Cassian stretched out his hand, palm open. “Right. Your wand, Mr Weasley.”

Ron jerked upright in his seat, clutching the battered stick as if Cassian had just asked for his right arm. “What? You’re taking my wand?”

Cassian gave him a flat look. “Yes. Congratulations, you’ve cracked the code. I am confiscating it.”

“It’s not that bad,” Ron muttered, voice trailing off as the wand gave a sad little spark at the tip.

Cassian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not that bad? I can smell the splinters from here. Pass it over before it goes off in your face.”

Reluctantly, Ron handed it over. Cassian turned the wand over in his fingers. It was almost broken into two. The poor thing looked like it had been held together with sheer hope and a bit of Spellotape.

“I am sending it home,” Cassian said. “Frankly, the fact that this hasn’t been reported to the Board of Governors is a miracle. Hogwarts wouldn’t survive five minutes if every idiot boy went around hexing people with a wand held together by tape and bad decisions.”

Ron looked like he might melt into the upholstery.

Cassian dug out a roll of parchment and a pen, and began scratching out a note.

Dear Mr Weasley,

Your son’s wand is cracked and unsafe. It should be urgently replaced. Please advise if you intend to provide him with one, or if I should find a replacement from the school’s stores.

Rosier

Cassian blew on the ink to dry it, folded the parchment neatly, and tied it to the wand with a bit of twine. Then he pulled another, shorter slip from the pile and scribbled across it.

Notice: Student Weasley, Ronald is barred from carrying a wand in lessons until a replacement is arranged. See Professor Rosier for details.

Cassian slid the paper across the desk to Ron, tapping it lightly with one finger. “Right, this should keep you from trouble if anyone asks why you’re going wandless. Though I wager Professor McGonagall won’t be thrilled.”

Ron took the slip carefully. “She’s going to kill me.”

Cassian leaned back in his chair, arms folding. “Not likely. Though she’ll probably hex your shoes to squeak every time you sneak out after curfew.”

Bathsheda smirked faintly from her perch in the armchair, popping another piece of popcorn into her mouth.

Hermione, still circling the bookshelves, looked up. “You’re actually sending the wand home?”

“Yes,” Cassian said, flicking his hand in a vague motion. “Because, Miss Granger, allowing him to stroll about with this splintering twig would be criminal negligence. And the last thing I need is to explain to Molly Weasley why her son’s hair is gone.”

Ron sank deeper into the chair, muttering something under his breath about how it wasn’t that serious.

Cassian turned to the nervous boy lingering by the door. “While we are at it, Mr Longbottom.”

Neville jumped like he’d been jabbed with a fork. “Y-yes, sir?”

Cassian waved him over. “Come here. Wand out.”

The boy shuffled forward. When he finally produced the wand, Cassian blinked at it. The thing looked wrong… too long, too polished, like it belonged in someone else’s hand.

“Whose wand is this?”

Neville hesitated, eyes darting to the floor. “My father’s, sir.”

Cassian let out a slow breath through his nose. “Of course it’s.” He turned the wand in his fingers, noting the fine grain and pristine handle. “Longbottom, you’ve been trying to use this all year?”

Neville nodded, shoulders hunching in tighter. “Gran… she said it would be good for me to learn with it. That it worked fine for my dad.”

“Did it?” Cassian asked dryly. “Because from where I am standing, it is about as suited to you as I am to ballet.”

Ron snorted into his hand. Cassian shot him a look that snapped his mouth shut. Thıs text ıs hosted at noᴠelfire.net

“You know what happens when you try forcing your magic through someone else’s wand?” Cassian continued, holding the wand up like a poorly balanced sword. “It’s like trying to drink soup through a fork. You get nothing but mess.”

Neville’s ears went pink. “I… I can try harder.”

“No, you can’t,” Cassian cut him off flatly. “You could try till your nose bleeds and all you will get for your trouble is sparks going sideways and a solid reputation as the boy who sets curtains on fire. A great honour I once had the privilege of carrying.”

Hermione opened her mouth, clearly about to jump in with something earnest, but Cassian raised a finger without looking at her. “Don’t. Not now.”

He turned back to Neville, expression softening slightly. “Look. Magic is personal. Wands are personal. If you’re lucky, you get one that feels like shaking hands with an old mate. This?” He wagged the wand in the air. “This is a bloody handshake from a stranger who would rather spit on your shoes.”

Neville managed a small, sheepish smile.

He sighed, shifting the wand between his fingers. “I knew your father. Brilliant man. He could duel circles around half the school and still make it look like a dance. That wand in his hand? It wasn’t just a tool. It was a partner.” Cassian tilted the stick slightly, eyeing the polished grain with faint distaste. “But you’re not your father.”

Neville’s tentative smile buckled, crumpling into something self-deprecating and small, already bracing for the usual comparison.

Cassian stood, crossing the short distance in a few strides and crouched so they were eye level. “I’m not saying you’re less, Neville.” He rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave it a firm pat. “You are not your father. You are not your mother. You don’t have to be anyone else. The only person you need to be is you… preferably the best version you can manage. That sound reasonable?”

Neville swallowed and gave a jerky nod.

“Good lad. I will write to your gran and sort this out.” Cassian straightened, letting out a huff of tiredness. “In the meantime, no more wrestling your magic through this poor stick, all right? It deserves better, and so do you.”

Neville let out a small noise, somewhere between agreement and relief, and hugged his herbology book tighter like it was armour.

Cassian glanced to Bathsheda, who was still sprawled comfortably in the armchair, fingers idly swirling another piece of popcorn.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” he said.

Her lips curved faintly. “It’s entertaining watching you play substitute parent.”

“Yeah, well, watch closer.” He shot her a look, then held up the wands for effect.

Ron, who had been shifting nervously in his seat, blurted out, “So… what am I supposed to do without a wand? I can’t just sit through class twiddling my thumbs!”

Cassian arched a brow. “You can, actually. It’s excellent for discipline. Builds character. And if you’re really desperate, I’ll lend you a quill. You can stab others with that instead.”

Hermione let out a faint huff, though smiling softly.

“Quills aren’t regulation weapons, sir,” Ron mumbled, slumping in defeat.

“Neither is flying a car over London, but here we are.” Cassian tucked Ron’s wand into the inside pocket of his coat, then turned back to the students. “All right. Out. Off you go before I confiscate your shoes as well.”

Harry hesitated, glancing between Cassian and Bathsheda like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if it would come out wrong.

Cassian caught it and gave a faint nod. “We will talk later, Potter. Right now, I’ve got enough to juggle without your brooding face making me feel like I stole your broom.”

Harry flushed and muttered a quiet, “Yes, sir,” before heading for the door. Hermione, Ron and Neville trailed after him, the former muttering darkly under his breath about quills and flying cars.

When the door clicked shut, Cassian ran a hand down his face. “Bloody hell. Two faulty wands in one afternoon. And it’s only the first week of term.”

Bathsheda tossed him a popcorn. “They are children, Cass. You’re going to see worse before the month is out.”

Cassian grinned and pushed himself up, undoing his shirt buttons one at a time. “Right then, my comfy Bath water, how about we try to become real parents?”

Bathsheda arched a brow at him, her lips twitching. “Do I even want to know what is going on in that head of yours?”

“You don’t,” Cassian said easily, tossing the shirt onto the arm of the sofa. “But we’ve got a diary locked up like a mad dog, and apparently, I’ve gone soft enough to confiscate dodgy wands off idiot children. Feels like the perfect time to do something wildly irresponsible.”

“And your wildly irresponsible idea would be…?” she asked, folding her arms and watching him with faint amusement.

Cassian shot her a look over his shoulder, halfway to the bathroom door. “Well, we’ve already got the bickering down. Might as well give the full domestic package a whirl.”

Bathsheda snorted. “I don’t think rescuing teenagers from their own poor life choices counts as parenting practice.”

“Doesn’t it?” Cassian called back, flicking the light on. “Feels like ninety percent of the job.”

There was a faint clatter as he turned the taps, testing the water with his fingers. Steam curled lazily upwards, fogging the mirror.

“You’re a horny fool,” she said lightly, stepping into the doorway with her arms folded.

“I don’t see you complaining,” he quipped, flashing her a grin. “If I drown in the tub later, feel free to claim it was an accident. The Ministry probably won’t even bother investigating.”

Bathsheda shook her head, lips twitching despite herself. “Get in before I push you in.”

“Oh, threatening already?” Cassian slipped into the bath with a contented sigh, stretching his legs until his toes hit the far edge. “This is why I love you, you know. Keeps things spicy.”

She shook her head with a laugh, already tugging her jumper off. “You do remember Hogwarts wards off pregnancies, don’t you?”

Cassian’s arm shot out, hooking her waist and pulling her down onto his lap. “Oops. Forgot.”

“Mm-hmm.” She smirked against his jaw, fingers sliding into his hair.

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I’ve started timing your reactions. Still holding the record at infinity.

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