That was the first of many knocks. Granger kept showing up like she was trying to personally unwrite every sentence Cassian’d ever muttered about books being full of lies. He didn’t mind. It was like being pestered by an overachieving moth… bright, relentless, prone to catching fire if she got too close to something ancient. He would correct her footnotes with a biscuit in one hand and tease her margins with questions that made her frown so hard he swore it left creases in the page. She thought she was studying history. Really, she was studying him.

Each visit came with a challenge tucked under her arm and an eyebrow arched.

Cassian was used to it. He kept a running tally of how many times she tried to prove him wrong. So far, he was winning by smugness alone.

She got smarter about it, though. Switched tactics. Sometimes she would act like she just happened to be passing. Other times she would walk in mid-sentence, waving an annotated scroll like it held divine truth. He gave her tea. Mostly to see how long it took before she forgot about the book and started arguing for fun.

And then came Hallowe’en.

Too many candles. Too few serviettes. Pumpkin-themed everything. Floating jack-o’-lanterns hovered so low that someone’s hat could catch fire, and the ceiling had done its usual trick of matching the sky… this time a stormy swirl of clouds and moonlight with occasional thunder just for drama. Rows of tables groaned under a mess of sweets, roasts, and questionable orange-coloured dishes.

Cassian shook his head, watching students shovel sweets into their faces like famine was due next week. He could appreciate the effort. What he couldn’t get used to was the symbolism.

In the British Magical world, Hallowe’en also marked Voldemort’s fall. Big cheer. End of war. A celebration pinned to one of the bloodiest nights in magical history. Back in his world, it was plastic skeletons, discount cobwebs, and pensioners in vampire capes handing out Haribo with mild suspicion.

Here, the ghosts were real and sometimes they even tried to drink your juice.

Cassian reached for the tankard at his elbow, sniffed it suspiciously, then sipped. Butterbeer. He scanned the Hall, eyes drifting past pointy hats, drooping spiderwebs, and one particularly miserable-looking flan.

The Weasley twins were plotting something in plain sight. Excellent form. Angelina was mid-glare. Also excellent.

Bathsheda sat next to him, already halfway through her second helping of roast potatoes and ignoring him as such that required effort.

“Do you think anyone noticed the cursed pumpkin?” he asked, not looking at her.

Bathsheda didn’t glance up. “Which one?”

“The one over Snape’s head.”

Her head whipped round so fast Cassian nearly flinched. She zeroed in on the pumpkin floating over Snape’s head, squinted then gave a quiet snort that turned into an actual giggle. Not the polite kind either… sudden and a bit evil. She was clearly imagining how it would go if the thing exploded mid-sentence. Cassian figured the mental image probably included gravy stains and a strong disciplinary review.

He chewed on a roasted parsnip and muttered, “Three galleons says it is laced with Shriekroot. Goes off when he frowns.”

She wiped her fingers on a napkin. “So it will detonate in the next two minutes.”

“More like thirty seconds,” he said, glancing at the tension building in Snape’s jaw across the staff table. “Look at that clench. He is ready to bite the stem off.”

Bathsheda rolled her eyes, but Cassian could see the anticipation burning behind them.

Snape, blissfully unaware, sat glaring at his pumpkin pasty. He hadn’t noticed the pumpkin yet. Which was a shame, really. Cassian liked to watch the exact moment a man realised his doom hovered overhead in a seasonally festive container.

Dumbledore, naturally, looked delighted. Probably knew. Probably enchanted it himself. The man had that exact twinkle tonight… the sort that meant trouble had been allowed, possibly encouraged, but only if it resulted in life lessons and mild chaos.

A low huff beside them signalled McGonagall. She sat stiffly, leaning in, “Are you plotting something, again, Professor Rosier?”

Cassian smiled pleasantly, slicing into meat. “Me, Professor? I am simply enjoying the festivities.”

Bathsheda sipped her drink.

Cassian thought the highlight of the evening would be the pumpkin over Snape’s head, rigged to explode the moment someone muttered “cauldron grease” with enough venom, but he was wrong.

The doors slammed open.

He didn’t even look up at first, just chewed on the rest of his parsnip. These things rarely merited rushing. A moment later though, he was proven wrong again, Quirrell came sprinting down the aisle, perhaps mistaking the Great Hall for a Quidditch pitch. Turban askew. Face chalk-white. The whole lot trembling like he just kissed a troll.

Quirrell stumbled to the staff table and choked out, “Troll… in the dungeon, thought you ought to know.”

Then he fainted.

Right there, full splat onto the stone. Cassian winced, then announced, “Ah. Style points, three. Dramatic flair, ten.”

Still, he shifted forward in his seat. Trolls weren’t a joke. Not when castle full of children were involved.

A few students screamed. Someone knocked over a goblet. The hall went from Halloween jolly to near-chaos in three seconds flat. Cassian watched the fear spread like spilt ink… chairs scraping, kids twisting around, whispers snapping into panic.

“Silence!”

Cassian’s eardrums rung. It worked though. The students froze mid-breath.

Dumbledore scanned the room. “Prefects and Professors, lead your Houses back to their dormitories immediately!”

Before anyone else could move, something else happened. Cassian swore he heard that ridiculous cartoon sound, piuuuuh, right before the cursed pumpkin finally gave up gravity and dropped.

It exploded right on Snape’s greasy head.

It exploded in a wet, orange splat that sent pulp splattering across three feet of polished table, sending bits of stringy orange straight down his collar. For one glorious second, no one breathed. Snape stood there, rigid as a tombstone, dripping pumpkin like it was part of his hair care routine. Might’ve been, for all anyone knew.

A wet splat echoed across the Hall as a chunk of pumpkin hit the floor beside him. Nobody moved. Somewhere near the Hufflepuff table, a first-year sneezed and immediately tried to disappear into her robes.

Draco Malfoy looked like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t decide if the risk to his bloodline was worth it. Neville Longbottom gone sheet-white, like the trauma of witnessing a fruit-based assassination had shattered what remained of his nerves.

Kettleburn, the calmest by far, kept chewing his steak and huffed. “That is going to stain,” he said, watching a rivulet of pumpkin juice trail ominously down Snape’s sleeve.

Bathsheda buried her face in her goblet, shoulders shaking.

Professor Sprout was failing not to smirk behind her serviette. Flitwick looked like he was mentally composing a haiku. Even Trelawney, who spent the first half of dinner describing everyone’s imminent demise via turnip, was staring as though a prophecy had just fulfilled itself.

Snape, meanwhile, did nothing. He merely stood. Perfectly still. Emotionless. Like a man who had decided to internalize this betrayal so deeply he might one day turn into a potion.

The shock, the troll, the fainted Defence professor, and the pumpkin-flavoured catastrophe all collided into something so absurd Cassian snorted a laugh. A proper, involuntary sort of snort that would’ve got him smacked with a napkin if Bathsheda had any left.

Snape’s eyes snapped to him first. Of course they did. Cassian was the only person within ten feet not frozen in horror or hurrying to look useful.

“Sorry,” Cassian managed to say, breathing loudly to surpress the laughter. “The pumpkin just…” he gestured vaguely toward the dripping mess that used to be Snape’s hair. “I mean, look at you. You are glowing. Gurl, whatever you use for that hair, mmm.”

Snape didn’t blink. Just stood there, murder in his posture, strands of pulp sliding down his collar. He looked like a cursed salad.

McGonagall’s hand clapped against the table. “Professor Rosier,” she hissed.

To Cassian’s relief, laughter spread to students. Snape, of course, caught the sound like a dog catches scent. His eyes swept the Great Hall, daring anyone to breathe wrong.

Then Dumbledore, far too casual for a man about to be hexed in the crossfire, waved his hand.

“To your common rooms. Now. Professor Rosier, you will guide Slytherin, since Professor Snape has had an… accident.”

Cassian clapped his hands. “Excellent. Field trip, children. Let’s make it snappy before your Head of House drowns in pumpkin.”

Snape’s gaze was venomous, like he was updating a kill list. Cassian flashed a grin on the way out. “If you find seeds in your boot later, Severus, do let me know. I hear they are lucky.”

The Slytherins didn’t argue. When a troll gets mentioned and a professor goes down like a sack of wet towels, even the proudest pure-bloods learn to queue. Cassian herded them with lazy gestures and a few pointed looks. A second-year tried to linger near the pudding table. He got steered by the collar.

Cassian led the green-and-silver train through the corridors, occasionally nudging stragglers. Once they rounded the last corner and the entrance to the common room opened, Cassian gave them a little wave. “Inside. No fireballs, no summoning circles, and if anyone gets cursed, try not to bleed on the upholstery.”

A couple of them mumbled something vaguely grateful. Most just bolted.

Cassian turned toward the long corridor. He squinted, searching the dim hall for answers, then muttered, “Now that I think about it… why the hell did Dumbledore send the Slytherins to their common room when Quirrell said the troll was in the dungeon?”

He made his way down the dungeon corridor, eyes scanning the stone walls for anything even mildly troll-shaped. Nothing. No roar, no smell, not even a misplaced footprint. Either Quirrell had hallucinated it, or the troll had excellent stealth training.

As he looped past the first-floor staircase, he spotted two heads ducked behind the far archway, barely visible in the shadows. Messy, jet-black hair and Ron’s unmistakable mop of orange. Cassian narrowed his eyes and kept walking until he was close enough to loom.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, more annoyed than alarmed.

Harry flinched. Ron jumped. Both looked like they’d been caught nicking sweets, not hiding from a twelve-foot beast.

“Mr Potter. Mr Weasley,” Cassian said, unimpressed. “Out for a dungeon crawl, are we?”

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep