New year started soon enough. Cassian made the tactical decision not to repeat last year’s little humiliation tour, and Bathsheda, saint that she apparently was, offered to side-along Apparate him straight to Hogsmeade. Saved him the joy of another round of sitting on the Hogwarts Express looking like someone’s older cousin who got lost on the wrong platform.

Last year’s trip still lingered in his mind…. wedged between two excitable second-years, surrounded by Pumpkin Pasties and the faint whiff of someone’s ferret familiar. He never recovered emotionally. Nor had his dignity.

This time, however, he landed on firm earth just outside the Hogsmeade wardline, cloak still on, hair only mildly tousled by the journey. At least he could still stand.

Bathsheda dusted off her robe. “Didn’t drop you. We are making progress.”

He patted himself down. “No internal bleeding. Five stars.”

The village was quiet, early. Shops hadn’t all opened yet, and the early chill nipped at his nose. Cassian inhaled through it, eyes on the narrow road leading up to the castle.

Somewhere behind the mist, Hogwarts loomed.

“I can’t believe I am back already,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Didn’t we just leave?”

Bathsheda started walking. “You got used to not being watched by fifteen generations of dead Rosiers?”

“Almost. They let me read in peace, and no one tried to hex my eggs at breakfast.”

“You should write a memoir. ‘My Summer Among the Reasonably Civilised.'”

He followed her. “Subtitle: ‘No Portraits Sneered at Me Once.'”

A carriage waited at the foot of the road. Not the full Hogwarts fanfare, just one of the staff transports, modest but practical. The Thestrals pulling it gave him a familiar look. One of them sneezed.

“Nice to be remembered,” Cassian muttered, climbing in after her.

She raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you can see Thestrals?”

Cassian looked at her like she just asked if he believed in unicorns. Terrible comparison, in hindsight, he seen unicorns last year. “Yeah. You can’t?”

She shook her head, scarf bouncing slightly. “Your lack of magical knowledge baffles me. How did you even graduate?”

He groaned. “Nepotism and charm. Maybe a deal with a ghost. Jury is still out.”

She giggled. “Thestrals are visible only to those who’ve seen death.”

That shut him up.

He glanced at the bony creatures tugging the carriage… silent, winged things with hollow eyes and too-thin skin stretched over too-much bone.

“Was it someone you knew?” she asked.

He shrugged, eyes on the treeline as the Thestrals clicked their hooves against the hardened path. “Not really. I don’t know. Might’ve been my great-grandfather? He died when I was small. Maybe I was there. It is all a bit fogged.”

Bathsheda didn’t push. Just watched the trees roll by, scarf hiding half her face.

“Reckon they added a fresh turret over summer? Or did the castle just sprout another wing out of spite?”

Bathsheda raised an eyebrow.

He smirked. “I wouldn’t put it past the place. Probably to house the ghosts that failed their NEWTs.”

By the time the carriage crunched to a stop at the front gate, the sky had turned the kind of grey that promised rain and delivered dread. He hopped down first, then offered a hand as if he were escorting a duchess rather than a woman who once chucked a textbook at a snow wolf.

As they walked up the wide stone steps toward the main doors of the castle, she gave him a side-eye.

“Sooo,” Bathsheda started, drawing the word out slowly, “Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout want to speak to us.”

Cassian side-eyed her back. “What about?”

She gave him a long look. “Us.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

She didn’t elaborate, just kept walking. He caught up, lips twitching. “That sounds promising. Maybe they want us to do joint lectures. A thrilling hour on the ethical applications of spiral-based rune traps.”

She didn’t even glance at him. “Or maybe they want to discuss the fact that two professors vanished into a magical hazard zone and came back flirting like fourth-years.”

“Right,” he said, mouth dry. “Could be that.”

Bathsheda paused at the top of the landing, hand on the bannister, then turned toward the corridor. “You think it will be a proper dressing down or just the passive-aggressive kind where they quote school guidelines and pretend we aren’t snogging?”

Cassian considered. “Sprout will try to be subtle. McGonagall will hand us a biscuit and then disembowel us verbally.”

Bathsheda smirked. “Sounds about right.”

They veered off toward the staff wing. Cassian rubbed the back of his neck.

“What is the issue, really? We are two adults who admire each other’s naked body. Wait… that is just me. And it is in my mind. Unhear everything I just said.”

Bathsheda didn’t miss a beat. Her palm landed sharp on his arm, no hesitation. “This is the problem.”

He grinned through it, rubbing the spot. “That felt like affection.”

She gave him a look. Not amused. Not exactly horrified either. Somewhere in between “You are lucky I haven’t hexed you” and “Don’t test me before tea.”

Cassian glanced down the corridor like someone might pop out from behind a tapestry and take notes. “I am fairly certain I saw McGonagall and Dumbledore exchange a look once. The kind that says ‘We’ve shared a cupboard.'”

Bathsheda stopped mid-step. Her eyes narrowed.

“I would strongly suggest never to say that again out loud.”

He held up both hands. “Just an observation. A historical one.”

“Then I am revoking your tenure.”

They pushed through the side door near the staff quarters. “So,” he said, dropping his voice. “If this turns into a stern talk about professionalism and Hogwarts’ reputation, do we pretend it is new or just nod and promise not to snog near classrooms?”

Bathsheda shot him a look. “I am not kissing you in the history wing. It smells like old parchment and crushed egos.”

“I resent that,” he muttered. “My parchments aren’t old.”

They reached the antechamber outside McGonagall’s office. The door was shut, and the brass plaque still looked like it could hex you for breathing too close. Just as he remembered. Cassian gave it a knock, leaning against the wall.

The door clicked open a few seconds later, and Professor Sprout stepped out. She wore the same expression one might have after wrangling a sentient shrub.

“Oh, there you are,” she said, brushing her hands off. “Minerva is just inside.”

Bathsheda nodded politely. Cassian gave her the kind of smile you wear when you knew someone is about to scold you but might still offer biscuits.

Inside, McGonagall stood by the window, arms crossed. She turned at the sound of the door, and Cassian swore he felt the room drop a few degrees.

“Professor Rosier. Professor Babbling.”

“Morning,” he offered. “Lovely day. Overcast. Dour. Good for discipline.”

She ignored him. “Please, sit.”

They did. Chairs that looked fine at a distance but sank the moment you committed. Cassian shuffled a bit until his knees stopped arguing.

McGonagall returned to her desk and settled behind it, her lips thinning.

Sprout eased into the seat beside her, folding her hands like she was about to see a show.

“I will be brief,” McGonagall said. “There is talk. Whispers.”

Cassian leaned forward, hands steepled dramatically. “Deputy Headmaster, if someone told you I was secretly teaching the Thestrals Norse grammar, I assure you, it was entirely consensual.”

Bathsheda didn’t blink. McGonagall didn’t move.

Sprout, bless her, smiled faintly. “We are not here to interrogate.”

Cassian blinked. “Oh.”

McGonagall looked over the rim of her glasses, that measuring look of hers always delivered. “We don’t have a rule against staff dating,” she said, voice cool as dungeons. “Though we do ask it remain as private as possible in front of students. Still, it is best we go over things now… expectations, boundaries, possible outcomes.”

Cassian opened his mouth. Closed it again. He glanced sideways at Bathsheda, who was sitting like she hadn’t just been told her personal life was now under Departmental Review. One eyebrow was slightly raised. That was her version of shouting.

“I see,” he said, nodding like a man halfway through a disciplinary hearing for excessive charm. “So this is the part where you ask whether we plan to snog behind the bookcases or simply disrupt the entire curriculum with scandal.”

McGonagall did not smile. “I trust you are aware Hogwarts has a reputation to uphold.”

“Of course,” Cassian replied. “One built on centuries of magical education, Quidditch injuries, and very well-behaved ghosts.”

Bathsheda kicked him lightly under the table.

Sprout, angel she was, tried to smooth things over. “You’ve both always conducted yourselves professionally. This isn’t a rebuke.”

McGonagall didn’t blink. “But it is a reminder.”

Cassian sat up straighter. “Well. Consider me reminded. No lip-locking in the middle of first-year lectures. Keep the innuendo out of the curriculum. No romantic rune-pairing activities.”

McGonagall nodded. “That would be best. That said, Hogwarts has long-standing protections in place for unforeseen situations. If you intend to expand your family,” a pause to deliver her metaphor, “do it elsewhere.”

Cassian stared.

His mouth opened. Then stayed there.

“Wards can do that?”

McGonagall didn’t answer immediately. Sprout cleared her throat.

Cassian leaned forward like he just spotted a forbidden footnote in a manuscript. “Sorry, just to clarify… are you saying the castle comes with built-in contraception?”

The Deputy Headmistress’s expression didn’t shift. “Yes.”

Sprout gave a small, reassuring smile, like this conversation was completely normal. “It is not intrusive. Just… protective. Has been for decades.”

Cassian blinked. “Of what, exactly? Students? Staff? The furniture?”

McGonagall’s voice didn’t waver. “All three. The founders were… thorough.”

Bathsheda crossed her arms, distancing herself from the conversation. She didn’t say anything, which was already a win.

Cassian rubbed his jaw, still squinting like he hadn’t read this in the Hogwarts Handbook. “So if, hypothetically, a passionate but deeply responsible couple decided to, let’s say, engage in extracurricular physical proximity within these hallowed halls…”

McGonagall cut in. “The magic would prevent any lasting consequence.”

Cassian nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Right. Right. Good to know. Very forward-thinking. Salazar must be the architect of this great invention.”

Sprout coughed again. “The protections aren’t meant to interfere with private relationships. Just to ensure no one gets… distracted by complications.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Well. That is very considerate. Nothing says romance like magical sterilisation.” He gave Bathsheda a sidelong look. “Hogwarts, now officially the world’s largest contraceptive field. Charming.”

Her lips twitched. Barely. 

McGonagall didn’t rise to it. “This is not a warning. Simply information we believed prudent to share.”

Cassian clasped his hands. “Much appreciated. I will be sure to inform any interested parties that Hogwarts is, in fact, the safest possible place to make bad decisions.”

Sprout’s mouth trembled.

McGonagall stood. “You are both excellent educators. That hasn’t changed. We trust you will continue to conduct yourselves with discretion.”

Bathsheda rose. “Of course.”

Cassian followed, hands tucked behind his back like he might accidentally do jazz hands otherwise. “We will be the picture of propriety.”

“See that you are,” McGonagall said, and turned back to her papers like none of it had happened.

Spoiler

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