Archive of Our Own

The silence of Hogwarts during the winter holidays was heavy, usually broken only by the crackle of the fires and the howling wind against the stone turrets. For the first time in centuries, the castle felt truly empty. The student count had dwindled down to exactly two.

Lingling Kwong, the Ice Queen of Gryffindor.

Orm Kornnaphat, the Golden Girl of Ravenclaw.

The Setup

Orm sat in the vast, echoing Great Hall. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the slate-grey sky outside, threatening yet another blizzard. She poked at her treacle tart, her heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the person sitting four tables away.

Lingling was reading a thick, leather-bound tome, likely something advanced on Transfiguration. She sat with a posture that was painfully straight, her expression unreadable. She was the Gryffindor Seeker, the captain who had led her house to the Quidditch Cup for six consecutive years—a prodigy who had made the team as a first-year. She was brilliant, lethal in the air, and notoriously unapproachable.

Orm, on the other hand, was the kind of person who tripped over flat surfaces. She was top of her class in Charms and Potions, beloved by professors and students alike for her warm smile, but she would rather face a Dementor than a Bludger.

And she had been hopelessly in love with Lingling since her first day at Hogwarts.

The Encounter

Because there were only two of them, the House Elves had decided that setting two separate tables was inefficient. The next morning at breakfast, the four long House tables were empty of food. Instead, a small, round table had been set up right in front of the High Table, near the roaring hearth.

Orm froze in the doorway. Lingling was already there, sipping tea, looking like a devastatingly beautiful statue.

"Good morning," Lingling said. Her voice was low, smooth, and terrified Orm to her core.

"M-morning," Orm stuttered, making her way to the chair opposite Ling. She sat down, and immediately, her knee bumped the table leg. The milk jug wobbled dangerously.

Before Orm could even gasp, a hand shot out. Lingling caught the jug mid-tip, not spilling a single drop, and set it down gently. It was the reflex of a Seeker—fast, precise, effortless.

"Careful," Lingling said, her dark eyes finally meeting Orm’s. There was no mockery, just a calm observation. "The floor is stone. Glass shatters easily."

"Right. Thanks," Orm breathed, her face heating up to match the Gryffindor crimson. "I'm... I'm not very coordinated."

"I know," Lingling said, returning to her tea. "I’ve watched you walk to class. You favor your left foot when you're distracted."

Orm blinked. The Untouchable Lingling watched her walk to class?

The Library Silence

Three days into the break, the isolation shifted from awkward to companionable. They were the only two living souls in the library. Orm was researching Ancient Runes for an extra-credit essay she didn’t need to do; Lingling was reviewing N.E.W.T. level Defence Against the Dark Arts.

"Why didn't you go home?"

The question cut through the dust-mote silence. Orm looked up from her parchment. Lingling wasn't looking at her; she was staring out the window at the snow-covered Quidditch pitch.

"Family things," Orm said vaguely, the standard lie she used to protect her privacy. "Complicated. Why didn't you?"

Lingling turned. She looked smaller without her Quidditch robes, less like a weapon and more like a girl. "I never go home. The castle is... quieter."

She stood up and walked over to Orm’s table. Orm held her breath. Lingling leaned over, scanning Orm’s essay. The scent of parchment, winter air, and something distinctly clean filled Orm’s senses.

"Your translation of the third rune is technically correct," Lingling murmured, tapping the paper. "But if you use the archaic dialect, it changes the intent from 'protection' to 'binding'. Unless that's what you want?"

"I—no, I wanted protection," Orm squeaked.

"Then use the jagged stroke, not the curved one." Lingling pulled out a quill and corrected it on the margin. Her hand brushed Orm’s. Orm felt an electric shock that had nothing to do with magic.

The Flying Lesson

The blizzard broke on Christmas Eve, leaving the grounds covered in a pristine, glittering white blanket. Orm was wrapped in three scarves, watching from the edge of the courtyard.

Lingling was hovering on her broomstick (a Firebolt Supreme), suspended twenty feet in the air. She wasn't moving, just floating, eyes closed, letting the wind hit her face. She looked peaceful in a way she never did in the corridors.

She opened her eyes and spotted Orm. Instead of flying away, she drifted down, landing softly in the snow.

"You're freezing," Lingling stated.

"I like the snow. From a distance," Orm replied, shivering slightly.

Lingling looked at her broom, then at Orm. "Have you ever flown? Apart from first-year lessons?"

"No. I prefer the ground. Gravity and I have a mutual understanding."

For the first time in six years, Orm saw the corner of Lingling’s mouth twitch upward. A micro-smile. It was blinding.

"Trust me," Lingling said. It was a command, not a request. She held out a gloved hand.

Maybe it was the Christmas magic, or maybe Orm had simply lost her mind, but she took the hand. Lingling pulled her close—much closer than necessary—and mounted the broom.

"Wrap your arms around my waist," Lingling instructed. "Tight."

Orm did. She pressed her front against Lingling’s back, burying her face in the Gryffindor’s coat.

"Don't scream," Lingling whispered.

They shot up.

It wasn't scary. It was fluid. Lingling didn't fly like she was fighting the air; she flew like she owned it. They drifted over the Forbidden Forest, the trees looking like crystallized sugar below.

"Open your eyes, Orm."

Orm peeled her eyes open. The view was breathtaking, but the realization was stronger: She knows my name.

"I won't let you fall," Lingling said, her voice carried away by the wind but clear enough for Orm to hear. "I've never lost a Snitch. I won't lose you."

The Fireplace

That night, the Gryffindor common room was warmer than the rest of the castle, so Lingling invited Orm in. A breach of protocol, but who was going to deduct points?

They sat on the rug in front of the fire, mugs of hot chocolate between them. The adrenaline of the flight had faded, leaving a heavy, charged atmosphere.

"You're not what they say you are," Orm whispered, staring into the flames.

"What do they say?" Lingling asked, looking at Orm.

"Cold. Unfeeling. A machine."

Lingling swirled her cocoa. "It's easier to be a machine. People expect you to win if you're a machine. If you're a person, they wait for you to fail."

She turned fully toward Orm. The firelight danced in Lingling’s dark eyes, softening her sharp features.

"You're not what they say you are either," Lingling countered.

"Oh? What am I?"

"Just... 'The popular girl'. The one everyone wants." Lingling hesitated, her perfect composure cracking. "I didn't think you saw people like me. I thought you only looked at the crowd."

Orm’s heart stopped. "Ling, I've been looking at you since I was eleven years old."

The silence that followed was louder than the blizzard outside. Lingling stared at her, the brilliant tactician momentarily floored.

"You... have?"

"Yes. You're brilliant. And intense. And you catch milk jugs before they spill." Orm let out a nervous laugh. "I have a crush on you. A massive one. It’s embarrassing."

Lingling didn't speak. She slowly reached out, her seeker's hand moving with deliberate slowness this time, until she cupped Orm’s cheek. Her thumb brushed over Orm’s cheekbone.

"You are outstanding in your studies," Lingling whispered, quoting Orm's reputation back to her. "But you're quite oblivious regarding observation."

"What?" Orm breathed.

"I stayed," Lingling murmured, leaning in, her eyes dropping to Orm's lips. "Because I saw your name on the list of students remaining for the break. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to be with you."

The kiss, when it finally happened, wasn't cold. It was the burning warmth of a Gryffindor fire, and the steady, terrifying thrill of a freefall.

The blizzard had finally broken on Christmas morning. The Great Hall was bathed in a crisp, blinding winter sunlight that streamed through the enchanted windows, making the floating candles look almost dim in comparison.

It was just the two of them at the small, intimate table again, but the silence had shifted. It was no longer heavy or awkward. It was charged with a secret warmth, a shared glance over steaming porridge that made Orm’s cheeks flush pink every time Lingling caught her eye.

And Lingling caught her eye a lot.

Suddenly, the air filled with the rhythmic hooting of owls. A small squadron of them swooped down, shaking snow from their wings.

"Post," Lingling noted unnecessarily, watching as a sleek barn owl dropped a heavy package in front of her, followed by a tawny owl dropping another. A third, slightly confused-looking owl landed directly in Orm's bowl of oatmeal.

"Oh! Hello," Orm laughed, gently moving the bird aside to retrieve a large, soft parcel wrapped in brown paper.

Lingling reached for the first package. It was wrapped in elegant silver paper. "Junji," she said, a rare, genuine smile touching her lips. "She's graduated, but she never forgets."

She tore it open to reveal a box of dark, dusted truffles. A note attached read: 'To the Ice Queen who needs to sweeten up. Don't eat them all at once, or you'll be too slow for the next match. Miss you! - J'

"Homemade truffles," Lingling explained, sliding the box toward Orm. "Junji's family recipe. Try one. They're... intense."

Orm took a bite. Rich, dark chocolate exploded on her tongue, mixed with a hint of chili and sea salt. "Oh wow. That wakes you up."

"Exactly like Junji," Lingling murmured fondly. She reached for the second package, which clinked. It was wrapped in Gryffindor red and gold, a bit haphazardly.

"Fluke," she sighed, shaking her head. "He probably wrapped this five minutes before the post owl left."

Inside were two bottles of Butterbeer, but the labels were handwritten. 'Fluke's Famous Buttermilk Brew - Guaranteed to Keep You Warm (or knock you out). Merry Christmas, Captain!'

"He's been trying to perfect his own recipe for years," Lingling said, examining the cloudy liquid critically. "It's usually... potent." She looked at Orm, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Care to risk it?"

"If the Captain drinks it, I'll drink it," Orm challenged, feeling bold.

They clinked bottles. The brew was thick, sweet, and warmed them all the way down to their toes instantly.

Then, Orm turned to her own package. It was lumpy and soft. Her heart did a little flip. She had written to her parents weeks ago, mentioning casually that she was staying behind, and that Lingling Kwong—the Lingling Kwong—was the only other student. She hadn't expected... well, this.

She tore the paper. Inside were two distinct bundles of knitted wool.

The first was a beautiful, soft periwinkle blue sweater with a silver 'O' knitted into the front. Classic Ravenclaw colors, but softer, cozier.

"Mum's work," Orm smiled, hugging it to her chest. Then she looked at the second bundle. It was a deep, rich crimson.

"This one... says it's for you," Orm said, her voice dropping a little, suddenly shy. She held it out.

Lingling froze, her hand halfway to a truffle. "For me?"

"I told them... I told them we were the only ones here," Orm explained quickly, feeling the heat rise in her face. "My mum hates the idea of anyone not having a present to open."

Lingling slowly took the bundle. The wool was thick and incredibly soft. She unfolded it. It was a perfect Gryffindor crimson sweater, with a golden Snitch intricately knitted right over where the heart would be.

Lingling stared at it. She ran her thumb over the golden thread of the Snitch. For a girl who was used to fans screaming her name and people expecting perfection, a hand-knitted sweater from a stranger's mother seemed to render her speechless.

"It's..." Lingling started, her voice unusually quiet. "It's beautiful."

She looked up at Orm, and the 'Ice Queen' mask was completely gone. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable. "I haven't had a homemade present in... a very long time."

"Put it on," Orm urged gently.

Lingling pulled the sweater over her head. It was a little big on her, the sleeves coming down over her hands, making her look less like a fierce athlete and more like someone who needed a hug. The crimson color made her skin glow, and the golden Snitch sat perfectly on her chest.

"It fits," Lingling whispered, looking down at herself. She looked up, and the intensity in her gaze made Orm's breath hitch. "Thank you, Orm. And thank your parents for me."

"I will," Orm breathed.

"Here." Lingling stood up, grabbing the box of truffles and the Butterbeer. "Let's go to the common room. We have chocolate, questionable beverages, and new sweaters. It seems like a waste to stay in the Great Hall."

She held out her hand—the one now covered in the soft crimson wool of Orm's gift.

"Coming, Ravenclaw?"

Orm took her hand, squeezing the wool-covered fingers. "Right behind you, Gryffindor."

The days following Christmas blurred into a lazy, golden haze. The castle, usually a bustling labyrinth of schedules and expectations, had transformed into their own private world. Without the pressure of classes, Quidditch practice, or the prying eyes of the student body, the walls between houses—and between them—began to dissolve.

The Kitchen Raid (December 27th)

It was 11:00 PM. Normally, Lingling would be asleep or reviewing strategy for the upcoming match against Slytherin. Instead, she was being dragged by the wrist down a stone corridor by a Ravenclaw in oversized pajamas.

"This is against school rules," Lingling whispered, though there was zero resistance in her steps. She was wearing the crimson sweater Orm's mother had knitted; she had barely taken it off since Christmas morning.

"The rules say students aren't allowed out of bed," Orm whispered back, her eyes sparkling in the wand-light. "They don't say anything about hungry students seeking sustenance during a blizzard."

They stopped in front of a painting of a fruit bowl. Orm reached out and tickled the green pear. It giggled and transformed into a door handle.

Lingling blinked. "I didn't know that was there."

"You spend too much time in the air, Captain," Orm teased, pulling her inside.

The House Elves, delighted to have anyone to serve, swarmed them. While Lingling stood stiffly, unsure of how to interact with such chaotic energy, Orm was in her element. She greeted three elves by name, asked about their sock collection, and politely requested hot cocoa and leftover treacle tart.

They sat on a transfigured bench in the corner of the warm, steamy kitchen. Lingling watched Orm eat a tart with enthusiastic messiness.

"You have... right there," Lingling murmured, reaching out.

Orm froze, a tart halfway to her mouth. Lingling’s thumb brushed the corner of Orm’s lip, wiping away a crumb of pastry. She didn't pull her hand away immediately. Her fingers lingered against Orm’s jaw, her skin cool against the flush of Orm’s cheek.

"You're beautiful when you're not trying to be perfect," Lingling said softly. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same objective clarity she used to analyze Quidditch plays.

Orm felt her heart hammer against her ribs. "And you're beautiful when you let yourself be messy."

Lingling looked at the crumb on her thumb, then back at Orm. A small, shy smile—the kind that didn't reach magazines or trophy cases—touched her lips.

The Library Nap (December 29th)

The blizzard had returned, howling against the stained glass of the library. They were at their usual table. Lingling was ostensibly reading Advanced Potion Making, but she hadn't turned a page in forty minutes.

Orm looked up from her novel. Lingling had fallen asleep.

It was a rare sight. The Gryffindor Seeker was always alert, always poised. But now, her head was resting on her folded arms, her breathing slow and deep. A lock of dark hair had fallen across her eyes.

Orm watched her for a long time. She studied the curve of Lingling’s eyelashes, the slight parting of her lips, the tension that had finally left her shoulders. It was an intimacy deeper than the kiss they had shared by the fire—the permission to be vulnerable, to be unconscious, in another's presence.

Orm quietly moved her chair closer. She didn't want to wake her. Instead, she gently draped her own Ravenclaw scarf over Lingling’s shoulders for extra warmth.

Lingling shifted. Without waking, she turned her head, her cheek pressing against the wool of Orm’s sleeve. Her hand drifted across the table, blindly seeking until her fingers brushed Orm’s.

Orm laced their fingers together. Lingling sighed in her sleep, her grip tightening subconsciously, anchoring herself to Orm.

They stayed like that for two hours, hand in hand, while the snow buried the world outside.

The Black Lake (December 31st - Morning)

"Absolutely not."

"Come on, Ling! The ice is thick enough to hold a giant. Hagrid checked it this morning!"

They stood at the edge of the Black Lake. The surface was a vast, frozen mirror reflecting the grey sky. Orm was already lacing up a pair of enchanted skates she’d found in the Lost and Found.

Lingling looked at the ice with deep suspicion. "I fly. I don't skate. The physics are entirely different. There is zero friction."

"For the best Seeker in Hogwarts history, you're surprisingly cowardly about frozen water," Orm teased, standing up and immediately wobbling.

Lingling’s reflexes kicked in. She grabbed Orm’s elbows before she could hit the snow. "I am not cowardly. I am pragmatic."

"Prove it."

Ten minutes later, Lingling was on the ice. To Orm’s immense satisfaction (and secret adoration), the graceful, athletic Lingling Kwong was... struggling. She moved stiffly, arms out for balance, her brow furrowed in intense concentration as if she were trying to mentally will the ice to be less slippery.

"Loosen your knees," Orm instructed, skating circles around her. Orm wasn't an expert, but she was surprisingly decent on ice—perhaps because she was used to sliding around in socks.

"My knees are loose," Lingling gritted out, looking like she was marching into battle.

"Here." Orm skated backward and held out both hands. "Hold on to me."

Lingling gripped Orm’s hands like a lifeline. "If I fall, Kornnaphat, I am taking you down with me."

"I'm counting on it," Orm grinned.

They glided together—slowly, clumsily. Lingling stared at their feet, calculating every slide.

"Look up, Ling," Orm whispered.

Lingling looked up. She met Orm’s eyes.

"Trust the balance," Orm said softly. "I've got you."

Lingling relaxed. The tension left her frame. She let Orm guide her, backwards, across the vast expanse of the lake. For a moment, the cold wind, the biting air, the looming castle—it all faded. It was just the scrape of blades on ice and the warmth of Orm’s hands in hers.

"You know," Lingling said, her voice caught by the wind. "I think I prefer this to flying."

"Why?"

Lingling pulled on Orm’s hands, drawing her in until they collided, chests bumping, breath mingling in the cold air.

"Because when I'm flying, I'm always alone up there," Lingling whispered, looking down at Orm with an intensity that melted the ice beneath them. "Down here, I'm with you."

She leaned down, pressing her forehead against Orm’s. They stood there in the middle of the frozen lake, balanced against each other, perfectly steady.

The spiral staircase to the Astronomy Tower seemed endless, but the view from the top was worth every step. The midnight air was biting, crisp enough to freeze breath in the lungs, but neither of them felt the cold. They were wrapped in their new sweaters—Lingling in Orm’s crimson, Orm in Lingling’s periwinkle—standing shoulder to shoulder against the parapet.

Below them, the Forbidden Forest was a sea of black ink. Above, the Milky Way spilled across the sky like spilled potion ingredients, vast and glittering.

"Five minutes to midnight," Orm whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. She wasn't looking at the view; she was looking at Lingling’s profile, sharp and beautiful against the starlight.

"A new year," Lingling murmured. She turned, resting her elbows on the stone ledge. "It feels... heavy. Sixth year is almost over. Then it’s just one more year, and then..." She gestured vaguely at the horizon. "The real world."

"Scared?" Orm asked softly.

"Gryffindors aren't supposed to be scared." Lingling’s lips quirked in a self-deprecating smile. "But yes. The world outside is messy. It’s not like Quidditch. The rules aren't clear."

"What do you want to be? Out there?"

Lingling looked out at the dark treeline. "An Auror. I want to fight. There’s... a lot of darkness creeping in. I’m good at dueling. I’m good at flying. It makes sense to use it to protect people." She paused, glancing at Orm. "What about you? The brilliant Ravenclaw?"

Orm smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "A Healer at St. Mungo's."

Lingling raised an eyebrow. "A Healer? That’s... intense. It takes incredible precision."

"Professor Flitwick told me I have 'innate intuition' for mending charms," Orm said, a little flush of pride warming her cheeks. "And Madam Pomfrey... she let me help in the Hospital Wing last month when a first-year melted his eyebrows off. She said I have steady hands. I don't want to fight the darkness, Ling. I want to fix what it breaks."

Lingling stared at her. The wind whipped Orm’s hair around her face, but she looked steady. Certain. The contrast hit Lingling hard—the warrior and the healer. It fit. It fit terrifyingly well.

"You're amazing," Lingling said, the words slipping out before she could check them.

Orm turned to face her fully, leaning her back against the stone railing. "You say that a lot lately. For someone who barely spoke to me for five years."

"I spoke to you," Lingling corrected quietly. "In my head. Every day."

Orm’s breath hitched. "What?"

Lingling stepped closer. The space between them, usually so vast in the crowded halls, had shrunk to inches.

"You think I'm aloof," Lingling said, her voice dropping to a low, intense timbre that sent shivers down Orm’s spine. "You think I walk through the corridors staring straight ahead because I'm cold. But I'm not. I'm focused. Because if I looked around... if I let myself look..."

She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she brushed a snowflake from Orm’s hair.

"If I looked, I would have just stared at you. And I wouldn't have been able to stop."

Orm’s heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat. "You... you noticed me?"

"Orm," Lingling let out a shaky breath, a laugh that sounded like a confession. "I always watched you. In the library, fourth year, when you fell asleep on your Arithmancy textbook and drooled a little? I was two tables away."

"Oh god," Orm groaned, covering her face.

"Third year," Lingling continued, gently pulling Orm’s hands away from her face. "When you tripped coming into the Great Hall and laughed instead of crying? I wanted to help you up then. But I was... I was the Gryffindor Captain. And you were the Ravenclaw brightness. I didn't think I was allowed to touch you."

"And now?" Orm whispered, her eyes wide and shining in the starlight. "Are you allowed now?"

From the distant clock tower, the first chime of midnight began to toll. 

BONG.

The sound vibrated through the stone floor, through their boots, into their bones.

"I don't care about 'allowed' anymore," Lingling whispered. "I just want to be with you."

BONG.

Lingling leaned in. She didn't rush. She moved with the deliberate, heart-stopping focus of a Seeker spotting the Snitch—not chasing it, but claiming it.

BONG.

Orm met her halfway. She rose on her tiptoes, her hands clutching the lapels of Lingling’s coat, pulling the "untouchable" girl down to earth.

Their lips met as the fourth chime rang out.

It wasn't like the stories Orm read. It wasn't fireworks or explosions. It was better. It was the grounding reality of Lingling’s warmth against the freezing cold. It was soft, hesitant at first—a question asked and answered—and then it deepened into something desperate and overwhelming.

Lingling’s arms wrapped around Orm’s waist, pulling her flush against her, burying her hands in the back of Orm’s coat as if afraid she might vanish. Orm melted into her, the taste of peppermint and cold air on her tongue, the scent of Lingling—clean soap and fresh snow—filling her senses.

BONG.

They broke apart for air but didn't let go. Their foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling in white clouds.

"Happy New Year, Orm," Lingling whispered against her lips.

"Happy New Year, Ling," Orm breathed back, dazed and dazzlingly happy.

"The Healer and the Auror," Lingling murmured, tracing the line of Orm’s jaw with her thumb. "We're going to be quite a team."

"The best," Orm agreed.

The bells continued to ring out over the empty grounds, signaling the start of a year where neither of them would ever have to be alone in the castle again.

The bubble didn’t pop; it was slowly, noisily deflated by the arrival of the Hogwarts Express.

One moment, the castle was theirs—a kingdom of two, echoing with their laughter and the soft scuff of their socks on stone floors. The next, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall banged open, and hundreds of students poured in, bringing with them a tidal wave of snow, chatter, and chaos.

The Great Hall: The Mask Returns

Lingling sat at the Gryffindor table, her back straight, her expression composed. The "Ice Queen" mask was back in place, flawless and impenetrable. She was surrounded by her Quidditch team—boisterous beaters slapping her on the back, chasers recounting their holidays loudly. She nodded at the right times, offered the occasional sharp tactical comment, but her eyes were distant.

Across the hall, at the Ravenclaw table, Orm was buried in a group hug. Her friends were squealing, showing off new accessories, and complaining about O.W.L. prep. Orm laughed, the sound bright and easy, but her hand kept drifting to the collar of her robe, where the edge of a crimson sweater was just barely visible underneath.

Their eyes met.

It was a split second. A microscopic break in the chaos.

Lingling didn't smile. She didn't wave. She simply held Orm’s gaze over the rim of her goblet—a dark, intense look that carried the weight of every whispered conversation and every kiss shared in the astronomy tower. It was a look that said, I see you. I’m still here.

Orm felt a flush rise up her neck that had nothing to do with the hall's heating charms. She bit her lip to hide a smile and turned back to her friends, her heart racing a secret, frantic rhythm.

The Corridor: The "Accidental" Brush

Tuesday morning. The corridor between Transfiguration and Charms was a bottleneck of bodies.

"Did you hear?" a Hufflepuff girl whispered loudly near Orm. "Kwong is making the team practice at 5 AM tomorrow. In the snow. She’s actually a demon."

Orm’s friend, a skeptical Ravenclaw named Gina, rolled her eyes. "She’s brilliant, but I don't know how anyone stands her. She looks like she’d hex you for breathing too loudly."

"She's focused," Orm defended automatically, then caught herself. "I mean... probably just wants to win the Cup."

Suddenly, the crowd parted. Lingling was walking through the sea of students like Moses parting the Red Sea. Her robes billowed, her face set in a look of terrifying determination. First-years scrambled out of her way.

Orm stood her ground near the wall, clutching her books to her chest.

As Lingling passed, she didn't stop. She didn't even look at Orm. To an observer, they were strangers—the popular girl and the scary jock.

But as they passed shoulder-to-shoulder, Lingling’s hand swung out. Her pinky finger hooked into Orm’s for a fleeting, electric second. A squeeze. Hard, possessive, and gone before anyone could blink.

Lingling kept walking, her face unchanging.

Orm let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, the ghost of Lingling's touch burning on her hand.

The Alcove: The 5th Floor Tapestry

"Clear?"

"Clear."

The tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy swung aside, and Orm was pulled into the dusty, narrow passage behind it.

Before she could even adjust to the darkness, Lingling was there. The Ice Queen was gone; this was just Ling—warm, eager, and pressing Orm back against the stone wall.

"Hi," Orm breathed, her hands finding their way into Lingling’s hair.

"Too loud," Lingling murmured against her neck, though she didn't pull away. "The hall was too loud. I couldn't hear myself think."

"You looked terrifying at dinner," Orm teased gently. "A first-year actually dropped his fork when you looked at the Slytherin table."

Lingling pulled back just enough to look at her. In the dim light of the secret passage, her eyes were soft, unguarded. "I was thinking about you. About how much I hate sitting four tables away."

She ran her hands down Orm’s arms, resting them on her waist. "Are you wearing it?"

Orm unbuttoned the top of her robe to reveal the crimson collar of the sweater. 

"Always. It's my good luck charm for Potions."

Lingling smiled—a real, small smile that belonged only to this dark corner of the castle. She tugged at her own tie, loosening it to show the edge of the periwinkle blue wool underneath. "Me too. I almost hexed Mek for spilling pumpkin juice near me. I can't ruin this sweater."

They stood there for a moment in the silence, forehead to forehead, recharging. The castle outside was full of noise and expectations—exams to ace, matches to win, reputations to uphold. But in here, behind the dusty tapestry, they were just two girls in matching sweaters.

"I have to go," Lingling whispered reluctantly. "Prefect rounds."

"I have a study group," Orm sighed. "Gina wants to analyze the theoretical applications of Gillyweed."

Lingling kissed her—quick, hard, and promising. "Meet me here tomorrow? Before dinner?"

"Try and stop me," Orm promised.

Lingling checked the coast, her mask slipping back into place—cool, detached, perfect. She stepped out into the corridor, transforming back into the Captain.

Orm waited a heartbeat, fixed her hair, and stepped out after her, humming a tune, clutching her books, and hiding the happiest secret in Hogwarts.

The Quidditch pitch was a cauldron of noise. Red and green flags whipped violently in the wind as the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match entered its third grueling hour.

It wasn't just a game; it was war. The Slytherins were playing dirty, their Beaters aiming bludgers directly at the Gryffindor Chasers' heads rather than their brooms. Two players were already in the Hospital Wing.

Lingling hovered high above the chaos, her Firebolt Supreme vibrating with tension. Her left arm throbbed where a stray elbow had caught her earlier, but her eyes were scanning the pitch with predatory focus. She was the Captain. She couldn't show pain.

"Kwong! Watch out!"

A bludger screamed past her ear, missing by an inch. The Slytherin Seeker, a bulky seventh-year with a nasty grin, feinted left.

There.

A glint of gold near the base of the Slytherin goalposts.

Lingling didn't hesitate. She went into a vertical dive. The wind roared in her ears, tearing at her robes. The Slytherin Seeker saw it too late and dove after her, but Lingling was faster. She was a bullet.

"She's going to crash!" Bow Maylada screamed from the commentary box.

The Snitch hovered inches above the grass. Lingling stretched out her hand, her fingers brushing the cold metal wings.

WHAM.

A bludger, hit with malicious precision by a Slytherin Beater, slammed into Lingling’s side just as her fingers closed around the Snitch. The impact was sickeningly loud.

She didn't pull out of the dive in time. She hit the ground hard, rolling in a tangle of limbs and broomstick twigs, coming to a stop in a heap of crimson robes.

The stadium went dead silent.

Then, the whistle blew. "GRYFFINDOR WINS!"

But Lingling didn't get up.

High in the stands, Orm was already moving before the whistle had even echoed.

"Orm? Where are you going?" Gina called out, but Orm was already vaulting over the barrier, her robes flapping as she sprinted down the stairs, ignoring the shocked gasps of the students around her.

Madam Pomfrey was on the other side of the pitch, tending to a Hufflepuff who had been hit by a rogue bludger earlier. She was too far.

Orm hit the grass running. Her heart was in her throat, a frantic bird beating against her ribs. Please be okay. Please be okay.

She reached the center of the pitch just as the Gryffindor team landed, circling their fallen Captain in a panic.

"Back up!" Orm’s voice cut through the panic like a knife. "Give her air! Now!"

The Gryffindor Beaters, usually terrifying, scrambled back at the sheer authority in the small Ravenclaw’s voice.

Orm dropped to her knees in the mud beside Lingling. Lingling was conscious, but pale, clutching her right side. Her eyes were squeezed shut, teeth gritted in pain.

"Ling," Orm whispered, her voice trembling for only a fraction of a second before her training kicked in. She pulled her wand. "Don't move. I'm here."

Lingling opened one eye. It was hazy with pain, but it focused on Orm immediately. "Caught it," she wheezed, opening her clenched fist to reveal the struggling golden Snitch.

"You idiot," Orm hissed, but her hands were gentle as she ran her wand over Lingling’s ribs. "A classic suicide dive? Really?"

"Had to," Lingling groaned.

" Ferula," Orm cast, binding Lingling’s fractured ribs with bandages conjured from thin air. " Anapneo," she cast next to clear Lingling’s airway.

The crowd watched in stunned silence. Why was the quiet Ravenclaw prefect, usually seen with her nose in a book, commanding the field? And why was the terrifying Lingling Kwong letting her?

"Is she okay?" Mint, the Gryffindor seeker-in-training, asked anxiously.

"Three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a mild concussion," Orm rattled off without looking up. She placed her hands on Lingling’s shoulder. "This is going to hurt. On three. One, two—"

Pop.

She reset the shoulder on two.

Lingling cried out, a sharp, guttural sound, and instinctively her good hand shot out and gripped Orm’s forearm. She squeezed hard enough to bruise.

Orm didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She leaned in, her face inches from Lingling’s, her thumb rubbing a soothing circle into the back of Lingling’s hand—a gesture hidden by their robes.

"Breathe," Orm commanded softly, her eyes locking with Lingling’s. "Look at me. Just look at me."

For a moment, the thousands of screaming fans, the teachers running onto the field, the rain starting to fall—it all vanished. It was just the two of them. The "Ice Queen" looked at the "Bookworm" with an expression of such raw trust and vulnerability that anyone paying close enough attention would have felt like an intruder.

"I've got you," Orm mouthed.

"I know," Lingling breathed, her grip on Orm’s arm loosening as the pain began to fade under Orm's spells.

Madam Pomfrey finally arrived, breathless. "Miss Orm! What on earth—"

"Stabilized the ribs and reduced the dislocation, Madam," Orm said, standing up and smoothing her robes. Her voice was cool, professional, the perfect Ravenclaw prefect once more. "She needs a Skelegro potion for the fracture and a Sleeping Draught for the shock."

Madam Pomfrey ran a diagnostic spell. She blinked in surprise. "Perfectly done. Ten points to Ravenclaw for quick thinking."

She conjured a stretcher. "Up you get, Kwong. You're lucky Miss Orm was faster than I was."

As Lingling was levitated onto the stretcher, she looked back. The crowd was buzzing.

"Since when are they friends?"

"Did you see how fast Orm ran?"

"Why did Lingling let her touch her? She hates everyone."

Lingling caught Orm’s eye. She gave a barely perceptible nod—a salute from one professional to another.

Orm nodded back, her face impassive, though her hands were shaking inside her sleeves.

"I'll accompany her to the Hospital Wing, Madam," Orm said smoothly. "I... wish to observe the recovery process for my O.W.L case study."

Madam Pomfrey waved a hand distractedly. "Yes, yes, come along then. Don't dawdle."

Orm fell into step beside the stretcher, walking with her head high. To the world, it was a diligent student and her patient. But as they passed into the tunnel, out of sight of the crowd, Lingling’s hand dropped off the side of the stretcher.

Orm’s hand found it instantly, their fingers interlocking in the darkness.

"Nice catch," Orm whispered into the gloom.

"Nice save," Lingling whispered back.

The end of the term arrived not with the bite of winter, but with the lazy, golden heat of early summer. The castle grounds were lush and green, the Black Lake glittering under the sun, but for Orm, the brightness felt a little too sharp.

The O.W.L. Results

They were sitting by the lake, hidden behind a cluster of beech trees—their usual spot when the weather allowed.

Orm held the parchment with trembling hands. She had opened it three times already, just to be sure the ink hadn't changed.

"Well?" Lingling asked. She was leaning against the tree trunk, tossing a pebble into the water with lazy precision. She didn't look worried. She never looked worried about Orm.

"Outstanding," Orm breathed, staring at the list. "In everything. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Herbology... even History of Magic."

Lingling stopped tossing pebbles. She turned, a slow, proud smile spreading across her face—the kind of smile that made Orm’s stomach do a flip.

"I told you," Lingling said simply. "You’re the smartest witch in your year. Maybe the smartest in the castle."

"You got straight O's too," Orm pointed out, folding the letter carefully.

"I got an 'Exceeds Expectations' in Divination," Lingling corrected dryly. "Apparently, 'seeing death in every tea leaf' isn't a valid prediction method."

Orm laughed, the sound bubbling up and momentarily chasing away the heavy feeling in her chest. Lingling shifted, reaching out to squeeze Orm’s hand.

"I'm proud of you, Orm. Really."

The N.E.W.T. Selection

The mood shifted later that afternoon in the common room (which was empty, as everyone was outside soaking up the sun). Lingling was filling out her N.E.W.T. course selection form for her final year.

Orm watched her quill scratch against the parchment. The subjects were heavy, serious.

• Defence Against the Dark Arts

• Transfiguration

• Potions

• Charms

• Herbology

"The Auror track," Orm noted quietly.

"It's the only way," Lingling murmured, not looking up. "If I want to change things. If I want to make it safer."

Orm looked at Lingling’s profile—the determination in her jaw, the focus in her eyes. She looked like a soldier already. And suddenly, the reality of the timeline crashed down on Orm.

Lingling was a rising Seventh Year.

Orm was a rising Sixth Year.

Next year—Lingling’s final year—would be hard. But the year after that?

Lingling would graduate. She would leave. She would go off to the Ministry, to Auror training, to dangerous missions and a world Orm couldn't follow her into yet.

Orm would be left behind at Hogwarts. Alone. Walking the corridors they used to sneak through, sitting at the library table by herself. The castle, which had become their sanctuary, suddenly felt like a looming cage of loneliness.

"You're going to leave," Orm whispered. It wasn't a question.

Lingling stopped writing. She set the quill down and turned fully to face Orm. She saw the fear in Orm’s eyes instantly—the silent dread of being the one left behind.

"Hey," Lingling said softy. "I'm not going anywhere yet. We have a whole year."

"But after that," Orm’s voice wavered. "You'll be an Auror. You'll be busy. And I'll be... here."

"Orm." Lingling moved from her chair to the sofa, sitting close enough that their knees touched. She took Orm’s face in her hands. "Hogwarts is just a building. You think a few miles and a graduation ceremony are going to stop me from seeing you?"

"You'll be saving the world," Orm said, trying to joke but failing.

"I'll be saving the world for you," Lingling corrected intensely. "And every weekend, I'll be right back in Hogsmeade, waiting for you. Or I'll invent a reason to visit. 'Suspicious dark activity near the Ravenclaw tower'. I'm sure I can convince the Headmistress."

Orm managed a watery smile. "That sounds like an abuse of power."

"For you? I'd break every rule in the Ministry handbook."

The Platform Promise

The Hogwarts Express hissed steam onto Platform 9 ¾. the air was thick with smoke and the noise of students reuniting with parents.

They couldn't hug. Not here. Not with Orm’s parents waving from the barrier and Lingling’s aunt waiting stiffly by a pillar.

They stood near the luggage cart, maintaining a "respectable" distance that tortured them both.

"So," Lingling said, her hands shoved deep into her pockets to keep from reaching out. "Summer."

"Summer," Orm echoed. "My parents are taking me to the coast for two weeks in July."

"I'll be there," Lingling said immediately.

Orm blinked. "What?"

"The coast. I have... 'training' in that area," Lingling lied smoothly, her eyes dancing with mischief. "I'm sure I'll run into you. Pure coincidence."

"Pure coincidence," Orm repeated, feeling the dread loosen its grip on her heart.

"Write to me," Lingling said, her voice dropping lower, for Orm's ears only. "Every day. Tell me about your healing spells. Tell me about the sunset. Just... tell me."

"I will. I promise."

Lingling looked around. The steam from the engine swirled around them, creating a momentary grey curtain, shielding them from the crowd.

In that split second of cover, Lingling leaned in. Her hand brushed Orm’s, squeezing her fingers hard—a promise, an anchor, a vow.

"I'll see you soon, Healer," she whispered.

"See you soon, Auror," Orm whispered back.

Then the steam cleared. Lingling stepped back, gave a curt, polite nod that fooled absolutely no one who knew her, and turned to walk toward the barrier.

Orm watched her go, clutching her O.W.L. results to her chest. The fear was still there, a quiet hum in the background, but as she watched Lingling’s retreating back—strong, certain, and hers—it was drowned out by the anticipation of summer.

The summer air in the coastal town of Ilfracombe was thick with the scent of salt and fried fish. It was a popular spot for wizarding families trying to blend in with Muggles, which made it the perfect, chaotic cover for a "chance" encounter.

The "Coincidence" at the Pier

Orm was walking along the pier with her parents, licking a melting cone of raspberry swirl ice cream. Her father was enthusiastically pointing out a Muggle fishing boat, explaining the mechanics of diesel engines incorrectly.

"And that, you see, is where they keep the coal—"

"Dad, I think that's a net," Orm corrected gently.

"Orm?"

The voice cut through the seagull cries like a silencing charm. Orm froze. She knew that voice better than her own heartbeat.

She turned. Leaning against the railing, wearing muggle jeans and a simple white t-shirt that made her look unfairly effortless, was Lingling. She held a cold bottle of water and looked like she had just finished a run.

"Ling!" Orm gasped, the surprise feigned but the delight entirely real. "What are you doing here?"

"Training," Lingling said smoothly, pushing off the railing. She nodded politely to Orm’s parents. "Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Sethratanapong. There’s a coastal ridge nearby that’s excellent for endurance running. Essential for Auror conditioning."

Orm’s mother, a sharp-eyed witch who worked in Magical Law Enforcement, looked Lingling up and down. She noted the sweat on Lingling’s brow, the serious demeanor, and the way Lingling’s eyes had immediately locked onto Orm and stayed there.

"Auror conditioning in July?" Mae Koy asked, an amused quirk to her brow. "That’s dedication, Miss Kwong."

"The dark wizards don't take holidays, ma'am," Lingling replied with a straight face.

Orm’s father beamed. "Excellent work ethic! Would you like to join us for fish and chips? We were just debating the merits of tartare sauce."

Lingling glanced at Orm, a silent question in her eyes. Orm gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"I would be honored, sir."

The "Sporadic" Dates

The "coincidence" turned into a routine.

The Arcade Date:

Three days later, they snuck away to a Muggle arcade on the boardwalk. Lingling approached the Whac-A-Mole machine with the same intensity she approached a Quidditch match.

"It's about reflexes," Lingling muttered, rolling up her sleeves. "Pure reaction time."

She proceeded to obliterate the high score, hitting the moles with such terrifying speed that a small crowd of Muggle children gathered to watch in awe.

"You're scaring the locals," Orm laughed, handing her a slushie.

Lingling took a sip, the blue raspberry turning her tongue a vivid azure. "I won you a stuffed bear. It was the objective."

She handed Orm a slightly lopsided teddy bear. Orm hugged it like it was made of gold.

The Night Flight:

One evening, while Orm’s parents were asleep, Lingling tapped on Orm’s rental cottage window. She was hovering on her broomstick, silhouetted against the moon.

"Come out," she mouthed.

Orm climbed out the window. They didn't fly high—just skimmed the waves of the ocean, the water spraying their ankles. The freedom was intoxicating. Lingling flew with one hand on her broom and the other tightly gripping Orm’s hand, pulling her along through the salty air.

They landed on a secluded cove, breathless and soaked.

"You're crazy," Orm gasped, wringing out her hair.

"I missed you," Lingling said simply, pushing wet hair out of Orm’s face. "Writing letters isn't enough."

The Parental Perspective

Back at the cottage, Mae Koy watched from the kitchen window as Orm returned, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, clutching a weird blue teddy bear.

"She's glowing, dear," Por Oct noted, buttering a crumpet. "That Kwong girl... she's very intense, isn't she?"

"She's the Gryffindor Captain," Mae Koy said, sipping her tea. "Intensity is the point."

"Do you think...?" He gestured vaguely with his knife. "They seem inseparable. For 'just friends' running into each other."

Mae Koy looked out the window again. She saw Lingling waiting at the end of the lane to make sure Orm got inside safely before turning to jog back to her own lodgings. She saw the way Lingling stood guard—protective, steady, respectful.

"Let her be, Oct," Mae Koy smiled softly. "Orm is smart. And Lingling... well, she looks at our daughter like she's the only person who can see her. There are worse things in the world."

"As long as she doesn't encourage Orm to play Quidditch," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Our girl is dangerous enough on solid ground."

The End of Summer

The night before they were due to return to London, they sat on the beach, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The sky was a bruised purple and orange.

"Back to reality tomorrow," Lingling said, drawing patterns in the sand with a stick.

"Back to hiding in alcoves and secret notes," Orm sighed, leaning her head on Lingling’s shoulder.

"It won't be forever," Lingling promised. "One more year of school for me. Then I'll have my own flat. You can come over whenever you want. No sneaking. No lying."

"I like the sound of that," Orm murmured.

Lingling turned and kissed the top of Orm’s head. "Thank you for the summer, Healer."

"Thank you for the 'training', Auror," Orm teased.

As the stars began to appear, reflecting off the dark water, the dread of the coming separation felt a little less heavy. They had survived the silence of winter and the brightness of summer. They could handle whatever the final year threw at them.

The Hogwarts Express rattled its way north, but this time, the journey felt different.

For Lingling Kwong, this was the last time she would be a student on this train. She sat in a compartment with her fellow seventh-years, all wearing their Prefect badges or Quidditch captain pins like armor. The air was thick with N.E.W.T. anxiety and career pamphlets.

For Orm Kornnaphat, a sixth-year now, the dynamic had shifted. She wasn't just the bright Ravenclaw anymore; she was the girl who had healed the Gryffindor Captain on the pitch. People looked at her differently.

The Great Hall: The Legend and the Legacy

The Welcome Feast was as grand as ever, but when Lingling walked in, a hush fell over the Gryffindor table. She wasn't just a student; she was a looming legend. The younger students whispered about her impossible catches, her terrifying training schedules, and the rumors that she was already being scouted by the Holyhead Harpies (which she had politely declined, citing her Auror ambitions).

Orm watched from the Ravenclaw table. Lingling sat with a straight back, her expression cool and distant as she listened to the Headmistress's speech. She looked older, sharper. The weight of her future was settling on her shoulders.

Then, for a brief second, Lingling’s eyes flicked to the Ravenclaw table.

She didn't smile. She didn't wave. She simply held Orm’s gaze—a steady, grounding anchor in the sea of noise. It was a silent promise: I'm still here. We're still us.

Orm felt a warmth spread through her chest, a secret thrill that made the pumpkin juice taste sweeter.

The Library: The Shift

Two weeks into the term, the pressure began to mount. Lingling was drowning in N.E.W.T. coursework—Advanced Potions, gruesome Defence Against the Dark Arts essays on Unforgivable Curses, and Transfiguration theory that made Orm’s head spin just looking at it.

They met in their usual corner of the library, obscured by stacks of books.

"You look tired," Orm whispered, sliding a vial of Pepperup Potion across the table. She had brewed it perfectly in her own spare time.

Lingling took it gratefully, her fingers brushing Orm’s. "Tired is an understatement. McGonagall is trying to kill me. She assigned three feet on human transfiguration ethics due Monday."

"I can proofread it," Orm offered immediately. "My grammar is better than yours."

Lingling cracked a small, weary smile. "Your everything is better than mine."

She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. "Everyone keeps asking me about the future. 'Are you excited for the Auror office?' 'Have you started training?' It's... a lot."

"They just admire you," Orm said gently. "You're the Gryffindor Golden Girl."

"I don't want to be the Golden Girl," Lingling muttered, looking at Orm with sudden intensity. "I just want to be the girl who gets to hold your hand without a silencing charm."

Orm felt her heart squeeze. "One year, Ling. We can do one year."

The Astronomy Tower: The First Crack

November brought the first real test. A Hogsmeade weekend was coming up, and Lingling had promised to sneak away with Orm to the Three Broomsticks.

But on Friday evening, a frantic owl arrived for Lingling.

Emergency Quidditch Strategy Meeting. Slytherin has a new seeker. We need to review the playbooks immediately. - McGonagall

Lingling found Orm in the corridor outside the library. The disappointment on Orm’s face when Lingling broke the news was like a physical blow.

"It's fine," Orm said, her voice a little too bright. "I understand. You're the Captain. It's your last year to win the Cup."

"I can skip it," Lingling said, her hand reaching for Orm’s sleeve before she caught herself. "I'll tell them I'm sick."

"No," Orm said firmly. "You won't. You've worked too hard for this. Go be the legend, Ling."

"I hate being the legend," Lingling hissed, frustration radiating off her. "I just want to have a Butterbeer with my girlfriend."

The word hung in the air. Girlfriend.

They hadn't used it much out loud. It felt dangerous. Sacred.

"Go," Orm whispered, stepping closer to quickly press a kiss to Lingling’s cheek before anyone could turn the corner. "Win the game. Then come find me."

Lingling watched her walk away, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. The separation was starting to chafe. The need to hide was becoming a physical ache.

The Common Room Fire

That night, Lingling sat in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fire. The strategy meeting had been grueling. Her team was terrified of her; they treated her like a general, not a friend.

"Rough night, Captain?"

It was Fluke, her best friend and Beater. He sat down next to her, nursing a pumpkin juice.

"Something like that," Lingling murmured.

"You know," Fluke said casually, staring into the flames. "You spend a lot of time in the library for someone who’s already passed their O.W.L.s."

Lingling stiffened. "I'm studying for N.E.W.T.s."

"Right. N.E.W.T.s," Fluke agreed. He took a sip of juice. "Does this 'N.E.W.T.' happen to have long dark hair and wear a Ravenclaw tie?"

Lingling’s head snapped toward him. Panic flared in her chest.

Fluke held up a hand. "Relax, Ling. I'm not blind. I saw you two at the match last year. And I saw you watching her at the feast."

Lingling let out a long breath she didn't know she was holding. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only if you know where to look," Fluke grinned. "And honestly? It's about time. You were miserable before. Now... you're still terrifying, but you're a happier kind of terrifying."

Lingling actually laughed. "She hates Quidditch, Fluke. She thinks it's barbaric."

"Perfect," Fluke clapped her on the shoulder. "Keeps you grounded. Just... be careful, yeah? Seventh year is crazy. Don't let the pressure ruin the good stuff."

Lingling looked at the fire, thinking of Orm’s disappointment, of the missed date, of the year stretching out before them.

"I won't," she vowed quietly. "I'm not losing her."

The Yule Ball was usually reserved for the Triwizard Tournament, but this year, Headmistress McGonagall had reinstated it as a "celebration of unity" to boost morale before the N.E.W.T. exams.

For weeks, the castle had been a fever dream of gossip.

"Who is Lingling taking?"

"I heard a rumor she rejected the Captain of the Slytherin team."

"I heard she’s going alone. The Ice Queen doesn't date."

Orm had been subjected to her own interrogations in the Ravenclaw common room. She had politely declined three invitations—one from a Hufflepuff prefect, one from a Durmstrang exchange student, and one from a very persistent Beater.

"I have plans," was all she said, smiling into her Charms textbook.

The Top of the Staircase

The Great Hall was transformed. Icicles hung from the enchanted ceiling, snow fell gently without touching the floor, and the walls were frosted silver. The Weird Sisters were tuning their instruments on stage.

Students mingled in clusters. The air was thick with the scent of pine and expensive cologne.

Then, the heavy oak doors swung open.

The chatter didn't stop immediately; it rippled into silence, starting near the entrance and spreading like a wave until the entire hall turned to look.

At the top of the marble staircase stood two figures.

Lingling wore dress robes that were less like clothing and more like armor tailored from midnight sky. Deep, velvety black with subtle crimson lining that only caught the light when she moved. The cut was sharp, military-precise, emphasizing her height and the commanding aura she wore like a second skin. Her dark hair was swept back, revealing the sharp line of her jaw. She looked devastating.

And on her arm, her hand tucked securely into the crook of Lingling’s elbow, was Orm.

Orm was a vision in starlight. Her dress was a flowing cascade of pale, iridescent periwinkle silk that shimmered with every breath. It was soft where Lingling was sharp, ethereal where Lingling was grounded. Her hair was loose, waves framing a face that was flushed pink but held high.

They weren't just walking together. They were a unit.

The Descent

"Ready?" Lingling whispered, her voice low and steady, though her thumb was tracing a nervous rhythm on Orm’s hand.

"If you don't trip, I won't," Orm whispered back, squeezing Lingling’s arm.

They began to descend.

The silence was deafening. Every eye was on them. The Gryffindor table jaws were on the floor. The Ravenclaws looked like they were trying to calculate the statistical probability of this pairing and failing.

"Is that... Kwong?"

"And Orm?"

"Since when?"

"Look at how she's looking at her."

Lingling ignored them all. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, her expression the cool, unbothered mask of the Captain—until she looked down at Orm. Then, the mask shattered. The look she gave Orm was so full of adoration, so openly possessive and tender, that a Fourth Year girl near the punch bowl actually swooned.

The Dance Floor

They reached the bottom of the stairs just as the band struck up a slow, haunting waltz.

Lingling didn't hesitate. She didn't wait for permission. She turned to Orm, bowing slightly—a formal, old-fashioned gesture that made Orm’s heart stutter—and held out her hand.

"May I?"

Orm placed her hand in Lingling’s. "You may."

Lingling pulled her onto the floor. Other couples were hesitating, intimidated by the sudden spotlight, but Lingling swept Orm into the center of the room. Her hand settled firmly on Orm’s waist, pulling her close—closer than was strictly proprietary for a school dance.

"They're staring," Orm murmured against Lingling’s shoulder as they began to move.

"Let them stare," Lingling said, spinning her. "I've spent six years watching you from the shadows. I want everyone to know you're mine now."

Orm looked up, her eyes shining. "Possessive, Captain?"

"Protective, Healer," Lingling corrected, dipping her slightly.

They moved together perfectly. The coordination Lingling lacked on the ground vanished when she had a purpose, and Orm was the only purpose that mattered. They were a study in contrasts—the dark, sharp Auror-to-be and the luminous, gentle Healer. Fire and ice, intellect and instinct.

The Reveal

As the song ended, the hall held its breath.

Fluke, standing by the drinks table with a grin splitting his face, raised his goblet in a silent toast.

Gina, Orm's friend, looked like she had just solved a complex Arithmancy equation. "Of course," she muttered. "The sweater. The library. The hospital wing. It was always her."

Lingling didn't let go of Orm’s waist when the music stopped. She looked around the room, her dark eyes challenging anyone to say a word. The "Ice Queen" glare was back, but this time, it was a shield.

Then, she looked back at Orm. The glare vanished.

"Thank you," Lingling said, loud enough for the nearby students to hear.

"For what?"

"For being brave enough to be seen with me."

Orm laughed, a bright, clear sound that broke the tension in the room. She reached up and fixed Lingling’s collar, a gesture so intimate and domestic it silenced the last of the doubters.

"Ling, I'm the lucky one. Now, are you going to get me a Butterbeer, or do I have to hex you?"

Lingling grinned—a real, boyish grin that transformed her face. She leaned down and, in front of the entire school, Headmistress McGonagall, and the ghost of Nearly Headless Nick, kissed Orm on the forehead.

"Whatever you want, Orm. Anything."

She took Orm’s hand and led her off the floor. The crowd parted for them, not out of fear this time, but out of respect.

The secret was out. The bubble had popped. But as they walked toward the garden doors for some fresh air, hands swinging between them, they realized the reality was so much better than the secret ever was.

The immediate aftermath of the Yule Ball wasn't an explosion; it was a ripple effect that changed the entire ecosystem of Hogwarts. The "Ice Queen" and the "Ravenclaw Genius" were a unit, and the school didn't quite know how to handle it.

The Rose Garden (Ten Minutes Later)

The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind them, muffling the music of the Weird Sisters. The winter air in the garden was biting, but after the heat of the dance floor, it felt grounding.

Lingling let out a long, shaky breath, leaning back against a stone fountain. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a raw, exposed feeling.

"Well," she said, looking up at the stars. "That happened."

Orm stood in front of her, wrapping her arms around her own waist against the cold. "You dipped me. In front of McGonagall."

"I did," Lingling admitted, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. "I think she smiled. A very small, very terrifying smile."

Orm laughed, stepping closer until she was in Lingling’s space again. "You know, for someone who hates attention, you certainly know how to command a room."

Lingling reached out, her hands settling on Orm’s waist, pulling her in to share warmth. "I didn't do it for attention. I did it because I was tired of pretending I wasn't looking at you."

She rested her forehead against Orm’s. "Are you okay? The staring... it’s going to be worse tomorrow."  

"Let them stare," Orm whispered, echoing Lingling’s words from earlier. She reached up to straighten Lingling’s collar, her fingers lingering on the fabric. "I'm dating the Gryffindor Captain. I expect a certain level of notoriety."

The Common Room Interrogation (1:00 AM)

When Lingling finally walked back into the Gryffindor Common Room, she expected silence. instead, she was met with a wall of noise.

The entire Quidditch team was waiting. Fluke was sitting on the back of the sofa, holding a piece of parchment that looked suspiciously like a betting slip.

"AND SHE RETURNS!" Fluke bellowed, raising a bottle of Butterbeer.

Lingling didn't flinch. She just walked past them toward the stairs, unbuttoning her dress robes. "Goodnight, everyone."

"Not so fast, Captain!" Lena, a fourth-year chaser, hopped off the armrest. "Orm? Seriously? The Ravenclaw prefect who gave you detention in 5th year?"

"She gave me detention because I was flying in the corridors," Lingling said calmly. "It was deserved."

"You two looked... intense," Fluke noted, grinning. "Like, 'burn the world down if you touch her' intense."

Lingling paused at the foot of the stairs. She looked back at her team—her chaotic, loud, nosy family.

"She's the one," Lingling said simply. The room went quiet. "So if any of you give her grief, or if a Bludger goes anywhere near her when she's watching practice... you're off the team."

Fluke’s grin softened. "Understood, Cap. We'll protect the Healer."

The Breakfast Power Move (The Next Morning)

The Great Hall was the true test.

Orm walked in first, flanked by Gina. The whispers started immediately. Heads turned. A few Slytherins snickered. Orm kept her head high, clutching her Transfiguration book, walking toward the Ravenclaw table.

But before she could sit, a figure intercepted her.

Lingling, already in her Quidditch robes for morning practice, cut across the hall. She didn't stop at the Gryffindor table. She walked straight to the blue-and-bronze territory of Ravenclaw.

The hall went silent. Gryffindors never sat at Ravenclaw. It just wasn't done.

Lingling stopped in front of Orm. "Good morning."

"Morning," Orm smiled, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks but holding her ground.

"I have practice," Lingling said, her voice carrying in the quiet hall. "But I saved you a seat. Over there."

She pointed to the Gryffindor table. specifically, to the spot right next to the Captain's seat.

Orm raised an eyebrow. "Are you abducting me to your table, Kwong?"

"I'm inviting you," Lingling corrected, her eyes soft. "The coffee is stronger at our table."

Orm looked at Gina. Gina shooed her away. "Go. Go be a power couple. It's sickeningly cute."

Orm turned back to Lingling and took her hand. They walked together across the hall to the Gryffindor table. As Orm sat down, Lingling poured her a cup of coffee and pushed a plate of toast toward her.

The message was clear to everyone watching: She is with me. Deal with it.

The Library Dynamic Shift

The biggest change was in the library.

Before, they sat at opposite ends of the room, stealing glances. Now, they shared a table.

Orm would be writing an essay on Advanced Shield Charms, her brow furrowed in concentration. Lingling would be next to her, reviewing Quidditch plays.

But now, Lingling’s hand would rest on the back of Orm’s chair. Or their ankles would be hooked together under the table.

Once, when Orm was stressing over a difficult translation, Lingling simply took the quill from her hand, closed the book, and murmured, "Break time."

"I can't, Ling, I have to—"

Lingling leaned in and kissed her cheek, right there in front of Madam Pince and three Hufflepuffs. "You've been staring at that sentence for twenty minutes. Walk with me. Then you can finish."

Orm went pink, but she stood up.

"Whipped," Fluke whispered loudly from two tables away.

Lingling shot a silencing hex at him without even looking up, guiding Orm out of the library with a smug smile.

The Betting Pool

A week later, Orm found a piece of parchment tucked into her Charms book. It was a breakdown of the "LingOrm Pool."

• Dating since Third Year: 5 Galleons (Gina)

• Dating since the Yule Ball: 2 Galleons (Random Hufflepuff)

• Secretly Married: 10 Galleons (LenaMiu)

• Just Friends: 0 Galleons (Literally no one believes this)

Orm laughed, showing it to Lingling later by the Black Lake.

"Secretly married?" Lingling read, raising an eyebrow. "That's ambitious."

"Lena and Miu," Orm shrugged. "They like drama."

Lingling folded the parchment and slipped it into her pocket. She looked at Orm, the wind catching her dark hair.

"Well," Lingling murmured, pulling Orm closer until they were chest to chest. 

"We wouldn't want to disappoint the investors completely."

"Oh?" Orm teased. "Are you proposing, Captain?"

"I'm focusing on N.E.W.T.s," Lingling deadpanned, but her eyes were dancing. "Ask me again after graduation."

"I might just do that," Orm whispered.

Lingling kissed her, deep and slow, right there on the banks of the lake where anyone could see. And for the first time in six years, neither of them cared who was watching.

The castle had shifted into a state of high-alert panic. The air in the corridors practically vibrated with the collective stress of the Fifth and Seventh years. But for Lingling, the pressure was singular and crushing. To become an Auror, she didn't just need to pass; she needed ‘Exceeds Expectations’ or ‘Outstanding’ in five brutally difficult subjects.

She had turned into a ghost. She moved from the Gryffindor common room to the Great Hall to the Library, her eyes dark-circled, her skin pale, her conversation limited to grunts and nods. The "Ice Queen" was freezing over, shutting down everything unnecessary to conserve energy for the exams.

But she wasn't alone.

The Invisible Shield

Orm didn't try to force Lingling to relax. She knew that would only make Lingling snap. Instead, she became her shadow, her logistics manager, and her anchor.

When Lingling was surrounded by loud Gryffindors in the Great Hall, Orm would quietly slide into the seat next to her. She wouldn't speak. She would just glare—a terrifyingly effective Ravenclaw glare—at anyone who chewed too loudly or asked Lingling a stupid question. The bubble of silence she created allowed Lingling to eat and review her flashcards in peace.

The Library Supply Drop:

One Tuesday evening, Lingling had been in the library for six hours straight. She hadn't moved. She was staring at a diagram of the Cruciatus Curse counter-movement, her quill hovering, ink drying on the nib.

A small, cool hand slid a vial of blue potion onto the parchment.

Lingling looked up, blinking. Orm was there, books clutched to her chest.

"Wit-Sharpening Potion," Orm whispered. "I brewed it with extra ginger root. It’s less harsh on the stomach than the standard issue."

Lingling uncorked it and downed it in one go. The fog in her brain cleared instantly. "You're a lifesaver."

"Also," Orm slid a wrapped napkin forward. "Chicken sandwich. You missed dinner."

"I wasn't hungry."

"Eat it anyway. Your brain needs fuel to memorize the twelve uses of Dragon’s Blood."

Lingling took a bite, and only then realized she was starving. She looked at Orm, who was already opening her own book, settling in for the long haul.

"You don't have to stay," Lingling murmured. "You have your own exams next year."

"I'm reviewing," Orm lied effortlessly. "Besides, I study better when I know you're eating."

The Room of Requirement

Three days before the Defence Against the Dark Arts practical, Lingling was on the verge of a meltdown. She couldn't get the non-verbal Protego Horribilis strong enough to satisfy her own perfectionism.

She was pacing in the Room of Requirement, which had provided a large, stone-walled dueling chamber.

Flash. A weak shield flickered and died.

"Damn it!" Lingling shouted, her voice cracking. She kicked a dummy, sending it skidding across the floor. She ran a hand through her hair, gripping the roots. "It's not enough. It's not stable."

The door creaked open.

Orm slipped inside. She didn't say anything about the shouting or the kicked dummy. She walked over to a small table in the corner, set down a thermos, and then walked to the center of the room.

"You're casting from your shoulder," Orm said calmly.

Lingling whirled around, defensive. "What?"

"I've been watching you for years, remember?" Orm stood her ground, looking small but immovable in her Ravenclaw robes. "When you're tired, you tense your right shoulder. It blocks the flow of the wand movement. It’s making the shield brittle."

Lingling stared at her. She dropped her arm. "I'm tired, Orm. I'm so tired."

Orm walked up to her. She didn't hug her—Lingling was too wound up for that. Instead, Orm reached out and placed her hands firmly on Lingling’s shoulders.

"Drop them," Orm commanded softly.

Lingling exhaled, letting her shoulders slump.

"Again," Orm said, moving her hands to Lingling’s neck, her thumbs digging into the knotted muscles. "Breathe. The magic doesn't come from the stress. It comes from you."

She massaged the tension away, her touch firm and clinical but underlined with deep affection. Lingling’s eyes fluttered shut. She leaned into Orm’s touch, the frantic buzzing in her head quieting down.

"You are the most powerful witch in this school," Orm whispered into her ear. "You don't need to force it. Just let it out."

She stepped back. "Try it now."

Lingling took a deep breath. She didn't grit her teeth. She didn't tense. She just flicked her wand.

Protego Horribilis.

A shimmering, silver wall erupted from her wand, solid as steel, humming with power. It filled the room, unbreakable.

Lingling lowered her wand, staring at it. She turned to Orm.

Orm was smiling, holding out the thermos. "Tea. Chamomile and valerian root. Drink, then bed."

The Night Before

The night before the first N.E.W.T., Lingling couldn't sleep. She was sitting in the window alcove of the Gryffindor common room (Orm had sneaked in using the password Fluke had 'accidentally' dropped).

They sat in silence, wrapped in a blanket. The castle was asleep.

"What if I fail?" Lingling whispered. It was the first time she had voiced the fear. "What if I'm not good enough for the Auror office? What if I'm just... a Quidditch player who got lucky?"

Orm took Lingling’s hand. She turned it over, tracing the calluses from the broomstick and the ink stains on her fingers.

"You are Lingling Kwong," Orm said fiercely. "You don't rely on luck. You rely on work. I have seen you bleed for this. I have seen you study until your eyes watered. You aren't going to fail."

She lifted Lingling’s hand and pressed a kiss to the palm.

"But even if you did," Orm added softer. "Even if you failed everything and decided to become a magical goat herder... I would still be right here. I'm not in this for the Auror. I'm in this for you."

The knot in Lingling’s chest loosened. The terrifying weight of the future seemed to shrink until it was manageable.

"A goat herder?" Lingling let out a weak chuckle.

"We could get a cottage. I'd grow herbs. You'd chase goats. It sounds peaceful."

Lingling pulled Orm close, burying her face in Orm’s neck. "Thank you," she breathed. "For keeping me sane."

"That's the Healer's job," Orm murmured, stroking Lingling’s hair. "Now. Sleep. Or I will hex you into a coma myself."

"Yes, ma'am," Lingling whispered, closing her eyes. And for the first time in weeks, she actually slept.

The results, when they arrived by owl post two weeks later, surprised absolutely no one but Lingling herself.

• Defence Against the Dark Arts: Outstanding

• Transfiguration: Outstanding

• Charms: Outstanding

• Potions: Outstanding

• Herbology: Outstanding

Orm was waiting for her outside the Great Hall, leaning against a pillar with a knowing smirk.

"Well?" Orm asked, though she already knew.

Lingling handed her the parchment, her hands shaking slightly. "All O's."

"Of course," Orm said, scanning it. "I told you the goat herding plan was a backup."

Lingling let out a laugh—a real, relieved, unburdened laugh that made several first-years turn and stare. She grabbed Orm by the waist and spun her around right there in the entrance hall.

"I did it," Lingling whispered into Orm’s hair. "I'm going to be an Auror."

The Goodbye (Platform 9 ¾)

The end of the term felt heavier this time. This wasn't just a summer break. This was the end of an era.

Lingling stood on the platform, her trunk packed, her owl hooting in its cage. She wasn't wearing school robes anymore. She was in Muggle clothes—a leather jacket and jeans that made her look older, sharper. Ready for the world.

Orm stood opposite her, still in her Ravenclaw uniform, clutching her own trunk. The visual difference hit them both hard. One was leaving; one was staying.

"My training starts Monday," Lingling said, her voice tight. "0600 hours. The Ministry doesn't believe in summer holidays."

"I know," Orm said softly. "You'll be brilliant."

People were bustling around them—parents hugging children, students shouting goodbyes. But in the small bubble between them, the noise faded.

"I won't be able to write as much," Lingling warned, her eyes searching Orm’s face. "The first three months are... intensive. No contact with the outside world during field exercises."

"I know," Orm repeated. She reached out and took Lingling’s hand. "Focus on the training. Don't worry about me. I have N.E.W.T.s of my own to crush."

"I'll worry anyway," Lingling murmured. She stepped closer, ignoring the crowd. "But I'll find a way. I always do."

"Just come back in one piece," Orm whispered. "Promise me."

"I promise."

Lingling leaned down. The kiss was desperate, tasting of salt and unsaid fears. It wasn't a schoolgirl crush anymore; it was a promise between two people facing a separation that felt like a physical tear.

"Go," Orm whispered against her lips. "Go be the hero."

Lingling pulled away slowly, her fingers lingering on Orm’s arm until the last possible second. Then she turned, picked up her trunk, and walked through the barrier without looking back.

Orm watched her go, a single tear slipping down her cheek. She wiped it away furiously. She'll be back, she told herself. She always comes back.

The Sneaking Summer

The Ministry’s "no contact" rule, as it turned out, was more of a guideline for Lingling Kwong.

The Midnight Apparition:

Two weeks into July, Orm was sitting in her bedroom, reading Advanced Rune Translation. Her window was open to the warm summer night.

Pop.

A figure appeared on the lawn below. It was Lingling. She looked exhausted—there were dark circles under her eyes, a bruise on her jaw, and her clothes were singed. But she was grinning.

Orm scrambled down the trellis (a skill she had acquired specifically for this purpose).

"You're supposed to be in a secure facility!" Orm hissed, pulling Lingling into the shadows of the garden shed.

"Lunch break," Lingling panted. "Well, technically sleep break. I have four hours."

"You used your sleep break to Apparate across the country?"

"I needed to see you," Lingling said simply. She pulled Orm into a crushing hug, burying her face in Orm’s neck. She smelled like ozone and burnt wood. "The training is... brutal. But seeing you makes it quiet."

They sat on the floor of the shed for three hours, just holding each other. Lingling fell asleep with her head in Orm’s lap while Orm stroked her hair, humming softly. When the sun began to rise, Lingling woke with a start, kissed Orm fiercely, and Disapparated with a crack before Orm’s parents even woke up.

The Hogsmeade "Consultation":

In August, Orm was in Diagon Alley buying her school supplies. She was looking at a set of new cauldrons when a hand tapped her shoulder.

She turned. It was a tall wizard in a hooded cloak.

"Excuse me, miss," a familiar, low voice said. "I believe this cauldron has a structural defect. Perhaps you should inspect the one in the back alley?"

Orm’s heart leaped. She followed the 'wizard' around the corner.

Lingling threw back the hood. She was wearing official trainee robes now—utilitarian grey with the Ministry crest. She looked tired but exhilarated.

"I'm on a surveillance mission," Lingling whispered, checking the street. "Suspected dark artifact trading in Knockturn Alley. My partner is covering the front."

"And you're covering... me?" Orm raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile.

"Strategic positioning," Lingling deadpanned. She pulled a small, wrapped box from her pocket. "Happy early birthday."

It was a silver bracelet with a small charm—a miniature, moving Snitch.

"It has a tracking charm," Lingling admitted sheepishly. "If you're ever in danger... tap it three times. It alerts my wand directly. No matter where I am. No matter what I'm doing."

Orm stared at it. It wasn't just jewelry; it was a lifeline. A direct link to the Auror office.

"Ling..."

"Wear it," Lingling commanded softly, fastening it around Orm’s wrist. "Please. It helps me sleep."

Orm touched the cold metal. "I will. Always."

"I have to go," Lingling said, hearing a whistle from the main street. "Target is moving."

She kissed Orm quickly—hard and frantic—and then vanished into the shadows, blending perfectly with the dark alley.

Orm stood there, touching the silver Snitch, feeling the pulse of Lingling’s magic in it. The summer was ending. Her final year was beginning. But she wasn't alone. She carried Lingling’s protection, and Lingling carried her heart.

The Seventh Year started not with a bang, but with a suffocating blanket of silence every time Orm entered a room.

Without Lingling Kwong—the terrifyingly competent Gryffindor Captain, the Auror-in-training, the physical embodiment of "don't touch her"—Hogwarts seemed to think Orm Kornnaphat was a defenseless lamb left out in the cold.

They were wrong.

The First Feast: The Empty Seat

September 1st. The Great Hall was buzzing.

Orm walked in, her Head Girl badge gleaming against her Ravenclaw robes. She held her head high, her expression serene. But she could hear them.

"She looks smaller without Kwong next to her."

"Do you think they broke up? Long distance never works."

"She's vulnerable now. No bodyguard."

Orm walked past the Gryffindor table. Her eyes flickered to the seat Lingling used to occupy—now filled by a loud, messy Third Year eating a chicken leg with his mouth open. A pang of sharp, physical longing hit her chest, but she didn't falter.

She sat at the Head Table (a privilege of the Head Girl), pulled out a book on Advanced Neuro-Magical Restoration, and began to eat her soup with perfect precision.

She wasn't mourning. She was waiting.

The Potions Incident: "Pity"

Professor Slughorn halted beside Orm’s cauldron a week later. The dungeon was filled with the fumes of the Draught of Living Death.

"Miss Kornnaphat," Slughorn said, his voice dripping with unwanted sympathy. "If you're finding it... difficult to concentrate... given the absence of your... friend... I can offer an extension."

The class went silent. Everyone watched. The poor, lonely Ravenclaw.

Orm didn't look up from her chopping board. She was slicing sopophorous beans. Usually, you crush them to get the juice. Orm was slicing them into translucent, microscopic wafers to extract the oil without the bitterness. It was a technique she’d invented herself.

"That won't be necessary, Professor," Orm said, her voice light and airy. "My concentration is excellent. In fact, without the distraction of staring at the Gryffindor Captain during lectures, my efficiency has increased by 14%."

She tipped the beans into the cauldron. The potion turned the exact, perfect shade of lilac described in the textbook—a color no one else had achieved.

Slughorn blinked. "Oh. Well. Ten points to Ravenclaw."

Orm caught Gina’s eye across the room and winked.

The Corridor Confrontation: The "Healer's" Warning

The real test came in mid-October.

A group of Slytherin seventh-years cornered Orm near the library. They were the type who had been terrified of Lingling but now felt brave.

"Lost, Kornnaphat?" the ringleader, a bulky beater named Duangnet, sneered. "Usually you have your guard dog with you. What’s the matter? Did the Ministry keep her?"

Orm stopped. She clutched her books to her chest. She looked up at him, blinking innocently. "Lingling is busy, yes. Saving the world. It’s quite time-consuming."

"So who's going to walk you to class?" Duangnet stepped closer, looming over her. "You Ravenclaws break easy."

The students in the corridor stopped to watch. This was it. The moment the "power couple" myth fell apart.

Orm didn't reach for her wand. She didn't step back. She stepped forward.

"You play Beater, don't you, Duangnet?" Orm asked softly.

"Yeah. Why?"

"The humerus bone in your right arm," Orm said, her voice clinical and detached. "It has a hairline fracture from the match last Saturday. You haven't gone to Pomfrey because you're afraid she'll bench you."

Duangnet froze. "How did you—"

"I'm a Healer," Orm smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who knows exactly how the human body is put together—and how to take it apart. "I can see the inflammation from here. If I were to cast a simple Tarantallegra right now, the vibration would shatter that bone into approximately twelve pieces. It would require Skele-Gro. It would be... excruciating."

She tilted her head. "Do you want to test that theory? Or are you going to get out of my way?"

Duangnet went pale. He clutched his right arm instinctively. The threat wasn't a bluff; it was a diagnosis.

He stepped aside.

"Wise choice," Orm said cheerfully. "You should ice that."

She walked past them, head high. The gossip changed overnight. Orm Kornnaphat didn't need a bodyguard. She was dangerous all on her own.

The Patronus: The Message

The loneliness was real, though. It hit hardest at night, or during Hogsmeade weekends when the snow fell and everyone else was holding hands.

It was Valentine's Day. Orm sat in the Great Hall, studying. She had told everyone she was busy.

Suddenly, the doors swung open.

A silvery, ethereal light flooded the hall. A Patronus.

It wasn't a message Patronus (which spoke). It was a corporal Patronus. A massive, prowling Tiger made of silver light loped into the room. It was terrifying and beautiful, radiating power that made the candles flicker.

The hall gasped. Everyone recognized the magic signature. It was sharp, protective, and undeniably Lingling Kwong.

The Tiger ignored everyone. It walked straight to the Ravenclaw table, right up to Orm.

It sat down on its haunches in front of her, guarding her. It nudged her hand with its spectral nose.

Orm dropped her quill. She reached out, her fingers brushing the silver mist. A wave of warmth—Lingling’s warmth—washed over her.

Attached to the Tiger’s collar (a feat of magic that shouldn't have been possible) was a small, real red rose.

The Tiger faded, leaving the rose on Orm’s parchment.

A note was tied to the stem in familiar, hasty scrawl:

‘Field mission over. Safe. Thinking of you. - L’

Orm picked up the rose. She looked around the hall. The pity was gone. In its place was envy.

"She sent a Patronus from across the country just to deliver a flower?" Gina whispered, stunned. "That’s... that’s ridiculous."

"That’s Lingling," Orm murmured, tucking the rose into her robe pocket, right over her heart.

The N.E.W.T.s: The Final Stretch

By the time the final exams arrived, Orm was a legend in her own right. She had top marks in every mock exam. She had run the Ravenclaw house with efficiency and grace. She had stopped three duels in the hallway just by raising an eyebrow.

She sat her N.E.W.T.s with the silver Snitch bracelet Lingling had given her tapping a steady, comforting rhythm against her wrist. Tap-tap-tap. Heartbeat.

She walked out of her final Charms exam into the sunlight of the courtyard. It was over. Seven years.

She was done.

"Orm!"

The voice came from the gate.

Orm looked up.

Lingling was standing there. Not a Patronus. Not a memory. The real, flesh-and-blood Lingling.

She was wearing her full Auror trainee robes—dragon-hide boots, a long coat that swirled in the wind. Her hair was longer, tied back. She had a small scar on her cheek that hadn't been there at Christmas. She looked tired, dangerous, and absolutely breathtaking.

The students in the courtyard stopped. They watched the "Widow of Hogwarts" and the "Auror Legend."

Orm didn't run. She didn't care about dignity or Head Girl protocols. She dropped her bag.

Lingling caught her mid-stride.

She lifted Orm off the ground, spinning her around, burying her face in Orm’s neck. "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"You're late," Orm laughed, crying into Lingling’s shoulder. "My exam finished ten minutes ago."

"Had to arrest a darkly wizard in Bristol," Lingling mumbled against her hair. "I hurried."

She set Orm down but didn't let go. She looked at Orm—really looked at her—taking in the Head Girl badge, the confidence, the way Orm held herself.

"You survived," Lingling whispered, tracing Orm’s jaw.

"I thrived," Orm corrected, smiling through her tears. "But it was boring without you."

Lingling kissed her, right there in the courtyard, a kiss that tasted of freedom and the future.

"Let's go home, Orm."

"Soon," Orm said, grabbing her bag. “We’ll go home."

The Great Hall was bathed in the golden light of late June. The house banners—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin—waved lazily in the enchanted breeze.

For the graduating Seventh Years, it was the end of an era. For Orm Kornnaphat Sethratanapong, it was a victory lap.

The Envelope

Headmistress McGonagall stood at the podium, her stern face softened by pride. She handed out the N.E.W.T. results personally to the Head Boy and Head Girl.

Orm took the heavy parchment. Her hands didn't shake this time. She broke the wax seal.

• Charms: Outstanding

• Transfiguration: Outstanding

• Potions: Outstanding

• Herbology: Outstanding

• Defence Against the Dark Arts: Outstanding

• Care of Magical Creatures: Outstanding

"Perfect scores, Miss Kornnaphat," McGonagall said, her voice carrying over the applause. "A feat achieved by only one other student in the last decade. I believe you know her."

Orm looked up, beaming. In the back of the hall, leaning against the massive oak doors in her sleek grey Auror robes, was Lingling. She had taken leave just to be here. She tipped her head in a silent salute, her eyes filled with an intense, burning pride.

The Offer

Before the feast had even concluded, a tawny owl with a distinctive badge on its leg—a wand crossed with a bone—swooped down to the Ravenclaw table.

It dropped a thick cream envelope onto Orm’s empty plate.

St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Department of Magical Education

Orm tore it open.

"Dear Miss Kornnaphat,

Based on your exceptional O.W.L. performance and anticipated N.E.W.T. results, we are pleased to offer you a position in the Advanced Healer Training Program, specializing in Spell Damage and Curse Reversal. Your tenure begins September 1st."

"St. Mungo's," Gina gasped, reading over her shoulder. "That's the most prestigious residency in the country! They only take three trainees a year!"

Orm looked at Lingling across the hall. Lingling was already walking toward her, ignoring the stares of the students who were whispering about the "Auror Legend."

"I got it," Orm whispered as Lingling reached her.

"I never doubted it," Lingling smiled, pulling Orm into a hug right there in front of the High Table. "Healer Kornnaphat. Has a nice ring to it."

The Apartment (London)

July was a whirlwind. They found a flat in a wizarding enclave of London—high ceilings, big windows for Orm’s plants, and a fireplace connected to the Floo Network for Lingling’s late-night returns from the Ministry.

It was messy. It was chaotic. Lingling’s Auror manuals were stacked next to Orm’s Healer journals. A collection of half-empty potion vials (Orm’s) cluttered the bathroom counter next to a very organized row of polishing kits for broomsticks (Lingling’s).

But it was theirs.

The Dinner: The Official Introduction

The real final exam, however, wasn't a test paper. It was dinner at the Sethratanapong estate.

Orm’s parents, the Sethratanapong, were kind people, but the Sethratanapong family name carried weight. It was old magic, old traditions. They knew Lingling as "Orm’s friend" or "that intense girl from the seaside." Tonight, that changed.

Lingling wore formal dress robes—midnight blue, sharp, tailored. She looked every inch the rising star of the Auror Office. But Orm noticed she was nervously adjusting her cufflinks.

"Relax," Orm whispered, squeezing her hand as they stood before the heavy mahogany door. "You face Dark Wizards for a living. You can handle my dad."

"Dark Wizards don't offer me tea and ask about my intentions," Lingling muttered.

The door opened.

"Orm! Darling!" Her mother swept her into a hug. Then she turned to Lingling. Her smile was polite, welcoming, but inquisitive. "And Lingling. It's lovely to see you again."

They sat in the formal dining room. The floating candles flickered.

"So, Lingling," Orm’s father began, cutting his roast beef. "We hear you're doing well at the Ministry. The 'Youngest Auror in a Century' or something the Prophet called you?"

"I just do my job, sir," Lingling said humbly. "I had good training."

"And you've moved to London?" her mother asked.

This was it.

Lingling put down her fork. She wiped her mouth with the napkin and placed it on the table. She sat up straighter, her Auror posture kicking in—not aggressive, but undeniable.

She looked first at Orm, a quick, grounding glance, and then directly at Orm’s parents.

"Yes, ma'am. We have."

The 'we' hung in the air.

"Orm and I have taken a flat together in Kensington," Lingling continued, her voice steady and clear. "I wanted to tell you properly. I am not just Orm's friend."

She reached out across the table and took Orm’s hand. Orm’s fingers interlaced with hers instantly, the silver Snitch bracelet clinking softly against the table.

"I love your daughter," Lingling said. It was simple. It was absolute. "I have loved her since we were at Hogwarts. I intend to support her while she becomes the best Healer St. Mungo's has ever seen. And I intend to protect her with everything I have."

Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Orm held her breath.

Then, Orm’s father let out a long sigh and picked up his wine glass. "Well. Thank Merlin."

Lingling blinked. "Sir?"

"We were wondering when you'd finally say it," he chuckled, eyes twinkling. "The way you looked at her on that pier two years ago? A blind man could see it."

"We're happy for you, Lingling," her mother said softly, her eyes warm. "Welcome to the family. Properly, this time."

Orm let out a laugh that sounded a bit like a sob. Lingling’s shoulders dropped three inches. She squeezed Orm’s hand so hard her knuckles turned white.

"Thank you," Lingling whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

"Now," Orm’s father waved his fork. "About this flat. Does it have adequate wards? I have a few old protection spells I'd like to suggest..."

"It has Ministry-standard anti-intrusion charms, sir," Lingling said, slipping effortlessly back into professional mode, though she was still holding Orm’s hand under the table. "But I would appreciate your input on the perimeter."

As they talked—Healer, Auror, and family—Orm looked at Lingling. The firelight caught the gold in Lingling’s eyes.

The "Ice Queen" was gone. The "Lonely Seeker" was gone.

In her place was a partner. A home. And a future that was just beginning.

The rain lashed against the windows of their Kensington flat, a rhythmic drumming that usually helped Orm sleep. But tonight, the bed beside her was cold, the sheets undisturbed.

It was 3:17 AM.

Orm was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, a book on Advanced Curse Reversal open on her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in an hour. The silver Snitch bracelet on her wrist was cold and still.

Crack.

The sound wasn't the polite whoosh of the Floo Network. It was the sharp, tearing sound of a desperate Apparition directly into the living room—something that shouldn't have been possible with the wards Orm’s father had installed, unless the person entering was keyed into the very heart of the magic.

Orm was on her feet instantly, wand drawn.

"Ling?"

There was a heavy thud near the entryway.

Lingling was leaning against the wall, sliding down slowly. Her grey Auror robes were shredded, soaked not just with rain, but with something dark and glistening that looked terrifyingly like blood. Her face was the color of parchment.

"Orm," she wheezed, her voice a wet, broken sound.

"Ling!" Orm dropped her wand on the sofa and sprinted across the room. She skidded to her knees just as Lingling’s legs gave out completely.

Orm caught her, but the weight nearly toppled them both. Her hands came away slick with warm blood. It was everywhere—soaking Lingling’s side, pooling on the floorboards.

"Oh god," Orm gasped, her Healer training warring with the panic of seeing her partner half-dead. She pressed her hand over the worst of the wounds—a jagged, purple-edged slash across Lingling’s ribs that was hissing faintly. Dark magic.

"St. Mungo's," Orm said frantically, reaching for the pot of Floo powder on the mantle. "We need to go. Now. I can't treat this here, the curse residue is—"

"No!"

Lingling’s hand shot out, gripping Orm’s wrist with a strength that shouldn't have been possible for someone losing that much blood. Her eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, wild with pain and adrenaline.

"No Mungo's," Lingling grit out through clenched teeth. "Classified... solo mission... can't... report."

"Lingling, you are bleeding out!" Orm shouted, her voice cracking. "I don't care about the Ministry! You're dying!"

"Trust... you," Lingling whispered, her head lolling back against Orm’s shoulder. Her grip on Orm’s wrist weakened, her fingers trembling. "Only... trust... you."

Orm looked at the stubborn set of Lingling’s jaw, the desperation in her fading eyes. She cursed loudly, a word she’d definitely picked up from the Auror.

"Fine," Orm hissed. "Fine. But if you die on my rug, I will resurrect you and kill you myself."

She didn't try to move Lingling to the bedroom; there wasn't time. She kicked the coffee table aside with her foot and laid Lingling flat on the rug.

"Accio Healer’s Kit!"

Her leather bag flew from the hallway and landed with a crash. Orm ripped it open, vials clinking.

"Stay with me, Ling," Orm commanded, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register she used in the trauma ward. "Look at me. Focus on my voice."

Lingling’s eyes fluttered. "Tired..."

"No. You don't get to be tired." Orm slashed her wand over Lingling’s robes. Diffindo. The fabric fell away, revealing the extent of the damage.

It was a curse from a dark artifact. The wound wasn't just bleeding; it was fighting the air, refusing to close.

"This is going to hurt," Orm warned. She didn't wait for an answer. She uncorked a bottle of purple Essence of Dittany and poured it directly into the open wound.

Lingling screamed. It was a raw, animalistic sound that tore through Orm’s heart, but her hands didn't shake. Not even a little.

" Vulnera Sanentur," Orm began to chant, tracing the complex wand movement over the injury. The blood flow slowed, but the purple edges of the wound flared angrily.

"It's resisting," Orm muttered, sweat beading on her brow. "It's a necrotic curse."

She grabbed a silver potion vial—Blood-Replenishing Potion. "Drink." She tilted Lingling’s head up. Lingling choked, coughing, but managed to swallow.

"Ling, I need you to cycle your magic," Orm said urgently, pressing her hand over Lingling’s heart. "I can't push the counter-curse through if your core is shut down. Push back against me!"

"Can't..." Lingling whimpered, her eyes rolling back.

"Yes, you can!" Orm shouted. "You are the Gryffindor Captain! You are the best Auror they have! Don't you dare leave me, Lingling Kwong!"

The shout seemed to pierce the fog. Lingling gasped, her chest heaving. Orm felt a surge of magic beneath her palm—wild, chaotic, but there.

"That's it," Orm whispered. She switched her wand hand to a complex, spiraling motion. " Finite Incantatem Maxima!"

She poured her own magic into the spell, pushing it into the wound, fighting the dark residue inch by inch. It felt like wrestling a physical beast. The air in the room crackled with the clash of energies—Lingling’s gold, Orm’s blue, and the curse’s sickly purple.

With a final, sickening sizzle, the purple light vanished. The wound turned a clean, angry red.

Orm slumped back on her heels, gasping for air. "Got it. I got it."

She quickly cast Episkey and Ferula, knitting the skin back together and wrapping the torso in tight white bandages. She siphoned the blood from Lingling’s skin and the floor with a wave of her wand.

Lingling was unconscious now, her breathing shallow but steady. The terrified rhythm of a dying heart had smoothed into the deep, exhausted sleep of the living.

Orm didn't move her. She conjured a duvet and pillows right there on the living room floor. She sat with her back against the sofa, pulling Lingling’s head into her lap, stroking damp hair away from the pale forehead.

She checked Lingling’s pulse. One, two, three. Strong.

Orm let out a sob she had been holding for twenty minutes. She buried her face in her hands, shaking uncontrollably as the adrenaline crashed.

Hours later, the grey light of dawn was filtering through the curtains.

Lingling stirred. She groaned, her hand instinctively going to her side.

"Don't touch it," Orm’s voice came from above.

Lingling blinked, her vision clearing. She was on the floor. Orm was looking down at her, eyes red-rimmed and dark, looking fierce and exhausted.

"Orm..." Lingling rasped. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

"You," Orm said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage and relief, "are an idiot."

Lingling managed a weak, lopsided smile. "Alive idiot?"

"Barely," Orm snapped, but her hand was gentle as she brushed Lingling’s cheek. "You lost three pints of blood. The curse was necrotic. Another ten minutes and it would have eaten into your magical core."

Lingling closed her eyes, leaning into Orm’s touch. "I knew you could do it."

"That is not a compliment!" Orm whispered furiously. "Do you know how scared I was? You dragged yourself here half-dead because you didn't want to fill out paperwork?"

"Not paperwork," Lingling whispered, opening her eyes. They were clear now, the gold returning. "I didn't want to wake up in a hospital bed alone. I wanted to wake up with you."

The anger drained out of Orm instantly, leaving only the ache of love. She leaned down and kissed Lingling’s forehead, lingering there.

"You're grounded," Orm murmured against her skin. "I'm putting a Sticking Charm on you. You are not leaving this flat for a week."

"Deal," Lingling breathed, her eyes drifting shut again. "I love you, Healer."

"I love you too, Auror," Orm whispered, pulling the duvet tighter around them both. "Now go back to sleep before I hex you."

The wail of the emergency sirens at St. Mungo's was a sound Orm had heard a thousand times, but today, it was different. It was a continuous, screaming note that vibrated in her teeth.

The Incident: The Diagon Alley Collapse

A massive explosion had ripped through the heart of Diagon Alley at peak shopping hour. A dark curse, ancient and unstable, had detonated in the basement of a new apothecary, bringing down three buildings and trapping hundreds of witches and wizards in the rubble.

St. Mungo's: The Chaos

The Welcome Witch’s desk was gone, replaced by a triage station run by a terrifyingly efficient matron. The waiting room was a sea of blood, dust, and panic.

"Healer Kornnaphat! Bed 4 needs a Blood-Replenishing Potion, stat!"

"We have a curse residue in Triage 2—it's eating through the Containment Charms!"

"Someone get me a skeletal regrowth potion for this child!"

Orm was moving in a blur of lime green robes. She hadn't sat down in six hours. Her hair was coming loose from its strict bun, and there was soot smeared across her cheek. She was the Senior Healer on duty for Spell Damage, which meant every cursed patient was her problem.

She was currently trying to stabilize a wizard whose legs had been crushed by falling masonry, while simultaneously directing two junior healers on how to extract a piece of cursed glass from a witch's shoulder.

"Focus!" she snapped at a trembling trainee. "Use the Vulnera Sanentur counter-clockwise! If you go clockwise, you'll accelerate the curse!"

The trainee nodded frantically, tears in his eyes.

Orm wiped her forehead with her sleeve, leaving another streak of grime. The air smelled of ozone, blood, and fear.

Then, the doors to the Apparition Point burst open.

The Arrival

A team of Aurors swept in, carrying more injured civilians. At the front was Lingling.

She wasn't in her usual grey robes. She was in full tactical gear—dragon-hide armor, a heavy cloak billowing around her, her face grim and set. She was shouting orders into a communication crystal on her wrist.

"Sector 4 is clear! I need a extraction team at Gringotts immediately! And get these people to Triage!"

She looked exhausted. There was a cut on her cheek that was bleeding sluggishly, and her armor was scorched. But her eyes were scanning the room with the terrifying precision of a predator.

They locked onto Orm across the chaos.

For a second, the noise of the hospital faded.

Orm was holding a wand over a patient’s chest, her hand steady despite the tremors in the floor. She looked at Lingling—really looked at her—and saw the fear behind the professional mask.

Lingling gave a sharp nod. I'm okay. Are you?

Orm nodded back, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. I'm working. I'm safe.

"Healer!" A woman screamed from a nearby bed. "My husband! He's not breathing!"

The moment broke. Orm turned back to her patient. "Resuscitation Charm! Now!"

The Official Intersection

Three hours later, the initial rush had subsided into a grim, steady stream of critical cases.

Orm was at the nurses' station, signing off on a potion request, her hand cramping.

"Healer Kornnaphat?"

It was Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Head of the Auror Office. And beside him stood Lingling.

"Minister," Orm said, straightening up. She didn't look at Lingling yet. Professionalism was her armor.

"We need a statement on the curse residue found on the victims," Shacklebolt said gravely. "We believe it's a variant of Fiendfyre. We need to know if it's contagious before we send more Aurors into the rubble."

"It's not Fiendfyre," Orm said immediately. "It's a necrotic blast with a viral component. It spreads on contact with open wounds, not air. Your team needs Dragon-hide gloves and Bubble-Head Charms, or they'll be infected within minutes."

She grabbed a clipboard. "Here are the symptoms. Grey discoloration of the veins, sudden drop in body temperature, hallucinations."

She handed the clipboard to Shacklebolt, but her eyes slid to Lingling.

"Auror Kwong," Orm said formally.

"Healer Kornnaphat," Lingling replied, her voice rough with smoke.

"You have a laceration on your cheek," Orm noted, her tone clinical but her eyes burning. "It's showing signs of the grey discoloration I just mentioned."

Lingling touched her cheek, wincing. "It's nothing. Just a scratch from a falling beam."

"It is an infection vector," Orm corrected sharply. "If you go back out there, the curse will spread to your magical core. You will be dead in an hour."

Shacklebolt looked from Orm to Lingling. He saw the tension. He saw the way Lingling was leaning slightly away from Orm, as if trying to protect her from the infection.

"Kwong," Shacklebolt barked. "Get treated. Now. That's an order."

"But sir—" Lingling started.

"I can't lose my best field agent to a scratch," Shacklebolt cut her off. "Healer, she's yours."

He walked away to coordinate with the St. Mungo's Director.

The Treatment Room

Orm grabbed Lingling’s arm—carefully avoiding the skin—and dragged her into a small, sterile supply closet.

"Sit," Orm commanded, pointing to a stool.

Lingling sat. Her shoulders slumped. "I have to go back, Orm. There are people still trapped."

"You are not going anywhere until I neutralize this," Orm hissed, grabbing a bottle of Essence of Murtlap and a silver scalpel. "Hold still."

She cleaned the wound with a stinging antiseptic. Lingling hissed but didn't move.

"You're reckless," Orm murmured, her voice trembling now that they were alone. "You walked into a cursed building with a compromised shield charm."

"I saw a child," Lingling whispered. "She was stuck under a beam. I couldn't leave her."

Orm paused. She looked at Lingling’s eyes—gold, exhausted, but so incredibly kind. This was why she loved her. This was why she was terrified every day.

"I know," Orm sighed. She applied a thick paste to the cut. "This will sting. A lot."

She pressed a bandage over it and tapped it with her wand. Episkey Maxima.

Lingling groaned, her hand gripping the edge of the stool white-knuckled.

"Done," Orm whispered. She stepped back, checking her work. The grey lines on Lingling’s neck were fading. "The infection is halted. You need an hour of rest before your core replenishes."

Lingling looked up. She reached out and took Orm’s hand—the one that wasn't covered in potion residue.

"You look..." Lingling started.

"Like a mess?" Orm offered a weak smile.

"Like a hero," Lingling corrected softly. She brought Orm’s hand to her lips and kissed the knuckles. "You saved half the people in this building today, Orm."

"And you saved the other half," Orm whispered.

They stayed like that for a minute—the Healer and the Auror, surrounded by mops and buckets, finding their quiet in the eye of the storm.

"Go," Orm finally said, pulling her hand away. "Take your hour. Drink some water. Then go save the rest."

Lingling stood up. She looked stronger already. She adjusted her armor, the "Captain" mask sliding back into place.

"I'll see you at home?" Lingling asked at the door.

"If I don't fall asleep in the fireplace first," Orm promised.

Lingling gave her a salute—half-mocking, half-serious—and strode back out into the chaos.

Orm took a deep breath, smoothed her lime green robes, and walked out after her. There were patients waiting.

The days following the Diagon Alley Incident were a blur of flashbulbs, interviews, and endless owls. The Daily Prophet had a field day.

HEROES OF THE DUST: THE AUROR AND THE HEALER WHO SAVED DIAGON ALLEY

By Rita Skeeter

In a scene reminiscent of the darkest days of the war, a young Auror, Lingling Kwong (20), and a Healer, Orm Kornnaphat (19), defied the odds to rescue over fifty witches and wizards from the cursed ruins of the Apothecary. Witnesses describe Auror Kwong holding back a collapsing ceiling with a single, wandless Shield Charm while Healer Kornnaphat performed complex Curse Reversal on a dozen victims simultaneously.

"It was like watching a dance," said one survivor, Mrs. Puddifoot. "They didn't speak. They just moved. One fought the stone, the other fought the death."

The Ministry Ball: The Public Eye

Two weeks later, the Ministry held a commendation ceremony. It was unavoidable.

Orm stood in front of the full-length mirror in their flat, smoothing down her dress robes—a sleek, silver-grey silk that shimmered like moonlight. She looked tired. There were still faint shadows under her eyes from the shifts she’d pulled in the Spell Damage ward.

"You look beautiful," Lingling said from the doorway.

Orm turned. Lingling was in her dress uniform—deep crimson with gold piping, the Order of Merlin, Second Class, pinned to her chest. She looked uncomfortable. She hated medals.

"You look like a decorated war hero," Orm teased gently, walking over to straighten Lingling’s collar. "Stop fidgeting."

"I hate these things," Lingling grumbled. "I'd rather face a dragon."

"I know," Orm murmured, her hands lingering on the medal. "But you saved a lot of lives, Ling. Let them say thank you."

The Grand Hall

The Ministry Atrium was transformed. Golden statues, floating candles, a string quartet playing something aggressively patriotic.

When they entered, the room went quiet. It was the Yule Ball all over again, but with higher stakes. This wasn't school gossip; this was national news.

Minister Shacklebolt was waiting on the dais.

"Auror Kwong. Healer Kornnaphat. Step forward."

They walked up the stairs together. Lingling’s hand brushed Orm’s—a quick, grounding touch before they separated to stand on either side of the Minister.

Shacklebolt placed a heavy golden medal around Orm’s neck. The Order of Merlin, Third Class, for Exceptional Bravery in the Face of Dark Magic.

"For your quick thinking and unparalleled skill in necrotic curse reversal," Shacklebolt boomed.

Then he turned to Lingling. The Order of Merlin, Second Class.

"For valor beyond the call of duty, and for protecting the lives of civilians at great personal risk."

The applause was deafening. Cameras flashed blindingly.

The Interview

Later, in a quieter corner near the champagne fountain, a reporter cornered them.

"Auror Kwong! Healer Kornnaphat! A moment for Witch Weekly?"

Lingling’s jaw tightened. Orm squeezed her arm—a silent I’ve got this.

"Of course," Orm smiled, the perfect picture of grace.

"The public is fascinated by your partnership," the reporter gushed. "You two seemed to anticipate each other’s moves during the rescue. Is it true you trained together?"

"We attended Hogwarts together," Lingling said stiffly.

"But surely there's more to it?" The reporter leaned in, quill poised. "Rumor has it you share a flat in Kensington. Is this a professional arrangement, or something... more?"

This was the moment. They could lie. They could say 'no comment'. They could protect their privacy.

Orm looked at Lingling. She saw the exhaustion, the pride, the way Lingling’s hand was unconsciously shielding her from the crowd.

"It's something more," Orm said clearly.

The reporter’s quill stopped scratching.

Lingling looked at Orm, surprised. Orm just smiled and took Lingling’s hand, lacing their fingers together in full view of the room.

"We are partners in every sense of the word," Orm continued, her voice steady. "Auror Kwong protects the city. I heal it. And we go home to each other."

She looked up at Lingling. "She is my anchor."

Lingling’s face softened, the 'Hero Auror' mask melting away to reveal just Lingling. She squeezed Orm’s hand tight.

"And she is my reason," Lingling added quietly, looking only at Orm. "For everything."

The reporter stared. The photographer snapped a picture—one that would end up on the cover of Witch Weekly the next morning, captioned simply: The Heart of the City.

The Aftermath: Home

Back in the flat, away from the noise and the lights, they collapsed onto the sofa. The medals were tossed onto the coffee table next to a half-eaten box of cauldron cakes.

"You told them," Lingling murmured, kicking off her boots. "The whole world knows now."

"Let them know," Orm said, resting her head on Lingling’s shoulder. "I'm tired of 'professional arrangement'. I want to hold your hand in Diagon Alley without worrying about Rita Skeeter."

Lingling wrapped her arm around Orm, pulling her close. "You're brave, Kornnaphat."

"I learned from the best," Orm mumbled sleepily.

"We make a good team," Lingling whispered into her hair. "The Hero and the Healer."

"No," Orm corrected, closing her eyes. "Just Ling and Orm."

"Just Ling and Orm," Lingling agreed, kissing the top of her head. "That's enough for me."

Outside, the rain began to fall on London, washing away the dust of the explosion, leaving the city clean and quiet for the two people who had saved it.

The corner booth of The White Wyvern in Knockturn Alley was dimly lit, which was exactly how Auror Lingling Kwong liked it. It was far enough from the Ministry to avoid prying eyes and dark enough to hide the fact that the woman who regularly dismantled Dark Arts rings was currently shredding a perfectly good beverage coaster into confetti.

"You're vibrating," Junji observed, sliding into the booth. She looked impeccable as always, wearing high-fashion witch robes that cost more than Lingling’s broomstick.

"She’s not vibrating," Fluke argued, sliding in next to Junji and dumping a bag of Zonko’s products on the table. "She’s oscillating. It’s a specific frequency of panic usually reserved for disarming bombs."

Lingling stared at the shredded coaster. "I am not panicking. I am strategizing."

"Right," Fluke grinned, signaling the barman for three Firewhiskies. "So, what’s the mission? Is it a dark wizard? A rogue dragon? Or did Orm finally ask you to clean the potion stains off the bathroom ceiling?"

Lingling took a deep breath. She reached into the inner pocket of her dragon-hide jacket and pulled out a small, velvet box. She set it on the table with a heavy thud.

The table went silent.

Junji’s eyes widened. She reached out, her perfectly manicured fingers hovering over the box. "Ling..."

"Open it," Lingling commanded, her voice tight.

Junji flipped the lid. Inside, nestled in white silk, was a ring. It wasn't flashy, but it was devastatingly elegant. A band of goblin-wrought gold—indestructible and warm—holding a single, teardrop-shaped sapphire that seemed to hold an inner light, like a captured star.

"Oh, Ling," Junji breathed. "It’s... it’s perfect. It’s Ravenclaw blue."

"It’s a Star Sapphire," Lingling corrected quietly. "And the band has a localized Shield Charm woven into the metal. It activates if her heart rate spikes above 140 bpm."

Fluke choked on his drink. "You put a Shield Charm on an engagement ring? That is the most romantic, paranoid, Auror thing I have ever heard."

"She’s a Healer in the spell damage ward," Lingling defended, her ears turning pink. "It’s a dangerous job. I just... I want her to be safe."

"It’s beautiful," Junji said, snapping the box shut and sliding it back to Lingling. "So. The hardware is secured. What’s the execution plan?"

Lingling slumped back against the booth, covering her face with her hands. "I have no idea. That’s why you’re here."

The Brainstorming Session

"Okay," Fluke rubbed his hands together. "Option A: The Quidditch World Cup is next month. I can get us a box. We put it on the Omnioculars screen. 'ORM, WILL YOU MARRY ME?' in fifty-foot letters of fire."

"She would kill me," Lingling said from behind her hands. "And then she would kill you."

"Fair," Fluke conceded. "She does hate crowds."

"Option B," Junji interjected. "A private dinner. You rent out the top of the Eiffel Tower in wizarding Paris. Candlelight. Violinist. Very classic."

Lingling peeked through her fingers. "Too cliché. Orm notices everything. She’d know what was happening the second we got to the portkey station. I want to... I want to surprise her. Just for a second."

"Think about her," Junji said softly. "Think about us. Where were you happiest? Before the war, before the jobs, before the stress?"

Lingling closed her eyes. The noise of the pub faded. She thought about the last seven years. The shared flat, the nights by the fire, the way Orm looked in her Healer robes. But before that...

She thought of snow. She thought of silence. She thought of a time when the world was just the two of them.

"Hogwarts," Lingling whispered.

Fluke and Junji leaned in.

"The winter break," Lingling said, her voice gaining strength. "Sixth year. We were the only two left in the castle. That’s where it started. By the Black Lake. We went skating."

"Skating?" Fluke raised an eyebrow. "You? The girl who flies?"

"She taught me," Lingling smiled, a small, private smile. "I was terrible. But she held me up."

Junji tapped her chin. "Hogwarts is a fortress, Ling. You can't just waltz in. Especially not with the new Headmistress's security protocols."

Lingling’s eyes flashed with that familiar Auror glint. "I’m a Senior Auror with top-level clearance. And Orm is a Senior Healer who consults for the school infirmary. We can get in."

The Plan

"Alright," Fluke pulled out a napkin and a quill. "Here’s the play. Operation: Ice Queen’s Melt."

"Don't call it that," Lingling warned.

"Working title," Fluke waved her off. "Step one: You need a pretext. Get her back to the castle."

"Madam Pomfrey is retiring next month," Lingling realized. "There’s a farewell ceremony. We’re both invited as alumni."

"Perfect," Junji nodded. "Step two: The distraction. You need to get her away from the ceremony and down to the lake without her getting suspicious."

"I can handle that," Lingling said. "I’ll tell her... I’ll tell her I want to visit the Quidditch pitch. For old times' sake. She knows I’m sentimental about the pitch."

"Step three," Fluke grinned. "Atmosphere. You can't just propose on muddy grass. You need... pizzazz."

"No pizzazz," Lingling argued. "Simple."

"Atmosphere isn't pizzazz, it's lighting," Junji corrected. "It needs to be sunset. Or starlight."

"Starlight," Lingling decided. "It has to be night. Like New Year's Eve on the Astronomy Tower. But... private."

She looked at the ring box in her hand.

"I’m going to do it," she said, the resolve settling in her chest like a heavy, comforting stone. "Next weekend. at the reunion."

"Do you have a speech?" Fluke asked.

"I don't need a speech," Lingling said softly. "She knows."

"You need a speech," Junji and Fluke said in unison.

Lingling groaned. "Fine. Help me write it."

The Practice Run

For the next hour, the most terrifying Auror in London was coached by her two best friends on how to say "I love you" without sounding like she was arresting someone.

"No, don't say 'You are the most efficient partner I could ask for'," Junji critiqued. "That sounds like a performance review."

"Try 'You are my home'," Fluke suggested, surprisingly gentle.

"You are my home," Lingling repeated, testing the weight of the words. It felt right. "And my quiet."

"And the only person allowed to touch my broomstick," Fluke added helpfully.

"Shut up, Fluke."

"You're ready," Junji declared, finishing her drink. She reached over and squeezed Lingling’s hand. "She’s going to say yes, you know. She’s been looking at you like you hung the moon since you were eleven."

"I know," Lingling exhaled, pocketing the ring. "But I still have to ask."

She stood up, buttoning her dragon-hide jacket. The nerves were still there, buzzing under her skin, but they were different now. They weren't the cold fear of a duel; they were the electric anticipation of the drop before a dive.

"Thanks, guys," Lingling said.

"Just invite us to the wedding," Fluke called out. "I want to be the flower girl."

Lingling rolled her eyes and walked out of the pub, stepping into the cool London air. She looked up at the sliver of moon above the alley.

One week, she thought. One week until forever.

The air at Hogwarts hadn't changed. It still smelled of ancient stone, floor wax, and the faint, lingering scent of ozone from the Charms classrooms. For Lingling and Orm, walking through the oak doors wasn't just a return to a school; it was a return to the place where their world had begun.

The Farewell Ceremony

The Great Hall was filled with a mix of current students and familiar faces from the past decade. Madam Pomfrey stood at the High Table, looking exactly as she had when Orm was a student—stern, capable, and entirely unimpressed by the standing ovation she was receiving.

"I’ve spent forty years mending bones, reversing botched Transfigurations, and telling young Quidditch players to stay in bed," Pomfrey said, her eyes sweeping the room until they landed on Lingling and Orm. "Some of you were more difficult than others."

A ripple of laughter went through the hall.

"But," she continued, her gaze softening as it rested on Orm, "some of you reminded me why the work matters. To my best student, Healer Kornnaphat, and to the girl who gave me the most practice in rib-mending, Auror Kwong—thank you for not making my retirement start early."

Orm beamed, leaning her head briefly against Lingling’s shoulder. Lingling, in her formal Auror robes, gave a stiff but respectful nod, her hand surreptitiously checking the velvet box in her pocket for the tenth time that hour.

The Escape

As the feast began, the noise became overwhelming. Alumni were crowding around them, asking about Ministry life and Auror missions. Lingling caught Orm’s eye.

"Air?" Lingling mouthed.

Orm nodded gratefully. They slipped out of the side door, the heavy thrum of the Great Hall fading into the quiet, cool night of the Scottish Highlands.

The grounds were bathed in silver. The moon was a perfect crescent, reflected in the obsidian glass of the Black Lake.

"She’s going to miss this place," Orm said softly as they walked down the slope toward the water. "Pomfrey. It's her home."

"It was ours, too," Lingling murmured.

They reached the edge of the lake, near the cluster of trees where they had spent their "coincidence" summer. The grass was tipped with the first frost of the season, crunching softly under their boots.

The Proposal

Lingling stopped. She looked out at the water, then back at the castle, its windows glowing like amber.

"Do you remember the winter break?" Lingling asked. "When the castle was empty?"

"I remember every second of it," Orm said, turning to face her. She noticed the way Lingling was standing—shoulders back, weight centered, the way she stood before a high-stakes duel. "Ling? Your heart rate is elevated. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," Lingling said, then paused. "Actually, I’m terrified."

Orm stepped closer, her Healer’s instinct flaring. She reached out to touch Lingling’s cheek. "Terrified of what? There are no Dark Wizards here. It’s just us."

"That’s the problem," Lingling said, a rare, vulnerable smile breaking her mask. "In the field, I know what the outcome is. But with you... I’m always just trying to keep up."

Lingling reached into her pocket. She didn't drop to one knee immediately; she stood her ground, her eyes locking onto Orm’s with a searing intensity.

"Seven years ago, you taught me how to skate on this lake. You held me up when I couldn't find my balance. Since then, you’ve healed every wound I’ve brought home, and you’ve been the only quiet place in my life."

She pulled out the velvet box and flipped it open. The Star Sapphire caught the starlight, glowing with an inner, magical fire.

"I don't want to go home to a flat anymore, Orm. I want to go home to you. For the rest of my life."

Lingling slowly lowered herself onto one knee in the frost.

"Orm Kornnaphat Sethratanapong, will you marry me? Will you be the one to keep me grounded, and let me be the one to protect you?"

The Shield

Orm didn't speak. She couldn't. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes welling with tears that sparkled like the ring.

As her heart rate spiked with joy, the Star Sapphire suddenly hummed. A faint, translucent silver shield shimmered into existence for a split second around Orm—the localized Shield Charm Lingling had woven into the band, reacting to her excitement.

Orm laughed through her tears, the sound echoing across the water.

"You put a Shield Charm on it?" Orm sobbed, laughing as she reached out to pull Lingling up. "You absolute Auror. You’re so paranoid."

"Is that a yes?" Lingling asked, her voice hovering between hope and a breath.

"Yes," Orm breathed, throwing her arms around Lingling’s neck. "Yes, a thousand times. I don’t need a shield, Ling. I just need you."

Lingling slid the ring onto Orm’s finger. It fit perfectly—warm, heavy, and glowing. Lingling pulled her in, burying her face in Orm’s neck, the tension finally leaving her body.

High above, in the Astronomy Tower, the distant sound of the clock chiming midnight drifted down to them. A new chapter, in the same old castle.

The wedding was whispered about in the Daily Prophet for weeks, but the ceremony itself was kept strictly private, held within the ancient, sun-drenched gardens of the Sethratanapong estate.

The Sethratanapong-Kwong Wedding: A Union of Shield and Spirit

The estate was transformed into a sanctuary of white peonies and floating silver lanterns that hummed with a soft, protective magic.

The Entrance

Lingling stood at the altar, looking every bit the high-ranking Auror in formal, deep-crimson dress robes with silver embroidery. She was uncharacteristically still, her gaze fixed on the garden path. Fluke stood beside her as Best Man, vibrating with the effort of not making a joke, while Junji stood opposite in shimmering gold silk.

When Orm appeared, the air in the garden seemed to brighten. She wore a gown of enchanted lace that caught the light like morning dew on a spiderweb. She didn't walk; she glided, her eyes locked onto Lingling’s with a clarity that made the guests catch their breath.

The Vows

They didn't use the standard Ministry vows. Instead, they spoke from the heart of their professions and their history:

"I promise to be the shield that stands before the darkness for you," Lingling’s voice was low and unshakable. "And to always come home to the quiet you provide."

"I promise to be the hands that mend what the world breaks," Orm replied, her voice a steady melody. "And to be the light that guides you back from the shadows."

As they were declared partners for life, a pair of Patronuses—the silver Tiger and a shimmering, graceful Doe—leaped from their wands, circling the guests in a dance of pure, protective light before vanishing into the summer sky.

One Year Later: The Quiet in the Chaos (London)

Their first year of marriage was a whirlwind of high-stakes missions and double shifts at St. Mungo’s. Their London flat became a sanctuary where the "Auror Legend" and the "Senior Healer" could simply be Ling and Orm.

A Rainy Tuesday, 2:00 AM

The Floo roared to life in the living room. Lingling stepped out, soot-stained and smelling of rain and spent magic. She had just finished a forty-eight-hour sting operation in Knockturn Alley. She moved stiffly, the adrenaline finally ebbing away to reveal a deep, bone-aching exhaustion.

She didn't have to say a word.

Orm was already there, wrapped in a soft periwinkle robe, holding a steaming mug of tea laced with a mild Invigoration Draught. She didn't ask about the mission; she simply reached out and began unbuckling Lingling’s heavy dragon-hide armor.

"Rough night?" Orm whispered, her thumbs finding the familiar knots of tension in Lingling’s shoulders.

"Long night," Lingling murmured, leaning her forehead against Orm’s. "But the city is quiet now."

"Then you should be, too," Orm said, guiding her toward the sofa.

They sat together in the glow of the dying fire. Lingling’s head rested in Orm’s lap, her hand subconsciously twisting the Star Sapphire ring on Orm’s finger. The silver Snitch bracelet on Orm’s wrist tapped a slow, rhythmic heartbeat against Lingling’s palm.

In the silence of their home, the Ministry and the Hospital felt like worlds away. Lingling closed her eyes, the scent of Orm—lavender and clean parchment—erasing the grit of the streets.

"I love our life," Lingling whispered into the dark.

"I love us," Orm replied, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Outside, the London rain continued to fall, but inside, the Healer and the Auror were finally at peace.