One syllable off. That was all it took.

The spell was supposed to be simple. A third-year charm, something to do with illuminating dark corners of the castle. But when Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank had demonstrated it, her voice had cracked on the incantation, and the magic had rippled outward like a shockwave before she could contain it.

Green light. A sound like glass shattering. Then silence.

For a moment, nothing happened. Everyone just stared at each other, waiting for something to explode or catch fire. Professor Grubbly-Plank had looked mortified, already apologizing, already promising to fix whatever she'd done.

But the damage was done.

By the next morning, half the school woke up with names etched into the inside of their left wrists. Black ink, like a tattoo that had always been there. Some screamed. Some cried. Some laughed hysterically.

The Headmaster called an assembly. The Healers were brought in. Theories flew faster than enchanted brooms—permanent soulmate bonds, temporary magical resonance, a curse that would fade with time. No one knew. Not even Dumbledore.

What they did know was this: only one person in each pair got the name. The other was left in the dark, walking around with no idea who their supposed soulmate was.

And if the name belonged to someone you already knew, it meant the bond was platonic. Just friendship. Just family.

But if it was a stranger?

Well.

That meant something else entirely.

You'd looked at your wrist that morning, bleary-eyed and still half-asleep, and felt the world tilt sideways.

Because there it was, clear as day, in elegant script that seemed to glow faintly in the grey dawn light:

Draco Malfoy.

<Narrator> You stared at it for a long time. Long enough for your roommate to ask if you were okay. Long enough for breakfast to start without you.