On the morning before the first Family Friday, a raven taps at the window while bearing an especially heavy package. It contains two letters about familial investigations— one which Ciel hands to Loki, one which he opens and reads himself, skimming over an update on a certain Cassadine family before landing on the meat of the letter.
"My butler has at long last finished his inquiry into the Frosts," he announces, "only to find nothing."
"Nothing?" Draco frowns, slurping his espresso.
"Nothing that's useful for this case," Ciel corrects. "No familial prophecies that could possibly apply to young Jack. And alas, the silly slowpoke still hasn't gotten evidence on a prophecy for Elsa— he insists the search is ongoing."
"Isn't it remarkable to get answers from major archives in just a week?" Draco objects. "I heard the waitlists are months long, and the confidentiality laws are terribly strict . . ."
"Perhaps he's done a relatively good job, but in the absolute sense he's an utter disappointment . . ."
Ciel and Draco chatter on, oblivious to the tremble in Loki's lip as he reads the letter that butler has written to him.
Friday night, Loki and Draco dine together with their families in the cafeteria. Nobody comes to see Ciel, so he tags along with his roommates. Though the dish quality has mysteriously skyrocketed on the night that many top Weston donors file in for dinner alongside their children, the conversation at this table has nothing to do with food.
"Taking one law seminar won't kill you," Lucius Malfoy snipes at his son, who immediately glowers in response.
Meanwhile, Thor orates to his parents, Frigga and Odin, for the second hour straight. "So then he wrestled me to the mat, and he thought he had me, except I wrenched my hand away and gave him a good left hook—"
Thor gesticulates wildly as he speaks, and Ciel, seated beside him, ducks to miss being hit by a good left hook himself.
"That law class you're harping on is a known beast, and I don't want to focus on it right now. I'm enjoying Potions far too much for that."
"There's no money in Applied Potions, Draco, and you've got to plan for the long-term . . ."
"So perhaps I should switch to Theoretical Potions," Draco fires back. "Loki, that's far more intellectually rigorous, isn't it? Loki?"
Loki's eyes flicker up from his barely-touched salad entree. He nods, then returns to studying the iceberg lettuce, face haggard after a night without sleep.
"So then I summoned Mjolnir, and I shouted, 'Don't you dare cross a child of Asgardia . . .'" Thor slams his hand on the table, rattling all the silverware, and Ciel's expression becomes increasingly pained.
"There's even less money in Theoretical Potions," Narcissa Malfoy tuts, "unless you manage some massive breakthrough . . ."
"Is that so unthinkable?"
"Thor, dear, perhaps we should let Loki have a word in edgewise," Frigga cuts in.
"Thor, have you met Loki often at school?" Odin talks over her.
"Loki?" Thor gives a booming laugh. "Come now, father, you know full well I spend all my days on the fields or in the stadium, while Loki does . . . whatever it is he does."
"I once saw Thor after a race," Loki mutters.
"He got nearly lost within the stands," he sniggers. "Really, I've never met an Asgardian with less interest in proper sport."
"Have you two found any girls who catch your eye?" Frigga asks.
"Several," Thor replies promptly. "I'm on the lookout for the lady prophesied to be queen of my heart, as always."
"Father," Draco erupts across the table, "you haven't said one worthwhile thing since you got here tonight, and I rather think you should go back to the Manor now!"
"How dare you speak to your father that way—"
"Because he's going out of his way to be aggravating, and to be perfectly honest you are as well . . ."
Ciel nudges Loki and mutters, "I've never been so glad to be an orphan."
At that, Loki looses a strangely vicious snort.