"I don't understand," Draco complains over breakfast, gawping at Ciel while holding a half-eaten croissant in his hand.
"What is there to not understand? Britannia hands over its strangest mysteries to scions of the Phantomhive family, also known as 'Watchdogs.' I have been the Queen's Watchdog for about five years now, following some odd business with an incompetent cult. I caught my first unlicensed necromancer at age thirteen, my first serial killer at age fifteen, and my first terrorist this summer, just before moving into the dorm. I'm still working, which is why I took the bed closest to the main door for easy sneaking."
Draco massages his temples, straining to grasp these revelations. "So, Phantomhive, you were a thirteen-year-old royally-backed one-man international spy agency?"
"Well, I had help from that old butler of mine."
Draco goes back to gawping.
"I don't understand either," Loki protests. "I hear a whole series of words and can comprehend practically nothing from them, because your entire story is preposterous."
Ciel takes a sip of his own coffee, grimaces, and drops three more sugar cubes into his cup. "So keep asking questions."
"What are you doing here," Loki demands, "at Weston College?"
"Her Majesty, the Queen of Britannia, alternates my cases. She assigns me a serious case, then something lighter-hearted, then something serious again. I'm here for a light-hearted case."
"So what are you investigating?" Draco asks.
"Her Majesty is curious about how Jack Frost obtained admission to this elite university, despite his spotty academic record and history of disciplinary issues."
"Why would the Queen of Britannia care at all about college admissions . . ." Draco's eyes widen with sudden understanding. "Oh lord, her kid didn't get in."
"I cannot speculate about Her Majesty's motives . . ."
"Vicky's jealous!" Draco crows. "Prince What's-his-name got rejected, and now she sends her lapdog to figure out why!"
"He was waitlisted, not rejected," Ciel shoots back, "and I'm not a lapdog, more of a mastiff."
"You're the Queen's little puppy, Phantomhive, and . . ."
"All right, all right," Loki cuts in. "So the prophecy is why Jack was admitted, correct?"
"That seems likely," Ciel agrees. "Unfortunately, I can't finish up this case and leave until I know what that prophecy said. It's not a prophecy about Frost himself— I checked before I arrived, and there are no prophecies associated with him alone. And it can't be a country-level prophecy, like the one about Asgardia. He's from Britannia, and we don't have anything like that."
"You should look into his family," Loki remarks. "Familial prophecies are quite common, are they not?"
"Of course," Ciel nods. "And I'm already planning to have my butler investigate the Frosts. There are quite a few archives, you know, that collect esoteric information about magical families." He pauses for a moment. "As a sign of goodwill, would you like me to have him look into your families? The extra queries shouldn't slow him too dramatically, and you might learn something interesting."
"I'd like that." Loki nods his assent.
"I . . . wouldn't," Draco murmurs. "I don't intend to learn more about the Malfoys than I have to."
"That's settled, then. I have to get ready for class— damn dance lessons, Baranovskaya marks you late unless you're five minutes early . . ." Grumbling, Ciel puts down his coffee, giving up halfway through the bitter cup, and he slips into the bathroom. When he goes, Draco gulps down the rest of his espresso, shoots to his feet, and heads straight for his room.
"Malfoy."
Draco stops in his tracks. "What do you want, Odinson?"
"Did I offend you earlier? With that comment about stealth charms being normal in your family?" Upon receiving no response, he sighs. "I apologize. I didn't say it out of malevolence."
Draco turns. "Then why say it at all?"
"Envy." The word slips out before he can stop it. "Not that I desire the whole legacy of the Malfoys. I'm not fond of evil— I don't think you are, either."
"Quite right."
"But I am fond of darkness," Loki admits, staring down at his glass of milk. "And I do wish Asgard was more accepting of shadows, and stealth, and various other associated concepts."
He raises his eyes to meet Draco's.
"I accept your apology," Draco says, finally.
"I'm glad." Loki gestures then at Draco's croissant, still only half-eaten. "Would you like to have a little more? These pastries are tolerable, even if either of our families' chefs could outdo them easily."
"I would." He returns to the table.
A few moments later, the magpie reappears at the window, pecking on the glass with a beak full of metal. Loki lets it in, and the bird alights on Draco's desk, lays down the entire stack of gold flakes it had previously stolen, and flies out the window once more.