Neville’s gran turned up the next morning like a general storming enemy territory. Her handbag swing weaponized, and the clip of her heels on the stone floor announced she wasn’t the sort to wait for an invitation. She rapped hard on the door, once, twice, and it swung open before Cassian even finished setting down his tea.

“Are you Professor Rosier?” she barked, stepping inside as if she owned the place.

Cassian glanced up from a stack of papers. “That would be me. And you are?”

“Augusta Longbottom,” she said crisply, marching into the room without so much as a pause. Her eyes swept the office, taking in the books, the half-scrawled lesson plans, the faint smell of ink and parchment, and finally landed on him like a hawk spotting a mouse.

“Ah. The teacher who thought it wise to fill my grandson’s mind with nonsense.”

Cassian leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “Guilty as charged.”

Her hat, a monstrosity of stuffed vulture and tartan ribbon, wobbled as she straightened her spine. “On what authority, might I ask, do you interfere with my grandson’s magical education?”

“On the authority of common sense and a stubborn streak,” Cassian said easily. He gestured at the chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit. Or stand and glare. Entirely up to you.”

Augusta took a seat. “I will sit, thank you.”

“Lovely,” Cassian murmured. He nudged the stack of papers aside with one hand and got up, strolling to the kettle. “So I assume you are not thrilled with my thoughts on Neville and his father’s wand?”

“You assume right,” Augusta said, her eyes narrowing. “The Longbottom heir is here to take his classes as they are given, nothing more.”

Cassian poured her a cup of tea without hurrying, sliding it across the desk. “Tea first. Then we will see if you’re still in the mood to eat me alive.”

She didn’t even look at the cup. “You’ve already made enough of a mess meddling. That boy doesn’t need coddling. He needs discipline. His father never had his wand replaced.”

“His father didn’t need it replaced,” Cassian said easily, leaning back against the desk with his arms folded. “Frank Longbottom was a prodigy with that stick. The wand was as much a part of him as his own hand. Neville, on the other hand, is trying to force magic through a channel that doesn’t fit. That’s not discipline. That is sabotage.”

“Rubbish,” Augusta snapped. “A proper wizard makes the wand fit. He should be trying harder, not whining about compatibility like some Muggle child refusing his vegetables.”

Cassian arched a brow. “I am not saying Neville isn’t trying. The poor lad’s been sweating bullets trying to get a basic Levitation Charm off the ground. But forcing him to use that wand is like asking him to run a marathon in his father’s boots… boots three sizes too big and stuffed with rocks.”

Her lips thinned, but she didn’t interrupt.

“He got magic in him,” Cassian went on, tapping the edge of the desk. “I’ve seen enough sparks to know there is power under the surface. But you keep him locked into his father’s legacy, and all you will get is another year of singed sleeves and melted cauldrons. You want him to flourish? Get him his own wand.”

Augusta straightened her already rigid posture, her hands clasping her handbag tight. “And you think you know better than the Longbottoms? Than me?”

“I think I know better than to watch a boy struggle for another year because no one will admit the obvious.” Cassian’s voice stayed light, but his eyes had sharpened. “The wand chooses the wizard. Ollivander’s been screaming that from the rooftops since Merlin was in short trousers. You think Neville is the exception?”

She gave a small huff. “And what if I indulge your theory, Professor? You truly believe a different wand will fix all his failings?”

Cassian sighed, pushing himself up from his chair. “Alright, seems like we need to start from basic.” He flicked his wand, and a wooden bucket with a fitted lid landed on the desk. A handful of colourful wooden shapes appeared next to it… triangles, circles, squares, arches. Matching holes were cut neatly into the bucket’s lid.

“Let’s see if you can get all of them inside,” he said, leaning an elbow on the edge of the desk. “If you manage, there is a biscuit in it for you.”

Augusta Longbottom’s expression froze for a beat, wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or had simply lost his mind.

“You are making a joke of this,” she said sharply, her voice slicing the air.

Cassian didn’t flinch. “No. I am pointing out that you’re treating magic like it is a matter of brute force. The wand isn’t a crowbar. It’s a key. If the key doesn’t fit the lock, all you get is a splintered door.”

He tapped the bucket’s lid. “Neville’s been trying to shove a square block through a round hole all year. And you are scolding him because the wood didn’t warp itself to fit.”

Augusta’s fingers tightened on her bag. Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t fire back immediately. “If this is what all professors spending their times with, no wonder they fumble with even the simplest spells…” Augusta started.

Cassian held up a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mrs Longbottom. Your grandson deserves the same chance as your son. A wand that chooses him.”

Augusta’s lips thinned. She turned the teacup in her hands, shoulders stiff. “And you would have me take him to Ollivander’s? For what, indulgence?”

“No. I would have you take him to Ollivander’s because his magic isn’t reaching the surface,” Cassian said flatly. “You want him to become the wizard he is meant to be? Let him have the tool that suits him. Otherwise, you are setting him up to fail.”

The old woman’s eyes flashed, but this time, she didn’t snap.

Cassian watched her expression shift slowly, as she entertained the idea. “I am not asking you to trust me because I am clever, I am, but not that. I am asking you to trust me because I’ve seen enough boys trying to carve their own names under someone else’s shadow. It doesn’t end well. Besides, you wouldn’t want Hogwarts to send a letter home next month because he accidentally blew up a classroom with the wrong wand, would you?”

Augusta snorted sharply. She set the teacup down with a faint clink.

“One try,” she said finally. “If it doesn’t make a difference…”

Cassian cut in. “Then you can drag me over the coals in front of the entire staff room. I will even bring my own rope.”

Her lips twitched. “I see why Neville likes you.”

Cassian smirked faintly. “He got taste.”

Augusta stood, adjusting her vulture-topped hat. “We leave for Diagon Alley at the weekend.”

She strode to the desk before leaving, snatched up the wooden shapes, and, much to Cassian’s horror, shoved every single one through the square hole. Square, rectangle, semicircle, cylinder, even the bloody arc. Each piece dropped neatly into place with a muted clunk. Cassian’s mouth opened slightly wider every time.

“That is… no, not the square hole,” he cried, watching helplessly as the last shape vanished inside.

Augusta gave a small, satisfied sniff, adjusted her hat, and left the room with a smug tilt of her chin.

Cassian sat frozen for a moment, staring at the bucket like it had personally betrayed him. Then he dragged a hand down his face and muttered, “This is why I don’t do metaphors.”

By the weekend, both Ron and Neville had been dragged off to get new wands. Luck of the draw, or sheer coincidence, they each walked out of Ollivander’s with a “free wand coupon.” 

From what he heard, both Arthur and Augusta had nearly burst a vein over the so-called coupons. Ollivander, calm as a monk, swore up and down it was a coincidence… something about rewarding “the match between wand and wizard” or whatever poetic rubbish he’d cooked up. Cassian made a mental note to buy the old man a drink next time he was in Diagon Alley.

When Ron and Neville returned the next morning, they were insufferably smug. Both had that irritating strut of boys convinced their lives had just upgraded to something worthy of a ballad. Ron kept spinning his new wand like he’d been born with it. Neville kept sneaking glances at his as though it might turn into a golden trophy if he stared long enough.

Cassian, of course, got to enjoy the aftermath. Neville wasn’t just behind on second-year spells… he was still fumbling half the first-year ones. The poor lad had been trying to force his magic through a wand that might as well have been a stiff bit of kindling. Now, with the right one, everything felt raw, untested. Cassian ended up running extra drills, late evenings in his room, making Neville swish, flick, and repeat until the boy’s arm looked ready to fall off. Not that Cassian minded.

There was something satisfying about seeing sparks finally shoot straight from Neville’s wand instead of sideways into the curtains. Swear, he had no other benefits from teaching the boy.

“Right, try again,” Cassian said, leaning against the desk with his arms folded. He tapped his wand lightly against his thigh. “Levitate the feather. Not the desk, not yourself. Feather. Should be easy enough.”

Neville clenched his jaw, raising his wand with both hands like it was a sword. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The feather wobbled, shot up three inches, then hovered uncertainly in the air.

Cassian gave a sharp whistle. “Look at that. It’s almost graceful. Five more in a row like that and I’ll stop calling you a hazard to soft furnishings.”

Neville’s face flushed red, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes as he let the feather drop and reset.

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I’ve stopped waiting for feedback. I grade myself now. A+ for perseverance.

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