"All right, let's calm down." The illusionist holds up a hand, glancing warily at the newest visitor's eyepatch.
"Don't tell me what to do," the intruder snaps back. "I've caught you, and now you'll talk. Are you stealing something? Placing a curse? That, that vial you've got there, is it poison?"
Draco looks down at the vial of green paint still in his hand and raises his eyebrows. "Poison?"
"Yes, poison, you dimwit, that thing that kills you if you drink it or touch it— oh, goodness, you've poisoned the walls, haven't you?" The man in blue laughs. "That's a lovely delivery system, almost clever for long-term chronic poisoning, if it wasn't for the fact that I've got every detector and antidote known to man and more packed in my suitcase. Really, do you think you're dealing with an amateur, here?"
"I don't actually know who we're dealing with," the illusionist answers. "Why don't we introduce ourselves before making any more criminal accusations?"
"Hmph." The blue-clad accuser straightens up to his full height of five feet. "I'm Ciel Phantomhive, Earl of Britannia." He draws out the title.
"I'm Draco Malfoy, High Earl of Britannia," Draco shoots back.
"I'm Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgardia," the other man in green murmurs, intensely examining his black, lacquered fingernails as Draco gapes.
Ciel simply sniffs. "Well, your pedigrees are remarkable, if they're true . . . But at any rate they fail to explain why you're here. After all, I most certainly made clear that I require a single room . . ."
"We both did, too," Draco groans. "I think we'd better go down and talk to the Residential Life Office, don't you?"
They sprint to the office and wait in line for an hour, ignoring each other while listening in on other conversations ("I don't care if the prophecy says you're soulmates, a man and a woman cannot room together!"). When they finally reach the front, the red-faced witch at the help desk informs them that one of the dorms has been badly scorched in an unfortunate fire— the plumber had a rather ugly run-in with a dragon— so all students have roommates this year. Draco and Ciel's increasingly impassioned threats fail to move her: "So what if your father hears about this? Do I look like I give a damn?"
Loki finally cuts in, still entirely calm. "How can there be three of us when there's only two bedrooms?"
She glances down at a record book. "There's a pull-out mattress under the couch in the main room."
Even Loki's blank expression cracks for a moment, and Draco shudders in horror. "You mean one of us has to sleep right next to the ground?"
"Yes," the witch slams her hand on her desk. "Now get out and stop holding up the line!"
"I'm not taking it," Draco states as soon as they leave the office. "I need a proper bed."
"Unless you've got spinal issues or something of the sort, you 'want' it rather than 'need' it," Loki fires back at once. "I, however, actually need a room of my own. I've got a routine of practicing my most difficult illusions every night, and I require privacy."
"Illusions of scantily clad women, right?" Draco leers.
"Never heard that one before." Loki's brow darkens. "Careful, you're reminding me of Thor . . ."
"I want the couch," Ciel breaks into the brewing argument.
"You want it?" Loki glances at him skeptically.
"To be precise, I need it."
Loki and Draco look at each other, then shrug.