“I felt the dragon wake.”

Cassian blinked, then his lips twitched as his expression shifted into sheepish. “Ah… sorry, love. You sitting like that… it sort of got to me. I know this is supposed to be a serious chat, but, well… you know how it is. Blood goes where it likes, and Dragon rises.”

She elbowed him, harder this time. “Not that dragon, you fool. Ash.”

“Oh.” Cassian coughed into his fist, trying for dignity but failing miserably. “Right. Yes. Of course.”

When they pulled the Norwegian Ridgeback into Bathsheda’s bond last year, she’d named the hatchling Ash. The little creature had curled up in her magic and drifted into the kind of deep, heavy sleep that felt permanent. Even through the summer, Ash hadn’t woke once, not even when Bathsheda’s magic flared during the Temple expedition, only stirred when the creature first appeared, then went back to sleep.

Until now.

Bathsheda kept her head pressed to him, fingers absently curling in his shirt. “It wasn’t full, maybe a twitch.”

Cassian’s brow furrowed. “You think she was reacting to that thing?” He nodded at the diary, looking at it with disgust.

Bathsheda’s fingers curled tighter on his. “It wasn’t strong. More like a ripple. But I felt it.”

Cassian let out a quiet sound, halfway between a hum and a curse. He leaned back against the couch, rubbing at his jaw. “Right. So it tugged at your mind and woke Ash for a second. That’s not exactly comforting.”

Bathsheda’s eyes flicked to the black notebook. “It can’t do anything here. I’ve locked it down. Layered wards, binding glyphs, the whole lot.”

Cassian rested his chin on his hand. “It is a diary, right? Probably needs someone to write in it first. If it wanted to curse you on touch, the object would’ve been different. Like… a shoehorn. Or a teacup.”

Bathsheda rolled her eyes. “Really? Those are your two go-to cursed objects?”

He shook his head slowly. “Actually, no. First things that popped into my head were a fleshlight and a dildo, but I am fairly certain those haven’t worked their way into the magical world yet.”

Her brow furrowed. “What are a fleshlight and a dildo?”

Cassian blinked, lips parting before he caught himself. “Nothing, love. Just… Muggle cursed items. Best not look them up.”

Bathsheda narrowed her eyes, but didn’t press. She shifted slightly against him, still keeping one hand on his.

Cassian’s gaze drifted back to the diary. “So, whyever Lucius slipped this in was expecting someone to pour their little heart out in there. Doesn’t fit Malfoy’s usual style… he prefers things that bite straight off the bat.”

Bathsheda exhaled through her nose. “Should we tell Dumbledore?”

Cassian frowned. It was the most sensible move. The old man probably knew a thousand different ways to lock down cursed objects. But if he handed this over now, there would be no chance of getting back at Lucius for slipping it to her. And oh, he wanted that. And, although he wouldn’t admit it outright, after last year, he had some distrust. He would hate for this to turn into another plot for the students.

“Not yet,” he said.

Bathsheda shot him a look. “You are stalling.”

“Call it… gathering evidence.” Cassian rubbed his jaw. “If we march into his office waving this about, the first thing Dumbledore does is take it off our hands. Then Uncle Lucius floats off scot-free while I sit here with a grudge and no outlet. No, thanks.”

She leaned her head against the back of the couch, watching him. “You can’t punch Lucius in broad daylight again. Not twice in a row.”

“Tempting, though, isn’t it?” Cassian muttered. “Let’s see how much we can learn first.”

Bathsheda glanced at him, brow pinched slightly. “And then?”

“Then we smash it with a hammer.”

“Very scholarly.”

“I am a man of simple tastes,” he said dryly. He walked to the table, crouching by her little shrine setup, squinting at the layers of wards she’d already etched around the diary. Neat work. “Looks solid.”

Bathsheda stood behind him, her arms folding loosely. “Do you think Lucius knows what this is?”

Cassian snorted. “That marble statue in a wig? No. He wouldn’t risk dirtying his precious hands with something properly cursed.”

“So,” she asked with a frown.

Cassian moved to the desk, pulling out a small stack of newspapers until he found the ones he wanted. He tossed them down and tapped the headlines with two fingers. “Arthur Weasley got himself promoted to Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Good for him. Using his shiny new authority, he’s been raiding pure-blood houses left and right. Officially, he is sniffing out enchanted kettles and flying lawnmowers. Unofficially? He is fishing for dark artefacts.”

Bathsheda came closer to see the papers, watching him sort through them like he was assembling a case.

Cassian tapped the edge of the stack against the desk to straighten it. “Malfoys, as you can imagine, had quite the headache with it. Got prodded more than most, since Arthur had Lucius in his sights for years.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, lips twitching faintly. “I would wager Lucius wanted rid of that diary before the Ministry’s nose caught a whiff. You were chosen for the handoff because I insulted him. Easy as that.”

Her brow furrowed. “You think he meant to target someone else?”

Cassian shook his head. “No. That day, they came from the street crossing Knockturn Alley. I am guessing he tried to sell it there or get rid of it quietly, but no one bit. Damien’s been moaning for weeks that no one in Knockturn even glances at his dodgy artefacts anymore. Arthur’s been relentless… most sellers don’t want to risk it.”

Bathsheda’s fingers drummed against his shoulder as she leaned in. “So Lucius had no buyer and slipped it into my bag to wash his hands of it?”

“Exactly,” Cassian said. He leaned back against the desk. “You were convenient. I already landed him in a sour mood. He probably thought dumping it on the woman attached to my hip would sting me twice.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Cassian rubbed the back of his neck. “I hate to say it, but Lucius might have actually done one smart thing for once… getting it out of his house.”

Bathsheda shifted, finally meeting his gaze. “And now it is in mine.”

Cassian gave a humourless smile. “Lucky us.”

They decided to wait and see for the time being.

***

Next morning, Cassian and Bathsheda were sitting at the Gryffindor table like they’d always belonged there. Fred and George had claimed the spots next to him, and naturally, Hermione had wedged herself on Cassian’s other side, her book already out like she might quiz him mid-breakfast. That left Harry, Ron, and Neville pressed in too, none of them looking entirely sure why they were there but too polite, or intimidated, to argue.

The kids were mid-discussion, voices bouncing over one another, when Cassian caught the thread.

“…and the gate wouldn’t let us through!” Harry said, half-whispering but still managing to sound like it had been some grand conspiracy. “We ran at it, full speed, and nothing. Just… bam. Solid brick.”

“Then Ron decided to steal a flying car,” Hermione said, her voice half frustrated half admonishing.

Ron shifted, ears bright red. “It wasn’t stealing! It is Dad’s car.”

Cassian set his cup down, turning to twins. “Can you run that by me again?”

Fred snorted loudly into his pumpkin juice. George looked two seconds from falling off the bench. Cassian deadpanned after hearing the story.

“I am hearing this right, yeah? The bloke who enforces the law on charmed teapots and torch batteries has a flying car tucked in his shed?” Cassian leaned his elbow on the table, glancing between the twins. “And your brother thought the best way to keep things discreet was to take it for a joyride over London?”

“I didn’t…” Ron started.

“You did,” Hermione cut him off.

Neville fiddled nervously with the corner of his napkin. “It… it was in the Evening Prophet.”

Cassian groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course it was.”

Fred grinned. “To be fair, it was brilliant. Everyone saw them land in the Whomping Willow. Bet the first-years will tell stories about it for years.”

“You are not helping,” Hermione snapped.

George leaned over the table, voice pitched low in mock gravity. “Reckon Dad’s desk is covered in notices right now.”

As if summoned, there was a sudden whoosh overhead. A hundred owls streamed into the hall, scattering feathers and letters. One large, lumpy parcel bounced off Neville’s head. A second later, a scruffy grey bird dive-bombed Hermione’s bowl, splashing milk across the table.

“Errol!” Ron yelped, grabbing the soggy owl by its feet. The poor creature slumped on the table, legs in the air, a damp red envelope clenched in its beak.

“Oh no…” Ron’s face went pale.

Hermione prodded Errol gently. “It is all right… he is still alive.”

“It is not that.” Ron stared at the envelope as if it might explode.

Cassian eyed the thing with mild distaste. “That is not a post. That is a trap.”

Neville’s voice was barely a whisper. “You would better open it, Ron. It will be worse if you don’t. My gran sent me a Howler once. I ignored it. It was… horrible.”

“What is a Howler?” Harry asked.

“You will find out,” Cassian murmured, reaching for his toast.

Smoke curled from the envelope’s corners.

“Open it,” Neville hissed, stuffing his fingers in his ears.

Ron’s hand shook as he slit it open…

The letter exploded.

“…STEALING THE CAR! I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU! YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU…”

Mrs Weasley’s voice boomed through the hall, so loud the plates rattled.

Cassian flinched, then started laughing under his breath. “Bloody hell. She got lungs.”

“…WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE…”

Every head in the Great Hall swivelled. Fred and George ducked low, wheezing with silent laughter.

Ron sank in his seat, face flaming.

“…YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK! ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT! IF YOU PUT ONE TOE OUT OF LINE AGAIN, WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.”

The letter dropped onto the table, burst into flames, and crumbled into ash.

Silence.

Not a Spoiler, Just an image! ↓

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Author Rant ↓ 

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If silence were applause, I’d be deaf by now.

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