Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five...
The enchanted oxhorn comb gently wended its way through Lord Ryan Liu’s long, ink-black hair, counting out each stroke as it went.
Thirty-six, thirty seven...
Each evening, a hundred strokes. And the process was long and painstaking, too, as long as any Pureblood witch’s here at Hogwarts. In the illustrious Chinese Pureblood houses, both men and women drew magic from their hair. It was a gift from their parents, a symbol of their family’s honour.
Ryan sank back into the combing, letting the calming repetition soothe him. He turned the page in the book he was reading — an assignment for Transfiguration, first thing in the morning. The writing style was mind-numbing, but he had to get through it somehow.
He could ask Prefect Robinson for a summary, but he would rather not. It seemed as though many Purebloods had an aversion to her, possibly because she seemed intent on corrupting the hearts of young Pureblood witches. Why she would be selected as Prefect, he had no idea. She was clearly dangerous.
Fifty-eight, fifty-nine —
The door to the dormitory burst open, and a bright, familiar voice called through: “Ryan! I think you might’ve accidentally taken my Potions notes, since I couldn’t find them and Xenophilius Lovegood said you’d be —”
The comb dropped with a loud clatter to the cold stone. Ryan turned, his hands flying up to cover his hair, but it was too late. An earnestly-smiling Jacques Bonnefoy stood at the door of the Ravenclaw fifth-year boys’ dormitory, blue eyes wide at the sight of Ryan clad in naught else but his dressing-gown and his long, dark hair.
“Wow,” said Jacques. “I knew you had a lot of hair, but... wow.”
“You should not be here,” Ryan insisted, almost automatically. “It is improper to lay eyes on an unmarried wizard’s hair if you are not kin or Bonded.”
“Improper?” Jacques tilted his head to the side, quizzical. “What’s so improper about me admiring your hair? It looks so silky and soft. What do you use on it?”
Ryan sighed. He hated having to explain things to Muggleborns. It was not Jacques’ fault his parents were Muggles, but did no one in Hufflepuff wish to sponsor him in learning the ways of the Pureblood world?
“It is improper because it is an intimate aspect of a wizard’s power,” he explained patiently. “It was given to us by our parents and we dishonour them by allowing outsiders to see us like this.”
“I’m not an outsider,” said Jacques, with one of his usual pouts. “I’m your friend, aren’t I? We study together, go on trips to Hogsmeade together...”
He stepped into the room, and Ryan regretted not closing the door when he had the chance.
“Do not take another step closer,” he insisted, hastily tying his hair back up and grabbing his wand, pointing it at Jacques. “I will not allow you to compromise me.”
“I just need my Potions notes!” protested Jacques. “If you don’t have them, you could just tell me, and I’ll get out of your luscious hair. Please?”
Ryan kept his wand aimed at Jacques. “How many people know you are here to see me?” he demanded, as he started rummaging through his homework parchments for any sign of Jacques’ notes.
“Well, Xeno Lovegood helped me get in, and I’m meeting with Jenni after this, so...”
Ryan’s jaw tensed at the mention of Prefect Robinson. “Prefect Robinson is a dangerous influence on people.”
Jacques actually had the temerity to scoff at that. “What? But Jenni’s cool. Her mom has great taste in music, you know. Haven’t you heard the Beatles?”
“Why would I wish to listen to bugs?” demanded Ryan.
“Bugs? No, the band, Ryan. The Beatles. Here comes the sun, dee-doo-doo-doo-doo —”
“I do not have your notes,” snapped Ryan, interrupting Jacques’ singing by coming up to him and pushing him towards the door. “You should leave, before more people find out you have seen me in such a state and assume the worst. Be grateful I am not accusing you of anything untoward.”
Jacques blinked at him. “Is that really what you think of me, Ryan?” he asked, a note of hurt in his voice. “It’s just hair! I know it’s special to you, but it’s not the end of the world if someone not in your family sees it down. Wouldn’t it pain you to keep it all tied up all the time, anyway?”
Ryan gritted his teeth as he pushed Jacques back over the dormitory threshold. “It is a matter of courtesy and honour,” he insisted, before reaching for the door.
Jacques cut him off by brushing a bit of Ryan’s fringe out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. Ryan’s breath stalled abruptly, suspended in his chest alongside his heart.
“See?” murmured Jacques, his voice gentle. Too gentle. “Not the end of the world. You’re still courteous and honourable and all of that.”
Ryan swallowed, covering Jacques’ hand with his own. From here, he could drown himself in those ocean-blue eyes, or cut his hands with that strong jaw. From here, he could tangle his own fingers in Jacques’ mahogany locks, and see if it really was as soft as it looked.
“Jacques —” he managed to squeak out, after a moment, before another set of footsteps on the stairs caused him to duck back into the dorm room and slam it closed.
“Oh, there you are!” chirped the voice of Prefect Robinson. “Xeno said you’d come in but I didn’t know you’d gone up here. Severina found your notes in the library; I couldn’t stop her from making snide comments about your technique, but...”
“Thanks, Jenni!” exclaimed Jacques. Ryan knelt down to look through the keyhole of the dormitory door, and could see the familiar autumn-red plait of Prefect Robinson turning in Jacques’ hands. His own heart sank, and he sank with it, down to the cold flagstones.
“What are you doing over here, anyway?” wondered Prefect Robinson.
“Oh, I thought Ryan had taken my notes, so...”
“Please don’t tell me you saw him with his hair down. You know how Purebloods are about their hair.” Prefect Robinson laughed amiably, as she and Jacques’ footsteps began to recede. “My dad has the weirdest hang-ups about it, too, he’s always fretting about me not finding someone to ‘tend to my hair’...”
Ryan willed down the lump in his throat. He reached out with his magic to summon the comb back to him, untying his hair as he did so. As the long, black tresses spilled out across the floor beside him, he began the countdown again:
One, two, three...