The first Quidditch match of the season kicked off under a sky that couldn’t decide between drizzle and downpour. Cassian leaned back in the stands, coat collar turned up, breath fogging faintly in the cold.

Next to him, Bathsheda was halfway through a flask of something.

The Bludger went rogue three minutes in. Not the usual, half-feral wobble, but proper targeting, snapping after Harry with a grudge.

Cassian frowned. “That can’t be normal.”

Bathsheda tilted her head, eyes tracking the thing’s tight arc. “Bludgers do fixate sometimes.”

“Right, but that one’s moving like it’s got a family vendetta.”

Down below, Harry banked hard. The Bludger missed by inches, chipped a chunk of wood off the hoop behind him, and doubled back.

Cassian shifted, eyes narrowing. “Not like this. It’s following him.”

His gaze scanned the pitch. “Last year, it was a broom that went wild. Now it’s a Bludger. Same player.”

Bathsheda lowered her flask. “You think someone’s enchanted it?”

“I think someone’s got a thing for Potter and near-death experiences when he is in the air.”

She raised a brow. “You suspect another professor?”

Cassian didn’t answer right away. He was watching the players blur through rain and speed. Harry darted upward. The Bludger followed like it was on a string.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered.

He scanned the stands. Lockhart sat a few rows down, smiling foolishly. Nothing new. Dumbledore watched the game with an unreadable expression. Snape was a statue.

The Bludger missed Harry again, barely, and splintered a bat on the rebound.

“Do you think it’s connected to the diary?” she asked quietly.

His hands tightened around the flask.

Could it be?

He wasn’t sure. But odds were, yes, somehow, it would trace back to Harry. That much he’d learned by now. If Cassian hadn’t been in that shop last summer, running verbal laps around Lucius Malfoy, what would have happened to the diary? Left it in the Manor vaults to rot? Doubtful. Would it still have found its way into the castle? And if it had, would it have landed in Potter’s hands?

Probably.

That was the pattern, wasn’t it? Same student, different curse.

Cassian’s eyes flicked back to the pitch. Malfoy, in his new role as Slytherin’s Seeker, was circling Harry like a smug little shark, occasionally diving close enough to be annoying but not quite helpful.

He sighed. He’d tried humbling the boy last year, tried the blunt approach, the soft one, tried dragging him out of his father’s shadow and into something resembling a spine. None of it stuck.

He’d taught arrogant brats before. Different worlds bred different monsters. But this was the first one he’d had to teach whose father had the Minister of Magic in his pocket and probably a second vault just for bribes.

Still. Cassian didn’t believe in writing kids off. Not yet.

Malfoy looped past again, eyes gleaming like he thought he already had the Snitch in his teeth. Harry didn’t rise to it. That was new. The Potter from last year would’ve chased him into the stands.

Bathsheda leaned in slightly. “Do we pull him out?”

“He won’t go. And even if he does, the Bludger will follow.”

“Then what?”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “We find the source. And we find it soon. Because next time, it won’t miss.”

Cassian closed his eyes. “I’ll try something.”

Bathsheda didn’t say anything, just gave a short nod and turned back to the pitch.

He hadn’t touched this spell since it woke up in his head last spring, buried deep, curled like a rusted blade under skin. Ancient variant of Prior Incantato. Not the one Ministry wands spat out like a receipt. This one bit back. Costly. Rare. And picky.

The conditions were tight. The spell had to still be active. The caster nearby. And Cassian needed to know exactly what to look for.

His stomach already knotted. Remembering that cursed memory.

Stone. Firelight licked along the walls of a narrow chamber, throwing shadows that looked alive. The vision tethered him, dragged him into the circle whether he wanted it or not.

They came in a line, six, maybe seven of them, all draped in goat skin robes. At their head walked a man Cassian recognised. That was the worst of it. He had seen this face once before in another memory. Crooked nose, scarred cheek, eyes like pits in a coal seam. Unlike the previous memory, where the face was frozen in a silent scream, here he was steady. Smug even. A man who looked at the world and saw something that ought to kneel.

His voice came first as a rumble. Words dragged like stone grinding stone. Cassian shouldn’t have understood a syllable, but the longer he listened, the clearer it became, as if the memory translated itself straight into his bones.

“It is close,” the man said, palms brushing the carved wall, fingers searching out the grooves of etched lines. “I can feel its magic. The chamber hides it, but it is near. We need only charge the circuit, and it will appear.”

One of the magicks behind him faltered. His eyes flicked to the etched spirals cut into the stone. “What will happen… to them?” he asked, voice quiet, hoarse.

Them. Sacrifices.

Cassian felt his own throat tighten. He wanted to look away. The vision didn’t let him.

The first man smirked. It was thin, humourless, cruel. “Not important,” he said. “Bring the wizard. That is the cost. I need to locate the place. Do you want to see the creature? Everything you ever wished for? Or do you want to stay a frightened animal forever?”

No one answered.

The man raised both hands, pressing his palms outward until the air itself seemed to buckle. His lips moved. The murmuring was broken at first, syllables half-buried, words Cassian could almost, almost, mistake for nonsense. But then the spell took shape.

He tore himself back with a shudder. Eyes snapping open.

His hand shook where it gripped the wand.

For the first time, he had seen a man he recognised return in another vision. Learning spell from him this time, not from the one who ended him.

That was terrifying.

He muttered, “Prior Vinculatus,” under his breath, thinking of a spell that could make a Bludger go erratic.

Nothing happened.

He sighed through his nose, and started listing. “Adversus. Flagratum. Incitare. Motus Tactus… damn it.”

Nothing again.

He dug his nails into the heel of his palm, trying not to clench his teeth.

“Levitas…” he hissed, half out of hope.

Still nothing.

His head was starting to pound. Right behind the eyes.

“Velox Corpus. Agito Ferit…”

How many spells could control a Bludger with that much finesse? Not many. 

Cassian had tried nearly all the usual suspects. Nothing. 

Bathsheda was watching him now, frown creasing deeper with each passing second. A thin line of blood slid from his nose. She pulled a handkerchief from her coat, and cleaned it without asking. 

“Nothing?” 

He shook his head. “Is it even human?”

Just as he asked it, his eyes snapped wide. “Of course. Tweak.”

There was a soft crack, and the little house-elf popped into existence beside him, ears flapping with excitement. “Yes, Master Professor!” Tweak squeaked, bouncing on his toes.

Across the row, a few heads turned. Sprout blinked at him. Snape looked like someone had served him cold soup. 

Cassian gave them a quick smile and raised his hand casually. “Don’t mind me. Bit peckish.”

Snape let out a snort. As if calling a house-elf mid-match for anything less than a dying child was sacrilege. Cassian ignored him and crouched down to Tweak’s level.

Tweak’s ears wobbled as he tugged at his vest. “Is Master Professor Rosier needing jam rolls again?”

Cassian leaned close. “See that Bludger?”

Tweak followed his gaze, his eyes narrowing at the sky. “Yes, Master.”

“There’s something off about it. Can you trace who’s been meddling with it?”

The elf went still. Ears stiffened. His nose twitched once, twice. Then he sniffed the air like it might lie to him.

“Tweak smells… stranger elf,” he said after a moment. “Very close.”

Cassian straightened. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Not Hogwarts elf. Not Tweak’s kind. But here.”

That was enough.

Cassian stood. “Take me.”

Tweak grabbed his coat and popped them both out of the stands.

They landed near the base of the pitch scaffolding, just behind a storage unit reeking of broom oil and old grass. Before Cassian could get his bearings—

Screams erupted from above.

A voice, distant but rising in panic: “Harry Potter’s down!”

Cassian swore under his breath and looked forward.

An elf crouched near the base of the supports. Not one he recognised. Wiry, pale, crouched like it was ready to bolt. Its head snapped toward them. Eyes wide. Terrified.

It bolted.

Tweak raised a hand. “Wait, rogue!”

But the elf was already gone. Cracked straight out.

Cassian stared at the spot it had been. Not a trace left.

Then he looked up.

Lee Jordan was shouting something, but it barely cut through the roar.

“Damn it.” Cassian spun toward Tweak. “Take me back. And tell the others to be vigilant about rogue elves.”

Tweak gave a solemn nod, eyes down. He snapped his fingers.

They popped back into the stands just as the pitch exploded with noise. Students were on their feet. Red and gold flags waving wildly, thunder in the form of teenage cheers.

Cassian’s eyes locked on the centre. Harry was clutching the Snitch in one hand and his other arm like it might fall off. The crowd was surging forward. Madame Hooch was shouting something. McGonagall had already stood. And Lockhart—

Cassian’s jaw clicked.

Lockhart was bounding down the stairs, arms thrown wide. “Let me fix it! Very easy for me!” he called, wobbling on the last steps.

Bathsheda reappeared at his elbow. “If he touches that boy—”

“He’ll lose the arm,” Cassian muttered. “Or turn it into a flamingo.”

He cut between two just as Lockhart raised his wand over Harry’s arm.

“Gilderoy, look over there.” Cassian pointed without looking. “I think Mr Jordan wants your commentary on the game.”

Lockhart paused, gaze darting from Harry to the stands. “Oh! Of course! My expert eyes must’ve caught details the untrained missed.” He beamed. “It would be my honour to explain them the finer—”

“Yes, you should,” Cassian cut in. “We missed so many things.”

Lockhart puffed up like someone had flattered his reflection and hurried off toward Lee Jordan, robes flapping, wand still raised like he was about to bless the pitch with divine wisdom.

Cassian didn’t wait to watch the damage. He turned to Oliver, already moving.

“Take him to the Wing.”

Wood nodded, grabbed Harry under the good shoulder, and they were off, Ron, Neville and Hermione scrambling after them.

Cassian glanced at the Bludger, now limp and rattling on the ground.

***

Back in his room, Cassian stood with one hand braced against the bookshelf, the other clenched so tight his knuckles looked ready to split. The diary sat on his desk, still and smug as ever, like it knew something he didn’t.

Bathsheda lounged on the couch, arms folded. “No need to speak to Potter,” she said without looking up. “I doubt he knows anything.”

Cassian didn’t answer. His jaw worked. He turned, started pacing.

“I feel useless,” he muttered.

She got up, crossed the room, and caught his hand before he could curl it again.

“You stayed at that cursed manor for this exact reason,” she said, quiet now. “You knew Voldemort was back. You needed proximity to the kind of people who’d hear things. Pureblood whispers, family dinners with murder under the roast.”

He didn’t argue. Just sank into the couch when she pulled him down, her arm still around his shoulder.

“You’re already doing your best, Cass.”

He leaned into her, resting his head on her lap as she began to stroke his hair, calming him with her gentle, magical touch.

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