“What do you think you are doing?” Snape asked coldly, already drawing his wand.

Bathsheda stepped forward before Cassian could even open his mouth. “If you wave that wand, I will make you regret it.”

Snape’s jaw clenched. His gaze flicked between them, but his wand didn’t lower.

Dumbledore’s eyes went from Cassian to Bathsheda, then swept to the wall and the angry crimson letters still dripping faintly. “Please lower Mr Malfoy, Professor Rosier.”

Cassian didn’t move. “Sure,” he said. “Right after we interrogate him and dish out some punishment for the filth that just left his mouth.”

Snape’s head snapped to Cassian. “What could he possibly have said to warrant this?”

Cassian’s wand twitched slightly, making Malfoy jerk higher. “He thought it was clever to shout ‘Enemies of the Heir, beware. You will be next, Mudbloods.'” His tone was flat but students who heard for the second time, grimaced.

Professors gasped. McGonagall’s lips thinned so much, one could fear they’d disappeared.

“Rosier, you are overreacting…” Snape began.

“Overreacting?” Cassian barked out a laugh that didn’t sound amused. “Forgive me for thinking we shouldn’t let children shout blood-purity slogans in the middle of a bloody crime scene.”

“Cassian,” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the tension. Calm, but firmer this time. “Please. Put him down.”

Cassian looked at Malfoy, who was squirming and clutching at his collar, his face red with embarrassment and panic. He let out a long breath through his nose and gave a sharp flick of his wand. Malfoy dropped with a thud, crumpling to the floor in a heap.

“Happy now?” Cassian muttered.

Malfoy scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off with shaking hands. His pale face had gone blotchy with anger, but he didn’t dare say a word.

Snape moved in, stepping protectively in front of his house’s prized brat. “If you’ve quite finished threatening my students…”

“Threatening?” Cassian’s voice sharpened. “I was teaching the little brat that words have consequences. Someone clearly hasn’t bothered.”

“Enough.” Dumbledore didn’t raise his voice, but the single word was enough to pull everyone up short.

The Headmaster’s eyes swept the corridor again, lingering on the frozen cat in his arms and the ugly writing on the wall. “This is not the time for bickering amongst ourselves.”

Bathsheda crossed her arms, glaring at Snape. “Then perhaps he should keep his students in line before someone gets hurt.”

“Watch yourself, Babbling,” Snape hissed.

Cassian stepped between them. “Fifty points from Slytherin. And if Mr Malfoy doesn’t get a proper punishment for that slur, I will make sure this little incident makes it past Britain. Let’s see how Lucius likes his son’s mouth plastered across the continent.”

The corridor went still.

“Hurling a racial slur right after a serious crime? That’s almost a confession,” Cassian said. “You should pray I can keep my calm at the scene, Severus, otherwise your boy would be signing away his most embarrassing moments.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t forget, as a professor I have every right to protect the other students. Just that, I’m certain he isn’t clever enough to have pulled any of this off.”

Dumbledore’s sharp look shut even Snape up. “He will be punished, Professor Rosier. For now…” his gaze swept the gathered students, “…prefects, take everyone back to their quarters immediately.”

The prefects moved fast, calling out house names as they herded the gawking crowd away, a few whispered protests flaring before dying under McGonagall’s glare. Malfoy muttered something under his breath as he was ushered along, but Cassian’s sharp turn of his head made him flinch and fall silent.

“Rosier, Babbling, Argus” Dumbledore called, “come with me.”

Cassian shot Bathsheda a glance. Her jaw was tight, but she gave a nod and fell into step beside him.

“My room’s closer. You can use it, Headmaster,” Lockhart piped up from the side, flashing one of his bright smiles.

Dumbledore gave him a nod. “Thank you, Gilderoy.”

The air in Lockhart’s quarters smelled too sweet, the room drowned in perfume. The walls were plastered with smiling portraits of Lockhart in various heroic poses.

Dumbledore set Mrs Norris down on a small table near the fireplace. The cat looked carved from marble, her fur stiff and gleaming. Her glassy eyes stared at the ceiling.

Lockhart was hovering around all of them, making suggestions. “It was definitely a curse that did this to her… probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very counter-curse that would have saved her…”

Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. He hovered behind Dumbledore like a ghost, wringing his hands. “She’s… she’s not dead, is she? Tell me she ain’t dead.”

Dumbledore placed a steady hand on the caretaker’s shoulder. “No, Argus. She is not dead. She’s been Petrified.”

Snape’s voice was filled with venom. “This is Rosier’s business.”

Cassian’s head snapped around, glaring. “My name is literally in the bloody threat. You think I went and scrawled it there myself for the thrill of nearly giving Filch a heart attack?”

Snape’s lip curled, but he didn’t answer.

“Didn’t think so,” Cassian went on, folding his arms. “Now unless you’ve got something useful to add, you can kindly stop hovering like a bat in heat.”

McGonagall’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t interrupt.

Bathsheda was standing by the wall, eyes fixed on the cat. “The writing was fresh. Whoever did this wasn’t subtle about it.”

“They’ve targeted two professors by name.” Flitwick piped up, his voice tight.

“This can’t be ignored.” McGonagall said, turning to Dumbledore.

“Nor will it be,” Dumbledore said softly, his eyes still fixed on the petrified Mrs Norris.

“We need to get ahead of this. If students are involved…”

“They are not,” Snape cut in sharply.

Cassian straightened. “And you know that how, exactly? Got a crystal ball tucked in your sleeve?”

“This reeks of adult magic,” Snape hissed. “No student is capable of this level of charmwork.”

“Enough,” Dumbledore said gently, though the weight in his voice silenced even Snape. “We will investigate the matter fully. But for now, the priority is the safety of the students.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned. “The question is, who did this?”

“My cat has been Petrified!” Filch shrieked, his eyes popping. “I want to see some punishment!”

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made which will revive Mrs Norris.”

“I will make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times, I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep…”

“Excuse me,” said Snape icily, “but I believe I am the Potions master at this school.”

There was a very awkward pause.

***

After returning to their rooms, Bathsheda started pacing, her arms crossed so tightly it looked like she was holding herself together. “It is the diary, isn’t it.”

Cassian huffed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “If it is, someone stole it.”

She dropped onto the sofa next to him. “Cass. How can you leave it around?”

“Excuse me?” He turned his head sharply, brows raised. “Are we pretending now that you didn’t hand it to me in a stack of essays and say, and I quote, ‘chuck that somewhere safe before I hex it myself’?”

Bathsheda’s lips pressed thin. “And where did you ‘chuck’ it?”

“On the desk. Behind the wards. All intact when I checked last time.” Cassian waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Not like I left it in the staff loo with a note saying ‘please open and pour your soul into me.'”

She rubbed her face, fingers digging into her temples. “This isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.” His voice flattened as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “If it is not here, then someone got through the wards and lifted it.”

Bathsheda gave him a sharp look. “You really think a student could manage that?”

“Not a chance.” Cassian’s fingers tapped restlessly on the armrest. “No kid in this castle’s good enough to break those wards. I doubt most professors can.”

“Then who?”

“If I knew that, love, I would be hexing them into next week.” He sat back with a frustrated groan. “God, this is bad.”

Bathsheda pulled her knees up onto the sofa, hugging them tight. “The wall, the threat, that cat…”

“And our names,” Cassian cut in, jaw tight. “Whoever’s got the diary must’ve blabbed we were the ones who mocked him.”

Bathsheda rested her head on his shoulder. “Should we tell Dumbledore?”

Cassian stared at the ceiling for a moment, lips pressed together. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Suppose we’re about to be told off for keeping it,” he muttered.

Bathsheda’s lips twitched faintly. “Suppose we deserve it.”

“Not the first time I’ve deserved a telling-off.” He glanced at her. “Probably won’t be the last.”

The walk to Dumbledore’s office felt longer than usual. When they reached the stone gargoyle, Cassian spoke the password and it shifted aside with a grind of stone.

The spiral staircase carried them up, step by step, until they stopped outside the oak door. Cassian raised a hand, hesitated, then rapped his knuckles against the wood.

“Enter,” came the calm voice from within.

The room smelled of wax and parchment. Fawkes watched them from his perch, feathers catching the light as he shifted slightly. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, half-moon spectacles perched low on his nose.

“Professors Rosier and Babbling,” he said softly, “Is it about Mr Malfoy’s punishment?”

Cassian shook his head. “You can punish that ferret later. We’ve got a bigger problem.” He let out a sigh as he and Bathsheda dropped into the chairs across from Dumbledore’s desk.

The headmaster’s eyes flicked between them, faint lines deepening at the corners. “Go on.”

Cassian leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “This started back in Diagon Alley. Before term. Lucius Malfoy was there, swanning about. We crossed paths.” His jaw ticked faintly. “I might’ve insulted him.”

“Might have?” Bathsheda murmured, folding her arms.

“Fine, I did.” Cassian’s lips quirked for half a second before flattening again.

Dumbledore’s brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

Cassian’s fingers drummed the armrest before curling tight. “He didn’t take it well. Grabbed a book out of Bathsheda’s bag, made some remark about her relation to me, and I…” He broke off with a faint shrug. “…punched him.”

“Yes, Professor Rosier, I’ve heard… the punching,” Dumbledore repeated, the amusement clear his tone.

“Didn’t feel like a choice at the time.” Cassian shifted back in his chair. “Anyway, later that evening, Bathsheda found something in her bag. A diary. Plain, black, nothing remarkable except it hummed with magic. Not the pleasant kind.”

Bathsheda leaned forward now. “We checked it over. Wards, traces. Someone had laid some very old magic into it. It felt… wrong. Not overtly dangerous, not then, but wrong. The sort of thing that doesn’t just happen to fall into your bag.”

Cassian nodded. “We are certain Lucius slipped it in when he grabbed her things. Looked like his way of lashing out. Humiliate her, drop something cursed to shift attention if Arthur Weasley’s witch-hunt in the Ministry sniffed too close to his affairs. Fits the bastard to a T.”

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened slightly, but his hands stayed folded. “What did you do?”

“Advanced Confinement Runes. Lots of it. We locked the diary down and started testing it. At first, nothing. Just ink and paper. Then I tried writing in it.”

“And?”

“It wrote back.” Cassian’s mouth twisted faintly. “Polite, friendly even. Like having a conversation. But there was a tug… subtle, but there. Like it was trying to… dig. Nudge memories. Fish for details.”

Bathsheda’s fingers tapped against her sleeve. “We prodded carefully. Tried to keep it talking without giving too much. It gave us a name. Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change much… barely more than a flicker of the eyes. But it was there. A pause. The kind you only caught if you were watching.

Cassian’s gaze narrowed slightly. “That name mean anything to you, Headmaster?”

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