Bathsheda just held onto him and they landed a few metres from Rosier Manor’s outer gates, just shy of the wards.

Cassian cleared his throat. “Well. Back to the ancestral snake pit.”

Bathsheda raised an eyebrow. “Want me to walk you to the door?”

“What, so the ancestral portraits can gossip about the scandalous Norwegian mistress who clearly bewitched me?”

Her lip twitched. “Might improve your reputation.”

“Not hard,” he said. “Last I checked, I am ranked just below the cursed tea set and a whisker above the uncle who tried to taxidermy a hippogriff for Christmas.”

She gave a soft huff but didn’t move away. He looked at her properly then, a curl escaping her bun. Familiar things. Lately too familiar.

“Thanks,” he said. “For not letting me get pancaked by ancient ceiling stones.”

Her eyes didn’t shift. “You would have done the same.”

“Sure,” he said. “After screaming and probably fainting.”

She tilted her head. “You think you didn’t scream?”

“No,” he said. “I know I screamed. Just… internally. Like a dignified adult.”

Her hand rose, brushing the lapel of his coat. “You will be alright?”

“Define ‘alright.’ If you mean I will survive another awkward dinner where someone tries to quiz me on bloodline politics over roast lamb… then yes.”

She laughed and slapped his arm.

Cassian caught her waist with one hand, steadying her before she tipped over from the momentum. She didn’t pull away. Her eyes fluttered shut. He leaned in and kissed the edge of her mouth, she grinned. She pressed the side of her face to his, breath catching against his cheek.

“Revenge?” she murmured.

“Justice,” he said, “and maybe a little revenge.”

She pinched his arm. Hard.

He yelped and jerked back, nearly stepping on the cursed ward stone behind him. “Bloody! You witch.”

She just smiled sweetly, lips still curved, eyes far too smug. Then, without so much as a warning, she twisted on the spot. Apparition snapped across the quiet hillside like a whip, and she vanished.

Cassian stood there for a second, hand still half-lifted like he’d been planning to say something clever. Then lowered it. He had a meme for that.

He exhaled through his nose and turned toward the house.

Rosier Manor loomed up through the mist like it always did, stern, gothic, and dramatically oversized, the kind of place that looked like it demanded silence and polished shoes. The gates opened with a metallic groan, as if offended by his return. The gravel path under his boots had a way of reminding him that every inch of this place had been built to impress, to intimidate, to remind lesser bloodlines that they weren’t welcome.

Cassian wasn’t sure he was welcome either.

By the time he reached the front steps, the wards had already reported his presence. The massive iron-banded doors creaked open of their own accord, spilling warm. The scent hit like it always did… firewood, old parchment, and the ghost of some ancestor’s disapproval.

Inside, the hall was exactly the same. Of course it was. He doubted a single sconce had shifted since the Second Coming. The portraits on the walls watched with the usual disdain and poorly disguised nosiness.

“Welcome back, Master Rosier,” came a voice, then a sharp crack.

Towel appeared a few feet ahead, not looking up from the ground.

Cassian smiled. “Still in one piece, I see.”

The elf’s eyes darted up, then down. “Yes, Master Rosier.”

Not trembling. Not flinching. Not sprinting for the nearest exit. That alone felt like progress.

Cassian crouched a little to match his height. “How is the house?”

Towel stared somewhere over his shoulder. “As usual, Master Rosier.”

“Which means it is still a shit hole.” He stood with a grunt. “Lovely. I will be in my room, getting presentable for the grand inquisition.”

Towel bowed. “Shall I bring hot water, sir?”

“Please. And something strong enough to drown the ghost of my dignity. By that I mean coffee, not alcohol.”

“Yes, Master Rosier.” Another crack, and he was gone.

Cassian sighed and took the long walk through the entrance hall. Towel was meticulous it seemed. His room, predictably, was untouched. Not a sock out of place, not a curtain askew. The bed sat like a throne nobody liked using. Books lined the shelves in perfect rows.

He threw his coat across the footboard, tugged off his boots, and groaned as he stretched. His wand clattered onto the desk. The chair squeaked when he sat.

Towel returned with a cup of coffee, bowl of steaming water and a clean towel folded like a formal letter.

***

The knock came before he was halfway through changing. He froze, still one arm inside his shirt, and called out, “Yes?”

“Master Cassian,” came Towel’s voice again, hesitant this time. “Your father is expecting you in the study.”

Of course he bloody was.

Cassian yanked the shirt the rest of the way on, buttoned it while glaring at the mirror, and smoothed his hair with damp fingers. Not perfect, but respectable enough not to be accused of rebellion.

When he stepped into the study, Regulus didn’t look up. Just flicked a hand toward the chair opposite, still buried in a thick folder of parchment.

Cassian moved without rush and dropped into the chair. He didn’t speak. No point. They both knew the script. His father would finish reading, sip something expensive, and then launch into the next chapter of “How Not To Disgrace The Family Name: A Rosier Memoir.”

Regulus turned a page. Focused like it wasn’t a petty business report but a sacred text deciphering the fate of empires.

Cassian just tapped his knee ryhtmically. He wasn’t uncomfortable. Hell, he had more awkward breakfasts.

Finally, Regulus folded the folder closed, bound the binder tight, and leaned back. “You are back.”

“Noticed that, did you?”

The older man ignored the jibe. He reached for the decanter, poured himself a drink… amber liquid, no ice, slow pour. No offer for Cassian, of course.

He then looked Cassian up and down, eyes sweeping once from collar to cuff. “What did you discover?”

Cassian shrugged. “Nothing worth mentioning really. A cave full of angry runes, possibly older than agriculture, that collapsed before we could do anything.”

Regulus didn’t raise to it. “Yet you stayed for weeks.”

Cassian grinned, wide enough to show teeth. “Are you asking if I was evading home? I was just enjoying my summer.”

“In the far north?”

Cassian nodded, folding one ankle over the other. “You know how it is. British weather made me allergic to sun.”

Regulus didn’t return the smile. His glass hovered mid-air. “What are your intentions with that… Professor?”

Cassian’s jaw twitched, he forced it to ease before it could lock again. He slipped his hands into his pockets, curling into a fist. “That professor is an esteemed Ancient Rune expert. And my friend.”

Regulus’s voice was terse. “She is a mudblood sympathiser.”

Cassian didn’t react. Just took a deep breath. The way a diver might before going under.

“She is also smarter than half the Wizengamot, has three published translations of pre-standardised script, and saved my life in Norway. But sure,” he said, tongue sharp, “let’s lead with slurs.”

“Funny, you never spoke like that about our own.”

“I am stating facts.” He sat straighter. Then took another breath. Best not to look too eager for a row. “Also allows me to blend in. She is reputable. Might come in handy long-term, if things shift at Hogwarts.”

Regulus raised one brow like Cassian had dropped a dead bird on the table.

“I see,” he said. No inflection. No verdict. He never gave the verdict right away.

Cassian leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You sent me there to make connections. I am making them. Just not the pure-blood campaign trail sort.”

Regulus reached for the decanter again. Still didn’t offer.

“She is not one of us,” he said at last.

Cassian snorted. “What does that even mean anymore? She is published. Tenured. The Ministry consults her. You think a bloodline trumps that?”

“It always has.”

“Not in the classroom,” Cassian said. “Not when half your students would rather quote her than Carrow.”

Regulus stared dead in his eyes, taking a slow sip. “You sound like you admire her.”

“I respect her,” Cassian said. “Which, for a Rosier, I realise is practically a confession.”

Regulus set his glass down. “Is it a distraction?”

Cassian blinked. “Is what?”

“This entanglement.”

Cassian’s laugh came sharper than intended. “You mean is she keeping me from brainwashing the youth into goose-stepping Rosier foot soldiers?”

Regulus didn’t rise. “Watch your tongue.”

He shrugged, raising hands. “Just making sure I am following the script.”

Regulus studied him like a chess piece he hadn’t decided whether to sacrifice or crown.

“You are still in your seat at Hogwarts,” he said. “Which means you are still useful. Don’t mistake tolerance for approval.”

Cassian nodded. “Yes, father. I am aware.”

“You understand what is at stake, then,” Regulus asked, returning to papers.

Cassian cocked his head. “The family legacy, my eternal usefulness, and the unspoken horror of me entangling with a reputable scholar with non-rosy blood. Yes. All accounted for.”

Regulus’s eyes narrowed.

“You are still young enough to course-correct,” he said, setting the glass down. “If your… interests begin interfering with the expectations of your post…”

“You will yank the leash.” Cassian’s voice was light. “Understood.”

Regulus leaned back, fingers steepled like the chair came with a built-in altar. “Don’t be flippant.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Cassian tapped his feet. “You made it perfectly clear. Be useful. Stay useful. Don’t embarrass the family brand. Trust me, Father, I memorised the motto.”

“It is not a brand.”

“Oh no, heaven forbid we commercialise ancestral hubris. That would be undignified.”

“You always had a sharp tongue,” he said. “It is a pity it took you this long to learn to point it somewhere useful.”

Cassian tilted his head, corner of his mouth curling. “Didn’t realise you were keeping a scoreboard.”

“It is not a scoreboard,” Regulus said evenly. “It is a ledger. Scoreboards forgive. Ledgers don’t.”

Cassian’s smile sharpened. He wanted to snap back, say ‘Well, jot this down then… I’ve taught a year’s worth of Hogwarts students to ask questions instead of swallowing propaganda. I’ve introduced half-bloods to primary source analysis, and I’ve had three Slytherins say they prefer history to Defence, and convinced a Gryffindor to ask “why” before hexing first. If that doesn’t count as progress, I don’t know what does.’ But he knew he couldn’t, instead he got up, “Anything else father?”

“Was anything recovered?”

Cassian shook his head. “Too riksy. The Ministry sealed it. They might unseal it later, when they have more curse-breakers and fewer scruples.”

He waved a hand. “Just don’t fall. Know that she is a tool for you, nothing more.”

Cassian snorted. “Sure, Father. Always the dutiful Rosier, aren’t I?”

He left the room without looking back.

Spoiler

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep