Days passed in much the same way. Classes, paperwork, the occasional meeting where Snape glared at him like he was some particularly stubborn bit of dirt that wouldn’t scrub off. Cassian kept his lessons lively with illusions and demonstrations, and somehow, Hogwarts’ finest didn’t turn History of Magic into their nap time.

Before long, the first term was over. The school emptied for the holidays, leaving behind only a handful of students and staff. Cassian stayed, partly because he had work to do, partly because he had no interest in a Rosier family Christmas. The second term arrived with the usual chaos… students grumbling about returning to routine, professors already preparing for exams, and Cassian, as always, making sure his classes didn’t become the designated nap time of Hogwarts.

One evening, after a long day of grading essays that ranged from passable to ‘did this person even read the assignment?’ Cassian ended up in the staff lounge, nursing a headache and pretending the crackling fire was soothing rather than irritating, with Bathsheda Babbling sat near, a book balanced on one knee.

Cassian had barely spoken to her when they were both students. She was a few years ahead, known for being the kind of student who actually enjoyed Runes, which had made her an alien species in his book back then. Oh, and a different house. Now, though, they shared the same workplace, and over the past few months, they somehow fallen into the habit of sitting together in moments like this… silent, companionable, each lost in their own reading or paperwork.

He dropped into the armchair opposite her with a sigh, setting down his stack of essays.

Bathsheda glanced up. “That bad?”

Cassian picked up the top essay, skimmed the opening paragraph, then flipped it over and let it drop onto the table, so she could see for hersell. “Some of them make me question if literacy is actually a requirement for Hogwarts admission.”

She chuckled. “If they struggle with English, I dread to think how they will manage Ancient Runes.”

Cassian smirked, flipping through another essay. “You might be underestimating their creativity. I had one student cite ‘a reliable source’ for an assignment. When I asked what source, she said ‘my uncle.'”

Bathsheda snorted, shutting her book. “And?”

“I told her unless her uncle wasn’t Merlin in disguise, that answer wasn’t going to cut it.” He tossed the essay onto the growing pile of disappointment. “Judging by her glare, I am now on her family’s ‘people to hex on sight’ list.”

“Clearly a flaw in your teaching,” she said with a smile.

“Obviously. Next time, I will accept ‘my mum said so’ as solid historical evidence.”

She shook her head, amused, and took a sip of her tea. The fire crackled, filling the comfortable silence between them. The staff lounge was mostly empty. Sinistra was hunched over her papers like the constellations themselves had betrayed her, quill scratching furiously, and Vector had stormed out earlier, muttering about “bloody numbers rebelling again” like Arithmancy was a sentient enemy.

Cassian filled his cup, taking a sip. “How is your lot handling their work?”

Bathsheda hummed, considering. “Not terribly, though translating runes still gives some of them a headache. Half the class thinks they can just memorise them like spell incantations.”

“They think they can brute-force a language?”

“They are trying,” she said, setting down her cup. “One poor Ravenclaw attempted to ‘wing it’ on a translation exam. He guessed half the meanings and confidently informed me that an ancient Norse inscription meant ‘May your fields be fertile and your goats obedient.'”

Cassian barked a laugh. “Please tell me that wasn’t an actual rune.”

“Sadly, no. The real translation was closer to ‘Honour the ancestors, lest they forsake you.’ But I appreciate the creativity.”

“Points for effort.”

She smirked. “I gave him points for making me laugh.”

The door swung open, and Quirrell stepped in, looking mildly surprised to see them. “Oh… good evening.”

Cassian nodded in greeting. “Quirrell.”

Bathsheda glanced up. “Quirinus.”

Quirrell hesitated, then grabbed himself a cup of tea before sitting down across from them. “I assume the students are being particularly disastrous if you are both here complaining about them.”

“Not complaining,” Cassian said, nudging his stack of essays. “Merely appreciating the depths of their academic struggles.”

Quirrell huffed a laugh, stirring his tea. “Muggle Studies isn’t much different. I had one student argue that electricity must be some kind of controlled lightning magic. Another tried to claim Muggles use ‘tiny house-elves’ to make machines work.”

Cassian raised a brow. “And you didn’t let them run with that?”

Bathsheda smirked. “Now that would make for an interesting essay.”

“Oh, some of their theories are… creative,” Quirrell said. “One of them is convinced that televisions are a form of Divination. Moving pictures that talk? Obviously, Muggles are peering into the future.”

Cassian snorted. “Right. And telephones are just enchanted mirrors, but worse.”

Quirrell sipped his tea. “I do wonder, though… how long before the wizarding world is forced to acknowledge that Muggles aren’t as clueless as we like to think?”

Cassian tapped his fingers, “Probably when Muggle technology advances to the point where they start asking the right questions.”

Cassian missed this part of teaching… sitting around, complaining about students with other professors. In his past life, it had been the only real catharsis in chaotic schools. Hogwarts wasn’t much different.

After a while, Quirrell finished his tea and excused himself. Sinistra already left earlier. That left just Cassian and Bathsheda, the fire casting flickering light across the room as she stifled a yawn.

“Excuse me,” she said, stretching slightly. “It is getting late.”

Cassian waved a hand. “Let me walk you to your quarters, m’lady.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “My, what a gentleman.”

They left the staff lounge, stepping into the quiet corridors of Hogwarts. Most of the castle was still awake… students sneaking in last-minute common room chatter, Prefects making their rounds, Filch lurking in some shadowy corner with Mrs Norris.

Cassian spotted the sixth-years sneaking down the corridor, completely unfazed by his presence. The girl even smiled at him.

“You know I should punish you for breaking curfew, right?” he said, stopping just short of crossing his arms.

The Hufflepuff girl grinned. “Come on, Professor R, I thought you were cool.”

Cassian let out a chuckle. Did they really think he would cave just to be ‘cool’? Naive. “Off to bed before I actually start caring enough to deduct points.”

The girl booed, and the boy, Charlie Weasley, slumped with a groan. “Okay, sir.”

Cassian shook his head as they turned back. At least they weren’t the worst offenders. He caught fifth-years last week trying to hex Filch’s mop so it would clean on its own. Not a bad idea, really, but also not his problem.

Beside him, Bathsheda watched with an amused glance. “You are surprisingly lenient.”

“They weren’t causing real trouble. Let them think they got away with something,” Cassian said. “Keeps them from pushing further.”

Bathsheda hummed, unconvinced but not arguing. They kept walking through the dim corridors, the distant echo of laughter and moving staircases filling the castle’s usual nighttime quiet.

“You ever think about taking on an apprentice?” she asked.

Cassian raised a brow. “Why? You looking for a career change?”

She laughed. “Hardly. But the way your students talk, you might as well be building a cult.”

Cassian snorted. “Good to know I am Hogwarts’ latest cult leader.”

“What do you think those two were up to?”

Cassian shot her a look, raising an eyebrow in a very Dumbledore-esque way. “I believe we both know what two very hormonal teenagers were up to.”

Bathsheda chuckled. “Probably.”

“You ever sneak around after curfew when you were a student?” she asked.

Cassian smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

She rolled her eyes. “That is not an answer.”

“I plead the fifth.”

Bathsheda huffed a laugh. “Wrong country, wrong government.”

“Same principle.”

She glanced at Cassian, who met her gaze with a smile.

“I do recall a certain older witch back in my school days,” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “Always busy, always on some errand. The serious type… intimidating, even. But according to the older boys in my House, quite the heartbreaker.” His smiled suggestively. “I heard more than a few grumbling about failed attempts to invite you to Hogsmeade.”

Bathsheda raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “That wass what they told you?”

“That, and a few tragic tales of rejection,” Cassian said, stretching out the last word like it was some great tragedy. “Apparently, you left a trail of disappointed suitors in your wake.”

“Please. Half of them were insufferable.”

“That sounds about right,” he said.

Bathsheda glanced at him. “What about you? I don’t remember you being particularly…”

Cassian rolled his eyes, “You can say it. I wasn’t liked.” 

She chuckled, “Yeah. You weren’t very liked back then.”

Cassian shrugged. “I wasn’t.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Didn’t stop you from getting attention.”

Cassian shrugged. “Not in a good way. I could barely cast a spell, but I had an ego the size of a divine. Not the best combination.”

Bathsheda snorted. “Merlin, you must’ve been such a git.”

“Oh, I was,” he said, stretching his arms, “Arrogance without the talent to back it up? A nightmare. I think half the staff wanted to hex me on sight.”

“Only half?”

He smirked. “I was a Rosier. Half of them assumed I would grow into the arrogance eventually. The other half probably expected me to be ‘handled’ before I embarrassed the family too much.”

“How reassuring.”

He shrugged. “I imagine there were some wagers placed. Would I end up disgraced, disowned, or dead before thirty? The odds must’ve been thrilling.”

She studied him for a moment. “Yet here you are, terrorising students with history lectures instead.”

“Shocking, I know.” Cassian shook his head. “I can only imagine the family disappointment.”

Bathsheda smirked. “They must be devastated.”

He chuckled. “Not as much as they would be if they realised I actually enjoy teaching.”

That made her pause. Not because it was surprising… anyone with half a brain could see Cassian wasn’t just going through the motions. It was the way he said it, like he was only just admitting it to himself.

“You should,” she said simply. “You are good at it.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Not bad, coming from the Runes professor.”

Bathsheda rolled her eyes. “If I didn’t think you were, I wouldn’t bother humouring these conversations.”

He grinned, his eyebrow dancing. “So I should be flattered?”

“Immensely.”

As they reached her door, Bathsheda stopped, one hand resting lightly against the frame.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “What, no invitation? I am wounded.”

She shook her head with a laugh. “I am saving you from the agony of watching me sort through twenty essays on the ‘philosophical applications of runes.'”

“Sounds riveting.”

She gave him a deadpan. “You would lose interest the moment someone tried to argue that runes have ‘innate energy’ rather than being conduits.”

“You wound me again. I am very invested in the academic brilliance of Hogwarts’ finest.”

“Right. I am sure you don’t have an entire pile of half-read essays collecting dust somewhere.”

“Not collecting dust,” he corrected. “Actively mocking me from my desk.”

She shook her head, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You should go before I start thinking you are stalling.”

“Me? Stalling?” Cassian placed a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

Bathsheda rolled her eyes and reached for the door handle. “Goodnight, Cassian.”

He gave her a lazy salute. “Try not to dream about cursed runes.”

She hummed, pushing the door open. “And you try not to fail half your students.”

Cassian smirked, stepping back. “It will be difficult, but I shall.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the corridor.

Cassian sighed through his nose, shaking his head as he turned away.

Spoiler

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