “You’re still bleeding.”

Daotok didn’t move. “I know.”

Arthit inhaled slowly. “You should’ve told me.”

“Told you what?” Daotok asked quietly, eyes not meeting his.

Arthit didn’t answer. He just conjured a bowl of water, warm and spelled to sting less, and gently guided Daotok to sit on the velvet bench lining the hall.

It was quiet as he cleaned the blood from Daotok’s knuckles. The only sound was the soft clink of glass shards still embedded beneath the skin. “You didn’t have to break all of it,” Arthit muttered eventually. “That vase was—”

“An heirloom,” Daotok finished. “I know. Good.”

Arthit gave him a look. “You’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

The silence hung between them again. Until Daotok added, almost to himself, “They sent the elders. They didn’t even come themselves. And still expected obedience.”

Arthit’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, then continued. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

“No, you don’t.”

That stopped him.

Arthit looked up. Daotok’s eyes were tired but sharp. “You think you understand because you’ve seen a crack. You haven’t felt what it’s like to carry the entire mask for so long that it fuses to your face.”

“I’m trying,” Arthit said defensively. “I came after you, didn’t I?”

“You came because you want to understand, Arthit. That’s not the same as actually understanding.”

“Well, then make me understand!”

The words snapped through the hall like a whip.

Arthit blinked—half-startled by his own voice. He hadn’t meant to raise it. But Daotok just stared at him quietly. As if something had clicked.

“Finally,” he murmured.

Arthit frowned. “What?”

“There it is,” Daotok said, voice soft now. “The crack.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” A ghost of a smile pulled at Daotok’s mouth. “You want to help me, Arthit? Then stop pretending you don’t have your own shadows.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” Daotok stood slowly, gently pulling his hand from Arthit’s grasp. “You’re just better at burying them under rules and honor and Gryffindor nobility.”

Arthit stood too, eyes narrowed. “And what? You want me to be like you?”

“No,” Daotok said, almost tender. “I want you to be honest.”

The silence returned, heavy with all the things neither of them had said for months.

After a long pause, Daotok looked away, flexing his newly cleaned fingers. “You’ll understand. Eventually.”

Arthit swallowed. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” Daotok said, finally meeting his gaze again. “It’s a promise.”

He stepped past him, toward the guest rooms, but paused just before the door.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For tending to the wounds you didn’t cause.”

Arthit didn’t reply until the door shut behind him.

And even then, it was only to whisper to the empty corridor:
“I think you’re wrong.”

But his voice shook because some small part of him already knew Daotok was right.

 

Arthit didn’t sleep.

He lay in the four-poster bed draped in deep navy and silver, staring at the carved ceiling of the room Tonfah had told him was “the least cursed” with an offhand smirk. Outside the window, wind tangled in the ivy. A distant storm rumbled against the mountains beyond.

Daotok’s voice haunted the corners of the room.

“You want to help me? Then stop pretending you don’t have your own shadows.”

He had wanted to deny it. He had denied it. But even as he replayed the words again and again, something had cracked.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the ceiling until the shadows beneath his eyes felt stitched into his skin.

 

Johan was already awake.

He was dressed in his usual dark greens, robes crisp, boots polished even here in the countryside. He had summoned an old book on elemental resonance and was quietly reading under a vine-draped gazebo in the South Gardens, with a pot of dark roast and a half-finished plate of lemon scones beside him.

He didn’t look up when Arthit approached.

“Didn’t sleep?” Johan said simply.

Arthit sat across from him without answering. Johan flipped a page, sipped his tea and waited.

“I need to ask you something,” Arthit said eventually, his voice low.

“Go on.”

“Did you always know?”

Johan’s eyes flicked up. “About what?”

“That there was something inside me,” Arthit said, jaw clenched. “Something darker.”

Johan smiled faintly. “Everyone has something.”

“No,” Arthit insisted. “Not like this. I’ve always thought—I had control. That I was… better.”

“Better than what?”

Arthit hesitated. “Than the shadows. Than Daotok. Than you.”

It came out too raw and too honest. But Johan didn’t flinch. “You thought your morals made you immune?”

Arthit stood abruptly, began pacing the stone path around the gazebo. “I told myself I could help him. I told myself he needed me to stay whole.”

“And now?”

Arthit’s hands trembled. “Now I’m not sure who I was trying to save.”

Johan closed the book with a soft thud.

“You want a confession?” Johan said. “I’ve seen it in you since third year.”

Arthit turned sharply. “Seen what?”

“The way your wand pulses a second too long during duels. The way your anger doesn’t fade, it ferments. The way you look at Daotok like you want to worship him and punish him all at once.”

Arthit’s face flushed. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know restraint when it festers,” Johan said coolly. “You’ve been taught your whole life that light is good and dark is evil. That control is strength. But darkness isn’t evil, Arthit. It’s power. It’s need. It’s every truth you bite back when someone calls you noble.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

Arthit sat again, this time slower. “I want to understand him,” he said softly. “But I’m afraid I will.”

Johan’s gaze sharpened, as if seeing something finally settle into place. “And what if you do?”

“I might not like what I see in myself.”

Johan leaned forward, pouring more tea. “Then maybe it’s time you asked yourself: why does loving someone like Daotok threaten you?”

Arthit didn’t speak.

Johan pushed the cup toward him. “He doesn’t need saving. But he does need someone who sees him—truly. Not someone who flinches every time the room gets too dark.”

“I don’t flinch,” Arthit said automatically.

Johan raised a brow. “You did last night.”

That hit harder than it should have. But it was true. Arthit had watched Daotok break and burn, and even as he cleaned his wounds, he hadn’t understood him. Not fully. He still wanted to fix, not accept.

He stared down at his tea, hands still. Then he whispered, “How did you learn to stop flinching?”

Johan’s voice was quieter now. “Because I flinched once. And lost something I loved.”

Arthit looked up. Their eyes met. There was no smugness in Johan’s expression now. Just experience. Loss. And the deep, unsettling calm of someone who had made peace with his own shadow.

“Don’t let that happen to you,” Johan said.

 

The corridor outside Daotok’s room was dim, lit only by the silver glow of sconces lining the walls. Arthit stood before the dark oak door longer than he should have, fists at his sides, jaw clenched. It was late—past curfew, not that it mattered here—but it wasn’t the time that made him hesitate.

It was the fact that he didn’t know what he was walking into.

He knocked once.

No answer.

He knocked again, softer this time.

Still nothing.

And then, from inside, the dull scrape of a chair being pushed back. Footsteps. The door opened with a low creak.

Daotok stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, shirt half-unbuttoned, dried blood still ghosting the ridges of his knuckles. His hair was damp, his eyes tired.

“What,” he said flatly.

Arthit held his ground. “Let me in.”

Daotok raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to talk to a locked door.”

A beat. Then, silently, Daotok stepped aside.

The room was dim—lit only by the dying embers in the hearth. Books were scattered across the bed. The remnants of bandages. A cracked mirror on the far wall. The scent of clove balm still lingered in the air.

Arthit stood there, just inside the threshold. He didn’t move further.

Daotok leaned against the desk, arms folded. “So? You’re here. Say what you need to.”

“I was wrong,” Arthit said quietly.

Daotok blinked.

“I thought I could help you without understanding you,” he went on. “I told myself I was the steadier one. That I could carry what you couldn’t. But the truth is… I’ve been pretending.”

He looked up then, met Daotok’s unreadable gaze. “I’ve been pretending that I don’t see myself in you.”

The silence was sharp.

“I’ve spent so long trying to hold everything in,” Arthit continued. “The anger. The power. The fear that if I let go, I wouldn’t be able to stop. And then I saw you, and it wasn’t just chaos—it was freedom. You weren’t falling apart. You were letting go. And I—” He swallowed. “I didn’t know if I could do the same.”

Daotok’s expression didn’t change. But his grip on the desk loosened slightly.

“I want to understand you,” Arthit said. “Not to fix you. Not to soothe my guilt. But because I think—maybe—I’ve been running from the same thing all along.”

Still no reply.

So Arthit stepped forward, slowly, until he stood right in front of him. “I’m not afraid of your shadows,” he said.

Daotok’s voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “You flinched.”

“I won’t next time.”

Another silence.

Then Daotok reached for his hand. Not like he was pulling him close, but like he was testing the weight of Arthit’s words.

Arthit didn’t pull away.

After a long moment, Daotok said, almost offhandedly, “Well… I guess you will understand.”

And this time, when Arthit exhaled, it didn’t feel like surrender. It felt like relief.

Arthit made a move to step back, to give Daotok space again.

But Daotok’s fingers, still loosely wrapped around his wrist, didn’t let go.

He didn’t look up when he spoke—his gaze was somewhere to the side, as if the words might scatter if he looked Arthit directly in the eyes.

“Stay.”

Arthit blinked.

Daotok finally looked up at him, and though the tilt of his chin remained sharp, his eyes were something else entirely.

“Just for tonight,” he added, tone more fragile than usual. “You don’t have to do anything. I just— I think if I’m alone I’ll start smashing things again. Or thinking too loud. Or not sleeping at all.”

He gave a sharp, humorless huff. “Or all three.”

Arthit didn’t answer right away. He looked around the room again—at the unmade bed, the disheveled books, the faint scuff marks still on the floor from shattered glass.

And then, he stood—not to leave, but to move further into the room. He didn’t ask for permission as he toed off his shoes and shrugged off his outer robe. He simply did it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Daotok watched him, quiet and unmoving.

Arthit met his gaze briefly. “I’ll stay. Just to sleep.”

Something in Daotok’s shoulders dropped, so subtly it would have been easy to miss. Relief, maybe. Gratitude. Or the ache of needing someone and finally having them say yes.

“I don’t snore,” Daotok said, voice almost teasing but still hushed.

Arthit raised a brow. “I do.”

A huff of breath escaped Daotok as he stood. He gestured toward the bed with a tired flick of his hand. “Left side’s less cursed.”

They didn’t touch. They didn’t say anything more.

But as they lay on opposite sides of the bed, backs to each other, the silence no longer felt hollow.

It felt full.

And when Arthit heard the slight hitch in Daotok’s breath as sleep pulled at him, he didn’t speak—just turned slightly, just enough to hear it better. Just enough to know he was still there.

Chapter 21

Notes:

If the dialogue is italicized, it's in a translated language. Just pretend it's in that language, I don't want to butcher the language I'm not fluent in. Enjoy! :)

The morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the eastern dining room, catching on the polished silver and the glinting crystal glasses. The long table was already half-filled when Arthit and Daotok walked in together.

Johan glanced up from his seat near the end of the table, a cup of coffee in hand. Typhoon beside him didn’t look up, but his lips curved faintly. Tonfah, at the head of the table, raised an eyebrow and simply poured another cup of tea.

“Morning,” Easter said brightly, though his eyes flicked between the two with the barest glint of curiosity. He was seated between North and Hill, who were sharing a plate of toast between themselves, deep in half-whispered conversation.

“Morning,” Daotok replied smoothly, moving toward the far side of the table and choosing a seat with practiced ease, though this time, there was only a chair between him and Arthit.

Arthit didn’t hesitate before settling beside him.

“Sleep well?” Johan asked dryly, gaze neutral.

Daotok shot him a look that could’ve meant anything. “Better than expected.”

Arthit didn’t look up from his plate as he picked up a slice of fruit. “Less smashing, this time.”

Typhoon chuckled quietly, finally setting down the small pastry he’d been inspecting. “Progress.”

The room was quiet for a breath, then the conversation softened into the familiar rhythm again. Tonfah passed down a bowl of charmed jam that swirled itself. “We’re restocking the potions pantry later today,” he said idly. “Who’s volunteering?”

“Not me,” North said instantly, raising both hands. “I nearly turned one of the vials into sugar water last time.”

“Accidentally?” Typhoon asked.

North smirked. “Mostly.”

Easter laughed. “I'll help. I want to see the storage rooms again, there’s something about the way they're organized that feels… mildly sinister.”

Tonfah smiled lazily. “That’s because they are.”

Daotok reached for the coffee pot, then paused and nudged it slightly toward Arthit instead. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Arthit murmured, not quite meeting his eyes.

Johan watched this small gesture like a hawk. He didn't comment. He sipped his coffee and arched one brow at Typhoon, who returned the look with a near-imperceptible nod. Things were shifting. The undercurrents of magic and emotion in the room moved just slightly askew. None of them said it aloud, but they all felt it.

Whatever storm had broken over Daotok the night before—whatever quiet thing had cracked open between him and Arthit, had not been buried again.

It was still here.

The second pot of tea had only just been poured when the faint shimmer of magic flickered above the table, followed by a sudden rush of wings and the crisp flutter of parchment.

Eight letters landed neatly across the length of the table, each sealed with the red wax stamp of Hogwarts. The owls vanished as quickly as they came, disapparating mid-air, no more than conjured messengers.

“Mail,” Johan said flatly, already breaking his seal.

“Summer’s officially over, then,” Hill muttered as he picked up his letter, turning it over with a sigh.

They all opened the parchment nearly at once. A moment later came a flurry of rustling pages and furrowed brows as eyes scanned the supply lists.

“Oh, come on,” North said suddenly, squinting. “Dress robes?”

“Why do we need dress robes this year?” Easter echoed, glancing around. “Is that a typo?”

Typhoon gave a low, amused sound. “No typo.”

Across the table, Daotok sat back in his chair, folding his list with almost theatrical slowness. “It’s starting.”

“What is?” Arthit asked cautiously.

Johan dropped his parchment on the table. “The Triwizard Tournament.”

There was a beat of silence.

“But that’s… that’s just a rumor,” Hill said. “It hasn’t been held in decades.”

“And Hogwarts hasn’t hosted it in over a century,” Tonfah added, his voice light but his eyes sharp. “Which makes this year very special.”

North looked down at his list again. “So they’re really doing it?”

“They wouldn’t put dress robes on the standard supply list otherwise,” Daotok replied. “Which means the opening ceremony will be held at Hogwarts.”

“And it'll be public,” Typhoon said softly. “Very public.”

Easter frowned. “Why? Why now?”

Johan leaned forward, voice lower now. “Because the Ministry wants to put on a show. A distraction. Something grand to pull attention away from the cracks in their foundation.”

“Which are getting deeper,” Daotok added smoothly. “Some families are shifting. Stepping out of neutrality. Some… not in the Ministry’s favor.”

Arthit blinked. “You mean our families.”

None of them replied to that. But they didn’t have to.

Tonfah smiled, teeth barely bared. “A tournament is a convenient curtain. One they’ll hope we’re too dazzled to look behind.”

Hill looked vaguely horrified. “And they expect students to participate?”

“They’ll select champions,” Johan said, already disinterested. “And it won’t be us.”

“Why not?” North asked.

Typhoon chuckled. “Because we’re too dangerous.”

Daotok added, “And too valuable.”

Tonfah stirred his tea. “Our families wouldn’t let us be puppets on display. It would hand the Ministry more power than we’re willing to give them.”

The other four fell into thoughtful silence, their letters still clutched in their hands. Easter eventually muttered, “So… dress robes. Politics. Possibly dragons. Excellent.”

Typhoon raised his cup in a mock toast. “Welcome to sixth year.”

 

They had drifted into the drawing room after breakfast, cups of tea and coffee following them like loyal familiars as they settled into the velvet chairs and polished wood armchairs by the tall windows. The morning sun slanted lazily into the room, warm and golden, glinting off the silver buttons of robes and the occasional flicker of magic in the air.

Tonfah sat on the chaise nearest the fireplace, leafing through a folded list of Hogwarts supply requirements. Typhoon stood behind him, arms draped casually over Tonfah’s shoulders, chin resting on the crown of his head.

“Love, I do want the dress robes custom-made in France.”

That earned a quiet blink from Tonfah. “France?”

“Mhm.”

“Edevanne’s? Miremont’s? Even Arvenclaire in Diagon Alley isn’t enough for you?”

“No,” Typhoon said simply, looking up with that faintly amused glint in his eyes. “I want them done in Toulouse. You remember that atelier?”

Tonfah looked at him for half a beat, then gave a sigh that wasn’t really a sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re spoiling him,” Daotok commented without looking up from his copy of Runic Variations in Formal Charms.

“Is it spoiling,” Tonfah replied, brushing Typhoon’s knuckles with his thumb, “if he already deserves it?”

Johan made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. “Some might say yes. Then again, we’re not some.”

“I want the hem embroidered with opal dust,” Typhoon added, gaze fixed on Tonfah now. “And storm-warded.”

“Since we’re doing this,” Daotok said, setting his cup down, “we should plan properly.”

“Color schemes,” Typhoon said at once. “We’re coordinating.”

Easter blinked. “Coordinating?”

“For the Yule Ball,” Daotok said, smirking. “Obviously.”

Typhoon stood straighter and held up his hand, ticking them off with his fingers. “Silver and green.”

Tonfah nodded. “Noted.”

Daotok added, “Black and gold.”

Easter leaned into Hill. “Blue, white, and silver.”

North glanced sideways. “Black and red.”

“Match it,” Typhoon said, too sweetly. “Or don’t come near us that night.”

“Are you four planning to dominate the ballroom with matching sets?” Johan asked, amused.

Typhoon shrugged. “We’re heirs. We might as well look like it.”

Easter raised a brow. “So what are we then? The entourage?”

“You’ll be the reason they stare longer,” Typhoon said, completely sincere.

Tonfah leaned in and whispered something in French that had Typhoon softly laughing. It earned a curious glance from the others, but Typhoon only kissed the back of Tonfah’s hand in response.

“They weren’t like this in Hogwarts,” Easter whispered to Hill, who nodded wordlessly.

Arthit murmured, “It’s like… they turned into entirely different people.”

North, still clutching his Hogwarts supply list, leaned closer and added, “No. I think this is just who they’ve always been.”

Typhoon turned his head slightly, catching the end of the conversation. “We’ve never had to hide it here.”

“Which reminds me,” Daotok said lazily, flipping another page, “we should get the rest of our supplies in France too. Save us a trip to Diagon Alley.”

“Brilliant idea,” Johan said. “Toulouse is quieter this time of year.”

Tonfah nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll adjust the Portkey arrangements. I’ll have Vaelen set appointments for fittings and school lists.”

“Wait, wait,” North said, blinking. “You’re doing your entire Hogwarts shopping trip in France?”

“We’re doing your shopping trip in France, too,” Typhoon corrected, not unkindly. “You’re coming with us.”

Easter looked at him, stunned. “You can’t be serious.”

“We don’t half-plan things,” Tonfah said mildly. “You’ll be fitted for robes. Spell-lined, stain-resistant, probably hex-absorbing if Typhoon insists.”

Typhoon smiled faintly. “Obviously.”

“Wand servicing. Uniforms. Books. You’ll thank us later,” Daotok added, reaching for his tea.

The four others exchanged helpless glances. This… this was excessive. It was absurd.

Typhoon finally stepped away, hands lingering a second longer on Tonfah’s shoulders before drifting to his sides. “Consider this the start of a tradition.”

“You four weren’t like this at Hogwarts,” Arthit said cautiously.

“No,” Tonfah agreed. “At Hogwarts, we’re polite.”

“Here,” Daotok said, smirking faintly, “we’re just… honest.”

“Just accept it,” Johan said, lifting his teacup. “You’re already part of the routine. Might as well let it dress you.”

The silence that followed was only broken by the faint sound of Tonfah lifting Typhoon’s hand to kiss the ring on his finger before returning to his list.

 

---

 

The fitting rooms of Atelier Minuit smelled faintly of pressed silk and charm-dried roses, the scent clinging to every velvet drape and floating in the golden sun that filtered through the beveled glass. The space was all mirrors, charmwork, and quiet luxury.

Typhoon stood just at the edge of the mirrored corridor, arms folded.

“Alright,” Johan said, smoothing his sleeves. “We’ll wait outside for the others.”

“No, you won’t.” Typhoon’s voice stopped them. His tone was velvet, but there was steel beneath it.

They all turned. Typhoon’s smile was almost charming. Almost.

“You four are dismissed. Two hours. Minimum.”

Arthit frowned. “Why two hours?”

“Because,” Typhoon said, eyes glittering with mischief, “I need them to look devastating. And I can’t have you staring while we work.”

Johan narrowed his eyes. “We?”

Typhoon waved a hand. “Me. And Minuit’s head designer. Don’t come back.”

Tonfah tilted his head, reading him far too easily. “Phoon…”

“It’s a surprise, love,” Typhoon said, not quite innocent. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Are you planning to weaponize them?” Hill asked, half-laughing, half-wary.

“Who says I haven’t already?” Typhoon replied.

Tonfah sighed, already walking away. “He’s up to something.”

“Always,” Johan muttered, but didn’t protest as he followed. “Call us when they’re decent.”

“They won’t be,” Typhoon called sweetly after them.

When the door chimed behind the four heirs, the shop fell back into silence.

Easter glanced around the atelier. “What exactly are you planning?”

Daotok narrowed his eyes. “Why can’t we have what they had?”

Typhoon turned to face them fully now. His expression softened, but only slightly. It was still mischief. He smiled, innocent and unbothered.

“Trust me,” he said, glancing toward the private fitting chamber. “Let me ruin them for you.”

Daotok blinked. “You’re mad.”

“I’m careful,” Typhoon corrected, already motioning for the elves to bring the prepared sketches.

Easter exhaled. “This is dangerous.”

 

By the time the sun dipped behind the Parisian rooftops, shadows had bled across the cobbled streets, and the golden hour had surrendered to a velvet dusk.

Tonfah, Johan, Arthit, and Hill were already waiting near the fountain plaza they’d agreed on earlier. The last rays of sunlight made the water shimmer like liquid gold, though none of them seemed particularly patient anymore.

“I thought he said two hours,” Johan muttered, glancing at the sleek-faced watch on his wrist.

“It’s Typhoon,” Tonfah replied, voice calm, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “He meant at least two.”

And then, as if summoned by complaint, Typhoon turned the corner with Daotok, North, and Easter flanking him. The three behind him looked marginally more smug than they had two hours ago, though Easter was unsuccessfully biting back a grin, and North looked like he wasn’t sure if he should be flustered or impressed.

“You’re late,” Johan said, arms crossed.

“We’re not portkeying back,” Typhoon said, as if that answered everything.

The seven blinked.

Tonfah tilted his head. “We’re… not?”

Typhoon gestured down a dim street with one gloved hand. “Come. It’s a short walk.”

There was a pause. Arthit looked at Johan. Johan looked at Daotok. Daotok gave up trying to make sense of it and simply followed Typhoon.

None of them asked more questions. After several turns through quieter, older alleyways, a tall wrought iron gate emerged from a wall draped in ivy. It creaked open at Typhoon’s gesture. Beyond it, a pale manor stood behind a row of hedges and glowing lanterns—elegant, old, and silent in the twilight.

“You have a manor in France?” Tonfah asked, not quite masking his surprise.

“I thought you were sent to Durmstrang,” Johan added, brows raised.

“I was,” Typhoon replied, strolling ahead. “You didn’t think I’d be cooped up in Durmstrang all the time, did you?”

Behind him, Easter laughed softly. “That tracks.”

The others didn’t even bother asking more.

Inside, the manor was dimly lit and impossibly serene—shuttered windows, heavy velvet drapes, polished stone floors under their boots. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and old magic.

An elf in crisp white stepped forward as they entered, bowing deeply. “Welcome, Master Typhoon.”

Typhoon responded in fluent French, voice low. “Prepare the rooms for eight. We’re staying tonight. Please serve dinner in an hour.”

The elf bowed again and disappeared silently down the corridor.

“You could’ve told us you had a house here,” Daotok said, amused.

Typhoon just shrugged, removing his gloves with slow precision. “I didn’t think it’d come up.”

“You didn’t even tell me,” Tonfah muttered.

“And you still followed,” Typhoon replied, voice teasing, before glancing at his elf. “Brillette, please ensure the wine cellar is prepared as well.”

Brillette bobbed again. “Oui, monsieur.”

Johan looked around. “You really don’t do anything by halves.”

“Why would I?” Typhoon murmured, already moving toward the drawing room, coat draped over his arm.

North whistled softly as they passed a hall lined with gilded frames and quiet portraits.

“Let me guess,” Hill said, “you also have a villa in Italy?”

Typhoon didn’t answer.

 

The dining room of the manor was candlelit by the time they were seated—a long, dark oak table polished to mirror sheen, trimmed with pewter goblets, silverware, and porcelain plates that looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades until now.

The elves had outdone themselves. There were braised meats, roasted root vegetables, folded pastries stuffed with cheese and herbs, and carafes of rich red wine and cool water flavored with lavender and citrus. Brillette reappeared with a crisp flourish, bowing low beside Typhoon’s chair. “Dinner is served, sir,” she said gently.

“Merci,” Typhoon murmured back. His French was low and fluid, laced with that almost lazy elegance only he could make sound both practiced and effortless.

Tonfah, seated to his right, stilled.

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Typhoon speak French. He’d heard it once before, fleetingly, in a letter. But there was something else about hearing it aloud—in the quiet of an old manor, with golden candlelight tracing Typhoon’s cheekbone, his fingers curling slightly as he dismissed the elf with a soft “That’s enough, stay close just in case.”

Tonfah’s hand curled over the stem of his wineglass just a touch too tightly.

Typhoon glanced sideways, catching his stare. “You’re looking at me like I summoned an Incubi.”

“Not an incubi,” Tonfah murmured, lips twitching. “Something quieter and more dangerous.”

Typhoon smiled, slow and knowing, and said nothing.

Johan, across the table, had been watching with a faint smirk. “He only pulls out the French when he’s in a mood.”

“Or when he’s trying to charm someone,” Daotok added, reaching casually for the butter knife.

“You’re all being dramatic,” Typhoon replied, slicing into his filet with elegance. “I speak French because it is the language of this manor. It’s politeness.”

Tonfah snorted. “Politeness my ass.”

“You’re jealous, love,” Typhoon replied easily, letting the words wrap silk-smooth in the air.

North blinked. “What did he say?”

“Don’t translate it,” Tonfah said quickly, brushing hair from his face and drinking his wine too fast.

Easter tilted his head. “It sounded romantic.”

“Everything sounds romantic in French,” said Hill dryly, though he looked amused.

Arthit was watching the exchange with a furrowed brow, like he wasn’t sure if he was third-wheeling or fourth-wheeling at this point.

“Would you all like dessert?” Brillette asked quietly, reappearing.

Typhoon gave her a slight nod. “Yes. Bring the mille-feuille and the tea.”

Tonfah shifted in his seat again, swallowing hard. “I swear to Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, “if you keep speaking like that, I’ll lose what’s left of my patience.”

Typhoon leaned toward him just a little, the ghost of a grin on his lips. “What’s left of your patience has never stopped you before, love.”

Daotok laughed, leaning his cheek on his palm. “This is going to be a very interesting night.”

Johan poured himself more wine. “And to think, this was supposed to be a quiet evening.”

Hill glanced around at the manor. “Quiet? With Typhoon? You should’ve known better.”

But despite the teasing, the clinking of utensils, and the occasional soft chuckles, there was a comfort now among them all. The lightness was threaded with something deeper, something richer.

And through it all, Tonfah kept glancing sideways, helpless against the magnetism of Typhoon’s voice, the glint in his eyes, and the way even a casual string of French syllables could make something in his chest clench.

Later, maybe, he’d ask Typhoon to say it again.

Privately.

Just for him.

Chapter 22

The sun filtered through tall windows, draping the long breakfast table in soft gold. The French countryside outside was quiet, save for the rustle of wind through the trees and the occasional chirp of birdsong.

Inside the manor, the breakfast spread was already laid out: fresh croissants still warm, soft butter and fruit preserves, golden honey, bowls of ripe berries and figs, roasted tomatoes, soft-boiled eggs, and carafes of tea, juice, and coffee. The scent of freshly baked brioche filled the room.

They were in various stages of wakefulness.

Typhoon sat perched elegantly near the end of the table, lazily spooning apricot jam onto a croissant. He wore a loose white button-up, sleeves rolled up and collar open, hair still damp from a quick wash. Tonfah was beside him, already halfway through his second cup of coffee, flipping through a folded itinerary in a neat handwriting that was unmistakably his.

“We’re leaving by ten,” Tonfah said, not even looking up. “First, to the wand engraver, Daotok wants to get a new sheath. And then to the apothecary for the restocking. After that, the bookstores. And then—” he paused with the ghost of a smirk “—a return to the atelier for final design notes.”

North, still half asleep, blinked slowly. “Didn’t we already get fitted?”

Typhoon smiled behind his tea. “Yes. But you haven’t seen the robes yet. Final touches, some detailing. You’ll understand when you wear them.”

“I’m not sure if I’m terrified or curious,” Easter murmured, stirring sugar into his coffee. “You were very secretive about ours.”

“That’s because it’s a surprise,” Typhoon replied smoothly. “And surprises are more fun when you don’t ruin them.”

Daotok, already picking the raspberries from his bowl with quiet precision, added, “We’ll split up after lunch. Johan and I are checking for any rare editions at that obscure bookshop down the alley—Tonfah, the one you recommended.”

“Mm,” Tonfah nodded. “They stock restricted volumes too, though you’ll need to speak politely. Owner’s touchy.”

Hill reached for the honey. “And dinner?”

“Back here,” Typhoon replied before anyone else could. “Brillette’s already preparing something. I think duck with wine sauce and those little herbed potatoes.”

Johan, who had just entered the room with damp hair and a plate of eggs in hand, said dryly, “You spoil us.”

“I spoil me,” Typhoon corrected, lifting his cup. “You’re all just beneficiaries.”

Tonfah leaned over and kissed the back of Typhoon’s hand absentmindedly. “He’s lying. I do the spoiling.”

Arthit, watching them from across the table, muttered into his mug, “You two act more like a married couple every day.”

“We are,” Typhoon replied, deadpan.

Easter choked on his juice. “What?”

Tonfah waved a lazy hand. “Fiancés. It’s old news.”

“I—” Easter opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“We’ll get the potion kits at Mirelle’s,” Johan continued calmly, rescuing the moment. “I’ll cover Hill and North’s, if that’s alright.”

“I can pay for mine,” North said quickly, but Johan only raised a brow.

“It’s a gift. Let me.”

There was a pause, then North nodded slowly. “Alright. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Johan murmured, with a small smile that lingered a second longer than necessary.

Daotok finally spoke again, sipping his tea. “And we’ll send the portkey request tonight for our return. The robes will follow us to Hogwarts by owl.”

“Sealed until Yule,” Typhoon added, smug. “Don’t even think of peeking.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Arthit grumbled.

“Good,” Typhoon said with a smile that somehow said I know you were.

The rest of the morning passed in slow warmth, light banter, quiet spoiling, and shared glances that were slowly beginning to mean more than words.

 

They stepped out into the cobbled alley just past ten. The air was crisp, the sky grey with the promise of rain, but no one seemed to mind. The wizarding quarter of this tucked-away French town bustled with activity—robes fluttering, merchants calling, enchantments glimmering in display windows.

Tonfah led the way, map in hand, Typhoon lazily following behind with a parasol charmed against drizzle that hadn’t yet begun. Johan and Daotok flanked North and Easter like shadows, while Hill and Arthit walked a pace behind, watching the shifting crowd with wary curiosity.

“First stop,” Tonfah said as they paused before an elegantly nondescript storefront. “Valecourt & Sons. You’ll want to brace yourselves, the wandmaster here has a reputation for being delightfully rude.”

The door creaked open to reveal a small, high-ceilinged workshop. Racks of wand holsters, ornate sheaths, and carved boxes lined the shelves. A bell tinkled.

“Ah, monsieur Tonfah.” The wandmaster, a tall man in gold-rimmed spectacles, glanced up and immediately gave a deep, dramatic sigh. “And you’ve brought the whole school with you.”

Typhoon gave a lazy grin. “Treat them nicely, Jules. They’re under my name today.”

The man straightened at that. “Ah. My apologies, Mr. Ratanaporn. Welcome.”

The others blinked.

“You speak French now?” North muttered.

“He speaks French when he wants things,” Tonfah replied, amused.

While Daotok browsed sheaths, his eyes lingering on one crafted of deep blue basilisk leather—Typhoon wandered to a corner, pointing out small runed buttons to Easter and Hill that could be sewn onto cloaks to deflect minor hexes.

“You don’t have to buy everything we touch,” Easter said under his breath.

“No,” Typhoon said lightly, brushing his fingers along a display. “But I like giving people options.”

Afterwards came the apothecary—dark, fragrant, with smoke curling through suspended herb bundles and ingredients in glass orbs that drifted just above the shelves. Johan expertly negotiated for powdered phoenix feather while Hill managed to get himself a free vial of moonstone concentrate with nothing but a polite smile and a well-placed compliment to the shopkeeper’s garden.

North nearly knocked over an entire shelf of bottled salamander blood. Typhoon caught it mid-air with a flick of his fingers and gave him a look that was half exasperation, half amused affection.

“Graceful as ever, North.”

North mumbled something in reply, cheeks pink.

 

Then came Le Jardin des Pages, the infamous rare bookstore nestled behind a wall of ivy. Inside, it smelled like parchment, coffee, and candle wax. Johan and Daotok vanished immediately into the back, trailed by Hill and Arthit. North hovered uncertainly by the front desk before Typhoon nudged him toward a section labeled Fire Magicks and Their Discontents.

Tonfah stayed by the front table, flipping through a slim, leather-bound book of spell theory. “This,” he said idly, “reminds me of something we could have written better.”

Typhoon leaned over his shoulder. “Everything reminds you of something we could have written better.”

“And am I wrong?”

“No. But you’re arrogant when you say it out loud.”

“I learned from the best.”

Typhoon smiled against the rim of his teacup, which he had charmed to follow him through the street.

By the time they emerged again from the bookstore, arms full of packages, the clouds had begun to thin. They stopped at a patisserie near the corner for tea and tiny lemon tarts, seated at a wrought-iron table that overlooked the cobbled square.

Easter stretched back in his chair, eyes closed. “This has to be the softest shopping trip I’ve ever had.”

“Wait until we get to the stationery shop,” Johan said. “Tonfah insists on custom engraving.”

“I do not ‘insist,’” Tonfah said flatly. “I just won’t tolerate ugly ink.”

North looked between them. “Is this... normal for you all?”

“This is us playing nice,” Typhoon murmured, sipping from his floating cup.

North stared, but his smile was real now.

 

The shop didn’t even have a proper sign.

Only a delicately inked S on the window—curved in obsidian ink that shimmered faintly if the sun hit just right. It was hidden down a quieter street, tucked between an enchanted tailor and a perfumer that spelled scent trails into the air.

Tonfah was already ahead, gloved fingers brushing the aged brass handle before the others caught up. The moment the door opened, the scent of pressed parchment and petrichor spilled out, accompanied by the faint sound of ink quills gliding across paper.

Inside was near silent. Not quiet, but reverent.

It wasn’t a shop, but a temple for written things.

Handmade parchment in pale hues of grey and gold lined silk-bound shelves. Quills floated delicately over enchanted inkwells, testing pressure and angle. Small brass-lettered drawers were labelled in elegant calligraphy:

Midnight Ink — Salt-forged

Runic Drafts — Unsealed

Vanishing Parchment — Single-Use Only

Memory Paper — Reads What You Mean

Tonfah walked straight to the long mahogany counter like he’d been there a hundred times. The shopkeeper, a narrow-eyed woman in deep violet robes, gave him a curt nod.

“Monsieur Tonfah. Special order?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling faintly. “Twelve parchment rolls, enchanted featherlight. Three dozen gold-flecked envelopes, self-sealing. The grey-pressed journal, dragonhide spine. And I want the monogram stamped in low burnished silver.”

She didn't even blink. “The initials?”

“TP. R.,” Tonfah said, and when Typhoon raised a brow behind him, he added, “He likes to sketch charms into the margins. Ordinary parchment wrinkles.”

Typhoon didn't argue. He was busy choosing ink — not just any ink, of course, but a distilled stormy grey one labeled Skylight in Rain, made with rainwater collected on the night of a thunderstorm.

North turned a slow circle in the middle of the shop, mouth parted. “I didn’t know shops like this existed.”

“Because you’ve never shopped with us before,” Johan said, selecting a notepad with watermarked runes. “It’s horrifyingly expensive. Don’t worry. Typhoon’s paying.”

“I am not,” Typhoon said.

“You are when I tell them to charge it to your family’s travel ledger,” Daotok replied from a small alcove filled with wax seal stamps. He was holding one with a curling, vine-like design. “This one would look good on your letters, North.”

North turned pink. “I don’t write letters.”

“You will now,” Daotok said with finality, and handed it to the shopkeeper.

Hill was inspecting an ink that glowed faintly blue under touch. “What even is this?”

“Aether Ink,” Tonfah replied, not looking up. “Meant for rituals and soul spells. Incredibly difficult to remove.”

Hill put it back very, very carefully.

Easter had somehow managed to find a rack of novelty paper enchanted to shriek when scribbled on in the wrong tone. He was giggling to himself. Typhoon eyed him. “Do not give that to your professors.”

“No promises,” Easter grinned.

Johan, meanwhile, had found a glass box of pens that bled language in ancient script. He handed one to Arthit. “Write something. It’ll translate into whatever you mean. Not what you say.”

Arthit hesitated. Wrote one word.

The ink translated into: Stay.

He didn’t say anything, but Daotok’s eyes flicked toward it and stayed there, unreadable.

By the time the purchases were done and the charmed bags gathered, the shopkeeper bowed low.

Tonfah, now content, smoothed his gloves and nodded back. “It’s always a pleasure.”

She handed him a thin envelope. “A little gift. Custom wax seal. You might like the design.”

Typhoon peeked over his shoulder as they stepped back into the grey street. “It’s a raven clasping a ring.”

Tonfah smirked. “How appropriate.”

“Planning to use it?”

“Only if you behave.”

Typhoon leaned in. “Never, love.”

The others groaned and laughed as they began walking down the stone path, the shopping trip nearly finished, the light starting to dip toward late afternoon.

And behind them, in the silent shop, the ink quills resumed their dance across parchment as if the shop itself remembered every name and every spell ever written there.

 

---

 

They were supposed to stop at one café.

Just one.

But Easter spotted a second one with floating pastries in the window. Then a third whose cappuccino was charmed to change flavor as you drank it. Hill didn’t even pretend to protest.

Now, two hours in, they were on their fourth stop. This one, tucked beneath a streetlight enchanted to cast shifting auroras over the tables, had cinnamon-dusted waffles and a butterbeer crème brew that made Hill’s nose wrinkle before he melted into the cup.

“This is what we should do after school,” Easter murmured, eyes half-lidded as he chewed thoughtfully. “Drop everything. Open a café.”

Hill huffed a laugh. “We’d burn the croissants.”

“I’d charm the fire out of them.”

“You’d charm me into taste-testing everything.”

“You’d love it,” Easter grinned.

Hill didn’t answer, but his smile said enough. 

 

---

 

Johan was discerning. He didn’t shop as much as he studied stores like puzzles, measuring the quality of each fabric and the way magic clung to it. North just watched him work.

“You’re going to scare the poor tailor,” North murmured as Johan flicked his wand once, twice, levitating a midnight-blue jacket for inspection.

Johan didn’t look away. “He’s paid enough not to be scared.”

North rolled his eyes, but took the jacket when Johan handed it to him, holding it against himself. “Is this... for me?”

Johan's voice was low. “Just try it.”

North did and  he looked good. Too good. Johan’s gaze lingered, thoughtful, almost unreadable, as North smoothed his sleeves.

“This feels expensive.”

“It is expensive.”

“I could’ve picked something myself.”

Johan smiled faintly. “I didn’t want you to.”

North flushed.

 

---

 

They sat by the window of a quieter spot, one that served tea in thin ceramic cups and stacked books as centerpieces.

Daotok stirred his tea slowly, gaze distant.

Arthit watched him for a moment before finally saying, “You haven’t broken anything in two hours. That’s new.”

Daotok smirked. “I’m too tired to wreck the table.”

“I liked your fit,” Arthit said, casual.

Daotok raised a brow. “The one with the bloodied hands and vase shards?”

“Yeah,” Arthit nodded. “It was honest.”

Silence stretched for a breath too long.

Then Daotok reached across the table—not quite touching, but resting his hand near Arthit’s. “I’ll show you more. If you want.”

“I want,” Arthit said quietly. “Just… give me time to catch up.”

Daotok gave a small nod. “You already are.”

 

---

 

They’d slipped off on their own after the group shopping. Tonfah insisting on taking Typhoon into a quiet luxury boutique with no signboard and only a velvet rope across the threshold.

Inside, it was quiet. No racks. Just display pedestals like sculptures. A staff of two. Everything custom.

“Pick something,” Tonfah murmured.

Typhoon tilted his head. “Anything?”

Tonfah smiled. “Anything.”

So Typhoon took his time. A soft coat in dusk grey. Gloves embroidered with faint storm runes. A ring he let Tonfah slide onto his finger.

“You’re impossible,” Typhoon said softly as they stepped back into the cool air.

“You’re beautiful,” Tonfah replied, then lifted Typhoon’s hand to his lips, kissing the ring like a vow.

Typhoon’s face stayed unreadable for a moment… and then he leaned in, just brushing his lips to Tonfah’s jaw. Barely a whisper of touch. But it lingered.

“Thank you,” he said, only for Tonfah to hear. “For spoiling me. For being mine.”

They stood in the twilight for a long moment, quiet against the pulse of the city, before rejoining the others.

Chapter 23

The air at Platform 3/4 was alive with movement, a familiar hum of trunks wheeling across cobblestones, owls rustling in cages, steam hissing softly from the scarlet engine that loomed ahead like a memory coming to life again.

The eight of them stood together near the end of the platform, their trunks already loaded, their robes catching the soft breeze that danced through the station.

A sharp whistle sounded, not from the train, but from a professor a few feet away—calling prefects to their first duty of the term.

“Right,” Johan muttered, eyes flicking toward the sound. “That’s us.”

Tonfah sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Figures. They don’t even let us get on the train first.”

Daotok rolled his shoulders, spine already straightening with practiced ease. “Let’s get it over with.”

North glanced at the other four, his eyes pausing a little longer on Easter, as if to say something he didn’t quite say—then gave a soft nod. “We’ll see you in a bit.”

Arthit raised a brow. “What are we supposed to do, hold the train?”

“You’ll manage,” Johan said dryly. “Try not to blow anything up before we return.”

“Or set it on fire,” Daotok added, already stepping away.

Tonfah leaned close to Typhoon, brushing a kiss against the back of his hand. “Find a compartment near the back, love. Somewhere quiet.”

Typhoon, for all the warmth in his smile, looked like mischief wrapped in silk. “Of course. We’ll keep your seats warm.”

With that, the four prefects disappeared into the crowd, robes catching the wind.

Which left Typhoon, Easter, Hill, and Arthit standing amid the throng of families and students, the train whistling again in warning.

“Well,” Easter said, lifting his trunk with a small grunt, “we’d better find a compartment before someone else takes the good one.”

“Define good,” Hill asked, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Quiet? Near the food trolley? Far from first-years?”

“Far from noise,” Typhoon murmured, already heading toward the rear of the train. “And with enough space.”

Arthit followed without question. “Let’s just pick one before we have to hex our way through the crowd.”

Eventually, they found it—one of the larger compartments near the end of the train. Curtains drawn slightly, the air still inside. Typhoon stepped in first, running a hand along the seat like he was testing it. Then he nodded.

“This one,” he said simply.

The others followed, placing trunks in overhead compartments, arranging themselves loosely along the plush seats. Typhoon took the window, legs crossed, chin propped on his knuckles. He watched the steam rise just beyond the glass.

They settled slowly, the way people do when they’re used to watching each other from just the edge of comfort. Hill tugged off his robe and folded it neatly on his lap. Easter produced a wrapped biscuit from somewhere in his coat and offered it around. Arthit sat like a soldier on break—still, but alert.

There was quiet for a time. Not heavy, but not quite light either. They had grown used to that in each other’s company.

“They’ll find us,” Hill said after a while, softly, glancing at the door.

“They always do,” Typhoon replied, eyes still on the window.

And somewhere in the haze of rising steam and the weight of magic humming beneath the tracks, the train began to lurch forward.

Another year had begun.

 

The Hogwarts Express slowed with a familiar lurch as it pulled into Hogsmeade Station, steam coiling through the evening air like a breath held too long. Carriages waited, drawn by thestrals barely visible in the fading summer light. Students buzzed with half-spoken gossip and whispered memories of the summer gone by.

But eight figures stood apart as they disembarked.

Johan adjusted his green and silver robes with a calmness that only deepened his silence. Beside him, Daotok’s Hufflepuff pin gleamed, but his eyes were steady, as if the gold upon his chest was a distraction from the shadows he carried beneath his skin.

Tonfah’s fingers brushed Typhoon’s as they walked, not quite holding hands, but anchored to each other nonetheless. North helped Easter down from the carriage, Hill and Arthit behind them, chatting easily, though Hill glanced once toward the thestrals with a flicker of unease.

By the time they entered the Great Hall, the four long tables were already glowing under candlelight. The enchanted ceiling above shimmered with stars over velvet dusk. Murmurs echoed across the stone floor, greetings and laughter filling the vast room like old songs.

They parted ways to their respective tables, but only just.

At the Slytherin table, Johan sat like a statue of silver and stone, dark robes neat, posture impeccable. Beside him, Typhoon was quieter, his fingers brushing idly along the silverware, his gaze flickering toward the Ravenclaw table.

There, Tonfah leaned back slightly in his seat, one leg crossed, elbow resting against Hill’s shoulder in casual familiarity. Hill spoke low to him, and Tonfah laughed once, soft, too easily, before catching Typhoon’s glance and offering a subtle tilt of his head. Hill, noticing the exchange, said nothing, but his eyes narrowed faintly.

At the Gryffindor table, Arthit sat between North and a younger fourth year, hands folded neatly over his plate. His gaze flickered once—toward the Hufflepuff table, where Daotok had just finished muttering something to Easter, who snorted into his cup.

The headmistress rose.

Silence fell with trained immediacy.

“Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts,” Headmistress McGonagall began, her voice calm but sharpened like a wand tip. “May it bring you the wisdom to learn, the courage to ask, and the restraint to think before casting spells.”

Several first-years laughed nervously.

“For some of you,” she continued, “this is the beginning. For others, the middle of your journey. But for a rare few—this year begins with history.”

The room stilled.

Her eyes landed briefly on the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. A glint passed through her expression. “It has been twenty-seven years since two Hogwarts students earned perfect scores in their O.W.L. examinations.”

A collective shift of attention rippled across the hall.

“This summer, that record was matched. Mr. Tonfah Prasert of Ravenclaw,” she inclined her head, “and Mr. Typhoon Ratanaporn of Slytherin.”

A soft intake of breath followed.

“They each received twelve Outstanding marks across all their subjects,” the headmistress continued, “a feat which speaks not only of magical excellence, but of tireless commitment, discipline, and innovation.”

There was a beat of silence—then applause erupted, polite at first, then more genuine as surprise and murmurs filtered through the hall.

Typhoon remained still as stone, but Tonfah bowed his head in acknowledgment, brushing Hill’s hand away when it tried to nudge him teasingly. Across the room, Daotok grinned lazily and lifted his goblet toward Typhoon. Johan clinked his glass against it without looking.

The headmistress gave the applause a moment to die down before raising her hand once more.

“And with excellence comes responsibility,” she added, her tone sharpening subtly. “Which brings us to the matter of this term’s… exceptional circumstances.”

A flicker passed over several staff members’ expressions.

“The Triwizard Tournament,” she announced, “is returning.”

Gasps rang out, excited and anxious all at once.

“This term, Hogwarts will host two visiting schools—Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and Durmstrang Institute. Their students will arrive soon and reside with us, studying and training alongside our own. This, as you may imagine, is no small matter.”

Murmurs spread through the hall like wildfire.

“To ease integration,” McGonagall continued, “students will dine in mixed houses beginning tomorrow: Ravenclaws with Slytherins, Hufflepuffs with Gryffindors. And we expect every student to treat our guests with dignity and caution in equal measure.”

Her gaze lingered on the Slytherin table for a beat too long.

“And to our fifth and sixth years in particular,” she added, voice cold and clear, “the Goblet will be watching. And so will we.”

The tables fell silent again.

“Eat,” she said at last. “Celebrate. This may be the last quiet feast for quite some time.”

And with that, the tables filled—roast meats and golden pies, vegetables charmed to stay warm, goblets filled to the brim.

Across the room, the eight students met eyes across candlelight and dishes.

Johan and Typhoon clinked glasses again. Tonfah winked once, fingers idly spinning the ring on his right hand. Daotok said something under his breath to Easter, who shook his head and laughed quietly.

Hill and North shared a glance across the hall that said, without words, Something’s coming. And Arthit, ever quiet, observed them all—like a chessboard, he was slowly learning how to play.

The Triwizard Tournament had returned.

 

As the last golden tart vanished from the plates and goblets began to refill one final time, Headmistress McGonagall rose again—this time without need for silence. The hall responded instinctively.

“This year, as I mentioned earlier,” she began, “Hogwarts is honored to welcome students from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute as part of the reinstated Triwizard Tournament.”

The doors at the far end of the hall creaked open.

Soft footsteps echoed down the marble, and the Beauxbatons delegation entered in gentle waves of pale blues and silver silks. Their poise was elegant, their expressions polished, graceful. Nearly all of them wore cloaks that shimmered like morning frost.

Their Headmistress, Madame Olympe Maxime, followed behind with steady composure, chin lifted and eyes sweeping the hall like a snowstorm that had learned restraint.

Then came the echo of heavier boots.

The Durmstrang delegation entered like a storm breaking beneath stone. Cloaked in dark reds and blacks, they moved in a compact formation, quiet but commanding—there was no forced grace here, only presence. Eyes sharp. Expressions unreadable.

Behind them strode Headmaster Igor Karkaroff, tall and still as a statue. His eyes scanned the hall—dispassionate, calculating. They landed briefly on the Slytherin table, on Typhoon.

And Typhoon lifted his goblet, saluting the man without a word.

From beside him, Johan murmured, “Friend or foe?”

Typhoon’s voice was cool. “I don’t believe Durmstrang ever taught us the difference.”

 

The night crackled with tension, the last of the feast slowly fading from silver platters and goblets. Students began trickling out in uneven waves, some glancing nervously at the foreign contingents now rising from their tables, others trying not to stare too hard at the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang.

The eight of them stood near the side of the Great Hall, a little away from the crowd. They weren’t in a hurry to leave.

Tonfah’s fingers brushed Typhoon’s ring absentmindedly as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Typhoon was calm as ever, his eyes following the way the Beauxbatons students glided in their exit formation, speaking in lilting French.

Then, a voice, lightly accented, crisp with familiarity:

“Typhon Ratanaporn.”

Typhoon’s shoulders drew slightly straighter. He turned.

A young woman stood before them in the pale blue robes of Beauxbatons, elegance drawn like a blade in her stance. Her golden-blonde hair was pinned in an intricate twist, and her smile was one of recognition, not affection—but it was still warm.

“I did not believe I would see you here,” she said in French. “It has been years.”

Typhoon’s face remained perfectly schooled, but there was the briefest flicker in his eyes.
He inclined his head. “Amélie,” he said. “I’m surprised too.”

Tonfah stilled beside him.

The rest of the group looked between the two, mildly curious. Only Johan glanced once at Tonfah’s face, then smirked faintly and looked away.

“We met during the exchange program,” Typhoon explained quietly, in English now. “Durmstrang’s third year. She was assigned as a partner for a month.”

Amélie smiled again. “And you were as cold then as you are now, Typhon. But it was…enlightening.”

“I had different priorities,” he said smoothly.

Tonfah shifted. Subtly. Almost imperceptibly. But his hand now rested on Typhoon’s back, fingers light, circling just where his spine dipped. Possessive without needing to be public.

Amélie noticed. Her eyes flickered once to Tonfah’s hand, then back to Typhoon.

“I did not realize you were bonded.”

Typhoon said nothing. He didn’t need to. His silence was eloquent. Tonfah smiled then—polite, cutting. “We don’t always make public what’s private. But I assure you, he’s spoken for.”

Johan choked quietly on nothing. Daotok elbowed him. Hill blinked, mildly scandalized.
Arthit hid a snort with his sleeve.

Amélie nodded slowly. “Of course. I didn’t mean to intrude.” But her gaze lingered just a second too long before she turned and disappeared into the corridor, heels clicking with poise.

Silence settled for a beat.

“Third year?” Easter asked finally, tone amused. “Didn’t know Durmstrang did exchange programs.”

“They don’t,” Typhoon said, already walking. “They experiment.”

The group moved to follow. But Tonfah caught Typhoon’s wrist and tugged him close—just long enough to murmur low near his ear.

“Next time someone speaks to you like they still know you, love, maybe I’ll be the one answering.”

Typhoon’s smirk was pure indulgence. “So possessive.”

Tonfah didn’t deny it.

They had barely stepped into the torch-lit entrance hall when a familiar chill brushed the back of Typhoon’s neck. Waiting in the shadows near the arching doors of stone and iron was a tall man cloaked in storm-black robes—Headmaster Karkaroff of Durmstrang.

The others slowed instinctively behind Typhoon. He did not pause. His steps were measured, quiet, as though rehearsed.

“Ratanaporn,” the Headmaster said, voice quiet and cold.

Typhoon gave a slow bow. “Headmaster Karkaroff.”

Karkaroff stepped forward, eyeing the group that lingered behind him. His gaze lingered—coldly—on Tonfah for a breath too long, before returning to Typhoon.

“You left quietly,” Volkov said. “Too quietly for a boy who was once Durmstrang’s pride.”

Typhoon’s voice was clipped. “I left the way I was told to.”

“Indeed,” the headmaster murmured, circling slowly, the torches casting long shadows across his lined face. “Hogwarts is softer than you remember, I imagine. But now—" His gaze slid past Typhoon, toward the staircase above where the Goblet of Fire would soon be placed.

“Now, we find ourselves on a shared stage once more. I wonder, Ratanaporn—will you be... performing?”

Typhoon met his eyes, still as glass. “I’ve no intention to put on a show.”

“Pity.” Karkaroff’s voice held the faintest curl of disappointment. “You always knew how to command a room.”

Then he looked again at the rest of them—at the four others: Johan. Tonfah. Daotok. And finally, at the remaining four students watching behind them: North, Arthit, Easter, and Hill.

“You’ve collected quite the audience. I wonder… how many of them know what you were once capable of?”

Tonfah moved, stepping forward to Typhoon’s side, his expression pleasant but not entirely. “You’ll find we don’t take kindly to relics of the past making threats, Headmaster.”

Karkaroff’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not threatening, boy. Merely… reminiscing.”

Typhoon’s voice was quiet. “Then reminisce elsewhere.”

A pause.

Then Karkaroff smiled, humorless. “As cold as ever. Perhaps that’s why you were my favorite.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and swept back into the shadows.

 

The hour was late when Tonfah stepped through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, the chill of the lake pressing faintly against the green-glass windows. The room was quiet—students either asleep or elsewhere.

He didn’t knock when he reached the door to Typhoon’s shared dormitory.

Typhoon was already sitting on the edge of his bed, back against the headboard, a thick book open on his lap, and shadows playing on the curve of his cheek from the lanternlight.

Across the room, Johan glanced up from where he was folding a shirt into his bag. His lips pulled into a slow, knowing grin. "I was wondering how long it would take."

“Don’t get smug,” Tonfah said.

“I was being considerate,” Johan replied, slinging a satchel over his shoulder. “Besides, North sleeps better when I’m around.” A pause. Then: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Your bar’s in hell,” Tonfah muttered.

Johan winked. “Exactly.”

He left with a quiet click of the door, leaving silence behind.

Tonfah crossed the room in three steps and stood beside the bed. Typhoon looked up from the book, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Couldn't sleep?” Typhoon asked.

“I was already awake,” Tonfah said. “I just wanted to see you.”

“You didn’t like Amélie.”

“That’s generous,” Tonfah said flatly. “I didn’t like the way she looked at you. Like she still thought she had a chance.”

Typhoon raised a brow, amused. “We were fourteen. I barely remember her.”

“She remembered you,” Tonfah said, voice low. “The way she smiled, the way she talked to you, it wasn’t innocent.”

“She’s French,” Typhoon said dryly. “They flirt to breathe.”

Tonfah’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. He moved closer, stopped just in front of him. Typhoon looked up, head tilted. “Are you seriously jealous of a girl I haven’t spoken to in three years?”

“I’m not jealous of her,” Tonfah murmured. “I’m angry she forgot her place.”

He lifted Typhoon’s hand gently, and ran his thumb over the ring he’d given him. “This,” he whispered, “should’ve been enough of a warning.”

Typhoon's voice dropped. “And yet you’re the one needing reassurance.”

Tonfah looked at him then, gaze storm-dark and unguarded. “Because I know how much of you no one else sees. I know what it costs you to keep your mask up—and she saw none of it, and still thought she had the right to you.”

Typhoon’s expression softened, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned forward, forehead resting lightly against Tonfah’s.

After a beat, Tonfah added, voice quieter, “And then there’s the headmaster.”

Typhoon tensed, just a little. “I saw you watching him.”

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you either.”

“He taught me for four years.”

“He evaluated you tonight like an asset,” Tonfah said, jaw tight. “Like someone he might be able to pull back.”

“He won’t.”

“I know. Because I’d hex him into the floor before he tried.”

Typhoon gave a small, dry laugh. “There it is.”

Tonfah looked down, then lifted Typhoon’s hand again and pressed a slow kiss to his ring finger. “You’re not just mine by title, you know. You’re mine by blood, by promise, by—”

“By vow,” Typhoon finished softly.

Silence hung between them for a moment.

Then, Tonfah pulled him into his lap without another word, and Typhoon let him. Limbs folding easily, his head resting against Tonfah’s shoulder. Tonfah’s hand slid into his hair, slow and possessive.

“Still jealous?” Typhoon asked, voice muffled by the collar of Tonfah’s shirt.

“I’m always jealous,” Tonfah murmured into his temple. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Typhoon didn’t answer, just let himself breathe into that space, into that familiar storm.

And in the silence, Tonfah whispered against his hair, “If they only knew, love…”

Chapter 24

The eight of them were seated again together at the far end of the Slytherin Table, surrounded by platters of toast, honeyed ham, spiced pumpkin scones, and dark tea that still steamed from silver pots.

Johan, of course, sat like he belonged there. Typhoon beside him, unreadable as ever, poured tea into Tonfah’s cup without looking. Across from them, Daotok, North, Arthit, Hill, and Easter were halfway through their breakfasts, eyes flickering toward the professors’ table every so often.

A soft rustle of wings signaled the arrival of owls.

Their letters descended neatly—each scroll wrapped in dark green ribbon and marked with the Hogwarts crest. Timetables.

Tonfah unrolled his first, glancing through it as he absently buttered a scone for Typhoon. “Shared classes begin today,” he said lightly. “Starting with Charms.”

“With Durmstrang,” Daotok added, already reading ahead. “And Potions with Beauxbatons after lunch.”

“Could be worse,” North muttered. “Could be Defense first thing with both.”

Typhoon arched a brow. “That’s tomorrow.”

North groaned.

Easter leaned closer over his schedule. “We’re rotating classes with both schools. Some will be with Beauxbatons, others with Durmstrang. And then some with both, like Magical Theory.”

“Or Herbology,” Hill added, scanning the parchment. “Looks like Beauxbatons prefers theoretical spellwork. Durmstrang’s grouped with us for more… practical subjects.”

“You mean dangerous ones,” Arthit said dryly. “I’d bet they requested that.”

No one disagreed.

Typhoon leaned closer to Tonfah’s schedule and tapped a line near the bottom. “Triwizard Orientation,” he read, voice flat. “Friday evening, mandatory attendance for fifth through seventh years.”

Daotok frowned. “Is it just a briefing?”

“Or a subtle screening,” Johan murmured. “We’ll see.”

The atmosphere dipped slightly. The noise of the hall buzzed on, but at their end of the table, it dulled—quieted beneath old knowing.

Tonfah took a sip of tea, eyes flicking to the Durmstrang students seated across the hall. “If the Ministry thinks rotating us through shared classes will make us friendlier with foreign schools, they’ve forgotten we’re all in training for a war they pretend doesn’t exist.”

Typhoon hummed in agreement. “Let them pretend. We’ll watch and record everything.”

Arthit blew out a slow breath. “So… what are the rules here? Friendliness? Diplomacy?”

“Caution,” Johan replied. “And distance. For now.”

They all turned back to their food. Silence laced between them, companionable and sharp.

Then Hill looked up suddenly. “Wait… do we have Astronomy with Beauxbatons or Durmstrang?”

Easter checked his schedule. “Neither. That’s just Hogwarts. But they’ll be in the same tower.”

Hill sighed. “Of course they will.”

 

---

 

The Charms classroom was brighter than usual, sunlight slanting through tall windows and glinting off polished desks. Professor Flitwick stood near the blackboard, practically buzzing with excitement at the integration of foreign schools.

Students filed in in neat pairs—Ravenclaws, Slytherins, Durmstrang in dark crimson and black, their uniforms sharp with high collars and silver fastenings. They moved with quiet purpose, the air around them clipped and serious.

Typhoon entered with Tonfah beside him, still brushing a faint smudge of ink from his sleeve. Behind them, Johan and Hill were already sliding into the back row, watching.

“I expected more glowering,” Tonfah murmured. “It’s... tame.”

“For now,” Typhoon replied, eyes scanning the Durmstrang students, calculating.

A voice interrupted, smooth and familiar. “Well, well. They said you were here.”

Typhoon turned, slowly.

Mek.

Tall, lean, his Durmstrang robes immaculate, a silver pin glinting on his collar. His eyes lit up the moment they landed on Typhoon. And he smiled like they’d just spoken yesterday.

“I was wondering if you’d actually show your face here again,” Mek said, tone teasing but tinged with something else. “Still carrying that look like you’ve hexed someone in your sleep.”

Typhoon blinked once. “Mek.”

Mek grinned wider at the acknowledgment. “You haven’t changed.”

“I have,” Typhoon said simply.

Tonfah, beside him, watched in careful silence, hand resting lightly on the desk. Not possessive, just present.

Mek didn’t seem to notice. “You know, it’s funny. I used to say you’d never survive Hogwarts, but look at you.” He gestured vaguely. “Perfect robes, seated at the top of the class. I suppose exile has a way of... refining someone.”

There was something just a bit too fond in the way he said exile.

Typhoon’s mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. Not quite. “We all refine differently.”

The seat beside Typhoon remained pointedly empty.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Mek said, flashing a smile at Tonfah as though he didn’t notice the shift in the air. “For old time’s sake.”

He turned and walked away.

Tonfah didn’t speak until Mek had taken a seat near the middle. “Friend?” he asked lightly.

“Dormmate,” Typhoon replied, voice like frost. “He talked too much.”

“And yet here he is,” Tonfah murmured, “still trying.”

Typhoon reached for his quill, not answering. Across the room, Mek glanced back once, and smiled.

 

Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the classroom, practically gleaming with excitement as he adjusted a stack of enchanted candles. The chalk behind him floated midair, scrawling today’s topic in elegant cursive: Precision Casting & Intention-Driven Charms.

“Now, now! Settle in, everyone,” he chirped. “This will be our first integrated class with Durmstrang Institute. Do behave.”

The room buzzed with movement as Hogwarts students began settling at their usual tables, but were immediately rerouted.

“Mixed tables today, please,” Flitwick called, barely containing his grin.

The students hesitated, then obeyed.

“Merde,” Typhoon muttered under his breath as Mek approached him once more.

“Wands away for now, class,” Flitwick called brightly, cutting through the tension like a knife through soft fruit. “We’ll be doing a short theory segment before moving on to practicals. Please pair with someone not from your school.”

A murmur of discomfort rippled through the class. The room had shifted by the time the theory was done.

Wands were now out. The enchantment targets floated midair—delicate orbs of foggy glass meant to test precision, reaction speed, and control of intent-driven charms.

Professor Flitwick clapped once.

“Durmstrang will demonstrate first. We’ve heard you practice directive spellcasting—very elegant. Please, show us.”

A tall Durmstrang girl stepped forward. Without flourish, she raised her wand, muttered a command in a language sharp and glottal, and—

The glass orb didn’t just levitate. It spun midair with geometric exactness, formed shapes in light, and burst in a silent display of stardust and control.

A few Hogwarts students blinked.

Flitwick beamed. “Beautiful control. Very good! Now—Hogwarts, do return the favor.”

Johan, naturally, stepped forward. Tonfah gave him a nod from across the room.

With a slow flick, Johan raised an orb, then pushed it gently. It danced like water flicked from a blade, moving in controlled waves. Then, with a quiet whisper of a spell, it solidified—hovering as crystal before shattering into silent rain.

There was a pause. Then a smattering of applause. A bit hesitant, but genuine.

Mek leaned in toward Typhoon once more, who had not yet cast. “Still the golden one, I see. They clap for you even when you’re not moving.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” Typhoon said mildly, before rising without another glance.

He raised his wand.

The spell left his mouth soft as breath. The orb didn’t shatter or dance—it began to pulse. Each pulse was brighter than the last until the entire room dimmed in comparison. It hovered midair, impossibly still, then dissolved into motes that spiraled.

A ripple ran through the class.

Tonfah looked up from across the room, his expression stoic.

Mek said nothing. But his gaze sharpened.

Flitwick blinked. “Exceptional. A perfect demonstration of harmonic control.”

Typhoon returned to his seat without reaction.

As the students moved into pairs, Mek drifted close again. “You could have done better,” he murmured.

Typhoon raised an eyebrow. “I already did.”

As the bell rang, the students began packing up. Mek lingered by the door. “We should talk sometime,” he said.

“Unlikely,” Typhoon replied, walking past without looking at him.

Tonfah fell in step beside him, calm as a winter lake. “You used that charm again,” he murmured.

Typhoon hummed. “I refined it.”

Tonfah slid a hand lightly across Typhoon’s lower back—subtle, possessive, as if to remind Mek who he’d lost access to.

“Good,” he said. “Because someone was watching you like they still owned you.”

Typhoon smiled faintly, never looking back. “Let him watch.”

 

The Great Hall hummed with chatter, golden light spilling from the floating candles above. Platters of roast lamb, buttered carrots, and stewed pears glimmered along the tables, their warmth mingling with the scent of pumpkin spice and toasted bread.

The eight of them had gathered at the Gryffindor table this evening, as was becoming their quiet tradition—a table that, though bustling and chaotic most nights, had oddly bent around their presence, quieter, watchful.

North sat at the far end, nursing a mug of cider, eyes sweeping the room. Beside him, Johan leaned lazily against the table, slicing into roasted duck while Daotok absentmindedly buttered a scone beside him.

Typhoon was flanked—subtly and intentionally by Tonfah to his right and Easter to his left. Hill and Arthit completed the half-circle, their casual poses betraying little of the way they watched the hall.

It should have been a soft evening.

Should have.

But Mek didn’t believe in silence.

He approached with all the arrogance of a Durmstrang student too used to having doors open for him. A few heads turned as he crossed the floor—half curiosity, half apprehension. His coat swayed behind him, scarlet-lined and far too dramatic for the hour.

“Typhoon,” he said, and the name struck the table like a dropped fork.

Typhoon didn’t flinch. He continued slicing through a poached pear, lifting it to his mouth with precise grace. “Mek.” His voice was calm.

“You didn’t tell me you had... such eclectic company,” Mek said, eyes dragging over the others like catalog entries.

Tonfah’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We tend to grow fond of those who can hold their own.”

Mek’s gaze flicked to him. “I’m sure.”

Daotok sipped his tea without looking up. “Did you need something?” he asked mildly, but there was nothing mild about the razor edge beneath the tone.

Mek blinked at him as if he hadn’t spoken, then looked back at Typhoon. “Have you considered what I said in class? About us catching up?”

“Catching up?” Johan repeated under his breath, so low only North could hear. “Interesting choice of words.”

Typhoon set down his fork. Tonfah’s fingers tapped once on the table beside him, a signal known only to Typhoon.

Typhoon sighed. “I don’t think you’re used to hearing ‘no,’ Mek.”

Mek’s expression shifted. Not quite hurt nor angry, but confused. “I’m offering you what we had—what we could’ve had, back at Durmstrang. I thought that would be worth something.”

Hill snorted. Arthit raised an eyebrow. “The only thing worth anything here is his time. You’re wasting it.”

Mek turned. “And you are?”

“The one who’s still here,” Easter replied before Arthit could, tone friendly but final.

For a moment, the air felt like it might crack. Then Typhoon spoke, gently but with finality. “We’re not at Durmstrang anymore, Mek. You should learn to read the room.”

Mek hesitated. “If you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

That landed and he left.

Silence lingered for a moment too long. Then Johan cut his steak and said, “He’s persistent. I’ll give him that.”

“I’d give him a hex,” Daotok murmured.

Hill grinned. “I would’ve offered to show him the Astronomy Tower.”

“Don’t break him,” Easter said, pouring more tea. “He still might be useful.”

North chuckled. “The only thing he’s useful for is pissing us off.”

Typhoon shook his head with a sigh.

Tonfah turned to him and, almost imperceptibly, adjusted the edge of Typhoon’s collar affectionately. Then his voice, low and only for Typhoon:

“You’re too patient, love.”

Typhoon’s eyes softened slightly. “You’re not.”

“Exactly why I’m here.”

The table returned to motion, talk shifting to Charms homework and whether the new Defense professor had it out for Gryffindors. But the space around them felt tighter now.

Mek could knock on the door, but he would never get through the lock.

Chapter 25

Notes:

I want to hug them all here. My babies suffered too much. :(

The banners of the three schools shimmered along the enchanted ceiling—blue silk of Beauxbatons rippling softly beside the dark crimson of Durmstrang, and Hogwarts’ gold-and-black crest gleaming steady in the center. The Great Hall had been cleared, now resembling an arcane arena, marble floors etched faintly with protective runes and dueling boundaries.

It had been a long morning of demonstrations—charms traded, and spellwork that sparked polite applause. But even among the polished performances, there lingered the sense that no one had truly tested their magic.

Rows of students sat on conjured benches in gallery formation, murmuring with anticipation. The trio of headmasters and mistresses stood in formal silence near the raised platform: Headmistress McGonagall, Madame Olympe, and Headmaster Karkaroff.

“Mock duels are intended,” said Professor Thorne, their DADA instructor, “to demonstrate technique and adaptability, not destruction.”

That would’ve been enough—until Headmaster Karkaroff stepped forward, arms clasped behind his back.

“In Durmstrang,” he said, voice low and polished, “we believe power should not be masked by politeness. I would request that the duel would be two of Durmstrang's finest."

Some turned in confusion, brows raised. Karkaroff's eyes narrowed with a cool glint.

“Typhoon Ratanaporn and Mek Volkov.”

A stillness rippled through the room.

From the Slytherin bench, Typhoon’s back stiffened slightly. He did not rise immediately. At the Durmstrang side, Mek stood, far too eagerly.

“Always did think it would come to this,” Mek said as he strolled toward the arena. “Nice of you to come home, Typhoon. Thought you’d buried your spine back in exile.”

Tonfah’s hand twitched around his wand. Typhoon stood at last, calm and silent. He passed Tonfah’s seat, there was a flick of a gaze exchanged between them. “You don’t have to prove anything,” Tonfah said under his breath.

Professor Thorne began, “This is not meant to be a—”

Karkaroff raised a hand. “Let them show what Durmstrang trains. No limits. Let the duel be real. Do not hold back.”

Typhoon said nothing. He stepped into the ring with the weightless grace of someone long used to being watched and underestimated. The professors conferred quickly, uneasy with Karkaroff's call.

“If the rules are to change,” Typhoon said softly, “then I would like permission to set a safety warding rune. For the audience's sake.”

"Already in place," McGonagall confirmed. "You may cast freely."

Typhoon gave a half nod as he stepped onto the platform.

From across the circle, Mek gave a flourish with his wand. His magic sparked a flashy, dramatic swirl of crimson light.

“Begin!” Professor Thorne announced.

Mek struck first—a sharp Confringo that exploded where Typhoon had just sidestepped. Typhoon flicked his wand in reply, sending a tight line of Fulminare that cracked across Mek’s wand arm. Mek hissed, stumbled, but didn’t fall.

The crowd gasped.

Ventisca. Incendio. Tectum Spinae. Percuto Aether.

The platform sparked and groaned beneath them.

A whip of light cut across Typhoon’s side, splitting the fabric of his robes and skin alike. He didn’t flinch. A shallow wound bloomed crimson along his ribs.

Mek sneered. “You’ve slowed.”

Typhoon said nothing. He slashed his wand upward. Mek was blasted back, crashing into the far ward. Dust and light flared. The crowd stirred, some on their feet.

And still, neither yielded.

Johan chuckled. “There he is.”

Daotok hummed. “Let him play.”

Tonfah watched, not smiling. He knew what this meant: Typhoon wasn’t trying to win. He was making a point.

And then, Mek taunted.

“Come on, Phoon,” Mek called, “You didn’t lose your edge at Hogwarts, did you? Thought you were Durmstrang’s little stormborn.”

That got him a look.

Typhoon shifted his grip and then the air turned.

The next spell shattered Mek’s shield in one blow. The Durmstrang students leaned forward. The Beauxbatons group stilled. Even Karkaroff now watched with narrowed eyes. But Typhoon didn’t wait for Mek to recover.

"Ventari."

The spell coiled like a cyclone, smashing toward Mek with the weight of wind and force—sending him reeling backward. Mek’s grin faltered. “Getting angry, Phoon?”

“No,” Typhoon murmured, and raised his wand again. “You’re just predictable.”

Blood now stained both of them. Mek’s lip split, jaw bruising. Typhoon’s sleeve was soaked, a gash running down his forearm. He switched grips.

A pause. Their breathing loud in the hush.

Then Mek whispered, “Do you still remember who you were before they made you weak? You were a monster, Typhoon.”

Typhoon’s eyes darkened. His voice dropped low. “Still am.”

Then—

“Mors Infracta.”

The air stilled.

The rune circle ignited beneath their feet, not gold but shadow-violet, seeping like ink into the floor.

Mek froze midstep.

A gasp rippled through the hall as Mek crumpled—not injured, but silenced. Magic gone. Emptied. Hollow.

A terrible hush settled in.

Tonfah’s breath caught. Johan stiffened. Daotok’s smirk faded.

“Tell me he didn’t,” Johan muttered.

“He did,” Daotok said quietly. “Shit.”

The spell ended and Mek collapsed fully, breathing but shaken. Typhoon stood over him—not triumphant, just still. A stillness took hold of the room as the spell dimmed. Mek twitched, tried to raise his wand, and couldn’t. He stared at his hands in horror.

“My magic—” he rasped.

Typhoon, standing still in the center of the scorched floor, wiped the blood from his jaw. “I followed the rules,” he said, quiet, to the professors. “I didn’t hold back.”

McGonagall was on her feet. “Enough.”

The safety wards dropped. The duel was over.

The Hogwarts professors didn’t move at first.

Only Hill dared to speak. “What… what was that?”

Tonfah stepped down from the platform edge, approaching Typhoon, already unbuttoning the ruined sleeve of his robes to look at the wound. “You always go too far,” he murmured.

Typhoon just leaned in, breathing shallow. “He asked for it.”

 

The Room of Requirement had shifted.

Gone were its usual benches and cluttered training mats. In its place was something warmer, dimmer—firelight crackled low in an ornate hearth, casting soft amber shadows against deep green and navy walls. A plush settee and velvet armchairs lined the space, a basin of clean water hovered in the air, and a cabinet of healing supplies stood ready.

Typhoon sat on the edge of the settee, shirt stripped and discarded, blood still streaking along his side and arm. Johan worked in silence, casting a numbing charm before dabbing the open cut with precise movements. Tonfah knelt nearby, cradling Typhoon’s injured arm on his thigh, his other hand running slow circles over Typhoon’s back, grounding. Daotok stood by the hearth, silent.

North, Easter, Arthit, Hill stood at a cautious distance. They’d followed without question, eyes wide from what they’d witnessed in the duel, but they hadn’t yet spoken.

Until now.

It was North who broke the quiet. Voice low and careful. “That spell… Mors Infracta—what was that?”

Typhoon didn’t look up. Johan didn’t answer either. It was Daotok who turned from the hearth. “It was never supposed to exist,” he said quietly. “And it should’ve never had to.”

They all turned to him. Even Typhoon, finally, raised his gaze.

Hill frowned. “Then why—?”

“Because I was supposed to die,” Daotok said coldly.

Easter’s mouth parted. “What?”

Johan stood now, arms folding over his chest. “You’ve seen how the Ministry treats dark-aligned families. But some—some think they can purify themselves. Scrub themselves white and clean.”

Arthit whispered, horrified, “They offered Daotok?”

“They think turning against their own darkness will gain them protection,” Tonfah said.

Daotok met their eyes. “My family. My elders. When I was eleven, they decided I was… a stain. My element is water, but it didn’t manifest the way they wanted. My magic was darker. I was wrong in their eyes.”

He laughed once, short and bitter. “So they decided to offer me. Sacrifice me. As a symbol. As an apology. They would keep their name clean, their children clean, by killing the one who wasn’t.”

A sharp breath from Hill. Arthit took a step forward, like he might reach for Daotok, but stopped.

North was pale. “But—how did you survive?”

“Because we were there,” Johan said. “We were all there.”

“We’d just gotten our Hogwarts letters,” Typhoon said. His voice was rougher now, quiet but full of something coiled. “They’d invited us to celebrate. But it wasn’t a celebration. It was a final supper.”

“I remember Daotok’s face when they dragged him to the altar,” Tonfah murmured. “He didn’t even scream.”

“He just looked at us,” Typhoon said.

Daotok looked down.

“I snapped,” Typhoon continued. “There was no time to think. No time to reach for help. I created Mors Infracta on instinct. It didn’t even exist until then.”

Hill’s mouth opened slowly. “You—created it?”

“It’s a rupturing spell,” Johan said. “It breaks the link between soul and magic. Not just casting ability—everything. It shatters resonance. It stops the victim from ever using magic again.”

“Permanently?” Easter asked.

Tonfah nodded. “Permanently.”

Typhoon looked away. “They were seconds away from killing him. I didn’t hesitate.”

“And you cast it?” Arthit said, quietly. “On who?”

Typhoon’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “The elder with the dagger.”

There was a heavy silence.

Then Daotok said, “He never recovered. They buried him without a wand.”

“And the Ministry found out,” Tonfah added. “They labeled it dark magic. Forbidden. Typhoon was exiled to Durmstrang before we even boarded the Hogwarts Express.”

Arthit stared. “You were twelve.”

“Darkness doesn’t wait until you're older,” Typhoon muttered. “It finds you when you’re desperate.”

There was a long pause.

Then Hill, voice unsure, said, “Is… is that why you were so angry at Johan? Back then?”

The question hung heavy in the air. Typhoon closed his eyes. He didn’t speak at first. When he did, it was quieter than expected. “I didn’t know where to put it—all the rage. Johan didn’t pull me away. Daotok was bleeding, and Johan didn’t say anything. Tonfah screamed. I cast. But Johan—” He paused. “He froze.”

“I was twelve,” Johan said quietly.

“I know,” Typhoon said.

There was a beat.

“I know now,” he repeated, softer. “We were all children. But back then, anger was easier than understanding. It felt like you chose silence. It felt like you let it happen.”

“I didn't want to believe it was real,” Johan murmured. “I thought—if I didn’t move, if I just watched, it would stop.”

“And it didn’t,” Daotok said flatly. “You were watching the wrong thing.”

Silence again.

Then Typhoon exhaled. “I understand now. That we were just scared. There was nothing we could’ve done. But that doesn’t erase how it felt then.”

Tonfah’s thumb brushed over Typhoon’s knuckles. “It’s not about blame. It’s about remembering.”

“I forgive you,” Typhoon said, voice so soft it almost vanished. “I don’t forget. But I forgive you.”

Johan looked like he’d aged ten years in a moment. “Then I’ll carry that.”

Hill sat down slowly beside Daotok. “I never realized… that this is what you were hiding.”

“Would you have stayed, if you did?” Daotok asked.

Easter answered. “Yes.”

North nodded. “We don’t know everything. But we’re not running.”

“And that’s enough,” Tonfah said softly. “For now.”

Easter’s voice broke the silence again. “…What’s going to happen to Mek?”

All eyes turned to Typhoon.

North straightened. Hill and Arthit stilled.

Typhoon didn’t look surprised by the question. He exhaled through his nose, eyes focused on the flame of the hearth for a breath longer before he answered. “He’ll be fine.”

There was a pause. North frowned. “You used Mors Infracta. I thought—”

“I ended it before it tore into him,” Typhoon said. “It wasn’t a full cast. I redirected the rupture at the last second.”

“You can do that?” Hill asked, quiet, unsure if he should be relieved or more unnerved.

“I can,” Typhoon confirmed. “The spell only rips through a person’s core if it completes, if it’s fueled with full intention to destroy. But I used just enough force to demonstrate… and no more.”

“You pulled the brakes at the last second,” Johan muttered, impressed. “I saw it. A half-second longer and Mek wouldn’t be standing.”

“He still collapsed,” Arthit pointed out.

Typhoon didn’t deny it. “His pride is more bruised than his body. And his core is intact.”

Daotok stirred the potion once more. “Good. He doesn’t deserve death. Yet.”

That earned a dry laugh from Tonfah, though his hands never stopped dressing Typhoon’s wounds. North was silent. Processing. “So you could have—”

“I could have ended him,” Typhoon said, and it was not arrogance in his voice, just a fact. “But I didn’t. Because it wasn’t the time. And he’s not worth that price.”

Silence again.

Until Johan spoke, low and sardonic, “So. You didn’t kill Mek. Just emotionally scarred him, humiliated him in front of three schools, and proved that you’re still the most terrifying spellcaster in the castle.”

Typhoon raised a brow. “That wasn’t the intention.”

“You say that,” Tonfah murmured, tightening the bandage.

Easter broke into a faint smile. “Well. Good to know he’s fine. I guess.”

“Fine enough to scheme again,” Daotok muttered.

North looked toward Typhoon again, more thoughtful now. “You were angry.”

“Yes,” Typhoon said. “But not out of control.”

Then, softer, “Control is everything.”

And this time, none of them disagreed.

Somewhere above, the clock tower struck midnight. The sound didn’t break the quiet—it wrapped around it, soft and strange, as if the castle was mourning something lost. Eventually, Johan stood. “We should rest.”

No one argued.

Arthit offered Daotok a hand this time. Daotok looked at it for a long second before taking it. North nudged Johan with his shoulder. Johan didn't smile, but he didn’t need to. Hill stood beside Easter, who gently reached for his sleeve as they walked out together. Just a light touch.

Tonfah lingered at the window. Typhoon didn't move.

“Are you alright?” Tonfah asked, finally.

Typhoon didn’t answer with words. Just stepped forward and leaned into him.

And Tonfah caught him.

No more spells. No more shadows.

Just two boys, quiet in the night, holding the weight of what had been and what was still to come.

Notes:

Place your bets on who would be the Triwizard Champion. :)

Chapter 26

The sun had barely filtered through the enchanted ceiling when they entered the Great Hall. It should have been like any other morning—toast and tea, porridge, pumpkin juice, and the warm, muffled sounds of plates clinking and sleepy chatter.

But the moment Typhoon stepped in, trailing behind Johan and Tonfah, the sound shifted.

They weren’t subtle, the younger years. Especially not the second- and third-years clustered at the far end of the Slytherin table. Heads tilted together and eyes wide. A flicker of awe in some. A curl of fear in others.

“…they said it scorched the ground—”

“—and the other one couldn’t walk straight after—”

“—Typhoon used a spell they had to put a barrier up for—”

“Didn’t he get expelled before?”

“I heard he wasn’t expelled—he was sent away. Durmstrang, right?”

“Mek hasn’t left the Hospital Wing.”

Typhoon said nothing. His robes were immaculate. The bandage peeking under his sleeve had been charmed to match his uniform. He took his seat beside Tonfah as if none of it mattered.

Tonfah, for his part, simply poured Typhoon’s tea without a word, his hand lingering a moment too long on the cup. His gaze swept the room with the cool indifference of a boy who already knew too much and cared too little about what they thought.

Daotok was already seated, looking bored but alert, fingers drumming on his goblet. Johan arrived behind Typhoon and sat beside North at the edge, placing a fresh copy of the Daily Prophet onto the table—folded, unread.

Hill and Easter took their usual seats, casting narrowed glances at the source of the whispers. Arthit looked halfway between annoyed and tired, eyes flickering to Typhoon before settling on the younger students with quiet disapproval. North sighed and leaned over to Johan. “It’s like they’ve never seen spellwork before.”

“They haven’t,” Johan murmured. “Not like that.”

“Ignore them,” Easter said, buttering his toast a bit too aggressively. “They’ll move on when someone else explodes a cauldron.”

“Or burns the Divination Tower,” Hill added, voice dry.

Typhoon didn’t comment. He only sipped his tea.

“How’s Mek?” Tonfah asked softly, without looking up.

Johan shrugged. “Still in the Hospital Wing. Talk is he’ll be fine in a few days.”

“That bad?” Arthit asked, surprised.

“He cast just as strongly as Typhoon did,” Daotok said calmly, slicing into a piece of fruit. “They asked not to hold back. He didn’t.”

“And neither did Typhoon,” Tonfah said.

There was silence at the table for a moment. Then Hill said, “You scared them.”

Typhoon turned to him. “Good.”

That earned him a quiet chuckle from Daotok, and a faint shake of the head from North.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Easter said, offering him a piece of toast. “You were brilliant.”

“Too brilliant, maybe,” Johan muttered. “The whispers won’t go away soon.”

“I don’t need them to go away,” Typhoon said softly, gaze still unreadable. “Let them talk. Let them remember.”

Tonfah finally turned to look at him, something almost fond flickering behind his eyes. “Still a storm,” he said.

“Always,” Typhoon replied.

And just like that, the moment settled. The whispers remained. But they didn’t matter—not here, not at this table. Not when the eight of them sat side by side, the quiet power between them louder than anything the Great Hall could muster.

 

---

 

Lunch at the Great Hall, students still loud and careless, plates clinking, owls overhead. Typhoon sat beside Tonfah at the Ravenclaw table, barely touching his pumpkin soup. Across from them, Daotok was listening to Arthit complain about their Arithmancy homework, while Easter and North sat with Hill, giggling over a scribbled note someone passed down from the Hufflepuff table.

Typhoon didn’t say a word.

Tonfah glanced at him. “What’s wrong?”

Typhoon just shook his head. “Nothing. Eat.”

A few more moments passed. Then, with eerie calm, Typhoon stood and, without so much as a glance, said aloud, “North, Ter, Dao, come with me.”

The three of them froze mid-bite. Hill squinted. “What for?”

Typhoon didn’t even break stride as he left the table. Daotok looked at the others, shrugged, and stood. “Well, this should be good.”

Easter and North followed, wide-eyed but unbothered. They were used to this by now.

The moment the door to the unused classroom shut, North glances between the three of them, clearly confused. “Are you going to tell us why we’ve been dragged up here like it’s some underground meeting?”

Easter folds his arms, amused. “You said this was urgent.”

Daotok is already nibbling at a sweet from his pocket. “If it’s illegal, I’m in.”

“It’s Tonfah’s birthday in two weeks.”

North blinks. “…Right.”

Daotok raises an eyebrow. “So, are we blowing something up, or baking something?”

Easter leans on the table, smiling. “He doesn’t want just any birthday surprise, does he?”

Typhoon smiles—soft, almost fond. “He spoils me too much. So this time… I want to do something for him. But I can’t do it alone.”

North leans forward, interest piqued now. “What kind of something are we talking about?”

“I’ve already secured the gift. I need you to come with me to pick it up.”

Daotok arched an eyebrow. “You called a covert meeting just to shop?”

Typhoon’s expression didn’t shift, but his voice grew softer. “It’s not just shopping. It’s... Tonfah. It has to be perfect.”

North tilted his head. “You already have the gift?”

Typhoon nodded. “Custom-made. Been working on it since May. It’s finished now, just waiting to be picked up.”

Easter smiled slowly. “You planned ahead.”

Daotok gave a low whistle. “Color me impressed.”

North looked at him skeptically. “And where exactly do we need to pick this gift up?”

“Japan,” Typhoon said, like he was announcing the weather. “We’re going to Japan.”

North and Easter blinked at the same time. “I’m sorry,” North said. “Did you say—?”

“Yes.”

Easter, after a beat, sighed. “Of course you did.”

“You’re seriously going international for a bracelet?” Daotok asked.

“It’s not just a bracelet,” Typhoon muttered, eyes narrowing as he finished drawing a precise rune into the earth. “It’s his. It has to be perfect.”

“I’ll apparate us there tomorrow, before dinner. No one will notice we’re gone.” Typhoon’s eyes flicked toward the door. “No one else knows. Let’s keep it that way.”

North chuckled. “I don’t even want to know how you plan to get through the wards.”

“You don’t need to,” Typhoon replied, faintly amused. “Just be ready.”

Easter and Daotok exchanged a glance before nodding.

Typhoon finally relaxed. “Good.”

 

The wind shifted. The scent of plum blossoms and warded ink filled the air as they landed in a narrow-cobbled alleyway, tucked somewhere between reality and something far older. Shops shimmered like mirages. Hanging lanterns pulsed softly above doorways. One shop in particular gleamed faintly with a silver sigil—a handcrafted jewelry atelier protected by seven generations of charm crafters.

North looked around in awe. “How did you even find this place?”

“I have taste,” Typhoon replied shortly.

“You also have problems,” Easter added, though there was no real bite.

Inside, the atelier was quiet and warmly lit. A soft, melodic chime echoed as they stepped in. The enchantress behind the counter recognized Typhoon immediately and bowed low. “Welcome again, Master Typhoon. The private selection?”

He nodded once. She vanished behind a veil of magic, returning moments later with a small black case bound in silvery thread. When she opened it—

Even Daotok inhaled.

There, nestled against velvet, was a bracelet of woven starlace and runed platinum, set with a single opalescent stone that shimmered green and silver—not just Slytherin colors, but Tonfah’s hues, the ones that always danced around his magic whenever Typhoon was near.

Typhoon stared at it for a long moment. Then: “Add a blood rune. Mine. Quiet, buried beneath the setting. I want it to anchor to me, but never burn.”

The enchantress didn’t flinch. “Discreetly?”

Typhoon nodded. “Always.”

The gift was already secured—safely tucked in a velvet box and wrapped in silver paper, enchanted to stay cool and unsuspicious even through magical detection charms. The artisan had bowed low after recognizing Typhoon, murmured something in Japanese that the others didn’t understand, and closed the workshop’s lacquered doors behind them.

Now, they strolled through a narrow, quiet street, golden with the dipping sun, the hum of late afternoon washing over them. Paper lanterns swayed gently overhead, and the scent of matcha and warm pastries drifted from nearby shops.

“Okay, but—hear me out—do we have to go back right away?” North asked, peering into a small café with fluffy melon bread in the display. “This place looks magical. In a very non-magic way.”

Typhoon didn’t answer immediately. He just tilted his head toward the window, considering. Daotok shrugged. “We have two hours. Might as well make the most of it.”

Easter had already stepped inside.

By the time they were seated on the small open-air patio, with a low table between them and steaming cups of matcha and mochi served neatly on ceramic trays, North looked visibly lighter.

“I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this escape trick secret,” he said, chewing on the soft edge of a dango stick. “Apparating in and out of Hogwarts like that? Are you even bound by wizarding law anymore?”

Typhoon raised an eyebrow, sipping calmly. “It’s not about law. It’s about being careful.”

Daotok snorted into his tea. “Says the person who once broke five anti-apparation wards in one night because he was ‘tired of waiting’.”

“That was one time.” Typhoon gave a faint smile.

“One time that got you exiled,” North pointed out. “Also—still slightly terrified of that spell from the duel, not going to lie.”

Typhoon didn’t flinch, but he glanced down at his tea. “It was never meant to be seen again.”

Easter gently nudged his foot under the table. “But it was the right call.”

Daotok nodded, slow and firm. “And now it’s part of your shadow. And you’re ours. So we deal.”

That silenced them for a moment. Not heavy silence, but thoughtful. Typhoon broke it. “Tonfah’s bracelet… it’s layered in elemental silver. Woven with runes I made when I first left for Durmstrang.”

Easter’s brows raised. “So it’s old?”

“No.” A small breath. “I made them in my head back then. Only recently did I carve them.”

North stared at him. “You’ve been designing a gift for him in your mind since you were twelve?”

“Roughly,” Typhoon said, utterly unbothered.

“Insane,” Daotok said, fondly.

“Romantic,” Easter corrected.

They all turned to Typhoon.

“Love does strange things,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “And Tonfah… he’s always been the reason I kept moving forward.”

The table fell into quiet again, broken only by the soft clinking of spoons and wind tugging at the hanging paper lanterns. North smiled into his drink. “He’s going to cry, isn’t he?”

“I hope not,” Typhoon murmured. “He’ll ruin the enchantment.”

They laughed.

As the sky began to deepen, a soft pink dusk rolling in, they stood and stretched, tucking away the last of their sweets and tossing enchanted coins onto the tray. The café owner waved them off with a bow, and Typhoon nodded in return, thanking him in quiet, fluent Japanese that once again made the others glance at him in surprise.

“Should we head back?” North asked, reluctantly.

“Soon,” Typhoon said. “One last stop.”

Daotok quirked a brow. “What else are we getting?”

Typhoon tilted his head, as if he’d known all along. “Paper. For the letter. The one I’m writing him.”

Easter grinned. “You sap.”

Typhoon only smiled, and for the first time in a long while, it reached his eyes.

 

---

 

The door clicked shut behind them as Typhoon entered first, his cloak sweeping behind him. Daotok, Easter, and North followed, expecting another planning session—maybe a small event in one of the Hogwarts towers, or a private dinner at the Room of Requirement. But instead of parchment and tea, Typhoon stood with arms crossed, gaze cool but sparkling with something dangerous.

Daotok narrowed his eyes. “You’re up to something.”

“You’ve all helped with the bracelet,” Typhoon began smoothly, “but we haven’t discussed the actual celebration.”

Easter tilted his head. “We thought it’d be something quiet? Maybe in your dorm, or at Thorngrave?”

Typhoon began pacing. “It’s Tonfah. It has to be perfect. But I’m not sure anymore. What if it’s—underwhelming? What if he expects something else? What if he remembers—”

North raised a brow. “...We could always have it in France.”

Typhoon stopped.

Blink. Tilt of the head. Pause.

“No.”

North grinned. “Too easy?”

Typhoon’s eyes narrowed, sparkled. “Too obvious.”

Then he froze. And a beat later— “The villa. The one Hill mentioned. Italy.”

“What villa?” Easter asked slowly.

But it was too late. Typhoon’s hand was already wrapped around their arms, and in the next breath— CRACK.

The courtyard was gone. The four of them landed in a swirl of wind on the stone path of a grand Tuscan villa, glowing golden in the late afternoon sun. Vines curled around white-pillared terraces, and the scent of citrus and lavender filled the air.

Two elves in crisp, tailored livery appeared instantly with a soft pop. “Luzerio. Virellia.” Typhoon called.

The elves bowed deeply. “Master Typhoon,” said Virellia, her French accent slipping through. “It has been far too long.”

“I need the east garden ready. For Tonfah’s birthday. Clean lines, silver and green, and enough fairy lights to light the stars themselves.”

“Consider it done,” Luzerio replied.

As the elves vanished to begin preparations, Typhoon turned to the three behind him. “I didn’t bring anyone else,” he said softly. “Just you.”

Easter blinked. “Why?”

“Because you don’t ask questions I don’t want to answer,” Typhoon said, then added, “And because I trust you.”

North blinked once, quieted by the weight of those words. Daotok only smiled faintly, used to this side of Typhoon.

“But this—this doesn’t leave us,” Typhoon said. “No one else can know I’ve been building this since third year. Not Tonfah. Not Johan. Not yet.”

Easter gave a low whistle. “You built all this… since Durmstrang?”

Typhoon didn’t answer.

“How many homes did you make for yourself while the rest of the world thought you were in exile?” North asked gently.

Typhoon’s lips twitched. “Enough to not feel unwanted.”

Daotok reached over and fixed the collar of his robes. “This one feels right.”

Easter, unusually quiet, murmured, “Then let’s make it his too.”

There was a stillness between them. Typhoon’s voice was low but grateful. “Thank you. For being here.”

Easter raised a brow. “What else would we be doing on a perfectly normal Hogwarts afternoon, if not teleporting across Europe to plan a secret villa birthday party for your fiancé?”

North added, “At this point, I half-expect you to say we’re hosting a ball.”

Typhoon smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief. “We are. Garden style.”

Daotok just laughed. “Of course we are.”

Chapter 27

The Room of Requirement had adjusted itself to Typhoon’s intentions: velvet drapes, soft low lighting, and eight goblets of warm elderflower tea waiting on a side table.

Johan was sprawled lazily across a velvet couch, North curled beside him, half-asleep. Daotok and Arthit sat on matching armchairs, whispering something back and forth. Hill and Easter leaned against the bookshelves, side by side. Tonfah was at the far end of the room, eyes narrowed in curiosity, watching Typhoon—who was pacing, uncharacteristically restless.

“Phoon,” Tonfah said, “what is this about?”

Typhoon turned to the room, and without answering, held up one gloved hand.

“Everyone, up. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?” Johan asked, squinting at the time. “Phoon, it’s nearly midnight.”

“You’ll want to be awake for this,” Typhoon replied with a smile, far too pleased with himself. “Circle around me.”

Tonfah’s brow arched. “Phoon—what did you do?”

“Trust me,” Typhoon said softly, reaching for his hand.

Tonfah hesitated for only a heartbeat, then slid his fingers into Typhoon’s palm. The others followed instinctively—by now, they’d stopped questioning things when Typhoon looked that smug. Once all eight were touching Typhoon or someone connected to him, he exhaled and whispered the incantation.

CRACK.

They landed on smooth marble beneath a star-filled sky, the scent of citrus trees and late-blooming roses washing over them in the warm Italian air. A soft breeze rustled the tall cypress trees lining the estate walls. The villa loomed before them, glowing with candlelight behind the terrace windows. The entrance was adorned with floating flower petals and quiet enchantments that sparkled like stardust.

Luzerio and Virellia appeared instantly.

“Welcome, young masters,” Villeria bowed low, her hands glowing faintly with summoning magic. “Your rooms are ready.”

“Dinner?” Luzerio asked, ears twitching. “A warm supper by the fire? Some cake?”

“Not yet,” Typhoon said gently, eyes never leaving Tonfah. “First…”

Tonfah turned to him slowly, eyes wide, voice thick with disbelief. “Phoon… this…”

Typhoon only smiled and tugged him forward, into the open garden. “Surprise. Happy almost-birthday, love.”

The garden was glowing, literally—with floating green and silver lanterns. The table beneath the pergola was charmed to shimmer with light, already set for the next evening. A wall of cascading flowers formed the backdrop. The six others stood still for a beat, taking in the magic of it all.

Daotok was the first to speak. “Well damn.”

“I think this beats every birthday we’ve ever planned,” Easter said softly.

North nodded. “Of course it does. It’s Typhoon.”

Arthit leaned slightly into Daotok. “Do we clap or…”

“I don’t know,” Johan whispered. “I feel like we’re intruding on a fairytale.”

Hill smiled faintly. “Let’s just give them this moment.”

Tonfah turned back to Typhoon, eyes shining under the starlight. “You planned this whole thing?”

Typhoon’s thumb brushed the back of his hand. “I said I wanted your birthday to be beautiful. And nothing in Britain could hold it.”

“You insane, spoiled—” Tonfah breathed, then stopped, his voice breaking as he hugged Typhoon fiercely. “Thank you.”

“Always, love,” Typhoon murmured, lips brushing his temple.

The rest stood quietly, allowing the moment to wrap around them like the warm wind.

Then Johan clapped his hands. “Right! Rooms. I want the biggest bath—dibs.”

Virellia appeared instantly. “Master Johan, we prepared the rosewood suite with a double vanity as requested.”

Johan gave Typhoon a look. “You briefed them?”

Typhoon shrugged. “Gold does many things.”

Easter and Hill burst into laughter. North grinned and tugged Johan along. Daotok smiled faintly at Typhoon and said, “You did well.”

Only Tonfah lingered.

“You planned all of this just for me?” he whispered.

Typhoon tiptoed and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “For you. Always.”

 

The entire house smelled of cinnamon, sweet cream, and wild honey as sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, golden and slow, casting warm pools of light across the terracotta floors of the villa. The dining terrace, overlooking the still morning vineyards, was already alive with soft conversation and laughter. Luzerio and Virellia bustled about the open space, placing platters of freshly baked pastries, bowls of orchard fruit, and silver teapots that refilled themselves.

Johan was the first seated, hair still damp from his morning swim, lazily peeling a blood orange. North sat beside him, yawning into his cup of coffee, robe slipping off one shoulder. Hill and Easter had taken the bench seat near the edge of the veranda, sharing a plate of sugared croissants. Easter’s head rested against Hill’s shoulder, sleepy and unbothered.

Arthit had helped himself to a lemon tart before breakfast was officially declared started. Daotok, beside him, was helping him rearrange his hair clip without saying much, gaze drifting to the arched walkway every now and then.

“Where are they?” Johan asked lazily, flicking a piece of orange rind toward Easter, who caught it and flung it back with excellent aim.

“They’ll come,” Daotok said without looking up. “Let them sleep in.”

“Let him sleep in,” North corrected with a smile. “It’s Tonfah’s birthday.”

A moment later, the doors to the villa opened—and there they were.

Typhoon stepped out first, hair still mussed from sleep, his green and silver dressing robe tied loosely at the waist. He held the door open as Tonfah followed, still blinking against the sunlight, dressed in soft Ravenclaw blue.

Tonfah froze for a moment as he took in the scene—six sets of eyes on him, a breakfast spread worthy of royalty, warm light on marble, and a breeze that smelled of rosemary and sunlight.

“Happy birthday!” Easter called with a wide grin, raising his teacup.

“Did we wake you?” Hill asked.

“No,” Tonfah said softly, his voice sleep-rough and warm. “Just… wasn’t expecting this.”

Typhoon pulled out his chair for him and whispered, “You should expect more.”

As Tonfah sat, Typhoon took the seat beside him and casually placed a kiss on his shoulder before serving him a plate of fruit and warm bread.

“Alright, everyone behave,” Johan said with mock seriousness. “Birthday boy gets first pick of the pastries.”

“He already has first pick of Typhoon,” Daotok said without missing a beat, sipping his tea.

Arthit coughed into his cup, face a little red. Tonfah rolled his eyes but didn’t bother hiding his smile. “I’m not sharing my pastries.”

“You’ll share Typhoon though, right?” Johan teased.

Typhoon deadpanned, “Only with Johan.”

Tonfah turned slowly to him. “Excuse me?”

Typhoon smirked and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “Kidding.”

They all laughed, and the warmth between them was almost tangible—like soft magic humming under skin, like summer never left. Virellia returned with a final flourish—a small cake, charmed so that tiny flowers danced along the frosting. It wasn’t large, or overdone. Just right.

“Thank you,” Tonfah said quietly, looking at all of them. “Really.”

Typhoon laced their fingers together under the table. “There’s more to come, love. But for now—just breakfast.”

 

The eight of them lounged across the terrace like they had nowhere else to be, the breeze ruffling tablecloths and tousling hair. The vineyard stretched endlessly below them, glistening with morning dew. Birds flitted lazily through the olive trees.

“So,” Johan began, feet propped on a spare chair. “Birthday plans?”

“Breakfast was already excessive,” Tonfah said mildly, though his smile betrayed how deeply he appreciated it.

Typhoon was still leaned against his side. “It’s your day. You don’t get to play humble.”

“Seconded,” Daotok said, sprawled across two chairs like a cat in the sun.

North leaned forward. “We’ve got the whole of Tuscany. Do we wander the countryside? Do we paint each other’s portraits like tragic muses in some crumbling villa?”

“Ew,” Johan muttered.

“No offense,” North added dryly, “but you’d make a terrible muse.”

“Untrue,” Johan said, striking a ridiculous pose. “I’m an excellent muse. Just hard to capture in a single canvas.”

Easter snorted. “We could do something relaxing first. There's a lavender field a little uphill, I saw it yesterday when Typhoon apparated us here.”

“There’s also a hidden stream,” Hill added thoughtfully, pulling a map Typhoon had given them. “Nimsy marked a few spots. Old Etruscan ruins, a small market, a view that’s supposed to be the best at sunset.”

Typhoon lifted his head slightly. “I say lavender field and ruins in the morning. Lunch by the stream. Then market in the afternoon.”

“You already planned this, didn’t you?” Tonfah asked, raising a brow.

Typhoon just smiled and sipped his espresso.

“I’m not surprised anymore,” Daotok murmured, “I’ve simply accepted that he plans everything two weeks ahead of us.”

“It’s a curse,” Typhoon replied with no shame. “I like structure.”

“I like wine,” Daotok said. “Which we are having by the stream, yes?”

Easter nodded, flipping through the map. “There’s a spot shaded by olive trees. Perfect for picnic blankets and soft daydreams.”

“And painting,” North added helpfully.

“Stop with the painting,” Johan said.

Tonfah tapped his fingers on the table. “Alright. Morning to the field and ruins. Lunch by the stream. Market after. Then back for dinner and… the rest.”

“The rest?” Hill asked, intrigued.

“Just wait,” Typhoon said with a small smirk.

“Of course he has more planned,” Arthit sighed, but there was no annoyance in it—only a warm, amused fondness.

“Well then,” Johan said, standing and stretching. “Let’s get dressed for a birthday wander through ancient ruins.”

“Are we dressing up?” Hill asked.

Typhoon tilted his head. “Dress nicely. It’s Tonfah’s day. He deserves to be flanked by beauty.”

Tonfah looked at him flatly. “You’re dramatic.”

“You like it.”

The others were already leaving the table, heading into the villa to change for the morning adventure.

But for a moment, Tonfah stayed behind, watching the vines ripple in the breeze and the sunlight spill across the hills. Typhoon reached for his hand under the table again, warm and sure.

“Happy birthday, Fiancé,” Typhoon whispered, just loud enough for only him to hear.

 

The fields shimmered violet in the sun.

The scent of lavender hung in the air, thick and calming, as the eight of them wandered between tall rows of blooming stalks, their fingertips brushing the blossoms as they passed. The fields, tucked between rolling hills and crumbling stone terraces, seemed like something out of a memory Tonfah hadn't realized he had. Something old. Something safe.

"Smells like peace," Easter said, crouching to touch a bloom.

"No," North corrected, eyes half-closed in bliss, "smells like someone bottled Hill’s aura and scattered it across the world."

Hill laughed softly, “Does that mean I’m calming or overwhelming?”

“Yes,” Johan said simply.

Typhoon stood just behind Tonfah, arms lazily around his waist. “Don’t pick too much,” he murmured. “I had Luzerio enchant the bouquet room.”

“You enchanted a room?” Daotok asked, not looking surprised.

“Naturally,” Typhoon replied. “You think I’d take him to Tuscany without preparing for his birthday properly?”

Tonfah didn’t say anything, only leaned back into him. The lavender swayed around them like a sea, and the stone ruins—arches, half-walls, old steps leading nowhere—were a faded ivory skeleton rising between the hills.

They wandered toward the ruins in pairs: Johan and North whispering something and grinning, Daotok and Arthit pointing at some ancient symbols carved into the stones, Hill and Easter following behind with a soft grace, shoulders brushing.

In the center of the ruins stood a weathered pedestal, wrapped in vines.

Typhoon let go of Tonfah for a moment and flicked his fingers. A spell shimmered into place—gentle golden light revealing a message in old runes only a few of them could read. “To love, for all time,” Tonfah translated, then paused. “You chose this place on purpose.”

“I always do,” Typhoon said.

The others left them alone for a moment, sensing it. Tonfah turned toward him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” Tonfah said quietly.

 

The stream glittered in the sun, winding gently between rocks and moss, lined with wildflowers and tall grass. Under the olive trees, the elves had already laid out everything: picnic blankets, silver platters, wicker baskets filled with fruits, cheeses, warm breads, and bottles of chilled white wine.

“Okay, I take it back,” Johan said, sinking into a blanket, “this might actually be better than wine at Thorngrave.”

“Don’t let the manor hear you say that,” Daotok warned, lying beside him.

Easter and Hill set up a few flowers around the blankets, completely unnecessary but entirely lovely. Tonfah sat with Typhoon under the largest tree, shoes off, fingers still laced. Arthit poured drinks while North tried every type of cheese in rapid succession. Daotok fed Johan grapes playfully until Johan bit him in retaliation.

“Do you think it’s too peaceful?” North asked suddenly.

“Gods, don’t say that,” Hill groaned.

“Why?” Easter said, sipping his wine. “Are you saying we’re due for chaos?”

“I’m saying,” North muttered, “this is suspiciously calm for us.”

Typhoon raised his glass lazily, “For now, we’re just people in Italy celebrating someone’s birthday. Let it be.”

“And whose fault is it if something does explode later?” Tonfah asked pointedly.

“Yours, for being born,” Typhoon deadpanned.

Everyone laughed.

They lingered there for hours—talking, eating, basking in the sun. Johan fell asleep. Daotok stole his wine. Hill braided a crown of olive branches. Arthit complained but let Daotok place it on his head. North and Easter tried to summon butterflies with a spell and accidentally summoned a frog instead. It sat beside the picnic and refused to leave.

Tonfah laid his head in Typhoon’s lap. “You always do too much,” he murmured, eyes closed.

“I don’t know how to do less. Not with you,” Typhoon answered, brushing his fingers through Tonfah’s hair.

 

As twilight settled over the Tuscan hills, the villa began to glow.

The courtyard was bathed in soft gold, and lanterns floated midair like stars caught between olive branches and trailing wisteria. Enchanted candlelight shimmered along stone balustrades, and charmed petals drifted gently through the air, suspended in slow spirals of color.

The elves had transformed the space into something quietly ethereal: round tables with velvet runners and silver-gilded place settings, a long dessert table in the shade of an ancient fig tree, a live string quartet tucked into the corner, playing something low and romantic.

And in the center: a carved stone table, set for eight.

Typhoon had changed.

Gone was the soft linen of the afternoon—now he wore deeper emerald robes trimmed in silver, still elegant, still sharp, still wholly him. He stood at the edge of the terrace, arms crossed, looking at the entrance.

The doors opened.

Tonfah stepped into the courtyard in black robes lined with jade—simple and tailored. His hair was half-up, just the way Typhoon always liked it, and his expression flickered between exasperated and fond as he took in the full scene.

“You did all this,” Tonfah said quietly, stepping toward him.

“I told you,” Typhoon murmured, eyes soft, “I don’t know how to do less.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

He handed Tonfah a crystal glass.

“Happy birthday, love.”

The clink of glasses and low music marked the beginning of the celebration.

They sat around the stone table beneath a canopy of lights, with courses served on floating silver trays: charmed antipasti, wine that chilled itself in the glass, roasted meats that never cooled. A berry tart that shimmered with gold-dust icing.

Johan toasted with, “To the only person patient enough to put up with Typhoon.”

Laughter erupted.

Daotok added, “And the only one insane enough to love him.”

“Bold talk for someone who needed both of us to keep him from burning your house down at eleven,” Typhoon deadpanned.

Arthit raised a glass. “To Tonfah—who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver, and somehow keeps all of us from falling apart.”

Tonfah gave him a nod, a rare one.

Hill offered a softer toast. “To our calm in the storm.”

North added, “And the reason the storm follows us.”

The others laughed. Typhoon didn’t.

He reached out, lacing his fingers with Tonfah’s under the table.

After dinner, they wandered lazily through the courtyard. Easter and Hill leaned against one another, watching the stars appear overhead. North and Johan stole a bottle of dessert wine and disappeared briefly, returning with suspiciously smug smiles. Arthit and Daotok bickered about constellations until Typhoon conjured a star map just to shut them up.

“Everything feels… soft here,” Easter said, settling onto a bench beside the fountain.

“It’s because it’s his,” Johan said, glancing at Typhoon, then Tonfah.

“And his,” Daotok added, nodding at Tonfah.

“They built it together.”

Tonfah and Typhoon sat on the edge of the fountain now. Their shoulders touched. Tonfah leaned in slightly, and Typhoon turned his head just a fraction to meet him.

“Did you have a good birthday?” Typhoon asked, voice low.

Tonfah closed his eyes. “It was perfect.”

Typhoon reached into his pocket, producing a small box. “Not done yet.”

Inside: a bracelet. Silver, woven starlace, runed platinum, and a single opalescent stone.

Custom-crafted. Enchanted to always lead him back.

“I had it made last spring,” Typhoon murmured, slipping it onto Tonfah’s wrist. “And I brought them with me to Japan to pick it up.”

“You knew then?”

“I’ve always known,” he said, and that was enough.

 

The villa was quiet now. The last of the laughter had faded into the sea breeze, leaving only the gentle sound of waves and the distant hum of cicadas beyond the balcony. Tuscany glimmered below like scattered stars, but inside, in the cool, dim bedroom Typhoon had chosen just for them, the air was still.

Tonfah stood by the bed, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, collar open. He had changed into something simple. The moonlight caught the edges of his profile, and in it, he looked every bit the heir he was born to be—except his eyes, which held none of that practiced distance. Only Typhoon.

Typhoon leaned against the stone frame of the balcony doors, arms folded, but his usual edge had softened. His shirt was rumpled, collar tugged slightly askew from where Tonfah had tugged him too close earlier. There was a faint flush high on his cheekbones—not from the wine at dinner, but from the weight of Tonfah’s gaze.

“You’ve been staring at me all evening,” Typhoon said, voice lower now. Not a complaint, but an invitation.

“You planned my entire birthday in secret. In Italy,” Tonfah replied, stepping forward. “You let me think you forgot, and then you did this.”

Typhoon gave a small, crooked smile. “You hate attention.”

“I don’t hate it when it’s from you.”

Tonfah didn’t stop until Typhoon had to tilt his chin up to meet his eyes. Tonfah’s hand came to rest lightly at Typhoon’s waist—possessive without pressure, grounding. Typhoon didn’t move away.

“I know I said I’d wait,” Tonfah murmured, his voice low, intimate. “Until we’re married.”

Typhoon’s breath hitched.

“But can I, love?”

There was something raw in how he asked. Not hunger or hesitation, but a need to give, to claim gently, fully. To be allowed.

Typhoon didn’t speak. He simply stepped in closer, closing the breath of space between them and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was slow, yes, and reverent—but not soft. Tonfah’s hand came up, threading through the back of Typhoon’s hair, holding him there as he deepened the kiss. Their mouths slid together, warm and unhurried. Typhoon tasted faintly of citrus and wine, his breath catching slightly as Tonfah angled him back against the balcony doorframe.

Tonfah’s mouth slipped to Typhoon’s throat, grazing skin until Typhoon gasped, a quiet sound swallowed by the night. And when Tonfah bit down, just beneath the jaw, a shiver ran through him. He didn’t pull away. He tilted his head further.

“I should hate you for making me wait this long,” Tonfah whispered against his skin.

“You don’t,” Typhoon whispered, hands resting lightly on Tonfah’s chest.

“No. I don’t.”

Tonfah’s teeth grazed the place beneath Typhoon’s ear, just enough to make him gasp—more sound than breath. He left a mark there, deliberate. Not hidden.

Typhoon’s fingers clenched slightly in his shirt. “That better not bruise.”

“Oh, it will,” Tonfah murmured, voice deep with quiet amusement, “and you’ll wear it.”

Typhoon met his gaze, eyes dark. “And if I put one on you?”

Tonfah smirked, leaned in, and offered his throat. “Try.”

The sheets were cool when they fell into them, limbs tangling, kisses resuming with more urgency now. Fingers worked at buttons. Silk slipped away. Skin met skin, slow and reverent, like they were memorizing something they’d never let themselves touch before.

Tonfah’s mouth left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down Typhoon’s neck, across his collarbone, down his chest. He didn’t rush. He marked. His teeth left a flush of red at Typhoon’s hip, then soothed it with the soft brush of his lips.

Typhoon arched, breath catching, hands fisting into the sheets—and then into Tonfah’s hair. His voice broke between a whisper and a sigh when he said his name.

When they finally collapsed into the bed, tangled in half-draped sheets and half-laced fingers, Typhoon rolled to rest against Tonfah’s chest. One of Tonfah’s hands splayed over his side, the other cradling the back of Typhoon’s head. He kissed the bite on Typhoon’s neck, soothing it with his mouth.

“I meant it,” Tonfah said into his hair. “I chose you. I’ll keep choosing you. Even before marriage. Even before the rest of the world catches up.”

Typhoon didn’t answer right away. He just curled closer, burying his face against Tonfah’s throat where his own mark bloomed.

“You’re mine,” he said softly. “You always have been.”

And in the quiet of a villa far from home, beneath moonlight and the weight of unspoken vows, they fell asleep like that—marked, claimed, and entirely loved.

Chapter 28

The day had passed in a blur.

Classrooms. Lecture halls. The echo of spells and chalk and theory. Pages turned. Runes memorized. Cauldrons stirred and left behind, forgotten in the haze of exhaustion. Even the sun seemed to dip lazily over the horizon, as if it too had grown tired of watching them move from one corridor to the next.

By the time the eight of them collapsed into their seats at the Gryffindor table—some with shoulders brushing, others with quiet sighs—they had nothing left to say about the day. It was Hill who finally broke the silence, stabbing half-heartedly at his roasted potatoes. “Do you ever get that feeling where your soul left your body somewhere between Ancient Runes and Potions?”

“You say that as if your soul was there to begin with,” Daotok replied, not looking up from his pumpkin juice.

Hill gave him a look. Easter snorted.

North leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. “I stopped registering sound after the third theory in Transfiguration.”

“Don’t worry,” Tonfah said mildly, sipping his tea, “nothing you missed will save your life.”

“Comforting,” North muttered.

Arthit looked halfway asleep, chin propped in his hand, his other hand slowly picking at the crust of bread. Typhoon, seated beside Tonfah, looked unbothered by it all, and only the faint trace of ink on his cuff betraying that he, too, had worked through the day.

The Hall hummed around them. Students murmured. Goblets clinked. Professors conversed in low tones. Then, the room dimmed slightly—not completely, just enough that the torches burned with clearer intensity. At the center of the hall, where an ornate plinth had been set since morning but covered with dark velvet, the Headmistress rose from her seat at the staff table. The velvet vanished with a flick of her wand.

And there it was.

The Goblet of Fire.

Ancient. Flickering with dancing blue-white flame. Its surface cracked with age and humming with power.

A low gasp swept across the hall.

The Headmistress’s voice rang clear. “As per tradition, in alliance with the Ministry of Magic, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, Hogwarts is honored to host this year’s Triwizard Tournament.”

A pause.

“The Goblet of Fire is now open to those who are willing. Students aged seventeen and above may place their name in the goblet for a chance to represent their school in this historic challenge. You have three days.”

The flames leapt, responding to the words. Whispers broke like thunder across the hall. Shuffling,  excitement, and nervous laughter.

Across the Gryffindor table, North went pale. “I’m not entering,” he said immediately.

“Same,” Hill muttered, already shaking his head.

“You’d have to be insane,” Easter said, brow furrowed. “The death toll is real. This isn’t just pageantry.”

Arthit didn’t speak, but his jaw tightened.

The four of them glanced at the others—unmoving and untouched by the announcement. Tonfah reached lazily for a goblet of chilled water. “Let the world throw itself into flame.”

“We have better things to do,” Typhoon murmured, eyes fixed on the goblet with the same indifference one might give a broken quill.

Johan, unbothered, leaned toward Daotok. “Want to bet on which school throws in the first sacrificial idiot?”

“Durmstrang,” Daotok answered dryly. “With Beauxbatons a close second.”

“Don’t joke about this,” Arthit said, voice tight. “People die in this tournament.”

They all looked at him.

“I’m not joking,” Daotok said, expression unreadable.

“And we’re not entering,” Johan added, surprisingly serious.

Typhoon tilted his head slightly. “You think any of us would let the Ministry use us like showpieces?”

Tonfah gave a quiet laugh. “They already tried. We’ve rewritten the terms.”

Easter looked at them, studying each one with something between suspicion and awe. “Why are you so calm about this?” he asked.

“We were born in fire,” Typhoon said softly. “We’ve already survived our tournament.”

Hill swallowed. And for a moment, silence stretched between the eight of them, the kind that presses against your skin like thunder.

Then, Johan broke it. “Still not placing bets?”

Hill scowled. “I’m not dying for school glory, thanks.”

“Me neither,” North agreed.

“I’m allergic to fire-breathing creatures,” Easter added.

“I’m allergic to bureaucracy,” Arthit muttered.

Daotok smirked, raising his goblet. “To the only eight students in this castle with a functioning sense of self-preservation.”

“Except you,” Hill said, pointing at Typhoon. “That spell you casted—”

“Was necessary,” Typhoon cut in.

Tonfah placed a calming hand on his wrist. “And we’ve moved on.”

Hill quieted.

North sighed again. “Three days. Can we hide until then?”

“No need,” Johan said, leaning back smugly. “We’re already winning. We just don’t need the fire to prove it.”

 

---

 

The Great Hall had been transformed.

The Goblet of Fire sat atop its marble pedestal once more, blue flames licking the air, casting eerie shadows across the students gathered below. The air was thick with tension, excitement, and dread.

Headmistress McGonagall stood near the Goblet, behind her, Madame Olympe and Headmaster Karkaroff. Professors lined the sides. Students from all three schools waited with baited breath.

And the eight of them stood close together by the edge of the Gryffindor table, cloaked in quiet unease.

The Goblet’s flames flared red and a slip of parchment fluttered out.

Headmistress McGonagall caught it and read with poise.

“Mek Volkov, of Durmstrang.”

A round of polite applause. Cheers erupted from the Durmstrang students. Mek stood from his seat with a smirk and strolled toward the platform with the air of someone who had already won. Typhoon’s eyes narrowed, cold and gleaming.

Another flare. Another name.

“Amélie Valfleur, of Beauxbatons.”

Elegant, poised, with a deliberate smile—Amilie glided forward. Her eyes swept over the crowd and lingered on Typhoon for a heartbeat too long. Tonfah noticed.

Then—flames flared for the last time.

“North Ritthirong… of Hogwarts.”

Silence.

For one full breath, the Great Hall did not move. Then came the murmurs.

Hill’s hand snapped to North’s arm. “You didn’t.”

North was frozen, eyes wide. “I—I didn’t—”

Arthit looked like the blood had drained from his face. “You didn’t put your name in?”

“No!” North said, louder this time, heart hammering. “I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

Whispers erupted. Professors exchanged alarmed looks. The Headmistress’s brows furrowed, and she glanced toward the Goblet with suspicion, then toward the Durmstrang delegation.

But North couldn’t move.

“North Ritthirong,” Headmistress McGonagall called again, more gently. “Please step forward.”

North was still staring at the Goblet like it had betrayed him personally. It was Easter who gave him a gentle nudge, whispering, “We’re right behind you.”

North swallowed and moved.

When all three champions stood before the Goblet, Headmistress McGonagall stepped forward. The Hall stilled again. She lifted her chin, gaze sweeping the gathered students, and began to speak.

“Magic, when wielded without meaning, is a spark in the wind. But when tempered by courage, by wisdom, by restraint—it becomes legacy.”

Her voice echoed beneath the high ceilings.

“Tonight, three champions have been chosen. Not by politics, nor by public favor—but by a fire bound in ancient oath. This Tournament is not a game, despite what history has painted. It is a test. Of resolve. Of self. Of who you become when the world watches... and when it doesn’t.”

She turned slightly, addressing the three before her. Her gaze landed on North last, just a moment longer.

“You will face trials meant not just to challenge your magic, but your will. And I will tell you now—your schools have not chosen you to win. They have chosen you to endure. To stand where others might fall. And to carry your name, your house, your bloodline and bond, with both pride and restraint.”

A pause. One that meant more than she let on.

“To the three of you—Mek of Durmstrang. Amelie of Beauxbatons. North of Hogwarts—I say this: may your hearts hold as much power as your wands. And may you return to us whole.”

Then her voice dropped to something quieter. A whisper for only the sharpest ears. “And to those watching beyond the veil of tradition—remember: champions are not always chosen by flame. Some choose themselves.”

The room did not cheer immediately. The air was too heavy for that. But when applause did rise, it was not out of pageantry. It was out of awe. North stood still, face pale, until the sound reached him. And even then, he did not smile. But those who knew him best saw the shift in his eyes.

The fire had named him.

 

They waited by the arch near the entrance to the Great Hall. The corridor was dim, torches casting long shadows on the ancient stones. The rest of the crowd had dispersed or returned to common rooms, leaving them a pocket of silence. North stood with his hands braced on the wall, trying to breathe. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.”

“We believe you,” Tonfah said calmly.

“I don’t care if it’s legally binding,” North whispered, fury and fear threading through his voice. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“He put your name in,” Typhoon said softly.

Daotok looked at him. “You’re certain?”

“I know his signature,” Typhoon said. “The runes. The slight shift in phrasing. He masked it, but I felt it when the Goblet responded. That spellwork was his.”

And as if summoned by hatred itself, Mek appeared, strolling into view, hands in his robes, unbothered.

“Enjoy the surprise, Phoon?” Mek drawled, all teeth and venom. “Consider it a gift. From me, to you. I know how much you like to collect strays.”

Typhoon stepped forward, voice low and lethal. “You dare go after our duskling.”

There was something primal in the word—duskling—that made Mek pause, if only for a second. But then Tonfah placed a hand on Typhoon’s shoulder, firm.

“Not here,” Tonfah said. “Not now.”

Mek laughed. “Careful, Typhoon. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you care.”

“Walk away,” Johan said darkly.

But Mek only tilted his head. “Or what? You’ll cry about it in one of your crumbling manors?”

This time it was Johan who moved—but Daotok caught his arm, and North stepped between them, his voice trembling. “Don’t. Please. He’s not worth it.”

Mek winked at Typhoon. “I’ll be seeing you soon, love.”

And with that, he was gone, his laughter echoing down the corridor like a curse.

 

The corridors were a blur.

Typhoon didn’t ask. He simply grabbed North by the wrist and pulled, the rest trailing behind with concern laced into every hurried footstep. Hogwarts was too loud, too open. Too full of whispers already. The castle answered when they reached the blank stretch of wall, and the Room of Requirement opened without protest. A warm light bathed the space, already transformed into a quiet sanctuary—pillowed chairs, soft carpeting, a low table with tea already waiting, and a fireplace crackling softly in the distance.

As soon as they stepped inside, the door sealed behind them. Typhoon didn’t speak. He just turned and pulled North into a tight hug. It shocked North at first—Typhoon rarely touched anyone unless it was Tonfah, and certainly not like this. But he didn’t pull away. He sank into it, arms closing around Typhoon just as tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Typhoon whispered into his shoulder, voice nearly cracking. “This is my mess. Mek… he’s not supposed to touch you. This—this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

North pulled back slightly, just enough to see him. “Phoon. Breathe.”

Typhoon’s jaw tightened.

“It’s not your fault,” North said softly. “And even if it was—” he offered a small, crooked smile, “well, I’m afraid we’re stuck to each other now. All eight of us.”

A breath of laughter broke out from the others as they caught up and filled the room—Hill was still pale, Easter holding his hand, Johan quietly assessing North’s condition, Daotok pouring tea with brisk precision, and Tonfah… Tonfah moved behind Typhoon and placed a hand on his waist, grounding.

Typhoon let his breath out in one slow exhale.

“We’ll fix this,” Daotok said, handing North a cup.

“We’ll do more than fix it,” Johan added, crossing his arms, eyes sharp. “We’ll train him.”

There was a pause, then Typhoon nodded. “After dinner. All eight of us. Every night, as long as it takes.”

North blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“You’re not fighting alone, North. You’re ours now.”

North looked up. “Oh?”

“You were ours before this,” Tonfah added smoothly. “You just didn’t notice.”

“You don’t have to win for Hogwarts,” Hill said, “but we’ll make sure you survive. And come back to us.”

“To hell with school pride,” Easter muttered.

Arthit sighed, “I was supposed to be the grumpy one.”

Daotok just sipped his tea. “Well. You can keep that title.”

Hill smiled softly. “You’re not dying in that maze, North. That’s final.”

North blinked—overwhelmed by the sudden warmth, the strange, firm loyalty of it. It wasn’t loud nor performative. It was just… there. He let out a breath and leaned into the couch. “Alright,” he said, finally. “We’ll win.”

Johan’s mouth curled into a grin. “That’s the spirit.”

“And if Mek wants a war,” Typhoon added darkly, “he can choke on it.”

“Charming,” Tonfah murmured, brushing his fingers along Typhoon’s hand.

 

The walls of the Gryffindor prefect dorm were quiet that night.

Too quiet.

Outside the tall windows, the towers of Hogwarts cut against the starlit sky, proud and eternal. A fire crackled low in the grate, casting long shadows that danced across the bookshelves and carpeted floor. North stood by the window, the goblet of untouched tea from Daotok now cold in his hands.

He hadn’t changed out of his uniform yet. The collar of his shirt was rumpled, his tie loosened. His mind was loud, but his body was still.

He had agreed to fight. He would fight. But now, alone in the stillness of his dorm, the weight of it came crashing in. North placed the cup on the desk. Then, slowly, he held his palm out in front of him.

Just a test. Just to know.

He focused. No words, no wand. Just feeling.

A flicker, then it surged.

Flames burst in his hand—not warm, golden fire like the hearth’s, but something colder. The edges shimmered violet and black, the burn of it unreal. Controlled and beautiful, but terrifying. North’s breath caught. He hadn’t meant to call it that strongly. He clenched his fist, and it vanished with a hiss, the air snapping back into stillness.

His heartbeat was loud in his ears.

Again.

This time, a gentler spark. His element was fire, but it didn’t behave like fire. It bled at the edges. Shadowed, like it wasn’t quite alive.

His hand shook, and he lowered it slowly.

He turned toward the mirror above the fireplace, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His reflection looked unfamiliar in the dark room—older, maybe. Not a boy who joked over tea, who snuck pastries with Hill and got scolded for talking in class. This boy had power curling beneath his ribs. And something that didn’t belong. A crack in his magic. North stepped back from the mirror.

No. No.

Not tonight. Not now. He had a tournament to survive, friends who trusted him, and a team that was ready to bleed for him. Typhoon had hugged him. Tonfah had smiled. Daotok had called him ours. Hill agreed to stay. Easter, worrying like a mother hen. Arthit, though he won’t admit it, will still help. And Johan, even in silence, had nodded like something had been decided.

He wasn’t alone.

But.

He wasn’t ready to tell them this part. Not yet.

What if they already knew? What if they saw it, that shadow flickering behind his ribs, and simply pretended not to? What if they didn’t?

He didn’t want their pity. Or their fear. North sat at the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands. The fire snapped quietly in the hearth, like it knew.

“I’m not breaking,” he whispered to himself. “…You don’t get to break me.”

He lay back, hands folded across his chest, eyes wide open in the dark.

Chapter 29

The room reshaped itself again—no soft corners this time. No warmth in the sconces or gentleness in the air. Just stone and wind, steel and expectation. A dueling circle carved itself into the floor. The walls pulsed faintly with containment wards. The lighting was dim, deliberate.

North stood at the center of it all, sweat clinging to his collar, wand in hand. Opposite him stood Typhoon, his posture razor-sharp, expression unreadable.

“Again,” Typhoon said, tone clipped.

North lifted his wand, the spell already forming on his lips. A flash of fire, controlled but shallow, arced through the air. Typhoon deflected it effortlessly with a twist of his fingers—no wand, no words.

“Too slow.”

North gritted his teeth, casting a shielding charm next—Vallaris. It shimmered briefly before Typhoon shattered it with a silent, pressure-heavy spell North had never heard before.

“You’re thinking too much,” Typhoon said, circling him slowly. “Stop relying on your school spells. If this were a dragon, you’d be bones.”

Hill, from the edges of the room, frowned. “Phoon…”

“Let him push,” Daotok murmured without glancing away. “He’s not trying to hurt him.”

Typhoon raised his hand again, this time a flick of silver light slashed across the space. North blocked it by instinct, and the rebound sent him skidding across the floor.

“Get up,” Typhoon said.

Easter shifted. “This is getting intense—”

“He needs it,” Johan said, voice calm but unyielding. “We all did. Let him feel the pressure now. Not when it’s real.”

North dragged himself to his feet, breathing hard. “That one wasn’t standard.”

“It’s not.” Typhoon finally stepped closer, raising his wand again. “Fractum Lucis.”

A bolt of ruptured light burst toward North. He deflected—barely. It scorched the floor beside him, and he staggered.

“You’re hesitating,” Typhoon said. “That’ll get you killed.”

“Then stop trying to kill me!” North snapped, eyes blazing. His fire flared unbidden across the stones beneath him.

Typhoon stopped.

The flame curled upward. Shadows twisted at its base. And then, slowly, it calmed. North breathed it down.

“…Better,” Typhoon said softly.

North blinked. “You wanted that?”

“I wanted control. You gave it.”

From the sideline, Hill crossed his arms. “I don’t like this.”

“You’re not meant to,” Johan said. “None of this is fair. But he’s a champion now. We don’t get to be soft.”

The room fell quiet, save for North’s ragged breathing.

Then Typhoon walked to him, gently pressing two fingers beneath North’s chin. “You’re not alone. But you will be alone in that arena. Learn to move like you’re not.”

North swallowed. Then, quieter, “Teach me more.”

A pause—then Typhoon smiled, just a little. “Good.”

 

---

 

The Room had transformed again—arched ceilings and obsidian floors, the air humming with old, waiting magic. Soft orbs of light hovered near the vaulted beams. A quiet stillness settled over the six already inside—North with a wand in hand, breathing through another failed shielding charm; Hill and Easter flipping through a borrowed notebook; Arthit murmuring a hex to Daotok, who parried with a grin.

The door creaked open.

Typhoon stepped in first, followed by Tonfah, both still in dark traveling cloaks, hair tousled from the wind, as if they had just returned from somewhere far.

“You’re late,” North said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“We know,” Tonfah said, brushing a hand through his hair. “But we had to fetch something.”

Typhoon walked in without a word, setting down a reinforced leather case on a conjured table. A familiar click echoed through the room as he undid the lock. The case opened with a soft hiss of enchantment.

Inside, bundled neatly in navy-blue silk, were six sets of three books—Concordia, Metamorphica, and Essentia. Each cover was smooth, marked only with minimalist sigils pressed in metallic ink. No titles on the front. No authors’ names.

Tonfah unwrapped the first set and handed it to North. “Start with Concordia. Memorize the first two sections. There’s theory, application, and practical runes. Do not skip it.”

Typhoon handed another set to Easter, then Hill, Arthit, Johan, and Daotok. One by one, the books were accepted in silence.

“These are...” Easter trailed off, examining the elegant spine. “These books weren’t in Diagon Alley.”

“They weren’t meant to be used yet,” Typhoon murmured, voice lower now, almost hesitant. “Not this early. We thought we had time.”

“But with what happened,” Tonfah added, glancing at North, “precaution outweighs perfection.”

Johan studied the foil-stamped sigils on the spine, lips twitching into a faint smirk. “You really brought six sets?”

Typhoon didn’t look at him. “We had them prepared. Just in case.”

Daotok flipped to the first page of Concordia, stopping at the dedication. His brows rose slightly, and he let out a breath—part laugh, part sigh. Arthit, reading beside him, didn’t comment, but his fingers lingered on the page longer than needed.

“And where exactly did you find these?” Hill asked, though his tone was dry, almost resigned.

“We spent the summer in France,” Tonfah replied, his expression stoic. “You’d be surprised what you can pick up from niche foreign publishers.”

“France?” North echoed. “So that’s the story?”

“It’s not untrue,” Typhoon said with a flash of a smile. “Just convenient.”

“No names,” Tonfah reminded. “If anyone asks, they’re foreign works. Study material. Nothing more.”

“And if the Ministry starts asking how they ended up here?” Easter raised a brow.

“We’re Hogwarts students who visited France over the summer and brought back books. We’re curious and well-read.” Tonfah’s tone was smooth, practiced. “Let them spin what story they want. We never confirmed anything.”

“Except the six of us know better,” Johan said softly.

Typhoon looked up, gaze skimming across the circle of familiar faces—North, Arthit, Daotok, Johan, Hill, Easter.

“That’s why you’re the only ones holding them.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy with understanding. North ran a thumb across the edge of Concordia, then looked up. “I’ll study. I’ll train. I promise.”

“You’d better,” Typhoon said, but his voice had softened. “You’re our Champion now.”

“And we’re your circle,” Daotok added. “No running.”

Hill opened Essentia, flipping through the reinforced potion spells, eyes wide. “Merlin, these are—this isn’t even in our NEWT curriculum.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Tonfah said, settling onto one of the conjured benches. “This is our edge. We can’t afford to let the wrong eyes catch wind.”

They all nodded. Even Arthit, whose gaze lingered on the dedication again. Typhoon looked around the room, and for a flicker of a moment, the armor dropped.

“We trust you. All of you. That’s why you’re holding those books.”

 

---

 

It was meant to be a simple session. Dueling pairs. No advanced hexes. Controlled settings. Standard safety wards are in place. But Easter was bored, which, in hindsight, should’ve been the first warning sign.

"Try the one on page seventy-four," he whispered to Hill, eyes bright with mischief. "It’s a shield. Mostly."

Hill squinted. “You sure? Looks complicated.”

“Only one way to find out.”

The air shifted the moment Hill cast it—light green sparks dancing, twisting—until they surged. Too quickly. The spell rebounded against Easter’s shield, arcing to the left and slamming into one of the practice dummies, then crawling up the wall.

Before anyone could react—Tonfah was already there.

His wand never lifted. Only a flick of his hand, and the spell dissolved. A half-second later, Typhoon moved from the far side, catching the recoil of the magic midair, twisting it down, and letting it vanish with a flicker.

The room was silent.

Hill gaped. “I—what just—how did you—?”

Neither Tonfah nor Typhoon answered. They simply moved back to their usual positions calmly. Johan, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, pushed off it slowly.

“You two,” he said, a note of amusement curling in his voice, “are really something.”

Daotok’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “You did something to the spells.”

Typhoon didn’t deny it. Tonfah only arched a brow, saying nothing.

Johan laughed under his breath. “You do realize… you could weaponize this when the time comes.”

“Anyone can cast the spells,” Daotok continued, turning to the others now. “Anyone can brew the potions in these books. But they—” he gestured at the pair— “they have the upper hand.”

The other four stared at him, confused.

“What do you mean?” Arthit asked, brows furrowed.

“Think,” Daotok said. “These books—Concordia, and the others—they’re infused. Not just with theory or brilliance. With resonance. Their resonance. The moment you cast something from them, they feel it.”

Johan added, “And if something goes wrong… they can stop it. Undo it. Shut it down completely.”

Easter blinked. “So… it’s not just a spellbook.”

“It’s a leash,” Daotok murmured. “For everything they created.”

North was silent, staring at the book in his hands.

Hill let out a low whistle. “That’s… terrifying.”

Easter looked down at his copy of Concordia, then at the two of them. “So you’re telling us… you made a magical kill switch. Embedded in every spell.”

They neither confirmed nor denied it.

Only Typhoon’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, and Tonfah’s eyes flicked toward him, warm and fond.

“They’re really not normal, are they?” Hill muttered under his breath, still staring at his hands.

“No,” Easter said, with a grin. “But thank Merlin, they’re ours.”

“You also do realize,” North drawled, “this is exactly how dark lords are born? Voldemort. Grindelwald. A spellbook, a few secrets, some followers—next thing we know—”

“You forgot the part where they got caught,” Tonfah cut in dryly.

Typhoon didn’t even look up from where he was fixing the spell matrix.

“We’re not stupid.”

That silenced the room—until Johan snorted and raised a glass of conjured wine. “To our future benevolent overlords, then.”

Daotok clinked his cup against Johan’s.

“May they reign long and anonymously.”

And slowly, the tension melted back into humor. Hill and Easter returned to their seats, murmuring promises to study before trying anything again. The eight of them settled back into laughter, light conversation, and a shared understanding.

Chapter 30

The letter arrived quietly beside North’s plate at breakfast, as though it had always been there. The Hogwarts crest waxed into the seal. No one else at the table seemed to notice. But when North broke it open, he felt the weight of it settle into his chest like flint.

“Mr. Ritthirong, you are summoned to the Headmistress's office immediately following breakfast. Your presence is required. The other Champions have also been summoned.”

Across the Slytherin table, Typhoon raised a brow in question. Johan, beside him, paused with a fork in mid-air. North gave a subtle shake of his head. He stood and pushed in his chair. Behind him, a hand brushed his shoulder lightly. Johan.

“Go on,” Johan said. “We’ll be here.”

The stone stairwell turned slowly beneath his feet. At the top, the heavy oak door opened before he could knock. Inside, the room was lit in low amber tones, shadows from the curtained windows moving like smoke. The fire in the hearth crackled low and slow.

Three chairs had been set before the great desk of Headmistress McGonagall.

Amilie sat straight-backed, her hands folded neatly on her lap. Mek lounged with a lazy grin, his boots crossed at the ankle and eyes sharp on North the moment he entered.

“Take a seat, Mr. North,” said the Headmistress. Her voice was crisp, but not unkind.

He sat.

Behind her, Headmaster Karakoff stood tall and pale in his high-collared robes. His stare lingered on North, almost expectant. Beside him, Madame Olympe held herself like carved ice, unmoving.

“You have been called,” said McGonagall, “to be informed of the nature of your first trial. The Pyrestone Trial.”

The name settled like embers in North’s spine.

“In six days’ time, you will be transported into a warded arena,” Madame Olympe continued. “The trial will test your ability to withstand heat, pressure, and the element of flame, both natural and conjured.”

“It is designed to test resilience and instinct,” Karkaroff said smoothly. “You will not be told the layout of the arena. Nor the obstacles. Nor the source of the fire.”

“Your task is to retrieve the Pyrestone—an enchanted relic of elemental flame—placed at the heart of the arena,” McGonagall finished. “Retrieve it, and return it to the gate.”

“Alive,” Mek added with a grin. “Hopefully.”

North did not look at him.

“There will be safeguards,” McGonagall added. “But minimal interference. A magical rune will be applied to each of you before the trial. It will track your vitals and enable emergency extraction, should it become necessary.”

“Do not rely on that,” Madame Olympe said. “Champions are expected to endure. Not collapse.”

Mek’s smirk twisted. “Not scared of fire, are you, Gryffindor?”

But North felt something beneath his ribs stir. “No,” he answered quietly. “I'm not.”

Headmistress McGonagall watched him closely. “You are dismissed, Champions. Prepare wisely. You will be escorted to the arena on the morning of the trial.”

The three rose. Amilie offered a nod. Mek swaggered. North turned on his heel.

Johan was waiting, exactly where he always was. Leaning against the cold stone arch, arms crossed, eyes already reading North’s face.

“You good?”

North didn’t speak for a beat. Then nodded. “It’s called the Pyrestone Trial.”

At that, Johan straightened. “Fire.”

North let the silence speak for him. Johan tilted his head. “Then you’ll burn brighter than all of them.”

He gave a dry, quick exhale. “That’s the plan.”

 

---

 

The wind screamed as it raced through the reconfigured arena, a circular pit surrounded by stone bleachers and runic pylons. Even before the trial began, heat shimmered in waves, distorting the air around the center platform—where a glowing red altar rose, cradling the Pyrestone like a heart of molten glass.

The announcer’s voice echoed magically across the arena.

“For the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament: The Pyrestone Trial! Our champions must retrieve the sacred flame without dousing it, without being scorched, and without losing control.”

The Pyrestone, it was whispered, and was alive. It was not a creature, but a shard of fire-infused crystal rumored to be part of a dragon’s first breath, imbued with raw elemental magic.

The enchantments surrounding it were layered. Real fire, sustained by elemental runes, twined with illusion fire, meant to trick the senses. Smoke, scent, and temperature could not be trusted. Magical beasts waited in the flames, and so did something else.

The first was Amilie. She walked with elegance; her silver robes trimmed with sky-blue lace. With a wand flick, she summoned gusts of wind to part the curtain of smoke. Her magic danced through blades of illusion, cutting through fire serpents. Her control was beautiful.

Then came Mek. He sauntered toward the wardline, grinning. The flames roared louder in his presence, almost as if reacting to him. He launched spells with force, hurling walls of energy and destructive strikes that shattered stone illusions. Sparks sprayed as he tore a path forward with violence more than grace.

“North Ritthirong of Hogwarts.”

The crowd quieted.

North walked out, dressed in his Hogwarts robes, red and gold outlined in silver embroidery. His wand was in his hand, but he hadn’t raised it. He crossed the threshold of the warded boundary. The air changed, and the flames moved.

A flare of gold ignited beneath North’s feet as the wards registered him, surging to match his presence, assessing magic. Then, the flames and the air stilled. The fire did not attack.

Instead, it coiled.

Smoke rose like breath held in anticipation. Flickers of ember circled North’s boots. Then he stepped forward, and the fire parted.

From the stands, it looked like wandless magic. The professors leaned forward, intrigued. A few students whispered:

“Did you see that?”

“Is that spellwork?”

“He’s not even—!”

A fire serpent lunged from the illusion and North ducked under its strike, whispering a wordless spell. It slithered away, mesmerized. But then the shadows came. The illusion wavered. One of the Ministry’s enchantments cracked at the edge—slight, unnoticed by most.

“What is that—” Arthit whispered.

They saw it. A sliver of void within the flame. The illusion had taken a darker shape, something dangerous and not part of the challenge.

North stumbled near the altar. His magic surged. Shadowed magic, elemental at its core, exploded in a burst that knocked back the distorted fire illusions.

His hand touched the Pyrestone.

It pulsed once, then twice, and then flared gold, then black-red in his palm. It accepted him, and for one terrifying second, the entire arena lit up with North’s elemental fire, visible to no one except the eight.

A halo of flame formed above North’s head and then vanished into him.

He stood there, breathing softly, Pyrestone now silent in his hand.

The stands erupted. Cheers and thunderous applause echoed as North calmly walked away from the center of the trial. Professors clapped. Even the Ministry observers whispered amongst themselves.

 

North sat in a small room beyond the arena, the Pyrestone still warm in his hands. His gloves were gone. The scorched energy had kissed his skin without hurting it. The healer assigned to him checked for burns and found none.

He looked at his palm, and for a moment, he swore he saw it again—embers under the skin. Flickers of gold behind his eyes.

His heart beat too fast.

Not from fear, but from power.

Chapter 31

Notes:

Next chapter would be the Yule ball. Enjoy!

It had been weeks since the fire-laced brilliance of the Pyrestone Trial. Since then, everything had blurred again—classes merging into a rhythm of essays, wandwork, fatigue, and watching North closely, without ever saying they were.

The champions were still the whispered center of attention. North most of all.

But today, something shifted.

At the end of a dull Thursday Transfiguration lesson, a missive floated into the classroom, and gilded at the edges, sealed with the Hogwarts crest. The professor paused, opened it, and announced:

“Fifth to seventh years are to report to the Great Hall. Immediately.”

A hum of curiosity filled the room. Books were closed, quills forgotten.

By the time they arrived, the Great Hall had been cleared of its usual long house tables. In their place were high-arched windows letting in snowy light, and a wide, polished floor glowing faintly with enchantments. A few enchanted instruments floated near the ceiling, tuning themselves with delicate twinkles.

Then came Headmistress McGonagall, in robes of deep silver, standing at the far end.

“As you are aware,” she began, “the Yule Ball is fast approaching.”

Soft murmurs followed.

“And as it is tradition, particularly in light of the Triwizard Tournament, you will be expected to conduct yourselves with grace and etiquette.”

A pause.

“Which means, yes… you will dance.”

A collective groan rippled across the room.

“As it is custom,” she continued, “you will be expected to attend with a proper partner. Especially you, Mr. Ritthirong.” Her gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor prefect and Hogwarts Champion.

North froze, visibly startled. “Wait, what?”

There was a snort from behind him—Johan. “Try not to look so terrified, North. It’s a dance, not a duel.”

“The Triwizard Champion is traditionally expected to open the first waltz,” the Headmistress added, eyes twinkling slightly. “With a date. One you have asked, and who has accepted.”

North made a vague choking sound. Typhoon clapped a hand over his shoulder, gently. “Looks like you’ll need to learn more than flame control this month.”

Easter leaned in, whispering, “We’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

“Now,” the Headmistress announced, flicking her wand. “You will be taught the proper wizarding waltz. Partners, please.”

“Partners?” Arthit echoed, clearly panicked.

Tonfah only raised an eyebrow. “It’s not that hard.”

“You say that like you didn’t nearly set fire to your cousin’s dress robes when we were eleven,” Typhoon said, stepping forward with a faint grin.

“You promised not to bring that up.”

But Typhoon only held out his hand, the smile curling deeper. “Dance with me, partner.”

Across the floor, Johan extended a hand toward North. “Shall we show them what we remember?”

North let out a sigh and accepted. Daotok had already snagged Arthit by the wrist, pulling him forward with zero patience. “You overthink. Just follow me.”

Easter and Hill paired off easily, murmuring to each other with small grins. Hill adjusted Easter’s hand placement before they started. He remembered their lessons from summer better than he expected.

The hall shimmered with movement as the students twirled in time. Mistakes were made—clumsy steps, trampled toes, awkward laughter, but somehow, it all felt softer than the usual Hogwarts chaos.

As the final notes of the waltz faded, the Headmistress raised her voice again.

“You have two weeks to make your arrangements. Dates must be declared by the twenty-third. Formal dress is expected. No exceptions.”

Her gaze swept over the room, landing squarely on North once more.

“And yes, Mr. Ritthirong. You will be expected to lead.”

North let out a sigh that was more of a whimper.

“Think of it this way,” Daotok offered, grinning. “You survived fire. You’ll survive dancing.”

“Maybe,” North muttered. “But I don’t think the Pyrestone ever expected me to ask someone out.”

 

---

 

The snow had started to fall, soft and slow, dusting the stone paths of Hogwarts in silver-white light. The castle glowed warmly in contrast—candles flickering through tall windows, fires lit in every hearth. They gathered near the greenhouses after class, a strange but private meeting spot that had somehow become theirs.

Johan nudged North with his elbow as they walked a little behind the group. “So… the Yule Ball.”

North raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”

Johan gave a quiet shrug. “Thought I’d ask you.”

North blinked. “Ask me what?”

A pause. Then a smirk tugged at Johan’s lips. “To go with me.”

North laughed, half-scoff. “You’re joking.”

Johan stopped walking. “I’m not.”

North turned, uncertain. “Wait—you’re serious?”

Johan tilted his head. “Dead serious. I thought it was obvious.”

North flushed, unsure what to say for a moment. “I—yeah. Okay. If… if you meant it.”

Johan chuckled. “I always mean it, North.”

Behind them, a voice interrupted their quiet moment.

“Why does everyone look like they’re proposing marriage?” Hill muttered to himself, arms crossed, watching the scene from a distance. Next to him, Easter snorted softly, still reading the note he’d received with breakfast. It had been enchanted to fold into a paper fox, his name written on its back. Hill had enchanted it.

“Do you need me to say it again?” Hill asked, glancing sideways.

Easter folded the fox and tucked it into his pocket. “You didn’t even say it the first time.”

Hill rolled his eyes. “I sent a fox.”

Easter turned to him, one brow raised. “Say it properly.”

Hill sighed dramatically, then leaned in slightly. “Ter, will you go to the Yule Ball with me?”

A slow grin spread across Easter’s face.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

Meanwhile, in the corridor near the tower staircase, Daotok leaned against the wall as Arthit paced, muttering something about exams, robes, and how stupid formal dancing was.

“Are you done pretending you're not nervous?” Daotok asked, watching him.

“I’m not nervous,” Arthit snapped. “I just—don’t see the point in getting all dressed up for an event like this.”

Daotok stepped forward, calm as always, and held out a hand. “Then don’t get dressed up. Just show up with me.”

Arthit froze.

“What?”

“I’m asking you to go to the ball with me,” Daotok said. “Is that so hard to understand?”

Arthit blinked. “No, it’s just—you’re being direct.”

“Because if I’m not, you’ll pretend it didn’t happen.” Daotok’s voice was flat, but his eyes softened. “Say yes, Arthit.”

Arthit looked away for a heartbeat. Then back. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Good.” Daotok smirked. “Black and gold, remember?”

“Wait—what color?”

A few floors below, Tonfah and Typhoon sat near the Astronomy Tower steps, watching the sky bleed into dusk.

“You know,” Tonfah said lazily, fingers playing with Typhoon’s rings, “we’re supposed to go with dates to the Yule Ball.”

Typhoon didn’t look away from the horizon. “And?”

Tonfah hummed. “Thought I’d ask you.”

Typhoon glanced at him, amused. “As if we’re not already practically married.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t get to ask.” Tonfah leaned in, resting his chin on Typhoon’s shoulder. “Will you go with me, love?”

Typhoon’s eyes crinkled slightly in amusement. “Are you going to make a whole speech about it?”

“No,” Tonfah whispered against his ear. “Just waiting for a yes.”

A pause.

“Yes,” Typhoon said quietly. “I’ll go with you.”

Tonfah smiled, and they sat there as the wind swept gently through their robes.

Behind them, the stars were beginning to appear—faint, but steady.

Chapter 32

The Yule Ball had transformed Hogwarts.

Icicles shimmered from the rafters of the Entrance Hall, floating snowflakes sparkled without melting, and soft music swelled from the orchestra charmed near the Great Hall’s arched doors. Candlelight flickered along the gilded banisters, illuminating the stone steps as students began to gather.

At the base of the staircase stood Tonfah, Johan, Hill, and Arthit, clad in their own striking dress robes—each one elegant, tailored, and clean-cut. But even the press of silk and polished shoes couldn’t anchor them. They had dressed with care, but even so, nothing prepared them for what descended the staircase next.

Easter appeared first. In robes of ice blue, silver, and white, layers of gossamer fabric shimmered like snowfall on glass—elegant, just sheer enough to suggest skin without truly revealing it. Silver rune-threading curled along the cuffs and collar like vines of moonlight.

Hill stared, mouth parted. “Stars save me,” he muttered. “He’s ethereal.”

North followed in crimson and black, his dress robes bold. A deep, plunging neckline that exposed the sculpted lines of his chest and the trailing runes etched over his heart. His magic crackled softly as if eager to leap from his skin.

Johan looked away, then back again. “He said nothing scandalous,” he hissed.

Then came Daotok in black and gold. Regal. A high collar, sharp shoulders, and a split hem that revealed long legs and polished boots with every measured step. The embroidery along the robe shimmered like buried treasure.

Arthit inhaled through his teeth. “That’s unfair.”

And then—Typhoon. He descended slowly, a picture of pure elegance in green and silver. High-necked, long-sleeved, modestly cut.

“He looks… decent,” Hill said, surprised.

“Almost tame,” Arthit added.

Johan glanced at Daotok, who was already fighting back a grin. Easter was absolutely trying not to laugh. They began walking toward the ballroom together. Typhoon stepped ahead of them, taking the lead as they approached the enchanted archway, and then turned slightly to glance over his shoulder at Tonfah.

That was when it hit them. The back of his robe didn’t exist.

From nape to waist—bare skin, pale and smooth. And moving against it, from the base of his neck down the curve of his spine, was a silver serpent rune, alive and shifting in slow, hypnotic coils. The rune moved as if breathing, its jeweled eyes flickering, tongue darting.

Tonfah froze mid-step, and his breath caught.

Johan swore softly under his breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Arthit blinked rapidly, and Hill audibly choked.

“That robe was a lie.”

Typhoon looked back once more—directly at Tonfah, lips curled in the softest, laziest smirk. “Something wrong, love?” he asked innocently.

Daotok’s laughter broke first. “Oh, I knew it,” he chuckled. “He warned me it would drive you mad.”

“I’m going to strangle him,” Tonfah muttered. “And then charm the robe shut. Permanently.”

Easter, biting back a grin, whispered, “Do it after the dance. Let him shine.”

But the serpent shimmered again, its tail coiling lower, swaying suggestively with every step Typhoon took, as if it knew exactly what it was doing.

“You’re cruel,” Tonfah hissed under his breath.

“You love it,” Typhoon murmured over his shoulder.

 

North adjusted the sleeve of his robe, trying to still the flutter of nerves. Beside him, Johan straightened his own cuffs with calmly, offering a small glance.

“You’ll be fine,” Johan said quietly. “It’s just a dance.”

Before North could reply, a familiar voice spoke from behind them.

“Mr. Ritthirong.”

They turned. Headmistress McGonagall, regal in navy robes embroidered with stars, stood a few feet away. Her gaze was firm, though not unkind. “A word, if I may?”

Johan gave North a gentle nudge. “I’ll wait inside.”

When Johan slipped through the doors, North turned back to the Headmistress. “Yes, Professor?”

She gave a nod, leading him a few paces away where the hum of the Hall faded just slightly. “As Hogwarts’ champion, protocol requires that you lead the opening waltz tonight,” she said. “With your chosen date. I trust you’ve made the appropriate preparations?”

North froze for a heartbeat. He had known. Of course he had known. But the reality of it—the expectations, the spotlight, the gathered guests, and the dozens of eyes trained on him as he danced first—

“Yes,” he said at last, though a bit slower than intended. “I’ll be dancing with Johan.”

The Headmistress’s expression didn’t shift. “Very well. Then I suggest you take your place shortly. The cue will begin the moment the music shifts—three bells, and then you and the other champions will step onto the floor.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “And North?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Hold your head high. You’re not just dancing. You’re representing Hogwarts.”

A beat of silence passed, and then, “And try not to crush his toes,” she added dryly.

A nervous laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “Yes, Professor.”

As she swept away, North turned toward the Great Hall doors, exhaling slowly. Beyond them waited Johan, the music, and the moment everyone would see.

His steps might be uncertain. His nerves still fluttered. But Johan would be there. At his side.

And that was enough.

 

The doors of the Great Hall swung open, and a hush fell over the room.

Every head turned. Guests and students alike turned their gazes to the entrance as the three champions entered—each with their chosen partner at their side.

Leading them, as was tradition, was North. Beside him, Johan walked with unshakable poise. “Don’t forget to breathe,” Johan murmured as they walked forward together.

“That obvious?” North replied under his breath.

“Only to someone who’s been watching you since third year.”

North flushed. They reached the center of the ballroom. Behind them, the other champions took their places. The music fell silent for a breath, the final shimmer of bells fading like winter wind.

Three soft chimes echoed. The lights shifted, and the orchestra swelled.

North stepped forward, guided by instinct more than memory, and Johan followed.

They began to move. At first, the steps were awkward. The world felt too loud. But Johan’s hand never left his. His palm on North’s back was gentle but certain. His grip on North’s hand was firm but not forceful.

They danced.

And slowly, North’s nerves unraveled. The music wove around them, and in this moment, he wasn’t the Hogwarts Champion under a hundred gazes—he was just North, with Johan.

The crowd blurred as the other champions joined. The dance expanded outward in elegant circles, feet gliding over marble, laughter and applause gradually returning to the room. Somewhere near the side, North saw Typhoon, in his silver and green robes, nod toward him. Tonfah smiled. Daotok, arms loosely folded, gave a small smirk. Easter, Hill, and Arthit were already watching with fond amusement.

As the music crescendoed, Johan leaned in slightly and whispered—

“You’re doing fine.”

“You’ll owe me one,” North murmured back, the corners of his lips curling.

“Gladly,” Johan answered.

The final spin brought them to the center once more. The music softened into silence.

Then came the applause.

North exhaled, flushed and smiling, only half-aware that he was still holding Johan’s hand.

From the edges of the ballroom, the other couples slowly stepped forward.

Arthit and Daotok were the first to join. Arthit, flushed at the collar, followed Daotok’s lead gracefully, though his ears were tinged pink. He had danced in theory, not practice—but Daotok knew how to guide him.

“You’re thinking too much,” Daotok murmured.

“You’re too close,” Arthit shot back, under his breath.

“And yet, you’re not moving away.”

A pause. Then a small, reluctant smile.

Hill and Easter followed next, an airy, graceful pair that looked born for ballrooms. Their fingers laced loosely, and while Easter wore the faintest smirk, Hill looked like he’d swallowed stars.

“Stop looking at my face,” Easter teased gently.

“Impossible,” Hill replied, then spun him.

They glided past Daotok and Arthit, Hill’s form sharper than expected, surprisingly elegant.

From the far side of the ballroom, eyes naturally shifted. Tonfah stepped onto the floor with Typhoon, their entrance as composed as it was commanding. And then they danced.

Where Johan and North moved with grace, and Easter and Hill with elegance, Tonfah and Typhoon danced with heat.

Theirs was sharper, coiled with tension and memory, every step a near-argument and every turn a vow. The room quieted, subtly, as eyes shifted, caught by the undercurrent in their motion. Typhoon moved, the slit in his sleeve revealing a glimpse of wandless runes carved into a silver bracer. He let Tonfah lead, but his back arched with intent every time they turned, every flicker of that serpent rune like a whispered challenge.

“You’re showing off,” Tonfah whispered tightly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Typhoon replied, breathless, amused.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And you love it.”

Tonfah said nothing, but he held him just a little tighter. Around them, the waltz continued, the room spinning in delicate patterns.

As the final notes of the first waltz echoed into silence, the floor began to fill with other pairs. Tonfah pressed a kiss to Typhoon’s temple before they stepped to the side—both still smoldering in the lingering tension of their dance, though Typhoon’s teasing grin had softened into something almost smug.

Johan slipped his hand from North’s slowly, murmuring, “I told you—you were brilliant.”

North only managed a breathless laugh, cheeks still tinged with pink, before he turned and caught the eyes of three very familiar faces. Daotok, crossed his arms, amused. Easter, swirling the last of his wine in his glass, looking up over the rim with a sharp, knowing look.

Typhoon, ever dangerous with his smirk, brushing back a silver curl from his face and saying sweetly:

“Well, Champion, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Or rather, someones,” Easter added dryly, glancing sidelong at Daotok.

North blinked. “What?”

Daotok tilted his head, feigning disappointment. “You do know it’s tradition for the Champion to honor their closest circle with a dance. Or has the fame already gone to your head?”

Typhoon stepped closer, a glint in his eyes. “Should we put our names back in the Goblet, then? Maybe then you’ll remember us.”

North groaned quietly, but he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re all insufferable,” he muttered.

“We love you too,” Easter said sweetly, holding out a hand.

He took Easter’s hand with a sheepish laugh and nodded toward the floor. “Alright then. You’re all getting your dance. I’ll figure it out.”

Daotok snorted. “Figure what out?”

But before they could protest further, North moved. He offered Easter his right hand, grabbed Daotok’s wrist with his left, and nodded at Typhoon to follow. “We’ll rotate,” North said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

“What—are we… square dancing now?” Typhoon asked, clearly amused.

“It’s called improvising.”

“It’s called being extraordinary,” Easter whispered under his breath.

The four of them took the floor. A few heads turned. A couple of professors blinked. But no one stopped them.

The four of them slipped around each other in a slow, easy spiral, more like a conversation of movement than a practiced waltz. When the music swelled, they spun. When it softened, they leaned into it—breathless smiles, laughter shared in passing, arms slipping from one to the next with familiar ease.

Near the edge of the floor, Tonfah, Johan, Hill, and Arthit stood with glasses of punch in hand, watching the scene unfold.

Tonfah’s eyes never left Typhoon, who now laughed so freely it sent something warm and bittersweet through him. Beside him, Johan bumped their shoulders lightly.

“You’re letting him dance with three others,” Johan whispered.

“I love him enough to let him,” Tonfah replied softly.

“That’s the most possessive-sounding unpossessive thing I’ve ever heard.”

Arthit leaned in toward Hill. “Is this what soft magic looks like?”

Hill’s smile was quiet and content. “No. This is what belonging looks like.”

They watched as Typhoon twirled into Easter’s arms, laughter slipping out like a silver thread. North, in the center of it all, radiant and warm, laughing at the ridiculousness and the beauty of it, no longer trying to hide any part of who he was.

When the song ended, none of them moved for a moment. They stood there, breathing, smiling, basking in a kind of peace that came not from victory, but from being seen and stayed with anyway.

 

The ballroom had begun to soften. They found each other near the edge of the dance floor, where the enchanted snowfall drifted lighter and the candlelight turned the marble pale gold. The kind of soft glow that made sharp edges look smooth.

It was Tonfah who shifted first, eyes flicking briefly toward Typhoon, and in return, he gave the smallest nod in reply.

And then, they began to move. North stepped toward Tonfah, offering his hand without pretense. Hill turned to Daotok, who tilted his head, then smiled. Johan extended his palm to Easter, who blinked once, then accepted it with a soft, startled laugh. And Typhoon, with a glance more amused than mocking, bowed lightly at the waist to Arthit.

North’s hand rested lightly at Tonfah’s shoulder, the other holding his gloved fingers in a steady rhythm. Their steps matched easily, Tonfah graceful in the way that always seemed practiced, but North noticed the difference now. Less tension in the shoulders. Less guardedness in the eyes.

“You seem… lighter this year,” North murmured, tone teasing but warm.

Tonfah raised a brow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” North smiled, a little sheepish. “You always used to feel so… held in. Like you were thinking five moves ahead just to have a conversation.”

Tonfah didn’t reply right away. They turned with the music, the hem of his robe sweeping like water.

“And now?” He asked, curious.

“Now it feels like…” North paused. “Like you're finally breathing in your own skin.”

Tonfah looked past his shoulder, just briefly, where Typhoon was dancing with Arthit, half-lidded gaze sharp and amused. Then back to North.

“I suppose I’ve stopped running,” he said softly.

North smiled. “You’ve never really needed to.”

Tonfah’s hand squeezed his once, a quiet acknowledgment.

 

Daotok’s dance was slower, his head tilted in that way he often had when reading people like a page. Hill had expected snark. What he got was silence.

“So,” Hill murmured. “You’re letting me lead?”

Daotok raised a brow, amused. “I’m letting you think you’re leading.”

Hill laughed under his breath. “Classic.”

They swayed for a moment in silence. Then Daotok said, voice softer, “Thank you.”

Hill blinked. “For what?”

“For looking after Easter,” Daotok said. “Even when he’s being stubborn. Especially when he’s being stubborn.”

Hill’s jaw worked once. “I didn’t do much.”

“You’ve been good for him,” he said. “He doesn’t hide around you.”

Hill cleared his throat. “He… he means a lot to me.”

“I know,” Daotok said simply. “That’s why I trust you.”

Hill was quiet for a beat. “You’re a strange one, Dao.”

“You’ve said worse.”

“I meant it fondly this time.”

Daotok chuckled. “I know.”

They spun once, their shadows cast long against the marble floor. “You’re not so bad either, Hill.”

Hill exhaled a small breath of a laugh. “Don’t let Easter hear that. He’ll get ideas.”

Daotok smirked. “He already has.”

 

Easter’s steps were careful at first, a bit uncertain, but Johan adjusted without blinking, guiding them into an easy rhythm.

“You know,” Johan said, half-smiling, “we didn’t talk much before last year.”

“No,” Easter agreed. “I was... distracted. You were intimidating.”

“I was?” Johan sounded genuinely surprised.

Easter laughed once. “Not in the way you think. You were... confident. Like you belonged. I was still trying to figure out if I was allowed to.”

Johan’s expression softened. “You were. Always.”

Easter looked down at their joined hands. “I know that now.”

They turned, slow and steady, passing beneath a floating lantern that scattered gold dust across Easter’s hair.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” Easter said softly.

Johan’s hand at his back tightened. “So am I.”

A pause. “I never thought it would feel this easy,” Easter added.

Johan smiled. “It’s not easy. We just stopped pretending we didn’t care.”

Easter looked up at him. “You’re wiser than you look.”

“I’m older than I act.”

Easter laughed, and the sound rang clear.

 

Typhoon offered his hand with just enough theatrical flourish to make Arthit sigh, but he took it, fingers warm against cool rings. They moved in near-silent sync. The world buzzed around them, but the space between them was unhurried.

“You don’t usually let people close,” Typhoon said, turning them with the faintest tilt of his wrist. “But you do for Daotok.”

Arthit’s brow rose. “And you’re surprised?”

“Not surprised,” Typhoon said. “But curious.”

 “You’ve gone sentimental.”

Typhoon’s smile curved. “Only where it counts.”

They turned once, gliding past a circle of floating candles.

“Daotok suits you,” Typhoon said quietly. “Not because he challenges you. But because he doesn’t need to.”

Arthit’s mouth twitched. “He sees things. Things I thought I buried.”

Typhoon hummed once in agreement. “He’s not afraid of your sharp edges.”

“And you’re not afraid of Tonfah’s,” Arthit replied evenly.

Typhoon’s smile was subtle. “He has claws no one else sees.”

“But you do.”

“I helped sharpen them.”

A pause stretched, full of meaning. Then Typhoon added, “If Daotok is ever in danger, I will stand beside you.”

Arthit turned his gaze to meet his. “That’s not a promise I take lightly.”

“I don’t make them lightly.” Typhoon said laughing, his head thrown back slightly, eyes crinkling at the edges, the corners of his mouth lifted in a way that softened every shadow in his face.

“I’ll hold onto that,” Arthit said, trying to stifle the grin. Their dance slowed naturally as they settled into that moment. Arthit’s hand had fallen slightly lower at Typhoon’s waist. Typhoon hadn’t moved away.

“Typhoon.”

The voice was thick with accent and expectation. They both looked up.

Headmaster Karkaroff stood at the edge of the dance floor, regal in blood-red velvet and dark runes woven into his sleeves. Eyes like dull steel pinned Typhoon with something that wasn’t quite warmth.

“Headmaster,” Typhoon greeted, straightening, spine instinctively snapping into the perfect line of deference, not from fear, but from memory.

Karkaroff gave the smallest of nods. “I see you’ve kept your elegance. It is… well remembered.”

“Thank you.”

“A small matter,” the Headmaster continued. “As a former student of Durmstrang, it would be appropriate, respectful if you would share a dance with our champion. Mek has represented us well. A gesture of goodwill would not go unnoticed.”

Typhoon’s jaw shifted almost imperceptibly. Arthit looked between them, eyes narrowing faintly.

“I understand,” Typhoon said evenly, not breaking eye contact. “If it is tradition, I will honor it.”

Karkaroff gave a curt nod and stepped away.

Arthit muttered under his breath. “Politics.”

“Always,” Typhoon said, voice quiet. “Keep an eye on Tonfah.”

Mek offered his hand with an easy, charismatic smile. His grip was firm, too firm, and lingered half a second too long before he led them into the slow steps of the dance.

“Mek.”

“Typhoon,” Mek said, voice smooth. “I thought you’d refuse.”

Typhoon gave a faint, courtly smile. “I considered it.”

They moved into the rhythm, a slower piece beginning beneath the chandelier. Mek held him just a touch too close—not enough to break etiquette, but enough to signal something beneath it.

“You look beautiful,” Mek said softly.

Typhoon’s tone didn’t shift. “You look like you expected something.”

Mek chuckled. “I always did wonder what it would’ve been like if you had stayed at Durmstrang.”

Typhoon didn’t miss a step. “I wouldn’t have survived.”

Mek looked surprised. “You? You were the strongest of us.”

“No,” Typhoon murmured. “Just the coldest.”

“And yet you said yes to this,” Mek said, dipping him with practiced ease—a move meant to show off. It did. Typhoon’s back arched, robe slipping lower to reveal the fine sweep of his spine, bare from shoulder blade to base.

The crowd might have admired it. Mek certainly did. His hand stayed there. Too long. Just above the small of Typhoon’s back, fingers lightly curved, not moving. Typhoon didn’t blink. But when he was pulled upright again, his fingers curled faintly in Mek’s sleeve. “Enjoying yourself?” Typhoon asked lightly.

“I could get used to this view,” Mek said, hand still dangerously close to bare skin. “And you.”

Typhoon tilted his head. “You think one dance entitles you to familiarity?”

They spun again, faster now—Typhoon reclaiming control in the tempo, in the angle of his shoulder, in the tension between them.

“Come now,” Mek said. “You’re clearly not getting what you need. That Ravenclaw of yours looks like he studies more than he touches.”

Typhoon’s expression barely shifted. “You’d be surprised what he studies.”

Mek smirked, amused by his own delusions. “You could have more. You deserve more.”

“And you think that’s you?”

“I know it could be.”

Typhoon didn’t answer. He spun out, letting their fingers stretch between them before sweeping back into Mek’s arms for the final dip, controlled and elegant, and close enough for the world to call it beautiful. Again, Mek’s hand slid along Typhoon’s back, brushing dangerously low, almost grazing skin that didn’t belong to him. And this time, Typhoon caught it.

He didn’t say anything, just looked at Mek. “You mistake etiquette for interest,” Typhoon said quietly.

Mek laughed, but it was hollow now. “You mistake affection for fear.”

Typhoon’s smile was all ice. “No. But you might mistake rejection for mercy.”

And Typhoon let go of Mek’s hand, turned his heel, and walked away.

 

Tonfah’s eyes were dark, jaw set, still. The others surrounded him, quiet, letting him decide if the restraint would hold. Typhoon crossed the remaining distance and stopped in front of him.

“You’re burning,” he murmured.

“You let him touch you,” Tonfah said flatly.

“I let him try,” Typhoon corrected. “That’s different.”

Tonfah reached forward and fixed the fold of Typhoon’s robes—a touch too firm. Possessive and necessary.

“I hate diplomacy,” he muttered.

Typhoon leaned in close, just enough to press his forehead to Tonfah’s. “So hate it. But I’d rather you save the flames for when we’re alone.”

Tonfah’s breath stilled. “Is that a promise?”

“It’s a request,” Typhoon whispered. “From the person you belong to.”

Tonfah’s grip tightened around his waist, pulling him in until there was no space left between them. “Let’s dance,” he said.

Typhoon smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Only if you don’t dip me for anyone else.”

They didn’t make it far. Typhoon had just let Tonfah lead him into a slower, quieter rhythm at the edge of the dance floor when the unmistakable sound of deliberate footsteps followed.

“Typhoon,” Mek called, threading through the small clusters of students, brushing off the half-curtained glares of Beauxbatons girls and Durmstrang boys with practiced arrogance. Typhoon didn’t turn. Tonfah did. His grip on Typhoon’s waist tightened. Not enough to be impolite, but enough to speak. A silent: don’t.

“Typhoon,” Mek said again, stopping just beside them. “Can I speak with you?”

“You’re speaking now,” Typhoon replied coldly, gaze still on Tonfah.

“It’s important.”

“No,” Typhoon said without pause. “It’s persistent. There’s a difference.”

Mek huffed a soft laugh, like he thought this was still flirtation. “I think you misunderstood what I meant earlier. About us.”

“There is no us,” Tonfah said, finally turning.

Mek glanced at him, clearly unimpressed. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“No,” Tonfah said, stepping fully between them, his back to Typhoon now. “But you were looking at something that’s mine, so I’m responding.”

Typhoon sighed behind him. “Fah.”

“I’ve been quiet,” Tonfah said, not looking away from Mek. “I’ve been good.”

“You’ve been seething,” Daotok’s voice called dryly from nearby.

“But I’m done now,” Tonfah continued, ignoring him. “You had your dance. You touched more than you were allowed. You said more than you should’ve. That was your moment.”

“You’re jealous,” Mek said, smiling like it was a victory.

“No,” Tonfah said, voice low, “I’m warning you.”

Mek scoffed. “Is this what you want, Phoon? Someone who throws tantrums when you speak to anyone else?”

Finally, Typhoon stepped forward, not past Tonfah, but beside him, just enough that their shoulders brushed. “I’ve had power pressed against me my whole life,” he said evenly. “I’ve had people try to buy me, tame me, win me.”

His eyes met Mek’s, gaze cold. “I chose Tonfah,” he said. “Not because he needs to defend me. But because he would.”

Mek blinked.

Typhoon’s voice softened, but the edges stayed lethal. “You mistake jealousy for weakness. But if he were to hex you now, it wouldn’t be jealousy. It would be mercy, compared to what I’d do.”

Mek stepped back slightly. “This won’t look good on you.”

“And yet,” Typhoon said, smiling faintly, “I’ll still look better than you.”

Tonfah exhaled once through his nose, almost amused. “Walk away, Mek.”

For one breath too long, Mek held his ground, then turned, robes stiff and pride bent, vanishing back into the crowd like a wraith unraveling.

Chapter 33

Notes:

I love Tonfah when he's possessive and really a wolf in sheep's clothing.

The dance had ended. And the music carried on behind them like it hadn’t seen the threat in Tonfah’s jaw, the way his magic curled around his wrists like smoke waiting to ignite.

Typhoon was smiling, infuriatingly calm, as though he hadn’t just let another man press a hand too low against bare skin. As though he hadn’t turned away from the ballroom without a care, letting Tonfah stew in silence as the fire in his blood built to a boil.

And still, Typhoon was smiling.

That was the final spark. Tonfah grabbed his wrist and pulled him from the crowd, ignoring Johan’s amused glance and Daotok’s dry “Oh, here we go.”

Typhoon didn’t resist. He never resisted Tonfah when he got like this. He followed without question, without pause, and something dangerous glinted in his eyes like he wanted to see just how far Tonfah would go this time.

The soft click of the door sounded like thunder in the silence that followed. The Room of Requirement shifted to meet the mood: rich velvet drapes, golden sconces dimly glowing, and the thick perfume of rosewood and smoke clinging to the air. A fire crackled low in the hearth, but it was not nearly as burning as the look in Tonfah’s eyes.

Typhoon barely had a second to speak when his back hit the wall. His breath caught in his throat as Tonfah loomed in front of him, his hands caging him in by the sides of his head. His emerald and silver robes shimmered in the dim light, his hair a dark halo around his sharp, stoic face.

“You let him touch you,” Tonfah said quietly, but there was nothing calm about the way his jaw clenched or the glint in his eye.

“I didn’t want to cause a scene—” Typhoon started.

A hand slid up to the back of Typhoon’s neck, fingers curling there with pressure just shy of painful. It wasn’t rough, but it was a warning. A reminder.

“I know,” Tonfah murmured. “But I saw him. His hand on your back. His fingers on my ring.”

Typhoon’s lips curled, part amused, part breathless. “You really are jealous.”

“Yes,” Tonfah breathed. “I am.”

And then he kissed him—hungrily, darkly, a sharp contrast to the composed mask he wore in public. His mouth moved over Typhoon’s, tongue sweeping in and claiming. The hand on his neck tightened, pulling him closer, while the other slid to his waist, fingers digging into silk and skin.

Typhoon groaned into the kiss, one hand fisting in Tonfah’s robes while the other slid up to clutch at his shoulder. The air thickened between them—jealousy, magic, and desire colliding like sparks to dry kindling.

Tonfah pulled back just enough to whisper against Typhoon’s lips, “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” Typhoon murmured, his voice low, throat scraped raw from wanting.

And then Tonfah kissed him again, fiercer this time. A deep, bruising kiss that promised they were far from done. His mouth trailed down, teeth grazing the curve of Typhoon’s throat, right where Mek’s hand had lingered.

“Let me remind you,” Tonfah whispered against his skin, biting there, just enough to leave a mark, the kind that wouldn’t be covered by illusion.

Typhoon tilted his head back, surrendering in full. “Make it last.”

And Tonfah did.

 

The lights had dimmed to a sultry amber glow, reflecting off the deep green velvet of the settee and the shimmer of Typhoon’s bare shoulders. He was sitting sideways on Tonfah’s lap, one leg tucked under him, the other draped lazily across Tonfah’s thigh. His robe had slipped down to his hips, fabric bunched carelessly, revealing the elegant line of his spine and the constellation of bite marks and bruised kisses blooming like crushed violets along his throat and collarbone. There was even the faint glint of blood near his jaw.

Tonfah, for his part, looked completely composed. His hand traced slow circles at Typhoon’s waist, eyes half-lidded. The kind of stillness that came after the storm had burned through everything.

And that was exactly how the other six found them when the door to the Room of Requirement creaked open without resistance.

“You do know your private prefect quarters has a purpose, or are you turning into an exhibitionist now, Fah?” Johan said, breaking the silence, one brow arched.

Tonfah didn’t even look up. He just rested his chin on Typhoon’s shoulder and exhaled like this was the most natural thing in the world. Typhoon blinked lazily at Johan, smirking faintly.

“You missed a spot, love.”

Tonfah moved instantly. He shifted slightly beneath him, pressed a hand to Typhoon’s side to steady him, and bit him again beneath the curve of his jaw. Typhoon let out a soft, pleased sigh, tilting his head further to give him space.

The room blinked.

Daotok, crossed the floor and poured himself a glass of red wine from the decanter that had materialized on a side table. “Should’ve placed bets,” he muttered, sipping. “This is about three hours earlier than I expected.”

Easter looked vaguely concerned, glancing at the bruises blooming up Typhoon’s throat. “That looks like it stings.”

“It doesn’t,” Typhoon murmured, still curled into Tonfah’s chest. “It burns.”

North, arms crossed, gave an exhausted sigh beside Easter. “You could’ve warned us before you marked him like a ritual circle, Fah.”

“I did warn him,” Tonfah said, voice finally surfacing, low and dark and unapologetic.

Arthit stood frozen just a few steps inside the room, mouth slightly open, eyes caught somewhere between horror and fascination. Hill, beside him, was also very still. They both stared at Typhoon’s neck a beat longer.

“…He’s bleeding,” Hill said quietly.

Arthit cleared his throat, looking away. “He’s also smiling.”

“He’s also sane,” Daotok added from the corner, swirling his wine. “Which, frankly, is what surprises me more.”

“Would you rather I let him dance with Mek again?” Tonfah asked flatly, still cradling Typhoon like a favorite sin.

“No,” Johan said, waving a hand. “Just rather you do it behind the wards. Or at least wait until the next day to tear him apart.”

“Too late,” Typhoon whispered, eyes closing briefly. “Already torn.”

Daotok clinked his glass against his own with a soft cheers. “And still functional. That’s our boy.”

Hill finally found his voice. “This feels… illegal.”

Easter patted his arm. “You’re from a pureblood house, and this surprises you?”

Arthit muttered, “It’s not the marks. It’s the biting.”

“You all bite,” Daotok said mildly. “You just don’t do it in front of me.”

There was another beat of silence.

Typhoon shifted in Tonfah’s lap and finally looked up, skin marked, hair tousled, lips still faintly swollen. He smiled lazily at all of them. “I assume you came to fetch us?”

“No,” Johan said. “We came to make sure Tonfah hadn’t buried Mek in the snow.”

Tonfah ran his fingers down Typhoon’s side, possessive even in the quiet. “If I did,” he said coolly, “you wouldn’t find the body.”

Everyone exhaled at once.

Easter clapped once. “Well. That’s sorted.”

“Back to the ball?” Daotok asked, already draining his wine.

Typhoon looked up at Tonfah, then slowly slid his robe back over his shoulders, fingers brushing his collar. “Five minutes,” he said. “Then we’ll be respectable again.”

Tonfah hummed.

“That’s debatable,” said Johan.

 

The others had drifted back toward the entrance. North and Easter chatting in low tones, Hill and Arthit still recovering, Typhoon now standing with a soft robe draped around his shoulders, sipping water conjured from the air.

Johan lingered. Daotok, of course, didn’t move until he was good and ready. Tonfah stood by the fireplace, adjusting the silver clasp at his collar.

“Fah.” Johan said quietly.

Tonfah didn’t turn. “I know.”

Daotok came to stand beside him, wine glass gone, replaced by the quiet kind of stillness he only wore when he was serious. Johan leaned against the mantel. “We’re not here to lecture you.”

“Then why does it feel like one?”

“Because we love you,” Daotok said smoothly. “And your love language is borderline criminal.”

Tonfah finally looked at them. “He let that Durmstrang bastard touch him.”

“He let him dance with him,” Johan corrected. “He let you bite him.”

“He asked me to bite him,” Tonfah said, voice lowering.

“Exactly,” Daotok said. “Which means you don’t need to keep proving anything.”

Tonfah’s jaw ticked. Johan stepped closer, expression softening. “We all saw what you did. What you do. How you love him.”

“He’s not afraid of you,” Daotok added. “But the rest of the world should be.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from Tonfah. Johan tilted his head. “Just… remember there’s a difference between biting and branding.”

Tonfah exhaled slowly. “I’ll hold it back,” he murmured. “Just not for long.”

Daotok smirked. “Good. Wouldn’t want you going soft.”

Chapter 34

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall mirrored a crisp winter sky, pale blue streaked with gold, clouds drifting like breath over glass. But it wasn’t the weather the students were whispering about.

It was Typhoon’s neck.

He was seated at the far end of the Gryffindor table, robe collar loose, skin marked in even more places than the night before. Deep violets, scarlet blooms, some faintly glowing with residual magic. His hair had been pulled back messily, and his posture was entirely unrepentant, lounging between Tonfah and Daotok, spooning honey into his tea.

“I’m sorry,” North said, blinking across the table. “I could’ve sworn there were fewer bite marks on your neck last night.”

“They multiplied,” Arthit whispered.

“I don’t think they multiplied,” said Hill, scandalized. “I think someone was busy after the ball had ended.”

Easter, sipping orange juice, coughed and tried very hard not to look directly at the constellation of bruises beneath Typhoon’s ear.

“Fah,” Johan said, deadpan, “you could’ve at least waited until he had one layer of skin left.”

Tonfah, for his part, was peeling an orange calmly. “You think I’m the only one who left marks?”

Typhoon didn’t look up from his tea and just hummed.

“I see someone marked you up.” Mek’s voice cut sharply and smugly across the table. Several heads turned again, some toward Mek, most toward Tonfah. Typhoon didn’t answer right away.

Mek, mistaking the silence for hesitation, pressed on. “I could’ve done better.”

The table tensed. Tonfah's jaw ticked. Daotok reached lazily for his wand, just in case. But then Typhoon finally looked up calmly, eyes glinting.

“Oh, but I don’t need better, Mek. Tonfah knows exactly how rough I want it.”

Silence.

Johan choked on his coffee, and Arthit let out an audible “Oh my gods.”

Mek blinked. Stared. And for the first time, he truly looked out of place. He left without another word.

Typhoon returned to his tea.

“Unbelievable,” North muttered. “He really said that.”

Tonfah said nothing, only leaning back in his seat, hand resting lightly on Typhoon’s thigh beneath the table. There was something undeniably smug in the way he laced their fingers. Typhoon caught him glancing, and murmured without looking up:

“You did miss a spot, though.”

Tonfah’s mouth curled. “Next time,” he promised, voice low. “I’ll leave nothing untouched.”

By the time the laughter over Typhoon’s comment had finally faded the table had slipped into a softer kind of quiet. Their plates were half-cleared. The sun through the enchanted ceiling now poured golden across the length of the table, the warmth oddly at odds with the frost at the windows.

North leaned forward, chin in his palm. “So… are we all staying here over the break?”

“I thought most were,” said Hill. “Classes don’t resume until the second week of January, but the train’s only running once during the holiday. Not exactly efficient.”

“I don’t mind staying,” Easter said lightly, reaching for another scone. “The castle’s peaceful when empty.”

Johan tilted his head. “True. But snowed-in silence in a thousand-year-old stone fortress starts to feel less romantic and more bored to tears after three days.”

“And you would know,” Daotok said, sipping his tea. “You tried to teach a phoenix to play wizard’s chess in our third year.”

“It nearly exploded,” North added helpfully.

Typhoon was quiet until he placed his teacup down with a faint clink. “Well, we could always play the betrothed fiancés that we are…”

Tonfah didn’t even look up, just added with a lazy drawl, “…and invite you, our guests, to spend the rest of Yule at our shared estate, Hearthwend.”

Johan laughed suddenly, almost delighted. “You two are unbelievable.”

Daotok joined in, shaking his head. “You’re lucky we love you, otherwise that would’ve sounded insufferably aristocratic.”

“But you are insufferably aristocratic,” said Arthit, who was trying not to smile.

Easter blinked. “Wait. Hearthwend?”

“Sounds warm,” Hill muttered.

North furrowed his brow. “Is that… in Scotland?”

“Technically,” Typhoon said. “It’s located in-between.”

“That doesn’t help,” said Easter.

“It’s near the northern cliffs,” Tonfah added. “But only if it wants to be.”

Arthit squinted. “That’s not— You can’t just—”

“You’re trying to make sense of it,” Daotok told him dryly. “That’s your first mistake.”

“Right,” said Johan. “The second mistake is assuming the wards apply to them.”

There was another pause.

North looked down the table at Typhoon and Tonfah, both now sipping from their tea cups in synchronization, glowing faintly in the morning light like fallen monarchs playing student for fun.

“…You know what?” he said finally. “I’m not even going to ask how you’d bypass Hogwarts’ magical barriers.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Typhoon.

“I would,” said Tonfah, at the same time.

The table broke again. Laughter, groans, eye rolls.

And beneath it all was comfort.

 

---

 

The sleigh touched down on a thick stretch of untouched snow, the silver runners sliding to a smooth stop as the wind rushed past the high ridges of Hearthwend's cliffs.

The eight of them stepped out one by one, boots crunching into frost-glittered stone. Before them, the ancient manor stood cloaked in winter with sloping roofs dressed in fresh white, enchanted icicles strung like glass stars from the overhangs. The windows were glowing gold from within.

“...This place breathes,” Hill murmured under his breath.

Before anyone could reply, there was a soft pop! and then another, and two house-elves appeared at the threshold of the great carved oak doors. One wore a thick velvet ribbon around their ears; the other, an embroidered kerchief that shimmered faintly.

“Master Typhoon,” said the taller elf with a deep curtsy. “Master Tonfah. Welcome home.”

“Hearthwend is pleased,” added the other, bouncing slightly on her heels. “Nimsy is pleased. Whimsy is very pleased.”

Typhoon nodded with a polite bow of his head. Tonfah gave a quiet smile. “Thank you, Nimsy. Is everything prepared?”

“Fire's lit in every room, sir,” said Nimsy proudly. “Hot cider in the parlor. And snow charms set in the western gardens for a proper Yule scene.”

“And Whimsy made sure there’s peppermint cream for Daotok’s tea.”

Daotok blinked. “...Wait, how do you—?”

“We read the guest list,” Nimsy replied matter-of-factly.

The group chuckled, shaking off snow, stepping forward.

Inside, Hearthwend welcomed them like it had been waiting. Candles flickered to life in every corridor as they passed, warm fires glowed in hearths that hadn’t been lit in years, and every window revealed a perfectly falling snowstorm, visible but strangely muffled as though the estate had wrapped its arms around the eight of them.

The entryway unfurled into high arches, aged tapestries, and floors that gleamed beneath their boots. It didn’t feel like they were intruding.

They gathered in the parlor, wool blankets over their laps, cider in their hands, the quiet hum of wind muffled behind frost-glazed windows. Typhoon sat with Tonfah on a long settee, legs folded beneath him, entirely at ease.

North stirred his mug. “You know… this could be another tradition.”

“Mm?” Typhoon tilted his head.

“Well,” Easter said brightly, settling in beside Hill, “we’ve already got shared tables at Hogwarts. Summer at Thorngrave.”

“And now…” North gestured around the room, voice warmer. “Yule at Hearthwend.”

Johan leaned back, amused. “You’re saying we’re turning heir estates into vacation homes.”

“I’m saying,” North replied, “that this feels a lot like home.”

They all went still at that. Then Tonfah raised his mug. “To tradition, then.”

Daotok clinked his glass against it. “And to Hearthwend’s second Yule with guests.”

Typhoon smiled into his drink, small, soft, and entirely real.

 

The glass conservatory shimmered like a dream, tall arched windows revealing the snow falling in perfect spirals beyond, the candlelight inside flickering against the frosted panes like the heartbeat of the manor itself.

The long table was dressed in deep green velvet and silver ivy, not overly formal, but impossibly elegant. Enchanted flames floated low above each place setting, casting halos over bone-white china and polished cutlery. Soft instrumental music hummed somewhere overhead, but it was easy to forget it was there.

The eight of them had gathered in various states of comfort, still dressed in wool and velvet, sleeves rolled up, robes exchanged for thick knits. Plates clinked gently, and warm food filled the air. Wine was being poured into delicate goblets by floating carafes. And for a long time, there was no need to speak.

But eventually, Typhoon did. His voice was quiet, almost absentminded, as he picked at his duck and glanced down the table. “The dining hall’s never been this full before.”

Tonfah glanced toward him. “Not even during gatherings?”

Typhoon shook his head slowly. “They’d never eat here. The elders preferred the high table in the Great West Hall. This one was mine.”

Daotok lifted his glass. “And now it’s ours.”

Typhoon’s eyes flicked up, surprised.

Then he nodded. A beat passed, and just like that, conversation loosened.

 

Easter was retelling a wildly inaccurate version of the first time Hill tried to bake treacle tart. Hill swore under his breath and threw a green bean at him, which Easter caught without looking.

Arthit confessed he used to sneak into the greenhouses over summer to read, claiming the sound of mandrakes calmed him more than the Gryffindor common room.

North shared that he once set an entire stack of homework on fire trying to practice wordless charms. Johan added dryly that North tried to pretend it was intentional for nearly a week.

Daotok declared that Hearthwend had better salt than Hogwarts. Typhoon said nothing, but Nimsy appeared moments later with a silver bowl of smoked sea salt just for him.

They laughed.

No one noticed how the frost outside pressed closer to the windows and how the wind howled beyond the cliffs. Inside, the air was warm and slow, like the inside of a memory they’d been allowed to keep.

Dessert had been served. Soft fig cake and honey cream, dusted with enchanted snowflakes that melted the moment they hit the tongue. The candles floated lower now, their flames dimmed to a lazy gold, casting warm shadows across the glass conservatory.

They were still talking over half-finished plates when Whimsy reappeared with a soft pop, bowing low beside Typhoon’s chair.

“Forgive the interruption, Master Typhoon, Master Tonfah,” she said, ears wiggling with pride. “All rooms are prepared. Including the shared bedroom—sheets turned, fire lit, fresh linens placed, and wards woven for privacy.”

Johan immediately choked on his wine as he laughed. He tipped his head back and laughed like someone who’d just witnessed fate punch decorum in the face.

Everyone else stared.

Hill blinked. “Shared… bedroom?”

North turned to Typhoon. “Wait, shared as in—?”

Arthit squinted. “But aren’t you—?”

Daotok cut in smoothly, swirling the last of his drink. “They’re not supposed to touch the shared bedroom until they’re married. It’s part of their families’ engagement agreement. An old tradition.”

Easter’s brows rose. “That’s… strangely specific.”

Tonfah looked entirely unbothered as he lifted a spoonful of honey cream. “It is.”

Typhoon, lips twitching faintly, added, “We didn’t touch the bedroom.”

Johan snorted. “The elves did.”

Typhoon nodded. “Exactly.”

Tonfah tilted his head. “Our families wanted us to be less estranged since the summer. So this—” he gestured vaguely around the room “—is us being less estranged.”

There was a brief, stunned pause.

Then Daotok murmured, grinning, “That’s not a loophole. That’s an elegant betrayal of bureaucracy.”

Easter leaned toward Hill. “They’re either geniuses or chaos incarnate.”

Hill didn’t look away from Typhoon’s faint smile. “Both.”

North frowned, still catching up. “But the room—does that mean you two—?”

“Technically,” Typhoon said with absolute calm, “we’re only occupying the shared suite. We didn’t request it, nor did we prepare it.”

Tonfah leaned an arm over the back of Typhoon’s chair, elbow grazing his shoulder. “We’re simply making use of what was already set up. It would be rude to refuse hospitality.”

Arthit looked like he had several things to say, none of which could form words.

“Besides,” Typhoon added, cool as ever, “we don’t need a bedroom to misbehave.”

That did it. Johan’s face hit the table. North choked. Easter gasped in delight. Hill turned pink.

Daotok, unfazed, raised his glass. “To the heirs of Hearthwend—masters of tradition, and even greater masters of bending it.”

The toast echoed around the table with soft laughter.

And through it all, Typhoon and Tonfah said nothing else. They simply sat close, eyes glinting like they were in on a secret the rest of the world had only just started to guess.

 

The drawing room glowed with firelight, deep amber shadows moving across polished oak panels and velvet drapes the color of pomegranate wine. A low fire cracked gently in the hearth, the embers spelled to release a quiet scent of cinnamon and smoke.

Tonfah lounged on the velvet settee beside Typhoon, their legs tangled without thought, as the rest of the group scattered across hearth-facing armchairs and floor cushions conjured by Whimsy.

It was Hill who noticed the painting first. He squinted over his mug, eyes drawn upward above the hearth. “…Is that—?”

They all turned.

Above the fire hung a single, magically stilled portrait in rich oil paint. Two children, no older than five stood in formal robes, hand-in-hand. The dark-haired one had a familiar tilt to his chin, already dignified even then. The other boy had a faint smudge of ink on his cheek, a subtle curl to his lip like he’d just whispered something wicked and clever.

Tonfah and Typhoon.

At age five.

Hill blinked. “That’s you two?”

Tonfah nodded. “Mhm.”

“Five?” Easter asked. “You knew each other that early?”

Typhoon, quiet beside him, replied without looking at the painting. “We were promised at five.”

There was a soft stir of surprise across the room. North sat forward. “Promised…?”

“Engaged at nine,” Tonfah added.

“Bonded at eleven,” Typhoon finished, tone feather-light but absolute.

The fire gave a low crackle, casting their joined silhouettes against the wall. Arthit opened his mouth, then shut it. Hill leaned back. “…That explains a lot.”

Daotok, from the armchair beside Johan, smiled faintly. “We watched it happen.”

Johan nodded, arms folded over his chest. “They were unbearable about it at times. But it wasn’t entirely their choice.”

“Why?” Easter asked, gently this time. “Why promise two boys so early?”

Tonfah glanced at Typhoon, then turned to the others. “Elemental heirs don’t just inherit bloodlines. We inherit magic. Magic that chooses whether to stabilize, awaken, or sleep depending on what’s… anchored.”

Typhoon’s voice followed calmly, “Our families agreed to the bond to anchor us. Separate, our elements spiral. Together, they ground. Amplify. Protect.”

Daotok added, “Even as kids, you could feel it in the room. When they were near each other, the ambient field of magic changed. Subtle resonance.”

Johan smirked. “Subtle if you weren’t standing too close.”

“So it wasn’t just political,” North murmured.

“No,” Tonfah said. “Though that was a benefit, too.”

“They gave us the illusion of choice,” Typhoon added. “But the truth is… Hearthwend has always expected us both.”

There was no bitterness in his tone. Easter ran a finger over the rim of his cup. “And the bond… it isn’t just magical, is it?”

Typhoon looked down at Tonfah’s hand curled loosely in his lap.

“No. It’s not.”

“You could’ve hated each other,” Hill pointed out, but not unkindly.

“We didn’t,” Tonfah said simply.

Arthit, quieter now, stared into the flames. “That’s… a lot.”

“It is,” Tonfah said softly. “It always has been.”

“But it’s ours,” Typhoon murmured, fingers brushing his.

They let the silence rest there. Eventually, North spoke, breaking it with a soft exhale. “You know, it’s funny. For months, I thought you two were just… intense.”

“We are,” Daotok said.

“But now I get it,” North said. “It’s not just intensity. It’s… legacy.”

There was a flicker of recognition in Typhoon’s gaze. Tonfah smiled faintly and lifted his cup. “To legacy, then.”

The others joined—their cups raised, the fire warm. And for a breathless moment, it felt like everything made sense.

 

Typhoon stepped in first, quiet as the door clicked shut behind them. He let his fingers trail over the back of the velvet chair near the hearth, then paused to warm his hands at the flame.

Tonfah didn’t speak, just stood behind him, watching the way the shadows kissed Typhoon’s cheekbones, how the weariness of the day finally settled in the slope of his shoulders.

“…It wasn’t too much, was it?” Tonfah asked, voice low.

Typhoon didn’t turn. “The evening?”

“The explaining.”

At that, Typhoon did turn. Slowly. And his gaze, when it met Tonfah’s, was softer than the fire. “No. I wanted them to understand.”

Tonfah closed the space between them, fingertips ghosting over the curve of Typhoon’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his lower lip. “You were good with them tonight,” he murmured. “Honest.”

Typhoon arched a brow. “So were you. Surprisingly patient.”

“I’m patient with you.”

A pause. Then Typhoon tilted his head slightly, lips curling faintly. “Only me?”

Tonfah leaned in, brushing his nose against Typhoon’s. “Always you.”

Their kiss was unhurried—a silent promise between them, nothing desperate, but just warmth and choice. When they parted, Typhoon reached for the clasp of his robe, slipping the fabric from his shoulders, revealing the smooth, pale skin beneath.

“You could’ve stayed in your old room,” he said as he moved toward the bed.

“I could have,” Tonfah replied, slowly undoing his own collar, eyes fixed on Typhoon’s silhouette against the snowy window.

He joined him a moment later, sinking into the mattress. Typhoon leaned back into the pillows, Tonfah beside him, one arm draped loosely over Typhoon’s waist.

“I like the way you talked about us,” Tonfah said after a pause.

Typhoon turned slightly to look at him. “How?”

“Like you weren’t ashamed. Like you remembered everything.”

“I did.”

Tonfah touched his ring finger to Typhoon’s. “Even the promise at five?”

Typhoon smiled softly, closing the space between their hands.

“Especially the promise at five.”

And they fell asleep like that—wrapped not in silk or tradition or legacy,
but in the quiet ache of something they never truly had to earn.

Only return to.

Chapter 35

Notes:

A little update before I need to study. Enjoy! :)

The snow had not stopped.

Beyond the arched windows, the world was blanketed in pale silence. Hearthwend’s land stretched soft and untouched, kissed with ice. But inside the west wing, the shared bedroom was cocooned in stillness, warded from cold, time, and interruption.

The fire had burned low. The candles had guttered out.

But Tonfah was already awake.

He lay on his side, half-propped on one arm, the sheets tangled low across his hips. His gaze never left the boy beside him—the boy who had once been a solemn child in ink-stained robes, a memory half-kept in painting and silence.

Now, Typhoon slept quietly, back bare beneath the low drape of the silk coverlet. The bite marks along his neck had faded to soft bruises, faint traces of teeth still lingering like secret promises. Tonfah reached out, brushed a thumb gently over one.

Typhoon stirred, and with eyes still half-lidded from sleep, he spoke, voice hoarse with morning. “You watch me like I’ll disappear.”

Tonfah blinked, caught.

“…I might.”

Typhoon rolled onto his back, blinking up at him now. “Have I ever?”

Tonfah didn’t smile. His eyes were too full for that. He reached up and brushed a stray piece of hair from Typhoon’s forehead.

“I used to dream of this,” he said softly. “What would it look like. What it would feel like waking up and seeing you next to me. In our room. In our house. With snow outside, and your breath warming my chest.”

Typhoon was quiet. Tonfah looked down, exhaling slowly. “I thought it would always just be a vision. Something I would never have. Something the years and the distance stole from us.”

He paused. His voice dipped lower.

“I should’ve come home sooner.”

At that, Typhoon sat up slightly, bracing himself on one arm. His fingers came up to cup Tonfah’s face gently.

“You did,” he murmured. “You came when it mattered.”

“I missed so much,” Tonfah whispered. “I missed your thirteenth winter. Your first time casting without a wand. The year they sent you to Durmstrang, and I didn’t even say goodbye.”

He swallowed.

“I should’ve found a way—”

“You did,” Typhoon cut in, voice low but unwavering. “You found your way back to me.”

Tonfah looked at him, gaze shining. There was no anger in Typhoon’s face. Just quiet knowing. Just him.

“You never left me,” Typhoon said. “Not truly. Even in the worst years, I felt you. I remembered your voice. I remembered the promise.”

Tonfah’s throat tightened. “I loved you,” he said. “Even then. I never… said it. I thought I couldn’t. Not before we were wed. Not until everything was sanctioned and safe and allowed.”

Typhoon’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “And now?”

Tonfah took a breath. “Now I want you to know. Because it’s true. Because I don’t want you to ever go another year wondering how I feel.”

His voice was quiet—barely audible.

“I love you, Phoon.”

A pause.

“Not because we’re promised. Or bonded. Or destined. But because every part of me chooses you.”

The words hung between them like a spell, like a vow. And this time, no magic hummed. No wind howled.

Typhoon leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t burning. It was reverent. When they parted, he whispered:

“I love you too, Fah. I have for years. I just thought I had to wait for you to say it first.”

Tonfah laughed, half-broken by the weight of it, and without a word, he leaned in and wrapped both arms tightly around Typhoon, pulling him in close, pressing their bare chests together, cheek to forehead.

Typhoon squeaked—actually squeaked—into the curve of Tonfah’s throat.

“Fah—!” he half-laughed, trying to squirm away. “Cold hands!”

Tonfah grinned, unrepentant. “Warm heart.”

“You’re suffocating me—”

“That’s the idea.”

Typhoon huffed dramatically, but the corners of his lips betrayed him. “You said all those sweet things just to smother me in your arms, didn’t you?”

“Not just,” Tonfah said, rolling them both so Typhoon was tucked underneath him, legs tangled in the sheets. “But it’s a nice bonus.”

Typhoon laughed again then bit his lip as he shoved at Tonfah’s shoulders with absolutely no success. “You’re a menace,” he whispered.

“You’re mine.”

“And that makes it worse—!”

Tonfah leaned down and kissed the hollow of his collarbone, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Say it again,” he murmured against Typhoon’s lips. “Just once more.”

Typhoon’s eyes softened. His fingers curled into the silk sheets, and then into the back of Tonfah’s hair.

“I love you,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve loved you since the first time you stole my inkpot and told me it was taxation.”

Tonfah snorted. “I was six. And you were hoarding supplies.”

“You were arrogant.”

“You liked it.”

“You’re heavy,” Typhoon muttered against Tonfah’s hair, but he didn’t push him off.

Tonfah hummed. “I’m possessive.”

“You’re a weighted blanket.”

“You like it,” Tonfah mumbled, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Typhoon’s neck. “You didn’t complain last night.”

Typhoon chuckled under his breath, sliding a hand down Tonfah’s spine, slow and light. “That’s because you were behaving then.”

“Was I?”

“…Relatively.”

Tonfah leaned up just enough to kiss the tip of Typhoon’s nose, then grinned.

“I love you. You’re stuck with me.”

“Oh no,” Typhoon deadpanned. “What tragedy. A devoted fiancé who makes very persuasive arguments in bed.”

Tonfah laughed, pleased, and promptly flopped sideways so he could pull Typhoon fully into his arms instead—arms looped around his waist, legs curled around his like they had no plans of separating. Ever.

“Do you have any intention of letting me get up?” Typhoon asked, amusement curling under his voice.

“No,” Tonfah replied immediately.

Typhoon sighed dramatically. “Even if the manor’s on fire?”

“The elves will handle it.”

“Even if Johan bangs on the door?”

“He’ll live.”

“What if Daotok drags all of them here to mock us?”

Tonfah grinned into Typhoon’s hair. “Then I’ll bite you again just to make them leave.”

Typhoon barked a laugh, hiding his smile in the curve of Tonfah’s neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Insufferable,” Tonfah agreed. “And entirely yours.”

Typhoon fell quiet at that.

“You know I’d let you cling to me for the rest of our lives, right?”

Tonfah blinked, his chest suddenly tight. “You would?”

Typhoon tilted his head back so their eyes met. “Of course,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

Tonfah kissed him again, softer this time, then leaned back just to rest his forehead against Typhoon’s—lips still curved, eyes glassy. “I used to imagine this,” he whispered. “And somehow… this is even better than every dream.”

Typhoon’s hand moved to cup Tonfah’s jaw, thumb brushing the skin there. “Then let’s not wake up yet.”

So they didn’t.

They stayed in bed—tangled in each other, playfully whispering, Tonfah pretending to sleep on top of Typhoon just to earn another fond sigh.

And Typhoon, as always, let him.

 

The dining hall at Hearthwend was quiet save for the gentle clinking of silverware, the occasional muffled laugh, and the low hum of enchantments keeping the tea and cider warm on the long oak table. The early light poured in through arched windows, catching against steam rising from stacked pancakes, toast, roasted mushrooms, and honeyed ham.

The six of them—Johan, North, Hill, Easter, Daotok, and Arthit were already halfway through breakfast, though clearly taking their time. There were second cups of coffee, third helpings of scones, and glances exchanged between them.

Because the seventh and eighth were still missing. And it was nearing ten.

“They’re never late,” North murmured around his tea, brow raised.

“Tonfah wakes with the sun,” Johan said dryly, “and Typhoon doesn’t believe in sleeping past dawn unless he’s cursed.”

Easter grinned. “Maybe he was cursed.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘bitten,’” Daotok said mildly, just loud enough for the table to hear.

Hill choked on his orange juice.

Then—at last—the double doors creaked open. And Tonfah and Typhoon stepped in. Freshly dressed in new robes, hair brushed but slightly too perfect, skin dewy from the chill.

“Morning,” Tonfah said smoothly, like they weren’t half a day late.

Typhoon’s eyes flicked to the table. “Hope we didn’t miss too much.”

Arthit stared. “You’re late.”

“We woke up late,” Typhoon replied.

Easter squinted. “You don’t do late.”

“New year, new us,” Tonfah offered with a lazy shrug, already pouring himself tea.

Daotok looked unimpressed. “You woke up late,” he repeated, flatly.

“Mhm.”

“No particular reason?”

“Nope,” Typhoon said, sitting beside Tonfah like it was the most normal thing in the world. Tonfah gave him a sugar cube. Typhoon kissed his cheek in thanks.

Across the table, all six stared in amusement

Johan finally spoke. “Do you want us to just pretend we don’t know you were entangled in silk sheets until half-past nine?”

Tonfah sipped his tea. “Please.”

Typhoon added dryly, “It would be polite.”

North turned red. Easter muffled a snort into his napkin. Daotok gave them both a long look, then leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Not a word. My silence is an engagement gift.”

Hill, ever the quiet one, just blinked and said nothing. His ears were glowing pink. Then, as they settled in and the plates floated forward again, Tonfah raised a hand.

“Nimsy,” he called softly.

The elf appeared instantly with a soft pop and a reverent bow. “Master Tonfah?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Tonfah said, utterly casual, “please transfer North’s belongings to Johan’s room. Daotok’s to Arthit’s. And Easter’s to Hill’s.”

Typhoon didn’t even flinch. He just buttered his toast. The room went very still.

North blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Arthit nearly dropped his fork. “Fah—”

Johan leaned back, looking far too pleased. “You’re punishing them.”

“They’ve had so much to say,” Tonfah murmured, buttering Typhoon’s croissant like it was a natural extension of his morning routine. “About shared bedrooms. I thought they might enjoy the experience firsthand.”

Easter sputtered. “That’s not—! We weren’t mocking—!”

Hill looked mortified. Daotok outright laughed. “You’re cruel.”

“Just encouraging intimacy,” Typhoon added innocently. “Like any good host.”

“Cruel,” Daotok repeated, still chuckling. Arthit had gone stiff, face red. North just looked like he was rethinking every life decision.

But no one actually objected.

Chapter 36

Snow blanketed the ancient stones of Hearthwend's courtyard, dusting the stately hedges and sloping roofs in fine white. The sky hung silver above them, casting a gentle glow through the wintry air. Despite the cold, a perimeter of silent warming wards kept the courtyard comfortable, flickering subtly against the winter wind.

They had gathered there that afternoon—drawn more by the familiarity of one another’s company than anything planned. A wooden table was conjured near the fountain, cluttered with hot cocoa mugs and parchment scraps scribbled with incantations. North sat at its edge, the Pyrestone resting in his palm.

“It hasn’t dimmed,” North muttered, frowning down at the stone. “It’s still pulsing.”

“It’s not just a trophy,” Tonfah said from beside him, chin resting lazily on his palm. “Relics rarely are.”

“But what’s the purpose?” North asked. “I retrieved it. Shouldn’t it be over?”

Typhoon sat cross-legged nearby, his gloved fingers threading a flicker of elemental storm above his palm.

“Or it hasn’t revealed its full intent yet.”

Daotok leaned against one of the archways, toying with a floating strand of water lazily conjured from the air's condensation. “Why do you make it sound like it has sentience?”

“Or it’s a key,” Easter said quietly, watching the way it pulsed. “Like it wants to unlock something.”

“I’m just saying,” Daotok added playfully, nudging a stream of water toward the Pyrestone in North’s palm. “We’ve tried spells, incantations, and enchantment-breaking. Might as well try something dumber.”

A droplet landed squarely on the Pyrestone.

“Oops.”

The moment the water touched the Pyrestone, it sizzled like it was activating.

North gasped as the stone pulsed violently once, then stilled. A faint glow began to spread through the grooves carved into its core—runes none of them had noticed before.

“Daotok—!” Tonfah said sharply, stepping forward.

“It was one drop!”

But it was too late.

The Pyrestone lifted from North’s hands, hovering an inch above his palm. The air around them grew thicker, and glyphs of silver-blue light rose from the stone, weaving in the air in a gentle circle. The glow cast moving shadows over their faces as the runes slowly aligned.

A voice echoed across the courtyard.

 

“Below where light dares not remain,
Lies what was lost, yet not in vain.
Guarded by one whose kind has passed,
Retrieve what’s yours—before the last.”

 

The runes faded, the Pyrestone dropping back into North’s hand, warm but calm.

No one moved for several seconds.

Easter blinked slowly. “Did we all hear that, or…?”

“All of us,” Hill whispered.

“So it was a key,” Tonfah said, voice low. “The Pyrestone wasn’t the trial. It was the beginning.”

Typhoon exhaled, steam curling from his lips. “And now it leads to the second task.”

North stared at the Pyrestone in his hand, still slightly damp, the glow now faded into a quiet hum. “Below where light dares not remain…” he echoed.

“The Black Lake,” Daotok said instantly, now serious. “It must be.”

“Guarded by one whose kind has passed,” Johan muttered. “Extinct. That’s not just dangerous—it’s impossible.”

“Not for Hogwarts,” Typhoon said softly. “Not for whoever is organizing this.”

North said nothing for a long moment. His thumb brushed over the Pyrestone. “Retrieve what’s yours…”

Tonfah met his eyes. “It’ll be personal. Whatever or whoever is waiting for you down there, it’s going to matter.”

Easter looked toward the lake in the distance. “And we have to start preparing now.”

 

---

 

The snow outside blanketed the hills and courtyards of Hearthwend in a soundless white. Morning had come gently to the manor, with faint warmth from the fire and the slow shuffle of footsteps overhead.

In the library, Easter was alone.

He sat in one of the high-backed chairs by the tall windows, a knit blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders, a steaming mug of peppermint tea in his lap. His hair was still tousled from sleep, eyes a little bleary — but he wasn’t tired.

An owl had arrived moments earlier, tapping once against the tall frosted glass before dropping a twin-lettered bundle into his lap.

It was Ministry-sealed. And also bore his mother’s crest.

Easter’s fingers didn’t flinch as he took the letter. He opened it slowly, unfolding the heavy parchment with practiced ease.

 

To Mr. Easter Charoensuk,

As you may be aware, the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament requires specific aquatic environments and controlled magical creatures. Upon thorough review of our archives, it has come to our attention that your menagerie is the last confirmed holder of Hydranelis nymphaeum—colloquially known as the water wyrm —previously believed extinct.

In the interest of international cooperation and magical education, the Department formally requests the loan of three mature specimens for use during the Second Task. All protective measures and care protocols will be strictly followed, and your name shall be duly credited.

Please respond with confirmation at your earliest convenience.

Yours in service,
Balthus Greaves
Senior Coordinator, Triwizard Logistics
Department of Magical Games and Sports
Ministry of Magic

 

The second letter on pale cream parchment was from his mother. He slowly tore the wax seal from the parchment and slowly read its contents.

 

My darling Easter,

I imagine you’ve received the Ministry’s request by now.

They’ve contacted me as well. Politely, of course. It seems they forget themselves when they need something. It is your decision whether or not to comply, but do consider what leverage this could bring. These wyrms are yours, and they will tread carefully if they wish to remain on your good side.

Do not forgive them.
But use them, my dear.

You are your father’s son.

With love,
Mother

 

Easter let the letters fall lightly onto the cushion beside him.

His hand was steady as he reached for his tea, still untouched. The rim of the mug was faintly cracked—a line like a hair-thin scar across porcelain. “They want me now,” he murmured softly.

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

He closed his eyes as he remembered how the Ministry had accused his father of possessing a single faun. One creature born of a rare and vanishing line was deemed too dangerous, too rare, and too politically volatile. His father was dragged into Azkaban without trial. Without defense. Without even the dignity of death.

They hadn’t returned the body. Not even the ashes.

Just a letter that said: “We regret to inform you.”

Easter had never forgotten the day it arrived or the silence that followed.

He sipped his tea slowly now, letting the taste settle on his tongue. “Three water wyrms,” he mused. “A gift, really.”

No one outside the Charoensuk line even knew the wyrms were still alive. He had raised them in the quietest corner of the menagerie, far from any Ministry ledger. Sleek, silver-blue serpents with eyes that shimmered like moonlit tidewater and teeth that could shear kelpie bone.

“They want a show,” he said, softly. “I’ll give them a spectacle.”

He turned his gaze to the fire, watching it flicker along the edge of the hearth.

“But they will owe me,” he whispered, lips curving upward. “And I will collect.”

He had no intention of handing the wyrms over without cost. No, he’d negotiate—carefully, with parchment and niceties and fake smiles. He’d get Ministry access, exemption clauses, perhaps even legal revision for the classification of bonded magical creatures.

“First, you call my family criminals,” he whispered, “and now you ask me to help your circus.”

He chuckled as he stood and folded both letters carefully before sliding them into his robe pocket.

 

The fire had been stoked. A tray of warm pastries sat untouched between them, the eight gathered lazily across the couches and armchairs. Typhoon and Tonfah were sharing a blanket. Hill was half-asleep on Easter’s shoulder. Johan and North were both pretending not to be leaning too close. Daotok and Arthit were mid-banter, arguing over chess tactics and hex theory.

It was peaceful.

Easter sipped from his teacup then tilted his head, “Say… does anyone here know the formal rules of the Triwizard Tournament?”

Arthit blinked. “Which part?”

“There are dozens of clauses,” Typhoon added. “Are you asking about a rule in particular?”

Easter gave a pleasant, dimpled smile. “Just… generally. Hypothetically.”

Johan set down his book. “Why do you want to know?”

“Curious.”

“Liar,” Daotok said flatly.

“I’m wounded,” Easter sighed dramatically, though not at all wounded. He adjusted the blanket draped over his lap, eyes glinting beneath thick lashes.

“Alright. Fine. Hypothetically,” he said, drawing the word out like a slow drawl, “if someone not competing in the Tournament were to… offer aid to a champion before the task, would that be cheating?”

“Technically?” Tonfah said, already catching on. “No. Only assistance during the task violates the rules.”

Hill frowned faintly. “Why are you asking this?”

Easter swirled his tea. “Well… hypothetically, if that same someone were to introduce a champion to a very rare creature, perhaps thought to be extinct, purely for academic purposes, just an innocent, private educational moment in the snow, that wouldn’t be cheating, right?”

There was a pause.

North spoke carefully. “Depends on intent.”

Easter smiled again. “Intent is subjective.”

Daotok narrowed his eyes. “You’re not being subtle.”

Typhoon leaned forward. “What creature?”

“Oh, just something charming and aquatic,” Easter said, drawing a folded letter from his robes. “One that swims elegantly, responds well to bonded magic, and might just… hypothetically… be featured in the Second Task.”

He let the parchment drop onto the table. The Ministry seal gleamed in the light.

Silence followed.

Johan reached for it, scanning the letter. His brow arched. “You have water wyrms?” he asked, half-incredulous.

“Three,” Easter replied, sipping his tea. “They’re rather lovely. Quiet. Observant. Teeth like razors, but only if provoked.”

Hill stared. “You’ve been hiding extinct creatures in your backyard.”

Easter turned to him with faux innocence. “Hiding? No. Just… not advertising.”

Arthit lifted the other letter—the one from Easter’s mother, eyes flicking across the parchment. “They’re asking you to lend them. For the task.”

Easter hummed, then shrugged.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he said, voice light. “The Ministry strips my father of everything for owning a faun, claims it was ‘too rare to regulate’ and locks him up, lets him die, and now they want my help?”

North frowned. “Ter…”

“I’m not upset,” Easter said, and for once, he meant it. He wasn’t angry. He’d passed anger years ago.

“I’m simply being generous,” he continued. “And if my friend, a Triwizard champion, happens to learn a bit about wyrm behavior before the task? Well. That’s just education.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Daotok muttered.

“You’re manipulative,” Typhoon said, sounding impressed.

Johan, who still had the letter, leaned back. “So what’s the plan?”

Easter tilted his head. “I introduce North to the wyrms. We study their movements, their triggers, and what kind of magic they respond to. I even intend to lend him one to observe. All purely academic, of course.”

North blinked. “Wait. Lend?”

Easter looked sweetly at him. “Hypothetically.”

Tonfah grinned. “It’s not cheating if it’s hypothetical.”

“And if it’s educational,” Typhoon added smoothly.

Arthit rolled his eyes. “You’re all the worst.”

Hill, finally recovering, whispered to Easter, “Are you seriously going to help them after what they did to your father?”

Easter didn’t smile this time. He looked out the frosted window for a long moment before he quietly said, “No. I’m not helping them. I’m helping us. And I’ll make them regret asking.”

Johan nodded once. “Then we’ll help you.”

“Of course we will,” Daotok said. “Family’s a mess. But this?” He gestured to the group. “This isn’t that.”

Easter folded the letters again slowly, “Good,” he said, softly. “Because the Ministry just handed me a leash.”

He tucked the parchment away and reached for a cinnamon biscuit, biting into it like he hadn't just declared war with a smile.

“Phoon, Fah, do you have a lake large enough on the Hearthwend estate?”

Typhoon, curled against Tonfah’s side with an open book lazily forgotten in his lap, didn’t blink. “We have two. One in the back valley and one past the western ridge. Both charmed to reflect no surface disturbance.”

Tonfah added, “And both covered by private wards. They won’t show up on any magical map, Ministry or otherwise.”

Easter gave a slow, pleased smile. “Perfect. I’ll bring the wyrms here.”

Johan raised a brow. “Won’t the Ministry expect them to be housed under supervision?”

“They will,” Easter agreed, sipping his tea. “But I haven’t given my final confirmation yet. I’ll tell them the creatures require environmental acclimation before the move. Which is true. They don’t tolerate rushed relocation.”

Hill frowned. “Won’t they send someone to observe?”

“I’ll ward the area. Even if they try, they won’t find anything. Besides, I’ll bring them through a mirrored gate. They’ll never know where the wyrms were kept prior to transfer.”

North, who’d been silent for most of this, finally spoke. “You’re really doing this.”

Easter turned to him, soft and warm, like a boy talking about pastries instead of predators. “Of course. I said I’d help.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Easter’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s why it counts.”

Tonfah narrowed his eyes, fingers absently tracing the edge of Typhoon’s robe sleeve. “You sure about moving them? Wyrms don’t like to travel.”

“They’ll come for me.” Easter leaned back, voice soft as velvet. “They’re mine. Bonded to Charoensuk blood. They’ll know it’s safe. And Hearthwend…” He glanced around. “Is the only place I trust.”

Typhoon offered a faint smile. “High praise, coming from you.”

“High practicality,” Easter corrected with a wink. “I’m not letting the Ministry see them until North knows what they are, how they move, and how to survive if they turn.”

Arthit sat forward. “They turn?”

Easter tilted his head. “If panicked, yes. They can become aggressive, but it’s rare. They respond best to stillness. Empathic casting. A water-aspected wand helps.”

He turned back to North. “So you’ll come with me tomorrow. Just you, me, and the wyrms. A little lesson before school starts again.”

North hesitated. “Won’t it… be unfair?”

“It’ll be smart,” Easter said, and it didn’t sound like manipulation, not the way he said it. It sounded like a gift.

Typhoon broke the silence with a soft hum. “We’ll prep the western lake.”

Tonfah nodded. “I’ll reset the containment runes. Johan, help me with the underwater barrier?”

Johan gave a short nod. “It’ll need a reinforced boundary charm. I’ll start layering it.”

Hill blinked. “Wait. So you’re all just… doing this?”

“Of course we are,” Daotok said with a small shrug. “It’s North.”

Typhoon added, with an easy smile, “And it’s Easter’s wyrms.”

Easter stood then, brushing off invisible lint from his sleeves. “And let’s be honest,” he said with a breath of laughter, “if I am going to help the Ministry, I’d rather do it on my terms.”

Arthit looked toward him thoughtfully. “You’re doing this for North.”

Easter looked back. His expression softened. “I’m doing this because I don’t want any of us dying in a lake on international display.”

North’s brow furrowed. “So they’re sending us down. Into the lake with your wyrms.”

Easter smiled. “You’ll need to breathe, then.”

“Gillyweed,” Hill offered. “That’s what they used in the last Tournament.”

Daotok made a face. “Tastes like pond rot. And it’s unreliable. You never know how long it’ll last.”

“Bubble-head charm?” Typhoon suggested.

Johan shook his head. “Too fragile against magic-warped currents.”

Then slowly, Easter said, “Hypothetically again…”

Everyone turned to look at him.

Easter smiled wider. “Hypothetically, let’s say I owned a sanctuary. A small, private, very old one. Not on any map or in any book. And in this sanctuary, there lived a few creatures that most don’t know exist anymore. A cousin line to sirens. Vocal affinity, ocean-born and intelligent. And if they trust you… they can lend you their ability to breathe underwater.”

Arthit blinked. “You’re not serious.”

Typhoon, voice low, said, “You’re talking about murkdaughters.”

Hill sat up. “Those are extinct.”

Easter made a soft, amused sound. “Most people think they’re extinct. They’re not. They just don’t trust humans anymore. But they’ve trusted me since I was eight.”

North leaned forward, visibly rattled. “Easter, no—That’s not fair. That would be—”

“Cheating?” Easter tilted his head. “Is it?”

North opened his mouth.

But it was Daotok who answered.

“No, actually. The rules only say a champion must complete the task unaided. But nothing about preparation. If you gain a magical ability before the event starts, and it’s not cast or conjured by another wizard during the task, it’s not cheating.”

“It’s called… knowing your resources,” Typhoon added.

“And knowing who actually controls the game,” Tonfah said evenly.

Easter leaned back in his chair like a satisfied cat. “So, hypothetically again, I could take all of you to visit them. A few hours is enough before North meets the wyrms, and if they like you, they’ll give you their song.”

Hill looked at North. “It’s safer than gillyweed.”

“And it’s your right,” Johan said quietly. “To not drown.”

North’s voice was softer now. “But if I take this help… doesn’t that make me like them? The Ministry. Twisting what’s allowed.”

Typhoon’s eyes narrowed faintly. “No. Because they hide behind the law. We stand behind each other.”

“You think they’d hesitate if it were their child underwater?” Easter asked calmly. “They wouldn’t. They’d enchant the lake itself. They’d cheat and call it policy.”

Tonfah nodded. “They wouldn’t think twice. But you do. And that’s what makes you not like them.”

North still hesitated. The fire cracked behind them.

Then finally, he nodded. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll go. But not just for the task. I want to meet them. I want to know them.”

Easter’s smile this time was warm. “Then I’ll introduce you. Properly.”

Typhoon stood, dusting off his robe. “We’ll clear the time wards around Hearthwend’s southern gate. It should open to your sanctuary if the coordinates are tuned.”

“Already arranged,” Easter said, rising. “I’ll summon the passage in the morning.”

Tonfah caught North’s eye with a small, rare smile. “Welcome to rebellion, North.”

Chapter 37

The air changed when they crossed the threshold.

One step through Easter’s summoned gate, and the world grew quieter. The sky itself seemed dimmer, the clouds distant and pale, as if the land beneath them had been pulled from time.

The Charoensuk sanctuary was carved into a cliffside basin, wild and silvered by mist. Stone ridges framed a crystal lake, black and still, untouched by wind. Ancient runes shimmered faintly around the water’s edge.

North stood still.

The lake reflected no sky.

“They’re watching,” Easter said softly, stepping beside him. “They’ve been watching since we arrived.”

Typhoon and Tonfah stood at the edge of the water, silent and still. Daotok and Johan kept a respectful distance. Arthit and Hill hovered near the trees, both uneasy.

Only Easter moved forward, shedding his outer cloak and rolling his sleeves past the elbow. “They don’t speak in words, not the way we do,” he said. “They speak in feeling and in truth. They’ll bring you under. You’ll know when. Just… don’t lie. And don’t fight it.”

North looked at him. “You trust them.”

Easter smiled. “I do.”

There was a ripple in the lake. Then another.

The water parted, not with force, but with invitation. Thin arms surfaced first—silvered skin, eyes like sea-glass, hair like riverweed. There were three of them rising from the black stillness like ghosts.

They were beautiful in the way sharp things were beautiful. One of them reached for North. Her hand was cold when it touched his wrist. Then the lake rose and swallowed them whole.

The moment North passed beneath the surface, breathing didn’t matter. The water pressed close, but he did not drown. His body did not scream for air. He could breathe. The murkdaughters circled him in silence, their limbs trailing behind them like strands of kelp. Their eyes were curious and cautious, but not hostile. Then a voice, not spoken aloud, but felt across his bones and blood, echoed through him.

“What does the child of flame want from the child of earth?”

He blinked, stunned—then understood they were asking about Easter.

Another murkdaughter drifted closer, her hands hovering near his face, but never touching.

“What does he mean to you?”

North’s throat worked. He wanted to say the right thing, not to pass a test, but because he meant it.

“I want to protect him,” North said quietly. His voice echoed in the water like a current. “Not just him. All of them. My friends. They’re my family now.”

The lake pulsed faintly around him.

“He hides his wounds behind velvet. You’ve seen it.”

North nodded. “Yes.”

“And still you stay.”

“I always will.”

Silence. Then, the lead murkdaughter moved forward and pressed her forehead gently to his. A surge of pressure filled his chest—not painful, but heavy. Like a deep secret being whispered into his lungs. He felt it settle into him, into the marrow of his ribs.

“We lend you what you seek,” they said as one. “Not for a task. But for us.”

North blinked as his hands glowed faintly in the water—gills blooming against his ribs for a moment, before fading. The lake shifted around him, and he felt it, he could breathe here. Forever, if he wanted.

The murkdaughters had given him more than borrowed magic. They had claimed him.

A child of fire. Now also bound to water.

When he rose again, the surface broke like silk, and he gasped—not because he needed to breathe, but because he could feel the difference. The air felt thinner than the lake. Easter was already standing at the bank, waiting. North met his eyes.

“They trust you,” Easter said softly.

North nodded. “They… gave me something.”

“I know.”

Johan stepped closer, studying North. “Are you alright?”

“I think so.”

Tonfah, arms crossed, gave him a faint, rare grin. “Not bad, Champion.”

Daotok raised a brow. “So? Cheating?”

North shook his head, “No. Just… being loved.”

And in the distance, beneath the still surface of the lake, the murkdaughters sank back into the dark—and sang.

 

The path through the forest between Charoensuk sanctuary and Hearthwend was winding and hushed, magic pressing like fog against the edge of the trees. The others had taken the apparition gate back earlier. Easter and North had stayed behind by Easter’s quiet suggestion, and North’s unspoken want.

North walked beside him, a hand brushing the bark of trees as they passed. The power in his lungs still pulsed faintly.

“You didn’t have to do this,” North said quietly.

Easter glanced sideways. “Yes, I did.”

North frowned. “You could’ve just handed me gillyweed and left it at that.”

“I could’ve,” Easter agreed, “but then I wouldn’t have known you were safe.”

“Thank you.”

Easter stopped walking and looked at him, “Don’t thank me. Promise me.”

North looked up. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll stay alive through the rest of the Tournament. Not for Hogwarts. Not for the Ministry. For you. For us.”

North’s breath hitched.

“I promise.”

Easter’s shoulders eased.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not in the habit of saving things I don’t plan to keep.”

And with that, he led them forward, back toward Hearthwend.

 

The air crackled differently at Hearthwend’s western lake.

Even the trees kept their distance here. The lake shimmered beneath the heavy clouds, dark and still, though its magic tugged faintly at the edges of vision as if something beneath the surface had already begun watching.

Easter stood near the bank, hands ungloved. He murmured a low string of words in Old Tongue, the language not spoken but breathed, like a memory being recalled by the earth itself.

The water rippled.

And then they came.

Three wyrms broke the surface—long and serpentine, with silver scales and eyes like polished pearl. Their horns curved like antlers, mouths framed by gill-fringes that trembled in the air. Magic flowed through and sinuous muscles, gleaming as they twisted in and out of the water like shadows come alive.

“They’re…” North stared, stunned. “They’re beautiful.”

Easter didn’t look away. “They’re dangerous.”

One wyrm rose higher, its body arched like a crescent moon. Then—

It sang illusions. The lake shimmered, and suddenly the landscape changed. North blinked and saw himself on the surface, walking alone. Behind him, a shadow stirred. Then—jaws opened.

North startled back.

The illusion broke.

“They use song to lure prey,” Easter said calmly. “They show you what you most want… or what you most fear. It disorients, just enough to strike.”

North swallowed. “And I’ll be sent underwater with these.”

Easter finally turned to him. “Yes. But they know you’re mine. And that I brought you.”

As if in agreement, the smallest wyrm lowered its head just slightly toward North in acknowledgement.

North stepped forward carefully. The wyrm watched.

“Can they be trained?”

“No,” Easter replied. “But they can be respected.”

The largest wyrm slid around the others, flicking its tail in a slow, slow circle. Water rose with it, patterns forming. It was painting something.

North squinted.

It spelled: "WORTHY?"

He hesitated. Then stepped closer. “I don’t know,” North said. “But I’m not here to fight you. I just want to understand.”

The wyrm stared a moment longer. Then the water pulsed, and all three sank back below.

The lake fell still.

Easter exhaled. “They’ve accepted you.”

North turned toward him. “You didn’t know if they would, did you?”

“No,” Easter said simply. “But you surprised me once today already.”

North gave a breath of a laugh. The lake shimmered one last time. And above the surface, the boys stood in silence. One touched by flame. The other born of broken trust. And below, wyrms that sang illusions waited in the deep, preparing for the test still to come.

 

The house had settled into its midnight stillness.

The kind of hush that only came after firelight dimmed and the walls exhaled. Somewhere, the last embers crackled softly in the hearth. Snow had begun to fall again outside, brushing against the glass windows like whispering ghosts.

North stood in the hallway in his sleep shirt, barefoot, forehead against the cold pane of one of the arched windows. He hadn't quite meant to fall into thought, but it came anyway—the feeling of water still in his lungs, wyrms rising from the dark, the echo of a song that didn’t need lyrics to haunt.

“Can’t sleep?”

He turned. Johan, arms crossed, leaned against the opposite wall. North blinked, then gave him a quiet smile. “You either.”

Johan shrugged lightly, pushing away from the wall to come stand beside him. They both looked out at the moonlit snow for a long time.

Then Johah broke the silence again, quieter this time. “You really scared me today.”

North didn’t reply.

“You always try to be brave, and… most of the time, I think you forget how brave you already are.”

That made North glance at him. “I’m not brave,” he said softly. “I’m just… trying.”

Johan huffed a soft breath. “Exactly.”

North looked away again, voice quieter still. “You know I never wanted this. The Tournament. Any of it.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“None of us did.”

That sat between them for a moment.

“But we’re here,” Johan added. “And we’re doing what we can. Even if it’s not enough.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” North whispered. “But it has to be.”

Johan turned to face him fully now, no teasing left in his voice. “Just promise me—”

North met his eyes.

“Promise me you’ll come back. From whatever they throw at you. I don’t care if it’s the bottom of a lake or a dragon’s den or some cursed Ministry scheme. Just come back.”

North looked at him, really looked.

The flicker of worry in Johan’s eyes was real. The tension in his jaw. The faint pull at his brows like he was trying not to show just how afraid he actually was.

So North smiled, just a little. “Only if you’re there when I do.”

That earned a breath of laughter from Johan, low and tired.

“Always.”

Neither of them moved for a moment. So when Johan finally turned to go, it was with a lingering glance, like he’d left something unsaid and didn’t know how to name it yet. North stood by the window a little longer, feeling the quiet warmth of Hearthwend.

Chapter 38

The lake shimmered beneath grey skies as the snow hissed into the water, melting instantly upon contact. It was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that bit through robes and lingered in your teeth.

Three water wyrms coiled lazily at the shallows, their bodies silver and gleaming. Behind them, runes shimmered faintly in concentric circles across the surface of the lake. Easter stood on the stone ledge of the drop site, gloved hands folded behind his back, cloak snapping in the wind. The others had let him come alone.

The Ministry had sent three officials.

The highest-ranking one—a polished, middle-aged wizard with greying temples and an Order of Merlin brooch pinned just slightly too high on his collar gave Easter a diplomatic smile as he extended the scroll for the final transfer.

“Mr. Charoensuk. We thank you again for your generosity. I can assure you these creatures will be treated with utmost respect for the duration of the Second Task.”

Easter didn’t smile back. Instead, he snapped his fingers.

An enchanted quill rose and began writing midair, scribing out an additional parchment beside the original agreement. The ink bled in neat, ruthless script.

The Ministry official blinked. “This… wasn’t in the original document.”

Easter’s voice was quiet, perfectly polite. “It is now.”

The second contract was a recall clause, clearly written and bound in Easter’s own magic. It stated:

 

Upon the completion of the Second Task, the borrowed wyrms shall be returned to Charoensuk Menagerie. This shall be enacted immediately via a summoning rune placed on each creature. Any interference with the runes shall be considered a breach of magical stewardship and result in the annulment of all Ministry privileges pertaining to Easter Charoensuk’s holdings.

 

The official’s smile faltered. “Surely… we can discuss—”

“No.”

It was not a threat.

“You may borrow what is mine. That is all. They are not yours to keep. Nor study. Nor question.”

The Ministry's youngest envoy shifted nervously.

The senior official gave Easter a strained, careful smile. “You're… your father's son, indeed. He would be so proud of how far you've come. Of the way you've stepped into—”

“Do not confuse generosity with familiarity.”

The snow flurried harder.

“You may leave with the wyrms,” he added, tone clipped. “And nothing else.”

The official stiffened, but said nothing.

As the Ministry left with the wyrms and the contract, Easter watched the runes shimmer faintly beneath the water, already pulsing with the return spell. He simply turned on his heel, cloak snapping behind him, and walked back toward Hogwarts.

The Ministry could borrow what was his. But they would never touch him again.

 

---

 

They’d taken over the back row of the Charms corridor for a shared study break, cups of conjured tea in hand, books scattered between them. Johan and Daotok were arguing about wand movement precision; Typhoon was balancing his inkpot on Hill’s head.

“Stop that,” Hill muttered.

“Then stop leaning,” Typhoon replied sweetly.

Arthit let out a long, tired sigh. “Why do I feel like I’ve written this same bloody Transfiguration essay for three years straight?”

Daotok didn’t look up. “Because you have.”

Laughter stirred between them.

And then they saw him.

Mek.

He was at the far end of the corridor, hunched over a stack of open books with an expression that bordered on actual panic. His robes were rumpled, his ink-stained hands twitching slightly as he flipped a page only to scowl and flip it back again.

He muttered to himself, loud enough for Hill to catch: “It has to be underwater. But how far? Breathing charms—no, those last forty minutes—maybe if I combine it with a thermal—no, that’s fifth-year level—what if I—”

He dropped his quill.

“Poor thing,” Easter said, sipping his tea. “Looks like someone’s run out of mentors.”

Tonfah raised a brow. “Didn't Durmstrang assign him a magical strategist?”

“They did,” Typhoon answered, “but he’s too arrogant to listen.”

“He did try to touch your bare back mid-dip,” North added, and received a soft elbow to the ribs from Johan, grinning.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Tonfah said, flipping a page.

Mek huffed in frustration and stormed off toward the library, muttering something about freshwater runes and gillyweed recipes.

Silence lingered. Then Hill looked at North. “You’re calm.”

“I’m ready,” North answered.

The others exchanged quiet glances, a wordless acknowledgment that whatever came next, North would not face it alone.

 

---

 

They had claimed the hidden alcove beneath the west wing of the library. A long-forgotten study hall with moss-covered stone, arched windows, and shelves that stretched into shadow. Most students didn’t know it existed, and most professors had forgotten it did.

But the eight of them had wards of their own.

Here, runes shimmered across parchment. Diagrams floated midair. Candles flickered with soft blue flame. The quiet hum of layered enchantments settled over them like a cloak—warm and private.

Typhoon sat cross-legged on the table, robe sleeves rolled up, chalk in hand as he etched a spherical rune on a pane of conjured glass.

“You’re looking for underwater resonance,” Typhoon said. “That means you need a rune that won’t dissolve with pressure, won’t shift with movement, and will adapt if the current changes.”

“And won’t trigger the wyrms,” Tonfah added from beside him, flipping through his own notes. “They’re sensitive to layered sound.”

North nodded. “And if I’m not trying to fight, only stay oriented. And listen.”

“That narrows it,” Typhoon murmured. He tapped the diagram. “This here is a modified Sonorus-siphon rune, it siphons surrounding sound and filters through directional magic. Good for disorienting spells. But underwater, it warps.”

Tonfah circled another line. “This one stabilizes the echo. Prevents loopback and illusion.”

North leaned closer, brow furrowed. “But… how does it adapt to depth?”

Before either heir could answer, Daotok, quiet until now, rose from his seat in the corner and walked forward. “Let me show you.”

He knelt beside the bowl of water that sat on a low table, sleeves already rolled up past his elbows. The water stilled as he placed both hands gently above it.

A low hum filled the room.

Then, slowly, the water rose, a hovering sphere, suspended midair.

“You don’t just carve a rune and force it to work underwater,” Daotok said softly. “You let the water choose where it holds. You adapt.”

With his fingertip, he began tracing glowing runes around the sphere. The water reacted, resonating softly, pulses of magic echoing inside the sphere like it was breathing.

“Water listens to emotion,” Daotok continued. “Not just will. If you’re anxious, it bends wrong. If you force it, it breaks.”

The water sphere pulsed.

Daotok looked at North now. “You need to ask it to protect you. Not command it.”

North stepped forward. Daotok offered him the rune chalk. “Try.”

North hesitated—then accepted it. He raised his hand, mimicked Daotok’s gesture, and began tracing the runes as he’d seen them. The magic responded, soft and slow. And for a moment, the water shifted in color, a faint hue of flame-red and deep blue, mixing together like ink in air.

Daotok smiled faintly. “It likes you.”

“Does it?” North whispered.

“Or maybe it likes who you’re doing it for,” he replied, just quiet enough not to be heard by the others.

Tonfah tapped his notes. “You’ll need to memorize the rune sequence. The structure is Daotok’s, but the concept came from Typhoon’s aural containment theory. And the stabilization field is mine.”

“You mean it’s all of yours,” North said softly.

Typhoon looked at him, eyes serious now. “We don’t let our own go blind into the dark.”

“Especially not for something none of us asked for,” Tonfah added. “But we’re in it now.”

North exhaled, and something in his chest eased. The rune pulsed one final time, then settled into a soft glow above the water—waiting.

 

---

 

The Headmistress' office was unusually silent.

No ticking portraits. No turning pages. The only sound was the steady hum of restrained magic in the walls, like the castle itself was listening.

North sat with perfect posture across from the Headmistress, dressed in Gryffindor robes but with the calm and composure of someone who knew he was under scrutiny. Beside him, Easter looked every inch the heir of a reclusive, powerful family—pristine in his Hufflepuff robes, hands folded across his lap.

Across from them sat a Ministry official, the same one who had collected the water wyrms. His expression was still polite, but the faintest tremor of irritation clung to his forced smile.

“Mr. Charoensuk,” the official began, “we’d like to confirm whether the Hogwarts Champion—Mr. North Ritthirong was introduced to the water wyrms prior to the upcoming Second Task.”

Easter didn’t move. “Define introduced.”

Headmistress McGonagall gave him a sharp look.

The official cleared his throat. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Ritthirong was made familiar with the creatures, possibly… trained to interact with them. This would be a violation of the impartiality agreement of the Triwizard Tournament.”

North didn’t flinch, but Easter leaned back slightly, lips curling at the corners.

“My menagerie,” Easter said, “is listed in the Registry of Private Magical Sanctuaries. It is not Ministry-owned, funded, or subject to public educational oversight. The creatures I house there are mine by right of ancestral inheritance, private acquisition, and magical contract.”

The Ministry official frowned. “Still, if you did indeed expose a competitor to the—”

“I do not recall confirming any exposure,” Easter said. “Nor denying it.”

The official’s brow twitched.

Easter folded his gloved hands. “As stated, the creatures are on loan. Legally and temporarily. Under contract. Their existence and care prior to this task falls entirely within the realm of private magical husbandry.”

The Headmistress opened her mouth, but Easter was already continuing,  “If the Ministry believes itself entitled to examine how I interact with my own creatures in my own sanctuary, then I believe the wording on the loan agreement must be revisited.”

North glanced sideways at Easter. The Ministry official pressed again. “You do understand, Mr. Charoensuk, that any prior interaction—”

“Is none of your business.”

That shut the room into silence.

Easter’s gaze sharpened. “You may question me if I break a contract. But I haven’t. You may disqualify the Hogwarts champion if you find proof of tampering. But you haven’t.”

“So unless you wish to accuse me of violating an agreement I wrote myself, signed by your department, and witnessed by your own official—” He smiled, coldly. “—I suggest you accept the borrowed creatures and focus on your Tournament logistics.”

The Ministry official paled slightly.

The Headmistress said nothing, eyes now focused on Easter.

North stood then, “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No,” the official said tightly. “That will be all.”

As they exited the office, North let out a slow breath.

“You didn’t deny it,” he said.

Easter smirked. “I didn’t lie either.”

North looked at him, just long enough to register it. The razor intellect, the quiet wrath barely leashed beneath fine robes.

“Thank you,” North murmured.

Easter just adjusted his gloves. “Don’t thank me, North. Just swim like hell.”

Chapter 39

The morning began in whispers.

Their group took their usual seats at the corner of the Gryffindor table. The enchanted sky above the Great Hall churned a stormy gray. The Black Lake shimmered in the distance.

Tonfah handed North a vial of dark blue potion. “Swallow this ten minutes before the Task begins. It’ll slow your heart rate and minimize magical disruption. Typhoon brewed it last night.”

“Will it taste like ink again?” North asked dryly.

Tonfah smirked faintly. “No promises.”

North glanced around the room.

“Where is Typhoon, anyway? And Johan?”

Mek was across the hall, silent for once, eyes unfocused, bouncing his foot under the table. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple.

Daotok stared at him. “Why is he nervous if he knows who he’s going in for?”

Easter lowered his teacup. “I haven’t seen either of them since yesterday evening.”

“I checked the Astronomy Tower on my way down. Empty.” Arthit added, frowning.

“They wouldn’t just disappear before the Task,” Hill said slowly, a tension creeping into his voice.

“They wouldn’t,” Daotok echoed. But he was already reaching into his coat, pulling out a rune stone. It pulsed dimly, flickered—and then went dark.

No response from Johan.

Tonfah moved sharply, too sharply. “Try Typhoon.”

Daotok pressed his thumb to the stone and whispered, “Resono.”

Silence. Then—

Nothing.

Tonfah stood, so fast the chair scraped across the stone floor. “Try again.”

“Fah—”

“Try. Again.”

North's voice was tight. “They wouldn’t hide. Not now.”

“Unless someone made them disappear,” Tonfah hissed.

 

The mist rolled in thick from the lake, curling over the stone bleachers and creeping up the spectators' boots. The crowd was already gathered, bundled in coats and cloaks, whispering as the platform was conjured at the lake’s edge.

Flags bearing the colors of the three schools flapped in the wind, and the magical clock above the stands ticked ominously toward the start of the Task.

Down on the staging ground, the champions stood in a line.

North was at the center, cloak draped over his shoulders, hair pinned back with the enchanted bone clip Johan had given him over the summer.

His friends stood in a tight cluster beside him, warded from the noise.

Easter was adjusting the final runes at North’s wrist, Daotok stabilizing the layered ink with cold fingers. Tonfah hovered behind them, arms crossed, eyes on the water like he could tear it open and drag the lakebed up with his bare hands.

And still, Johan was missing. So was Typhoon.

And now, Amelie’s voice rang out across the icy stone like a curse.

“Where is she?!” the Beauxbatons champion demanded, face pale. “I haven’t seen my sister since last night—none of her things were touched this morning, not her wand, not even her shoes—”

Her professor tried to calm her, but she shoved his hand off her arm. “She would never leave without telling me. Never.”

Tonfah’s head snapped toward her. Arthit froze. “Her sister?”

Hill turned sharply. “She’s gone too?”

North’s pulse stuttered.

Across the platform, Mek stood too still—too pale. His wand was shaking in his grip. His lips were moving, murmuring something to himself. His other hand clenched and unclenched again and again.

“No,” Tonfah whispered. “They wouldn’t—”

But he was already moving forward, fast, fury radiating off him like heat, when Easter grabbed the back of his robe. “Tonfah.”

“I’ll kill them.”

“You’ll get North disqualified.”

“I’ll kill them all! They took Johan. They took Typhoon—they took our people.”

Hill and Arthit stepped in front of him, blocking him off, both grim.

“They’re trying to bait you,” Hill said lowly.

“They want you to lose control,” Arthit added. “Don’t let them win.”

Tonfah was trembling. With rage. With fear. With everything.

“They used Typhoon,” he spat, voice shaking. “They knew I wouldn’t do anything if he was part of the Task. So they made him part of the Task. He was—he was supposed to watch from the stands beside me—”

North stepped forward now, fully armored in spell-warded gear, his wand strapped to his thigh. He looked Tonfah in the eye.

“I’ll bring him back.”

Tonfah’s jaw clenched.

North turned to Amelie, gentler. “We’ll bring her back, too.”

She nodded once, lip trembling. Then North looked at Mek. Mek refused to meet his gaze.

“Who did they take from you, Mek?” he asked, voice like ice. “What did they promise you?”

Mek’s mouth opened. No words came out.

Tonfah sneered. “Coward.”

Daotok finished the rune binding. “It’s time.”

Easter stepped back. “It’ll hold. You’ll be able to hear through the water. They’ll sing before they see you.”

“And the illusion?” North asked.

“It won’t touch you,” Daotok promised. “You’re fire. You burn through illusion.”

Hill reached out and gripped his arm. “Come back. Both of them. All of them.”

Arthit nodded. “We’ve had enough of people disappearing.”

Tonfah said nothing—only pressed something into North’s hand: a rune-stamped stone. “It’s keyed to Typhoon’s signature. You’ll feel a pull if you get close.”

“Thank you.”

“You owe me nothing. Just bring them back.”

North took one last look at them. He just stepped forward, toward the platform, as the magical voice echoed across the lake.

“Champions—begin!”

North dove.

 

The moment North hit the water, everything changed.

The temperature dropped like a curse, claws of cold slicing into his skin despite the spells wrapped around his body. Light fractured above, shimmering through the murky blackness. The rune on his wrist pulsed softly, guiding him, resisting the pull of illusion. Somewhere above, the crowd watched. But beneath, he was alone.

Except—he wasn’t.

To his left, Amelie had transformed her legs into silver-finned propulsion, gliding through the water like a siren. To his right, Mek struggled to keep up, bubbles streaming from his mouth every time he panicked and tried to speak.

The wyrms had not yet revealed themselves.

The deeper they went, the darker it became. And then, a shimmer of gold.

North turned sharply—Johan. Bound in an illusion-wreathed cage of stone and seaweed, eyes closed, body bruised.

“No—” North surged forward, only for the illusion to flicker, twist—Johan’s bruises melted into gashes, then to blood. Then to stillness.

“No,” North whispered, clutching the rune stone Tonfah gave him. “You’re not real. Not all of you.”

Another shimmer—Typhoon.

Curled against a rune-carved stone, black hair floating like ink, barely moving.

North’s heart dropped. The illusion cracked around him, but the rune on his wrist held steady. He moved toward them all.

And then, the enchantments shuddered.

The structures that held the captives began to splinter, runes fizzing and misfiring, lightning bleeding into the lake like oil on water.

The Ministry’s spellwork was collapsing.

North’s breath stuttered in his lungs. A wyrm coiled nearby, singing a dissonant lullaby that twisted the water into mirrors of pain and doubt. Johan’s bruises returned. Typhoon’s skin flickered to blue.

“NO!”

Mek, panicked, shouted something inaudible and fired a curse toward the wyrm.

The lake lit up in rage. The wyrms screamed. Their voices weren’t sound, it vibrated with force. One writhed toward Mek, jaws open wide.

Amelie screamed bubbles.

North spun, and his shadows tore loose.

They burst from him like smoke made sentient, wrapping around his body, his arms, his eyes—tendrils that reached for Mek and Amelie and shoved them both upward, flung them through the dark like sling-shot stones.

Failed. Both of them.

Their forms disappeared into the lightening waters above.

North remained.

Three captives. One choice.

“Please,” he whispered to the wyrms. “Let me take them. Please. They matter to me.”

The wyrms coiled around him, shadows folding over shadows.

Then, they bowed, and the water stilled.

North didn’t wait. He took Johan first, then Amelie’s sister, then Typhoon, whose body was too still, too cold. He wrapped his arms around all three, cast a rune that shimmered with blood-red light.

And rose.

 

The surface of the lake rippled.

North had disappeared beneath it almost fifteen minutes ago. Mek and Amelie had gone under just before him. Still no sign.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Tonfah whispered, but it sounded like thunder to his friends.

“North knows what he’s doing,” Hill said softly, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

Tonfah rubbed the rune stone in his pocket like a prayer. He should’ve known. He should’ve fought harder to stop them from taking Typhoon. He should’ve never let him out of his sight.

“It's been too long,” Daotok said suddenly, eyes narrowing on the lake.

Easter looked up. “The Task had a thirty-minute limit, but they’re not giving updates. They should be tracking signs of spell activity under the surface. Why aren’t they—?”

“Because something’s wrong,” Tonfah said. “I can feel it.”

The wind picked up, slicing across the lake, sending small waves crashing against the platform. The water rippled oddly.

Arthit moved beside him. “Look.”

Mek’s form burst through the surface of the lake—alone—gasping, flailing, coughing. His wand was gone. He looked scorched. Like something had tried to drag him back down.

A beat later, Amelie came up, sputtering, confused, disoriented. Alone, too.

Neither held anyone. The crowd murmured.

“Where’s Johan?” Hill asked, voice suddenly sharp.

“Where’s Typhoon?” Tonfah echoed, his heart now pounding violently.

Then—screaming from beneath the lake could be heard. A sound like keening magic, like underwater bells shattering.

Daotok’s eyes went wide. “The wyrms are—fighting something.”

Easter stepped forward. “North’s doing something. That resonance—those aren’t control spells.”

Tonfah surged forward, as if to dive in himself. Arthit and Hill grabbed him.

“Let go—he’s down there! He’s probably hurt—he could be—he could be—”

“Don’t,” Hill growled, holding him back. “North’s still down there.”

“If you go in now, it’s over,” Arthit snapped. “North fails. They win. And you lose him.”

“Then what the hell do we do?” Tonfah shouted, hands shaking. “Stand here and wait while my fiancé drowns?!”

Daotok’s voice cut in. “No one’s drowning. If they were, we’d feel it.”

“Unless the wards are being jammed—”

Then Easter’s breath caught. The lake turned black. North exploded from beneath the surface, dragging three bodies with him.

Gasps echoed across the stands.

He pulled Johan up first—coughing, sputtering, gasping for air. Alive.

Amelie’s sister stirred next, eyes fluttering.

But Typhoon didn’t move. His head lolled against North’s chest, lips tinged blue, neck still marked with faint red lines from the magic bindings that had kept him below.

“Typhoon,” North breathed. “No—no, no—”

From the stands, Arthit released Tonfah too late.

Tonfah was already sprinting.

North dragged Typhoon gently onto the platform, his own arms trembling with the effort of holding up three bodies through magic and willpower alone. Johan was already coughing, Amelie’s sister was blinking as she clung to her sister. But Typhoon wasn’t breathing.

Still. Face ghost-pale. Lashes rimmed with frost. Lips tinted faintly blue.

“Typhoon.”

Tonfah dropped to his knees beside him, hands already on his face, his throat, trying to feel anything—warmth, a pulse, anything. His heart was slamming in his chest like it wanted to trade places.

“Phoon, love, wake up. It’s me. Fah. Look at me. Look at me, please.”

Still nothing.

The rune on his wrist flared, a weak pulse. North dropped beside him, water still dripping off his robes. “He’s alive,” he panted. “I checked—he’s just—cold.”

Tonfah flinched. “Too cold.”

Because of course. Typhoon had always been sensitive to the cold. Even at eleven, during winters at Hearthwend, Tonfah had to cast heating charms on his pillows before letting him sleep.

The lake was freezing. The magic even worse.

“Why isn’t he waking up?”

“I don’t know—”

A voice interrupted.

“Please, step back,” a Ministry official said, shouldering through the crowd. “We’ll handle this. Everything is under control.”

Tonfah stood slowly. North backed away, instantly alarmed.

Johan sat up with help from Hill, dripping and dazed, but his eyes snapped to Tonfah immediately, as if he felt the shift in the air.

Tonfah turned, water and rage clinging to his skin like second skin. “Control?”

The official hesitated. “There’s a medical protocol—”

“You’re going to tell me you have control, when your spells failed, when the wards cracked, when my fiancé nearly drowned in front of your eyes, and you did nothing?”

“We had no way of knowing—”

“You put him down there!” Tonfah roared.

The air thickened.

“Tonfah,” Hill said sharply, stepping between him and the official. “Don’t.”

“He needs you,” Arthit added, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He needs you right now. Not them.”

Tonfah stopped. Chest heaving. Hands shaking.

He turned his eyes back down to Typhoon, who lay still, too still, faint steam curling from his skin now that the warming charm had begun its slow work. The frost on his lashes was melting.

Tonfah dropped to his knees again and cradled Typhoon against him.

Then he looked up.

“If anything happens to him,” he said lowly, eyes burning with promise, “you won’t be able to hide behind wards, robes, or office titles. Do you understand me?”

The official opened their mouth—

But Headmistress McGonagall appeared behind them, “That’s enough.”

Her eyes swept the platform. “Mr. Prasert. I understand your anger. But I will not see blood spilled on my shores today.”

Tonfah held her gaze for a moment too long. Then nodded once, tight and trembling. He turned back, gathered Typhoon into his arms, robes pooling like shadows beneath them.

“I’m taking him to the infirmary.”

“Do you want me to come—?” Arthit started.

“No,” Tonfah said. “Just… keep the others warm, especially North.”

And he walked toward the castle.

Typhoon’s head rested against his shoulder. His body, finally warming. But still… no sign of waking.

Chapter 40

The castle corridors blurred past as Tonfah carried Typhoon in silence.

He didn’t even remember pushing open the infirmary doors—just that he blinked, and suddenly, Madame Pomfrey was ushering them in, her apron already stained with potion residue, her voice brisk and concerned.

“Lay him down here, on the warmed cot. Gently now—”

Tonfah did as she said, but his hands refused to let go. Even as he laid Typhoon’s body down onto the gently glowing mattress, his fingers stayed curled around his fiancé’s.

Typhoon’s breathing was shallow. His lips were no longer blue, but far too pale.

Madame Pomfrey cast diagnostic spells in rapid succession. “Circulation intact. Breathing low. Warming charms are taking place, but slowly.” She paused, brow furrowed. “Has he always been this… sensitive to cold?”

Tonfah’s throat tightened.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Since we were children. He always was.”

His voice dropped. “That’s why… that’s why they sent him to Durmstrang.”

Madame Pomfrey looked up at him, surprised.

Tonfah barely heard her. His eyes had drifted to the soft white of the pillow beneath Typhoon’s head, to the fragile curve of his lashes against his cheek. His thumb brushed against the back of Typhoon’s hand. “They thought it would make him stronger. Harden him. Teach him how to survive. But winter has always made him quiet. Slower. Dimmer.”

He reached for his wand, fingers steady even as his heart trembled. “Accio blanket.”

The thickest, softest woolen blanket soared toward him from the cupboard. He wrapped it around Typhoon with practiced hands, tucking it under his shoulders, over his feet, drawing the corners up until only his face peeked out from beneath.

But even that wasn’t enough. He pointed his wand again and whispered, “Calore Proprio.”

A carefully tuned heating charm, enough to make the bed warm like Hearthwend’s stone hearths in winter. Still no stir from Typhoon.

“Don’t you dare make me wait again,” Tonfah whispered. “Not like this. Not when I only just got you back.”

His fingers curled tighter around Typhoon’s. He pressed the back of his knuckles to Typhoon’s cheek. Still too cold.

“Is he… in danger?” he asked, quietly now.

Madame Pomfrey’s eyes softened. “He’s stable. Just slow to respond. He may wake within the hour.”

That wasn't enough.

Tonfah didn’t say anything else. He pulled the chair closer to the cot and sat down, never releasing Typhoon’s hand. He rested his head against Typhoon’s arm, eyes watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, matching his own breath to it, like an anchor.

And he waited.

The doors to the infirmary opened again.

“Mr. Ritthirong, Mr. Thanawat,” Madame Pomfrey called, already bustling to the next cot, “you’re both drenched and bruised. Sit. Now.”

Johan leaned into North slightly as they approached, fatigue making his usually proud frame falter. North didn’t speak. His eyes found Tonfah.

He sat beside the farthest cot, in the corner bathed in flickering torchlight, Typhoon’s hand still cradled in his own. His other hand rested on the edge of the blanket, absently stroking over the woolen folds like he could coax warmth back into the boy beneath it.

Typhoon was still unconscious. But his breathing had steadied.

“Is he…” North started, his voice hoarse from the lake and more than that.

“Alive,” Johan said quietly. “But not yet awake.”

Easter, Hill, Arthit, and Daotok stepped in next, dripping coats removed by a waiting house-elf, each pair of eyes finding the same sight across the room: Tonfah, unmoving, his hand curled tightly around Typhoon’s, lips pressed in a thin line that didn’t dare tremble.

He didn’t look up even when Daotok came closer. Even when Johan, now seated, winced as Pomfrey cast healing charms over a bruised rib, Tonfah didn’t so much as flinch.

Hill whispered, “Has he been like that since they got here?”

Madame Pomfrey nodded from across the room. “Hasn’t left him. Not for a second.”

No one questioned it.

Not after what they'd seen. Not after how Typhoon had looked—limp, pale, waterlogged, and far too still in Tonfah’s arms.

They spoke in murmurs as they took their own places on other cots. Johan and North were seen first, wrapped in fresh blankets, their wounds cleaned and scanned. But every now and then, one of them would glance over.

At Tonfah. Still.

Daotok, carrying a steaming mug of warm broth, walked toward the corner and crouched beside his friend. “Fah. Eat something.”

Tonfah blinked like he was waking from a trance. “Not now.”

“Just a sip,” Daotok insisted gently. “For him.”

That worked. Tonfah took the cup with one hand, his other never letting go of Typhoon’s. North, now sitting beside Johan with their hands loosely intertwined, spoke after a long silence. “He’s going to be alright.”

Tonfah didn’t answer. But his thumb stroked over Typhoon’s knuckles again.

“Fah,” Johan added, quieter. “He’s strong. He came back. And he’ll wake up to you. Just like he always has.”

Tonfah didn’t speak. But for the first time since the lake, his shoulders eased a little. And when Typhoon stirred slightly, lashes fluttering faintly against his cheeks, barely noticeable, Tonfah exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

The others saw it.

And none of them dared speak a word.

 

The infirmary was quiet now.

Somewhere in the back, Johan had drifted into a light sleep against North’s shoulder. Easter and Hill played a silent game of wizarding chess with half a board. Daotok was rereading the same line of a book. Arthit was watching Tonfah.

Tonfah hadn't moved.

Still perched at the side of Typhoon’s cot, hand wrapped protectively around his fiancé’s, thumb brushing lightly over his fingers every now and then. The blanket still lay tucked under Typhoon’s chin, an extra heating charm humming low beneath the wool.

Then, the fingers under Tonfah’s hand twitched.

He froze.

It was so subtle, it could’ve been imagined. But then, a small, rasping breath.

Another.

And slowly Typhoon’s eyes fluttered open. “Fah?” he croaked, voice barely there.

Tonfah inhaled sharply. “Phoon—hey. I’m here. You’re alright.”

Typhoon blinked up at him, pupils slow to adjust to the dim light. “…You look like shit.”

A snort escaped Tonfah’s throat, part laughter, part relief that nearly shattered him. “You nearly died, and I look like shit?”

Typhoon gave the barest of smiles. “Well, I can’t see myself right now.”

Across the infirmary, the others sat up.

“He’s awake,” Easter said softly, nudging Hill.

North turned, relief crashing visibly over his face. Johan smiled, tired but genuine.

“About time,” Daotok murmured, already walking over. Arthit followed silently, hovering just near enough, hands behind his back.

Typhoon’s eyes moved past Tonfah’s shoulder, seeing the group begin to gather. “You’re all… here?”

“You’re surprised?” Hill asked, quirking a brow. “We thought we’d have to tie Tonfah down if they tried moving you.”

“I still might,” Tonfah said, fingers threading carefully through Typhoon’s damp hair. “Don’t give me a reason.”

Typhoon laughed softly and then winced. “Cold.”

“I know,” Tonfah said quickly, drawing the blanket up further. “Heating charms. You’re in the infirmary. You’re safe.”

Typhoon leaned a little toward the warmth of Tonfah’s hand. “You stayed.”

“I always will.”

 

Madame Pomfrey looked down at Typhoon as he blinked groggily up at her, face still pale against the pillows. “You’re staying the night here, Mr. Ratanaporn. I don’t care if you feel better. That lake nearly took you under.”

Typhoon glanced at Tonfah, then around the infirmary. “It’s cold,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And I don’t want to be cold anymore.”

The matron sighed, already rubbing her temples. “Prefect dorm, then,” she muttered. “But only if your guard dog keeps you warm and takes these.”

She shoved a tray of tonic bottles toward Tonfah.

Tonfah took them all without hesitation. “Done.”

Madame Pomfrey narrowed her eyes. “If he so much as coughs—”

“He won’t,” Tonfah promised.

The others stayed behind as Tonfah carefully helped Typhoon sit up, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders. Typhoon’s legs trembled on the first few steps, so Tonfah scooped him into his arms without a word. Typhoon didn’t resist.

“Get some rest,” Tonfah called over his shoulder. “I’ve got him.”

 

The prefect quarters were quiet and dimly lit by golden sconces. Tonfah whispered warming charms into the walls, the floors, the very air until the room felt like it belonged to summer rather than winter.

He sat Typhoon gently on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of him, pulling out a soft towel and a bowl of warm water. The sponge was charmed to hold its heat.

Neither of them spoke.

Tonfah dabbed at Typhoon’s skin—his neck, his arms, the lingering traces of lake water behind his ears. He worked with reverent silence, only breaking it to murmur warming spells over chilled skin.

He dressed him in soft cotton, warm and dark, the kind Typhoon liked. Typhoon leaned into every movement, quiet and trusting. Once Tonfah finished and tucked the covers around him, Typhoon gave a little tug on his sleeve.

“Stay,” he said softly. “Please?”

Tonfah hesitated only to strip off his outer robes, change into his nightshirt, then crawled into bed beside him.

Typhoon immediately curled toward him, face pressed to Tonfah’s chest, arms wrapped loosely around his waist.

They stayed that way for a long moment. Breathing. Listening.

Then Typhoon whispered, “I remember… shadows. Around me. Screaming. Johan was hurt. I thought—” his breath hitched. “I thought I’d lost him. And then the lake started cracking. The magic holding us—something went wrong.”

Tonfah’s jaw clenched. His hand slid protectively over Typhoon’s back.

“You stopped breathing,” he said thickly. “You didn’t wake up. I—”

He cut himself off. Typhoon shifted back just far enough to look up at him. “You didn’t lose me.”

“You don’t understand,” Tonfah said, voice cracking. “I carried you out of the lake, and you weren’t there. I held you and you were freezing and quiet and—”

“I’m here now.”

Tonfah closed his eyes, forehead pressing to Typhoon’s. “You always slip through my fingers just when I think I have you again.”

Typhoon touched his cheek. “I’m not slipping anymore.”

“I don’t care if you’re strong or clever or capable. I need you. I need you to come back to me every time.”

“I will,” Typhoon whispered. “I swear.”

Silence stretched between them, warm and close.

Then Tonfah buried his face into Typhoon’s hair, arms tightening.

“I can’t lose you again, love.”

“You won’t,” Typhoon said softly. “Not now. Not ever.”

Chapter 41

Notes:

Yay! Happy 100k words mark to this AU! Enjoy the ride! :)

Sunlight filtered in through the tall windows of Tonfah’s prefect dormitory, casting pale golden lines across the bed where Typhoon lay still beneath a thick, enchanted blanket.

Tonfah was already awake and watching.

His eyes tracked the slow, steady rise and fall of Typhoon’s chest like it was the only magic in the world that mattered. It wasn’t the first time he’d watched him sleep, but it was the first time in a long while where every breath counted.

He hadn’t moved from that spot all night.

Eventually, Typhoon stirred, eyelashes fluttering. He blinked up at Tonfah, soft and still sleepy. Then smirked, faintly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re checking to make sure I’m breathing.”

Tonfah didn’t deny it.

“I am.”

Typhoon stretched slightly under the covers. “I’m fine, you know.”

“You weren’t,” Tonfah said quietly.

Typhoon paused, then reached up and brushed a piece of Tonfah’s hair back. “But I am now.”

Tonfah looked like he wanted to argue, but Typhoon beat him to it. “Come on. Breakfast.”

“I was hoping to keep you here for another day.”

“Fah.”

“No. Really. Just another hour.”

Typhoon raised a brow. “So you can stare at me some more?”

Tonfah cracked a reluctant smile. “That, and keep you warm.”

Typhoon leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Tonfah’s cheek. “We can be warm in the Great Hall too, love.”

 

The Great Hall was half-full when they arrived, cloaks trailing, hair still damp from morning routines. Most students were caught up in the usual post-task gossip. But the moment Tonfah and Typhoon stepped into the room, several eyes shifted their way.

Tonfah didn’t care. He kept one hand on Typhoon’s back. They bypassed the Ravenclaw table. The Gryffindors. They went straight to the Slytherin table.

North had shifted aside to make room between him and Daotok. Johan moved his plate without a word. Arthit raised a brow, but said nothing.

Typhoon sat, tucked between Daotok and Tonfah. A second later, a bowl of steaming porridge was placed in front of him. Honey drizzled. Cinnamon-dusted. Beside it, a mug of rich, steaming cocoa.

Typhoon blinked at the presentation.

“…Subtle.”

Easter, across from him, sipped his tea. “It’s not for show. You’re freezing.”

Hill added, “And if you even think of eating anything that isn’t warm, I will charm your mouth shut.”

Typhoon laughed softly. “Alright. I’ll eat.”

He didn’t complain. Just took a spoonful, letting the heat warm him from the inside. Tonfah didn’t touch his own food until Typhoon had finished half the bowl.

The others ate in near-silence.

Eventually, Typhoon looked up. His eyes drifted across the table, landing on Johan, then Daotok, then North, Hill, Arthit, and Easter.

They were all watching him.

Typhoon gave a small nod, and Johan returned it.

Daotok tipped his chin. Easter stirred his tea once, twice, then let his spoon fall. Hill and Arthit shared a look. North, last of all, looked at Typhoon and mouthed silently: later.

It was enough. They ate in silence again, but now the silence said more than words ever could.

 

The bells tolled softly through the castle, signaling the beginning of the first class of the day.

The eight of them walked the corridors together, an unspoken formation. None of them said aloud what they were thinking, but it was there in the way Johan walked just slightly closer to North, in the way Easter kept looking back to make sure Typhoon wasn’t lagging, in the hand Tonfah kept loosely resting at the small of Typhoon’s back.

Their first class was Charms. Professor Flitwick raised a brow when they entered, then motioned them silently to their usual seats. There were whispers, but none dared speak louder than a breath.

The lesson was on multi-wand casting theory, a complex concept involving magical harmonization across duelers. Normally, this would have sparked a lively debate among the eight. Tonfah and Typhoon would’ve already been sketching theoretical rune overlays. North might’ve challenged the framework. Johan would have pointed out its application in combat. Daotok would argue its flaws.

Today, they took notes and spoke only when asked. Typhoon answered a question, voice a little raspier than usual. Flitwick’s eyes lingered a moment longer than normal, but he nodded and moved on.

Next was Arithmancy.

North and Hill shared a parchment. Johan was quiet, brows furrowed over his equations. The numbers felt meaningless. Still, they worked. Because it was expected. Because they needed normal.

Then came Herbology.

Greenhouses. Steam curling from open soil. Typhoon excused himself halfway through the practical as the greenhouse was too cold. Tonfah followed, of course. Professor Sprout didn’t stop them. Just gave them both a quiet nod.

The others finished the work for them.

Then, Defense Against the Dark Arts.

The subject that used to feel like home now sat heavier on their shoulders.

Professor Thorne lectured on mirror dueling techniques. The group split—Tonfah with Arthit, Daotok with Hill, Johan with North, Easter with Typhoon. The rhythm was there, but subdued. No one said what they were all thinking.

Typhoon cast sharply, but without flare. Easter deflected with precision. Johan’s spells were a touch stronger than usual. North’s wand moved like it was remembering pain.

“Good form,” Thorne said quietly as he passed their pair.

No one smiled.

 

By the time they made it back to the library annex for study hour, they’d hardly spoken outside of class. Their usual table had already been charmed warm by the time they got there. Books opened. Quills scratched. The silence was companionable, if a little strained.

Then Arthit set down his quill. “We need to talk,” he said quietly.

One by one, they quietly closed their books, capped their ink, and slid quills back into leather pouches. Not a word passed between them.

But they all stood.

The library’s glow faded behind them as they walked—past echoing corridors, down spiraling staircases, and through shadowed halls where portraits dozed and suits of armor creaked.

They passed the Room of Requirement.

“Where?” Easter asked as they turned a shadowed corner. “Not the dorms. Not the tower. Not anywhere with eyes.”

Johan’s voice was low, calm. “Follow me.”

Daotok narrowed his eyes. “Where are you taking us?”

Johan didn’t respond. Just turned left, down a passage that most of the school avoided—one that had been sealed for decades. Except it wasn’t. Eventually, they reached the girls’ lavatory on the second floor, the door old and warped, water still dripping from one of the taps.

“Myrtle’s out haunting the astronomy tower,” Johan muttered. “She won’t be back until morning.”

They exchanged looks as Johan stepped up to the rusted basin. Then, in a voice that shifted the air around them, he hissed, “Open.”

And the sink opened. The basin sank into itself, gears turning, revealing a stone chute spiraling into darkness.

For a second, no one moved.

Then North blinked, narrowing his eyes. “…You speak Parseltongue?”

Everyone turned toward Johan.

Johan, for once, didn’t meet their gazes. He just said, “Questions later.”

And jumped in. The descent was faster than expected. They landed one after the other on cool stone, the air damp with a magic that hadn’t stirred in decades.

Torches lit without a word, catching on the green-streaked columns and serpent-lined walls. The chamber stretched into shadow, still and vast beneath the castle. They followed Johan until they reached the great circular platform beneath Salazar Slytherin’s statue—a place none of them should’ve seen.

“Now we talk,” Johan said.

And this time, he looked directly at North.

“You never answered.”

Johan arched a brow. “Answered what?”

“How you speak Parseltongue.”

That earned a low snort from Johan. He crossed his arms, leaning slightly against one of the pillars. “You spend your childhood being raised in an estate full of snakes, some with venom, some with titles, and eventually, you either learn to speak to them or get bitten.”

His eyes flicked toward Typhoon, dry with amusement.

Typhoon didn’t even look up from the way he was turning a ring slowly on his finger. “He’s not wrong.”

North’s brows lifted. “You too?”

Typhoon shrugged with a lazy elegance. “Some of us were taught piano. I was taught serpent speech.”

Arthit, seated on a chunk of cracked stone, muttered, “You two are one step away from becoming Dark Lords.”

Daotok snorted into his sleeve. Easter just sipped from the thermos he’d summoned on the way down.

But the laughter didn’t last. It dissolved quietly. The same way their smiles did. Because when the room fell silent again, the weight of truth returned like a stormfront.

Johan’s voice was the one to break it. “This wasn’t an accident.”

No one disagreed.

“Two heirs,” Hill said quietly, “of ancient families with known dark lineages—”

“Held underwater,” Arthit finished.

“With a spell that malfunctioned,” North added, his jaw tight. “I saw it. I felt it. The bindings started to decay before I even touched them.”

Johan’s expression darkened, eyes flicking to Typhoon.

“Cousins,” he said flatly. “If one of us didn’t make it back, both our lines would be destabilized. Convenient, isn’t it?”

No one breathed for a moment. Easter’s eyes were unreadable, calm in the way only people with long-buried rage could manage.

“They didn’t want to sabotage the task,” he said. “They wanted a casualty. Or two.”

Daotok’s jaw tightened. “And they chose heirs they thought no one would mourn.”

“Or,” Typhoon said softly, “they chose the ones they feared the most.”

“And now,” Easter said slowly, “there’s a perfect scapegoat.”

The others turned.

“What?” Arthit asked, brows drawn.

Easter didn’t smile, but his voice was far too calm. “My wyrms attacked when provoked. When enchanted restraints failed. When one of them was fired on. But to someone who wasn’t there? To the Ministry?”

Realization dawned on them.

“They could blame you,” Daotok said.

“They could say the wyrms malfunctioned,” Hill added, eyes narrowed. “That they weren’t stable. That you endangered the champions.”

“They could say you sabotaged the task,” Johan said darkly.

“Convenient,” Typhoon murmured. “Pin the blame on the boy with a beast's menagerie and a Ministry vendetta.”

Easter gave a hollow laugh. “Poetic, isn’t it? They strip my father of everything, accuse him of harboring a faun, and now, years later, they want my wyrms and whisper sabotage when something goes wrong.”

There was a pause. Then Typhoon spoke, his voice dangerously quiet. “They planned for something to go wrong.”

“And for someone else to take the fall,” Johan finished.

Arthit looked between them, the tension visible in the tight set of his shoulders. “So what now?”

Easter tilted his head, the candlelight in the chamber dancing against his cheekbone like shadowed warpaint. “Now?” he said. “Now we don’t play nice.”

Johan leaned forward, voice low. “And we decide what to do with that.”

“Are we talking retaliation?” Easter asked, almost idly. But his eyes were alert.

“Not yet,” Hill said, lifting a hand. “We’re talking insulation. Containment. Clarity.”

He nodded to Johan. “What we need is a list of what we know. What can be used against us, and what we have as leverage.”

Daotok snapped his fingers, and a quill and parchment appeared, floating in front of him. “Let’s list it.”

Typhoon was the one who began: “Fact one: The second task was sabotaged. Not by accident. The captives were meant to stay under.”

Johan added, “Fact two: The spell destabilization didn’t happen until just before North reached us. Not during the hour leading up. That means someone was watching.”

Hill said, “Fact three: The wyrms did not attack unprovoked. Mek fired first.”

Easter’s voice followed, smooth and quiet. “And fact four: The Ministry’s already prepared to spin a story if something went wrong. Which means they were expecting something to go wrong.”

Daotok looked around the room. “So what do we have?”

“Control of the creatures,” Easter answered. “The wyrms returned to my sanctuary. I also still have the murkdaughters' allegiance. And they’re not Ministry compliant.”

“Typhoon and I have political sway in certain dark families,” Tonfah said. “If we need to pull strings.”

Hill added, “We can redirect internal Ministry investigations. But it’s not infinite. It would buy us time, not immunity.”

Arthit spoke then, tapping his fingers on the stone. “We don’t strike. Not yet. We build.”

“Build what?” North asked.

Typhoon’s voice was steady, quiet but chilling.

“A shield. And a sword.”

They looked to him.

“We create fail-safes. If the Ministry comes for any one of us, they’ll have to answer to all of us. If they try to paint Easter as a traitor, we flood them with witness accounts. If they target Johan or me again during the third task—”

“They won’t get the chance,” Johan said darkly.

North asked, “What if they start targeting us through our academics?”

Tonfah looked thoughtful. “Then we start preparing. Build a network of cross-referenced knowledge. We have Concordia, Essentia, and Metamorphica. We’ll study so they won’t question our credibility academically. Publish again if we have to.”

Daotok looked up. “So we make them think we’re bigger than we are.”

Easter grinned. “We make them think we’re everywhere.”

Johan exhaled slowly. “We stop hiding.”

Hill corrected him, voice calm but sharp. “No. We never stop hiding. We just choose when to let them see us.”

A beat of silence.

Then North stood. “I’ll fight however I need to. I just want us all to survive.”

That was the line that settled everything.

The eight of them looked at one another and slowly, as if by some invisible signal, nodded. The Ministry had started a war it didn’t know how to fight.

Now, it was time to prepare.

 

The silence that followed was deceptive, but Daotok broke it.

“North… your shadows.”

North stiffened, visibly. Then he laughed sharply, defensive. “They’re nothing. You’re all overreacting.”

“No,” Typhoon said gently. “We’re not.”

“They weren’t just echoes of fear,” Daotok continued. “They came from you. Not from a creature. Not from outside.”

Easter tilted his head, studying him. “That burst, the way it tore through the water. You pushed them back.”

North’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to,” he muttered.

Easter leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes dark. “We saw it, North. You ripped through water and light like it was air.”

“And I saved them, didn’t I?” North snapped, voice rising. “I brought them back.”

“You did,” Johan said calmy.

“But what if I hadn’t?!” North exploded.

The words reverberated off the damp chamber walls. No one moved.

“What if I had been a second too late? What if I had hurt Johan or Amelie’s sister or—or Typhoon—” He broke off, swallowing hard. His fists were clenched. Shoulders shaking.

“What if next time, I can’t stop it? What if it grows? What if it spreads?” His eyes were wild now. “I don’t even understand it—how am I supposed to control it?!”

“You’re learning,” Daotok said quietly.

“Learning?!” North barked a laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it? I nearly obliterated half the lake! Mek and Amelie were thrown like ragdolls, the wyrms nearly attacked me back—”

“You didn’t hurt them,” Typhoon said softly.

“Yet!” North shouted. “That’s not safety—that’s luck. And what happens when it runs out?”

He was breathing hard now, like the fear had risen to his throat and was choking him. “I’m supposed to be a Gryffindor. I’m supposed to protect people. I promised I’d bring them back, and the truth is I didn’t even know if I could—”

“You did,” Johan said.

North rounded on him. “Don’t—don’t lie to me just because you’re in love with me—”

The chamber went silent. The echo of those words felt like a curse in the air.

Johan didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying.”

“I’m dangerous, Johan. You don’t get it.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t! You weren’t there when it started! You weren’t there when I woke up sweating, seeing things that weren’t there, setting curtains on fire in our third year because I panicked. You weren’t there when Professor Thorne asked me if I’d been practicing dark magic—and I hadn’t, Johan, I swear—”

“North—”

“I was just scared!” North finally broke, voice cracking. “And it happened again. It always happens again. I can’t—”

His voice shattered. The anger melted into raw, exposed grief. And North collapsed down, knees to stone, hands trembling.

“I can’t keep pretending it’s not there,” he whispered.

The group didn’t move at first.

Then Johan knelt before him. “I don’t want you to pretend,” he said gently. “I want you to let us help.”

North looked up, eyes wet and shining. “You should be afraid of me.”

Johan shook his head. “I’m not.”

“You should.”

“But I’m not.” Johan cupped his face, firm but soft. “You saved me. And you keep saving me, even when it hurts.”

Typhoon stepped forward too, arms folded. “You’re scared. That doesn’t make you dangerous.”

Hill crouched nearby, watching North with warm, level eyes. “You don’t have to be perfect to be safe.”

Daotok added, “We’ve all done things. Been shaped by things. That doesn’t mean you don’t belong with us.”

Easter’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to tame it alone.”

And finally, Johan whispered:

“You’re still you, North. You’re still brave. And loud. And infuriating. And mine.”

North let out a sharp breath that hitched and cracked and shook. And then he leaned forward and collapsed into Johan’s arms.

 

The others had gone. Not far, just out of earshot, enough to give them room. The chamber felt quieter now, as if the stones themselves exhaled relief.

North sat against the cool wall, knees still pulled close, breathing steadier but quiet. Johan sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched, but not forcing anything.

The silence stretched.

Finally, Johan murmured, “You okay?”

North scoffed lightly. “That’s a stupid question.”

“Yeah,” Johan said, smiling faintly. “But I thought I’d ask anyway.”

“I didn’t mean to say that,” North mumbled, not looking at him. “About you… being in love with me.”

Johan was quiet for a moment. Then, simply, “I know.”

North tilted his head just slightly. “You’re not going to deny it?”

“No.”

That surprised him. North turned, finally meeting Johan’s gaze. “Why?”

Johan’s expression was unreadable for a beat. Then he said, soft but unwavering, “Because you’re not wrong.”

North’s breath caught.

“I didn’t want to say it first,” Johan continued, voice quieter now. “Not when you were already carrying so much. Not like that. But I do.”

The words hung in the air.

North swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t even know what I am sometimes. Just this mess of magic and fury and… fear.”

“You’re North,” Johan said, with a small smile. “That’s all I need.”

North huffed a soft laugh. “You’re kind of ridiculous.”

“I like you best when you’re being ridiculous too.”

He nudged North gently. North didn’t pull away.

A long pause.

Then, voice quiet but raw, North asked, “Do you ever get scared? Of… whatever’s inside of you?”

Johan nodded after a moment. “All the time.”

North blinked at that.

“I’m not like Typhoon or Tonfah or Daotok,” Johan said. “I didn’t grow up surrounded by politics or family expectations like them. But I still carry mine. Being an heir doesn’t mean control, it just means pressure. And I feel it, every day.”

North watched him. “So why are you so calm?”

Johan grinned faintly. “I’m not. I’m just good at hiding it.”

“Terrifying.”

“Right?” Johan bumped his shoulder again. “Perfect pair, us.”

North looked away, lips twitching into a small, tired smile. Then he murmured, “Thanks for coming back for me.”

Johan blinked. “You were the one who came back for me.”

North nodded. “Still.”

Johan’s voice softened again. “We’ll figure it out. Your magic. Your shadows. All of it. Together.”

North didn’t reply right away. Just leaned his head lightly against Johan’s shoulder. And for once, Johan didn’t need words.

Notes:

I had a hard time writing North here because I kept crying and want to hug him tight. :(

Chapter 42

Notes:

Hi. I used Tonliew's and Bas' actual birthdays here. Enjoy!

The snow had melted in patches, leaving behind damp cobblestones that shimmered under the soft sun. Crocuses peeked through slush near fences, and the air carried a hint of warmth that promised the end of winter in early March.

They weren’t supposed to be in Hogsmeade. Not formally. But after the second task, after weeks of brewing worry and fractured sleep, someone had petitioned the Headmistress. Probably Johan. Or Tonfah. Probably both. And surprisingly, permission had been granted for a “private walk.”

Which turned into eight pairs of boots crunching down the village path, robes exchanged for coats and scarves, Typhoon’s still layered with extra protective warming charms courtesy of Tonfah.

North walked with his hands buried in his pockets, flanked on either side by Johan and Easter. Typhoon lagged a step behind the group, distracted by the budding petals clinging to the hedgerows.

And when he looked up, they were gone. A voice called from down the path—Johan’s, clear and amused.

“Over here!”

Typhoon tilted his head, wary but curious, and stepped into the small clearing behind Honeydukes, the old courtyard where students sometimes hid to share stolen kisses or chocolate frog cards.

Only, this time, there were floating candles, flickering fairy lights, a conjured garden trellis arched in blooms, and a table set with sweets, tea, and warm pies. Little pastries shaped like birds. Candied apples painted with gold.

And in the center, two small enchanted signs floated in the air:

“Happy Birthday, Typhoon.”
“Happy Birthday, North.”

North had stopped mid-step, blinking at the sight. “Wait—what?”

Typhoon, for once, was too stunned to speak. Tonfah emerged from behind the table, brushing flour off his sleeves, and grinned. “Surprise.”

Johan stood beside him, looking far too pleased. “Don’t ask how we got the table down the hill.”

“You made this?” Typhoon said slowly, almost suspiciously.

“No,” Daotok said, coming up beside him. “They bullied the house elves into helping and bribed a fourth-year to carry the pies.”

“You said we were just going for tea,” North said to Johan, turning, breathless.

“We are,” Johan said. “Birthday tea. Also, you don’t lie well. You were clearly getting antsy about it.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Easter cut in, slapping him lightly on the back. “You circled the dormitory at five a.m. muttering about getting older.”

Typhoon turned to Tonfah, eyes still wide. “You remembered.”

“I always do,” Tonfah said quietly, reaching out to fix a stray curl from Typhoon’s cheek. “Even when I wasn’t there to celebrate it with you.”

And for a second, no one said anything.

Until Easter let out a dramatic gasp. “Is that—hot cocoa with cinnamon?!”

“And marshmallows,” Arthit said, smug. “You’re welcome.”

They all laughed, slipping into seats and cushions, the crisp wind softened by warming charms and blankets draped across laps. Daotok poured tea, Hill passed out biscuits, and Easter handed North a wrapped book, something handwritten, old, and probably dangerous.

North turned to Johan and mouthed, thank you.

Johan just smiled.

Typhoon sat on the bench with Tonfah beside him, the scent of honey and smoke curling in the air. “This is the first time in years,” he murmured, “that my birthday didn’t feel like a countdown.”

Tonfah laced their fingers together. “Because it’s not.”

“Feels like a pause.”

“Feels like spring,” Tonfah whispered.

The others had started talking about silly things. North was arguing with Hill about wizarding chess rankings, and Easter was charming one of the pastries to sing. The sun dipped lower. Warmth in their bones. Laughter on their breath.

Typhoon let his head fall onto Tonfah’s shoulder, watching the candles flicker.

Johan cleared his throat. “North.”

North looked up mid-sip, blinking. “Hm?”

“Your real gift.”

“You mean this entire ambush wasn’t already it?”

Johan rolled his eyes fondly. “No. This one’s just… for you.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small black box, nondescript but solid, and slid it across the table. The others quieted as North opened it carefully. Inside was a necklace—silver, thin but sturdy, with a pendant shaped like a flame encased in crystal. The fire flickered inside it, magic caught mid-dance.

North’s breath caught. “This is…”

“I had it made,” Johan said, softer now. “It’s phoenix flame. Not just for warmth, but… for protection. It won’t burn you, only react when you're in danger.”

“You—” North looked up sharply, expression unreadable. “This is expensive.”

“It’s yours.”

“I don’t have anything for you.”

“You being alive is enough of a gift,” Johan murmured, voice thick.

North swallowed. And quietly, he reached around to fasten the chain around his neck. The flame settled just below his collarbone, warm against his skin.

Across the table, Tonfah gently pushed a box toward Typhoon. It was wrapped in rich green velvet with gold twine.

Typhoon raised a brow. “This doesn’t look like pie.”

“Open it, love,” Tonfah said, smirking.

Typhoon peeled the twine slowly and lifted the lid. Inside lay a delicate chain of twisted platinum and black gold, the pendant shaped like a small, open eye, inlaid with emerald and obsidian. Ancient in design.

Typhoon blinked. “This is—”

“A watcher’s eye,” Tonfah said quietly. “Warded. It anchors to me. No matter where you are, I’ll always be able to find you.”

Typhoon went still.

“And if anything tries to curse you through magical tracking,” Tonfah added, brushing a finger over the charm, “this eats it first.”

“That’s a bit—”

“Paranoid?” Tonfah asked.

“Possessive,” Typhoon corrected, amused.

Tonfah leaned in. “Both.”

Typhoon stared at the necklace again. Then, in a rare moment of quiet vulnerability, he said, “I don’t deserve you.”

“You’ve always had me, Phoon,” Tonfah replied, “even when you didn’t ask for it.”

He reached out, a silent request. Typhoon leaned forward, letting him fasten the necklace. When he sat back, the pendant gleamed against his throat—a mirror to the bite still faintly visible just above it.

“I’m keeping this on,” Typhoon said.

“Good,” Tonfah murmured. “I would’ve made you anyway.”

There was a beat of stillness around the table. Then Easter broke it. “Wow. Jewelry and declarations of eternal protection. Am I the only one getting chocolates next birthday?”

Hill raised a hand. “I got you a dragon-scale comb, remember?”

“You tried to style my hair with it,” Easter shot back.

“Well, you have hair that fights spells.”

They devolved into playful bickering. Arthit laughed into his cup. Daotok reached for another tart. The candles floated above them, dim but warm, like starlight pulled closer to earth.

Typhoon touched the pendant once more, then leaned lightly into Tonfah’s side. Across the table, North’s fingers brushed the flame at his chest as he watched Johan laugh with Daotok.

“Well, would you look at that,” Daotok said, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Matching gifts.”

Typhoon’s brows lifted. North froze mid-sip. “What?”

Johan blinked, then slowly turned toward Tonfah. “Did you two coordinate?”

Tonfah smirked but didn’t deny it.

Typhoon, deadpan: “We’re not matching.”

“Right, because his necklace is a cursed fire charm and yours is a magically possessive eyeball,” Easter said dryly, sipping his tea. “Totally different flavors of romantic obsession.”

“But it’s fitting,” Arthit chimed in, swirling the tea in his cup. “You two were born just a day apart.”

“March third and March fourth,” Hill said, pointing to Typhoon and North, respectively. “Honestly, we should’ve known the universe had favorites.”

“I am not the universe’s favorite,” Typhoon said, deadpan.

“I think you are,” Tonfah said, sliding closer until their knees brushed. “You’ve always been mine.”

North groaned and leaned his head against Johan’s shoulder. “They’re being sickening again.”

“You love it,” Johan murmured against his hair.

“I tolerate it.”

“You adore it.”

“...Fine.”

The flickering fairy lights above them pulsed with soft golden hues, like stars winking in approval. North chuckled, watching Typhoon tug his coat tighter around his shoulders before reaching for another chocolate tart. He caught the subtle glance Tonfah gave Typhoon—quiet, possessive, absolutely fond.

Then he caught Johan watching him the exact same way.

Typhoon rolled his eyes. “They’re not matching. Our necklaces are completely different enchantments.”

“Maybe,” Hill said slowly, “but they were both gifted by two idiots who would burn the world down to protect you.”

Typhoon blinked. So did North.

Daotok laughed. “Slytherin and Ravenclaw,” he nodded at Tonfah and Typhoon, then looked at Johan and North. “Slytherin and Gryffindor in perfect alignment, miracles do happen.”

“No one’s burning the world down,” Typhoon muttered.

“Yet,” Easter added cheerfully.

Tonfah leaned in and whispered into Typhoon’s ear, lips barely brushing his skin, “Only if they touch you first.”

Typhoon flushed but said nothing, letting the warmth of the pendant settle deeper against his chest.

On the other side, Johan gently pressed a kiss to North’s temple. “You liked it?”

“I love it,” North said quietly. “And I love you.”

“Say that again,” Johan whispered.

“Later,” North promised. “When it’s just us.”

The others had broken back into their own conversations, laughter rising like mist. But for the birthday boys, something lingered in the soft flicker of candlelight and charm-glow.

Chapter 43

The warmth of birthdays, shared necklaces, and whispered promises began to fade into memory as the rhythm of Hogwarts slowly reclaimed them.

Spring bloomed across the castle grounds—delicate crocuses pushing through thawing soil, the trees along the Black Lake budding with fresh green. But inside the ancient stone walls, it was back to timetables and ink-stained fingers, piles of parchment curling at the corners from excessive revision.

The clock had resumed its ticking.

North sat in the library, half-buried under Defense Against the Dark Arts essays, a quill tucked behind his ear and the faintest smudge of ink on his cheek. Johan, seated beside him, was flipping through a runes journal, but his eyes flicked up now and then, not at the page, but at North.

Across the room, Typhoon and Tonfah were shoulder to shoulder at a long oak table, Ancient Runes open between them. Typhoon’s handwriting danced neatly across the margins of Tonfah’s notes, annotated in his distinctive, sharp scrawl. He passed Tonfah a sugar quill between points, and Tonfah accepted it without looking up, murmuring a soft thanks.

At another table, Hill was tutoring Easter in Arithmancy—or trying to.

“You can’t just write ‘chaotic magical resonance’ and hope it counts as a formula,” Hill said, exasperated.

“But that’s exactly what’s happening!” Easter gestured broadly. “The maths just hasn’t caught up to the theory yet.”

“That’s not how Arithmancy works.”

“That’s not how innovation works.”

Daotok, seated nearby with Arthit, snorted into his tea. Arthit rolled his eyes but nudged Daotok’s hand under the table, fingers brushing fingers briefly before they returned to their Charms essay.

There were no whispered conspiracies today, no plotting or pressure. Just notes exchanged, books passed quietly across desks, shared sighs of exhaustion, and parchment filled with intent.

Still, every now and then, one of them would glance toward the window. The lake shimmered in the distance, deceptively peaceful. Shadows flickered just beneath its surface. The Third Task loomed around them.

“Merlin, how many essays are due this week?” North finally muttered, massaging his temple.

“Five,” Johan said without looking up. “Three are optional.”

“Optional,” North repeated, deadpan. “That’s a lie Hogwarts tells to make us feel like we’re choosing the pain.”

Tonfah chuckled from across the room. “Suffer now, save later.”

“Slytherin life motto?” North called.

Typhoon raised a brow. “No. That’s just us preparing for the worst.”

The worst. Or the inevitable.

 

The Transfiguration classroom had been expanded with a spell to accommodate students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, the long-arched windows now opened wide to let in the early spring air. Light spilled onto polished floors and rows of enchanted desks, which adjusted themselves depending on the spellwork occurring. A large chalkboard displayed today’s subject in Professor McGonagall’s perfect cursive:

Lesson Objective: Object-to-Animal Transfiguration – Core Theoretical Models and Advanced Variants.

She stood at the front, robes sharp, expression sharper. It wasn’t often that McGonagall personally taught a full class these days, but with Beauxbatons and Durmstrang present, she made an exception.

“Transfiguration, particularly object-to-animal, requires not just intention but complete conceptual understanding of the creature. You are not simply changing form; you are rewriting magical essence. Who can explain the principle of Sustained Sentient Imprint?”

Tonfah’s hand was already up. “It refers to the theoretical belief that some residual awareness lingers in the transformed subject—”

“—And that the spell must mimic not just shape, but instinct and behavior,” Typhoon finished without raising his hand.

McGonagall arched a brow. “Precisely. Five points each.”

A small flutter of amusement moved through the group. The students practiced on teacups and quills, most barely managing fur or feather. Beauxbatons favored delicate birds; Durmstrang leaned toward wolves and foxes.

Tonfah turned his into a snowy owl.

Daotok, a sleek serpent with green-gold scales.

Typhoon hadn’t cast anything yet. He was watching. Then he said casually, from the middle of the room: “Professor, hypothetically, could you transfigure a person into an animal?”

The room stilled.

McGonagall looked at him. “Mr. Ratanaporn, transfiguring a person is a different branch entirely. In theory, yes. But the magic required is both dangerous and unpredictable. That’s why such spells are restricted and generally only performed under professional supervision.”

“Of course,” Typhoon said. “I was merely asking hypothetically.”

Mek scoffed across the aisle. “That’s not transfiguration, that’s dark magic.”

Typhoon tilted his head. “Is it? I thought you were taught the difference between darkness and complexity.”

“Typical. Your kind always pushes where you shouldn’t.”

“My kind?” Typhoon echoed, turning with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “You mean intelligent?”

Mek sneered. “Reckless.”

Typhoon rested his chin on one hand. “Bold. But go on.”

“Using that theory on people is dark magic.”

“Incorrect. It’s advanced magic.”

“Impossible magic.”

Typhoon looked theatrically scandalized. “You wound me.”

McGonagall raised a warning brow. “Mr. Ratanaporn—”

Typhoon stood. “Purely hypothetically, Professor.”

He turned to Tonfah and said with mock sweetness, “Come on, love. I trust you know the theory and application. You’re better at sigil threading than me.”

Tonfah blinked. “Phoon, what are you planning?”

McGonagall looked suspicious. “No transfiguring people—”

“No one’s being transfigured, Professor,” Typhoon said cheerfully. “It’s just a theoretical demonstration. You said so yourself—essence matters more than matter.”

The class held its breath.

Tonfah hesitated, then lifted his wand. “Fine. You’d better know what you’re doing.”

They began: wand movements mirroring each other, silent but perfectly in sync. Tonfah was drawing the transformation sequence midair, glowing threads forming in a spiraling shape. Typhoon added the structure: breath magic, elemental focus, stabilizer rune.

Just as the final rune pulsed, Typhoon vanished.

One moment, he stood; next, a sleek black silver-eyed fox sat in his place.

There was a collective gasp from the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, who had never seen it done so effortlessly. McGonagall stood up instantly.

“Mr. Ratanaporn—!”

The fox tilted its head and, with a flick of its tail, transformed back into Typhoon, robes still immaculate, a faint smirk on his lips. He placed a hand to his chest, bowing theatrically. “A spell was cast, Professor. Purely hypothetical.”

“You were not. You are dancing on the edge of expulsion.”

The class erupted into whispers. Mek looked like he’d swallowed poison. From behind, Arthit muttered, “They really are one step closer to being dark lords.”

Typhoon heard him and winked over his shoulder. “It’s only dark if you don’t understand it.”

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fifty points from Slytherin.”

Typhoon blinked. “Fair.”

“Ten points back for the execution.”

Typhoon grinned. “Fairer.”

As the lesson resumed, Beauxbatons girls whispered in awe, and Typhoon returned to his seat beside Tonfah, who leaned in, hissing, “Next time you use me as cover for one of your theatrics, tell me.”

“But then it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Typhoon murmured. “And you looked beautiful mid-spell.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“Then let’s call it even.”

 

The clatter of chairs and murmur of astonished students still echoed through the stone chamber as the rest of the class filed out. Some glanced back over their shoulders, still whispering about the fox. The Beauxbaton were already theorizing aloud. The Durmstrang boys wore thinly veiled scowls.

At the front of the room, Professor McGonagall stood, spine stiff, expression stoic.

“Mr. Ratanaporn,” she called, once the last of them were gone.

Typhoon didn’t even blink.

He stepped forward leisurely, hands behind his back like a student out for a stroll, not one who had just casually outed himself as an unregistered Animagus in a class shared by three schools and half the Ministry’s attention.

Tonfah made a subtle motion like he wanted to stay behind too—but Typhoon gave him a wink and a wave that said go on, love, I’ve got this.

Once the door shut with a muted thud, McGonagall’s expression sharpened.

“That was reckless.”

Typhoon raised a brow. “It was hypothetical, Professor.”

She didn’t look amused. “You transformed into an animal in front of forty international students without announcing yourself, without Ministry clearance, and in a controlled academic setting. That is not hypothetical.”

Typhoon tilted his head. “I didn’t break any laws. I didn’t teach anyone else. I didn’t attack anyone. I simply demonstrated a concept.”

Then, McGonagall let out a sigh that was more fond than frustrated, though she masked it well.

“How long?”

“Fourth year,” he replied, still standing. “Durmstrang’s professors looked the other way. I wanted to learn, so I did.”

McGonagall didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Her mouth was a thin, grim line. “You mastered Animagus transformation alone?”

Typhoon shrugged. “Durmstrang had... very few restrictions and a very good library.”

“Not even most adult wizards can—”

He smiled. “I’ve always been advanced in practicals, Professor. You said so yourself.”

“What you did today,” McGonagall said carefully, “was foolish. Provocative. Disruptive.”

Typhoon bowed his head in mock apology.

She continued anyway. “But it was also... brilliant.”

That made him freeze. McGonagall’s voice softened, not with indulgence, but with a kind of tired wisdom. “I have taught hundreds of students. Gifted ones. Troubled ones. Most of them try to follow the rules or break them for the wrong reasons. But you, Mr. Ratanaporn... you break them to rewrite the boundaries. It’s dangerous. But it’s also—exceptional.”

“You are reckless. But you are also one of the most brilliant minds I have ever had the honor of teaching.”

That caught him off guard more than any punishment would’ve. He blinked once. Then again. Slowly. “...Thank you,” he murmured. “That means more than you know.”

McGonagall gave him a sharp, assessing look. “Just don’t let that brilliance get you killed. Or anyone else. That’s all I ask.”

“I’ll do my best to be selectively reckless, Professor,” he said with a small smile.

“I’m not reporting you.”

Typhoon blinked again.

She continued, “Not because you impressed me—but because I know what you’re capable of when cornered. And Merlin help us all, I’d rather you be an Animagus than tempt you to invent a spell to bypass detection altogether.”

He grinned. “Already did that.”

“Mr. Ratanaporn.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Educational purposes, Professor. All hypothetical.”

McGonagall fixed him with a look. “You are not to encourage your classmates to pursue Animagus training. Especially not during an international competition. The last thing we need is a Slytherin ferret or a Gryffindor lion running around unsupervised.”

“I would never,” Typhoon said solemnly, which somehow made it sound more suspicious.

She narrowed her eyes. “Promise me you won’t initiate your entire little circle into becoming Animagi.”

Typhoon gave a slow, languid smile.

“I promise nothing, Professor. But I assure you—everything we study is strictly for academic curiosity.”

McGonagall muttered something under her breath that might have been a prayer. Typhoon gave her a sweeping bow, eyes gleaming silver. “Always a pleasure.”

“Mr. Ratanaporn?”

He paused at the door.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke—just stared at the chalkboard, arms crossed, voice neutral.

“You will register. Eventually.”

“We’ll see,” he said lightly. “But until then... purely hypothetical.”

And then, with the same unsettling grace as before, he turned on his heel and sauntered out of the room, robes billowing, leaving the faint scent of crushed rosemary and ink behind him.

Chapter 44

Notes:

I love it when the whole gang becomes a menace. :)

Tonfah was waiting outside the Transfiguration classroom, leaning against the wall with arms folded loosely. The moment the door creaked open and Typhoon sauntered out, entirely unbothered, Tonfah straightened.

“Got detention?”

“No,” Typhoon said, stepping into his space like gravity pulled him there. “She said I was brilliant.”

Tonfah arched a brow. “That’s all?”

“She may have threatened to report me,” Typhoon admitted, “but then she didn’t. And I may have promised absolutely nothing in return.”

Tonfah just shook his head, fond and exasperated all at once. “You’re a menace.”

Typhoon grinned. “Your menace.”

They made their way toward the tower, where the others were already waiting—warded, secure, and expectant. The moment Typhoon entered the room, Johan stood. “So. The fox?”

Daotok raised a brow. “That was not metaphorical, was it?”

Hill smirked. “Or an illusion spell.”

Arthit leaned forward. “How long?”

Typhoon just hummed, stepped toward the center of the circle, and said, “See for yourselves.”

And then, he shifted.

A smooth ripple of magic passed over him like ink across parchment, and suddenly, where Typhoon had stood, there was now a black fox, silver-eyed, with a silver-tipped tail and fur so sleek it looked unreal.

The fox stretched, yawned, and padded over to Tonfah without hesitation. Tonfah blinked, then let out a soft, surprised laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The fox nosed at his leg. Tonfah knelt. “Phoon—really?”

The fox licked his hand in response, then curled into his lap.

“...He is your menace,” North muttered under his breath.

Fox-Typhoon looked up with glimmering silver eyes, gave a little huff, and then, to everyone’s disbelief, nipped at Tonfah’s wrist, playful but possessive.

“Oi—” Tonfah protested, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he began to scratch behind the fox’s ears, and Typhoon made a sound that was suspiciously close to a purr.

“This is weirdly adorable,” Easter said.

“And terrifying,” Daotok added.

Arthit leaned back on his hands. “You know, I’m starting to understand why the professors always seem so... cautious around you.”

The fox bounded up from Tonfah’s lap, circled the room once, stopping to nose at Johan’s book bag and flick his tail over North’s shoes before leaping back onto the settee where Tonfah now sat, arms open like he’d expected the landing.

The moment Typhoon shifted back, in one fluid shimmer of magic, he was curled in Tonfah’s lap in human form, smirking and smug.

Tonfah didn’t even flinch. He just tightened his arms around Typhoon’s waist, as though the transformation had been a casual wardrobe change, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his temple.

“You’re ridiculous,” Tonfah murmured.

Typhoon looked up at him with eyes still gleaming silver from the afterglow of magic. “And you indulge me anyway.”

 

It was Arthit who spoke first.

“Okay, so hypothetically… if someone were to consider learning to become an Animagus…”

Typhoon lifted a brow from where he lay curled on Tonfah’s lap. “Hypothetically,” he echoed, stretching the word like honey across his tongue.

“Yes,” Arthit said smoothly. “As an academic pursuit.”

Typhoon hummed. “Then hypothetically, said academic would need to begin with absolute mastery over Transfiguration, and I mean mastery. Not just wandwork, but intent, focus, and magical threshold.”

Daotok sat cross-legged, taking slow, deliberate notes. “Threshold?”

“Your magical core has to be strong enough to sustain two forms,” Typhoon said. “It’s not just about shape-shifting. It’s about remembering yourself. Holding on to your human mind while inside an animal body. Most people fail not because they can’t do it, but because they forget who they are.”

North, brows furrowed, asked quietly, “So it’s about more than spellwork?”

“Much more,” Typhoon replied, eyes sharp and silver in the lamplight. “It’s meditation. It’s potionwork. Ritual theory. You’d need a mandrake leaf in your mouth for a full lunar cycle. Then store it with your own essence—hair, blood, intent. You speak to yourself in stillness, until the part of you that is primal answers back.”

“Sounds dark,” Easter commented, reclining upside-down against a couch cushion.

“Not dark,” Typhoon said. “Just dangerous.”

“Hypothetically,” Hill added, lips quirking.

Typhoon smirked. “Hypothetically.”

Tonfah, who’d been quietly listening this whole time with his head propped on Typhoon’s shoulder, finally spoke. “You also need to be sure you want to change. The transformation is permanent in your core, even if not in your form. Your magic will never be the same again.”

“That sounds…” Johan hesitated. “Intimate.”

“It is,” Typhoon said softly. “The kind of magic that lingers.”

Daotok, finishing a sketch of rune sequences, glanced up. “You’re not actually teaching us, are you?”

Typhoon raised his hands in mock innocence. “I’m just discussing theory. What you choose to do with theory is your own business.”

“Of course,” Daotok said, voice amused. “Purely academic.”

Tonfah sighed. “I swear you were born to find every loophole in existence.”

“Or create them,” Typhoon said with a grin, nuzzling against his shoulder. “Either works.”

Arthit looked up from his notes. “So... if one were to accidentally memorize this theory and incidentally follow all its steps…”

“You’d still need months, if not years, to master it,” Typhoon said. “Hypothetically.”

“Right,” Johan said, eyes glinting. “But we’ve done impossible things in less time.”

The room fell quiet. A quiet hum of minds spinning in sync, like cogs aligning in the dark. Easter smirked, stretching like a cat. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to know how. Hypothetically, of course.”

Typhoon just smiled, that slow, dangerous smile of someone who knew exactly how brilliant they all could be when they decided to stop pretending they weren’t monsters. “Then let’s say,” he murmured, “we meet next week. Strictly theoretical discussion. With tea.”

“Of course,” the others echoed.

 

---

 

It was cold enough to see their breath, but warm enough not to care. The small, half-forgotten antechamber near the Astronomy Tower was charmed with privacy wards—nothing elaborate, just enough to keep curious ears and wandering prefects away.

The eight of them had gathered quietly, the moonlight slicing through the high windows like silver knives. Someone had moved an old desk to the center and cleared it of dust, transfiguring it into a makeshift table. The rest of the room was silent stone and shadows.

At the center of the table lay a row of items—velvet pouches, potion vials, and a sealed notebook.

Typhoon sat at the far end, perched too casually on the edge of the table, black robes loosely knotted at the throat. Rings glittered on his finger as he tapped a file against the wood.

“No one followed?” he asked without looking up.

“No one’s that foolish,” said Tonfah, who stood leaning against a pillar beside him.

“Good,” Typhoon murmured, and then flicked his wand.

The pouches opened. Velvet unfolded with a practiced flick, revealing eight dried mandrake leaves, perfectly preserved. Beside each was a phial of silver-streaked potion—cool, clear, and faintly shimmering under candlelight.

“Is this what I think it is?” Daotok asked, folding his arms.

“Depends,” Typhoon replied. “What do you think it is?”

“A formal invitation to become an Animagus?” Easter grinned, crossing his legs elegantly.

“No,” Typhoon said smoothly. “It’s a lecture. On theoretical transformation magic. And the materials here are simply... illustrative aids.”

“Right,” muttered North. “So the mandrake leaves and potion are just for decoration.”

“Academic enrichment,” Tonfah corrected with a small smirk.

Hill, who had remained quiet thus far, studied the shimmering potion in his hand. “And this?”

“Crystallum Elixir,” Typhoon said. “Stabilizes magical resonance during phase transitions. Completely harmless unless paired with intent spells. Even then, only if you’re ready.”

“And if you’re not?” Johan asked.

“You’ll hallucinate spiders in your stomach for twenty-four hours,” Typhoon said casually. “And possibly burst a blood vessel or two.”

“Comforting,” Arthit muttered.

Typhoon shrugged. “Animagus transformation is never safe. But it is enlightening. Hypothetically, of course.”

The group stared at the materials again, some with awe, others with a more dangerous curiosity.

“It starts,” Typhoon began like a professor beginning a formal lecture, “with the leaf. You hold it in your mouth for an entire lunar cycle. Sleeping, eating, dreaming. It has to become part of you, learn your magic from the inside out. Most fail on that part alone.”

“Because they choke?” Daotok guessed.

“Because they give up,” Typhoon corrected. “Then comes the bloodletting. A vial of your own blood, sealed with the leaf. You store it under moonlight. The final night, you enchant it with a phrase of deep personal significance.”

“Is that what you did?” North asked.

Typhoon merely raised an eyebrow. “Hypothetically.”

“What if it goes wrong?” Hill asked, more carefully than the others.

“Then the spell folds in on itself and your magic tears itself apart. It’s… not pleasant.”

“That’s a real risk?” Easter asked, tone unreadable.

Typhoon smiled lazily. “Magic is always a risk. But you lot are clever. I’d wager smarter than most Ministry trainees.”

Johan picked up the leaf again, holding it to the light. “You’re not actually teaching us, are you?”

“Of course not,” Typhoon said, feigning innocence. “That would be reckless.”

“And irresponsible,” Tonfah added, arms crossed over his chest like he wasn’t smiling behind his cool mask.

“Precisely.” Typhoon let the word linger. “I’m merely providing an overview. If any of you decide to proceed, it will be entirely of your own volition. I’m not handing you anything… except curiosity.”

North spoke up softly, “Why are you even showing us this?”

Typhoon tilted his head. “Because if anything happens next, and we all know something will—I want every one of us to have options. This one just happens to involve a little... ingenuity.”

A quiet settled over the room.

They all understood the language being spoken here. Theirs was a bond not of schoolyard loyalty, but of heirship, secrets, and the need to survive in a world that was growing darker by the day.

“Hypothetically,” Easter said after a beat, “this is the most irresponsible, brilliant thing you’ve done.”

Typhoon grinned. “And yet, I’m still your role model.”

“Hypothetically,” North said, voice careful, “if we started now... would we finish before the third task?”

All eyes flicked to Typhoon, who hadn’t moved from his seat at the head of the table. He smiled—not lazily this time, but knowingly. Like someone who had already considered this outcome. Tonfah, still beside him, was silent, watching the group with that expression he always wore when weighing risk.

Typhoon leaned forward, lacing his fingers together atop the table. “Hypothetically,” he said slowly, “yes.”

Johan narrowed his eyes. “You sound confident.”

“I am,” Typhoon replied. “We’re not first-years, stumbling through wand movements and misfiring spells. Our circle is more powerful than most Ministry battalions. Do you know how rare that is?”

“Overconfident,” muttered Arthit.

“Accurate,” corrected Typhoon. “You’ve all been training your magic for years. Under fire, under pressure, under bloodlines. You’ve invented spells, written tomes, survived ancient magic, and tethered wyrms. I trust that the magic inside you has… ripened.”

“Ripened?” North echoed, wrinkling his nose.

“Developed. Matured. Alive.” Typhoon let the word hang in the air. “It’s not raw anymore. Not untamed. It’s ready.”

Daotok, unusually quiet until now, ran a thumb over the smooth surface of the potion vial before him. “Hypothetically, we start now… we’d reach final transformation night just after the third task.”

Easter nodded. “Assuming no one forgets the leaf.”

“We’re not idiots,” Hill murmured.

“Then hypothetically,” Typhoon said, lifting his vial, “you begin tonight.”

A long pause.

Then North reached out and took the mandrake leaf. He turned it between his fingers once. Twice. And then, with one breath, tucked it under his tongue and leaned back in his chair.

Johan, across from him, gave a quiet laugh. “You’re serious.”

North grinned around the leaf.

“Oh, we’re doing this,” Easter said, already pocketing his own leaf and vial with the sort of elegance that came naturally to him when doing something dangerous.

Hill followed, silent but certain. Then Johan. Then Arthit. Then Daotok.

Tonfah, arms still crossed, turned to Typhoon. “You're insane.”

“You love me for it.”

Tonfah sighed like a man utterly done, plucked a leaf and potion from the velvet, and muttered, “I swear if this turns us into partial creatures I’m hexing your tail.”

“You’d miss it,” Typhoon said sweetly, and slipped his own leaf into his mouth without breaking eye contact.

The air shifted again. The candlelight flickered. It was done or rather, begun.

“Final transformation night,” Typhoon said, voice just above a whisper, “will come the week after the third task. You’ll be tired. You’ll be worn. But if you make it through, you’ll never be helpless again.”

A long silence followed.

Then Daotok said, “Well, hypothetically, we’re either brilliant... or doomed.”

Typhoon raised his vial. “Here’s to finding out.”

Chapter 45

It began with a leaf.

A single, unassuming mandrake leaf tucked beneath the tongue for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, unbroken, unchewed, and unswallowed.

By the second morning, Hill was glaring into his tea. “It’s bitter,” he said with a grimace.

“It’s supposed to be bitter,” Daotok replied, flipping a page in his Arithmancy text without looking up.

“I feel like I’m sucking on an old boot.”

“You probably are,” muttered Arthit, who was scribbling equations with a slight twitch in his jaw. His leaf kept slipping when he spoke too much. Now he only muttered.

In the corner of the common study chamber, North silently chewed nothing, focused on memorizing his spellwork without gagging. His fingers drummed against his thigh as Johan leaned over his shoulder to correct a misdrawn rune. Their eyes met briefly, and Johan smirked around his own leaf like this was a game he was winning.

It wasn’t. He was just better at hiding the discomfort.

Easter, meanwhile, looked completely unaffected. He sat cross-legged on a sofa in the common room, mandrake leaf in place, reading a Ministry regulation journal. When someone asked how he wasn’t bothered by it, he merely said, “Pain is subjective. And this? Is mildly inconvenient.”

No one pressed further.

Typhoon, naturally, had the most practice. He made it look effortless—sipping tea, laughing in class, slipping into charming conversations without missing a beat. His leaf stayed perfectly nestled beneath his tongue, his control polished from the years in Durmstrang.

Tonfah noticed the ease, of course. “You’ve done this before,” he whispered one night.

“Maybe.”

“Phoon—”

“It’s just theory, love,” Typhoon murmured with a soft smile. “Hypothetically, I didn’t eat for three days once because I couldn’t figure out how to drink soup with the leaf in place.”

“...You’re insane.”

“And you still love me.”

Tonfah rolled his eyes but tilted his head to rest against Typhoon’s shoulder.

 

By the eighth day, they had stopped complaining and started adjusting.

Small signs of change crept in—not in magic, but in habit.

They ate more slowly. Drank through straws or siphoning spells. Some of them started using subtle sticking charms on their leaf before sleeping. They learned to speak less and gesture more. Notes became their new form of conversation during study hours.

In Herbology, Professor Sprout commented on how unusually quiet the group was that week.

“Plotting something, are we?” he asked, amused.

Eight innocent expressions met his gaze. Easter coughed. Johan blinked. Typhoon smiled far too sweetly.

“No, sir,” North said around the leaf, voice muffled but polite. “Just… focused.”

By day ten, their breath carried faint traces of mandrake magic.

Daotok began to glow faintly blue under moonlight. Johan started waking from vivid dreams where he was running through forests. Arthit accidentally hissed at a snake in the courtyard, then claimed it was a sneeze. Hill found birds landing closer to him during breakfast.

 

On the thirteenth night, they met again in their warded study chamber.

Books were stacked high. The scent of ink and parchment clung to the air like a second skin, occasionally mixed with the faint bitterness of brewing Animagus potions tucked into magically cooled cabinets. Runes flickered across open tomes. A few half-muttered spells drifted through the air before dissolving.

The eight of them were scattered in their usual quiet chaos. Tonfah and Johan are debating Arithmancy formulas at one table, North, Hill, and Daotok are piecing together magical resonance charts nearby. Easter was polishing a quill, lost in thought, while Arthit flipped pages too fast for someone actually reading.

Typhoon sat with his legs drawn up on one of the armchairs, parchment balanced on his knees, wand lazily twirling in his fingers. He wasn’t even pretending to be studying.

It was Arthit who broke the silence. "Hey, Phoon," he said, without looking up from his notes.

“Why are you even doing this again? You're already an Animagus.”

The others glanced over, the question lingering. Typhoon blinked slowly, then tilted his head. “Sentimental, maybe,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Didn’t want to let you lot suffer alone.”

He let the words hang there a moment. “Besides…” he added, setting his parchment down with a small smile, “who knows what would happen? Magic’s unpredictable like that. Maybe I will change again. Maybe nothing happens. But I'd rather be there with you through all of it.”

There was a pause.

Tonfah didn’t look up from his notes, but his hand slipped across the table to brush against Typhoon’s ankle in silent understanding.

“Could’ve just supervised like a sane person,” Easter muttered, but it lacked any bite.

“I am supervising,” Typhoon said cheerfully. “From the inside.”

Johan chuckled under his breath. North rolled his eyes, but smiled. Hill and Daotok just exchanged a fond look.

They didn’t say anything more about it. But after that, they all seemed to study a little harder. Like they owed it to the boy who had already walked this road, and still chose to walk it again with them.

Even if it meant chewing another damn leaf.

 

---

 

They moved silently beneath cloaks and layered Disillusionment Charms, slipping through the shadowed halls of Hogwarts and out onto the dewy lawn. The full moon hung above, bathing the grass in a pale, ghostly light. A slight mist clung to the forest edge, curling like whispered secrets between the trees.

It was Typhoon who led the way. Beside him, Tonfah walked with practiced silence, glancing back now and then to make sure the others kept up. They reached the clearing where stone ruins slept half-buried in moss and bramble—an old warded site, long abandoned but rich with residual magic.

They had agreed on this place days ago. A neutral ground, sacred and safe.

Eight small phials, stoppered with wax and etched with a single personal rune, were placed on the stone altar Typhoon had uncovered the previous week. Each contained a drop of their blood collected exactly at twilight, stirred three times clockwise, and sealed with a whisper.

Daotok carefully lit the enchanted candles, their flames flickering violet instead of gold. Hill cast the protective wards, anchoring them to the runes carved into the earth. Easter, solemn now, laid out the hand-copied script of the incantation.

They stood in a loose circle, the phials at the center, the moon directly overhead.

Typhoon raised his hand. “Now,” he said quietly, “we speak the incantation. Once. Together.”

Tonfah’s voice was steady. Johan’s was low and focused. Arthit, despite his usual sarcasm, spoke with care. North, hesitant only for a moment, found resolve in the cadence. Hill’s voice was soft but confident. Easter’s sharper and calculated.

Daotok closed his eyes and spoke it like a prayer. And Typhoon said it like someone who had once carved the words into his bones.

A soft hum answered them, the deep thrum of ancient magic stirring beneath their feet. The phials glowed faintly, reacting to the bond forged between them. A silvery thread of light rose from each bottle, connecting, spiraling upward, weaving into the branches overhead like spun moonlight.

The clearing stilled. Even the wind dared not speak. The magic had been accepted. Afterward, they sat among the ruins, not speaking for several minutes.

North looked up at the sky, lips parted, breath still held. “It felt…”

“Old,” Daotok supplied quietly.

“Older than the Founders,” Hill agreed. “That incantation wasn’t invented. It was remembered.”

Typhoon didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned against Tonfah, his voice casual. “Now we wait. One more month. The leaf stays. Then comes the storm.”

“Transformation,” Easter said.

“Or collapse,” Johan added, eyes gleaming.

“Let’s try the first one,” Arthit muttered, stretching.

They didn’t laugh. But they did sit closer.

As they left the ruins, heading back beneath the shroud of dark spells and quiet breaths, the moonlight caught the silver thread of magic still woven faintly between them, like a pact written in blood, breath, and belief.

They were in this together now.

Hypothetically, of course.

 

---

 

It was supposed to be a quiet walk.

Hill had said he couldn’t sleep, and Easter hadn’t needed to ask why. Their link always hummed when the other was restless. It buzzed just beneath the skin, soft and warm like breath on glass.

They wandered toward the forest’s edge, far enough to feel the stillness in the trees but not enough to wake the wards. Stars flickered overhead, moonlight veiled by heavy clouds.

Hill shoved his hands into his pockets. “Something’s wrong.”

Easter looked over. “Define wrong.”

“I…” Hill exhaled. “I feel like I’m vibrating. Like I’m a second too fast for my own body.”

Easter didn’t laugh. Because he felt his hands were shaking too. He flexed his fingers slowly, watching as silver-gold light danced briefly across his palms before vanishing into his sleeves.

“It’s too early,” Hill murmured. “We have weeks.”

“Apparently, not for us,” Easter said, voice calm but clipped. He wasn’t scared. Not exactly. But this wasn’t supposed to happen yet. They were supposed to shift together, all eight of them.

Hill stumbled forward suddenly, hand clutching his chest. “Ter—”

His knees hit the grass. Easter was at his side in an instant, hands on his shoulders, magic sparking like static where their skin touched. “Hill, look at me.”

“It’s—” Hill gritted his teeth. “It’s burning. It’s like it wants out—like it’s crawling out—”

Easter felt the pull in his chest, a tide crashing through his ribcage. Hill’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, then burned citrine-gold.

And then he was gone.

Where Hill once crouched, a sleek white-pelted jackal stood, body trembling, golden eyes glowing in the dark. It growled softly, more startled than aggressive, tail curled close as if unsure what had happened.

“Beautiful,” Easter whispered before he doubled over.

The shift hit Easter like ice water and lightning all at once. His bones cracked, and magic tore through him in a rush, instinct, element, soul. His skin shimmered and unraveled. Where Easter had stood, a crimson-dappled owl emerged—feathers catching moonlight, eyes flickering with old knowing. His wings spread wide once, then folded as he landed beside the jackal and blinked.

The jackal padded toward him and lowered its head to nudge his wing. The owl leaned back into the touch.

They stayed like that under the moonlight for some time—not speaking, not thinking, simply existing in the quiet animal understanding that was ancient and wordless and warm. Eventually, they shifted back, curled in the grass, clothes rumpled, hearts still racing.

“…What just happened?” Hill whispered, breathless.

“We shifted,” Easter said, reaching up to brush a leaf from Hill’s hair. “Early.”

“Because of the bond?”

“Because of the bond,” Easter confirmed.

Hill looked at him, equal parts stunned and awed. “You’re not freaking out.”

Easter shrugged. “Why would I? You looked good.”

Hill rolled his eyes and collapsed onto Easter’s shoulder. “You're insufferable.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” Easter replied, softening.

Chapter 46

The spring afternoon light cast golden shadows across the courtyard, filtering through the ancient arches of Hogwarts like a blessing. The stone was warm underfoot, the skies a cloudless blue, and for once, there were no assignments due, no professors breathing down their necks, and no ministry letters hovering ominously overhead.

It was just the eight of them or, well, seven, currently.

Tonfah, lounging on a transfigured bench with Typhoon tucked against his side, was scrolling through notes on elemental theory. Johan and North were playing a lazy game of wizard chess nearby, pieces clattering and swearing as they lunged across the board. Hill and Arthit shared a roll of parchment, quizzing each other for their upcoming Arithmancy exam, while Daotok was cataloguing which plants in the courtyard needed pruning or harvesting.

"Where's Easter?" Arthit asked, finally looking up. "He's the one who said courtyard meeting after class."

“Late to his own invitation?” Daotok muttered, arching a brow. “Bold of him.”

Tonfah grinned. “Should we be worried? Last time he was this late, he unleashed a baby basilisk on the greenhouse for a defense drill.”

Typhoon chuckled. “He promised to behave this week.”

Just as the words left his mouth, a crimson-dappled owl swooped in from the high towers, sleek, elegant, and glowing faintly under the sun. The group stilled, eyes following the bird as it arced through the air… then dipped low, and it landed directly on Typhoon’s shoulder.

Typhoon blinked.

The owl ruffled its feathers, leaned in, and with a very deliberate movement, nuzzled its beak affectionately into the curve of Typhoon’s neck, then let out a soft hoot and perched as if it belonged there.

The courtyard fell into laughter.

“Are you being courted by a bird now?” Johan asked, leaning back on his palms.

Typhoon raised a hand to gently pet behind the owl’s head. “No,” he said, completely deadpan. “But apparently I’ve adopted one.”

North was stifling laughter behind his hand. “That’s not just any bird—"

The owl shimmered, and in a blink, Easter was standing there, smug, grinning, and entirely too proud of himself as he dusted off his robes and adjusted his collar.

“Oh, you are infuriating,” Typhoon said, but he was smiling, fond and exasperated. “Is this how you’re choosing to reveal yourself?”

“It felt appropriate,” Easter said with a wink. “Educational, subtle, and mildly annoying.”

“You pecked my neck.”

“A show of love and loyalty,” Easter replied, hand on heart. “It’s how we bond in the wild, Professor.”

Typhoon gave him a flat stare. “Do it again and I’ll hex your wings mid-flight.”

“Oh, he missed me,” Easter said sweetly, turning to the others. “He always gets like this when I outperform his lessons.”

Tonfah let out a laugh, pulling Typhoon closer. “You do look like a proud professor though, love.”

“I am a proud professor,” Typhoon murmured, unable to hide his smile. “They grow up so fast.”

Daotok snorted. “You say that like we’re not all still carrying mandrake leaves in our mouths.”

“That’s why I’m proud,” Typhoon teased, leaning his head on Tonfah’s shoulder. “You’re all still idiots, but magical ones.”

Hill grinned. “Should we all enter the courtyard like that next time? One by one, animagus transformation as entrance flair?”

“Only if you want to traumatize the first years,” North replied, chuckling.

“Or impress them,” Johan added. “We are trendsetters, after all.”

Easter slid into a seat beside Hill, looking far too pleased with himself. “Wait until the ministry finds out that Typhoon Ratanaporn is mentoring Animagi now. Imagine the chaos.”

Typhoon raised his cup of tea with a smirk. “Hypothetically mentoring. I’ve signed nothing. I am responsible for nothing.”

Easter clinked his conjured teacup against Typhoon’s. “Hypothetically noted.”

The courtyard hummed with quiet laughter, the kind only found in spring afternoons and rare moments of peace. The moment was soft, until it wasn’t.

Johan’s eyes narrowed. Then Daotok glanced sideways.

Arthit blinked. North tilted his head.

Tonfah raised an eyebrow. Typhoon’s grin spread.

And then, in perfect synchrony, all six turned to stare directly at Hill.

He froze mid-sip. “What?”

“Don’t you dare,” Daotok muttered, squinting at him. “You’ve been strangely quiet about this whole transformation thing.”

North pointed a finger. “Suspiciously quiet.”

“Which means,” Johan continued, “we’re not idiots.”

Arthit leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You’re soul-bonded with Easter, and he’s already transformed. The odds of you not being an Animagus are statistically nonexistent.”

Typhoon, curled with his arms looped around Tonfah’s, smirked. “We just want confirmation.”

Hill’s jaw tensed slightly. He set his teacup down with practiced grace. “You’re all nosy.”

“Correct,” Daotok agreed instantly.

“I’m being harassed,” Hill deadpanned.

Tonfah shrugged, utterly unsympathetic. “You’re being cornered by curiosity.”

“Just show them,” Easter murmured, entirely too pleased with himself.

Hill turned slowly to look at him. “You started this.”

Easter winked. “And I’m thoroughly enjoying it.”

With a long-suffering, Hill stood up from the bench, dusting off his robes with dramatic restraint. “You get one reveal,” he muttered. “No peeping eyes, no applause, no commentary.”

“Absolutely no promises,” Johan said.

And with a quiet breath, Hill let the shift take him.

Where Hill once stood now crouched a creature cloaked in moonlight, a white-pelted jackal, fur sleek and pristine, silver eyes glinting beneath long, narrow ears. There was something striking in its presence—elegant, clever, proud. A predator dressed in grace.

“Oh,” Typhoon whispered. “He’s beautiful.”

The jackal huffed.

Easter bent forward slightly, a hand extending in welcome, and the jackal padded forward with lithe steps, curling around Easter’s legs like a ghostly shadow given form. A low, pleased sound escaped the jackal’s throat as he pressed into Easter’s palm.

North gaped. “He glows.”

“He shimmers,” Arthit corrected, voice slightly breathless.

Daotok crossed his arms. “I hate how on-brand this is.”

The jackal turned his silver-eyed stare on them, ears twitching slightly then, very purposefully, strutted back to the center of the courtyard.

“Oh no,” Tonfah said softly. “He’s posing.”

“He’s thriving,” Typhoon muttered. “Disgusting.”

The jackal barked once and shimmered again, the transformation seamless and elegant as Hill reappeared, brushing imaginary dirt off his sleeve.

“Well?” he said, as if nothing had happened.

The group stared at him.

“Of course you’re a jackal,” Daotok said, exasperated. “You absolute menace.”

“That was terrifyingly perfect,” Johan muttered.

“You literally strutted,” Arthit accused.

“I do not strut,” Hill said.

“You strutted,” North and Typhoon said in sync.

Easter just pulled Hill back beside him, smugly satisfied. “I’m proud of you.”

Hill sighed, relenting slightly under Easter’s warm smile. “This is why I didn’t want to do it in front of you lot.”

Tonfah leaned into Typhoon. “He was glowing. Your soulbond is glowing.”

“Is that allowed?” Typhoon asked dryly.

Easter nuzzled Hill’s cheek. “It is when he’s mine.”

Typhoon made a gagging sound and buried his face in Tonfah’s scarf.

 

---

 

The Room of Requirement shimmered into form around them—familiar now in its warmth and wards, the walls lined with enchanted chalkboards, shelves stacked with reference books, scattered cushions, and the faint scent of spiced tea wafting from a silver tray.

They gathered automatically, no longer needing to speak their intent. North tugged a blanket tighter around his shoulders as he sank onto a cushioned bench. Johan sat beside him, polishing his wand absently, while Daotok flipped through the latest compiled theory notes with a furrowed brow.

Easter was lounging with Hill, both of them still basking in the satisfaction of their Animagus reveals. Tonfah and Typhoon were curled together on the opposite end, Typhoon balancing his notebook on his knees, quill tapping lightly.

“I still can’t believe you’re both done,” North said, eyeing Hill and Easter with a strange mix of awe and annoyance. “You’ve already shifted and here I am still drooling on a mandrake leaf in my sleep.”

“You’re doing fine,” Typhoon assured him, “your magic’s stabilizing beautifully. And besides—”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking time,” Hill said gently.

“You two were just abnormally fast,” Daotok muttered.

“Bonded souls tend to be accelerated cases,” Tonfah said. “Emotionally and magically.”

Easter shrugged. “Or maybe we just wanted it more.”

Typhoon shot him a look. “Don’t provoke the unstable.”

“I’m stable,” North said indignantly.

“Emotionally,” Daotok clarified.

“Oh,” North said, deflating slightly.

Then there was silence as the eight of them adjusted to the new weight of their goals. The third task loomed ever closer, and although the tension had simmered to quiet embers, the reality hadn’t left.

“If we maintain progress on the potion and complete the incantation circle before the next full moon,” Typhoon said, tapping his quill to the parchment, “then we should be set for the binding by the second week of April.”

North groaned into a cushion. “Why does it feel like everything’s timed with the moon lately?”

“Because the magic of transformation is lunar-based,” Daotok reminded him. “Everything from the potion to the stabilization of identity aligns with lunar tides. Haven’t you been reading?”

“I’ve been reading,” North muttered. “I just didn’t expect the moon to rule my life like this.”

“Better the moon than Ministry officials,” Easter added darkly, earning a round of tired laughter.

“Anyway,” Johan cut in, “I’ve prepped the root base for the final brew. We’ll need to steep it under moonlight three nights in a row—”

Then suddenly, there was a flutter of movement. Not from the parchment, not from the books, but from Arthit.

In the middle of the circle, where he had been quietly listening, something shifted. His body tensed like something deep inside had tugged loose, and before anyone could react, his form flickered and blurred.

“Arthit—?” Daotok started, standing halfway.

But then there were feathers. Sharp and smooth, ash-brown and golden. Wings stretching outward with precision. A kestrel now perched in the center of the room, its chest rising fast with steady, measured breaths, sharp eyes scanning them all with unmistakable intelligence.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Typhoon whispered, reverent, “He shifted.”

“He actually—” North’s words faltered.

“He did,” Hill said, wide-eyed. “And he didn’t even say anything.”

The kestrel flapped once and lifted into the air, gliding in a short arc across the room before landing gracefully on Johan’s outstretched arm.

Daotok moved closer, eyes shining. “He’s beautiful.”

“Compact, precise, and unassuming,” Tonfah murmured. “But lethal in flight.”

Easter chuckled. “That is Arthit.”

The kestrel ruffled its feathers before it shimmered once more, the air bending in heat and motion until Arthit stood there again, flushed, sheepish, and still breathing hard.

“…Hi,” he said.

No one spoke for a second. Then Typhoon stood and strode over, clapping him on the shoulder. “Show-off.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Arthit admitted. “I felt it during the meditation this morning, but—I didn’t want to say anything unless it was real.”

Johan gave him a crooked smile. “It’s real.”

“You soared,” North added, grinning. “You soared, Thit.”

Arthit rubbed the back of his neck, trying and failing not to look pleased. Daotok didn’t hesitate, he pulled Arthit into a hug. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of me too,” Arthit muttered into his shoulder.

“Well,” Easter said, raising his cup like a toast, “three Animagi down.”

“Five more to go,” Typhoon added, grinning wide.

“Still not a race,” Hill reminded everyone gently.

“Sure, but I am winning,” Arthit teased.

The room broke into laughter, warmth blooming once more in the soft golden air of the Room of Requirement.

 

---

 

The afternoon light filtered lazily through the high windows of the Room of Requirement, now quiet and transformed into a sprawling study lounge. Shelves lined the walls with magical theory, Animagus studies, and ancient transfiguration journals, but it was the center that glowed softly—floor cushions, an open fireplace, a steaming pot of tea between two mugs.

Everyone else had gone for a walk, muttering something about clearing their heads and needing fresh air. Johan and North had stayed behind.

North, curled half into the plush rug, was scribbling in his notebook, hair falling into his eyes as he muttered the elemental breakdown of the Animagus stabilization charm. Across from him, Johan sat quietly, head tilted as he watched—not just the writing, but North’s fingers, the furrow between his brows, the way he sometimes tapped the page three times like it would summon clarity.

“You always frown like that when you’re focused,” Johan murmured.

“I do not,” North replied without looking up.

“You do,” Johan said, smiling. “Like you’re trying to scold the theory into behaving.”

North finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “You mean like you glare at spells as if you could will them into submission?”

Johan laughed quietly. “Touché.”

They returned to their notes, silence folding between them like a soft blanket.

Then Johan inhaled sharply. His hand froze on the page. Something shifted. It wasn’t painful, just inevitable.

“North.”

North looked up just in time to see Johan clutch the front of his robes, chest rising fast. The candle flames flickered. A low hum buzzed through the room.

“Jo—?”

Magic burst, not violently, but cleanly—like breath exhaled after being held for too long. Johan shimmered, his form flickering, then blurring at the edges. And then, in the place where Johan sat, a large black lion stood. Fur sleek, powerful muscles rolling beneath it, amber eyes glowing with intelligence.

North froze.

“…Johan?”

The lion took a step forward and then huffed before walking closer and bumping his head against North’s shoulder.

North blinked. Then laughed. “Of course you’re a lion.”

The lion sat, tail swishing, eyes fixed on him with something almost fond.

And that’s when it happened. A spark beneath North’s skin. Magic shifted again—but this time, in him.

It was like fire blooming in his ribs, not burning, but cleansing. He gasped, hands trembling slightly, and Johan—still in lion form—stood immediately, concerned.

North clutched his chest. “No, wait. I think—”

The shimmer caught him too.

And when the light cleared, where North had been, stood a crimson phoenix—wings wide, feathers a breathtaking flame-red with threads of gold, eyes bright and determined.

The lion and the phoenix stared at each other.

Then North—the phoenix—let out a soft cry, not loud, not piercing, just... alive.

And Johan padded forward, brushing his head against the phoenix’s wing.

Then, as if on cue, the door slammed open. “Johan? North?” Easter’s voice carried in. “We brought—”

He stopped. Everyone did—Typhoon. Tonfah. Daotok. Arthit. Hill. Easter.

All six stood frozen at the doorway, arms full of snack bags and enchanted water bottles... staring into the room where a lion and phoenix stood calmly at the center of their notes.

No one moved. Until Typhoon deadpanned, “...Oh.”

Arthit blinked. “I leave for twenty minutes and someone turns into a mythical bird?”

Easter whispered, slightly awed, “...Phoenix. North’s a literal phoenix.”

Daotok was already reaching for his wand. “Do we—do we applaud? Or scream?”

Johan, still in lion form turned his massive head and let out a low, smug grumble. That’s when Hill burst into laughter. “You know what? Of course Johan’s a lion. That’s the most obnoxiously regal thing he could’ve been.”

Tonfah, blinking, eyes flickering between the phoenix and the lion, finally said, “I don’t know what surprises me more, that they transformed, or that they didn’t tell us.”

The lion stepped back. And in a shimmer of clean magic, Johan reformed, hair slightly tousled, eyes gleaming gold.

“Well,” he said, voice calm, “We didn’t exactly plan it.”

Next to him, the phoenix shifted—fire retracting, light fading until North stood again, blinking, skin glowing faintly as the magic settled.

Typhoon looked at him. “You okay?”

North nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just... surprised. But it feels—right.”

Tonfah smiled softly. “You looked beautiful.”

“Hot,” Easter corrected, elbowing Hill.

Hill blinked. “I—well, yes.”

Daotok walked up and flicked Johan’s ear. “Next time you plan on doing something magical and terrifying, maybe let us know first?”

“I didn’t plan it,” Johan replied, rubbing his ear with a scowl.

Arthit handed North a bottle of water. “Still... that’s two phoenixes in one room.”

Typhoon gasped. “Excuse me?!”

“Your personality, Phoon,” Arthit clarified, laughing.

Typhoon muttered, “Rude,” but his eyes were soft.

North looked down at his hands, still trembling faintly. “I didn’t even know I could do it.”

Johan nudged his arm gently. “Now you do.”

The others slowly filed into the room, dropping bags, circling them like curious cats—teasing, questioning, but all with that same familiar warmth in their eyes.

And beneath it all, the pride. Because they'd all done this together.

Even if some of them turned into lions and phoenixes first.

Chapter 47

The spring sun was warm on their backs, golden reflections rippling across the Black Lake as it lapped gently at the shore. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. Trees swayed lightly in the breeze, and in the carefully warded clearing they'd claimed as their own, laughter rang louder than any wind.

“Alright, but no fire this time!” Typhoon warned, pointing at North, who grinned at him at him, flicking sparks between his fingers like idle thoughts. “We still haven’t recovered the grass from last time.”

“I said sorry,” North said, smirking.

“And you nearly set my notes ablaze,” Daotok added with a wry grin.

Johan raised a brow. “Let’s agree on no incineration today.”

They’d taken the day for themselves, a breather between intensive studies, Animagus rituals, and the looming Third Task. This was just them. Eight teenagers. Sunlight. Elemental magic. No heirs, no champions, no threats. Just... them.

Daotok stood closest to the water, letting the cool mist of the lake trail over his hands as he coaxed a twisting serpent of water to curl upward and around his arm. “Careful now,” he warned, glancing back. “If I get drenched, I’m dragging you all in with me.”

“Oh no,” Hill said dryly, summoning a breeze that lifted Typhoon’s hair into his face. “A threat. I’m terrified.”

Typhoon blew a strand out of his eye. “Rude.”

“Payback,” Hill said simply, smirking.

Then it started.

Playfully, North sent a flicker of controlled fire dancing toward Daotok—purposely weak, more sparkle than flame. Johan followed with a gentle gust of wind. Arthit threw in a pulse of light, bouncing harmlessly against Daotok’s shoulder like a sunbeam.

Daotok let out an exaggerated gasp. “Betrayed by my own circle?!”

“You love it,” Easter said from where he leaned against a tree, vines twining through his fingers.

“I do,” Daotok admitted, laughing now, his eyes crinkling with that soft, unguarded joy that only surfaced around them. But just as Typhoon sent a shimmering stream of silver-touched mist toward him—it happened.

Mid-laugh, Daotok’s body shimmered. His eyes widened for a split second. And then he was gone.

In his place, perched with perfect stillness where he’d once stood, was a sleek black otter, water clinging to his shimmering fur, bright, intelligent eyes blinking rapidly as if he himself couldn’t quite believe what just happened.

Everyone froze.

Typhoon’s mist drifted past harmlessly.

“...Did he just—?” Hill asked, jaw slightly dropped.

“Oh my god,” Arthit muttered, hands over his mouth. “Daotok?”

The otter blinked, then squeaked. Easter let out a startled laugh. “He’s—he’s adorable.”

“He’s soaking wet,” Tonfah observed, kneeling down to peer at the otter. “Look at him.”

Daotok-otter squeaked again, then tried to stand—slipping slightly on the wet stone before tumbling sideways into the shallow edge of the lake with a splash.

Johan couldn’t hold back the bark of laughter. “He really is water-aligned, huh?”

The otter glared up at them from the water, clearly unimpressed, fur slicked to his small form like a disapproving professor caught in a prank. Typhoon knelt beside the water, holding out his hand. “Come on, darkling. Transform back, or I’m bringing you snacks in a fishbowl.”

There was a shimmer.

And then Daotok reappeared—human once more, soaked to the skin and coughing water out of his mouth. His hair stuck to his forehead, and he was still laughing breathlessly.

“I—what just—” he wheezed. “I wasn’t even trying.”

“I think that’s the point,” Tonfah said, offering him a towel from his bag. “You didn’t have to. Your magic was ready.”

“I turned into an otter,” Daotok said, eyes wide. “An otter.”

“A very elegant one,” Easter said smoothly.

“A soggy one,” Hill corrected.

Johan clapped a hand on Daotok’s dripping shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

North offered him a fist bump. “At least you didn’t explode into feathers.”

Daotok took the towel, muttering as he dried his face, “I can’t believe I squeaked in front of all of you.”

“You squeaked adorably,” Typhoon assured him with a grin.

“Alright,” Tonfah said, voice smooth and certain. “Since we’re doing transformations mid-laughter now, shall I follow suit?”

Everyone turned toward him instantly.

Typhoon straightened first, brows arching with a knowing smile, a flicker of anticipation in his gaze. “Fah—”

“I’m not being reckless,” Tonfah said, raising one hand in calm defense. “I’ve just... known. For some time now.”

“You have been smug lately,” Hill murmured under his breath.

“More smug than usual,” Easter added, grinning.

Tonfah just stepped forward, graceful as always, to the center of the circle they hadn’t even realized they’d formed. His boots crunched softly against the grass and stone. He stood with the lake behind him, the light catching in his eyes, and gave them a short, elegant bow like a performer before an audience of trusted friends.

“Do try not to scream,” he said, lips curling at the edges.

And then—he shifted.

There was no hesitation, no sputtering of partial limbs or flashes of fur. Just one clean pulse of magic, sharp and seamless, a ripple through the air like the flick of a wand across still water.

Where Tonfah had stood now leapt a sleek silver lynx, fur dappled in near-metallic gray, each step silent and smooth as moonlight across ice. His eyes, impossibly blue in this form, scanned them with quiet amusement, the same controlled confidence he wore in human form, now sharpened by instinct.

The lynx padded forward slowly and elegantly. A creature of intelligence and awareness, and power held on a leash.

“Well,” Johan breathed, “I’m not surprised at all.”

“I am,” Arthit said, slightly stunned. “I thought he’d be something—flashier.”

“He is flashy,” Typhoon said fondly, crouching down.

The lynx flicked his tail and stalked right toward Typhoon, brushing against his legs like a cat demanding praise. Typhoon ran a hand through the fur once, then laughed softly. “You’ve been waiting to show this off, haven’t you?”

The lynx nuzzled his palm.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Daotok said, wrapping the towel back around his shoulders. “You smug bastard.”

Tonfah shifted back mid-step—clothes settling around him in a rush of magic and shrugged like it was nothing.

“Now you’re soaked,” North pointed out, eyes dancing.

“Worth it,” Tonfah replied, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. “I’ve always liked a dramatic reveal.”

“You bowed before transforming,” Easter said, incredulous.

“It’s called style,” Tonfah said.

“I’m calling it showing off,” Johan said, amused.

“Well,” Typhoon drawled. “It would be rude of me not to join.”

“Phoon,” Hill started slowly, “you’ve already transformed before.”

“I know,” Typhoon said lightly, rising to his feet. “But I’m sentimental. I thought I’d suffer alongside you all. You know, solidarity and all that.”

Daotok narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t actually suffer though, did you?”

Typhoon gave them a casual little bow, a mirror of Tonfah’s earlier flourish—though his was looser, more dramatic, all swagger and teasing elegance.

“Wait—” Johan said suddenly, squinting. “You’re not saying—”

But Typhoon had already shifted.

In a shimmer of magic, a breathless instant of collapsing light, there was now a second silver lynx, nearly identical to Tonfah’s form—sleek, graceful, with cool silver fur that glowed faintly in the soft light. The only difference was in the eyes: this lynx had silver eyes flecked with moonlit grey, and the barest hint of darkened paws like ink-touched snow.

There was a long silence.

Then North burst out: “You can have two?”

The lynx padded around them, tail flicking. It walked a slow circle, almost taunting, brushing past Johan, weaving between Hill and Arthit. It nipped Daotok lightly on the side before bounding up onto a low rock beside Tonfah’s earlier perch.

And then, with another pulse of magic, Typhoon shifted back—barefoot, his hair tousled, shirt slightly wrinkled from the transformation.

“Apparently,” he said, laughing as he wrung out the edge of his sleeve. “I didn’t know until recently. Thought it was a fluke the first time. I was aiming to just do the fox again... and this happened.”

“You didn’t tell us?” North cried.

“I was too busy suffering alongside you all with a mandrake leaf in my mouth,” Typhoon said sweetly, then added with a grin: “I wanted to be included.”

Tonfah looked over at him, shaking his head in fond disbelief. “Only you would casually reveal you’re a dual Animagus because you didn’t want to feel left out.”

Hill looked skyward. “There are rules, you know.”

Easter tilted his head. “Well. There were.”

“Wait,” Arthit said, half-laughing. “So to recap—we now have eight unregistered Animagi, roaming Hogwarts, most of whom figured this out within a few weeks?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Daotok raised his hand slowly and said, “Cheers to that.”

Typhoon conjured eight floating goblets of water—sparkling, chilled, catching the light in hues of silver and blue. “To shared secrets and deeply hypothetical education.”

The eight raised their cups, eyes meeting across the clearing. The sun dipped lower, shadows long but soft, and for a rare moment—there was no war, no competition, no Ministry.

Just them, tangled in magic, secrets, and a bond too sharp to name.

“Cheers,” they said together, a chorus of quiet defiance.

Chapter 48

The air in the classroom was warm, humming with the faint buzz of casting practice. Sunlight filtered through the high arched windows of Charms, casting long golden rectangles across the desks where the eight of them sat—together as always.

They had fallen back into a rhythm lately.

Studying. Sparring. Whispering spells under their breath. Sharing glances filled with secrets and smiles. It had been two full weeks since the last Animagus had shifted. Their circle was whole now, bound tighter than ever.

Even Typhoon looked... happy. Content. His fingers were loosely entwined with Tonfah’s under the desk. Daotok had fallen asleep on Arthit’s shoulder the previous night in the library, and Johan and North were finally toeing the line between whatever it was they refused to name. Hill and Easter had started walking closer. Too close. Always brushing shoulders.

The weight of what they were building still lingered in the corners, but for once, it didn't feel like it would crush them.

It was Arithmancy that morning, and Professor Vector was writing something on the board when the classroom door creaked open. In stepped Headmistress McGonagall, robed in dark emerald with a sharp look in her eyes and her lips pressed into a thoughtful line.

“Mr. North Ritthirong,” she said crisply. “You’re to come with me.”

The room quieted. Chairs stopped scraping. Even Johan straightened from his lazy sprawl.

North blinked, surprised. “Yes, Headmistress.”

He stood slowly, brushing the back of his uniform robes. Johan gave his wrist a subtle squeeze as he passed. Typhoon met his eyes. Tonfah tilted his chin in silent warning: be careful.

North nodded once. Then followed the headmistress out the door.

 

McGonagall’s office was quieter than usual. The fire in the grate was low, parchment neatly stacked on the desk, and the portraits of past headmasters seemed to shift silently in their frames as North entered.

She gestured for him to sit.

“The Third Task,” she began, folding her hands. “Is traditionally… difficult. Dangerous. And above all else, a final test of character.”

North remained quiet, eyes sharp. “What is it?”

“A maze,” she said. “Constructed on the Quidditch Pitch as we speak. It will be enchanted, laced with magical traps, puzzles, and creatures.”

“A maze,” North echoed.

McGonagall nodded. “It will not be timed. There will be one goal: to retrieve the Triwizard Cup from the center. However, reaching the cup will require more than speed. The maze will respond to your fears, your emotions, and your weaknesses.”

“Is that even fair?”

“No,” she said honestly. “But that is the nature of the Tournament.”

North’s jaw tightened.

She continued, more gently now. “You will be permitted your wand. No magical creatures may accompany you. No protective companions. No outside magical enhancements—”

“No Animagus forms,” North finished, slightly bitter.

“Correct. Your magic. Your wit. And your strength alone.” McGonagall’s expression softened. “I know this is no easy task, North. But I trust you to rise above it.”

He looked up at her, jaw still tight, but his voice steady. “When?”

“Two weeks. Final instructions will come the day before.” She paused. “I suggest you prepare… quietly. And I trust you’ll pass this message on to the others.”

“They’ll know.”

She stood, smoothing her robes, and North followed her out.

Just before the door opened again to the corridor beyond, she said softly, “I hope you understand, Mr. Ritthirong, that while I admire your strength, I also know the cost of carrying such a fire. Don’t let it burn you alive.”

North didn’t look back when he whispered, “I won’t.”

 

The castle walls were still warm from the spring sun, casting soft gold over the worn flagstones as the seven waited beneath the budding sycamore tree in the courtyard.

North hadn’t come back to class after McGonagall pulled him aside. That alone was enough to make all seven of them leave the library the moment the bell rang.

Daotok paced. Johan leaned against the old stone bench, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the corridor leading to the courtyard.

“He’s taking too long,” Tonfah muttered, adjusting his robes. Typhoon didn’t answer, but his gaze was sharp and distant.

It wasn’t until the courtyard doors creaked open that all their heads turned.

North walked out slowly. McGonagall’s words still echoed in his skull.

A maze. It’s always a maze.

"Well?" Easter asked, more softly than usual.

North stopped in front of them, looking at each of their faces. His voice, when it came, was quiet—almost too quiet for how heavy it felt.

“It’s a maze.”

There was a pause, as though they needed a second to process how simple that sounded. And how deadly it could be.

“...A maze?” Hill said slowly, eyes narrowing.

“A massive one,” North clarified. “The Quidditch pitch is being transformed. Layers of enchantments. Magical traps. Creatures.”

“And no time limit?” Tonfah asked sharply.

North shook his head. “No. Just one goal. Reach the center, and find the Triwizard Cup.”

“Brilliant,” Arthit muttered. “Another death trap with prettier hedges.”

“There’s more,” North added. “It’s not just physical. The maze responds to you. What you’re afraid of. What you can’t let go of.”

Typhoon’s expression twisted slightly, like he was tasting the ghost of something sour. “So it's not just enchanted. It’s alive.”

“Emotionally reactive magic,” Johan murmured, rubbing his fingers together thoughtfully. “Old and unstable. If miscast, it can fracture the caster.”

North’s voice stayed steady, but his fingers curled into fists. “She said I’d be alone in there. No companions. No enhancements.”

“No Animagus forms,” Easter supplied dryly.

North nodded. “Just me. My wand. And whatever waits inside.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Tonfah said it, voice laced with steel. “You won’t be alone.”

North blinked.

“You might be the one walking through the maze,” Tonfah continued, “but we’ll make sure you’re not walking in unprepared.”

“We’ll break down every type of magical maze we can find,” Typhoon added, sliding into strategist mode. “Ritual enchantments. Sentient traps. Hallucination spells. We’ll decode everything.”

“I’ll handle anything with creatures,” Easter said with a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I still owe the ministry a lesson.”

Hill gave a small smile. “And I’ll ensure no record of our preparations ever sees daylight.”

“I’ll ward your robes,” Arthit offered. “Discreetly. Just enough for stabilization.”

“Daotok and I will test the enchantments,” Johan said firmly. “And if any of them feel too volatile, we’ll rewrite them.”

North looked at the seven people who had become more than friends. The seven who had stood beside him through chaos, secrets, and the cracking edges of light and dark. He tried to speak. Couldn’t.

So he just said: “…Thank you.”

Typhoon stepped closer, tone deceptively light. “Don’t thank us yet. We’ve got two weeks to make you indestructible.”

Tonfah reached out and briefly touched North’s shoulder. “Let them send you into the maze. We’ll make sure you come back out.”

They had just begun walking back into the castle, the tension still fresh, their determination sharper than ever when a voice rang out behind them:

“So you’re planning to cheat again.”

The group stopped as one.

Mek stood a few steps behind, robes crisp, hair perfectly styled, but there was a distinct tightness around his eyes. His arms were folded, jaw clenched like he thought that made him look dignified instead of petty.

Typhoon didn’t even flinch. He turned halfway, tone flat. “Again?”

Mek’s lips twisted. “Helping North. Training him. Giving him knowledge that the other champions don’t have. It’s interference. Unfair advantage. Cheating.”

North stepped forward before anyone else could respond, voice low but cold. “You mean the way you almost got me killed?”

“You’re the one who let your magic loose!”

“And you fired at the wyrms!” North snapped.

The temperature shifted. Even the air seemed to still.

Mek tried to recover, jaw tightening. “They were dangerous. I had to act. I—”

“You panicked,” Johan said evenly. “And failed to retrieve your intended person.”

Mek’s gaze flicked to Typhoon who stood beside Tonfah now, expression unreadable. “You’re just defending him because he’s your—whatever.”

“My fiancé,” Tonfah replied calmly, but the way his hand gripped Typhoon’s waist was not calm.

“And you,” Mek turned toward Typhoon now, eyes glinting with something almost obsessive, “I should’ve known better. You’ve always had a taste for theatrics. I was trying to talk to you after the ball, and you—”

Typhoon raised a brow, tone like ice laced with venom. “You mean when you touched me without permission?”

Mek paled slightly.

“You failed the task, Mek,” Daotok said. “Your actions endangered three lives.”

“And now you’re throwing around disqualification threats,” Hill added, voice sweet but layered with something darker. “Should we report your misconduct to the judges? I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear how you cast a spell underwater—in a space the ministry enchanted.”

Mek opened his mouth.

Arthit cut him off. “You fired at a Ministry-lent magical creature, you left your champion post to confront a non-participant after the task, and you’re accusing others of cheating?”

Mek hesitated. “It’s not fair—”

“Neither is your delusion,” Typhoon said softly. “And yet, here we are.”

A beat passed. Mek looked at North again, this time not with arrogance but fear. North didn’t say anything, but the fire in his eyes had cooled into something colder.

Mek backed away. “You’ll regret this,” he muttered.

“No,” Tonfah said, turning back toward the castle with Typhoon, “you already are.”

The others followed in silence, a wall of eight moving like a singular force.

And this time, no one stopped them.

Chapter 49

They gathered once more at the Quidditch pitch, transformed into a spectacle of living danger. The familiar green of the field had vanished beneath wild, towering hedges—overgrown and ancient-looking, but pulsing faintly with magic. Wards shimmered along the perimeter like heat on stone. The sky overhead had shifted to a molten pink-gold, sinking into violet twilight.

In the stands, the excitement was muted. After the Second Task, the crowd held their breath. No one was sure what this third challenge would demand. No one knew if it would end in celebration or something darker.

Typhoon stood beside Tonfah, his expression blank. Johan watched the center of the pitch where the three champions stood: North, shoulders squared, breathing steady; Mek, twitchy, eyes flicking; Amélie, calm but cautious. Their robes bore the insignia of their schools, but their wands were already in hand.

They hadn’t been told much, only that the final task would require everything they had. That it would test not only skill, but loyalty. Not only magic, but will.

In the center of the pitch, Headmistress McGonagall stepped forward. “This is not a race,” she began, voice carrying over enchanted amplification. “Speed will not earn you victory if you sacrifice all else to achieve it.

In this maze lie illusions, enchantments, and creatures—some old, some new. But none are more dangerous than the choices you will be forced to make.

The Cup will only appear to the one who shows Accord—not only within, but without. What form that takes… is for you to discover.”

The crowd murmured. Mek scowled. Amélie closed her eyes briefly, centering herself. North exhaled quietly.

From the stands, Typhoon watched North’s profile with narrowed eyes. “He’s ready,” he murmured. “But that maze... isn’t just magic.”

Johan nodded grimly. “It’s a mirror.”

A deep, echoing chime rolled through the air, and the hedges parted.

The three champions stepped forward and vanished into green shadow.

 

The moment they crossed the threshold, the paths shifted violently. The air thickened. North reached for Mek and Amélie instinctively, but the hedges lurched, slamming walls of twisting vine and bramble between them.

North found himself alone.

The maze was alive.

He gritted his teeth and moved forward, eyes alert. The first few turns were quiet—too quiet. Then came the illusions.

A flicker of light. A gasp. He turned a corner and—

“Johan?”

“Help,” Johan rasped, stumbling forward—face bruised, robes torn, one arm limp.

North's heart squeezed. But he didn’t move. “Illusion,” he whispered, and lifted his wand.

“Finite Incantatem.”

Johan’s image shattered like smoke.

He kept walking. Another corner. His mother now, disapproving, distant.

“You could have been the true heir,” she murmured. “If only you weren’t so weak.”

“No,” North growled, “I’m not.”

His shadows pulsed faintly beneath his skin, but he swallowed them down and passed through the false image. The hedges parted again. He stepped into a new section of the maze—this one darker, littered with broken stone.

A sharp cry echoed.

North sprinted toward the sound and found Amélie, leaning against a thorned wall, panting, clutching her ribs. “Merde,” she cursed when she saw him. “North—watch out—!”

A spell shot out of the fog. North raised a shield instinctively. It came from behind Amélie.

From Mek. His wand was raised. There was no doubt.

"You—what did you do?" North barked.

“She was slowing me down,” Mek said, face pale but unrepentant. “You don’t understand. There’s no second place. I have to win.”

Amélie staggered forward. “He hexed me in the back,” she spat, trembling, “I told him to wait—he didn’t even turn around.”

Mek didn’t deny it. He just ran forward. North raised his wand. "Stupefy!"

The spell missed as Mek vanished into a side corridor.

Amélie clutched her side. “There’s no time.”

He looked down at her and made the choice without hesitation. “I’m not leaving you.”

Amélie’s eyes widened. “But—”

“You’re hurt. You won’t survive this maze alone. And I won’t let someone else die.”

Before she could protest, he slid one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and stood, casting lightening and cushioning charms. The maze watched him. The walls shivered, almost… pleased.

North pressed forward, Amélie in his arms. Fire burst in rings ahead of him. He conjured water from nothing, "Aqua Aeternum!" creating a vortex that swirled around them like a protective barrier.

He passed illusions of his friends—each begging, each accusing.

“Save me,” whispered a false Typhoon.

“You can’t protect them all,” said a fake Johan.

He ignored every voice. Then a deeper illusion—a screaming baby. He flinched. It cut to the bone. But still he walked forward.

A clearing appeared—circular, ancient. In its center: the Cup.

It shimmered faintly, gold and silver, with a strange aura of stillness around it. The wind died. Even the vines stilled. North looked at Amélie. “We’re nearly there.”

She was semi-conscious now, fingers digging weakly into his robes. “Take it…”

He hesitated, but in the end, he took the final step. His hand closed around the Cup, and the world snapped white.

The audience gasped as the hedges pulled back, retreating into the ground with the sound of rustling leaves and snapping branches.

North stood there in the center of the pitch, arms trembling, Amélie still in his arms.

Gasps rose across the crowd. He hadn’t left her. Not when it slowed him down. Not when it put him at risk. Not when the Cup was right there.

Typhoon stood. The others surged forward from the stands as the field opened. Tonfah was already moving. Johan followed in long strides.

Madame Pomfrey and several Ministry healers rushed to take Amélie.

Typhoon reached North first. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “Why are you—?”

“Mek left her,” North said flatly. “He attacked her.”

That silenced everyone.

“Where is he?” Hill demanded.

“Lost,” North replied. “I don’t care if he finishes. He doesn’t deserve to.”

The Ministry officials looked pale.

From the stands, Mek finally appeared, limping, scorched, blood on his temple. He froze when he saw the Cup in North’s hands.

And North simply turned his back on him.

 

---

 

A high-ranking Ministry official stands, robes a formal black-gold, voice magically amplified.

“After thorough deliberation by the heads of the three schools and an appointed committee of Ministry officials, we now declare the final standings for the Triwizard Tournament.”

The official’s voice cuts through the stillness.

“Third place: Mek Volkov of Durmstrang Institute.”

A pause. A beat too long. Mek’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

“Second place: Amelie Valfluer of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.”

A polite applause follows. Amelie bows her head, graceful as ever despite the injury to her leg.

“And first place, and champion of the Triwizard Tournament of this age: North Ritthirong of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

The hall bursts into applause, students rising to their feet. Typhoon whistles lowly; Johan claps once, sharply, a grin tugging at his face. Tonfah doesn't move at first, just watches North with a quiet, intense pride.

The official continues:

“Champion North Ritthirong showed unwavering courage, exceptional magical control, and selfless integrity in every task, most notably, during the Second and Third Tasks, where he risked disqualification to protect lives over victory. That is the mark of not only a true champion, but a true wizard.”

The applause grows.

“For this, and for completing every task with both innovation and discipline, he is hereby awarded the title of Triwizard Champion and the prize of ten thousand Galleons, and should he wish to accept, an internship and placement offer with the Department of Magical Creatures or the Department of Mysteries, whichever he sees fit.”

North looks stunned for a moment, as though the world is still catching up to him. He glances back, instinctively, at the others. At Johan.

And Johan is already looking at him.

 

A velvet-curtained backdrop of deep burgundy bore the Triwizard crest—once a symbol of glory, now a gilded veil over what had become a political powder keg. Flashes from magical cameras lit the room in sharp intervals. Journalists sat in an arc, quills scratching, wands ready to amplify their words.

North sat in the center seat. His posture was perfect. He wore the fitted dark crimson formal robes of Gryffindor House, his silver and black cuffs glinting under enchanted chandeliers.

Amélie sat to his left, dignified despite her pale complexion. Mek was to his right, clearly uncomfortable and still nursing bruises, eyes darting at every question.

The Daily Prophet correspondent was the first to speak.

“North Ritthirong, congratulations on your win. Though, of course, what a… complicated victory. Some say it wasn't purely yours, carrying another contestant across the finish line. Do you think your actions undermined the spirit of competition?”

A pause.

North smiled, not the wide smile he used with Johan. Not the soft one he gave to Typhoon. A cold, calculated one that could chill the room if you stared too long.

“I believe the spirit of this competition was always about more than speed or spells,” North replied. “I was under the impression that courage and honor were valued at Hogwarts. Unless that’s changed…?”

The reporter blinked, caught. “Of course, of course. Just asking for perspective.”

“Ah,” North murmured, “then for clarity: I didn’t carry her to win. I carried her because leaving someone behind in danger would have been… bad press, wouldn’t it?”

Several correspondents laughed awkwardly. Another hand rose—this time from a reporter representing La Nouvelle Sorcière from France.

“North, your performance across the tasks, especially with the wyrms, and certain underwater… assistance has raised some speculation. Some sources say Hogwarts’ students may have shared privileged knowledge to benefit you. Would you care to comment on this?”

North simply nodded.

“Hypothetically, if such creatures existed, and if they were lent to the Ministry legally and transparently through proper channels, then any educational exposure prior to the event would fall within international cooperation and magical creature studies, would it not?”

“Of course, but—”

“Unless you’re suggesting the Ministry knowingly accepted aid from a private menagerie it did not fully vet?” North asked smoothly. “That would be an institutional oversight, and quite the headline. I’d tread carefully if I were writing for tomorrow’s issue.”

Silence.

He smiled again. “But hypothetically, of course.”

The room shifted—tense now. Mek scowled beside him, but stayed silent. He had learned his lesson in the maze.

The next question came cautiously.

“There are rumors,” another reporter began slowly, “that some of your circle have threaded into dark magic from foreign imprints. Do you know anything about that?”

North tilted his head. “I’m a student. We study things. Write essays. Hypothesize. It would be flattering to think our academic work could spark such attention.”

“But the content—”

“Forgive me,” North interrupted, “but if the Ministry and its press arm are concerned about the voices of mere students, perhaps it’s not the students who should be investigated.”

The silence was heavy. Then North’s voice dropped.

“You know,” he said mildly, “my family has always preferred privacy. But I wonder, what would happen if certain press outlets began printing assumptions that could be viewed as slanderous or damaging, especially during an active Ministry investigation?”

“My father always said,” he added with a thin smile, “that even ink can bleed.”

The Prophet journalist tries again.

“Then tell us, North—what’s next for you, now that you’ve secured your title? Internship with the Ministry? A future in magical diplomacy? A public-facing career, perhaps?”

“Oh, I imagine I’ll finish school first,” North says lightly. “And then I’ll continue doing what my family’s always done.”

“And that is?”

“Watching. Listening. Remembering.”

The photographer snaps a picture too soon. North doesn’t blink. The flash catches the fire in his eyes. A Ministry official clears his throat. “Well. Thank you, Champion Ritthirong. We look forward to your future contributions.”

North stands, offering a handshake first to the Prophet journalist, then the Ministry official. His grip is gentle and unrelenting.

“Of course,” he says. “You’ll be watching, I’m sure.”

A soft, audible exhale rippled through the press circle.

Chapter 50

Notes:

Hi. I didn't expect that this AU would reach 50+ chapters. I just had a rough outline of this story in my head, but here we are. Anyways, enjoy! :)

The banners had returned to their house colors, the Great Hall dressed once more in its original splendor, but there was something softer, almost nostalgic in the air. The enchanted ceiling above flickered with summer dusk, clouds tinged in gold and the faintest edge of lilac. Plates shimmered with food, though fewer students were overeating tonight. Stomachs were too full of memory.

At the far end, Headmistress McGonagall stood, the clink of cutlery fading as she gently tapped her goblet.

“May I have your attention, students.”

The room quieted. A hum of fondness wove through her words.

“As we conclude another school year, I want to first express my thanks to our friends from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Your presence these past months has reminded us all of the strength that lies in shared magic and tradition.”

A warm ripple of applause rose from every table. Even the most competitive of students now bore the soft edges of camaraderie earned through fire, water, and shadow.

“To our champions, North Ritthirong, Amelie Valfluer, and Mek Volkov congratulations once again. You have each demonstrated courage in the face of danger and resilience when tested.”

North glanced up only briefly from the Gryffindor table, where his fingers idly nudged a fork against a roll. Across from him, Easter, Daotok, and Arthit sat with quiet ease. None of them said anything. They didn’t need to. Their glances carried stories, triumphs, and the silent acknowledgement that they had survived something together.

“The Hogwarts Express will depart tomorrow morning. Please ensure your belongings are packed, your farewells respectful, and your mischief minimal,” she added dryly. “For those returning next term, I expect to see you with fresh parchment and fuller minds.”

Laughter sparked, low and knowing.

At the Slytherin table, Typhoon tipped his goblet slightly toward Tonfah, seated at his left, the flicker of candlelight catching on his silver ring. Hill leaned into Johan’s shoulder, hiding his yawn behind a sleeve, while Johan muttered something that made Hill smile.

McGonagall’s voice softened for the final words.

“You have all endured a year of change, challenge, and truth. I trust you to carry what you’ve learned into the world with wisdom and grace. And more importantly, to come back safely.”

The final toast was quiet but firm.

“To magic well used, and bonds well forged.”

Goblets rose. Eight among them clinked a little softer, a little slower.

North caught Johan’s gaze across the hall. Johan raised his brow in question. North just smiled.

They would board the train tomorrow. They would return to their estates, their families, their secret corners of the magical world.

But for tonight, this was enough.

 

The platform was a blur of steam and laughter, owls hooting overhead, trunks levitating as friends kissed cheeks as farewells and professors shook hands. But tucked within the red train that would take them all away from Hogwarts for the summer, one particular compartment refused to be split.

“No,” Typhoon had said as early as breakfast. “One compartment. Eight seats.”

“We’re not scattering now,” Tonfah added. “We earned this silence.”

And so it was.

The eight of them took over a single first-class compartment, somehow transfigured larger than most. Their trunks stacked neatly above, window blinds open wide, letting sunlight pour in. The countryside passed in slow, golden blurs.

They settled in with an ease that had taken years to earn. Tonfah and Typhoon sat beside each other, legs barely brushing. Easter sprawled across from Hill, who had one hand laced quietly in his. North was curled up beside Johan, a book open in his lap he hadn’t turned the page of in twenty minutes. Arthit rested his head on Daotok’s shoulder, murmuring commentary about everyone who passed their compartment window.

Someone suggested a game. Another, a nap. But conversation won.

“What’s the plan this summer?” North asked eventually, glancing up. “Other than sleeping until September.”

“I have a few new books I’m planning to read,” Johan offered. “And quietly, perhaps see what the ministry is planning to hide next.”

Easter smirked at that. “As long as no one’s feeding themselves to dragons or wyrms again, I’m open to plans.”

“Actually…” Tonfah cleared his throat.

The room shifted slightly. Not tense—just attentive.

Typhoon sat up, brushing his hair back. “We were thinking,” he said, voice smooth as always, but softer now, “that if you’re not too committed to anything just yet…”

“That’s not just a casual invite,” Johan cut in, arching a brow. “Go on, Fah. Tell them the rest.”

Tonfah leaned in, finishing for him, “We’d like to invite you all to Prasert Manor for the summer.”

Arthit blinked. “Wait—really?”

“There’s more,” Typhoon smiled faintly. “We’re holding our wedding ceremony this summer.”

There was a beat.

“You’re what?!” North choked, sitting up so fast the book fell from his lap.

Typhoon laughed, biting back a grin. “As in, officially. The engagement’s been formalized for years, but this is… the ceremony. The celebration. Finally.”

“At Prasert Manor,” Tonfah said again, gentler this time. “If you’d like to come. As our guests. As our family.”

Arthit blinked the sleep from his eyes. “You mean—like… actually getting married?”

Daotok laughed. “You sound surprised. It’s been in the works since last summer.”

“You knew?” Hill asked, turning to him.

Daotok shrugged. “It’s a political marriage between heirs. Of course we knew. Johan and I had to help draft some of the magical terms.”

“You didn’t think to mention it?” Easter said, eyes wide.

Johan grinned. “We were under binding non-disclosure until the invites were formalized.”

“So—how big is this going to be?” Easter asked, more curious than cautious now.

Typhoon exhaled, long and even. “Intimate. But political.”

Tonfah’s fingers laced through Typhoon’s, grounding.

“The Ministry is starting to dig again,” he said, tone darker now. “Elemental lines. Magical blood. They're whispering things they shouldn’t be. Asking questions that should have been buried with the war.”

“They’re looking for weakness,” Typhoon added, voice flat. “We give them a show of unity instead.”

“Marriage between two heirs,” Johan said grimly. “To reinforce both houses.”

Typhoon nodded. “They’ll call it romantic. But it’s politics.”

Daotok’s smile was thin. “Isn’t it always?”

Hill frowned. “Will it be public?”

“No,” Tonfah said. “It’s whispered, private. Not even the papers will know until it’s done.”

North blinked. “Wait—after Prasert, what then?”

Typhoon reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a sealed envelope. “After the wedding, we’ll depart for Hearthwend. Just us. Summer there. Quiet. Safe.”

The others shared glances.

“You’re serious?” Arthit asked.

“We are,” Tonfah said. “And the wards have already been altered to welcome you.”

Hill exhaled softly. “So we spend the summer in a manor older than most wizarding governments… and then vacation in an estate most people believe doesn’t exist anymore?”

Typhoon’s smile turned sharp. “Precisely.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the steady clack of wheels on tracks and the warm hum of the train’s movement.

“Cheers,” Johan murmured, raising an imaginary glass.

“To weddings and secrets,” Daotok added.

“To family,” North said softly.

 

---

 

The dining hall of Ratanaporn Manor glittered with quiet menace.

The chandelier above the endless blackwood table cast reflections of cold gold across etched crystalware. Silver cutlery lay arranged like weapons at each place setting.

Typhoon and Tonfah at the center, Johan and Daotok flanking them—all dressed in cold silk and colder expressions. Across from them sat the elders of four powerful families: Lord Thirakan and Lady Arunthia, Lord Siran and Lady Narisa, Daotok’s robed council of elders, and the infamous Lord Anuwat, patriarch of Johan’s lineage.

The long oak table reflected candlelight and war strategy.

No one touched their food.

It was Lady Narisa who spoke first, voice soft as snowfall but with steel beneath.

“So. It’s to be this summer.”

Her eyes flicked to her son and Typhoon, seated side by side, already poised like a matched set of blades. Tonfah inclined his head. “Yes, Mother.”

“We’ve all agreed?” Lord Thanawat said, eyes sharp despite his age. “No delays. No loopholes. No more time for the Ministry to maneuver.”

Typhoon’s voice was flat. “They’ve already maneuvered enough. They used Johan and I during the Second Task. They made it look like an accident, and they expect us to believe that?”

“No,” Lord Siran said grimly. “We don’t.”

“They’re watching too closely now,” Daotok added, his tone distant. “They think the elemental bloodlines are growing unstable. Or… more coordinated than they’d like.”

“Which we are,” Johan muttered.

The room fell quiet. The weight of old power sat thick in the air.

“We’ve always known,” Warden Vorakorn said. “That this day would come. The moment the ministry caught the scent of convergence, they’d try to dismantle us, piece by piece.”

“Then we move before they do,” Lady Arunthia said. “The wedding will be announced quietly. By the end of summer, the betrothal must be sealed.”

Then, Tonfah cleared his throat. “We have a change of venue to propose.”

Several heads turned.

“The Ratanaporn Manor is too predictable,” Typhoon explained. “Too… symbolic. The Ministry will expect us to wed here. They’ll monitor every owl, every guest, every ward.”

Tonfah’s eyes met his mother’s across the table. “Prasert Manor is less obvious. Less tied to the legacy of our exile.”

“And more heavily warded,” Lord Prasert added with grim pride. “The old protections are still intact.”

Lord Anuwat considered. “You’ll draw suspicion by moving it.”

“We draw suspicion by breathing,” Typhoon replied, eyes gleaming silver.

That earned a small smirk from Johan. Daotok’s council murmured amongst themselves. Then one nodded. “It’s a sound diversion. One step ahead. We approve.”

“And the ceremony?” Lady Prasert asked. “Will it remain intimate?”

“Yes,” Tonfah said. “Blood-sealed. Witnessed. Legal. But whispered.”

“No Prophet coverage,” Typhoon added. “Only those bound to the alliance will know.”

Lady Ratanaporn set down her glass with a soft chime. “You understand this isn’t only a wedding. It’s a declaration. A statement to every bloodline watching. Every Ministry official listening.”

Typhoon’s voice was low. “Let them listen.”

“And the guests?” Lord Prasert asked.

“They’ll be sent owls directly,” Tonfah said. “Sealed in our blood. Protected by runes.”

“We’ll provide the dress robes,” Lady Prasert added briskly, already mentally orchestrating a wardrobe of war.

“You’ll be brilliant,” she added, softer now, looking at her son.

Neither Tonfah nor Typhoon spoke.

This wedding was decided long ago, though it was laced in politics and consequence… it was still theirs. And when Lady Ratanaporn looked between them, she said—almost curiously. “Is this still what you want?”

Typhoon met her eyes.

“It’s not really our decision to make, is it?”

“But we are happy,” Tonfah said quietly. “To marry each other.”

A beat of silence. A shift. Just a flicker of softness between all the sharp edges.

Then, Lord Thanawat cleared his throat. “The Ministry is already digging. Into your movements. Into your magic. This must be handled delicately.”

“Which is why,” Typhoon said, “we are getting married.”

And no one argued.

 

---

 

It was a beautiful lie, this manor — all glimmering pillars, flowering trellises, and sky-lit courtyards.

But the eight of them had grown too wise to trust beauty.

When the wrought-iron gates of Prasert Manor opened to reveal the arriving carriage, Tonfah and Typhoon were already waiting at the steps, dressed down in linen and still sharp-edged with caution. Behind them, Johan and Daotok stood with arms loosely crossed, like they had never stopped guarding one another since returning home.

The carriage rolled to a gentle stop on the gravel.

North stepped out first, still in travel robes, windswept and squinting at the tall gables of the manor like it might bite. Easter followed with narrowed eyes and a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his fingers as he adjusted his sleeve cuffs. Hill was third, elegant as ever but blinking around with mild suspicion. Arthit climbed out last and stretched dramatically, lips twisting into a grin.

“No enchanted thorns yet,” he said. “That's promising.”

Tonfah snorted. “You’re early.”

“You said before sundown,” North shot back. “We’re punctual.”

“You’re Gryffindor,” Daotok said blandly. “Punctuality is suspicious.”

“Funny,” Easter muttered. “That’s exactly what I was thinking about this house.”

“Welcome to Prasert Manor,” Typhoon said with a faint grin. “We warded the west wing for you.”

“Let me guess,” Hill said dryly. “Because you don’t trust the rest of the manor.”

Typhoon only nodded once. “Correct.”

Tonfah turned, leading them through the towering double doors into a long, echoing hall filled with portraits that moved just slightly too slowly like they were listening rather than watching.

“We didn’t want you all separated,” Tonfah said. “You’ll be in the west wing. Same floor as us. Connecting suites, each door spell-bound to your magical signature.”

“And the other wings?” Easter asked, tone light but probing.

“Best left undisturbed,” Daotok replied.

As they reached the corridor, four ornate doors stood in waiting, already opened. The rooms inside were rich—polished wood, tall windows, charmed silks, floating lanterns, but layered with protective runes faintly glowing along the thresholds.

Hill raised a brow. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“No,” Typhoon answered. “Not for this.”

They entered slowly, exploring, touching nothing. And yet... something eased in their shoulders the moment the door shut behind them.

“You four have been here long?” North asked.

“Since last week,” Johan answered. “Been preparing.”

“Is it really happening?” Arthit asked, almost a whisper. “You’re getting married tomorrow.”

Tonfah exchanged a look with Typhoon. “Yes.”

“It’s not really our choice,” Typhoon added softly. “But if it must happen, we’re glad it’s each other.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence that acknowledged all the things unspoken—the wariness of their bloodlines, the shadow of the Ministry, the weight of legacy pressing down like a ceiling just before collapse.

“They want it quiet,” Typhoon continued, voice lower now. “The Ministry’s eyes are still digging into elemental family records. They think we haven’t noticed.”

“That’s why the venue changed,” Tonfah said. “The Ratanaporn Manor was too obvious. Too easy to watch.”

“But they won’t expect the Praserts to be this bold,” Johan finished. “So it becomes both a shield and a warning.”

North looked around the corridor again—at the intricate carvings along the stone columns, the runes hidden in shadow, the faint scent of incense and bloodline spells.

“An intimate wedding,” Hill echoed. “With layers of politics.”

“And layers of protection,” Typhoon said. “That’s why you’re here. We trust no one else.”

Daotok added with a small smile, “Don’t worry about dress robes. They’ve been prepared.”

Easter scoffed. “You chose our colors too, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Typhoon said with a smile. “We don’t trust you to match.”

Laughter broke the tension.

And then Tonfah stepped forward, facing them properly. “You’re here now,” he said quietly. “And for the next twenty-four hours, we don’t want you anywhere else. No wandering, no stray magic, and no stepping into any other part of the manor without one of us.”

Hill frowned. “You think something will happen?”

“No,” Typhoon said. “We know something might.”

The gravity of the statement settled over them like a shared cloak.

But even so, when they retired into their connected suites and the doors sealed behind them, they breathed a little easier.

Because for the first time in weeks, the eight of them were under one roof again. Together.

And together had always meant safe.

Chapter 51

Notes:

Hi. Sorry for disappearing, I've been a bit busy. Anyways, enjoy!

The gardens of Prasert Manor had been transformed into something both ancient and elegant. Lanterns shaped like silver cranes floated in the warm air, each one held aloft by Tonfah’s quiet currents. Jasmine and frangipani scented the night, but beneath the sweetness was the sharper, charged tang of storm—Typhoon’s presence woven into the air like a promise.

It was not a wedding for the public. Only family, a few elemental elders, and their chosen circle—Johan, Daotok, Hill, Easter, North, and Arthit—stood among the witnesses.

The officiant, an elderly seer in deep blue robes, stood beneath the oldest banyan tree in the estate’s gardens. Its wide roots formed the circle into which Tonfah and Typhoon stepped. Silver charms hung from its branches, swaying softly as the breeze and the storm pressed close.

Tonfah’s robes were black silk, stitched with pale swirling air-currents that shifted when he moved. Typhoon’s were white, lined with storm-grey and embroidered with his family crest in silver thread. Their hands found each other in the center of the circle, fingers locking like they had been holding on for years.

“Element calls to element,” the officiant intoned. “Air finds storm, and storm finds air. Two stand, not apart, but as halves of the same sky.”

Tonfah’s vow was soft, but every word held weight: “Where you go, my wind will follow. When your storms rise, I will steady you. Even if the sky tears itself apart, I will hold to you.”

Typhoon’s reply was the calm before thunder: “When the air stills, I will move it. When it turns, I will guide it home. Even if the winds scatter me, I will always return.”

They exchanged rings—silver for both, Tonfah’s engraved with flowing air currents, Typhoon’s etched with storm clouds. As the rings slid into place, the magic between them condensed, tangible enough that their friends shifted in their seats, sensing it.

The officiant’s voice sealed the bond: “As air and storm meet in the high sky, so do you meet here. By the old ways, by the law of magic, and by the eyes of those who stand witness—be bound.”

Their kiss was brief and ceremonial, but lingering just enough that it drew faint smirks from their circle. In a whisper meant for no one else, Typhoon murmured, “We’ve outrun the Ministry this time.”

Tonfah’s grip tightened, his answer quiet but resolute: “And we’ll keep outrunning them—together.”

The applause that followed was restrained, aware of the undercurrent in the night. Even the youngest among their circle felt it—this was not simply a celebration. It was protection. A shield forged in tradition and law, before the Ministry could dig too deep into elemental families.

The eight of them would remember this moment. Not just for the beauty of the vows, but for the silent understanding that tonight was the first step in a larger war.

 

The garden ceremony had faded into the low hum of conversation and the clink of silverware against fine porcelain. The Prasert Manor dining hall was long and candlelit, with the table dressed in black silk and silver embroidery—a deliberate echo of the wedding colors.

The families sat in quiet, polite groupings. Johan’s grandfather and Daotok’s elders spoke in measured tones with Tonfah’s parents, while the rest of the circle was scattered among them, making small talk. The air carried the delicate scent of lemongrass and spiced duck, but beneath it was a current of unspoken calculation; everyone here knew this was as much politics as it was celebration.

The doors opened midway through the first course. A ripple passed through the room as two figures stepped inside—both tall, both carrying the sharp poise of their respective realms.

Tiger was first to cross the threshold, his onyx hair catching the candlelight. His gaze swept the room once before locking briefly on Tonfah and Typhoon, a faint, knowing smile curving his mouth. Duennao followed, dark hair tied back, the ocean still clinging to him in the faint scent of brine and the precision of his movements.

They bowed respectfully to the hosts before moving toward the head table.

“You’re late,” Typhoon murmured as they reached him, though his lips curved faintly in amusement.

“Straight from Japan,” Duennao replied, his voice smooth. “Couldn’t miss this for anything, but the tides weren’t exactly in our favor.”

Tiger inclined his head toward Tonfah. “You look well, cousin. Marriage suits you.” His gaze flicked to Typhoon, and though the smile stayed, there was a glint of quiet approval. “And you.”

Introductions were made to the rest of the circle—formal to the families, more familiar once the elders returned to their conversations. The seating was quickly adjusted so that Tiger took a place beside Tonfah, Duennao beside North, the cousins quietly taking stock of the others.

By the time the main course had been cleared away, the room was heavy with wine and words unsaid. The elders—Tonfah’s parents, Typhoon's parents, Johan’s grandfather settled like a shadowed monarch, Daotok’s elders speaking with their quiet, steel-edged cadence—turned their attention back to the newlyweds.

“You’ll be staying here, of course,” Tonfah’s father said, his voice calm but threaded with expectation. “The Prasert manor has been prepared for you both. Appearances must be kept, and family traditions honored.”

Johan’s grandfather added, “A summer apart from politics is dangerous now. The Ministry has grown sharper in its gaze. Best to remain within familiar walls, and within reach.”

Even Daotok’s elders inclined their heads, silent but affirming. The weight of lineage pressed down across the table.

Tonfah, poised with every inch of his upbringing, folded his hands together and inclined his head. “We are grateful. Truly.” His smile was polite. “But we’ve already promised ourselves elsewhere. Hearthwend has been dormant long enough. It is time it recognized its masters again.”

Typhoon’s voice followed, smooth as stormlight and just as unyielding. “And besides, Tiger and Duennao have just arrived from abroad. It would be discourteous not to spend the summer in their company, catching up properly. Family, after all.” His eyes flicked to Tiger and Duennao, who nodded slightly, perfectly timed support.

Typhoon’s mother’s brows drew faintly, her lips parting as though to argue, but Tonfah continued, gentle yet firm. “Appearances will be kept, Father. Invitations will be answered. But Hearthwend is ours, and this summer it will be lived in again. That is our decision.”

The silence stretched—elders and parents measuring their heirs, weighing whether to press. Finally, Johan’s grandfather gave a single, deliberate nod, breaking the stillness. “So be it. But remember, every choice is a message, every absence a declaration. The Ministry listens. And it never forgets.”

“Then let it listen,” Typhoon said softly, swirling the wine in his glass, his smile dark as the storm he commanded. “We have nothing to fear in whispers.”

The table broke again into quieter talk, but the decision hung there—unmoved, unshaken, sealed by the heirs’ refusal to bend.

Chapter 52

The long table of the west wing dining hall glowed in soft morning light, breakfast laid out in elegant abundance—fresh fruit, honeyed bread, smoked fish, spiced rice, steaming tea. The ten of them sat close at one end of the table, conversation quick and easy, the remnants of the wedding’s gravity softened now into teasing warmth.

For a while, the only sounds were the quiet clink of cutlery and the occasional scrape of a chair. Then Hill, never one to let silence linger, leaned back with a sly grin.

“You both look far too well-rested for newlyweds. Shouldn’t there be at least some trace of exhaustion?”

Easter cackled into his tea, and Johan raised a brow in mock solemnity. “No bruises, no mussed robes, no attempt at concealment. Suspicious, frankly.”

Even North, normally the sober one, smirked behind his cup. “They look better rested than any of us, which is unnatural after a night like that.”

Tonfah only sipped calmly at his tea, eyes narrowing. Typhoon, on the other hand, tilted his head back in a languid laugh. “You’ll have to forgive us if we refuse to live up to your lurid expectations. Some things are best reserved for Hearthwend.”

The table erupted. Easter groaned, Hill pressed a hand to his face, Daotok barked a rare laugh, and Johan snorted so hard that North kicked him under the table.

“You’re insufferable,” Hill muttered, but his grin betrayed him.

“And you’re predictable,” Typhoon shot back with a smirk.

The laughter rolled a while longer before softening into quiet conversation. Trays of smoked fish, tropical fruits, and steamed buns passed from hand to hand. It was only when North set down his fork, eyes cutting toward the far end of the table, that the tone shifted.

“So,” he said, voice casual but probing. “What about you two?” His gaze fell on Tiger and Duennao, who had sat with quiet composure, eating lightly but watching everything. “Will you return to Mahoutokoro now?”

The question pulled the attention of everyone else. Even Typhoon’s smirk faltered as his eyes sharpened.

Tiger met the stare without flinching, his posture as straight as a drawn blade. “No. We’re staying.”

Duennao inclined his head with the easy grace of one accustomed to smoothing edges. “We’ll be transferring to Hogwarts for our final year.”

The response stirred immediate reaction—surprise, half-formed questions spilling over one another. Why now? What changed? What happened?

Tonfah’s brow furrowed, though his voice was calm, precise. “That is not a light decision. What prompted it?”

Duennao and Tiger exchanged a look before the latter shrugged, as if it were only a passing inconvenience. “Mahoutokoro has… begun asking too many questions about our magic. Uncomfortable questions.”

The words stilled the table.

Duennao’s smile was quieter now, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We thought it best not to wait until curiosity became suspicion. Hogwarts will serve well enough for one last year.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Typhoon let out a low hum, something between acknowledgment and dark amusement. “Their loss,” he said simply, and reached for his tea again.

Arthit straightened in his chair, firm in his agreement. “Exactly. If they can’t see what they have, let them lose it. Hogwarts doesn’t turn away strength.”

North added dryly, though his words carried an edge of warning, “They’ll regret it soon enough. Hogwarts may not know it yet, but it’s about to gain something it doesn’t deserve.”

By the time the last plates were cleared, the table had shifted from teasing remarks to more grounded discussions. The mood was lighter again, though a quiet undercurrent lingered—each of them was aware that the summer ahead could not be wasted.

Easter leaned forward, chin propped on his hand. “So. What now? Are we all hiding away in Hearthwend for months, or are we actually going to see the sun?”

“Speak for yourself,” Hill muttered, reaching for another roll. “Hearthwend has windows.”

Daotok, amused, tilted his cup. “And shadows.”

Tonfah’s gaze flicked to Typhoon, silent agreement passing between them. “We’ll begin in Hearthwend. Wards need tending, and…” He paused, measured, before adding, “…it will be safer with all of us together.”

Johan nodded in sharp agreement. “We’ve been scattered too long. Consolidating is necessary.”

“But—” Easter started again, though this time his voice was playful, “—we could at least have something to look forward to.”

That was when Arthit, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, set down his fork and straightened. His tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with intent.

“If it’s travel you want,” he said smoothly, “I do have places. Estates, villas, manors. Scattered across Southeast Asia. Chiang Mai, Bali, Hanoi, Luang Prabang, even a coastal house near Da Nang. A change of scenery is possible… if you’re all interested.”

The reaction was immediate. Easter’s eyes lit up, North raised his brows in surprise, and Hill choked on his drink.

“You’ve been holding out on us,” Hill accused.

Arthit smirked. “Not holding out. Just waiting until the right company could make use of them.” His gaze lingered briefly on Daotok before sweeping the table. “I won’t see them sit empty when they could serve us better.”

Duennao tilted his head, curiosity flickering. “And each one warded?”

“Of course,” Arthit replied without hesitation. “Not as strong as Hearthwend, but discreet, and out of reach of prying eyes.”

Typhoon let out a low chuckle, fingers drumming against his cup. “Useful. We’ll need options when the ministry begins tightening its net.”

Tonfah inclined his head, calm but resolute. “Hearthwend first. Then… we’ll see.”

Norththen added softly, “It doesn’t matter where we are, so long as we’re together. But traveling wouldn’t be unwise. They’ll expect us in one place.”

Easter clapped his hands together, breaking the heaviness with forced cheer. “Then it’s settled. Hearthwend, then Arthit’s secret collection of holiday homes. I vote for the coastal one first.”

Laughter rippled around the table again, though beneath it, each of them understood: these were not simply summer plans. They were contingencies. Escape routes. Safehouses.

The war they hadn’t named yet was coming closer, and they were preparing under the guise of ordinary conversation.

 

The day stretched slow and restless after breakfast. Servants flitted about the Prasert manor, quietly packing trunks and arranging carriages, while upstairs, the ten gathered their personal effects with the ease of those long-accustomed to traveling light, no matter how gilded their families insisted their lives should be.

By mid-afternoon, the summer air hung heavy with the scent of rain. Their families lingered at the manor’s steps, their smiles stiff, their voices pointed, offering well-wishes steeped in expectation.

“Spend the summer wisely,” Tonfah’s father said, eyes sharp as flint. “You are wed now, responsibility weighs differently upon you.”

“We will,” Tonfah answered smoothly, his mask firmly in place. Beside him, Typhoon’s polite bow masked his disdain.

“We’ll be at Hearthwend,” Johan added, his voice cool but steady, “catching up with Tiger and Duennao. You needn’t worry.”

The elders exchanged glances, but pressed no further. Perhaps they recognized the futility of trying to leash what had already slipped free.

Once clear of the manor’s gates, the masks eased. The air shifted, lightening as if the invisible pressure of family eyes had lifted. Carriages brought them to the edge of the wards, where Tonfah and Typhoon clasped hands briefly before stepping forward. Together, they apparated—ten figures vanishing with sharp cracks of displaced air.

They reappeared in Hearthwend’s courtyard, and the manor stirred awake.

Windows shuddered open as if exhaling after a long sleep; ivy crawled back into neat patterns along the stone walls; lanterns flared to life in the fading daylight. The great oak doors swung open before them, wards thrumming in welcome as though recognizing their masters’ return.

Tiger let out a low whistle. “It knows you.”

“Of course it does,” Typhoon murmured, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “It remembers what is claimed.”

Tonfah’s eyes swept the grounds, calm but calculating. “It must be renewed. The wards need our blood again.”

So it was. At the threshold, Tonfah and Typhoon drew their wands and opened shallow cuts across their palms. Their blood fell into the runes carved into the courtyard stones, pulsing once before sinking into silence. The air thickened, then eased, like a held breath released. The wards blazed bright for a heartbeat before vanishing from sight, leaving the manor secure once more.

“Stronger than before,” Johan observed quietly, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

North exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders. “Feels… safe.”

“Good,” Tonfah replied. He turned, gaze sweeping across their gathered circle. “Because this summer, safety will not come easily.”

Easter huffed, tossing his hair. “Then let’s start by claiming rooms before it swallows us whole.”

Their laughter followed him up the steps, but under it lingered the truth: Hearthwend had awakened to shelter not just two heirs, but ten. And for the first time, all of them felt the gravity of what that meant.

Chapter 53

The long dining table in Hearthwend’s west wing glowed with the warmth of firelight and polished silver. Platters of roasted meats, fruits, and breads filled the air with a richness they hadn’t tasted since the wedding feast. Yet here, without their families’ eyes watching, the atmosphere was looser, their masks lowered, laughter weaving through the meal.

Typhoon leaned back in his chair, watching the others banter with a wry smile. The hummed with approval, its stone walls carrying the sound of their voices like music.

“Feels alive again,” Easter remarked, pulling apart a loaf of bread. “Like it’s glad we’re here.”

“It is,” Tonfah replied, his tone quiet but assured. “Manors like Hearthwend have long memories. It remembers when it was empty, when it was abandoned. It does not forget.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Johan said. “To remind it, and ourselves that no one else dictates where we belong.”

Daotok tipped his glass, smirking faintly. “Poetic. You’ve been spending too much time with Fah.”

Their laughter broke the dark edge, but Typhoon’s glance caught Tonfah’s across the table, and both knew the truth: their families would never accept this gathering, not truly. Hearthwend was both a refuge and a declaration.

It was North who shifted the conversation. “And what of Thorngrave?” His fork stilled above his plate. “It’s been quiet too long. If Hearthwend hungered for company, surely Thorngrave has felt the absence more.”

The table hushed for a beat. Johan’s jaw flexed, but he nodded. “You’re right. Thorngrave was meant to bind us all, not stand forgotten. If we leave it untouched, it may resent us.”

Tonfah’s lips quirked. “Resentful manors are dangerous. Especially ones with the history Thorngrave carries.”

“So we’ll visit,” Typhoon said, decisive. “Hearthwend will not be jealous, and Thorngrave will not be slighted. We belong to both, and both belong to us.”

The weight of his words settled over them, solemn and binding. For all their laughter, this was their truth: heirs to legacies larger than themselves, bound by blood, magic, and now by choice.

“Summer will not be quiet,” Arthit murmured. He swirled the wine in his goblet, the ruby liquid catching firelight. “Travel, perhaps my estates, yes. But first Hearthwend. Then Thorngrave.”

“Together,” Hill added, almost reverent.

The word echoed around the table, absorbed by the wards, carried into Hearthwend’s bones.

Together.

 

---

 

The steam curled in languid spirals, blurring the lanternlight into halos across the stone. Typhoon had already slipped into the wide marble bath, water rising against his pale skin, cool silver ripples catching in the glow. He sat against the carved edge, back straight, arms resting lightly at the water’s surface as though he were reigning even here, in silence.

The door opened with no announcement. Tonfah stepped in quietly, his black silk robe loose, his hair still carrying the faint scent of incense from the feast. Typhoon did not turn, he already knew. The water shifted when Tonfah joined him at the edge, then leaned down, arms slipping around Typhoon’s waist, chest pressing warmly against Typhoon’s damp back.

“We really are married now,” Tonfah whispered, the words low, almost disbelieving. His lips brushed the shell of Typhoon’s ear before trailing down, pressing against the curve of his damp neck. Each kiss was reverent, almost like a vow spoken all over again.

Typhoon’s lips tilted faintly, his eyes closing as he leaned back against Tonfah. “Does it feel different?”

“Yes.” Tonfah’s voice rumbled with amusement, but his hands were tender as they reached for Typhoon’s. He lifted one damp hand above the water, studying the rings gleaming against pale skin. His thumb traced over them slowly, one by one, as though memorizing them all over again.

“They’ve always been mine to give you,” Tonfah whispered, pressing a kiss against Typhoon’s temple. “But now… every vow sealed them. You'll carry me on your hands for years to come, but tonight you’ve bound me to you fully.”

For once, Typhoon said nothing. He only turned his hand, threading their fingers together beneath the water. The rings pressed cool between their skin.

With a slow, almost ceremonial care, Tonfah guided Typhoon further into the bath, slipping behind him so that Typhoon sat cradled against his chest, between his legs. He poured a vessel of warm, perfumed water over Typhoon’s hair, fingers combing through the strands with a gentleness few would ever believe he possessed. Each motion was careful, almost like a vow repeated in touch rather than words.

“You’re sentimental,” Typhoon murmured, voice quiet.

“I’m yours,” Tonfah corrected softly.

The steam wrapped them both like a shroud, but nothing about it felt suffocating. It felt binding and sacred. For a long while they stayed like that: Tonfah kissing the curve of Typhoon’s damp neck, tracing every ring as if to mark them into memory, and Typhoon leaning back, unguarded, letting himself be held.

The water stilled at last, their quiet intimacy still lingering in the air. Typhoon shifted first, drawing himself from Tonfah’s embrace with a grace that seemed almost reluctant, steam trailing down his skin like silver veils. Tonfah rose after him, the water dark against his black robe as he slipped it back over broad shoulders.

They did not speak as they toweled dry, as if words would break the hush that wrapped them. Instead, Tonfah crossed the chamber and caught Typhoon’s wrist before he could reach for his own robe. With quiet insistence, he drew the fabric around him himself, tying the sash with a slow, careful knot. Typhoon only tilted his head, lips curved in a faint, knowing smirk, but he did not pull away.

Their bedchamber was dim, curtains drawn, the faint flicker of stormlight from outside throwing silver shadows along the stone. Tonfah sat at the edge of their bed patiently yet his patience was a taut bowstring, trembling with restraint. Typhoon knew it. He moved slowly across the room, still robed loosely, letting the silk slip from one shoulder, then the other, until it trailed like water behind him. He knew every movement was watched and devoured.

"Love,” Tonfah murmured, “You’re doing it on purpose.”

Typhoon stilled mid-motion, glancing over his shoulder. His hair spilled dark and wet against the white robe. His expression was all innocence, lips curving just enough to mock it.

“Doing what exactly?” he asked, voice soft, feigned puzzled tilt to his head.

The tension thickened.

Tonfah’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming once against the sheets as though keeping himself from rising too soon. The dangerous gleam in his eyes was no threat. He watched as Typhoon reached the bed and eased himself forward, not onto the sheets but directly into Tonfah’s lap.

The motion was languid, slow enough to test the limits of restraint. Typhoon lowered himself until the shift of his weight pressed against Tonfah’s hips, his body arching just enough to make the suggestion unmistakable. A grind, subtle and deliberate, more tease than surrender.

Tonfah’s breath left him in a quiet growl against Typhoon’s throat. His hands came up to grip the other’s waist, hard enough to still him, though not to push him away. Typhoon leaned forward anyway, lips ghosting over Tonfah’s jaw, then down to the place just beneath his ear where a kiss turned into a mark—soft at first, then deepening.

Tonfah tilted his head back, letting the storm inside him slip free. His own mouth found Typhoon’s collarbone, teeth grazing before sinking enough to leave his claim etched in skin. Typhoon gasped against him, but the sound turned into laughter, breathless and defiant.

“Playing innocent now, are we?” Tonfah rumbled low, fingers pressing tighter, pulling Typhoon flush against him.

“Always,” Typhoon whispered back, though the way he rolled his hips betrayed him, every motion calculated to undo Tonfah’s control.

His hands, which had only held Typhoon steady before, suddenly gripped him with the force of possession, dragging him down hard against his lap. The teasing roll of Typhoon’s hips was stolen from him, replaced by Tonfah’s commanding pull.

Typhoon gasped, sharp and soft all at once, his smug laughter cut short when Tonfah’s mouth crashed against his—hot and bruising. The kiss wasn’t tender, but hungry.

Tonfah tilted his husband back until Typhoon was nearly sprawled across his arms, forcing him to arch, to take the kiss deeper. The rings on Typhoon’s fingers glinted as he curled them into Tonfah’s hair. Tonfah broke the kiss only to press his mouth lower, down his jaw, his throat, across the soft expanse of collarbone—each place kissed, then claimed with teeth. The marks bloomed like dark signatures of possession.

“Always mine,” Tonfah growled lowly, as though the words themselves were vows layered upon vows.

Typhoon arched, laughter spilling between his gasps, though weaker now, stripped of control. He was no longer teasing. His grinding became instinct, desperate, chasing the rhythm Tonfah forced upon him.

The bed creaked beneath their weight as Tonfah pushed him back, caging him beneath. Typhoon’s eyes glinted with firelight, lips parted, hair spilling across the pillows like a crown undone. When Tonfah looked down at him—marked, breathless, and waiting, something inside him broke past even hunger.

The storm consumed.

Kisses turned to bites, touches to grips, every inch of skin claimed with reverence edged in danger. Rings traced along ribs, down his sides, each band a reminder of binding: chosen, given, eternal. Typhoon writhed beneath him, each mark pulled another laugh, another gasp, another surrender until there was nothing left between them but storm and air and vows written on skin.

When at last they stilled, tangled together, breath uneven and hearts racing, Hearthwend’s wards thrummed faintly—recognizing the consummation, recognizing the union.

Typhoon curled against Tonfah’s chest, laughter quiet and hoarse. “So impatient, love.”

Tonfah kissed his temple softly. “No. Just yours. Always yours.”

And as storm and air twined together in the bedchamber of Hearthwend, the manor itself sighed, its walls whispering with approval. For its masters had returned—bound, claimed, eternal.

Chapter 54

The sun cut softly through Hearthwend’s tall windows, gilding the dining hall in warm light. The ten of them sat scattered at the long table, plates filled with bread, fruit, and warm tea that the manor’s elves had laid out.

The ten of them had gathered, the morning carrying a rare softness after the storm of the past weeks. But when Tonfah and Typhoon entered together, the calm fractured into laughter. The firelight from last night hadn’t quite left them; both looked rested, but the marks were there, visible despite robes drawn neatly into place. Along Typhoon’s throat, at the dip of Tonfah’s collarbone—bruises bloomed like deliberate signatures.

Hill sputtered into his tea. Johan smirked knowingly. North gave a low whistle. Arthit raised his brows, scandalized but grinning.

“Ah, there it is,” Easter teased with delight. “Our wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

Daotok leaned in, expression sly. “I was wondering how long it would take you two to stop pretending.” His smirk widened as Typhoon glared at him, and Tonfah only looked smug.

Tiger leaned lazily against the back of his chair, eyes glinting with amusement. “I liked it better when you two were children,” he said with a drawl, voice teasing but affectionate. “Tamed. Harmless. Now? Look at you—storms and air, untethered.”

The table dissolved into laughter again. Typhoon rolled his eyes, but the faint flush betrayed him. Tonfah didn’t bother denying it, he only rested a hand on Typhoon’s chair, possessive even in silence.

The teasing ebbed, replaced by a quieter hum of voices, until North glanced toward Duennao. “Will you be visiting our family estate this summer?”

The question landed like a stone in still water. The table fell silent, all eyes turning, first to North, then to Duennao.

“Your… family estate?” Hill asked carefully, brows drawn.

Duennao, calm as ever, set down his cup. His expression didn’t shift under the weight of their stares. “Yes. North and I are cousins.”

The shock was immediate—voices overlapping in disbelief. Easter blinked rapidly, Johan leaned forward sharply, and Arthit’s spoon clattered against his bowl. Daotok’s sharp laugh cut through them all. “Of course. Only you two would keep something like that quiet for this long.”

Tiger looked unimpressed, sipping his tea lazily. “I was wondering when you’d tell them. It wasn’t exactly a secret to anyone paying attention.”

North’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened. “I thought it best… until now.”

Duennao inclined his head. “I will visit, yes—but not yet. There are things still in motion, and it isn’t the right time.”

The others exchanged glances, whispers threading around the table, unsettled by the new link revealed in their circle. But Tonfah leaned close to Typhoon, voice low, dark amusement flickering.

“Our little family keeps growing stranger.”

Typhoon’s mouth curled faintly. “And stronger.”

The clatter of dishes softened into an easy rhythm when a rush of wings broke the calm. Owls swooped in through Hearthwend’s high windows, scattering feathers across the long table. They dropped rolled parchments and folded papers before vanishing again.

Typhoon caught the Daily Prophet first, sliding it across the polished wood. The front page gleamed in bold headlines.

“A new Minister?” Johan murmured, leaning in.

The black-inked letters announced:

“Ignatius Travers elected as the new Minister of Magic.”

Brows furrowed, the weight of the name pulling the table into silence. Daotok sneered. “Travers. They’ve found themselves another puppet.”

Hill gave a humorless chuckle. “Another one to smile for the cameras while the real hands tighten the strings.”

Tonfah tapped the page once, eyes sharp. “And the strings are not ours—yet.”

Before more could be said, North gave a short laugh. He had pulled the paper toward himself, scanning further down.

“Well,” he drawled, folding the page back. “This is amusing.”

They leaned to see. Beneath the political announcement was another article:

“Rumors swirl of an old alliance rekindled—whispers of a binding between two ancient pureblood families, secured by marriage.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Typhoon’s jaw set, but Tonfah only exhaled slowly, controlled, already calculating.

Easter frowned. “They’re already speculating.”

But North was still grinning, amusement glinting in his gaze. “What makes this better,” he said smoothly, “is that I never saw this in the drafts that were sent to me.”

Arthit blinked. “Drafts?”

North’s smirk deepened, sharp as a blade. He flicked the page closed, voice calm but laced with meaning.

“My family has… ties to the Prophet. To most wizarding media, in fact. I tend to see the stories before they run. But this—” He tapped the article with a finger lazily. “—this never crossed my desk. Which means someone thinks they’re clever.”

Johan raised a brow, lips twitching. “And you find that funny?”

North’s grin widened, colder this time. “Very. Because it means they’ve already stepped onto a board they don’t realize is mine.”

The table stilled again, half unsettled, half impressed. Only Tiger leaned back, smiling faintly, as though the revelation amused him more than it should.

It was Easter who finally tilted his head, eyes narrowing at the quiet figure across the table. “And you, Nao,” he asked lightly, “do you see these drafts too? Or is this North’s private amusement?”

All eyes turned.

Duennao, who had been sipping his tea as though he were only half-listening, set the cup down with a soft clink. He met their stares with a small laugh, not mocking, but edged in a knowing kind of sharpness.

“The media is far too wide for only North to oversee,” he said, voice smooth, a ripple of secrets woven beneath it. He leaned back slightly, as though the weight of the world’s networks were something comfortable resting on his shoulders. “Britain may be his board… but Asia has always been mine.”

A quiet fell again, this time heavier.

Typhoon’s storm-dark gaze sharpened, reading layers unsaid. Tonfah gave a single approving nod, understanding the quiet game that was now being played across continents.

Arthit whistled under his breath. “So both of you hold quills over the papers of the world.”

Johan’s lips twitched into something wry. “Convenient, isn’t it? Between the two of you, whispers could be silenced before they’re even inked.”

Duennao only smiled faintly, the calm of ocean depths hiding its abyss. “Or reshaped, if we wish them to be.”

Tiger’s laughter broke the tension, rich and knowing. “You’re all playing at wolves in sheep’s clothing, but I think these two—” he nodded at North and Duennao, “—prefer the shepherd’s crook instead. Guiding flocks of thought without anyone realizing.”

North’s grin widened, meeting Duennao’s gaze across the table. For just a breath, there was recognition between them—two cousins by blood, but more importantly, kindred tacticians of influence.

“Let them write their little stories,” North murmured.

“And let us choose which stories the world remembers,” Duennao finished, with a calm finality that silenced the table.

Tonfah exchanged a glance with Typhoon, and Typhoon inclined his head, storm-dark eyes approving.

“Good,” Tonfah murmured, voice low. “Then let them write. Let them guess. The truth is ours to wield.”

Chapter 55

A week’s calm settled over Hearthwend. The ancient manor, alive again beneath the quiet reign of its masters, seemed to stretch its stone limbs in contentment. In the courtyard, sunlight spilled across weathered arches and moss-stained fountains, ivy thick with summer breath. For once, there was no urgency—only the circle of ten sprawled across the grass, stone, and shade.

Typhoon reclined at Tonfah’s knee, eyes closed as air currents toyed with his hair. Johan and North were sprawled against the fountain’s edge, half-arguing, half-laughing over strategy notes that had nothing to do with schoolwork. Hill had cornered a chessboard conjured from stone while Easter leaned lazily against him, arms folded. Daotok sat quietly at the edge of the fountain, his hand trailing through the water.

He trailed his fingers through the fountain’s basin, and the ripples shivered, bending to his will. The water rose like glass pulled into a thread, weaving itself into serpents that coiled around his wrist. With a flick of his hand, it became a ribboned wave arcing through the courtyard, catching sunlight in gleams of silver-blue.

“Show-off,” Easter muttered, though his eyes tracked the movement with pride.

Daotok smirked faintly—then the air shifted colder. Duennao had lifted his hand, and with a single breath, frost bloomed across the ribbons of water, turning them to crystalline ice. The serpents froze mid-coil, glittering shards suspended in the air like fragile sculpture.

Gasps scattered among them. Even Typhoon straightened where he reclined at Tonfah’s knee, storm-grey eyes narrowing.

“Water,” Johan murmured, glancing at Daotok. His gaze slid to Duennao, sharp. “And ice.”

Duennao let the sculpture hang a heartbeat longer before releasing it. The ice cracked with a sound like breaking glass, shards falling and melting into harmless droplets on the grass.

“Not ice,” he corrected softly, voice low but steady. “Cold enough to still the river. The frost simply follows.”

Typhoon watched the display with a storm’s unease. “So it’s not just the eight of us.”

“No,” Tiger drawled from beneath the oak tree, where he lounged as though the moment bored him. The roots curled around his arm at his touch before easing back into the soil. “It never was.”

The courtyard hushed again, weight pressing down on the summer air. Hearthwend’s wards hummed faintly in agreement, old stones vibrating as if the manor itself acknowledged the truth: the circle was no longer eight—it was ten.

Tonfah’s voice was soft but edged with conviction. “Then it’s decided. No coincidences. No strays. We were meant to stand as one.”

The courtyard was still humming with the faint pulse of Hearthwend’s wards, as though the manor had recognized the balance of ten. Silence lingered between them, heavy yet strangely comfortable. It was Johan who finally broke it, shifting his weight where he sat on the fountain’s edge, storm-light eyes flicking toward Typhoon and Tonfah.

“Hearthwend has claimed us,” Johan said, voice calm but carrying weight. “But we can’t forget Thorngrave. It’s been left quiet too long.”

Typhoon tilted his head. “You’re right. Thorngrave doesn’t take kindly to neglect.”

Daotok, still dripping water through his fingers, added quietly, “If we leave it silent for too long, the wards will rot. And rotting wards invite eyes we don’t want.”

Tonfah’s gaze swept the group. “Then it’s settled. Hearthwend will hold us for now, but in a week’s time, we’ll depart for Thorngrave. A visit, nothing more, but enough to remind it that we haven’t abandoned it.”

“Does Thorngrave…get jealous?” Easter asked carefully, tilting his head as though testing if the question sounded foolish.

Typhoon’s lips curved, almost a smirk. “Not jealous. Possessive. It doesn’t like sharing its heirs.”

That sent a ripple of unease through the younger four. Johan leaned back, storm-dark eyes steady. “Then we’ll show it the truth. That it doesn’t just have heirs—it has family.”

Hill huffed. “Family with teeth, you mean.”

“Exactly,” Johan replied without missing a beat.

Tiger stretched beneath the oak, earth shifting lazily around his fingers. “A week here, then Thorngrave. The manors will learn to share us, whether they like it or not.”

The others exchanged glances—knowing that Thorngrave would not make it so simple, but silently agreeing nonetheless.

 

---

 

The gates groaned open with a sound like bone dragged across stone, and Thorngrave Hall rose before them—vast, brooding, its towers clutching the sky like jagged claws. The air was heavy, alive with the restless hum of wards too long untested.

As Typhoon, Tonfah, Johan, and Daotok crossed the threshold first, the ground shuddered faintly. The Hall recognized them, yet its welcome was far from warm. Shadows rippled along the walls, windows rattled in their panes, and the wards stirred like a beast scenting old defiance.

Tiger chuckled, too loud in the silence. “Still holding a grudge, are we?” His tone was amused, careless.

Duennao shot him a sharp look, voice low but edged. “You brought it on yourself. Thorngrave doesn’t forget.”

The wards bristled as if to prove his point, a low groan echoing through the stones.

Then, something shifted when Hill, Easter, North, and Arthit stepped through the gates. Their presence unfurled into the courtyard. Thorngrave paused, its wards rippling with something like memory.

The wards recoiled once, testing, then slowly quieted. The windows stilled, the shadows pulled back, the rumble in the stones eased into silence. The Hall relaxed—not because Tiger had bowed to it, but because it recognized the returning presences that had soothed its solitude last year.

Typhoon’s eyes flicked toward the manor, sharp and assessing, then softened in the barest degree. “It remembers you,” he murmured, not as a question but a certainty.

Tonfah let out a breath, gaze flicking between the quieted wards and their companions. “It seems Thorngrave prefers you more than some of its own.” His words slid toward Tiger, half-teasing, half-warning.

Tiger only smirked, though quieter now, his hand brushing the wall as though to test if the Hall would flinch again. It did not.

Johan’s mouth curved with a ghost of amusement. “Be grateful. Few outside blood ever earn Thorngrave’s regard. And it rarely forgets once it has.”

The ten of them stood together in the courtyard as the Hall settled into watchful silence. For the first time in years, Thorngrave felt full.

 

The long dining table in Thorngrave’s west hall was aglow with candlelight. The vast ceiling loomed high above them, frescoes of storms and battles half-lost in shadow, but the tension that had greeted their arrival had settled into a hush. The Hall, for once, seemed content to listen.

The ten of them gathered around the table—silver dishes steaming with roast meats, fruits, and warm bread. Their laughter softened the ancient walls, filling corners that had only known silence.

It was Johan, of all people, who steered them away from politics first. He tipped his glass toward the others. “So,” he drawled, “our last year at Hogwarts. Do we plan to make it uneventful, or utterly disastrous?”

Easter snorted into his drink. “As if we’ve ever had an uneventful year.”

Hill leaned back lazily, eyes sharp but amused. “I vote disastrous. At least it would be consistent.”

That broke the table into soft laughter.

Tonfah, for once, looked lighter, his usual restraint loosened. “At the very least,” he said, “we’ll need to shop for supplies soon. New robes, books… the usual.”

Arthit perked up, his smile more boyish than they’d seen in weeks. “Diagon Alley trip then? All of us together.”

North hummed thoughtfully, pushing his food around with his fork. “It might be nice. Something normal for once.” His words carried a faint smile, one that made Johan glance at him with quiet warmth.

Duennao, sitting beside North, added softly, “I’ve never done the Hogwarts supply run. I’d like to see it. Properly, I mean. Not in passing.”

Tiger grinned, leaning forward over the table. “Then it’s settled. We’ll make a day of it. Cause a little chaos in the Alley, terrify the shopkeepers, the usual.”

Easter leaned forward with a grin. “Is Diagon Alley enough for the four of you this year?”

Hill smirked. “I mean, really. After all, last summer was… where was it again?”

North, catching the bait, groaned. “Toulouse.”

That set the table into laughter.

Typhoon tipped his glass lazily. “We went for practicality.”

Tonfah arched a brow. “And fine tailoring.”

Arthit wagged his fork. “Dress robes in France for school. I’m shocked you survived the scandal of being so… ordinary.”

Daotok only smirked, sharp and amused. “We never claimed to be ordinary.”

Tiger, who had been listening with a flicker of confusion, leaned in. “Wait—you shopped in France? For school?”

Beside him, Duennao raised a brow, equally bewildered. “How very… subtle of you.” His lips curved in a teasing smile. “Well then, if you’re set on traveling the globe for parchment and ink, perhaps next you should shop in Japan.”

For a heartbeat, the room was still—then Typhoon, Daotok, North, and Easter burst into unrestrained laughter.

Tonfah, caught between amusement and exasperation, shot them all a sharp look. “What—what’s so funny?”

Easter wiped his eyes, grinning. “Japan, of all places. Nao, you don’t know what you’ve just said.”

North leaned forward, smirking. “That’s where we picked up Typhoon’s gift for Tonfah’s birthday last year.”

The table tilted into another round of laughter, some sharp, some soft. Tonfah pressed his hand to his temple, shaking his head as Typhoon sat back, all smug and quiet, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Duennao blinked once, then laughed as well. “Ah. Then perhaps I’ve stumbled onto dangerous ground.”

“Too late for that,” Johan drawled, grinning.

The night stretched on in warmth and amusement, the wards humming faintly in approval. For once, the future and its shadows were far away—what they had, here, was laughter, teasing, and the kind of normality they rarely allowed themselves.

Chapter 56

The summer sun lay heavy over Thorngrave’s courtyard, gilding the crumbling stone with a warmth it had not known in centuries. For once, they were not bent beneath duty or shadow. The elves had laid out a picnic across a spread of dark linen and silver trays, fruit glistening with dew, decanters of chilled juice sweating against the heat.

North leaned back against Johan’s shoulder, eyes half-shut as if memorizing the rare serenity. Easter teased Hill for brooding over a plate of sugared pastries, and Tiger was halfway through explaining the advantages of earth-borne wards compared to Britain’s tradition of layered charms. Duennao lay stretched nearby, eyes half-shut, idly playing with the chilled droplets running from his glass. Arthit and Daotok sat close together on the grass, Daotok coaxing water from his goblet and shaping it into delicate spirals while Arthit watched with sharp amusement. While Tonfah and Typhoon sat together beneath the courtyard’s ancient oak, the stillness between them was deeper than words.

For once, the world was soft.

And then the air split.

A sharp, violent crack echoed through the wards. The picnic stilled in an instant, laughter dying on their tongues. All ten rose to their feet as the magic of Thorngrave hissed in warning, the wards shuddering like a wounded beast.

From the fracture stepped a Ministry official—robes black-trimmed with scarlet, bearing the sigil of the Department of Magical Security. His smile was cold, his eyes sharper still.

“Well, well,” he drawled, gaze sweeping over them with cruel satisfaction. “Who would have thought the old manor would gather them all? The only ten heirs of elemental blood, sitting ripe at one table. You’ve made my task… infinitely easier.”

Daotok stiffened, the water he had been weaving collapsing into the grass. Tonfah’s jaw set, storm-dark fury already shadowing Typhoon’s gaze.

“Task?” Johan’s voice was ice.

The official’s smile sharpened. “Disposing of you.”

His wand rose, and a curse split the air, aimed straight for Hill.

But Easter moved faster. His wand slashed, a wordless spell tearing from his throat. The air bent, a force darker than shadow and brighter than lightning all at once.

A variant of Mors Infracta.

The magic roared from him like a storm breaking, striking the Ministry official squarely in the chest. There was no time for the man to scream. His body collapsed, lifeless, crumpling against the ancient stones of Thorngrave.

Silence.

The wards shuddered, then went still. The air tasted of ash and endings.

Easter stood frozen, wand still raised, his hand trembling. Hill stared at him wide-eyed, voice caught in his throat. Arthit’s lips parted, but no sound came. Daotok’s hand hovered, water trembling uselessly in his palm.

Tonfah and Typhoon did not move. Johan’s gaze flicked to North, then back to the body sprawled on Thorngrave’s floor. Tiger’s usual smirk was gone, replaced with a tight line. Duennao turned slowly, eyes narrowed, scanning every corner of the courtyard for more intruders.

But there was no one else.

Easter’s wand slipped from his hand. His chest heaved as if the air had turned to fire in his lungs. The Ministry official lay at his feet, eyes glassy, body still, the scent of singed magic clinging to the stones.

“I—no—no, I didn’t mean—” Easter’s voice broke, raw and high. He staggered back, nearly tripping over the edge of the table, his hands trembling so hard that droplets of water from the pitcher nearby leapt into the air with him.

“He—he was going to kill Hill, I—” His words tangled with panic, his breaths sharp and uneven.

Hill was at his side in a blink, catching him before he could stumble further. Easter flinched like he’d been burned, eyes darting between the body and his friends. “I killed him—I killed someone—”

Typhoon’s voice cut through the air, deep and sharp as thunder. “Hill. Keep him grounded. Do not let him spiral further.” His eyes burned with authority as he snapped the command.

Hill pulled Easter closer, wrapping his arms around him. “Hey. Look at me, love. Look at me, not at him.” His voice was low but firm, pressing Easter’s trembling hands against his chest. “You’re here. You’re alive. You saved me. Breathe with me—now.”

Easter shook his head, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “But I killed—”

“You saved,” Hill countered immediately, holding him tighter. “Say it with me: you saved.” His tone brooked no refusal.

Meanwhile, Tonfah, Johan, and Daotok moved to the fallen official. Their steps were measured, careful, as if the body itself might lash out. Johan crouched, brushing back the man’s collar with precision. Daotok knelt beside him, summoning a ripple of water to test for lingering life. Tonfah’s gaze was already sharp, his hand hovering in the air as if feeling for any flicker of breath.

The silence stretched. Then Johan exhaled and met Tonfah’s eyes. “Dead.”

The word was final. Heavy.

Easter let out a broken sound, panic flooding back in. His knees buckled, and Hill tightened his grip, whispering hurried reassurances as Easter gasped, almost choking on air.

Tonfah straightened, expression hardening. His voice carried, calm and commanding. “Vaelen.”

A small pop answered, and a house-elf appeared, wide-eyed. “Yes, Master Tonfah.”

Tonfah didn’t waver. “Bring a calming draught. Now.” Vaelen vanished instantly.

Tonfah turned, scanning the others. “Johan, Dao, Ger, North—clean the wards. Erase all traces of intrusion, every crack. Nothing must remain.” His words were clipped steel, leaving no room for argument.

They obeyed without question. Johan rose, drawing North with him, their magic already beginning to weave through the ward-lines. Daotok pulled water from the air, freezing and reforging the shattered threads where the Ministry official had torn through. Tiger pressed his palm flat to the stones, earth, and strength grounding the wards back into their foundation.

Typhoon’s voice followed, low thunder that brooked obedience. “Arthit, Nao—you’re with me. The body.” He flicked his wand, sealing the corpse in layers of storm-woven wards, obscuring it from sight, sound, and magical trace. “We’ll apparate it far. Strip every trace of spellwork before disposal.”

Arthit swallowed hard but nodded, his hand steady as he reinforced the spell. Duennao’s magic coiled cold and sharp, freezing the air around the body to contain any lingering resonance.

Typhoon’s gaze shifted back to Hill. “Do not leave his side. Keep him calm.”

Hill didn’t even glance up, already rocking Easter gently, whispering in his ear. The calming draught appeared with a soft pop, and Tonfah himself took it, kneeling to press the vial into Easter’s shaking hands.

“Drink, starlight,” Tonfah said softly, his commanding tone easing for Easter’s ears alone. “You will not face this alone. Do you hear me? None of us will.”

Easter’s lips trembled, tears slipping free as he tried to protest, but Hill tilted the vial to his lips, coaxing the potion past them. Slowly, painfully, Easter’s breathing began to even, the panic ebbing into exhaustion.

Around them, the group moved with practiced precision—wards cleansed, the corpse sealed, orders carried out without hesitation.

But the silence between them carried the weight of what had just been done.

Of what Easter had unleashed.

The wards at Thorngrave pulsed faintly. Without another word, Typhoon grasped the shrouded body with one hand and reached for Arthit’s shoulder with the other. Duennao placed his fingers on Typhoon’s wrist, his touch cold as ice.

The courtyard vanished in a rush of air.

They reappeared at the jagged cliffs beyond the English coast, where the sea crashed violently against the black rocks. The wind stung with salt, and lightning flickered faintly on the horizon.

For a long moment, the three stood in silence, the body at their feet. Arthit’s knuckles were white around his wand. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice.

“We have no choice,” Typhoon replied, his tone flat, but his eyes steady. He knelt, drawing runes into the damp stone with the tip of his wand. The air thickened with storm-magic, wrapping the body tighter in cloaked layers.

Duennao crouched beside him, frost spiraling outward from his palm. He glanced at Typhoon, his voice cool but practical. “Leave it raw like this, and anyone who finds him will know it was spellwork. Better to make it… look like something else.” His dark eyes flicked to the cliffs below. “An accident. A fall. The sea can devour what’s left.”

Arthit flinched at the casualness of the suggestion, but Duennao’s tone was calm, almost detached, as though he’d seen things like this before.

Typhoon considered, then nodded once. “Do it.”

Duennao spread his hand, freezing the runes Typhoon had drawn, fracturing them into jagged shards that mimicked natural cracks in the rock. He whispered an incantation, and the air thickened with the chill of deep winter. With a flick, he guided the body closer to the cliff’s edge, ice and water wrapping it in a cocoon that mirrored stone.

Arthit’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he raised his wand and added a final charm—one to erase any magical imprint, blurring the last traces of Easter’s spell. His throat was tight as he whispered, “Gone, like he never touched us.”

Typhoon was the one to push. With a final sweep of his wand, the body tumbled silently over the cliff, swallowed whole by the black sea below. The waves roared, as if eager to keep the secret.

The three of them stood still, the sound of the ocean crashing beneath their silence.

Arthit exhaled sharply, as though breathing for the first time. “We’ve crossed a line.”

“We’ve protected our own,” Typhoon corrected coldly, eyes narrowing at the horizon.

Duennao’s tone was quiet, but edged with truth. “Both can be true.”

For a moment, the sea’s spray washed over them, cool and biting. Then Typhoon turned, storm still in his eyes. “We go back. And we do not speak of this again.”

The three vanished, leaving only the sea to hold their secret.

The wards shimmered faintly as Johan, Daotok, Tiger, and North reemerged from the perimeter. Their faces were tense but resolute. Johan ran a hand through his hair, his storm still humming faintly around him.

“The wards are clean,” Daotok reported, voice low. Water still beaded on his palms, dispersing as he clenched them into fists. “No trace of the intrusion remains.”

Tiger exhaled sharply, brushing the dust from his robes. “They won’t find a single thread to follow. We burned it all out.”

North gave a curt nod, his light still faint in the edges of his eyes. “For now, we’re safe.”

It was then that Typhoon, Arthit, and Duennao returned. The storm still clung faintly to Typhoon’s shoulders, Duennao’s cold aura sharper than usual, and Arthit’s face pale and set. None of them spoke at first, but their silence was enough to confirm the task was done.

The group shifted uncomfortably. Easter sat against Hill, his face ashen, hands trembling despite Hill’s firm hold around him. His breathing was shallow, his eyes fixed blankly on the ground.

Unexpectedly, it was Hill who broke the silence. His voice was steady, colder than the others had ever heard it.

“This doesn’t leave the ten of us.” His gaze swept across them, daring anyone to object.

Tonfah stepped forward, his presence sharp, protective. “Agreed. Easter is ours to protect. If anyone speaks of this, they answer to me.”

Hill’s hand tightened on Easter’s shoulder. “No. That’s not enough. We make it binding.” He looked up, eyes fierce. “An Unbreakable Vow. Between all ten of us. If any of us breaks it, we die. Easter will not be left vulnerable to whispers or betrayal.”

Easter’s head snapped up, panic flooding his features. “No! You can’t—don’t bind yourselves for me! Please, I didn’t—”

But the others were already moving. Typhoon’s jaw was set, Johan and Daotok exchanged a grim nod, and even Tiger’s usual teasing expression was gone. Arthit’s eyes flickered with guilt, but he stepped closer.

Tonfah knelt in front of Easter, catching his chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. “Starlight, listen to me, this is not just for you. This is for all of us. One falls, we all fall. Do you understand?”

Easter’s protests broke into a choked breath, but Hill held him tighter, whispering low assurances into his hair as the circle formed.

They clasped hands, ten strands of power weaving together—storm, flame, water, ice, earth, and wind—an elemental chain that burned in the air as the vow was sealed. Typhoon whispered the incantation, his voice like thunder rolling over stone, and the magic snapped shut around them with a final, unyielding pulse.

The vow was made.

A heavy silence lingered, broken only by the sound of Easter’s unsteady breaths. Then, Arthit spoke, his voice quieter but sharp with clarity.

“We were never here.”

The others turned toward him, uncertain. Arthit straightened, his mind already working through the details. “We did not set foot in Thorngrave this summer. We went to Hearthwend for a week, then left for Chiang Mai. That is the truth we will live by. If anyone asks, we spent the entire summer there. No trace of us remains here, and no one will question an alibi this simple.”

The group exchanged glances, then one by one nodded. Duennao gave a faint smile, sharp as frost. “A quiet understanding, then. Hearthwend first… then Chiang Mai.”

Tiger chuckled softly, though the sound was grim. “So it is written, and so it shall be remembered.”

Hill finally leaned back, still keeping Easter close. “Then it’s settled.”

And in the dark heart of Thorngrave, ten heirs sealed their silence—not with words alone, but with blood, magic, and the weight of an oath that would bind them forever.

Chapter 57

The humid air of Chiang Mai greeted them as the shimmer of apparition faded. Arthit's ancestral manor rose before them, its sweeping roofs and lantern-lit courtyards nestled against the jungle's edge. It was quieter here—no shadow of restless wards, no whisper of suspicion, just the hum of ancient protections and the steady thrum of summer heat.

An elf in pale silks appeared instantly, bowing low. "Master Arthit, welcome home."

Arthit gave a clipped nod, his voice brisk but steady. "Prepare rooms for my guests. All of them. And see that the wards are reinforced at once."

The elf vanished with a soft crack, and already the shimmer of protective enchantments thickened around the estate. Arthit himself lifted his hand, weaving additional layers of wards, sharper, stronger, and no trace of intrusion would seep through here. Only when he was satisfied did he turn back to the others.

"Drawing room. Now." His tone left no room for argument.

Inside, the room was cool, scented faintly of jasmine and old wood. The others settled uneasily on carved chairs and low couches, Easter still pale and drawn between Hill and Daotok.

Arthit extended his hand. "Ter, your wand."

Easter flinched. "My wand? Why—"

“Give it to me,” Arthit pressed, his eyes unwavering. Slowly, with trembling fingers, Easter obeyed. Arthit caught it with care, then turned at once to Tonfah. “Clean it. Thoroughly. Not just the surface, strip every echo.”

Tonfah’s expression hardened, but he obeyed, his wand precise as it unraveled the lingering stain of Mors Infracta’s variant. Typhoon leaned close, eyes dark, ensuring nothing was missed. Slowly, the taint bled away until the wand pulsed with nothing but silence.

Tonfah returned it to Arthit, who studied it a long moment—then, instead of handing it back immediately, slipped another wand from the folds of his robes.

A perfect twin. Same polished wood. Same balance. Same rare core.

The room stilled.

“I had this made,” Arthit admitted, voice low. “An exact replica of yours, Easter. If cleaning failed, if your wand refused to be rid of the stain, you would have this. A spare. A safeguard.”

He held out both. “Take it. Keep it. One of these wands is still yours, whichever you choose. And no one will know the difference.”

Easter stared, trembling harder, but reached with shaking hands to take both. Hill’s hand closed firmly over his shoulder, grounding him.

Arthit finally leaned back. “Now, the rest of it. We were never at Thorngrave. That is the truth we will carry. Hearthwend, then Chiang Mai—that is our summer. If questioned, you will answer as one.”

North leaned into the chair, arms folded. “And if someone digs?”

Typhoon’s eyes flicked sharp. “They will find nothing. We disposed of the body, erased the spell. The wards are clean.”

As if summoned, Johan and Daotok spoke in unison: “The wards are clean.” Tiger and North nodded agreement, adding their voices to the reassurance.

“Even if we wiped everything, suspicion may still find us. What then?” Duennao asked carefully.

“Then we hold our alibi,” Arthit said firmly.

“But, you all know what’s coming. The Ministry won’t stop. They’re sniffing for cracks, for slips in memory, for the smallest tell. They’ll have Legilimens watching.” Tiger said sharply.

His gaze settled squarely on Easter. “Especially you.”

Easter froze. “M–me?” His voice cracked.

Tiger nodded. “You panicked today. And anyone looking inside your mind would see that panic. See the truth.” He leaned forward, hands clasped. “You need Occlumency. Desperately.”

The words struck like stone. Easter’s breath hitched, and Hill immediately tightened his hold, glaring at Tiger. “He’s just been through hell. You want him to seal his mind shut right now?”

“Better sealed than shattered,” Tiger answered coolly, though his eyes were not unkind. “I’m not saying he must master it overnight. But he needs to start. We all do. Especially him. Because if even one of us falters, all ten fall.”

Tonfah leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “Tiger’s right.” He met Easter’s wide, frightened eyes. “Occlumency isn’t about hardening yourself into stone. It’s about protecting what matters most. Protecting all of us.”

Easter looked down at his lap, his hands trembling around the twin wands. “But… I’ve never been good at that sort of thing. I’m… too open.”

Typhoon’s voice cut in like a blade through silk. “Then you’ll learn. Vulnerability is not a weakness, Starlight. Not unless you let others use it against you.” His eyes softened, only slightly. “I’ll help you. Tiger will too. Between us, you’ll learn to keep what needs keeping.”

Hill pressed his lips to Easter’s temple, murmuring quietly. “You won’t do this alone. Not ever.”

Across the room, Daotok, quiet until now, finally spoke. “We should all learn. Not just Easter. The Ministry will come for all of us, eventually.”

North exhaled, a humorless laugh. “A summer of Occlumency lessons. Just what we needed.”

Johan smirked faintly, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his unease. “Better than a summer of interrogations.”

For the first time that night, a small smile tugged at Easter’s lips, shaky but real. “Alright… I’ll try. But only if you all do it too.”

“Agreed,” Tiger said at once, his smile faint, wolfish. “Tomorrow we begin.”

And in the heavy quiet that followed, for the first time since the wards cracked at Thorngrave, there was something like resolve.

 

---

 

The next afternoon, the ten of them gathered in Arthit’s training hall, a high-ceilinged chamber with polished teak floors and walls that pulsed faintly with protective wards. Outside, the summer cicadas buzzed, but within, the air was heavy, waiting.

Tiger stood at the center, his presence grounding. “Occlumency,” he began, his voice even, “is not just defense. It’s survival. The Ministry will try to break into your minds. They’ll claw at your memories until you slip. Unless you can hold them out.”

His gaze swept the circle before settling on Easter. The younger boy fidgeted under the weight of it, fingers twisting at the wand Arthit had pressed into his hand.

“I… I don’t think I can do this,” Easter murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tiger opened his mouth to answer, but Typhoon’s voice cut in, calm and sharp. “Then you won’t. Not yet.”

The others looked at him, surprised. Typhoon crossed the floor with careful steps, stopping at Easter’s side. “You don’t force your mind to close when it’s already storming. Let it settle first. He’ll try when he’s ready.”

Easter blinked up at him, startled by the rare softness in his tone. Typhoon’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before he turned back to the others. “The rest of you have no excuse. On your feet.”

They paired off, reluctantly at first. Tonfah with Daotok, Johan with North, Hill with Tiger, Arthit with Duennao. Typhoon stood alone, arms folded, his storm-grey eyes measuring each of them.

“I’ll be testing you all,” he said. “I learned Legilimency at Durmstrang. Enough to pry open doors. If you can’t keep me out, neither will you keep a Ministry Legilimens out.”

The revelation sent a ripple through the group.

“You never mentioned that,” Johan muttered, half accusing.

“Because it wasn’t relevant. Until now.” Typhoon’s lips curved in something not quite a smile. “Ready yourselves.”

North went first. Typhoon’s eyes met his, sharp as a blade sliding into a sheath. For a moment, North held steady. Then Typhoon’s voice slipped into his head—too much responsibility, too many secrets, not enough time.

North flinched, breaking eye contact. Typhoon tilted his head. “You rely too much on dismissing things you don’t want to face. That won’t work when someone is clawing through your mind. Again.”

Johan bristled. “He doesn’t need to be torn apart.”

Typhoon arched a brow. “Better torn apart here than in an interrogation chamber.”

Daotok fared differently. When Typhoon pressed, his mind filled with the shimmer of water, flowing and shifting. Typhoon’s brows furrowed as his magic slipped on slick surfaces. “Interesting,” he murmured, pulling back. “You deflect, rather than shield. Fluid, but dangerous if someone stronger pushes harder.”

Arthit scowled when Typhoon broke through his defenses in under a minute, scattering thoughts of runes and family obligations across the hall like shards of glass. “Bloody unfair,” Arthit snapped, cheeks flushed.

“It isn’t meant to be fair,” Typhoon replied smoothly. “Do better.”

Hill surprised them all. When Typhoon tried, he hit a wall—not perfect, but stubborn, jagged, like roots sunk deep into stone. Typhoon withdrew, tilting his head in faint approval. “Not bad. Emotional anchors. Dangerous if they’re used against you, but strong if you know how to control them.”

By the time it was Easter’s turn, the group was sweating, irritable, and humbled. He sat tense, staring at his wand. Hill brushed his hand reassuringly over his knuckles.

“We can skip me,” Easter said quickly. “I’ll only make a fool of myself.”

“Fools can still learn,” Typhoon said flatly. His voice softened, barely. “But not today. You’ll try when you’ve rested. When you believe you can.”

Tiger’s gaze lingered on Typhoon, almost amused. “You’ve grown into quite the teacher,” he remarked.

Typhoon ignored him.

By the time they ended the session, the sun is bleeding gold through the high windows. Most of them were shaken, a little raw. Daotok rubbed at his temples. North scowled. Johan muttered curses under his breath about Slytherin sadist.

Easter was the only one who looked marginally relieved, though guilt shadowed his face. Hill kept close, murmuring assurances.

As they left, Tonfah lingered at Typhoon’s side. “You didn’t push Easter.”

Typhoon didn’t look at him. “Breaking him now helps no one. He’ll come to it on his own. He has to.”

Tonfah studied him for a moment, then allowed the faintest smile. “And here I thought you incapable of mercy.”

Typhoon’s lips twitched. “Don’t mistake patience for mercy, love.”

Chapter 58

The training hall was cooler that evening, but the tension thickened the air. They had spent two days recovering from their first lesson, their thoughts still raw from Typhoon’s sharp probing. This time, though, it was Typhoon who stood at the center.

He folded his hands behind his back, eyes glittering faintly in the torchlight.

“You’ve all tried to defend yourselves,” he said, voice steady. “Now, you’ll learn what it’s like to face someone who won’t let you in.”

A faint curl tugged at his lips. “Try, if you think you can.”

Johan, predictably, moved first. He squared his shoulders, storm crackling faintly in his gaze as he tried to push into Typhoon’s mind. His power slammed forward—like a battering ram against a fortress.

Nothing.

Typhoon didn’t even blink. Johan gritted his teeth, sweat beading along his brow, until at last Typhoon tilted his head in mock curiosity. “Finished already?”

Johan snarled and withdrew, frustrated.

Daotok tried next, slipping in quietly, water coiling around the edges of Typhoon’s consciousness. But it was like trying to slip through mist that hardened into glass the moment he touched it. The surface shimmered, impenetrable.

“Slippery,” Typhoon murmured, voice like velvet over steel. “But still clumsy.”

Daotok cursed under his breath.

North and Hill tried together, weaving their wills like threads. They pressed hard, shadows and light twining, but Typhoon’s defenses didn’t even shudder. It was as though he stood within a storm, untouchable, while they battered at the edges in vain.

Easter, urged gently by Hill, attempted too. His effort was hesitant, tentative—like a hand reaching into a locked chest. He recoiled the moment he felt Typhoon’s wall, panting as though burned.

Tiger clicked his tongue. “Pathetic.” But even when he joined, even when Duennao lent his ice-sharp focus, the nine of them together barely scratched Typhoon’s calm exterior.

The storm within him was sealed away, locked so tightly that nothing seeped through—no stray thought, no flicker of memory. Only silence.

At last, Arthit slammed his fist against the wooden beam beside him. “This is impossible! No one’s this closed off.”

Typhoon finally moved. He raised his chin, gaze sweeping across all nine of them. “No one here. But out there? There are minds trained sharper than mine. If you cannot break me, you’ll never break them. Remember that.”

Johan scowled. North looked unsettled. Easter’s hands trembled.

Tonfah, though, watched with a strange intensity, his lips curving faintly. He knew the cost behind such walls—the loneliness, the discipline, the refusal to ever let one’s guard drop.

They slumped back, defeated. Typhoon finally let his magic soften, lowering the impenetrable storm until it was only a whisper in the room.

“Don’t be discouraged,” he said, quieter now. “You weren’t meant to win today. You were meant to learn. Learn what strength feels like. Learn how far you still have to go.”

Silence lingered until Tiger let out a low whistle. “So this is what Durmstrang carved into you.”

Typhoon only smirked faintly, eyes flicking toward Tonfah. “And what I chose to keep.”

The others left the hall slowly, still murmuring about the lesson, leaving only Typhoon and Tonfah behind. The torches flickered low, shadows pulling long across the polished floor.

Tonfah leaned against the doorway, watching Typhoon roll his shoulders as though the effort of keeping nine of them out hadn’t even touched him.

“You do that too easily.”

Typhoon glanced up, expression unreadable. “That’s the point.”

Tonfah’s jaw tightened. He crossed the room, catching Typhoon by the wrist before he could retreat into silence again. “That’s not living, Phoon. That’s hiding. You shut everything out, even me.”

Typhoon’s lips quirked, but it was brittle. “Better hidden than broken.”

Tonfah’s grip didn’t loosen. His voice dropped, dangerous and low, though there was no anger in it. Only ache. “We’re bonded. I feel you even when you try to lock me out. You think you’re protecting me, but all you’re doing is starving me of what’s mine to carry.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Typhoon’s eyes searched Tonfah’s face, something flickering there—fear, longing, resignation.

Finally, Typhoon exhaled and let his magic soften, just for Tonfah.

“Then come in,” he whispered.

Tonfah pressed his forehead to Typhoon’s, closing his eyes. This time, there were no walls. Instead, Typhoon opened a door and let Tonfah step through.

The first memory that surfaced was soft, almost startling in its innocence. Two boys, much younger, running through a summer garden. Tonfah recognized his own laughter echoing, sharp and bright, as he chased Typhoon beneath the boughs of an old willow. Rings of daisy chains tangled their wrists, Typhoon’s small hands tugging him along.

Another flickered—Tonfah asleep against Typhoon’s shoulder in the library, sunlight streaming across open books. Typhoon hadn’t dared to move for hours.

And then, the faint memory of their mothers, speaking in hushed tones, slipping rings into their palms with conspiratorial smiles. A childhood promise neither of them had broken.

Tonfah’s chest tightened. He pulled back, cupping Typhoon’s face with both hands. “You kept all of this from me.”

Typhoon’s voice was barely a breath. “I kept it safe.”

Tonfah kissed him then, slow and lingering, tracing the curve of Typhoon’s jaw as though to memorize every detail anew. When they parted, Typhoon’s defenses were still down, and Tonfah refused to let him retreat. He pressed his lips against Typhoon’s temple and whispered:

“Don’t ever lock me out again. Whatever storm you keep, I’ll weather it with you.”

Typhoon closed his eyes, leaning into him. “Then don’t let me fall.”

And for once, the storm inside him quieted—because he wasn’t holding it alone.

 

---

 

The manor’s library was hushed, only the soft rustle of parchment breaking the silence. Easter sat slouched in an armchair near the window, books scattered around him, none of them opened beyond a few pages. Moonlight pooled across the floor, the silver glow glinting against his pale fingers as he turned the same page over and over without reading it.

He had chosen a book on charms for defense, but the words blurred. His mind kept circling back—flashes of the official’s expression, the sound the body made when it fell, the way his own voice had shouted a spell that should never have left his lips. His chest tightened, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, as though he could press the memory down into silence.

“It wasn’t supposed to be me,” he whispered to the empty room. “I wasn’t supposed to…”

His voice broke, and the book slipped from his hand, landing on the carpet with a dull thud. He didn’t notice Typhoon until the other boy leaned lazily against the nearest shelf, arms crossed. The storm in him was muted, more shadow than tempest, but it was there, waiting.

“You’ve been sitting here for hours.” Typhoon’s voice was soft, but it cut through the quiet like a blade. “The elves said you skipped supper.”

Easter stiffened. He reached for the fallen book as if to mask his unease. “I just… needed to think.”

Typhoon’s eyes followed the trembling of Easter’s hand as he picked the book up. “You’re not thinking. You’re drowning.”

Easter flinched, the words sharper than he expected. He tried for a wry smile, but it faltered. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who killed him.”

Typhoon pushed away from the shelf, walking slowly, until he stood beside Easter’s chair. He didn’t sit. He simply looked down, his presence heavy enough to still the air.

“I know exactly what it feels like,” he said quietly. “More than once. The first time, I thought I’d never stop seeing it. But you will. The mind holds on, but it also learns to let go if you don’t let it eat you alive first.”

Easter’s throat worked. He stared down at the book in his lap, fingers curling over the spine. “And if I can’t?”

Typhoon’s lips curved faintly, humorless. “Then you’ll learn to carry it. That’s what the rest of us are here for. You think we’d let you shatter alone?”

For a moment, Easter said nothing. Then, to his own surprise, he felt a hand brush against his—Typhoon’s, light and fleeting.

“You need to try again,” Typhoon murmured. “Occlumency. Control. If you don’t, the memory will own you.”

Easter finally looked up, meeting the storm-grey eyes. He saw no judgment there, no disdain. Only the quiet, dangerous truth of someone who had already lived it.

Easter exhaled shakily and nodded. “I’ll try. Just… not tonight.”

Typhoon inclined his head, stepping back. “Not tonight. But soon.” He paused at the door, his voice softer, almost teasing. “And don’t make me drag you out of here again.”

Easter let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh, as the door clicked shut behind him. For the first time since that terrible night, the library didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

Chapter 59

The days slipped by quietly, the manor’s summer air soft with cicadas and the occasional thunder beyond the mountains. Easter hadn’t spoken of the incident again, though his eyes lingered too long on shadows, and he kept close to Hill’s side. But that morning, all ten of them were gathered in the training hall in a semicircle, wands in hand, watching. Easter stood across from Typhoon, his posture tense but determined.

“I’m ready,” Easter said before Typhoon could open his mouth. His voice wavered, but his gaze did not. “Don’t hold back.”

Typhoon tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re certain?”

“Yes.” Easter’s knuckles whitened around his wand. “If you pull your punches, I’ll never learn. I need this. I won’t shatter again.”

Typhoon’s smirk faded. He raised his wand, eyes flashing like stormlight. “Very well. Don’t regret it.”

The air thickened as Typhoon whispered, “Legilimens.”

Easter’s world ripped open. He was dragged toward his own memories—flashes of the Ministry official falling, the searing horror of the curse, the taste of bile in his throat. Panic surged, but this time he bit it down, clutching to his center. He remembered Typhoon’s voice three nights ago: don’t let it eat you alive.

He fought back.

Walls of water rose in his mind, crashing against Typhoon’s storm, shielding what he did not want to show. Typhoon pressed harder, shards of lightning breaking through, but Easter caught the rhythm, forcing the tide to swell higher, colder, pushing him back.

Easter’s chest heaved, but he straightened, fire flickering in his eyes. “Again,” he demanded, voice firm despite the tremor.

Hill made a sound of protest, but Easter shook his head. “I said I’m ready. Don’t hold back. Not until I can hold my ground.”

Typhoon tilted his head, storm-grey eyes narrowing in appraisal. Then, without a word, he lifted his wand. “Legilimens.”

This time the storm struck faster, sharper. Easter reeled, nearly losing himself to memories of waterlogged fear and the echo of death, but he forced himself still. He built walls of earth, sealed with ice, each stronger than the last. Typhoon hammered against them with lightning strikes, tearing cracks open, and yet Easter patched them just as quickly.

The room’s silence broke with their breaths, with the tension humming between them.

Typhoon pressed harder, sweat beading at his temple. Easter did not yield. He forced calm, forced control, until the storm struck and found no door, no crack, no way in.

Finally, Typhoon lowered his wand, eyes narrowing. “Not bad.”

But Easter wasn’t done. His wand rose. “Legilimens.”

The impact rang sharp. Easter lunged, seeking a way into Typhoon’s guarded mind. He saw flickers of stormclouds, of corridors lined with locked doors—but before he could even touch them, he was thrown back violently. Typhoon had slammed the walls shut with ruthless precision, cutting him off so abruptly that Easter staggered back, clutching at his head.

Gasps erupted around the room.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then Hill surged forward, half-angry, half-afraid, but Easter lifted a trembling hand to stop him. “I’m fine,” he rasped, though his chest still heaved.

“You tried to get into my head.”

Easter swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet his gaze. “You told me not to drown. So I swam.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as wire. Then Typhoon let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You reckless fool. Do you have any idea what would have happened if I hadn’t closed the door?”

Easter straightened, his fear still present but no longer paralyzing. “Then teach me to open it properly.”

“Bloody hell,” Johan whispered, eyes wide. “He almost broke through.”

“Through Typhoon’s wards,” Daotok added, disbelief lacing his tone.

North shook his head slowly, lips parting in astonishment. “Not even we got that far.”

Arthit let out a sharp laugh, though it carried no mockery. “Easter, you reckless star—you nearly did what none of us could.”

Tiger tilted his head, studying him. “Earth that cracks open storm. I didn’t expect it.”

Duennao’s eyes glimmered, sharp and knowing. “You’re not just defending anymore. You’re already learning to attack.”

Easter flushed, still trembling, his hands knotted together. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

But Tonfah interrupted softly, his gaze darting between Typhoon and Easter. “Intent or not, you almost broke down walls that were meant to be unbreakable.”

Typhoon studied him in silence, the storm in his gaze unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke:

“You might be more than suited for Occlumency, Ter. But you also might have a talent for Legilimency as well. Both sides of the coin.”

The others shifted, letting that truth sink in. Johan whistled low, shaking his head. “Occlumency and Legilimency. That’s… rare.”

Daotok added softly, “Dangerous too, if you master them.”

Hill’s arms went tight around Easter’s shoulders, his voice rough. “Dangerous or not, he’s mine to protect.”

Typhoon’s smirk was thin and sharp. “Then protect him well. Because if he keeps this up, he’ll be walking too close to shadows.”

Easter, still trembling, just whispered hoarsely, “Then I’ll learn to walk them without falling.”

And in that moment, even Typhoon inclined his head, acknowledging him not as a frightened boy, but as someone who might one day stand as his equal.

 

The corridor outside still hummed faintly with the energy of the evening’s lessons, but behind the door of their shared room, silence wrapped around them like a fragile shield. Easter sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders still damp from the shower he had taken, hair curling slightly at the ends. He looked exhausted but steady, as if the earlier battle in his mind had carved something new into him.

Hill closed the door quietly, leaning against it for a moment as if gathering courage. His eyes lingered on Easter’s back, then he crossed the room and sat down beside him, wordless.

For a long while, he just looked at him, then whispered, almost painfully.

“I thought I lost you tonight.”

Easter blinked, startled, and turned. Hill’s face was unguarded, his hands clenched tight in his lap. His voice cracked as he went on. “You pushed too far. I could see it—your mind straining, walls breaking. If you’d shattered in there, if Typhoon hadn’t stopped—” His breath hitched, and he broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could survive losing you, Ter.”

Easter’s chest tightened, but instead of fear, warmth spread through him. Slowly, he reached out, prying Hill’s clenched hands open and lacing their fingers together.

“Hill,” he said softly, “we’re not those boys anymore—the ones circling each other in Hogwarts halls, too stubborn to say what we meant.” He gave a small, wry smile. “We’re sharper now. Stronger. We’ve bled, we’ve survived, and we’re still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He pressed their joined hands to his chest, over his heartbeat. “We won’t lose each other. Not now. Not ever.”

Hill looked at him then, eyes fierce and vulnerable all at once, as if torn between belief and fear.

And then, without warning, Hill leaned in and kissed him. It was not desperate or frantic, rather it was steady and grounding, the kind of kiss that spoke of promises made without words.

Easter closed his eyes, kissing back, his free hand sliding up to rest against Hill’s cheek. For a moment, all the fear and weight of what had happened fell away, leaving only the quiet certainty between them.

When they pulled apart, foreheads still pressed together, Easter whispered with a small smile:

“See? Still here.”

Hill’s grip tightened on him, but his voice came out softer than ever.

“Stay that way.”

And Easter answered without hesitation.

“Always.”

Chapter 60

Notes:

Hi, I want to thank everyone who leaves comments and kudos in this AU. I really appreciate it. ❤️

The sun filtered through the high windows of Arthit’s Chiang Mai manor, painting the marble floors with a golden warmth. The air smelled faintly of fresh jasmine that the elves had left on the tables, and breakfast was already set in the dining room.

The ten of them gathered slowly, voices low and a little rough from sleep. But when Easter and Hill entered, something in the air shifted.

Easter carried himself differently with steady confidence. Hill lingered closer than usual, his hand brushing Easter’s sleeve once, almost unconsciously, as though unwilling to let too much space open between them.

It was subtle, but not enough to escape the sharp eyes of their circle.

North was the first to notice, eyebrows lifting. He glanced at Johan with a smirk, who caught on immediately.

“Ah,” Johan drawled, deliberately slow. “So that’s what calm looks like on you two.”

Arthit leaned back in his chair, lips curving into a sly smile. “Our wolves in sheep’s clothing,” he echoed the words they had once used for Tonfah and Typhoon. “Except now it’s the earth and his starlight.”

Easter flushed, opening his mouth to retort, but Hill shot the others a sharp glare. The reaction only made the laughter ripple louder.

Daotok chuckled lowly, his voice carrying that teasing note. “I liked it better when you two were still toeing around each other back at Hogwarts. Now?” His gaze flicked between them with mock disapproval. “Now, you’re just as dangerous as the rest of us.”

Duennao hid a smile behind his cup of tea, murmuring, “About time.”

Easter, still flushed but smiling faintly, shook his head. “You’re all impossible.” His voice, though, carried no bite.

Laughter was still echoing through the dining room, and Hill’s ears flushed red from the teasing, when Tiger suddenly leaned forward, his expression sobering. He placed his teacup down with a soft clink and drawled,

“Sorry to burst everyone’s bubble, but it looks like our summer will be more than catching up and Occlumency lessons.”

The table quieted. Even Easter stilled, sensing the shift in Tiger’s tone. With deliberate care, Tiger reached into the folds of his robe and produced a folded letter sealed with the insignia of the Ministry. The parchment looked official—too official for comfort.

He spread it across the table for all of them to see.

 

Subject: Provisional Approval Request – Supplementary Texts for Advanced Magical Instruction (Seventh Year & N.E.W.T. Curriculum)

Esteemed Lord Thiraphat,

By directive of the Department of Magical Education, the Ministry of Magic is undertaking the annual review of advanced course materials for both the seventh-year curriculum and the N.E.W.T. examinations. In line with our procedure, all proposed texts require provisional approval before formal adoption.

Accordingly, we submit to your office the following works, recommended for inclusion beginning the forthcoming academic year:

1. Concordia: Theory and Application of Resonant Charms

(Authorship undisclosed; examined by the Committee on Charms and Spellwork)

2. Metamorphica: Principles and Chain Theory in Advanced Transfiguration

(Authorship undisclosed; examined by the Committee on Transfiguration Standards)

3. Essentia: Modern Reconstruction of Potion Craft and Magical Saturation

(Authorship undisclosed; examined by the Committee on Alchemical Studies and Potion Development)

The aforementioned volumes have demonstrated exceptional scholastic merit during preliminary review. Their theoretical sophistication and practical contributions are expected to enhance instruction in respective fields. However, before these titles can be finalized, your advisory and oversight are required to ensure that their distribution aligns with both academic integrity and Ministry policy.

We therefore request your formal review and approval of these texts at your earliest convenience, preferably within the next seven (7) days, in order to meet the publishing deadlines for the upcoming term. Should you deem amendments or clarifications necessary, kindly provide written instruction, and the Department will act accordingly.

Your cooperation in safeguarding the quality of magical education remains, as ever, invaluable to the Ministry.

With highest regards,

Erasmus Wilcroft

Undersecretary for Educational Standards

Department of Magical Education

Ministry of Magic

 

The silence was heavy.

Tiger’s voice cut through it, sharp and laced with exasperation. “Tell me, cousin—” he shot Tonfah a look, though his tone dragged Typhoon into the accusation as well— “I don’t care if you and your husband are insufferable geniuses, but do you know how hard it is to cover your trails?”

Tonfah and Typhoon exchanged a glance. It was one of those married looks already—private, amused, a spark of defiance hiding under calm composure. Then, as if on cue, both of them laughed softly.

“We thought we covered it up just fine,” Typhoon said smoothly, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“If the Ministry is only finding books now, it means our masks are working better than we thought.” Tonfah added.

Johan leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand, his grandfather’s calculating sharpness flickering in his expression. “So it’s true. The Ministry is pulling your work into the curriculum.”

North whistled low under his breath, leaning back in his chair. “That’s not recognition—it’s control.” His eyes narrowed, pale and unreadable. “They’ll twist the books to suit their narrative.”

Duennao glanced between Tiger and the newlyweds, brows furrowing. “And you’re certain they don’t know it’s you?”

Tonfah’s lips curved, dangerous and amused all at once. “If they did, cousin, we wouldn’t be having this breakfast.”

The silence stretched for a beat after Tonfah’s casual remark, broken only by the clink of cutlery as an elf refilled Johan’s teacup.

Arthit finally leaned forward, brows drawn. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? If the Ministry integrates the books, they decide how they’re taught. They’ll strip the theory, reshape the lessons, make them nothing more than Ministry propaganda.”

North’s lips curled faintly, sharp as glass. “They’ll turn your work into a leash.” His gaze flicked toward Tonfah and Typhoon. “And if they do that, it’ll be easy for them to trace back who wrote them.”

Hill frowned, eyes moving between Easter and Tonfah. “So what? Do we stop them? Pull the books out?”

Typhoon shook his head. His voice was calm, steady, storm-grey. “We can’t stop them. The books are already circulating. Pulling them out now would be louder than silence. It would tell them exactly who they belong to.”

Tonfah’s tone was softer but no less cutting. “Better they think it’s their idea to use the books. That way, we can still maneuver.”

“Then we revise.”

All heads turned towards Arthit.

“There’s a reason to do it,” he said, and at once the others leaned in. “If a variant of Mors Infracta exists in Concordia, published, stamped, legitimized, then Easter is no longer the boy who casted a forbidden curse. He’s the boy who casted a spell already written, already taught, already bound by rules the Ministry itself approved.”

Easter stiffened, lips parting as though to argue, but Arthit’s gaze cut him short.

“It ceases to be an unforgivable act,” Arthit pressed. “It becomes a lesson, a citation, a textbook incantation. If they try to question him, he can point to the page and ask if they’ve gone mad accusing a student of following the curriculum.”

Duennao raised an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. “And you think they won’t notice an extra handprint in the ink?”

Arthit gave a thin smile. “Not if it’s woven seamlessly. A variant of what’s already there.”

North exhaled slowly, almost a laugh, though it held no humor. “You mean to hide him in plain sight.”

Arthit inclined his head once. “Exactly.”

Easter swallowed hard, looking between them, his hands curling into fists on the table. “You’d rewrite a curse just to protect me.”

Tonfah’s voice was even, certain, carrying no room for doubt. “Of course.”

Typhoon leaned back, eyes catching Easter’s in a way that left no escape. “We protect our own, Starlight. Always.”

Hill reached under the table, brushing his hand against Easter’s knee, steadying him. “How long until the list is finalized, Tiger?”

Tiger froze mid-sip of his tea. His eyes slid from Hill to Tonfah, then to Typhoon, weighing whether to soften the truth. But his cousin’s expression dared him to try.

“At best?” Tiger exhaled, leaning back. “A week. Maybe less. The Ministry isn’t wasting time. Your books are already circulating in London, whispers at Mahoutokoro, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. They’re pushing to cement it before summer ends.”

Hill nodded once, too calm, the kind of calm that made Easter glance at him sharply.

“Then stall it.”

Tiger’s brows shot up, amusement twisting into sharp interest. “And how exactly do you expect me to—”

Hill’s eyes hardened. “You’ll stall it because my family has already bought them time.”

The room stilled. For a moment, even the air felt suspended.

“Your family—?” Duennao started, but Johan leaned forward first, eyes narrowing.

Hill didn’t look at him, didn’t look at any of them except Tiger. “We fund the Ministry,” he said simply. “Every department, every seat, every desk in that gilded building in London. We always have. The Ayutthayas has always written the checks. We don’t interfere. That’s the Thiraphat's game. But if you need the delay, we can afford it.”

“That gives us a week or two at best. Can you revise the spell? Make it polished, safe, subtle—so no one questions why the old edition is being pulled back and the new one pushed through?” Hill asked, finally turning to Tonfah and Typhoon.

The couple exchanged a look, then both smiled, sharp and dangerous.

“You underestimate our capabilities, Hill,” Typhoon murmured, almost amused.

Tonfah’s hand brushed his husband’s beneath the table, his eyes gleaming. “We’ve rewritten more dangerous truths under far less generous deadlines.”

Tiger blew a low whistle. “I knew you two were reckless, but this… this is bloody genius. Dangerous, yes, but genius.” His smirk was edged with a hint of pride, though his eyes were sharp. “Just make sure it doesn’t come back to burn us.”

Duennao shook his head but not without admiration. “You lot are terrifying. No wonder the Ministry is scrambling to put their hands on your work.”

Typhoon smirked faintly, lifting his teacup. “Then let them scramble. We’ll be the ones who choose the pieces.”

Chapter 61

The manor’s study was heavy with the scent of parchment and candle wax, the air sharpened by the faint hum of storm-magic that never quite left Typhoon’s presence. A wide oak table stood in the center, covered in scrolls, rune-etched drafts, and quills that never stopped scratching once they were set down.

Tonfah and Typhoon worked side by side, backs straight, every motion precise. They didn’t need words to move in rhythm. Typhoon’s storm-dark magic flickered as he tested the destructive edge of the spell, twisting and pulling it into its rawest form. Beside him, Tonfah’s air magic slid in seamlessly—subtle, guiding currents that refined each violent spark, turning sharp fractures into controlled flows.

The others stood back, uncharacteristically quiet. Johan leaned on the mantle, arms crossed, watching as if he were witnessing a duel. North, beside him, tilted his head, brows drawn as he tried to follow the delicate layering of magic. Easter sat forward in a chair, hands clasped tight, his eyes fixed on the spell that had nearly destroyed him just days before.

Typhoon’s hand flicked, releasing a thread of storm that hissed across the table, dangerous and untamed. Tonfah’s quill lifted before it struck parchment; he blew across it, and the air shimmered. The storm-thread bent, folded into itself, and stilled—absorbed into the structure Tonfah had already drawn.

“Too sharp,” Typhoon muttered.

“Too rigid,” Tonfah corrected smoothly, already redrawing the rune curve.

They didn’t argue further. Each correction was met with immediate adjustment, each flaw balanced without ego or hesitation. It was as if the spell belonged to them both, storm and air bound in a single breath.

Arthit murmured low, almost to himself, “They don’t even look at each other.”

Daotok, standing near him, shook his head. “They don’t have to.”

On the table, the half-formed rune circle glowed, unstable at first, then slowly steadied. Tonfah pressed his palm to one edge, Typhoon to the other. Their elements resonated, lightning curling through softened air, not to destroy but to shield. The violent heart of Mors Infracta had been tempered—still lethal, but woven now with a protective intention.

The glow dimmed to a pulse, controlled and waiting.

“The original,” Typhoon said quietly, “was created to fracture the link—soul from magic, clean and irreversible. A death sentence.” His voice held no pride, only the weight of what he had made.

Tonfah touched the edge of the parchment, air magic curling around his fingers like a steadying breath. “But this one won’t break. It bends. Shields. It severs only the tether between caster and curse, a forced release instead of annihilation.”

The others exchanged looks, the subtle shift settling over them. It was still dangerous, but not the same kind of final.

Easter swallowed, his throat dry. “And… someone has to try it.”

All eyes turned to him. Hill’s hand twitched toward him instinctively, but Easter took a step forward, gaze never leaving the rune circle. “It was me who—” his voice cracked, but he steadied it, “—cast the real one. If there’s to be a softer path, I’ll walk it first.”

Typhoon’s jaw tightened. “You don’t volunteer for this lightly.”

“I’m not.” Easter’s voice was soft, but his resolve was iron.

Tonfah gave a small nod. “We’ll anchor you. It won’t bite as the first one did, but it will test you.”

They cleared the table except for the glowing runes. Easter stepped into the circle, heart hammering. He lifted his wand, hesitating just long enough for Hill to catch his eye. The silent plea there—don’t—was met with a small, steady shake of Easter’s head.

Tonfah and Typhoon began in unison, voices weaving: one sharp with storm, the other smooth with air. The variant spell pulsed awake, threads of light and shadow spiraling around Easter.

It pressed. Not crushing or ripping, but pushing at him, tugging at the link between his core and his wand. Easter gasped, sweat prickling his brow.

“Breathe,” Tonfah murmured, his voice like wind against glass.

Easter obeyed, gripping tighter, fighting the pull. His magic flared in answer—earth-strong, grounded—and for a moment the spell tried to shear it away. But then the softer edges Tonfah had drawn caught hold, bending the storm’s teeth into curved hooks. Instead of breaking, the tether flexed, then released with a quiet snap that didn’t wound.

Easter staggered, but did not fall. His wand clattered to the floor, disconnected, yet he stood, alive, whole, soul still in place.

Typhoon’s storm flickered around him, then stilled. “It worked,” he said, voice low, almost in disbelief.

Easter’s chest heaved, but a tremulous smile broke across his face. “It let go,” he whispered. “Not me. Not my soul. Just—the hold.”

Hill rushed forward then, catching him by the shoulders. Easter leaned against him, exhausted but smiling faintly, as if he had just survived a storm that should have drowned him.

The air in the drawing room shifted when Tonfah and Typhoon brought forth the blank-bound copy of Concordia. It wasn’t the published version, but the master volume, the one that carried the runic spine only its authors could alter.

Tonfah spread a roll of parchment across the low table, runes drawn in his steady, precise hand. Typhoon stood at his side, wand already bare, storm crackling faintly at the tips of his fingers as though he’d summoned lightning but hadn’t yet let it fall.

“This is how we anchored the first three books,” Typhoon said, voice even but low. “No words, no contracts—just us, and the binding.”

“Binding?” Tiger asked, narrowing his eyes.

Tonfah’s quill moved again, final strokes closing the circle. “Every spell, every theory we release, we tether it to ourselves. Not ownership,” he added quickly, his gaze sliding to Duennao, then Tiger. “Control. If a page is twisted, if a spell is corrupted, we feel it. And we can strike it from existence.”

Duennao’s brows lifted. “You two… kept that secret.”

Tonfah’s lips curved faintly. “Wouldn’t you?”

The air grew heavier as the circle came alive. Typhoon drew a silver blade across his palm without hesitation, blood pattering onto the runes, each drop sparking storm-light. Tonfah followed, the scent of iron mixing with parchment and ink, his blood traced by a curl of air that lifted, shimmering.

“Blood, breath, and will,” Typhoon intoned.

“Storm and air,” Tonfah echoed.

The runes flared, then drew the master copy into the circle. The book pulsed once, as though alive.

Easter, pale but steadier than he had been days before, whispered: “You two… tied a leash to knowledge itself.”

Typhoon smirked faintly, though there was no humor. “Not a leash. A safeguard. Knowledge spreads, but rot spreads faster. This way, we choose.”

The eight watched, awe mingling with unease, as Tonfah whispered a final command in the old tongue. The circle closed, the runes sinking into the floor until only the book remained, humming faintly with new power.

Tonfah wiped the blood from his hand and set it gently atop the book. “It is done. The variant lives—only as much as we allow it.”

The heavy silence after the ritual hadn’t settled yet when the flutter of wings broke across the courtyard. A Gringotts owl, sleek and steel-grey, swooped down with a sharp, purposeful cry. It landed before Tonfah, dropping a thick, black-sealed envelope stamped with the sigil of Gringotts Bank.

Typhoon arched a brow. “Unusual. Goblins don’t send owls lightly.”

Tonfah broke the seal carefully. The parchment inside was precise, goblin-scripted but translated for wizard eyes. He read aloud, his voice steady though his gaze darkened as the words spilled into the air:

 

To Vault Holders 717,

This correspondence is sent on behalf of Krivnash, Senior Liaison of Literary Holdings. The Ministry of Magic has formally approached Gringotts with the intent of securing usage rights to the following volumes, henceforth acknowledged in circulation:

Concordia: Theory and Application of Resonant Charms
Metamorphica: Principles and Chain Theory in Advanced Transfiguration
Essentia: Modern Reconstruction of Potion Craft and Magical Saturation

Be advised: your vault, 717, now flows steadily with royalties remitted from preliminary distributions and Ministry acquisitions. Further deposits are expected as the curriculum integration proceeds. The Ministry requests permission for continued and unrestricted academic use of the aforementioned works. Gringotts awaits your confirmation.

Signed,
Krivnash, Senior Liaison

 

Tonfah lowered the letter slowly, but his fingers tightened around the parchment.

“Vault 717,” North repeated, his tone carrying an edge of disbelief. “Anonymous, hm? Flowing with gold, was it?”

Arthit leaned back. “Well, that explains why you two never flinched at the cost of rare inks or dragonhide bindings.”

Typhoon smirked. “Gold was never the concern. Control is.” He tapped the parchment with one finger. “The Ministry thinks this is a transaction. They do not realize every spell in those pages still bends to us.”

Johan’s lips twisted into something between admiration and unease. “And Krivnash, he’s the same goblin who helped you before, isn’t he?”

Tonfah tilted his head. “The only one we trust with this much blood and ink. He knows better than to ask questions.”

Duennao gave a sharp little laugh. “So, not only are the ten of us bound to secrets no one else can carry—you’re sitting on a vault pouring gold from those very secrets.”

Tiger’s dry voice cut across the air. “Which makes my earlier complaint stand. Insufferable geniuses, the both of you.”

Tonfah folded Krivnash’s letter again, sliding it across the polished table between them. His expression was as even as ever, but the faint curl of his lips betrayed his decision before he spoke.

“We’ll grant it,” he said.

Johan exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half a scoff. “So the Ministry gains its illusion of control, and you two sit atop Vault 717 with your strings tied to every page. Convenient.”

“Strategic,” Typhoon corrected softly.

Daotok raised a brow. “What will you write to Krivnash?”

Tonfah’s answer was smooth: “That we approve the use, under the same anonymity as before. Nothing more. Krivnash will know how to word it. He’s too clever not to.”

Silence fell, comfortable and dangerous, before Tiger broke it with a dry chuckle. “Then that’s settled. But—what of here? Chiang Mai was meant to be temporary.”

Arthit leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting with sharp calculation. “Our alibi is already solid. A week in Hearthwend, a longer stretch here. If anyone retraces, they’ll find a neat story.”

North, lounging near the window, smirked. “Chiang Mai’s wards won’t betray us. And Hearthwend—well, it always remembers its masters. It’s safer now to return than it was before.”

Duennao lifted his teacup, considering. “Then the question is not if, but when. And if I may, better sooner than later. Hearthwend was left restless. Too long a silence may draw eyes.”

At that, Typhoon’s gaze slid toward Tonfah. His hand rested briefly on Tonfah’s wrist, a quiet gesture that only he would catch. “Hearthwend calls,” he said lowly, certain. “And it will have us.”

Tonfah’s reply was a soft, final murmur. “Then we return. Tonight, perhaps. Our summer began here, but it will not end in hiding.”

The ten exchanged glances. A quiet understanding settled between them. Chiang Mai had shielded them, yes—but Hearthwend was home. And home was where their strength and their secrets belonged.

Chapter 62

The marble steps of Gringotts glistened in the London sun as the ten heirs climbed together, a rare sight: ten figures moving as one, robes whispering like storm and shadow at their heels. Wizarding London turned their heads, but none dared to speak aloud.

Inside, the vast hall stretched cold and echoing. Goblins sat perched at tall desks, eyes sharp and calculating. At once, Krivnash descended from his post and bowed with a smile that was all teeth.

"Lord Prasert. Lord Ratanaporn," he greeted, inclining his head deeper than any other goblin had done in public. His gaze flicked briefly over the rest of the group. "And your chosen company. How... unprecedented."

Tonfah's lips curved faintly. "We appreciate your time, Krivnash."

"Time, my lords, is always worth the coin it gathers." Krivnash's grin deepened, then he gestured for them to follow. "Walk with me."

They moved past rows of goblins, whispers stirring faintly in their wake. Krivnash guided them into a private chamber, heavy doors sealing them in. There, he placed a polished obsidian box upon the table and slid it toward Tonfah and Typhoon.

"This," he said, opening the lid, "is the Vault Stamp of Seven-One-Seven. A seal unique to your account, enchanted to leave no trace of your personal family vaults. Any purchase or withdrawal may be stamped instead with this crest. To the Ministry, to the shops, and to the world it will read only as the will of Vault 717."

The others leaned in to see: a medallion-like seal of black iron, carved with shifting runes that seemed to pulse faintly with stormlight and air.

Typhoon's fingers brushed the edge of it. "Efficient," he murmured.

Krvnash's gaze flicked toward Tonfah. "As you are now wed, tradition demands that your heir vaults have merged. One vault now binds both houses—Ratanaporn and Prasert, indivisible."

Tonfah inclined his head. "As it should."

Krivnash's grin sharpened. "But Vault 717 is beyond family lines. It belongs to the two of you only, and whatever allies you choose to grant access." His tone dipped. "Few wizards grasp the wisdom of separation."

Typhoon's lips twitched into a rare, humorless smile. "That's because few wizards are still alive after attempting it."

The goblin chuckled, a sound like metal scraping. "Indeed."

With that, he beckoned. "Come. See what your genius has bought you."

They boarded the cart, the rattling descent dragging them deep into Gringotts' veins of stone and iron. Wind whipped their faces as they plunged deeper, further, until at last the cart screeched to a halt before the towering black doors of Vault 717.

Krivnash pressed his palm against the stone. Runes burned, locks groaned, and the vault shuddered open.

Light spilled out.

The group drew breath. Inside, gold gleamed in mountainous heaps, spilling like rivers of sunlight against the floor. Jeweled goblets, chains of platinum, and unopened chests sat stacked in dizzying excess. And still, the goblin's voice cut through, sharp and satisfied.

"These, my lords, are only royalties. The profits from sales themselves are yet to be added. When they are—" He spread his clawed hand toward the glittering expanse. "—even dragons will envy you."

Easter's mouth parted, eyes wide. "This is from books?" he whispered, disbelief etched in every word.

Krivnash's grin widened. "From knowledge. And from names carefully hidden."

Johan let out a low whistle. "And this is only the beginning."

Arthit smirked faintly. "I almost pity the Ministry. They don't know the empire they've already given you."

Typhoon stood at the threshold, his hand brushing Tonfah's. "No," he said softly, dangerously. "They don't."

Tonfah's voice followed, calm and steady. "But they will learn."

"If my lords and your chosen circle would indulge me further," he said, bowing slightly. "There is... a hunch I have long carried. Today, perhaps, it is time to test it."

The ten exchanged curious glances. Typhoon arched a brow. "A hunch?"

Krvnash's grin was all pointed teeth. "About legacy. About bloodlines older than your Ministry dares record." He gestured toward the carts again. "If you would follow me."

They did.

The cart lurched, wheels sparking against rails, plunging deeper into Gringotts' veins. Stone turned darker, slick with age, as though they passed through time itself. The air grew hotter, heavier, until the tunnel erupted into a vast cavern.

There it was—the dragon. A massive, scarred creature, its scales dulled with age, chains clanking faintly as it stirred at their arrival. Its golden eyes rolled toward them, unblinking.

Easter's breath caught. Hill's hand, without thinking, closed around his wrist. Johan tilted his chin upward, storm in his veins crackling faintly, while North laid a hand on his arm, steady. Daotok's eyes sharpened, calculating the beast's strength. Arthit leaned forward, fascinated. Tiger let out a low whistle, while Duennao watched in unnerving calm.

The dragon huffed, smoke curling like a warning, yet it did not lunge.

Krvnash did not slow. "Do not fear it," he said. "This one remembers older things than chains. It knows power when it sees it."

They rattled onward, past the dragon's cavern, until at last the cart screeched to a halt before a sealed black archway. Carved into the stone were runes older than Hogwarts itself, glowing faintly as if aware of their presence.

Krivnash stepped down, claws clicking, and faced them.

"Before the Sacred Twenty-Eight," he began, "before your Ministry rewrote history into bloodlines and politics, there was the Order of Ten. Merlin's first apprentices. Each one was touched by elemental magic in its purest form. They were not recorded as families, but as forces—storm, flame, sea, earth, and wind."

His eyes gleamed, darting across each of their faces. "When I learned of your... alliance, your names whispered in vaults and wards, I wondered. Could it be...?"

Tonfah's brow furrowed. "You think us their descendants."

Krvnash's grin widened, feral. "Not think, Lord Prasert. Know. I have guarded Gringotts long enough to see patterns others ignore. Magic remembers. Blood remembers. The ten of you together, it is no coincidence. It is a return."

Typhoon's eyes narrowed. "And if you are right?"

"Then," Krivnash said, stepping aside as the ancient archway shuddered, runes flickering awake, "the wizarding world will learn a truth it has buried for centuries—that the heirs of the Order of Ten walk among them again."

The runes along the black archway pulsed faintly, as if sensing their gathered strength. When the door yawned open, a stale gust swept out, heavy with dust and magic so old it hummed in their bones.

Inside, the chamber was vast and circular, its stone walls carved with spiraling runes and faded murals—mages cloaked in elemental fire, storm, sea, wind, and earth all circling a single central sigil: ten interlocking marks forming a wheel of power.

The ten of them stepped forward, instinct drawing them toward the center. As their boots touched the carved floor, the runes surged to life in pale flame.

Then came the sting.

Each of them hissed softly as a line of light flared against their inner wrists, burning into skin before fading. Not a wound, but a mark: subtle, almost invisible, unless one knew to look.

Johan and Typhoon both bore a storm rune, jagged and coiled, pulsing faintly like thunderclouds. Tonfah and Hill found a wind rune, a curling mark like a spiral of air. Daotok and Duennao carried the water rune, fluid lines that shifted faintly like a ripple. Arthit and North bore the fire rune, sharp and flickering, like embers at the edge of vision. Lastly, Easter and Tiger carried the earth rune, solid strokes carved deep, grounding their skin.

They stared at one another, stunned into silence, each wrist raised like a mirror of the past.

Krivnash's voice broke the quiet. "The chamber recognizes you. Blood, bond, and birthright. The Order of Ten has woken."

Easter swallowed hard, his hand trembling as Hill steadied it. "Recognizes us for what?"

Krivnash inclined his head. "For what you are meant to be. Descendants not in name alone, but in essence. This place and these runes accept only those tied to the ancient apprentices. No one else could step here and leave alive."

The words sank heavily.

Johan's dark gaze flicked to Typhoon, whose expression was unreadable, though his fingers brushed over the mark on his wrist as if memorizing it. Tonfah exhaled slowly, the wind rune gleaming pale against his skin, and his eyes softened at Typhoon's faint smirk.

"Why now?" Daotok asked, his tone quiet but sharp. "Why reveal this to us?"

"Because the chamber itself has chosen," Krivnash replied simply. He gestured to the glowing floor-sigils. "It binds you now. More than heirs of families and politics. You are ten pieces of a whole."

The chamber pulsed once, a low hum reverberating in their bones. Then, as if to punctuate his words, the runes flared and died down, leaving only the subtle burn of the new marks.

"Should you wish to return," Krivnash added, a note of strange pride in his gravelly voice, "you may. The wards of Gringotts do not permit Apparition—such is our greatest defense. And yet..." He looked around at the ten of them. "The chamber has bent the law of this place for you. Should you will it, you may Apparate here directly, as though Gringotts itself has given sanction."

That stunned even Typhoon into silence.

"Impossible," Johan muttered.

"Yet true," Krivnash said. His sharp smile gleamed. "The dragon did not lunge because it remembers. The wards did not resist because they remembered. And now you bear the runes to prove it. The Order of Ten has risen again."

The silence that followed was thick, fragile, heavy with a truth too vast to fully grasp.

Krivnash inclined his head once more. "I will give you privacy. The chamber recognizes you, it is not my place to intrude."

With that, the goblin's footsteps receded into the dark archway until only the ten of them remained, the silence pressing close. The air seemed heavier without him, as though the chamber itself was waiting to hear what they would say.

North was the first to break it, his voice low. "So this is why." He raised his wrist, the fire rune flickering faintly. "This is why they've been circling us. Why the Ministry's dogs look at us like we're a threat."

Tonfah's expression hardened. "Not just heirs from old families. Heirs to this." His hand brushed the wind rune on his wrist. "The Order of Ten. Merlin's apprentices. If even a whisper of that survived into the wrong ears..."

"They wouldn't risk letting us exist," Johan finished grimly, his storm-mark pulsing faintly as though in agreement. "Too dangerous. Too unshakable. The Sacred Twenty-Eight thrive on being the oldest, the most secure. If word spread that we predate them—"

Typhoon's laugh was sharp, humorless. "It would ruin their precious myth. Their foundation would fracture. The only way to keep it safe was to erase us." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "So they dressed it as cleansing 'dark families,' painted us as dangerous heirs, and made sure the rest of the world never asked questions."

Easter's shoulders tightened, Hill's hand steady on him. "So the attack at Thorngrave..." His voice caught, softer, almost bitter. "It wasn't random. He knew. Or someone above him did."

Arthit's jaw clenched, "Which means they'll keep coming. Whoever is pulling strings in the Ministry knows enough to be afraid."

Daotok, quiet until now, spoke with cold clarity. "Or not afraid enough. If they believed all of this was buried, they wouldn't expect us to be standing in the chamber itself. That may be the only advantage we have—they don't know we've awakened it."

The thought settled heavy.

"They've been protecting the illusion," Duennao said, "Guarding the Sacred Twenty-Eight, preserving their power by burying us under lies." He looked at the others, his voice steady despite the sharpness in his eyes. "Which means the closer we get to truth, the more desperate they'll become."

Silence followed, their eyes sweeping the ancient murals—the ten figures carved in the walls, each element blazing around them, their runes now mirrored on their own wrists.

Hill's voice was low but firm. "Then it's not just survival anymore. It's legacy. If they erased us once, they'll try again. We either bow to their story, or we write our own."

Tonfah's gaze flicked to Typhoon, their hands brushing together, then to the others. "And we are ten. They have no idea what that truly means."

For a heartbeat, the chamber pulsed faintly, as though in approval.

Chapter 63

The ten of them walked back through the echoing halls of Gringotts, their footsteps measured, heavy with what they had just discovered. The goblin guards gave them sharp, knowing looks, but none dared question them.

As they neared the atrium, Tonfah touched Typhoon's wrist briefly. Without a word, Typhoon understood.

"Go on ahead," Tonfah said to the others. "We'll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron. One last errand."

The others gave them varying looks—North with a quirked brow, Hill with suspicion edged with fondness, Johan with silent understanding. But none pressed, and soon enough, the eight slipped through the doors toward daylight, leaving only the two of them behind in the cool marble corridor.

They turned back, finding Krivnash waiting at a respectful distance. The goblin's eyes narrowed knowingly. "You are not finished," he rasped.

"We need another private chamber," Typhoon said.

Krivnash gave no objection. He led them deeper into Gringotts, to the same carved stone chamber. Once the wards sealed, Tonfah and Typhoon exchanged a look, then reached into Typhoon's satchel.

Together, they placed a thick, leather-bound tome upon the table. Its cover shimmered faintly with restrained wards.

"Obscuria," Tonfah said lowly. "Structural Foundations of Counter-Curses and Defensive Warding."

Krivnash's eyes gleamed, interest sharp. "Another one."

"This one is late," Typhoon admitted, his fingers brushing the edge of the book. "We polished the counter-curse arrays first. The darker foundations of Mors Infracta required refinement for safe release. We don't publish recklessly."

Tonfah inclined his head, gaze steady on the goblin. "We want it published discreetly. Same channels, same protection as the others." He paused. "But this time, it is not ours alone. Add the other eight as co-authors. Quietly. And link their shares to Vault 717. Let no one trace it back to our family vaults."

Krivnash studied them long, his sharp nails tapping against the table. At last, he gave a toothy grin. "You cloak yourselves in shadows but leave trails of brilliance. Dangerous brilliance."

"Brilliance is safest when spread," Tonfah said, calm steel beneath his words. "If the Ministry suspects, it will not be just us they look at, it will be ten."

Typhoon leaned forward slightly, voice dark silk. "And you know as well as we do, Krivnash. Ten is harder to erase than two."

The goblin's grin widened, feral. "Very well. Obscuria will pass into the world quietly, under ten names. Vault 717 will hold their shares." His tone sharpened. "And the Ministry will never know which heirs built their new foundation for protection... or if those heirs are the same ones they hunt in shadows."

The book glowed faintly as Typhoon and Tonfah's blood-sealed runes shimmered into its spine, anchoring its authorship. A new tether tied itself to Vault 717, this time not just to them, but to all ten.

For a moment, the chamber was silent, the weight of it settling between them.

Tonfah exhaled slowly, looking at Typhoon. "It's done."

And Typhoon, his lips quirking into the faintest, dangerous smile, murmured, "Let's see if the Ministry can silence us now."

By the time Tonfah and Typhoon slipped into the Leaky Cauldron, the others were already gathered at a corner table, drinks in hand, the air buzzing with laughter. The tavern was noisy with travelers, but their circle seemed untouched by the chaos around them, their ease creating its own quiet center.

"There you are," Johan drawled, raising his butterbeer lazily. "We were about to send Hill to drag you back."

"As if Hill could drag anyone," Easter teased, bumping Hill's shoulder. Hill only rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth betrayed the ghost of a smile.

Tonfah and Typhoon slid into the empty seats, Typhoon casually resting his hand against Tonfah's knee beneath the table.

"Nothing urgent," Tonfah said smoothly. "Just a last-minute matter at Gringotts."

Arthit gave him a searching look but let it drop, reaching instead for the roasted nuts on the platter. "Well, you didn't miss much, unless you count Johan trying to teach North how to play wizard's draughts in public."

North smirked, sipping from his glass. "And winning."

"You cheated," Johan accused flatly, but there was no heat in it.

Across the table, Duennao was leaning toward Tiger, recounting an absurd story about an enchanted fan back in Kyoto that wouldn't stop summoning gusts during a family banquet. Tiger's laugh boomed, loud enough to earn them a glare from the barkeep, which only made him laugh harder.

"Please tell me someone preserved that fan," Arthit muttered, grinning despite himself.

Duennao shrugged with mock innocence. "It may or may not still be hidden in a storeroom. Waiting for the right occasion."

"You're terrible," Daotok said, though his lips twitched with a rare smile.

Easter set his drink down, turning toward the window where late afternoon sunlight streamed through. "Strange, isn't it? Sitting here, just like any other student. As if we're just... normal."

Hill nudged him lightly. "You say that like you don't enjoy it."

"I do," Easter admitted softly. "Maybe more than I thought I would."

Tonfah leaned back in his chair, letting himself soak in the sound of his friends bickering over food, trading stories, laughing freely. For once, there were no shadows of politics, no whispers of danger—only warmth, only the sharp-edged comfort of belonging.

Typhoon glanced at him from the side, lips curved in a knowing smile. And Tonfah, for the first time in days, let himself smile back without reserve.

 

The cobblestones of Diagon Alley glowed faintly in the orange wash of the setting sun. The crowds had thinned, most shoppers already returned home or to inns for supper. Tiger and Duennao walked side by side, slower than usual, their steps unhurried as though they were savoring the quiet.

They had let the others return to Hearthwend ahead of them, promising to catch up. For once, there was no rush, no shadows chasing their heels.

Tiger glanced sideways, his expression softened by the mellow light. "Nao," he began, voice pitched low enough to be carried only between them, "do you ever... regret it? Following me to Mahoutokoro instead of attending Hogwarts with North? You had the choice when the letters came."

Duennao stopped for half a heartbeat, then resumed walking, his lips curving faintly. "Regret?" He shook his head, a laugh just under the surface. "No. Even if I had a time turner in my hands, I wouldn't change it."

Tiger arched a brow, half teasing, half serious. "Not even for a chance to be closer to family? To North?"

"North has always been family, whether I studied by his side or not," Duennao answered softly. He lifted his gaze, watching how lanterns were beginning to spark alive along the Alley.

"But you..." His tone gentled. "You were different. I chose Mahoutokoro because you were there. Because if I were going to carry this weight, I'd rather carry it with you than alone."

Tiger stopped walking altogether this time, the words hitting him harder than he expected. He turned fully, looking at Duennao in the fading light.

"You'd follow me even knowing what it meant?" His voice was rougher now, quiet in a way that betrayed the emotion pressed tight against his ribs.

Duennao smiled at him. "Always. You've never asked me to, but I've never needed asking either."

Something softened in Tiger's eyes, the laughter lines at the corners smoothing as he reached out, brushing his hand against Duennao's.

"You make it sound far too easy," He murmured, though his smile had grown small but genuine.

"That's because it is," Duennao answered.

Their steps slowed again as the crowd dwindled further, silence wrapping around them like a private cloak. Duennao's hand brushed against Tiger's once more, but this time, he did not let go. Fingers threaded deliberately through his, firm and sure, a quiet declaration in the open street.

Tiger looked down at their joined hands, something unguarded flickering in his eyes. No one else would have dared, not here, not so plainly. But Duennao had never cared for what others thought.

Without a word, Tiger leaned in, lowering his head just enough to press his lips to Duennao's temple. The kiss was soft, reverent even, lingering longer than he meant to. It was not the kind of affection meant for public display—it was gentler, more vulnerable, a moment that belonged only to them.

Duennao tilted his head slightly into the touch, a faint smile curving his lips. "You see?" he whispered, voice quiet as though the lanterns themselves might overhear. "No regrets."

Tiger drew back just enough to meet his gaze, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, though his eyes betrayed something warmer, more fragile.

"Good," he said, giving Duennao's hand a firmer squeeze. "Because I'd be damned before I let you regret me."

The two of them continued forward again, hand in hand beneath the soft lantern glow, the quiet between them no longer empty but full—with choice, with promise, with something deeper than either dared name aloud.

Chapter 64

The late summer afternoon hung warm and drowsy across Hearthwend’s west parlor. Windows stood open, letting in the hum of bees and the scent of lilacs from the garden. The ten of them were scattered in comfortable disarray: Hill and Easter sharing a sofa with teacups balanced between them, Johan and North lounging by the window seats, Arthit flipping lazily through a book, Daotok sprawled in an armchair, Tiger and Duennao near the chessboard.

An elf popped into the room with a polite bow, carrying a neat stack of envelopes sealed with Hogwarts’ crest. “Your school lists, sirs,” Nimsy said, setting them carefully on the tea table.

At once, the group sat up, curiosity sparking. They each reached for their envelope, parchment crackling as seals broke and letters unfolded.

North skimmed first, eyebrows rising. “Same as usual. Robes, cauldrons, quills—” He stopped, then frowned. “Books. Concordia. Metamorphica. Essentia.”

Johan looked up sharply, his list matching. “Fah. Phoon.”

Across the table, Tonfah sipped his tea with perfect serenity. Typhoon only raised a brow, unbothered, fingers idly tapping the rim of his cup.

But before anyone could comment further, Hill suddenly choked on his drink. “Wait—here. There’s a note.” He read aloud, “‘By last-minute decision of the Department of Magical Education, an additional volume has been included for the seventh year and N.E.W.T. curriculum: Obscuria: Structural Foundations of Counter-Curses and Defensive Warding.’”

The room went still.

All eight heads turned, slowly, toward Tonfah and Typhoon.

“...You published another one?” Easter demanded, eyes wide.

“And it’s already in the curriculum?” Arthit added, incredulous. “How—when—how did you even—”

Tiger groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Insufferable geniuses. The pair of you. I leave you unsupervised for five minutes, and suddenly the entire wizarding world is buying your latest masterpiece.”

Duennao chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Not even Mahoutokoro’s council moves that fast. How did you push it through?”

Tonfah set his teacup down delicately, his expression calm as if he were discussing the weather. “We don’t push. We simply write.”

Typhoon leaned back. “And if the Ministry wants to lap at our ink so quickly, that’s their problem, not ours.”

The eight groaned in unison, though beneath it, their eyes gleamed with awe and exasperated fondness.

“Wolves in sheep’s clothing,” Tiger muttered, though the faintest smile tugged at his mouth.

Tonfah’s lips curved, his hand brushing Typhoon’s under the table. “Better that than sheep at the mercy of wolves.”

Before the laughter could settle, Johan’s brow furrowed deeper. He skimmed the parchment again, then stiffened. “…North.”

North looked up, startled by the tone.

Johan turned the letter, reading aloud: “By decision of the Hogwarts staff, the position of Head Boy will be shared this year between two students. Mr. Johan Thanawat and Mr. North Ritthirong”

The room went still, then erupted.

“Two Head Boys?” Hill repeated, baffled.

Arthit leaned forward, curiosity sparking. “That’s never been done before.”

North blinked, stunned into silence for a beat, before his lips curved into a slow, reluctant smile. “Well… that explains the extra line in my letter.” He held it up for proof.

Easter smirked. “So, Head Boys. Plural. Does that mean we all have to bow when you enter a room?”

Johan arched a brow. “Yes. Preferably twice.”

North rolled his eyes but his grin betrayed him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Arthit, lips twitching, added, “Imagine the two of you patrolling together. Half the school will think it’s an honor. The other half will think it’s a nightmare.”

“Probably both,” Daotok said flatly, though the faintest smirk tugged at his mouth.

Tiger leaned back with a mock groan. “We’ll never hear the end of it. Head Boys and insufferable authors. This group really is unbearable.”

Duennao’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Then perhaps we should get them something. A gift, for their… new responsibilities.”

The room stilled briefly before laughter broke out again.

“A gift?” Hill teased. “What, more books? As if Johan needs another stack, or North another excuse to posture.”

Tonfah’s lips curved faintly as he sipped his tea. “A gift is fitting. After all, they’ve earned their titles.”

Typhoon smirked, storm-grey eyes flicking toward Johan and North. “The question is, what could possibly suit them?”

Johan shot Tonfah a look, half wary, half amused. “Whatever it is, I already know it’ll cost us all a fortune.”

“Then it’s decided,” Easter said brightly, slapping his hand down on the table. “We’re shopping tomorrow. Diagon Alley. Supplies, gifts, everything.”

North exhaled with mock exasperation but couldn’t quite suppress his grin. “You just want an excuse to drag us into chaos.”

“Exactly,” Easter said without shame.

 

---

 

The hearth at Hearthwend roared green as one by one, they stepped into the Floo. First Johan and North, brushing soot from their shoulders as they tumbled into the Leaky Cauldron. Then Easter and Hill, bickering already about whose turn it was to carry the supply lists. Arthit and Daotok followed, Daotok grimacing at the ash in his hair while Arthit smirked at his expense. Last came Tonfah and Typhoon, gliding through the fire like it bowed to them, not a speck of soot daring to cling.

“Every time,” Tiger muttered, dusting Duennao off as they emerged behind them. “How do they always manage to look untouched?”

“They’re insufferable,” Johan said flatly, though the smirk at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The Leaky Cauldron was already lively with breakfast-goers and travelers, but the ten moved together as if the room shifted to make way for them. Tom the barkeep gave them a nod as Tonfah led them toward the back wall. With practiced ease, Typhoon tapped the bricks in their hidden pattern.

The wall shifted, bricks folding away, and Diagon Alley spilled open before them.

And immediately, they stopped short.

The street was already overflowing. Families pressed shoulder to shoulder, Hogwarts students darting between shops, parents laden with parcels, younger siblings clinging to hands. A cluster of third-years shrieked with laughter as a broom shot over their heads, narrowly missing a stack of owl cages.

“…We thought we were early,” North muttered, eyes narrowing as he took in the sheer chaos.

“Apparently so did half the school,” Johan replied, unimpressed.

“Robes first,” Tonfah said, tilting his chin toward Madam Malkin’s shop where the windows already fogged with fabric dust.

“Get it out of the way before the line gets worse,” Johan agreed, steering North toward the door with the faintest smirk.

Inside, the shop was bustling with measuring tapes zipping about like errant birds, robes floating on racks, and customers balancing precariously on fitting stools. Madam Malkin herself bustled forward, flustered but professional at the sight of ten all at once.

“Merlin’s beard—you’ve brought the whole school in here,” she muttered, shoving pins behind her ear. “All right then, up on the stools, don’t dawdle.”

They shuffled in pairs to the raised platforms, fabric swirling as enchanted tapes darted to take measurements. Easter swatted at one tape when it tried to pinch his sleeve too high, while Hill smirked openly at his discomfort.

As the chaos settled, Duennao glanced at Tiger, lips quirking faintly. “So, tell me. When we’re sorted, what House do you think I’ll land in?”

The others perked up immediately, ears sharpening like wolves catching prey.

“Oh, that’s right,” Easter said, leaning forward eagerly. “You two haven’t been sorted yet. Hogwarts’ final-year transfers.”

Typhoon smirked. “We should make a wager.”

“No wagers,” Tonfah said mildly, though amusement glimmered in his eyes. “Answer the question, Nao.”

Duennao tilted his head thoughtfully. “Hufflepuff, I think. Loyal to a fault, stubborn in ways that don’t bend.”

Hill, arms crossed as Madam Malkin tugged a sleeve, hummed. “I can see it.”

“And Tiger?” Johan asked, eyes alight with mischief.

The group went quiet, all turning to him.

Tiger smirked faintly, adjusting his cuff as though the answer didn’t matter. “Gryffindor. Loud, brash, reckless. Fits, doesn’t it?”

Easter burst out laughing, nearly toppling off his stool. “Oh, it fits.”

Arthit grinned. “Imagine Tiger in the Gryffindor common room. He’d burn it down in a week.”

“Two days,” Typhoon corrected dryly.

Tiger only rolled his eyes, though the faintest smile tugged at his mouth. Duennao reached across, brushing his hand lightly against his cousin’s sleeve in quiet reassurance.

“Then it’s decided,” North said with a grin, folding his list neatly. “Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. And by September, Hogwarts won’t know what hit it.”

 

The bell over the door chimed sharply as they stepped inside, and at once the heavy air of Slug & Jigger’s wrapped around them. It smelled of damp stone and sharp herbs, of crushed petals and bitter roots, of potion-brew left too long in pewter cauldrons. The shelves were crammed from floor to ceiling, stacked with jars of powder, bundled leaves, and bottles in every hue.

Easter’s eyes lit up instantly. “Finally,” he murmured, slipping past Hill before the door even closed.

“Of course he runs straight for the wolfsbane,” Tiger said dryly, though his lips curved faintly.

Easter ignored him, already plucking jars from the shelves. “Quality’s decent,” he muttered, weighing a vial of powdered hellebore in his palm.

“But the aconite—” He frowned, then swapped jars, discarding one with disdain. “—this is fresher. Look at the cut. Whoever processed this actually knew what they were doing.”

Hill trailed after him with folded arms, watching with a mix of amusement and indulgence. “You’re impossible,” he said softly. “You can’t just walk into a shop like a normal customer.”

“I don’t shop,” Easter corrected absently, sniffing at a jar of belladonna. “I select.”

Arthit chuckled under his breath, leaning against a shelf. “Selective is one word for it.”

“Thorough is another,” Daotok added with a smirk.

Easter only rolled his eyes and shoved a vial into Hill’s hands. “Hold this. Carefully.”

The others busied themselves with their own supplies, but it was hard not to watch Easter moving through the apothecary like he owned the place—hands precise, gaze sharp, muttering under his breath about mixtures and flaws as though every shelf was his domain. Even Madam Slugworth, bustling behind the counter, glanced at him with a wary respect.

“Does he always do this?” Duennao whispered, bemused.

Typhoon’s lips curved faintly. “Every time. It’s his element. He likes to control what grows and what withers.”

“Not control,” Easter corrected again, overhearing, “—understand.” He handed another jar to Hill, who sighed but held it steady without complaint. “Potions are unforgiving if you don’t respect them.”

When they finally reached the counter, their pile of ingredients was stacked higher than Madam Slugworth’s eyebrows.

“Studying for NEWTs already?” she asked, tallying the purchases.

“No,” Hill said, exasperated but fond, “just him.”

The others chuckled as Easter paid without blinking, sweeping the jars back into his satchel neatly. By the time they stepped back into the bustle of the Alley, the scent of crushed herbs still clung to his sleeves, and Hill’s hands were smudged with stray powder.

“Worth it,” Easter said smugly.

“You keep saying that,” Hill replied, but there was no heat in his tone—only warmth.

Chapter 65

The shop was impossible to miss with its gleaming windows filled with brooms that hovered just above their stands, robes in Gryffindor red, Slytherin green, Hufflepuff yellow, and Ravenclaw blue draped dramatically over mannequins, and posters flashing enchanted images of Quidditch teams mid-game. Students clustered at the display, noses nearly pressed to the glass.

Johan and North slowed at once, both sets of eyes drawn to the new broom model glimmering in the window.

“I don’t even play,” North muttered, but the hunger in his gaze betrayed him.

Johan smirked, arms crossed. “Neither do I. Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate craftsmanship.”

“Craftsmanship?” Tiger repeated, incredulous. “It’s a stick with bristles.”

“An expensive stick with bristles,” Easter added.

“Precisely,” Johan said smoothly, pushing open the door. “Come on, North.”

The others groaned but followed, curiosity pulling them in despite themselves. The shop was packed, students chattering loudly as they pointed at racing brooms and gleaming gear. A pair of enchanted bludgers buzzed overhead in their cage, rattling the bars.

North leaned over a broom stand, running a hand just above the polished handle. “Lightweight. Balanced. You’d never feel drag on a turn.”

“Excellent grip too,” Johan said, testing another model. “Almost unfair.”

Hill raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Neither of you have ever played a single match.”

“They wouldn’t last five minutes,” Daotok said flatly.

Arthit grinned, sharp and amused. “Imagine it though—two Head Boys, falling off their brooms in front of the entire school.”

Typhoon smirked, leaning casually against a rack of Quidditch robes. “They’d still look smug about it on the way down.”

The group burst into laughter, Johan and North exchanging matching unimpressed looks that only made the others laugh harder. Finally, Johan set the broom back on its stand with deliberate care. “Well,” he said smoothly, “it’s true I don’t need a broom to be above the rest of you.”

North smirked beside him. “And I’ve already proven I can handle fire. I don’t need a broom for theatrics.”

That set off another round of laughter. They had barely stepped out of Quality Quidditch Supplies when Typhoon slowed, his gaze catching on the shop across the cobblestone. The sign was modest, tucked between a robe cleaner’s and a wand-polisher’s, but the faint hiss of something caged carried on the summer air.

Without a word, Typhoon tugged lightly on Tonfah’s sleeve and angled toward it.

“Where are you—” Tonfah began, but Typhoon only murmured, “Curious,” before pulling him inside.

Naturally, the others followed.

The shop was dim, humid with the musk of hay and scaled hides. Cages lined the walls, filled with sleek owls, restless kneazles, and a pair of bored-looking ravens. But Typhoon’s eyes bypassed them all, cutting straight to the back where an iron-barred cabinet stood half-concealed by a canvas sheet.

“Dragon eggs,” he said softly.

The shopkeeper flinched, all false innocence. “N-no, sir, you must be mistaken. Regulations forbid—”

Typhoon’s smirk was sharp, cold as steel. “Spare me.” He reached into his cloak, drew out the seal of Vault 717, and set it on the counter. The goblin-etched gold gleamed under the low lamps. “Gold does many things. Now tell me what I need to know.”

The man swallowed hard, darting a nervous look toward the covered cabinet before leaning closer. “Two clutches arrived. Rare, imported under… less official means. Fire dragon, storm dragon. Not for pets, mind you—too volatile. But raised properly…” His voice dropped lower, greedy. “They’d bind like familiars.”

Tonfah’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing, watching Typhoon with calm intensity.

“Then I’ll take one of each,” Typhoon said, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Registered discreetly under Vault 717.”

The shopkeeper hesitated. “Are you sure? Dragons are—”

Typhoon’s gaze darkened, silencing him. “Do it.”

With trembling hands, the man scribbled a receipt, pressing the contract with a quill. Typhoon signed with the storm of his name, then slipped the seal back into his robes as though it had never left.

Once the ink dried, the shopkeeper set a long crate on the counter, he unlatched it with care. Inside, nestled in padded straw, were two eggs: one a deep, molten crimson threaded with gold veins, the other a storm-dark grey that shimmered faintly with silver lightning patterns when the light caught it.

“Fire dragon,” the man said, gesturing first to the crimson. His hand shifted to the other. “Storm dragon. Both clutches rare, both stable. With proper imprinting, they won’t just obey, they’ll bond. They’ll recognize their keeper as kin.”

He produced a smaller scroll, handing it to Typhoon. “Instructions. When the shell begins to crack, the one who touches them first must feed them raw meat, still warm. Speak their name as they take it, and the dragon will bind. If done properly, they will recognize no master but the one they imprinted on.”

Typhoon’s gaze lingered on the eggs. “And their size?”

The shopkeeper smiled faintly, almost conspiratorial. “That’s the advantage of these clutches. Imprinted properly, they may choose their form. Small enough to perch on a shoulder or full-grown in battle. The choice will be theirs… and their keeper’s.”

Tonfah exhaled quietly, eyes narrowing at the power of the gift being handed over. But he said nothing, only watching as Typhoon closed the crate carefully.

Then Typhoon turned to Johan and North. He slid the parchment and crate toward them both.

“A gift,” Typhoon said. “From all of us. For being Head Boys. Fire for North. Storm for Johan. Fitting.”

For once, Johan was at a loss for words. North blinked, stunned, his hand hovering over the crate before resting gently on the cool shell of the crimson egg.

“…You’re serious?” Johan asked, voice caught between disbelief and awe.

Typhoon’s smirk deepened. “Deadly.”

The others exchanged glances, torn between awe and exasperation.

“Head Boys with dragons,” Tiger muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll never survive this year.”

But Hill, watching North’s fingers trail reverently over the shell, only smiled faintly. “No. But Hogwarts will never forget it either.”

The bell above the animal shop door jingled sharply as the ten stepped back into the crowded street, the crate of dragon eggs sealed shut and tucked under Typhoon’s arm. Tonfah gave it a glance, then flicked his fingers.

“Nimsy. Whimsy.”

Two soft cracks split the air, and the elves appeared at once, bowing low. “Yes, Master Tonfah?”

Tonfah gestured toward the crate and their bulging parcels from Madam Malkin’s and Slug & Jigger’s. “Take everything back to Hearthwend. Keep the eggs warm. Prepare a place for them.”

“Yes, Master.” With another crack, the elves and the parcels vanished.

“Practical,” Johan murmured. “Dragging dragon eggs around Diagon Alley might have raised suspicion.”

“Or broken spines,” Easter added.

“Flourish and Blotts next,” Tonfah said smoothly, ignoring them.

The shop was already bursting when they arrived, shelves groaning under stacks of Hogwarts texts. Quills scratched as seventh-years scrambled to get their sets before they sold out.

Near the front, towers of volumes stood precariously:

Concordia: Theory and Application of Resonant Charms.
Metamorphica: Principles and Chain Theory in Advanced Transfiguration.
Essentia: Modern Reconstruction of Potion Craft and Magical Saturation.
And newest of all—Obscuria: Structural Foundations of Counter-Curses and Defensive Warding.

Students shoved and elbowed their way to the displays, parchment lists waving frantically as clerks tried to keep order.

Tonfah paused in front of the display, cool as ever despite the chaos. “Charming, isn’t it?”

Typhoon plucked a copy of Obscuria from the top of the pile, flipping it open and skimming the dedication page. His lips curled. “Oh look, love. The authors might be husbands.”

Tonfah’s brows arched with mock solemnity as he slid Concordia free. “Were they lovers? Or were they roommates?”

Typhoon leaned in, voice dripping with amusement. “Oh—shocking. Must be tragic.”

The two of them shared a look over the covers, their eyes glinting with private mischief. The other eight stared at them like they had lost their minds.

“Are you seriously mocking your own work?” Arthit demanded, incredulous.

“Insufferable, Utterly insufferable.” Hill muttered, though the faint twitch at his mouth betrayed amusement.

Easter folded his arms, exasperated. “Why are we even torturing ourselves fighting this mob when the authors are standing right here?”

Typhoon snapped the book shut with a smirk. “Because, dear Easter, it’s part of the experience.”

Tonfah’s smile was sharp. “Even if we are the experience.”

They eventually muscled their way to the counter, Tonfah ordering ten complete sets—one for each of them. The clerk stared, half in awe and half in horror, as piles of books levitated from the back to the desk. Gold clinked as Tonfah pressed payment forward without hesitation.

Daotok, watching the ridiculous mountain of books grow, muttered under his breath, “Why waste gold on these? The three copies you gave us during the Triwizard still exist.”

Tonfah only glanced at him, lips curving faintly. “We’re not wasting gold if it circles back to our vaults, are we?”

Typhoon chuckled low, eyes glinting. “A perfect circle. Nothing wasted.”

By the time they escaped Flourish and Blotts, the ten were weighed down with parcels and parchments, their arms aching from carrying full sets of textbooks. The street outside was still buzzing, but Typhoon tilted his head toward the corner shop where pastel awnings fluttered in the late-summer breeze.

“Ice cream,” he said.

No one argued.

They slipped into Florean Fortescue’s, finding a long table tucked against the wall. Trays of sundaes and tall glasses of butterbeer floats arrived shortly after—swirls of chocolate, lemon, and honeycomb piled high with enchanted sprinkles that popped faintly on the tongue. For a moment, they were only students again, laughing as Easter tried to steal spoonfuls from Hill’s bowl, and Johan smacked North’s hand away from his.

It was Tiger who leaned back first, a slim copy of Concordia in his hands. He flipped lazily to the dedication page, eyes narrowing as he skimmed the elegant script. Then his brow arched, sharp and amused.

“Cousin,” Tiger drawled, turning the book just enough for Tonfah to see. “‘You are my endgame. You are my home. —TP. R.’” His gaze flicked up, voice rich with mockery. “Subtle, aren’t we?”

Duennao nearly choked on his ice cream. Easter barked out a laugh so loud it made the other customers glance over.

Tonfah, perfectly unruffled, took a slow spoonful of lemon custard before replying. “It’s not subtle if no one believes it’s real.”

Typhoon smirked into his sundae. “Besides, most readers assume it’s poetic metaphor. Or tragic longing.” He glanced sidelong at Tonfah. “Tragic indeed.”

The table erupted in disbelief.

“Tragic?” Arthit groaned, dropping his spoon. “You two are impossible.”

“Completely insufferable,” Hill agreed, though his lips twitched with reluctant amusement.

Daotok only shook his head, muttering, “And we had to fight tooth and nail through that crowd to buy copies when the authors are sitting here with us.”

Typhoon chuckled low, licking his spoon like a wolf baring its teeth. “Consider it contributing to our retirement fund.”

The others groaned, but laughter bubbled under it. The absurdity of it all—ice cream, dragons, and now dedications that were far too raw to be anything but truth—spilled into something warm.

Notes:

Didn't proofread this. Sorry in advance for any grammatical errors. :)