Warning: This chapter may contain snogging. Proceed with caution (or excitement).

Cassian didn’t dive in like the rest. He started slow. Bit of veg first, steamed and healthy, fibre, thank you very much. Followed by a decent portion of protein, roast lamb, a slice of chicken breast, and something suspiciously like lentils hiding in the corner of a bowl. Healthy fat next. Bit of olive oil from the salad, few walnuts scattered into his plate like contraband. Then a small serving of barley pilaf. Finally, finished with a scoop of sauerkraut. Prebiotics. Gut health, apparently. Hogwarts’ kitchens, bless them, catered to every possible taste… including historically accurate dietary quirks.

Bathsheda gave him a look like he just performed surgery on his plate. “Are you portioning that by color or size?”

“I am trying not to die of nutritional incompetence.”

“You work at a castle where the pudding refills itself.”

“And I plan to live long enough to judge that fact for several decades.”

She snorted and passed the potatoes.

He learned this diet thing in 2025, back when everyone on Earth had a spreadsheet for their macros and gym bros carried peanut butter like it was a birthright. Cassian had never quite reached the ‘eat six eggs a day and talk about nothing but creatine’ stage, but he was close. Just close enough to get twitchy when a meal had no fibre. He was even considering… at one point, during a rare burst of delusional optimism… min-maxing his intake. Maybe get some muscle back. If he could convince his lazy arse to lift something heavier than a textbook.

Didn’t happen, obviously. But the dietary knowledge stuck.

So now, in a castle full of gravy boats and bottomless pudding, Cassian portioned like a man dodging death by insulin spike. Hogwarts didn’t stock kombucha, but sauerkraut did the job. Gut health mattered, even in a world where ghosts gave directions and staircases moved like drunk cattle.

He was even considering doing his own yoghurt. Not the sugary sort with a cartoon on the lid, no thank you, proper yoghurt. Greek, Turkish, Bulgarian, whatever region claimed it first, Cassian didn’t want to offend anyone’s ancestral dairy. He just wanted it thick, tangy, and not stuffed with the magical equivalent of corn syrup. Hogwarts had a pantry, didn’t it? A cauldron? He could probably rig a fermentation charm without setting off the castle wards. Probably. That reminded him of the time he stole eggs from the poultry. Wasn’t the pantry right next to it?

He scraped the last bite of roast, watching a third-year from Hufflepuff try to sneak two treacle tarts into his robe pocket. Bold. He respected that.

By the time the meal wrapped up, and Dumbledore gave his usual “don’t go into the forest unless you want to be eaten” speech, Cassian had already started counting how long it would take the first-years to forget that entirely. Maybe three days. Four if they were cowards.

When students rolled out with Prefects leading them, Cassian stood and stretched, joints clicking in place, then caught Bathsheda’s eye across the table.

“Shall I walk you to your chambers, Professor?” he asked, full mock-chivalry. “Promise not to faint dramatically en route.”

“You are lucky I haven’t tripped you in front of the students,” she said, but rose anyway.

They walked together, past the trick stair and the tapestry where Peeves had once hidden a live toad in someone’s tea.

She keyed open her door with a flick of her wand. He followed her inside without asking. It wasn’t the first time. The wards let him through without a twitch, which meant he was still keyed in.

Bathsheda dropped her bag onto the small desk by the window and pulled off her coat. Cassian stayed standing, watching the flames dance for a second before he peeled off his outer robe and flung it over the arm of the couch.

He sat on the couch, elbow on the armrest, hand half-curled at his mouth like he was thinking too hard. She perched on the arm opposite, one leg drawn up, hair slipping loose from the twist she always wore.

He glanced at her.

She didn’t look away.

He tapped his fingers against the armrest. “So.”

“So,” she echoed.

Well.

They hadn’t done it yet. That. The deed.

They graduated from mouth-adjacent kisses to proper ones sometime before they left Norway. Still new, still odd in the quiet moments. It hadn’t gone further… not because they swore off it, just… hadn’t crossed the line yet. Which, for two supposedly mature adults, was either restraint or extreme cowardice. Jury was out.

Now here they were. Her perched on the armrest, one leg tucked up like it belonged there. Him lounged across the sofa like a bloke who absolutely thought about shagging his colleague and then taken notes on why he hadn’t. Cozy. Civil. Definitely not staring.

Cassian scratched his jaw. “So.”

“So,” she echoed again.

He gestured vaguely at the space between them. “We going to acknowledge the part where this is becoming… a thing? Or just keep pretending it is all very scholarly and coincidental?”

She didn’t flinch. “Depends. Are you planning to start a bibliography?”

“Already drafted it in my head. Chapter One: How Not to Panic When Your Research Partner Kisses You in a Magical Tent.”

Bathsheda’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t look away. “And Chapter Two?”

“Chapter Two is still being peer-reviewed. Lots of footnotes. Some debate about sources.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbow on her knee. “It is not complicated, Cassian.”

“Mm. That is what people say right before it gets very complicated.”

“Then don’t overthink it.”

“Oh, I don’t overthink.” He paused. “I marinate.”

Her hand darted out and slapped his shin.

He grinned. “See? Physical contact. That is progress.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away. Her hand stayed on his leg, fingers tapping, then stopping.

His throat went dry.

“I don’t regret Norway,” she said, quiet now.

Cassian leaned back against the cushion, “No,” he said. “Neither do I.”

She shifted slightly, the edge of her knee brushing against his thigh. It wasn’t an accident. He didn’t pretend it was.

“Are we doing this?” he asked, voice husky.

She looked at him. “Yes.”

Then she kissed him. Straightforward, no hesitation. This one landed right. No cheek, no corner. Proper contact. He matched it, one hand finding her waist without any flair. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t theatrical. Just… good.

Her fingers curled in his robe. His hand found her face, not pouncing, just following the natural line of where this had been going since somewhere between collapsing caves and frostbitten cliffs.

She pulled back slightly, breath warm against his skin. “Still overthinking?”

Cassian’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “I am thinking just to savour it, thanks.”

She didn’t move far. Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, then lingered there. He could smell her… tea, ink, that strange rune-dust scent that had clung to both of them since Trondheim.

He dropped his voice. “Should I draft a consent form, or are we trusting each other not to hex anything mid-way?”

She didn’t laugh. “Stop talking.”

So he did.

Her weight shifted again, and the sofa dipped. His hand slid further up her side, just learning. She kissed him again… firmer this time, less exploratory. More assured.

Cassian had the fleeting, ridiculous thought that he should catalogue this. Not in words, but in sensation… how her breath hitched right before she deepened the kiss, the press of her hand against his ribs, the smell of cold air still clinging to her clothes.

He would remember all of it.

His fingers brushed the back of her neck, caught a curl that had escaped the twist. She pushed him gently, just a reminder that she wasn’t above taking control if needed.

“Your boots are still on,” she muttered.

Cassian glanced down. “So are yours.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Fix it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He kicked his off one by one, the thuds soft against the carpet. She followed suit, a little less graceful, one boot catching the edge of the coffee table and sending a book skittering off. Neither of them bothered picking it up.

He caught her again when she leaned back in, this time guiding her gently into his lap. Not a power play. Just comfort. Familiarity growing roots.

They kissed until the fire dimmed.

Somewhere between kiss twelve and fifteen (give or take), her hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers skating the edge of his skin. He startled slightly, not from the touch but the simplicity of it… how easily they slid from dry sarcasm into this.

Cassian leaned his forehead against hers. “You are aware this is an extremely questionable use of school resources.”

Bathsheda hummed. “We are not on school grounds. Private rooms don’t count.”

“Let’s hope the wards agree.”

“They will.”

“Good. I would hate for Hogwarts to cockblock me with magical contraceptive fog.”

She smacked his chest again. “You are ruining it.”

“I am documenting.”

They didn’t rush. They didn’t undress. It wasn’t about that yet. Just warmth. Skin. Contact. An agreement made without dramatic declarations.

Later, much later, she curled against him on the sofa, his arm slung around her back, her fingers tangled in his. The fire had gone to embers, but neither of them made a move to fix it.

He leaned in, nose brushing the back of her neck. Warm skin, faint smell of fire and tea.

“Full disclosure,” he said, tone easy, “my father told me you are a tool.”

She didn’t twitch. Just tipped her head, eyes still on the fire. “And what do you think?”

Cassian hummed low in his throat, mouth so close that his words stirred the loose strands of her hair. “Trying to figure out the best way to break it to him. Something theatrical. Enough shock to get a mild heart attack, but not full cardiac failure. Don’t want to cut the party short.”

She glanced sideways, one brow raised. “That is oddly specific.”

“Needs planning,” he said, arms slipping round her waist. “Timing. I was thinking… walk into the study with you hanging off my arm, announce the engagement, and maybe have you call him ‘dad’ by accident. That should do it.”

“Overkill,” she murmured.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “you will be holding my wand the whole time. Figuratively.”

She snorted and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. The laugh shook them both.

Cassian rested his chin lightly on her head. The room was quiet now, only the soft crack of the fire filling in the blanks.

She pulled back a little to look at him properly. “What did he really say?”

He rolled his eyes. “Something poetic. That you are not one of us. That you are… useful.”

Her lip curled, faint and sharp. “Ah. Classic Purblood charm.”

“Mm,” he said. “Followed by a suggestion to course-correct, which I believe is code for ‘ditch the brilliant mudblood sympathiser before she makes you start liking books not bound in dragonhide.'”

“I do like being useful,” she said.

He looked down at her. “You also like hexing people who treat you like you are disposable.”

“Only when they deserve it.”

Cassian’s smile faded slowly.

“I didn’t say anything clever, by the way,” he said. “Just left. Told him I respected you. Which, apparently, is worse than sleeping with a werewolf these days.” He scratched his jaw. “So if you’ve been picturing your boyfriend as this dashing, courageous sort, prepare for crushing disappointment. I tucked my tail and bolted.”

Bathsheda didn’t respond straight off. She just adjusted the hem of her sleeve and leaned further into the crook of his arm, her thumb brushing lazy circles on his wrist. It just stretched long enough for him to start wondering if she fell asleep mid-pity.

She hadn’t.

“You didn’t hex anything?” she asked finally.

“I briefly considered setting the curtains on fire,” he said. “But they were velvet and I am not a savage.”

She gave a soft snort. “Missed opportunity.”

Spoiler

[collapse]

Finished another chapter?

Stunning.

Now imagine contributing.

To Read up to 90 advance Chapters (30 for each novel) and support me…

/thefanficgod1

discord.gg/q5KWmtQARF

Please drop a comment and like the chapter!

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep