"What in the world was that?" Loki asks as he and Draco leave their Arithmancy lecture together. "I've had some odd substitute teachers in my time, but this Professor Undertaker takes the cake!"

"He was fine until you walked in," Draco smirks.

"Yes, I was a few minutes late from Elvish, but that hardly justifies him cracking up and laughing at me for the entire rest of the class!"

"He looked in that little book, first," Draco says. "It looked like a Shinigami notebook— you know, the type that shows birthdays and names for people nearby."

"My birthdate's December 17, eighteen years back— and that's a perfectly regular, well-established fact. Nothing funny there," Loki gripes. "And what's so amusing about 'Loki Odinson'?"

Draco shrugs. "At any rate, I had a thought about that prophecy."

"Oh?"

"Prophecies often cover a whole family, as you said. But there's also a lot of prophecies just about soulmates."

"Yes, I agree."

"So do we know if Frost's dating anyone?"

"I . . ." Loki shakes his head. "I've been too busy reading ancient Elvish romances to keep up with real-life ones."

Draco snorts. "I'm not much better— Frost's social stratum is far above mine."

"Are Phantomhive and I in your stratum?"

"Of course."

"Oh, that's flattering," Loki deadpans. "But are you implying that Frost's one of the most popular members of our class?"

"Yes."

"What a pity," Loki winces. "That means I might be able get information on him, albeit at a high cost. I won't try it until I confirm Frost is actually close to my . . . potential source."

"What kind of cost?"

"Emotional," he replies simply. "It might be worth it, though— we won't get the information easily otherwise, not with a Level Six confidentiality rating at work. Now, where do popular students 'hang out'? Sporting events, right?"

"Sounds right."

"And there's one happening now, isn't there?"

"The race, yes." Draco tuts, "Not nearly as refined as Quidditch . . ."

"Refined?" Loki looks at him skeptically. "Quidditch has balls called 'Quaffles' and 'Bludgeons' . . ."

"Bludgers."

"That doesn't help your case," he says, shaking his head. "At any rate, we should get a pair of binoculars and head over to the stadium."

"We?"

"I don't know a thing about sports. You do, and so you may prove helpful. We are assisting Phantomhive together, aren't we?"

"Yes," Draco considers. "Yes, I suppose we are."

"That's the pool, not the track!"

"Why does Weston need so many athletic facilities?"

"Why can't you get to any place that's not a library?"

With great difficulty, Draco steers Loki to the racetrack, purchases an overpriced pair of binoculars from a vendor, and finds them two seats together in the top row, halfway through the race. The rest of the stadium's already jam-packed, resounding with the crowd's yell.

Athletes rush along the track, carried by a motley assortment of vectors. One elf woman flashes by on a bright green dragon, while a red-clad pair of siblings rolls hot on her tail— the sister hangs at the center of a purple force-field orb, while the brother runs at the bottom with magically enhanced speed, propelling the sphere forward. Loki recognizes a part-time librarian on a sled that generates its own snow, and then . . .

"What's that odd horse with the wings?" Loki leans towards Draco to be heard over the crowd. "It doesn't look like a proper pegasus."

Draco flinches. "That's a thestral. I can see it— anyone who's personally seen a violent death can."

"Despite Asgardia's belligerence, I've never personally seen a violent death."

"Maybe you don't remember."

Loki opens his mouth to argue, but then reaches his hand out. "Give me the binoculars."

"What? Oh, right." Draco hands him the binoculars, and Loki starts scanning the spectators at once.

"Hurry," he urges, "the laps are already half-done."

Loki hastens his search. Just as the first competitors cross the finish line, he exclaims, "I found Frost! And, dammit, he's with that other person."

As the crowd erupts into even louder cheering, Loki stuffs the binoculars back into Draco's hands and slips away, lips pressed into a hard line. Draco takes up the binoculars himself, aiming at the general direction where Loki found Frost, and sees a hulk of a man, roaring his applause, his strong jaw lined with a sunny yellow beard. He is none other than the elder prince of Asgardia . . . Thor Odinson.

That night, Loki returns to the room after the other two, stealing in just minutes before curfew hits. He flops into a chair and exhales slowly, shakily. "I hate people."

"You didn't have to investigate by yourself," Ciel sits up on his bed. "I could have had my butler ask questions, or I could have snooped around myself . . ."

"This was faster."

"Yes," Ciel admits with a sigh. "It was, provided you obtained the necessary information."

"Frost has a soulmate who is also a Weston freshman, a certain Elsa of Arendelle. I know her from choir— she's a powerful spellcaster, with the loveliest little snowman familiar. She's perfectly deserving of admission, in my view."

Draco looks up from the desk where he is measuring out potions ingredients. "How do they know they're soulmates?"

"Trolls," Loki says, and the others nod in whole-hearted understanding. "The two have been told to stay apart in public— which sounds most mysterious to me."

"Well," Ciel kicks off his covers and gets out of bed, "this is a fascinating revelation. I shall have my butler look into whether this Elsa is the subject of a prophecy that might concern Frost."

"I realized something else, when I was talking to Thor," Loki adds as Ciel starts writing a letter. "The king and queen of Asgardia are coming here next week, because the first Family Friday is almost upon us."

He and Draco both groan.