Dumbledore’s hands folded together on the desk, but he didn’t speak.

“Tom Riddle,” Cassian pressed. “That name came out of the diary before it vanished. Was he Voldemort? Is that who opened the Chamber fifty years ago and pinned it on Hagrid?” His voice dropped slightly. “Voldemort could speak Parseltongue. I don’t buy for a second anyone else could’ve been pulling the strings on that monster.”

Dumbledore’s fingers drummed the desk, then stilled. His eyes, normally warm and twinkling, were sharp now.

Cassian tilted his head. “Go on. Say I am wrong.”

The Headmaster sighed slowly. “You are not wrong.”

Dumbledore’s gaze slid away for a moment, towards the snow swirling beyond the tall window. “Tom Riddle was a student here once. A gifted boy. Clever… dangerously so. And yes… I suspected he was the one who opened the Chamber the first time. He framed Hagrid for it, knowing how eager the Ministry would be to find a culprit.”

Cassian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And no one thought to, I don’t know, check the boy?”

Dumbledore’s tone softened, though there was an edge under it. “He was persuasive. Very skilled at winning trust. Even mine, for a time.”

“Of course he was,” Cassian muttered, rubbing his jaw. “And this diary we lost? You think it is his work?”

“I suspect so,” Dumbledore admitted. 

Cassian snorted. “Fantastic.”

He ran a hand through his hair and started pacing.

“We need to fill the castle with roosters,” he said.

That got a faint twitch from the corner of Dumbledore’s mouth. “I doubt the Board of Governors would approve of such a measure.”

“Board of Governors can shove it,” Cassian muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “We got a bloody basilisk running around and some second-year is going to stumble on it in the loo.”

“The creature has remained hidden so far,” Dumbledore said mildly.

“Hidden because the diary wants it hidden,” Cassian shot back. “But it is not going to stay that way forever, is it? Sooner or later, someone is going to catch a full look. And then it is not Petrification we are talking about anymore… it is funerals.”

Dumbledore leaned back, the lines at his eyes deepening. “I will take your recommendation under advisement.”

Cassian let out a short laugh. “That is a very diplomatic way of saying ‘No chance in hell.'”

“The castle is large, Cassian. Hagrid reported most had been killed. And roosters are not subtle creatures.”

“That is the point,” Cassian said, turning sharply on his heel. “Let the thing hear one crow and crawl back into whatever hole it came from. That’s better than waiting for it to add another name to the Petrified list or worse.”

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. “You speak as though you’ve fought a basilisk before.”

“No,” Cassian said flatly. “But I’ve read enough to know they’re bad news. I don’t fancy learning the hard way.” He paused, jaw tightening. “You knew about this, didn’t you? You’ve suspected for years.”

Dumbledore didn’t answer at once. He reached over and adjusted a scroll on the corner of his desk. “I’ve had theories.”

“Brilliant,” Cassian muttered. “Glad to know theories are keeping the kids safe.”

“Cassian.” The Headmaster’s voice didn’t rise, but there was a firmness in it now. “Do not assume I have been idle.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Then tell me what we are doing. Because so far it looks like you are waiting for the monster to get bored and pack up.”

He paused, seemed deep in thought, “We are dealing with forces older and more complex than you realise.”

“Oh, I realise,” Cassian said, stepping back from the desk. “I realise there is a cursed diary floating about, a snake the size of a train slithering through the plumbing, and the name ‘Rosier’ smeared in blood on the walls. Forgive me for wanting more than tea and riddles.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but the faintest sigh escaped him.

Cassian shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Fine. I will sort the roosters myself. If you hear crowing from the third-floor corridor, you know who to thank.”

***

Cassian and Bathsheda stepped into the Ministry’s Yule Ball, arm in arm, as the caller’s voice rang out across the ballroom.

The room glittered. Spell-charmed garlands looped around pillars, and the air smelled faintly of pine and oversteeped mulled wine. Everyone looked a bit too polished, like they’d been ironed before walking in.

“Professor Cassian Rosier and Professor Bathsheda Babbling of Hogwarts.”

That earned them more than a few heads turning.

Cassian gave the crowd a quick once-over. Three years of ignoring these invitations. Regulus had pestered. Magnus had even tried to bribe. Cassian had burned every letter. Now he was here. On record.

“Already regretting it?” Bathsheda asked under her breath, mouth barely moving.

“Oh, deeply,” Cassian murmured. “Is it too soon to fake a hex attack?”

“Too soon. At least wait until someone spills champagne on your shoes.”

He tilted his head. “Right. Then I can hex them and call it justice.”

Bathsheda laughed softly and adjusted his robe. Her dress shimmered with something too complex for normal tailoring as she moved, ancient threadwork, soft bronze on deep blue.

Cassian’s robes were plainer by comparison, black, cut sharp at the edges, collar a touch higher than strictly formal. 

They walked deeper into the room, past silver trays floating gently through the air. A waiter offered flutes of something sparkling and was ignored by both.

He followed her gaze. Toward the back. Toward Lucius Malfoy, who looked up just as they approached. The smile that curled on his face was thin and sharp.

Cassian smiled back. Broader.

Lucius said nothing. Neither did Cassian.

Then someone stepped between them, Thaddeus Rowle, all gold trim and inherited arrogance. “Ah, my dear, Rosier,” he greeted, tone as smooth as old oil, “we were beginning to think you were allergic to glassware and social standing.”

Cassian didn’t slow. “Both true, unfortunately. But I made peace with one of them.”

Rowle blinked. “Which?”

Cassian smiled, “That’s the mystery.” 

Before Rowle could reply, someone else cut in, amused.

“Well, if it isn’t my dear cousin.” 

Cassian looked down. “Selena,” he said, smiling. “What are you doing here? Thought you hated all this.”

She huffed. “I do. And what about you? Don’t you hate them even more?”

Cassian shrugged. “I’m on the job. Don’t tell anyone.”

Selena rolled her eyes. “Madam Goshawk dragged me in. Come on, she’s over there, hiding behind the string quartet like it’s a war strategy.”

Cassian glanced that way. “Classic Miranda. Cloak of invisibility made entirely of violins, trying not to make eye contact with anyone under seventy.”

Selena laughed lightly, as she looked at Batsheda.

Bathsheda gave Selena a smile, which the girl returned with something halfway between a smile and a curtsy.

“Lovely dress,” Selena added, eyes flicking over the bronze-thread shimmer.

That was enough to set them off. Selena had questions about preservation charms, layering theory, fabric-bound sigils… Cassian gave up before his brain tapped out.

He sighed and followed, hands in his pockets, glancing sidelong at a decorative suit of armour that looked less polished than half the robes in the room.

Selena led them to Madam Goshawk, “Master, my cousin, Cassian Rosier. And Professor Babbling.”

Madam Goshawk barely turned, her eyes passed over Bathsheda, then lingered on Cassian as if she was trying to remember whether she’d hexed him or not.

“Ah,” she said at last. “I remember. All Outstanding.” She gave Bathsheda a clipped nod, then turned to Cassian. “And not so Outstanding.”

Cassian grinned. “You said I was Outstanding.”

She snorted. “Outstandingly incompetent was the phrase.”

“I focus on the positive.”

“That much is clear.”

Bathsheda barely stifled a laugh, pretending to sip from the wrong side of her glass.

Selena, bless her, tried to steer things back to polite territory. “He teaches now,” she offered, like she was explaining a rescued kneazle had found work in a post office.

“Yes,” Miranda said dryly. “So I’ve heard.”

Bathsheda smiled politely. “Good to see you again, Madam Goshawk.”

Miranda gave a short nod. “How is your grandmother?”

“She passed away five years ago,” Bathsheda said, with a small, awkward chuckle.

Miranda sighed, faint and unbothered. “Did she? My condolences.”

Cassian looked off to the side, vaguely considering drowning himself in the punch bowl.

Madam Goshawk’s notes were on the table. It seemed she was studying them before they arrived. Cassian squinted at one, recognising the weave of a dual-trigger charm folded into what looked like a blinking ward.

“That’s a layered tap-switch bind. Fifth line’s different though, anchor’s off-centre.”

Goshawk’s brows lifted slightly. “You recognise it?”

“Was stolen off a sixth-century Kemetian prayer wall,” he replied. “Badly mistranslated in the Ravenna archives, though. They got the verb structure upside down.”

Selena glanced between them.

Goshawk looked up at him, eyes sharper now, glinting. “Can you really tell that?”

Cassian gave a loose shrug, like it wasn’t worth fussing over. “I mean, it is pretty obvious, but yeah, once you know the trick, it’s glaring. Took scholars a few decades to notice that little mirror trick, which is more surprising.”

She squinted at him, then reached into the stack on the table and pulled a book free. The spine cracked faintly as she flipped it open. Reflection of Ancient Texts, the title read. She tapped the name printed beneath it.

“C. Rosier. Is this you?”

Cassian glanced down at it. “Who else?”

Even Selena gasped. “I thought that was Great-great-great uncle Coriolanus. We’ve been trying to find him.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Didn’t he die?”

Selena shook her head, lips pressing together. “I doubt it. Although he did… seclude himself from earthly matters.”

Cassian gave her a flat look. “That’s called dying, Selena.”

“He writes occasionally,” she muttered. “Usually to correct footnotes.”

“Then he’s worse, editing from beyond the grave.”

Not a Spoiler, Just an image! ↓

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Every now and then I think I feel engagement. Turns out it’s just the candle flickering.

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