#hp 1

Cyno shuffles back inside, stepping over a pile of Collei’s books (what is “Herbivorous Hexes and How to Hug Them” anyway?) and grabs his wand from the nightstand, still warm from under his pillow—don’t ask, it’s a ritual. With a lazy swish and a muttered, “Packus nowus, beforeus I explodeus,” his belongings leap into action, stuffing themselves into his trunk with the sort of panic usually reserved for last-minute NEWT prep.

Outside, a loud honk like a dying goose on fire cuts through the morning stillness. Xiao’s here.

Of course he is.

He’s slouched halfway out the driver’s side of a wildly illegal, semi-sentient flying beetle of a car, which grumbles and snorts beneath him like it’d rather be anywhere else. “Cyno,” he says, all dry and flat and irritatingly cool.

“Hey. My sister’ll be down in a tick,” Cyno supplies, waving vaguely toward the house. Xiao nods, resembling a man who has nothing better to do than wait, which he very much does but won’t admit. Probably planning the exact angle at which to ignore all human emotion for the rest of the day.

Cyno levitates his trunk and owl cage—Lupus, looking regal and narrowly annoyed as usual—into the backseat, then clambers over the veranda railing because using the door would be too pedestrian for this kind of morning. He slams the passenger door shut with the grace of trying not to care about how much he’s caring.

Collei bursts in moments later, an explosion of green hair, mismatched socks, and one jumper sleeve trailing like a scarf with commitment issues. “I’m here, I’m here!” she pants, nearly tripping on her wand as she waves at Xiao. “Hi, Xiao!”

“Morning, Collei, hop in,” he responds, not turning around. His voice, of course, sounds like it just woke up in the middle of a funeral and decided to stay for the biscuits.

Collei flings her suitcase, almost certainly 70% books, 20% snacks, and 10% various academic regrets, into the boot with Cyno’s help, then squeezes in next to the owl cages. Cervarius, her owl, gives Lupus a disapproving hoot. Lupus hoots back like, don’t start, mate, I haven’t even had breakfast.

Cyno eyes the empty space next to them. “Oi. Where’s Nemeseos?” he mumbles, half to himself. Xiao never goes anywhere without that weird, glaring owl of his. Feels like forgetting your sprig or your shoes or your ability to express human emotion. He almost asks, but Xiao’s already busy driving, and Cyno knows better than to poke the emotionally dormant beast before tea.

The beetle gives an alarming lurch, and with a sound like a hiccup crossed with a whoosh, they’re airborne. Collei squeals, clutches her bag, and starts humming the Hogwarts school song in the wrong key. Cyno leans his forehead against the cool glass, staring down at the patchwork fields below, watching the wind ripple the grass like some invisible hand brushing it all the wrong way.

This is it. Seventh year. Last ride. If the year goes anything like this morning, they’re all in for absolute havoc, and honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

**

They arrive to organised chaos, the sort only Hogwarts manages to produce—like someone took all of Diagon Alley, shoved it into King’s Cross, sprinkled a liberal dose of school-year dread, and shook it up until spells began fizzing out of coat sleeves. The air smells of train steam and treacle tarts, and everything’s louder than it has any right to be. There’s wand smoke curling out of trouser pockets, cats yowling inside rattling wicker baskets, one girl crying into a Howler that screams back at her in Hungarian, and about three first-years trying to coax a broom out of the ceiling rafters. The station, in short, is alive.

Magic is bursting at the seams; books repacking themselves, cauldrons hopping merrily into trunks, birdcages folding up like handkerchiefs and vanishing into bags that look far too small to contain anything larger than a toothbrush. Incantations bubble under breaths like secret recipes. Some wizards wave their wands with deliberate whisks, some with the nervous energy of someone about to blow up a squirrel. A few Muggle-borns stand in wide-eyed awe, mouths agape, spinning in circles as though trying to catch the entire scene and bottle it for later.

Cyno watches it all from the edge of the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with Xiao, who somehow manages to look bored even in the middle of a magical whirlwind. There are more first-years than usual, Cyno notes, all shrimpy arms and baggy jumpers and oversized hats sliding into their eyes, waving wild goodbyes to parents and tottering on tiptoe to see the scarlet engine puffing in the distance. Some faces are new. Some familiar ones are missing. Transfers, judging by the suitcases with bizarre locks and foreign crests. A girl walks past clutching a broomstick engraved with CAPE TOWN SCHOOL OF AEROMAGIC. Another wears robes stitched with constellations instead of trim. Hogwarts, apparently, is more global this year.

From across the crowd, Collei spots her housemates—green-trimmed robes, loud voices, arms flailing like overexcited Mandrakes—and waves, then shoots Cyno a grin over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later, brother!” she shouts, suddenly more put-together than she’s ever managed before nine a.m., hair brushed, buttons aligned, not a single ink stain in sight. He makes a mental note to ask what imposter has possessed her body.

“She’s finally figured out how to exist in daylight,” Cyno mutters, almost all to himself.

They press on toward the train, shoving past a floating trunk arguing with its owner, dodging a gaggle of second-years casting warming charms on their teacups, and eventually reaching their carriage—the third from the middle, left side, compartment marked with a big brass ‘J’ and a scratched heart carved just under the window (Scaramouche denies carving it, which means he absolutely did).

Inside, right on schedule, their Slytherin disaster of a friend reclines on the bench like he owns the Hogwarts Express itself. Scaramouche, scarf tossed cogently around his neck like he’s just been rescued from a snowstorm. “Well, look who finally turned up,” he drawls, swinging his feet off the opposite bench.

Cyno moves to step in. “Sca—”

He doesn’t get to finish because a banshee—no, wait, that’s just Mona—explodes through the hallway like a firework with hair. She crashes into Cyno’s arm, snarling with enough venom to pickle a mermaid.

“SCARAMOUCHE!” she bellows, and the name hits the cabin walls like a curse.

“Oh for—” Scaramouche leaps to his feet with the speed of someone who’s about to die tellingly. “Ah, and the insufferably ugly witch returns. Brilliant. Just brilliant.” He clambers onto the bench and grabs the suitcase rack above like it’s a life raft.

Mona storms in after him, midnight-blue pigtails whipping about like angry Quidditch tassels. “I’ll have you, you filthy sack of bludgers!”

“I told you, you hideous hag,” Scaramouche shrieks, ducking behind Cyno now, using him as a human shield. “It wasn’t me! For Merlin’s sake, I don’t even know what you’re talking about this time!”

“YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” Mona raises her wand like she’s about to swat a fly the size of a hippogriff. Xiao, sighing with the calm of a man who’s spent far too long in the company of idiots, slides between them and blocks her path with one hand.

The words that follow are unprintable, though Cyno notes with detached amusement that Mona’s insult-to-noun ratio is unusually high this morning.

“I’m going to carve your liver out with a teaspoon!” she shrieks.

“Eugh.”

“Mona, honestly,” Cyno grunts, placing his trunk down with a heavy thud, already regretting his entire existence.

“I bloody know! A vile witch-spouting nonsense!”

“You’ll regret that, Scaramouche!” Mona jabs her birch forward.

“Oh, no… No, no! Cyno! Xiao! Help me!” Scaramouche shrinks behind Xiao, voice cracking with theatrical despair. “She’s a mutt! A beast! Get her away from me before she combusts and takes the rest of us with her!”

“What did you even do to her?” Xiao hisses, now holding Mona by the sleeve, which she’s trying to wrench free with the fury of someone ready to duel and dance on the grave afterward.

Cyno’s barely listening. While the turmoil roils around him, a badly contained spell, he’s scanning the corridor. Same varnished floors, same scratched windows, same old Hogwarts Express scent; polish, pumpkin, and teenage dread. Students are finding their places. A blur of lime green streaks past—sweater paws, khaki trackies, twin braids glowing like someone enchanted the tips with fairy dust. A girl bumps his shoulder, muttering an apology. Cyno blinks. “Was that—?”

“Barbatos?” Xiao utters out of nowhere beside him, momentarily forgetting he’s restraining a violent spellcaster. “From Hufflepuff?”

“Oh, no,” Cyno smirks, watching the glazed look settle over his friend’s face like fog on a mirror. “Someone’s got a crush.”

“I do not —!” Xiao begins, but it’s too late.

Mona breaks free.

An ear-splitting shriek tears through the cabin like a kelpie with excellent lung capacity, and for the third time in ten minutes, hurly-burly escalates. A third-year yelps and drops a stack of Chocolate Frog cards. A first-year bursts into tears. Someone’s toad escapes into the hallway.

“Oh, bloody—”

“XIAO! Why’d you LET HER GO?!”

“I BLINKED!”

“YOU BLINKED?!”

Cyno watches the pandemonium unfold, arms crossed, owl hooting softly behind him. He sighs, not with despair, but with grim understanding. Seventh year has arrived.

And they’re clearly doomed.

**

By sundown, they’re trudging into the wind at the flank of the station outside Hogsmeade, where the evening has gone soggy and stubborn, and the air smells of damp wool cloaks and the sharp snap of spell residue. Thestral-drawn carriages line the cobbled path in eerie silence, their alleged skeletal forms twitching and stamping as if they resent being visible to some. Cyno, who can’t see them—never has, never hopes to—avoids looking directly at the empty harnesses, even though he knows the creatures are there, breathing softly, eyes like moonstone marbles. Some students clamber aboard without hesitation, but not him. Not Xiao either. There’s a history to those rides, one Cyno doesn’t care to explain aloud. Too many things best left behind in sixth year.

They walk instead, coats fiddling, trunks levitating behind them in an obedient shuffle, their shadows drawn long by the lanterns flickering down the woodland path. Scaramouche sulks beside them like a particularly irritable goblin who’s just lost a bet. His nose is crooked and bleeding impressively, jacket speckled with crimson and dirt, hair—what remains un-matted of it—sticking up like he’s been hexed backward through a hedge. He mutters every curse known to wizardkind under his breath, inventing new ones as he goes. Cyno doesn’t stop him. It’s almost therapeutic.

The nose, incidentally, is Mona’s fault. Or, if you asked her, entirely justified vengeance for Scaramouche having turned her into a ferret for the journey to King’s Cross. The transformation had been disturbingly accurate. Cyno had nearly fed her a peanut. And all this was—demonstrably—a reply to last year’s Three Broomsticks incident, where Mona, in a fit of theatrical fury, had charmed Scaramouche to dance on the table with a parakeet face and a pair of squeaky Muggle clown shoes that honked every time he tapped his feet.

Serves him right, Cyno thinks, though not unkindly. Scaramouche’s disdain for Muggles and Muggle-borns is a dull drumbeat in his personality—tiresome, outdated, something Cyno endures the same way he might endure a splinter in his wand hand. But tonight, with his ego bleeding out through his nostrils, the guy’s oddly quiet. Which is new.

The forest rises dark and tall ahead of them, trees clutching at the sky like crooked fingers. They’re nearing the castle; Cyno can feel it in the way the magic in the air thickens like clotted cream, the way the howling wolves that usually punctuate the forest’s silence have gone oddly mute. Another fifteen minutes, maybe less, if the wind stays down.

They reach the gates just as the last sliver of daylight dies. Waiting beneath the old stone arch is Professor Alhaitham, expression unreadable as ever, a scroll in one hand and quill in the other. Cyno hears the dreamy sighs gurgle through the queue behind him, various upper-years apparently still under the impression that brooding, intellectually aloof men who read Hogwarts: A History for fun are attractive. To each their own.

Then: “Let me,” a voice says. Light, warm, polite to the point of irksome. A boy slips past Xiao and steps squarely in front of Scaramouche.

Cyno doesn’t need to check twice. White-blonde hair streaked with red like autumn leaves. That’s Kazuha. Hufflepuff poet. Half-blood. Ridiculously nice. Carries more books than most people own in a lifetime.

“ Episkey,” Kazuha murmurs, pointing his wand with graceful ease. A sharp crack echoes as Scaramouche’s nose snaps back into place. Not subtle. Not painless.

“OW! Bloody—!” Scaramouche clutches his face and stares up at him, eyes narrowed.

“There. A beauty once more,” Kazuha says cheerfully, adjusting the lopsided stack of textbooks in his arms like he’s just repaired a flower vase.

Cyno watches with raised eyebrows. It’s the most interaction he’s ever seen Scaramouche allow without flinching—or spitting. And yet…

Scaramouche grunts, which in his language roughly translates to ‘I’m surprised and mildly impressed but will die before disclosing it.’ He wipes his nose with the inside of his sleeve, muttering, “Thanks…”

“My pleasure. Kaedehara Kazuha, by the way,” the boy offers, hand extended with irritating sincerity.

Scaramouche does not shake it. “I know who you are,” he grumbles flatly, eyes flicking to the hand like it might explode.

Kazuha blinks. “Oh. That’s a surprise.”

Rolling his eyes, Scaramouche mutters, a little too loudly for subtlety, “Who wouldn’t know a Kazuha from Hufflepuff? They’d have to be daft not to…”

And there it is—that edge in his voice that always sneaks in when he’s trying a bit too hard to sound unimpressed. Cyno notes it, but doesn’t comment. It started sometime last year, this… odd awareness. Kazuha had dueled someone blindfolded during a Charms Club exhibition, then wandered off mid-applause to pick mushrooms near the Greenhouses. People talked about him the way they talked about misread prophecies—vaguely and with wonder. Scaramouche pretends not to care, but Cyno’s seen the way he watches Kazuha sometimes, like trying to solve a riddle he can’t quite admit he’s bothered by. Not fascination, not fondness. Just… curiosity, coiled like a question he hasn't figured out how to ask. Not that he’d ever admit that. Scaramouche would rather eat a live Basilisk egg.

As the group files forward, Kazuha keeps pace with him, unfazed by the lack of a handshake, chatting amiably about the weather, the new Potions syllabus, and how Scaramouche “really should try meditating, it does wonders for anxiety and blood pressure.” Cyno snorts. Xiao glances over with mild horror, as if unsure whether he’s witnessing a budding friendship or a slow-motion train crash.

“Names,” Professor Alhaitham says when they reach the front.

“Xiao, Cyno, Scaramouche, and Kazuha, professor,” Xiao replies crisply. Alhaitham sweeps his wand, and the gates swing open with a groan.

They’re through.

Up ahead, the dark outline of the castle rises like a forgotten god, lights glittering in its windows like fireflies caught in jars. The Forbidden Forest creeps along the path, but no one looks twice. They’re almost home.

Cyno glances back. The wind’s picked up again, but laughter cuts through it—a handful of students moving together in mismatched house colours. Barbatos is among them, arms flailing as he recounts something absurd. Lumine’s beside him, grinning. Yoimiya walks ahead, and somewhere in the mix is that quiet boy with the lime fringe and wide, fox-like eyes. What’s his name again? The Herbology genius.

Ah. Tighnari.

Cyno remembers now: they’d been paired for that disastrous Mandrake repotting lesson in fifth year. Tighnari had talked to the plants like they were old friends. One of the Mandrakes had sung.

Final year, Cyno thinks, tightening his cloak against the chill.

It’s already off to a brilliant start.

**

They stop short at the foot of the castle, and Cyno, for no good reason at all, finds himself staring at a tree. Not just any tree—that tree. The one crouched just outside the gate, ancient and gnarled and bad-tempered, its bark twitching ever so slightly in the icy breeze as though it’s shivering with menace or plotting murder or both. Two fat birds that had once been warbling on its highest branch are now suspiciously quiet, feathers fluffed, frozen in place as if they’ve heard something they shouldn’t have. Cyno squints, worried. But then again, this is Hogwarts. Trees aren’t always trees, and silence is rarely safe.

Then suddenly—arm. Around his shoulders. That citrusy-woodsy scent hits him before the voice. “Another year with you, I suppose.”

“Final year at Hogwarts with you,” Cyno corrects automatically, turning his head to meet Xiao’s gaze. There’s that face—ridiculously symmetrical, carved out of handsomeness itself, and backlit by the muzzy ray of the castle torches like some half-divine painting. It’s honestly unfair. “We’ll still see each other after we graduate. You’ll let me sleep in your bed again, right?”

Xiao raises one perfect eyebrow and lets his arm fall, impervious. “Did you ever give me a choice?”

“Suppose not. But you love me,” Cyno replies gravely, like he’s delivering bad news.

Xiao sighs the way one might when presented with a long essay written entirely in glitter ink. “One day, Cyno. One day.”

“You really think you can get rid of me?” Cyno leans in until their foreheads bump—friendly, annoying, affectionate.

“Watch me.”

Oh, he will. But it’s all just the customary bluster. They’ve already planned to go pro with Quidditch after graduation, anyway—Beater and Seeker, one brutal, one elusive. Like fire and wind in human form. Sticking together is inevitable, like gravity or bad cafeteria pudding.

They trail behind the others and finally enter the castle, letting the younger years rush past like stampeding Maine Coons, all squeaky boots and oversized robes. Inside, everything is comfortingly enormous and exactly as it should be. Stone staircases shifting like lazy giants. Floating candles bobbing overhead. Suits of armour muttering gossip to one another under their breath. The castle bleats around them, alive as ever.

Sir Nicholas—Nearly Headless, still dreadfully proud about it—floats by, detaching his head with a dramatic pop to impress a knot of first-years, some of whom scream while others applaud like they’ve just seen a decent card trick. Cyno smirks. Some things never change.

First-years are ushered into the Great Hall first, jittery and eager, followed by the rest of the school in trickling waves. The seventh-years come last, the veterans. Survivors of O.W.L.s, heartbreak, explosions in Potions, and the inexplicable horror of group projects. The Hall, as always, is a cathedral of magic—candles scintillating high above, plates gleaming gold, banners for each House draped from the ceiling like grand declarations of destiny. The air smells of roasted meats, cornish pasties, and nervous sweat. Hogwarts.

Cyno and Xiao take their places at the Ravenclaw table, slipping into the half-familiar seats beside housemates already deep in chatter. Ahead, the staff table gleams beneath a charm-polished chandelier, and new professors take their seats with the kind of stiff awkwardness that screams I’ve never survived a Peeves encounter. Cyno eyes them all shrewdly, calculating threat levels, essay load potential, and whether any of them look like the sort to take points for sarcastic answers. He also notes with satisfaction that the Sorting Hat will not be singing this year. Last year’s song had been an off-key seventeen-verse monstrosity about unity and goblin uprisings.

Headmistress McGonagall rises. Regal. Severe. Undeniably terrifying. She raises a wand-hand, the other resting on the Sorting Hat, and the hall falls instantly silent. Her voice, like steel wrapped in velvet, rings out: “Greetings, dear students of Hogwarts. To the newcomers—welcome. And to the returning—welcome back. The Great Feast will begin shortly. But first… the Sorting.”

Applause erupts; some polite, some enthusiastic, some accompanied by whoops from Gryffindor’s end, where someone is already being told to shut up. The ancient Sorting Hat is placed reverently on the stool by Filch (still limping, still miserable), and the names begin.

“Dori!”

A tiny girl with hair like spun toffee bounces up, radiating energy like she’s been enchanted with twelve Pepper-Up Potions and a sugar charm. The Hat barely touches her head before it cries out, “Ah, ambition! Cunning, creativity, a business sense… Slytherin!”

She leaps from the stool with glee and prances toward the green-trimmed table as the snakes erupt into cheers.

Next: “Klee!”

A chaotic burst of wheat-blonde pigtails barrels up to the front, cheeks puffed with excitement. The Hat hesitates, then snorts, “Mischief, bravery, fireworks in your soul—definitely Gryffindor!”

Klee whoops, runs the wrong way, spins, corrects herself, and gets a standing ovation from her new housemates.

Then comes: “Sayu.”

Quieter than the rest. She slinks up like she’s trying not to be noticed at all. The Hat hums softly. “Gentle, loyal, and a heart full of magical beasts… Hufflepuff!”

The applause is warm and steady. Sayu practically disappears into her seat.

Cyno rests his chin in his palm, elbow on the table, partially listening to the Hat as the sorting continues. It’s all delightfully repetitive—ambition, loyalty, bravery, wit—like Hogwarts is sorting traits instead of people. He claps when it’s polite, cheers for Ravenclaws, and tunes out during the long pauses. The candles overhead flare, the windows rattle faintly with the wind, and from somewhere beyond the enchanted ceiling, thunder grumbles its disapproval.

He glances down the line, sees Xiao already munching a Chocolate Frog he definitely wasn’t supposed to nick yet. Cyno raises an eyebrow. Xiao just shrugs.

The year begins with thunder in the sky and mischief on the horizon. Exactly as it should be.

And thus, the Great Hall erupts in a glorious clatter of cutlery and enchanted clinking as the feast appears with a theatrical shimmer, dishes materialising faster than a spell gone wrong. Roast beef, chicken, pork and lamb chops tumble in beside sausages curled like snakes, bacon crisped to perfection, and a battalion of golden chips marching along beside mounds of roasted, mashed, and boiled potatoes—all competing for the title of ‘Most Likely to Induce a Nap.’ Yorkshire puddings float in on gravy rivers, peas and carrots parade down the table, and an incredulously large bottle of ketchup sits in the centre like a wizarding relic. And that’s before dessert even thinks about joining.

By the time the trifles, tarts, éclairs, jam doughnuts, peppermint humbugs and chocolate gateaux start showing off, Cyno’s plate is already a mess of sauces and decisions. He sits beside Xiao, who’s tucking in with the stolid, deliberate joy of someone making a ceremony of each bite, and honestly? He can relate. Eating is the best thing after Quidditch. The pumpkin juice glows somewhat in their goblets. Overhead, the floating candles bob and glisten as if eavesdropping on every conversation.

Cyno’s gaze strays across the hall as he chews, habitually scanning the sea of students, faces half-lit by flame and excitement. There’s Barbatos again, effortlessly magnetic, perched on the edge of the Hufflepuff bench, supposing he owns the sky. His hands flail in-between story as his housemates lean in, laughing. Cyno realises, with a flash of discomfort, that even after six years here, he hardly knows many of these people. Names, yes. Classmates, sure. But not lives, not properly. Cordial chats between classes. Surface-level small talk. Most Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were friendly, but distant—like warm fireplaces seen from far away windows.

Slytherins were another matter. He’d trained with them. Quidditch had a funny way of turning sworn enemies into reluctant allies and then into strange, stubborn friends—Scaramouche chief among them. The boy had arrived to practices with sneers and sarcasm and left with a bruised shoulder and an accidental fondness for their post-match biscuits.

But it was that Hufflepuff boy—him—who kept catching Cyno’s eye. Tighnari, the slippery Herbology genius with lime-streaked hair like he’d been struck by a rogue vine. Once upon a time, he’d had long, olive-dark locks and a nervous habit of evaporating whenever spoken to, albeit Cyno suspects it’s not due to timidity. No, he never once picked up such a vibe from the lad. Regardless, he was a bit sharper now than he was before, quieter still, always tinkering with strange plants and whispering to soil like it whispered back. He’d scurried off more times than Cyno could count. Never rude, just… evasive. Like someone with too many secrets and not enough time.

A sip of pumpkin juice slides down Cyno’s throat, just as Xiao sighs beside him, arms stretched behind his head.

“How I’ve missed this,” he murmurs, chalice in hand.

“Me too,” Cyno replies, swirling his drink. “Collei used to try and recreate it at home. Came close, but it was never quite right.”

“She used salt instead of sugar in the custard one time,” Xiao adds solemnly.

Cyno shudders. “It was… memorable.”

Then, a voice, mischievous and irrefutable. “Oi, lads—save some pudding for the rest of us, will you?”

Hu Tao plops down across from them, clad in her usual anarchic blend of Mugglewear: a black cardigan over a slogan tee Cyno doesn’t understand, joggers with questionable stitching, and pigtails bouncing behind red ribbons that scream rascality. She grabs a muffin mid-sentence, biting into it like it owes her money.

“How was your break?” she mumbles, mouth full.

“Eventful,” Cyno relays, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

“Troublesome,” adds Xiao, deadpan.

Hu Tao grins. “Two types of people. I met Yanfei’s parents, on the other hand. Lovely folks. Made me eat three rhubarb pies. I told them I’d come back for more—strictly for the desserts, of course.” Her cheeks tint the colour of her ribbons. “Though I might have promised to stay a week in Yanfei’s room.”

Cyno nearly chokes on a roast potato, while Xiao coughs into his juice.

“Are you two getting married?” Xiao croaks. “Should we be saving the date?”

“I’ll let you know,” Hu Tao winks—and then, as if summoned by scandal, Yanfei appears with the flourish of a phoenix landing mid-conversation.

“Hello, hello,” she chirps, her voice warm and precise. Her shell-pink hair is styled to perfection, two polished antlers peeking through like ornaments. Her sea-green eyes brighten at the sight of Hu Tao, who immediately leans into her side.

“Hi, love,” Hu Tao greets, softer now.

Cyno, caught in the whirlwind of romance and rhubarb, sails again. His eyes wander back to Xiao, who’s not listening. Not really. He’s watching the Hufflepuff table. Barbatos is still at it, telling a story with arms flailing like overcooked spaghetti. Tighnari is there too, laughing quietly into his pudding, then curling protectively over a half-carved sculpture he’s constructing out of jelly and treacle tart. The whole group glows with that effortless kind of fellowship Cyno has always found both lovely and mildly baffling.

“Hey, mate, you done?”

“Huh?” Cyno blinks, jolted back to now. Xiao’s standing, angled toward the aisle, ready to go.

“Tower. I’m full, tired, and tragically mortal. Let’s go.”

“Right. Yeah.”

They say their goodbyes, receive twin waves from Hu Tao and Yanfei, and shoulder their bags. As they leave the Great Hall, Cyno gets that feeling again—that tickle on the back of his neck. Like someone’s watching. Not hostile, just… observant. He doesn’t look back. He never does. Hogwarts is full of ghosts, some you see, some you don’t.

They reach the staircases, which are mid-shuffle, creaking with sleepy stubbornness. Paintings chide them half-heartedly for being late. One portrait mutters something about curfew and house points but is too distracted by his neighbour’s snoring to enforce anything. The ghosts, in contrast, are jubilant—Sir Cadogan waves his sword at them persuasively, and the Fat Friar offers them a belch of welcome.

“Riddle me this,” the eagle knocker says as they approach Ravenclaw Tower. “A rooster lays an egg at the border between Lokapala Jungle and Minlin—what country is the egg in?”

“Roosters don’t lay eggs,” Xiao replies with a sigh, and the door swings open with an approving click.

The common room is exactly as it should be: airy, circular, and full of that lofty brilliance Ravenclaws pride themselves on. Arched windows curve with moonlight. Blue and bronze hangings ripple like water. A midnight carpet, glittering with stars, stretches across the floor like the night sky come in for tea.

A few students glance up and smile as they enter. Cyno waves, Xiao grunts his hello. They head up the boys’ dormitory stairs, and when they reach their room—neatly made beds, trunks already in place—it’s blissfully quiet.

Xiao, true to form, hurls himself onto the bed nearest the window. Cyno claims the middle one, jerks his wand, and begins unpacking with naval exactness.

Then—bang.

“Hi, Xiao! Hi, Cyno!” A burst of sunshine crashes through the doorway, dragging a trunk the size of a Moke’s ego. Gorou barrels in, all teeth and wagging energy, eyes sparkling like enchanted aquamarine.

He flops onto the last bed and grins. “Your resident Prefect has arrived.”

“Oh, hey, Mr. Authority,” Xiao snorts. “You’re bunking with us? Hope you don’t mind Cyno’s thunderous snoring.”

Cyno retorts, “And I hope you enjoy Xiao’s nightly sleep paralysis screams.”

Gorou gasps bombastically, placing a hand to his heart. “Well, I hope you don’t mind my sleepwalking. Sometimes I recite the Goblin Tax Code. Loudly.”

They all stare at each other for one perfect beat—then crack, laughter spills out, sharp and echoing, filling the dorm with the type of fervor that makes Hogwarts feel like home.

Cyno sits back on his bed, legs dangling off the edge, and for the first time all day, he lets his mind rest.

Tomorrow would be full of class schedules and Prefect patrols and possible hexes in the corridor.

But tonight?

Tonight, they were here. Together. Still themselves.

**

Something itchier than a devil’s snare in a sweater is tickling his upper lip, and no amount of swatting or snuffling or grumbling seems to rid him of it. Cyno groans, rolls onto his side, tries rubbing the spot just under his nose—but the itching only intensifies, like a niffler hunting for gold in his moustache (which he does not have, for the record). There’s a sniff, then a blink, and then—by the stars and Merlin’s moth-eaten pyjamas—there’s Xiao, hovering over him under the warm cocoon of enchanted blankets, brandishing a quill like it’s Excalibur and Cyno’s upper lip is the dragon.

“Again with the feather?” Cyno croaks, fuzzy and disgruntled as he tries to retreat beneath the blankets.

“Nope.” RIP. The covers are yanked clean off, and there’s Xiao, dressed, pressed, and looking disgustingly awake. “Get up, you muppet.”

Cyno moans like a wounded Hippogriff. “Morning to you too, O Great Menace of the Morning.” He squints up at his best mate, who, naturally, looks like he’s walked straight out of a Diagon Alley fashion ad—bronze-and-blue Ravenclaw robes perfectly crisp, necktie straight, hair messily windswept in a way that’s definitely done on purpose. There isn’t a spot on him. Cyno feels personally attacked by the contrast.

“You snore, by the way,” Xiao says casually, inspecting his nails. “I thought I made it up last night, but no. It’s real. It’s awful.”

“Liar,” Cyno mutters, shoving him lazily. “You’ve been dreaming again.”

Xiao shrugs, still poking him with the cursed quill. “Get up, or I’ll charm your pillow to scream every time you blink.”

“Fine, fine,” Cyno yawns, stretching his limbs like a Kneazle waking from a nap in the sun. As Xiao saunters off with an air of smug victory, muttering something about starving to death, Cyno drags himself up, dresses quickly, grabs his rucksack, and scans the room. Gorou’s bed is already perfectly made, all corners tucked with military precision—a stark contrast to last year’s roommate Gale, whose idea of organisation involved flinging socks at whatever surface wasn’t currently on fire.

Descending the spiral staircase, Cyno calls, “Xiao?” and enters the common room, which currently resembles the aftermath of a very studious explosion. Textbooks float unattended, parchment curls skyward, and cushions have staged a rebellion. Cyno, with a sigh and a flick of his wand, restores order.

Xiao, lounging on the sofa, lazily lifts his own wand. “I was going to do that.”

“You weren’t exactly rushing,” Cyno deadpans.

“Shall we?”

“Yeah.”

Together they march through the Ravenclaw halls and down toward the Great Hall, passing sleepy portraits who whine at them for being punctual, which is apparently just as bad as being late. At breakfast, Hu Tao is already holding court, legs crossed, plate full, and talking a mile a minute. Yanfei sits beside her, elegant as ever, flipping through a battered legal textbook between bites of toast.

Albedo, the early bird that he is, has saved them seats with his usual icy fidelity. Headmistress McGonagall gives the opening speech—concise, exquisite, and not open for interruption. She reminds them about O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s with the same tone one might use to mention imminent doom, then lifts her wand and poof —plates are full.

Breakfast at Hogwarts, Cyno firmly believes, could solve the world’s problems. There are farm-fresh eggs nestled beside thick slices of bacon, sausage links, black pudding, grilled tomatoes, buttery mushrooms, baked beans, toast in infinite varieties, and those fluffy, golden breakfast potatoes that melt in your mouth and ruin your standards forever. He takes two rashers of bacon, one fried tomato, and a generous helping of eggs. Bliss.

Conversation bounces around them. A pair of Slytherin girls slide into the seats nearby—sixth- and seventh-years, probably trying to be casual and unpretentious while inching closer to Xiao, whose responses are minimal, distracted, and monosyllabic.

Cyno isn’t fooled.

Xiao’s eyes keep gliding toward the Hufflepuff table, where Barbatos and his band of enchanted sunbeams are chortling at something—probably a joke involving enchanted marmalade or mooncalves wearing socks. Tighnari sits among them, eyes down, fork turning something on his plate into a sculpture. He doesn’t speak, but when he does laugh—soft and quick and blink-and-miss—it lights up that end of the table.

Cyno squints. Fascinating.

Then: a whistle. Barbatos again, grinning like he’s just cursed the moon. He gestures toward Cyno, then flutters his hand in a gesture, and an enchanted piece of parchment drifts indolently through the air by someone else’s doing, smoke curling at the confines, soaring like it’s been told to deliver a prophecy.

Cyno catches it as he’s chewing and squints at the parchment, which smells feebly of cinnamon and ink. The message, in elegant handwriting, reads: You’ve got something on the corner of your mouth.

It dissolves the moment he finishes reading it.

He touches the corner of his mouth, and—yes, a smear of sauce. He wipes it off, bemused, and glances up in time to see Tighnari calmly placing his wand beside his plate, not looking at him. Just a glister of acknowledgement, a sliver of subtlety—and then he's gone, robes swishing behind him, yellow trim disappearing out the Great Hall doors like a ghost with a Herbology thesis due.

Cyno blinks, fork suspended aloft. “Was that…?”

“Was what?” Xiao asks, still staring.

“Nothing.” Cyno spears a mushroom.

One day into the school year, and already, Hogwarts is doing what it does best—turning ordinary breakfasts into puzzles, poking at the fringes of curiosity, and sending cryptic messages through enchanted paper with no return address.

Cyno chews, thoughtful.

Something tells him this coming week won’t be boring.

**

Cyno shows up to Charms five minutes early—not by habit, but necessity; Professor Miko has the unfortunate tendency to transfigure tardy students into noiseless vases for the rest of the lesson, and once you’ve been a houseplant, you don’t risk a repeat. He waits with Xiao just outside the Charms corridor, in the umbrage of the Training Grounds Tower, where the breeze carries a woolly hint of grass, chalk dust, and whatever mysterious potion is currently being brewed one floor up. It’s quiet for now, just the two of them leaning against the wall, letting the seconds tick by with the calm of boys who’ve survived worse.

Then—shuffle, scowl, sigh—Scaramouche joins them, having clearly peeled himself away from his established Slytherin entourage. He bumps elbows with Xiao in greeting, says nothing, and stands with his arms crossed, looking like he’s regretting the decision already but too proud to turn around.

The door creaks open at last, and Professor Miko sweeps inside with all the finesse of a stage sorceress, her long robes creeping like moonlight. Students file in after her in the quotidian scramble of bags and rumbled gossip, everyone trying to snag their preferred seat, partner, and escape route before the lesson begins.

Cyno, Xiao, and Scaramouche claim their everyday haven in the very back row—Cyno to the left, Scaramouche to the right, and Xiao in the middle, unwilling referee between two forces of nature. The room hums with chatter as Professor Miko flips her wand and begins arranging her parchment with calculated elegance. The noise continues. Louder. Louder still. Then—

“Class,” she says sweetly, eyes closed.

Nothing.

“I said…” Her eyes snap open, and five spectral tails whip out from beneath her robes with a flourish so dramatic it could’ve been choreographed. “ Attention.”

The silence drops like a guillotine. Even the portraits on the walls freeze. Scaramouche, partway through a gesture—he’d been giving Mona a rude sign—shoves his hands under the desk and looks away as if studying the ceiling’s wood grain.

Professor Miko smiles like a cat who knows precisely how many canaries she’s about to eat. “Well. Since you’re all in such a social mood, I’ve decided on a little experiment.” She conjures a glass jar with a swish of her wand—it lands on her desk with a histrionic thunk. “Write your names. Drop them in. I’ll assign you all new seats.”

There’s an audible splash of panic.

“Why, Professor?” someone dares ask, undoubtedly new.

Miko doesn’t answer directly—of course she doesn’t. She merely smiles, syrupy sweet, and replies, “You’ll see.”

Quills scratch frantically as names are scribbled down, folded, and deposited. The jar glows ominously. Professor Miko gives it a lazy tap, and three slips shoot into the air, unfurling mid-spin in a burst of gold and pink glitter.

“Aether. Xiao. Venti.”

“Wait, Venti?” Xiao mutters as he stands, confused.

Cyno sees the moment it clicks—Barbatos, all shiftless grins and windblown hair, struts forward like he’s answering a fan letter. Aether, with that distinct Gryffindor poise, follows beside him. Xiao’s face tightens with a blend of recognition and deeply buried reluctance.

Professor Miko gestures toward the second row. “Ladies, do make room. Next—”

Names shoot out like firecrackers: Kokomi, Ayaka, Yoimiya. Dahlia, Gorou, Gaming. Seats are shuffled, sighs exchanged, and somewhere down the line, Cyno hears it.

“Cyno. Keqing. Tighnari.”

He exhales through his nose, slings his bag over his shoulder, and follows Keqing’s brisk march to the last row on the left. She claims the aisle seat. Cyno takes the middle. And then—Tighnari arrives, whist as breath, slipping into the seat by the window without a word, his satchel knocking softly to the floor like it, too, is trying not to make a fuss.

Professor Miko claps her hands. “Sorted. These will be your assigned seats for all lectures this term. Should make cheating—and chitchat—significantly more difficult.”

With that, she disappears behind a puff of foxfire, robes swishing as she exits the classroom like she’s just concluded an opera.

Cyno begins gathering his things, already thinking about lunch when he turns a little to face his new deskmate. “Hey.”

Tighnari doesn’t look up at first. “Hm?”

Cyno nods. “Thanks. For earlier.”

“Ah.” Tighnari glances sideways, tucking something into his bag. “You mean the sauce thing?”

“Yeah.”

A twinkle of amusement curls the corner of Tighnari’s mouth, just briefly. His lashes are thick and dark, propelling tiny shadows onto his cheeks, and his eyes—amber and green, warm and obscure—settle on Cyno for half a second longer than necessary.

“Don’t mention it,” he says at last, tone airy, dismissive, but not unkind. He hoists his absolutely monstrous bag onto one shoulder and heads for the door without so much as a backward peep.

Cyno watches him go. Not because he’s particularly interested. Not because of the eyes or the voice or the smile that hadn’t quite become one.

Just curious. Just… observing. Nothing more.

**

Their next class is Potions: dungeon-dark, delightfully dangerous, and deeply discouraging for anyone with poor attention to detail or a weak stomach. The classroom smells of old stone, scorched beetle shells, and whatever ingredient someone spilled and charmed invisible three terms ago. Professor Yelan presides over it all with the aspect of a woman who would rather duel a dragon than suffer through adolescent incompetence, though she is known (rumour has it) to be lenient in very specific, infallible ways: when she sees potential, or when it benefits her not to care.

As always, she commands the room with one dab of her dowel and no raised voice. “Pair up,” she instructs, skating past rows of desks in robes that never so much as whisper. “You know the drill. Tables of four. Two pairs each.”

Cyno, Xiao, and Scaramouche immediately claim a table near the back, closest to the supply cupboard and farthest from interference. Technically, there’s room for one more, but Scaramouche plants his foot on the fourth chair and glares with such unceremonious menace at anyone who so much as sneaks a peek in their direction that even the Gryffindors pretend not to notice. A Hufflepuff lingers one second too long and is rewarded with a single, curt shake of Scaramouche’s head—a shake that says I’d rather poison myself than let you sit here —and that’s that.

It’s not shyness. Merlin, no. To call Scaramouche shy would be like calling a Hungarian Horntail misunderstood. No, he simply has standards. The kind that don’t bend. If you’re not quick-witted, sharp-tongued, or Quidditch-qualified, you’re dismissed without ceremony. Most students at Hogwarts know better than to take it personally. He’s Scaramouche: Slytherin Quidditch captain, Ministry legacy, equal parts talent and terror.

That he chooses to keep company with two Ravenclaws—neither of them pure-blooded Slytherins, nor particularly interested in Ministry politics—is a curiosity in itself. But Quidditch levels the field, and Cyno and Xiao earned their keep long ago. Respect forged on the pitch, in bruises and broomsticks, counts for more than bloodlines or tradition. And besides, they’ve learned to tolerate Scaramouche’s moods with a heed that borders on magical.

Xiao’s unfazed by it all. He always is. He’s immune to Scaramouche’s barbs, his theatrics, even his hoarding of space. He simply exists in calm contrast—private, observant, almost maddeningly serene. As for Cyno, he’s used to Scaramouche being Scaramouche. He likes him, more or less. Finds his bitterness oddly comforting, like the smell of rain on dragonhide.

Today’s potion is the Wolfsbane. Regulated, breakneck, and deliciously advanced. Professor Yelan gives no permission slips, no formal clearances. She merely waves her staff, and three dozen sealed vials rise from a brass case like sleepy ghouls. “When your cauldron emits blue smoke,” she says, “you may stop. That means you’ve done something right for once.”

Cyno flips open their textbook, fingers skimming the faded spine, pages brittle and bookmarked with careless ink stains from previous years. Scaramouche is chewing on a Honeydukes toffee and not helping, of course—he’s leaning back, arms crossed, the picture of studious disdain. Xiao, in contrast, is already laying out the ingredients with mum efficiency, his movements so pinpoint it’s like the potion is brewing itself.

They work like clockwork when they want to. Scaramouche complains, Xiao corrects, Cyno calculates. It works.

Across the room, a puff of vibrant blue smoke spirals into the air—Barbatos’ table. Professor Yelan nods once, impressed. The Slytherins at that table bask in it. Aether beams. Kazuha blinks like he’s just woken from a nap. And there, nestled quietly, Tighnari stirs the cauldron with intense focus, a slight crease in his brow. He doesn’t look up, but Cyno’s eyes catch his for the briefest moment.

Unexpected. A shimmer of something honed and inquisitive. It hits him like the sudden memory of a dream you didn’t realise you’d had.

“He calls himself Venti,” Xiao murmurs beside him, low enough that no one else hears.

“Barbatos, you mean?” Cyno leans in slightly, puzzled.

Xiao turns, raises an eyebrow, then drapes a casual arm across Cyno’s shoulders as if to press his point home. “Yes, Cyno… Barbatos.” He says it like it’s a bad joke everyone else is in on.

Before Cyno can respond—before he can ask whether Xiao’s noticed the way Tighnari doesn’t quite belong at that table yet somehow anchors it—Scaramouche perfunctorily chucks a vial into the cauldron with a twirl and a smirk.

It fizzes, sputters—whoosh—and suddenly, their cauldron is belching perfect blue smoke into the air like it’s been holding its breath for a week. Cyno blinks.

Professor Yelan, passing by, casts them an approving look. “Well done, boys. Shame you took so long.” Her voice is dry as parchment but not unkind.

Scaramouche leans back smugly. “Some of us like a dramatic finish.”

Yelan ignores him, already moving on, barking at a Gryffindor pair whose potion looks like dragon bile and smells worse. Pink-haired Dahlia’s doing, and his friends.

Cyno watches the professor go, then turns to glance across the dungeon again. The blue smoke lingers overhead in gentle curls, and at the far end of the room, Tighnari has already packed up. He slips a book into that colossal bag of his and vanishes out the door before anyone else even stands.

No goodbye. No second glance. Just a stroke of his dark green robes and quiescence.

Cyno studies the space he left behind, mind still half-caught on that instant their eyes had met. He can’t say why. But he does. (And that, he deems, is worth noticing.)

**

By the time lunch rolls around, after a slog through Muggle Studies involving far too much talk of something called ‘Bluetooth’ and the tragic extinction of vinyl, Cyno’s stomach is staging a full-scale rebellion. Thankfully, the Great Hall does not disappoint. The enchanted ceiling swirls with soft daylight, the tables wail under the leverage of enough food to flatten a minotaur, and the scent of roast chicken and warm bread hits him like a stunning spell to the face. Cyno wastes no time. He heaps steak and kidney pudding onto his plate, adds a ladleful of honey-drizzled cereal for good measure, and downs half a chalice of star fruit juice before he’s even fully seated.

The day’s offerings are absurdly brilliant: stoat sandwiches, cherry owls, a rainbow of charmed cereals—Picie Puffs popping like fizzing whizbees, Beechroot Salad that tries to rearrange itself on your plate if you aren’t watching, and Xiao’s personal favourite: the infamous tofu soup. Cyno doesn’t touch that one. He once described it as “boiled moon jelly with commitment issues.” Xiao took that as a compliment.

Cyno is mid-meal, mouth full of pudding, when a hand slams down on the table with such gusto that three forks jump and one spoon spills gravy on a first-year, who gasps. Whoops. “ Quidditch practice next week!” announces Xingqiu, their ever-effervescent Quidditch captain, dressed like he’s about to audition for a stage play rather than lead athletic drills. “Same core team. A few new faces.”

Xingqiu, despite his flamboyance and fondness for theatrics, runs a tight ship—he’s one of the few Ravenclaws who can quote twelve lines of Mermish poetry and then chase a Bludger like his life depends on it. His hazel eyes flick to Cyno. “Where’s your other half?”

Cyno glances to his side and frowns. Xiao’s seat is empty. “He was right here.”

“Slipped out,” pipes up Gorou from down the bench, spoon deep in a pudding the consistency of cement. “Said something about the loo.”

“Right. Fair enough.” Xingqiu shrugs with the serenity of a guy used to disappearing Seekers. “Now, onto our newcomers—ah, here they are.”

Heizou appears first, shirt untucked, tie like a defeated serpent, hair windswept by what must have been a sprint through several staircases. He grins and waves with one hand while reaching across Albedo for an apple with the other. “Hello, team. Keeper reporting for duty.”

Hu Tao is not far behind—though ‘arriving’ is generous. She leaps onto the bench like a Circus Arcanus act, nearly knocking over a flagon of pumpkin juice. “Alright! Alright! Game on, nerds. Time to kick some—”

“Love,” Yanfei says smoothly, reeling her back down by the hem of her robe. “Use your library voice.”

Hu Tao collapses beside her, giggling, socks in full display, mismatched and unapologetic.

Xingqiu clears his throat, valiantly restraining a grin. “Right, yes. Hu Tao is our new Chaser, replacing Lin who graduated. Heizou’s our Keeper. He’s bendy and fast and frankly impossible to knock off a broom. Any questions?”

A silence.

“Objections?”

A longer silence.

“Excellent.” He claps Cyno on the shoulder. “Fill Xiao in, won’t you? You’re good at talking to brick walls.”

Cyno salutes with a breadstick. “Leave it to me, Captain.”

Xingqiu swipes another apple and departs with a stagy pirouette of his cloak.

Cyno turns back to his pudding, brow furrowed. “Now, where in the name of Circe’s spotted slippers is Xiao?”

Someone pokes his side. “There.”

Cyno looks up, and there he is. Xiao, slipping back into his seat, utterly unbothered, as if he hadn’t just evacuated during an entire tactical announcement. More curiously, he isn’t alone. Right behind him, prancing like an afterthought, is Barbatos—arms folded, windblown as usual, whistling something tuneless as he drifts off toward the Hufflepuff table.

Cyno narrows his eyes. “You went to the loo… with Barbatos?”

Xiao gives him a look. The look. The one that suggests Cyno has just asked if Flobberworms dream. “No. He happened to enter before me. Not everything is a mystery novel.”

“Right,” Cyno drones, because his best mate actually is a mystery novel. “Anyway—Quidditch practice next week.”

“Wicked,” Xiao replies, mouth full of soup.

“And two new teammates.”

“Who?”

“Yes. And Heizou.”

Xiao pauses mid-chew, fork halfway to his mouth. “You’ve been spending too much time with Xingqiu.”

“Mm,” Cyno smirks.

The afternoon proceeds with all the grim finality of a knell—Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Morax, who lectures like a living statue, and Transfiguration with Professor Dain, who manages to turn a simple pin-to-pinwheel demonstration into a six-step philosophical monologue. Cyno doesn’t mind. He likes both classes. Xiao disappears to the dorm for something “extremely important,” which likely means a book, a blade, or both, so Cyno takes the long way around the castle, legs restless, mind twitching with leftover curiosity.

He ends up on the creaky wooden bridge that stretches toward the Forbidden Forest, where the view of the Black Lake is dark and endless, a mirror of the sky with teeth beneath. He leans against the railing, wind rustling his robes, and stares into the water’s depths, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of something ancient.

He read once, somewhere between insomnia and impulse, that the lake is home to a colony of merpeople. Not the romanticised kind from Muggle picture books with clam bras and hairbrushes made of forks, but tall, sharp-eyed beings with silver-scaled tails, yellow eyes, green hair like tangled kelp, and grey skin that glistens in moonlight. Sentient, yes, though they’d scoff at the word. They have their own laws, their own music—sung in Mermish and impossible to translate without losing half the meaning.

He finds them fascinating. Not because they’re pretty or tragic or operatic, but because they’re other. A species that doesn’t need to be understood to be real. Like Tighnari. Or maybe Xiao, on a particularly silent day. Cyno likes people like that—those who resist easy reading, who don’t translate neatly into single sentences.

The water remains still. No tail swishes, no shadows swirl. Just the wind and the creaking of the old wooden planks beneath his feet.

He doesn’t see a merperson. But he will. Eventually.

“…I wonder about that too. I wonder if what the stories say is true.”

Cyno stiffens as if someone’s just whispered into his ear from the inside of his own skull. He whips his head to the right and—oh—there he is. Barbatos. No—Venti. The Hufflepuff with the breezy grin and eyes like polished emeralds churning with something older than seventeen years, maybe older than Hogwarts itself. The boy stands at the edge of the bridge, leaning on the palisade like he’s only half-tethered to the world and could meander off into the wind if no one thought to stop him.

“Pardon?” Cyno manages, far too late.

Venti smiles, not kindly—knowingly. There’s something liquid in that smile, like music poured into a teacup. “Oh, you know. The creatures below. The ones you were wondering about just now. You think in interesting colours.”

He heard that. He heard me. He’s a—

“A Legilimens, yes.” Venti says it with the ease of offering a bickie. “But not one of the trained ones, mind. I was born with it, can’t really help it most days. Please don’t be cross—it’s more of a… natural affliction. Like sneezing. Or hiccups. Or an overly chatty conscience.”

Cyno’s cheeks flush with heat. He clears his throat. “I… see.”

So he really can just… reach in and lift thoughts like loose feathers.

The boy nods, though not in response to anything Cyno has said aloud. His twin braids bob in the breeze like ribbons in a storm, and it’s only now that Cyno notices the delicate strands of green silk looped loosely around Venti’s wrist, wobbling like a purr against the stone rail. Strange—Hufflepuff doesn’t wear green. Must be a prop.

“You can call me Barbatos, by the way. That’s still my name,” Venti adds brightly, as if reading a completely different part of Cyno’s mind.

“I thought you went by Venti now,” Cyno says, trying to ground the conversation in something solid, “I heard it from Professor Miko—” —and also from Xiao.

Venti’s laugh is light, almost too light, like bubbles surfacing from a deep pool. “Well, I’ve always been a bit of both. Take your pick. One’s old, the other’s older.”

“Right, then…” Cyno falters and turns back toward the lake, unsure what to do with a conversation that seems to be occurring in two planes at once. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Venti mirror the gesture, gracefully, inaudibly, as though he too needs a pause.

Then, soft as summer mist: “I almost drowned once. Second year.”

Cyno jerks back around, eyes wide, spine cold. “I—I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” he blurts, horrified.

But Venti—Venti only smiles. Not in mockery, but in memory. “No need to apologise. You didn’t push me.”

He’s far too calm. Either he’s repressed the trauma or he’s planning to write a song about it.

Venti places a hand over his heart in a grand, theatrical flourish. “I was a mischievous little whirlwind back then. Still am, depending on who you ask. But that day I took a tumble—slipped off the cliff path just past the boathouse, you know the one—and down I went, straight into the water. Couldn’t swim well yet. Panicked. Lost track of up and down.”

Merpeople. It must’ve been the merpeople who saved him. Or something worse.

“No, not the merpeople,” Venti answers, eyes half-lidded, still watching the rippling water. “I did hope they might, but they didn’t. It was someone else. Someone from your house, actually.”

Cyno turns, sharp. “Who?”

Venti exhales slowly, almost like it pains him to say it. “Xiao.”

Cyno stares. Blinks. Stares again. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about drowning,” Venti says solemnly, almost as if chastising Cyno for his choice of word. “We were playing, some of us, little fools in big boots, galloping about like centaurs on a sugar high. I slipped. Hit the water. Couldn’t breathe. The lake was cold and deep and full of shadows. Then—I saw him. Through the blur. Like a bolt from the sky, diving in after me.”

Xiao never said a word. He wouldn’t. But I know him. He would’ve told me. Wouldn’t he?

“He probably doesn’t remember,” Venti murmurs.

Cyno looks at him. “You’ve never… checked?”

Venti’s expression glimmers. “No. I won’t. I owe him that. It’s the only corner of his mind I’ve never touched, and I don’t plan to start. Not even accidentally.”

That’s … oddly noble of him.

“I try,” Venti says with a grin, and Cyno realises, once again, that privacy is more of a suggestion around this boy.

They fall into a silence that isn’t awkward, per se—just weighty, much like a page that’s too important to turn yet.

Then Venti steps back, as if remembering the world is still moving. “Anyway. I should go.”

“Right. Don’t let me keep you,” Cyno says quickly, stepping aside. He’s not sure why he’s suddenly feeling like he’s just finished a test he wasn’t prepared for.

“You never do,” Venti ripostes, voice barely more than a breeze as he walks off, the green silk at his wrist fluttering once—then gone.

Cyno stays at the edge of the bridge a while longer, watching the lake. His thoughts are muddled. Intrigued. A bit unsettled.

He really heard all that?

…He really did.

**

The Forbidden Forest, in the hazy gold of afternoon, looks almost manageable: drowsy, tangled, humming with hidden things. But by nightfall, under the scudding clouds and a moon fat as a lantern, it transforms into something else entirely. Cyno knows this place is forbidden, knows the centaurs that guard it prefer their own company, knows the Ministry paperwork required just to mention entering its borders could bury you in parchment for a year. He comes anyway.

Leaves rustle like whispered threats, and the trees creak not from wind but from watching. Crickets chirp too loudly, and somewhere in the thicket, something yowls—a sound halfway between a wolf and a banshee on an off day. Cyno quickens his pace. The deeper he walks, the faster he wants out. Each step crunches like betrayal, snapping twigs and frail branches beneath his boots as if nature itself is alerting the forest to his presence. He’s retracing his steps now, heading back toward Hogwarts, toward safety, toward sanity.

The moon crests above the treetops, silver and cold and all-knowing. He fixes his eyes on it—anchor, compass, witness—and trusts it to guide him back. Until—

Rustle.

Not squirrel. Not wind. Definitely not good.

Cyno stops dead, every hair on his neck standing like a battalion of tiny soldiers. Something’s moving just off the path, deep in the underbrush, and it’s too prudent to be accidental. With the quiet discipline of one who has absolutely read too many Auror memoirs, he crouches low and creeps forward, one hand reaching for his wand, the other brushing aside a veil of leaves. He leans in—

And promptly comes face-to-face with a completely naked boy.

“WHOA! Sorry! Merlin’s—ah!” Cyno recoils so fast he nearly trips over his own feet, throws both hands over his face, perhaps a hammy plex maiden, and spins around with the grace of a collapsing shelf. “I SWEAR I DIDN’T MEAN TO—I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!” Which is a bold-faced lie, because he absolutely saw something, and his brain helpfully replays the image in high definition.

Behind him, a sigh—tired, cold, and far too calm. “It’s alright. No need to panic. I am the idiot with his arse out in the forest.”

Brilliant. Thank you, Tighnari. Excellent summary. Cyno groans internally, cheeks aflame.

“I—really, I didn’t mean to see—” Cyno begins again, mortified.

“Yes, yes,” Tighnari cuts in dryly, somewhere behind him in the dark. “If you’d be so kind as to hand me my clothes, that would be swell. Shoes too.”

“Right—of course! Hang on—don’t look—I mean, I won’t look!” Cyno grabs blindly at the bundle of clothes strewn nearby and flings it in Tighnari’s general direction like a cursed object. Shuffling. Rustling. A faint muttered complaint about grass stains.

“All done.”

Cyno dares to turn around. Tighnari, now clothed if not entirely composed, stands with arms folded, skin still flushed from the chill, hair a tousled halo of lime-streaked chaos. His robe is half-buttoned, one sock inside-out, and he looks like he’s just escaped a duel with a thorn bush. He also somehow looks… good.

“Mind if I ask,” Cyno says slowly, “what exactly you were doing out here at this hour, alone, and unclothed?”

Tighnari, to his credit, stares at him blankly for a full beat. Then: “You’re joking, right? I could ask you the same thing. Except I’m not the one sneaking through the woods fully dressed.”

Cyno raises an eyebrow. “Touché. But I’m not the one naked under the moonlight.”

“I wasn’t naked, I was—well, I was changing, alright?” Tighnari snaps, cheeks darkening. “Herbological reasons.”

Herbological reasons. What, were you sprouting gills? But Cyno takes pity on him. The poor boy is visibly freezing, hugging himself like a disgruntled cabbage. He lets it go with a short nod. “Fair enough. Shall we head back?”

“Please.”

They walk in silence, the kind that grows heavy if you don’t puncture it. Cyno tries not to think about soft skin and glowing eyes and lime-green streaks catching starlight. He fails.

So he says the first thing that pops into his head. “I suppose we’re even now.”

Tighnari squints sideways. “Even?”

“You saved me from public ridicule. I just saved you from hypothermia. Seems fair.”

Tighnari rolls his eyes. “Oh, come off it. All I did was get rid of a bit of sauce.”

Cyno leans closer, mock-whispering, “But they were all laughing. I had no idea why.”

Tighnari smirks. “They weren’t laughing because of the sauce, mate.”

“No?”

“No,” Tighnari says, with the grim finality of revealing a conspiracy. “According to my best mate… they fancy you.”

Cyno stumbles slightly on a root. “Wait—what? The girls from your house?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Your best mate—you mean Venti?”

“Of course.”

Cyno’s expression shifts from confusion to contemplation. “Then it must be true.”

Tighnari glances over. “You say that like he’s the Prophet.”

“He’s a Legilimens.”

That stops Tighnari in his tracks. “You know that?”

“I do. He told me. Today, actually.”

“Incredible,” Tighnari murmurs. “What was the occasion?”

“He walked past me on the bridge, repeated something I hadn’t said aloud, and then admitted he reads thoughts like sheet music. Claimed I ‘think loudly.’”

Tighnari snorts. “You do. Like shouting, but mentally.”

Cyno shrugs. “At least he’s polite about it. He says he never reads Xiao’s thoughts. Out of respect.”

“Is that so…” Tighnari’s tone softens.

The castle looms ahead now, turrets silhouetted against the stars, windows shining like sleepy eyes. They walk the last few steps in companionable silence.

Cyno says nothing more. But in his mind, he’s already replaying all of it—the moonlight, the forest, the near-encounter with Tighnari’s dignity, and the strange quiet way Venti had smiled with that swipe of green silk.

Something is happening. He just doesn’t know what yet. Although that, for some reason, is the best part.

**

They reach the castle just as the clouds part to let the moon spill silver over the stone like spilled potion. Curfew looms like a prefect with a clipboard, but Cyno, who knows precisely how long it takes to slip up a tower and evanesce behind a riddle-door, calculates he’s got a bit of breathing room. Enough to delay. Enough to do something profoundly stupid, like follow Tighnari—barefoot-in-the-woods Tighnari—all the way to the Hufflepuff wing near the kitchens.

Which is, of course, squarely what he does.

The walk is tacit, except for the unobtrusive padding of their footsteps and the soft, impatient swoosh of Tighnari’s tailcoat against his legs.

“Cyno?” Tighnari calls at last, glancing over his shoulder with a confused wrinkle in his brow. “Are you still with me? You’ve been staring at the floor like it insulted your wand.”

Cyno blinks. “Yes. I’m walking you back.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“But I want to—” Oh, brilliant. Just say that out loud, why don’t you.

Tighnari pauses. “Oh. Um. Okay, then. Well… thanks?” He looks up at Cyno as if trying to determine whether he’s kidding, delusional, or both. Cyno desperately wishes he were the type of person who could depart through floorboards on command.

Thankfully, the boy lets it slide.

They stop in a dim corner of the corridor near the fruit bowl painting; barrels stacked like lazy sentries, firelight flickering off brass handles. Tighnari taps out a rhythm on one of the barrels, too quick and oddly syncopated for Cyno to follow, and with a quiet groan of stirring wood, a door-sized crack appears in the stone.

“This is me,” Tighnari says, exhaling.

“Right. Um. Goodnight,” Cyno fumbles, clasping his hands so tightly they creak.

“’Night.” And with an agile little stoop, Tighnari ducks through the door, his robe catching ever so slightly on the barrel as he wriggles through, leaving behind only the reflection of crepitating fabric—and for the love of Merlin, Cyno, stop thinking about his arse.

The door dematerialises. So does Cyno’s decorum.

Muttering under his breath, he retreats toward Ravenclaw Tower, answering the bronze eagle knocker’s riddle with something appropriately cryptic about clocks or clouds—he’s not really listening—and slips into the common room just as the hour tolls. Inside, all is sloppy blue light and plush armchairs. Albedo lounges with his nose in a book that looks far too old and important, while Kokomi and Ayaka hiss conspiratorially with a few other girls over steaming mugs. They perk up as Cyno passes but say nothing. He appreciates that.

Up in the dormitory, Xiao is already cocooned in bed, hunched over a little velvet box with the reverence of handling a dragon egg. “Where’ve you been?” he asks without looking up. “You were gone ages. Thought maybe Peeves had hexed you into a carpet.”

“Went for a walk,” Cyno replies negligibly, kicking off his boots. Bumped into someone’s bare backside in the Forbidden Forest, saw more than I planned, considered becoming a monk. “Got back just in time.”

Xiao doesn’t press. He scoots a bit and holds up the box. “Have a look at this.”

Cyno sits on the edge of his bed and peers into the jade-green container, a vibrant, silky hue that sets something off in his mind, something to do with the bridge earlier, with a sway of ribbon on a breeze—

Inside the box is a cluster of chocolates so glossy they look enchanted, nestled beside a scroll of parchment that unfurls itself with a quiet whiz, and begins reciting—in rhyme, no less—a poem about Xiao’s “starlit eyes” and “aphonic strength,” before fading away in a puff of lavender smoke.

Cyno stares at the empty space the poem occupied. “Where did you get this?”

Xiao shrugs. “Not sure. They just… show up.”

“They?” Cyno reiterates in disbelief.

With a sheepish little grin (a rare thing, like a comet), Xiao reaches under his bed, hauls out a battered leather case, unzips it, and reveals a treasure trove of similar boxes in every imaginable colour. They shine like bottled moonlight.

“Been getting them since fifth year. Birthday, special occasions. Sometimes random. No owl I recognise, no note on who it’s from. But… they’re kind.” He touches the green one like it might disappear.

“That’s quite a haul,” Cyno murmurs, genuinely stunned. “You’re being low-key courted and didn’t think to mention it?”

Xiao shrugs again, almost shy now. “Didn’t feel right to brag. Besides, I liked not knowing. Made it feel… I don’t know. More sincere, maybe.”

Cyno watches him for a long moment, realising he’s talking in past tense. Then, watches; how he holds the box like it’s delicate and precious, not just some schoolyard flirtation. And then—the lake, the hand reaching through water, the boy he saved. The boy who now watches him from behind green-silked wrists.

Something slots into place like the final turn of a dial.

Cyno places a hand on Xiao’s arm. “I think whoever’s sending these… is doing it for the right reasons.”

Xiao glances at him. “You think so?”

Cyno nods. “I know so.”

And he means it, wholeheartedly. Even if the truth purrs just under the surface like a spell not yet spoken.