Sitting in the Great Hall for the End of Year feast, Cassian looked up at the green banners stretched all the way up to ceiling. Slytherin had taken both the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup, their table roared with celebration. The other houses put up with it, some more patiently than others. Ravenclaws weren’t really bothered, Hufflepuffs clapped politely, of course, and Gryffindors sulked like someone had personally insulted their ancestors.

It was a familiar sight, but Cassian had no real attachment to it. The old Cassian was a Slytherin, but that had nothing to do with him. If he was sorted now, he doubted he would end up in the same house. Most likely Ravenclaw… something Bathsheda had pointed out more than once in passing conversation.

“I am still not convinced you weren’t meant for my house,” she had said during one of their staff room chats. “Slytherin ambition aside, you are far too invested in knowledge to have survived among them.”

Cassian had just smirked and shrugged. “A shame, then. Could’ve saved your lot from turning into glorified human encyclopaedias.”

Now, watching the Slytherin table roar with triumph while the rest of the hall resigned itself to another year of them lording it over everyone, he found himself mildly grateful for his current position. Teaching had its headaches, but at least he didn’t have to deal with house rivalries like a fifteen-year-old with something to prove.

Dumbledore stood, raising a hand for silence, and the hall gradually settled. The usual speech followed… congratulations, reminders, well wishes for the summer. At some point, Cassian’s mind drifted to Norway. He had no idea what exactly they would find at the dig site, but if it was enough to get Bathsheda excited, it had to be worth the trip.

After the feast, the students scattered to their common rooms. Cassian lingered over his tea, enjoying the rare quiet and the absence of students screaming about House Points like it determined their immortal souls. Most of the staff had already left, save for McGonagall, who was speaking with Flitwick near the doors. Snape had vanished almost immediately after the feast ended, no doubt retreating to wherever he spent his free time being unpleasant.

Bathsheda lingered nearby, glancing over at him. “Still in one piece after your first year teaching?”

Cassian smirked. “Barely. I am convinced some of these students are actively trying to kill my enthusiasm.”

She chuckled. “Consider it a test of endurance.”

“Perfect. Just what I dreamed of as a child.”

“On the bright side, you survived, and now you get a summer away from it.” She tapped her fingers against the back of his chair. “Though, instead of resting, you decided to spend it knee-deep in ancient runes.”

“Rest is overrated,” Cassian said. “Besides, this is the first interesting thing to pop up in a while.”

Bathsheda raised an eyebrow. “Glad to know our company is so engaging.”

Cassian grinned. “You know what I mean. Hogwarts is fascinating, but it is still a school. The past year has been spent wrangling teenagers into caring about things that happened centuries before their great-great-grandparents were born.” He leaned back slightly. “It will be nice to get out and see something older than castle walls and hormonal dramas.”

She hummed. “Fair enough. Just don’t complain when you are stuck translating runes in the rain.”

“I will suffer through it.”

The conversation moved on, drifting between speculation on the dig site and the general absurdities of the past year. By the time they left the hall, most of the castle had gone quiet, students either asleep or making the most of their last night before heading home.

Cassian didn’t bother returning to his quarters immediately. Instead, he took a slow walk through the corridors, passing by empty classrooms and torch-lit hallways. Hogwarts at night had a different feel… less bustling, more ancient, the weight of history pressing in through every stone.

He found himself by the library without meaning to. The doors were closed, but he knew Madam Pince was still inside. He could hear the faint sound of pages turning, the occasional rustle of fabric as she moved about. For a moment, he considered knocking… he had a few books to return, but decided against it.

But just as Cassian turned to leave, a sharp scream cut through the quiet.

He was moving before he even processed it, legs carrying him forward as he shoved open the library doors. The sound had come from the Restricted Section. He didn’t bother being quiet as he moved. The tall bookshelves were blocking his path like a literary maze, and then he saw her.

Professor Helena Mulford lay sprawled on the ground, her body stiff, her skin darkened… not burnt, but twisted by some curse.

Cassian dropped to a knee, gripping his wand tight. “Finite.” A standard counter-curse, but he forced as much power into it as he could. He hadn’t taught this to students yet, and unlike his other spell discoveries, there was no ancient variation sitting in his mind, waiting to be recalled. He knew only this.

His pulse of magic washed over Mulford. Whatever inky curse was on her skin, it started to reced, but she was still as stiff. Her breathing was faint, but there. Thankfully, she was alive.

Cassian swore under his breath.

“Pince!” He called.

Madam Pince was already next to him, having rushed over at the sound of the scream. Her wand moved over them, casting detection spells over Mulford’s body. Cassian watched as her expression darkened with each passing second.

Before he could ask what she saw, the doors banged open. McGonagall and Dumbledore strode in, followed closely by Flitwick, Sprout, and Snape. Cassian had no idea how they’d been alerted so quickly, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

Dumbledore took one glance at the scene before stepping forward. “Madam Pince?”

Pince’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “She was cursed. Something old. Not the usual dark magic one might expect.” She flicked her wand again, scanning Mulford’s body, then exhaled sharply. “It is not active anymore, but whatever it was nearly killed her.”

McGonagall knelt beside Mulford, pressing her fingers lightly against the woman’s wrist. “She is alive, but barely.” Her gaze flicked up to Cassian. “What happened?”

Cassian straightened. “I heard a scream and found her like this.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “And yet, you are unharmed.”

Cassian shot him a flat look. “Yes, Severus, because I clearly hexed a colleague and then stuck around to admire my work.”

McGonagall ignored them both. “Did you see anything else?”

“Nothing,” Cassian said. “I cast Finite, and it seemed to slow the curse, but that is all.”

Flitwick had been inspecting Mulford closely, muttering under his breath. Now, he straightened, his usual cheer was nowhere to seen. “This wasn’t an ordinary curse. This was layered magic… something meant to spread, not just kill outright.”

Sprout glanced at Flitwick. “You are thinking the same thing I am, aren’t you?”

Flitwick gave a small nod. “Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

They all quietened, as if they knew a secret.

McGonagall’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Again.”

Dumbledore sighed through his nose, his gaze fixed on Mulford. “It does appear to follow a pattern.”

Cassian frowned. “What pattern?”

Sprout glanced at him, then at the others, as if deciding whether or not to say it. “The curse on the Defence position.”

Cassian stared. “You are joking. It is real?”

Flitwick shook his head. “It is no secret that the Defence Against the Dark Arts post has been… unstable for some time now. No professor lasts more than a year.”

McGonagall adjusted her spectacles. “And now, this.” She gestured at Mulford’s unconscious form.

Cassian resisted the urge to swear. “You are telling me there is a bloody curse on the job itself?”

Dumbledore met his gaze evenly. “That is the prevailing theory.”

Cassian let out a deep sigh to mask his curse. “Right. So, let me get this straight… Hogwarts has had a cursed teaching position for at least a decade, since I remember Professors coming and going every year, and no one thought to fix it?”

Snape scoffed. “You think fixing ancient curses is as simple as waving a wand and reciting a nursery rhyme?”

Cassian gave him a look. “I don’t know, Severus, maybe don’t keep tossing professors into the meat grinder and hoping for different results? Do you even inform them before recruiting them to their possible deaths?”

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “Enough.” She turned to Pince. “Can she be moved?”

Pince hesitated, then nodded. “The curse isn’t active anymore. Madam Pomfrey should be able to stabilise her.”

Dumbledore flicked his wand, and Mulford’s body lifted gently into the air. “Minerva, if you would accompany me to the hospital wing.”

McGonagall gave a nod and followed as Dumbledore guided Mulford out of the library. The rest of the staff lingered, their gazes still on Cassian.

Flitwick broke the silence. “You truly saw nothing else?”

Cassian shook his head. “Nothing. Just her.”

Sprout sighed, rubbing her temples. “Then there is little else we can do tonight.”

Snape huffed. “Wonderful. Another year, another cursed Defence professor.”

***

Cassian left the library, hands in his pockets, walking the dim corridors toward his room. The curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. He heard about it during his school days… well, the other Cassian’s school days, but he assumed it was just the usual nonsense students spread around. A way to make Hogwarts sound more dangerous than it already was. But seeing Mulford barely breathing on the library floor? That wasn’t a theory. Every year, the professor in that position either dropped dead, vanished, or was forced out under increasingly bizarre circumstances. It was cursed. Literally.

He clenched his fist. “At least no one would bother cursing the History of Magic position,” he muttered.

Not that it would’ve made much difference. History wasn’t exactly a high-risk job. Nobody got themselves killed explaining goblin treaties, oh wait, Binns did, but that was on him.

At worst, he would bore someone to death. Probably Snape. 

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