Chapter Text
Khaotung had no idea what awaited him when he came to the library in search of an old book of spells. He was dressed in an expensive dark-green wool sweater, the Slytherin cloak draped neatly over it. His hair was swept carefully back, and he leaned against the bookshelf, flipping through the yellowed pages.
That was when a shadow rushed past—swift as wind—trying to squeeze through the narrow space between him and the shelves. The intruder wasn’t watching where he was going; he bumped straight into him, sending him crashing against the shelf. Something toppled from the top and came hurtling down.
Khaotung had only just frowned, about to bark a warning, when the sharp sound of shattering glass cut through the air. Shards clinked at their feet, and with them came a puff of strange violet smoke, rising amid a cloud of dust.
“Ouch!” cried the person who had run into him, voice muffled by the haze. The purple mist swirled up into his face, and he winced, coughing softly. Khaotung covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, fanning the air in front of him. Everything had happened too fast for him to react; he’d inhaled a few deep breaths before realizing it—but strangely, the dust caused no discomfort.
The violet smoke rose quickly, and faded just as fast. By the time the clumsy stranger scrambled to their feet and darted behind the shelves, the color had almost vanished. Through the gaps between the books, Khaotung caught a glimpse of a pair of wide, startled eyes staring back at him.
“First Kanaphan!” a hushed voice shouted from somewhere nearby.
Khaotung looked up. Three Slytherin boys were running toward him, robes flaring as they scanned the aisles, clearly searching for something—or someone. When they reached him, the one in front, a year younger than Khaotung, gave a curt nod.
“Good morning,” he asked, “Did you happen to see a Hufflepuff run by?”
Khaotung gave a soft “Oh,” and replied, “You’re looking for First Kanaphan, aren’t you?”
“Yes. He stole something from us and ran off.”
Khaotung closed the book in his hand, sliding it back onto the shelf—neatly blocking the space where those wide eyes were peeking through. “I think I saw someone running that way,” he said lazily, gesturing down another aisle. “Not sure if it was him.”
The three thanked him and hurried off in the direction he pointed.
Leaning one arm against the bookshelf, Khaotung reached out, pulled the book back out again, and revealed the eyes behind it. “Oh?” he said with a faint, teasing smile. “A Hufflepuff prefect stealing things?”
The boy behind the shelf craned his neck to make sure the Slytherins were gone, then stood up and stepped out from his hiding place. Dust clung to his yellow-and-black robes; he brushed himself off, sneezed once, and rubbed his nose.
“I didn’t steal anything,” he muttered. “They left their butter cookies on the bench. I thought they were abandoned.” Realizing how much that sounded like an excuse, First straightened up, squaring his shoulders and looking down—just slightly—at the Slytherin still lounging against the shelf. As the Hufflepuff prefect, he was determined to recover some dignity. Clearing his throat, he said, “I thought Slytherins didn’t lie to each other.”
Khaotung pushed off the shelf, still smiling. “If you really knew us,” he said, “you’d know that every Slytherin lies, no matter who the audience is.”
First wrinkled his nose and glanced down at the broken glass on the floor. The fragments shimmered faintly with a light purple powder that gleamed like liquid under the lamplight. “Ah… what do we do about that?”
Khaotung followed his gaze.
And then, without warning, the remaining violet dust flared to life. A brilliant light burst out, enveloping them both, so bright they instinctively raised their arms to shield their eyes. The air filled with the sharp scent of black pepper and cinnamon—tinged with something that burned like gunpowder. The particles they had breathed in earlier now seemed to ignite in their throats, searing a path down to their lungs.
“Cough—cough!” The Hufflepuff prefect clutched at his eyes, fumbling for his wand with trembling fingers.
Khaotung was quicker. He pointed his wand and muttered a cleansing spell. In an instant, the shards and powder vanished, and the glaring light dimmed away.
But the burning sensation lingered. First turned to Khaotung, eyes wide. “Did you see—”
“There was a rune in the light.”
“I’ve never seen that pattern before… Was that—a spell?”
Khaotung had never seen it either. It didn’t feel like dark magic—there was no fear in that moment of blinding radiance—but something about it was… off. He was still deep in thought when a furious voice cut through the quiet.
“Who’s casting spells here?!”
An old wizard in a worn, oversized robe came storming down the aisle, the fabric billowing around him like tattered wings. His voice was gravelly, his tone sharp as a whip. It was the irritable old librarian, the one so old-fashioned and temperamental that students had nicknamed him Sir Oldbones.
Khaotung slipped his wand back into his cloak and turned to the still-stunned Hufflepuff with a calm smile. “See you around, Prefect,” he said lightly, without even using the boy’s name.
Before First could respond, the sly Slytherin had already vanished around the corner. His cloak swirled once and was gone without a sound.
“First Kanaphan? Is that you?” Sir Oldbones thundered, rushing forward.
First swallowed, then spun around and bolted. In his haste, a few butter cookies tumbled from his sleeves.
Khaotung didn’t know First well, and the two houses had no real grudges. In Slytherin eyes, Gryffindor was always the thorn in their side—the eternal rivals—while Hufflepuff was quiet, low-key, barely noticeable, like a shadow slipping past unnoticed.
Khaotung himself was probably the laziest Slytherin in the school. He cared little for house rivalries, even less for house glory. When the Sorting Hat first considered placing him in Slytherin, he’d half-suspected the old hat had expired. But the Headmaster reassured him: “The Sorting Hat does not make mistakes. Even if you don’t feel it yet, there is something deep in your soul that drew you to Slytherin.”
Now in his seventh year, soon to graduate, Khaotung still didn’t know why he belonged there. He had no ambition, no obsession, no real loyalty.
Being lazy was second nature to him. So when waves of unease began to rise from deep inside, he felt all the more uncomfortable. The day had been a mess: he had daydreamed during Potions class, tossing troll hair into a brew meant for spider legs hair, blowing up half the classroom—and ruining his expensive, fine goat’s wool sweater in the process. Later, wandering across campus, he had inexplicably veered off course. Only when he snapped out of it did he realize he’d wandered far from his intended destination.
Something inside him seemed to vibrate anxiously, humming insistently, urging him to act. An invisible thread wound around his heart, tugging sharply whenever he brewed potions or flipped through books, as though displeased with his inaction.
All the distractions, all the wandering, culminated that day in a bitter lesson.
Tomorrow was the final of the Autumn Quidditch Cup. Khaotung, as Seeker, had trained for the entire season. His flying was swift and precise, his reflexes sharp; he had stood out among the candidates, and Slytherin relied on his record of catching the Golden Snitch to reach the finals. But only Khaotung knew he agreed to play not out of house pride, but because he loved flying—the wild thrill of catching that small golden ball in the wind, the freedom it brought.
During the evening training match, Khaotung weaved through players at top speed. The dull “thumps” of Bludgers colliding with bats echoed through the air, the Beaters working to protect their teammates. Khaotung squinted, scanning for the golden flash of the Snitch. Then a beam of sunlight reflected off it, glinting across his vision.
He sped past the goalposts, swooping toward the other side. The Snitch quivered briefly, then darted like lightning in the opposite direction. Khaotung gripped his broom tighter, eyes locked on the tiny golden speck, accelerating once more. Wind tore across his face, tugging his robes behind him. A Bludger suddenly veered, following the arc of his flight.
The Snitch climbed higher, and Khaotung followed. He was almost upon it; just a little further and he could snatch it from the air. They flew above the pitch; stands, banners, and goals shrinking beneath him.
And then he saw it—a white building nestled among trees. He recognized it as the hospital wing.
It was as if a hand tugged the invisible thread bound to his heart. Khaotung’s mind buzzed, and the next second, his broom veered uncontrollably toward the white building. Something there called to him, and his entire body ached to respond, yearning with a singular intensity.
“Khaotung!!” someone shouted behind him, voice sharp with warning. He didn’t look back, his mind a whirl of buzzing, the thread pulling him, pulling his broom with unwavering resolve.
He flew straight, no evasive maneuvers. The Bludger, like a projectile, struck him. Pain exploded through his head and body as the white building and the cries of teammates blurred into darkness.
When Khaotung woke up, he was in the hospital wing. His head throbbed as if split open, but the restless agitation inside him had vanished. He clutched his head, groaning, and glanced around.
“Hi.”
A voice came from the bed next to his. Khaotung frowned and looked up to see none other than the Hufflepuff prefect.
“They said you were hit by a Bludger,” First said, leaning against the pillow, concern etched across his face. “You woke up sooner than they expected.”
“Oh…” Khaotung slowly sat up, surveying First from head to toe. “What are you doing here?”
First sighed, resting his head against the bedpost. “I don’t know either. I suddenly passed out during morning class.”
Khaotung lowered the hand covering his head, frowning. “…You’ve been here all day?”
“They wouldn’t let me leave. I don’t know why—they seemed serious,” First admitted. He wasn’t wearing the Hufflepuff robe, not even the sweater, just a white shirt with the collar open to his collarbone, the rest hidden under the covers. Khaotung’s gaze lingered on the exposed skin for a heartbeat longer than usual.
First muttered again, “Maybe I’m dying of some disease.”
“I’ve been moving toward the hospital wing all day,” Khaotung suddenly said. “No matter what I’m doing, if my mind drifts for even a second, my legs carry me here.”
“Why?” First’s worry over impending doom shifted into curiosity about Khaotung.
The pale Slytherin next to him raised a hand, pointing at First’s chest. “Do you feel a thread there?” he asked.
“A thread?” First looked down. “What thread?”
“Good.” Khaotung said dryly, then lay back, turning his back to the puzzled Hufflepuff and closing his eyes.
First wanted to speak again, but Khaotung was like a stone. Sighing, he curled back under the covers. “At least after you arrived, my head stopped spinning. I suppose I’ll forgive your bad temper, for now.”
Khaotung pressed his lips together, saying nothing. The invisible thread in his chest no longer tugged, but quivered gently, as if humming a happy tune.
Later, the door opened. The Hufflepuff Head of House and hospital nurses entered. The Head of House, also First’s Herbology professor, was a small woman carrying several bottles. She immediately went to First’s bedside.
“Oh, First…” she said, worry etching her face as she placed the bottles on the bedside table and grasped his hand. First had been prefect since fifth year, and she had always watched over him. Yet her concern now made him nervous; the sight of all those potions made his heart pound.
“Professor… am I… dying?” he asked, sitting up, lips dry. He glanced at the bed next to him. To his surprise, Khaotung had also sat up, his face unreadable. The nurse approached Khaotung, beginning her own examination.
The faint scent of herbs clung to the professor, comforting in a way First recognized as almost home. He loved Herbology; countless days and nights had been spent caring for seedlings, classifying them, watching them grow. He was certain he carried that familiar scent with him, and it calmed him slightly now.
“It’s not terminal, First,” the professor said, frowning but squeezing his hand. “But we don’t know what it is.”
She glanced at Khaotung, then muttered, “We need some privacy.” With a flick of her wand, a pale yellow semi-circular shield rose around her and First. Khaotung frowned, muttering something, but the barrier was complete. Neither could hear the other.
“I’ve studied with the hospital’s potion specialists for some time. Your body shows no abnormalities, and your symptoms do not resemble poisoning. But your magical core… oh, child… your core is… scattered.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she gripped First’s hand tightly. “It’s as if it has shattered. Something… I don’t know what—perhaps a spell—lingers around it. The nurses detected its presence when they began the examination and immediately informed me.”
First furrowed his brow in confusion. “Is that why I passed out this morning? My magical core… it shattered?”
“We’re not entirely sure yet,” she continued gently, “but it has definitely affected you. You might feel your magic fluctuate inside you, sometimes strong, sometimes weak. Spells may be difficult to cast…”
“But…” First began, then swallowed the words back.
In truth, First’s performance in Charms class had always been mediocre. He struggled to control his magical energy when casting spells. It flowed like a trickling stream, requiring intense focus just to gather enough to fill his wand. During practical exams, which demanded quick reflexes and adaptability, he had always pushed himself to the limit, yet still often fell short against opponents. He had always blamed it on a lack of natural talent, but could it have been because his magical core had always been scattered?
He didn’t dare speak. His position as prefect had been earned through diligence in other subjects, and he didn’t want to remind the professor of his poor charms scores. So he stayed silent.
“That’s alright, First. I’ve reported this to the Headmaster. Soon, we’ll summon a specialist wizard to examine you further. For now, I’ve prepared some herbs to help,” the Herbology professor said, picking up a small silver vial and handing it to him. “This will ease your dizziness.”
“But I’m not dizzy anymore…” First muttered softly, but drank the potion anyway. He followed it with a series of other potions—calming, restorative, and more. He stole a glance at the bed behind the professor. Khaotung sat there, lips pressed together, wearing a sullen expression as the nurse continued examining him. A subtle aura of displeasure radiated from the Slytherin.
“Can I give this pain-relief potion to Khaotung? He got hit by a Bludger and still seems to be in pain,” First asked, holding up a small vial inlaid with turquoise. He was genuinely concerned—Khaotung’s mood seemed harsh, and he could tell the Slytherin was uncomfortable.
“If you wish to share it, of course,” the professor replied. “But I suggest you drink half first, child. A shattered magical core can be agonizing. I truly don’t know how you’re managing to sit upright at all.”
First didn’t speak further—he didn’t feel the shattered core or any pain. Yet, to avoid raising concern, he drank half of the potion anyway.
Once the professor stepped aside, the nurse who had been examining Khaotung came over, wand raised, checking First’s status. Soon the examination concluded, and the nurse announced that both were cleared to return to their dormitories.
After the professor and nurse left, First slid out from under the covers and approached Khaotung’s side. “I saved a calming pain-relief potion for you… half a vial,” he said, showing the small turquoise bottle in his palm.
Khaotung rose from the bed, draped his house robe over his shoulders, and his gaze followed the bottle upward, meeting First’s eyes. First gave an honest smile, revealing a small dimple. Khaotung silently adjusted his robe and reached out to take the potion. “What did she tell you?”
First turned to grab his clothes, mumbling softly, “Nothing, just gave me some potions.” When he looked back, Khaotung’s gaze still tracked him, calculating in a way First couldn’t decipher. First pulled his sweater off over his head, sliding his hands into the sleeves of his Hufflepuff robe. Once he finished, Khaotung stepped closer.
First instinctively took a step back.
Khaotung leaned in, squinting as he studied the area over First’s chest. The Slytherin carried none of the familiar herbal scent First knew so well. Instead, it was earthy, like damp air rising from a cellar, tinged with the bitterness of orange leaves and the resinous aroma of juniper wood—like a rare, sophisticated wizard’s cologne. First would have bet there was silver fox musk mixed in. The scent was simultaneously cold and wild, and First felt his heart thundering in response.
All of it became unbearable when Khaotung pressed his palm against First’s chest. First jerked back, gasping. “Wh… what?” He clutched his racing heart, bewildered by the sudden surge of sensations.
Khaotung looked from his hand to First, raised an eyebrow, and smiled—a first smile since arriving at the hospital wing—but it sent shivers down First’s spine, like a serpent’s tongue brushing his skin.
“At least it’s affecting you too,” Khaotung said.
“What??” First clenched his robe, a mix of irritation and confusion toward Khaotung.
Khaotung said nothing and turned to leave, leaving only, “Thanks for the potion.”
The Hufflepuff common room was located in the Hogwarts basement, close to the kitchens, and always carried the scent of roasted chicken and buttery cookies. The hall was low and spacious, with warm orange flames burning constantly in the fireplaces on either side. Green plants were scattered everywhere, and small herb jars were stacked in corners. First stomped back to the dormitory, frustration simmering inside him, nearly knocking over a pot of silver-leaf mint along the way.
The prefects’ dormitory was tucked deep within the house, a quiet spot where younger Hufflepuffs rarely ran around. Once the door closed behind him, First returned to the familiar, serene space he knew so well.
He tossed aside his robe and flopped onto his bed, lying on his back with a long sigh. As a prefect, he had his own room. Though it consisted of only a small living area with a study desk and a bedroom barely large enough for a single bed, First was grateful. He liked this quiet, safe feeling. Aside from the 24-hour hot water in the prefect bathroom, it was the best perk a prefect could have.
He reached a hand to his chest, to the spot Khaotung had touched earlier. The searing heat lingered, like fire had been stored in Khaotung’s palm—but he knew it wasn’t magic from Khaotung; it was his own heart beating too fast.
The first time he had seen that Slytherin was outside of school, in Diagon Alley. First had crouched by the roadside, feeding a black cat—probably a Slytherin cat. It lifted its head with haughty pride, ignoring the treat in First’s hand. First coaxed it for a while, but it eventually got up, walked with small, proud steps, and collapsed by a pair of brand-new shoes, exposing its belly to the owner. First looked up, disappointed, and saw the face of the person wearing the shoes.
He stood under the dim streetlight, his profile sculpted as if carefully carved. His black hair swept back shone softly, a few strands falling over his eyes, swaying gently with his movements. His eyes were tender and full of warmth, smiling as they glanced down at the cat. He crouched, ignoring the expensive black robes brushing against the alley dirt, and petted the cat.
“Oh, you’re a Slytherin too, aren’t you? Of course. We don’t take handouts,” he said with a sly smile, glancing meaningfully at the dazed First nearby. First noticed his full lips, parted slightly, forming a small opening between them.
He was without a doubt the most beautiful Slytherin First had ever seen. And First had turned and run.
A cunning Slytherin… perhaps he had cast a spell on me, First thought angrily, lying on his bed.
Dinner was as delicious as usual, but First had no appetite. His body was working through the various herbs, yet he felt an unusual exhaustion. Moreover, his body began to flare with heat, skin burning as if aflame, only to suddenly feel cold again, shivering uncontrollably. He returned to the dormitory without even touching dessert, sinking into the bed in discomfort, kicking off the blankets whenever he felt the heat returning.
Is this what the professor meant by the shattered magical core? First couldn’t remember her mentioning these sudden hot-and-cold fluctuations. He had taken so many potions, yet none seemed to work. When did his core shatter? Today? Long ago? And what was the spell lingering around it? First buried his face in the pillow, thinking wildly, kicking and wrapping the covers repeatedly, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.
Oh, it wasn’t a knock. First only realized when he opened the dorm door and nearly got pecked in the eye by a half-orange, half-black owl. A letter fell from the owl’s claws. “Thank you,” First murmured, wrapping the blanket he had brought down from his bed more tightly, bending to pick up the letter. The orange-and-black owl flapped a few times and flew away.
“First Kanaphan, please report to the Headmaster’s office immediately. We have important matters to discuss with you.” The letter was signed by the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Although First was a prefect, he had visited the Headmaster’s office alone only a handful of times. He knew that this must be related to his professor and head of house reporting the state of his shattered magical core. He found the thickest coat in his wardrobe, shivering as he slipped it on, wrapped his Hufflepuff scarf around his neck several times, and then, rubbing his hands together, left the warmth of the dormitory.
Night had fallen. Soft magical lights floated in the corridors, illuminating the stairs leading to the Headmaster’s office. By the time First reached the top step, he was sweating, his skin heating up again. He walked on, removing his scarf as he went. As he undid the buttons of his heavy coat, he saw Khaotung standing by the Headmaster’s office door.
“Huh?” First’s eyes widened, looking at Khaotung walking toward him.
Unlike First’s disheveled state, Khaotung looked effortlessly handsome. He wore no robe; his white knitted sweater bore a lake-green magical stone pinned to it, and his eyes narrowed with a mischievous gleam.
“Prefect,” he smiled, standing in front of First with his hands in his pockets, “your face is so red.”
First lowered his head and slipped past him, taking off his coat as well. “It’s too hot,” the Hufflepuff prefect murmured, blushing.
Khaotung followed him to the Headmaster’s office door. First, his arms laden with the heavy coat and scarf, paused to knock, glancing at Khaotung with suspicion. “You’re… coming too…”
Suddenly, a raised argument came from inside the room. One voice was the female Hufflepuff head of house, and the other, a male voice, seemed to be the Slytherin head of house—the fearsome Potions professor who made students tremble at the mere mention of his name. First’s eyes widened, and he didn’t dare knock. Khaotung made a face and shrugged, clearly not as intimidated by his house head as First was.
“A Slytherin will never set foot in Hufflepuff territory!” the cold, hoarse male voice declared.
“Well, if you’re willing, we could also let First ‘set foot’ in Slytherin’s domain,” the Potions professor bit out the words “set foot,” “Hufflepuff always places students’ safety above house rules.”
First heard his name and curiosity surged. He leaned toward the door, almost pressing his ear against it.
Suddenly, a deep, gentle voice interrupted the argument. “Since the students are already here, perhaps we should hear their intentions. Come in, First, Khaotung.”
Khaotung pushed the door open, winking at First, who was still pressed against the other side, and strode inside. First quickly straightened up, clutching his belongings, and followed.
At the center of the headmaster’s office sat the wise, white-bearded headmaster, leaning back in his chair, gazing at the two students with gentle eyes as if he were looking at his own children. He beckoned to First. First glanced at the two opposing professors standing to either side. The female professor’s gaze held a hint of affection as she nodded at him, while on the other side, the Slytherin head of house standing next to Khaotung fixed him with a cold stare that seemed to pierce through his body. Summoning his courage, First walked across the office and approached the headmaster’s desk.
The old headmaster leaned forward, studying him carefully. “Feeling alright, child?”
“I…” First realized then that the burning-and-freezing sensation in his body had vanished at some point, leaving only a thin layer of sticky sweat on his skin. Holding his thick coat, he said awkwardly, “Oh… seems fine now.”
The headmaster nodded and gestured for Khaotung to step forward.
Khaotung moved to First’s side and turned to look at him. First quickly averted his gaze, but the memory of those full, lightly pressed lips remained etched in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
“I’ve called you here to tell you something,” the headmaster said slowly, “but first, I have a question. This morning, did either of you come into contact with anything infused with magical energy? It could be an inanimate object, a living being, a gust of wind, or even a single word. But it was something unusual, something that felt… different.”
First froze. He remembered the glass vial that had shattered in the library this morning, and the cloud of purple smoke that had risen from it. He immediately looked at Khaotung, and instantly received confirmation in Khaotung’s eyes. Khaotung’s expression showed no surprise, clearly having anticipated this. But it had been First who knocked the vial over; he had bumped into it while trying to avoid the three sixth-year students, and the reason for his panicked evasive maneuver… First’s face heated up again. Just as he was about to confess, Khaotung spoke first.
“When we were looking for books in the library, the old bookshelf wobbled, and a glass vial fell from the top,” Khaotung said in his measured Slytherin drawl, “nearly hitting us.”
First swallowed and nodded. The old headmaster’s face showed a faint smile but he said nothing. Khaotung continued, “It was a magical item containing purple powder. A blinding white light enveloped us, and within the light, we saw a rune.”
“Can you draw that rune?”
Khaotung looked at First. First nodded.
He sketched the rune on a piece of paper. The headmaster gestured, and the paper floated from the desk to the two professors standing behind them.
“Oh…” the female professor covered her mouth. The Slytherin head of house pressed his lips tightly together, saying nothing.
At that moment, First felt a surge of fear. He hadn’t been overly concerned about his fractured magical core, as he hadn’t truly felt the difference—but that little glass vial, that rune, it affected both him and Khaotung. If… if his mistake had caused Khaotung to be affected as well… But was Khaotung really affected? He quickly turned to check, and saw Khaotung half-turned, focused on his Slytherin head of house, completely ignoring First’s gaze.
Khaotung was caught up in this too… Just thinking about it made First feel like he couldn’t breathe.
The old headmaster gave them a moment, then spoke again. “Now, this is what I must tell you.”
“The nurses in the hospital wing detected traces of a spell in both of your bodies. It is the same spell; in fact, it is a single spell, and each of you possesses half of it. When I saw your medical reports, I could hardly believe it—it is extremely ancient. I’ve only read fragments of it in books. But combined with the rune you just drew, I can now confirm it.”
“Is it… a curse?” First asked, his chest tightening as he trembled.
“Different people call it different things. Some call it a curse, others consider it a blessing.”
“What does it want us to do?” Khaotung asked directly.
The headmaster was silent for a moment, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the two students. “Nothing, really. Just… stay near each other. It is a covenant-type spell. Those under its influence cannot be far from one another, or the body will suffer the backlash of the spell. For example…” The headmaster glanced at First. “Alternating extremes of heat and cold.”
Oh… First mentally gasped.
“Or…” The headmaster looked toward Khaotung, but the Slytherin interrupted without hesitation.
“Does it have a time limit?” Khaotung asked.
“Seven days.”
First exhaled in relief. But Khaotung didn’t stop. “And after seven days?”
The headmaster clasped his hands on the desk, his voice heavy. “…Afterward, the covenant is complete. The bond is formed. Your souls will bear each other’s mark, entwined. You will always sense the other and become part of the other’s soul, until death do you part.”
It was a soul-binding spell.
Khaotung suddenly stepped back. First shivered, quickly turning to meet Khaotung’s gaze. In the Slytherin’s eyes, he saw disbelief, fear, and resistance. First had never seen such intense emotion on Khaotung’s face, and it terrified him even more.
“Th-then… how do we break it…” First clutched his clothes tightly, feeling as if he were being plunged into an ice cellar.
“We haven’t…”
“I will find a way to break it!” The cold, sharp voice of the Slytherin head of house suddenly rang out behind them. His piercing gaze locked onto First before he strode toward the door. The heavy wooden door swung open as he approached, then slammed shut behind him with a resounding “bang.” First’s legs nearly gave out. Two chairs flew from the distance, landing squarely behind him and Khaotung. First collapsed onto one of them.
“We think that, for now, the only way to ensure both of you are safe and comfortable is to move in together as soon as possible, so you don’t become separated and your bodies aren’t further harmed. Whether Khaotung moves into Hufflepuff, or First into Slytherin, we must act tonight.”
Khaotung stood silently. First felt his whole body trembling. “I…I’ll move…” the Hufflepuff prefect whispered, “I can go to Slytherin.”
Slytherin House lay beneath the Black Lake. The corridor walls were covered in moss, and the damp, cold stone oozed moisture. Khaotung led the way, guiding First through the dim passageways until they stopped in front of a stone wall. First instinctively covered his ears and turned aside. Khaotung leaned close to the wall, moving his lips, murmuring an almost inaudible password. The mechanisms within the stone ground into motion with ancient rumblings, and a passageway appeared, carpeted in deep green, leading directly to the Slytherin common room, illuminated by fireplaces and magical lamps.
“Come in,” Khaotung gestured to First.
As they stepped into the common room, three figures blocked First’s path. Khaotung turned, recognizing the three students who had chased First in the library this morning.
“Why are Hufflepuff students here?” The leader crossed his arms, nodding his chin toward First.
Khaotung said nothing. He had no intention of announcing that the two of them were under a soul-binding spell, but the way these three were blocking their way annoyed him. Especially the leader—broad-shouldered, imposing, casting a shadow over First like a black bear.
First, like a trapped badger, stood still, but calm, and did not take a step back. Clutching his Hufflepuff robes and scarf, he explained, “The headmaster authorized me to enter Slytherin.”
The black bear frowned. “I haven’t finished settling the score for the thing you stole this morning…”
Khaotung impatiently interrupted, “Handle that tomorrow. Tonight, he’s with me. I have no time to wait for you.”
“Oh? So now you’re siding with Hufflepuff?”
Khaotung now turned fully to face the black bear himself. He was a head shorter, but when his expression went cold and he stepped forward without a word, the black bear instinctively shrank back and looked away. One second, two seconds, three seconds—only when Khaotung finally stepped back did the black bear exhale in relief.
“I’m a year above you. You’d better show me some respect,” Khaotung said, not looking back, as he walked toward his dorm. “Prefect, come.”
Khaotung shared the dorm with another seventh-year student. The roommate had a healthy routine and was already asleep when Khaotung and First returned. First held up his wand to light the way while Khaotung cast a few spells, laying out bedding on the floor beside his own bed. First hung up the robes and scarf he had been carrying all along, whispered a quiet thanks, and crawled into the simple bed. The bedding was thin—summer supplies—but First made no complaints.
Late at night, in the darkness, Khaotung turned over, facing First’s direction. Lying on his bed, he could not see First on the floor, but he could feel the thread winding around the tip of his heart. After a day of restless agitation, it was finally still. The invisible thread stretched in Khaotung’s mind, crawling across the mattress, dangling off the edge, and weaving into First’s blanket. He closed his eyes.