“Why did Quirrell say it was in the dungeons, then?”

Bathsheda hummed, but didn’t answer. Her head was still tucked under his jaw, fingers idly tracing something on his chest… maybe a rune, maybe a to-do list, maybe the death of the Roman Empire. Hard to tell with her. She went quiet like that sometimes when something bothered her. Cassian knew the rhythm of it by now.

“Alright,” he said. “What is the theory?”

Bathsheda didn’t meet his eye. “If Quirrell got it wrong, it means he wanted the staff out of the way. Or at least, not where the troll actually was.”

“Which was the first-floor loo,” Cassian muttered, rubbing a thumb against his temple. “Popular spot tonight.”

She didn’t smile.

He squinted up at the ceiling. It had a water stain shaped like a toad, foreshadowing? Maybe. “Could’ve been panic,” he offered. “He is not exactly a steel trap under pressure.”

“Even panic gets the floor right,” she murmured. “He said dungeon. Said it clearly.”

Cassian sighed through his nose. That itch at the back of his brain got worse.

“You think he brought the troll in?”

She shrugged. “Would explain a lot.”

He squinted. Might’ve lost control of the thing mid-transfer. Trolls weren’t known for grace… couldn’t charm one into quiet. Cassian knew Quirrell was planning to bring one in, part of that idiot-proof secret room of the Third-Floor Secret Club. Heard it himself when Dumbledore asked. Quirrell had even sounded proud, like hiring a twelve-foot sledgehammer was his idea of strategic brilliance.

Cassian hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Just another crazy plan in the tower of “Please Let No Child Survive This Trial.” But now… Now, a troll had smashed its way through Hogwarts plumbing. And the timing, the location… none of it added up.

He only had a vague hunch and the troll incident. Nothing concrete, nothing that would pass for proof in any respectable duelling court. But Cassian couldn’t tell Bathsheda. Dumbledore had been clearr… absolutely no.

“You think Dumbledore knew?”

Bathsheda kept doodling a love letter on his skin.

“He asked me to lead Slytherin to the dungeons,” Cassian muttered. “When the troll was supposed to be there.”

Still nothing. Not even a scoff. That was worrying.

“I mean, I know he is a bit fond of chaos,” Cassian went on, eyes fixed on the ceiling stain, “but unless he wanted Slytherins practicing troll evasion for House Points, I don’t see the logic.”

Bathsheda pushed herself upright, blanket falling around her waist. Her hair was a mess of ink-dark strands, one of his jumpers slipping off her shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice.

“You don’t trust him?” she asked.

Cassian blinked at her. “Dumbledore?”

She nodded.

“I trust him to lie artfully and occasionally throw children at problems he should probably solve himself,” Cassian said, sitting up with a grunt. “So yes. In the limited way one trusts a theatrical arsonist.”

Bathsheda gave him a flat look. “That is not an answer.”

Cassian shrugged. “He told me to bring the kids downstairs. Quirrell says there is a troll in the dungeon.” He rubbed the back of his neck. The spot was sore. He was probably straining his neck just to avoid coming face to face with the troll’s… belly. Yeah, belly. “Either the Headmaster is hoping to control the population or he knew Troll was never there.”

Bathsheda pushed him down, locking him between her legs, hands braced on either side of his head. “Probably knew,” she said, eyes narrowed. “There is little goes under Dumbledore’s nose in this castle.”

Cassian looked up at her, wincing. “You are a lot more terrifying when you are right-side up. Can you at least pretend I’ve got bones?”

“You do.” She shifted her weight to make it worse. “They are currently groaning under my thigh.”

He groaned properly now, head thunking back against the floor. “Excellent. Murdered by thighs.”

Her gaze had gone sharp, still chasing the idea through the dark. “I am serious. You think he didn’t have portraits watching every corridor the moment Quirrell started screaming?”

Cassian winced and pointed up. “Could we take this theorising somewhere not made of stone?”

She kissed his lips… fierce, hot, no warning.

“No,” she muttered against his mouth. “You are hot when you are in pain. And scheming.”

Cassian made a muffled noise that might’ve been protest or agreement. Hard to tell. One hand slid to her waist. The other found the back of her knee and gave it a tug, pulling her down harder on top of him. She made a small sound, indignant, pleased, probably both, and bit his lip for the trouble.

***

When he woke up the next morning, Cassian wanted to die. Not in the dramatic, existential sort of way… more in the “my spine has liquefied and I might be part of the floor now” sort of way. He was still on the floor. Bathsheda was still on him. Worse, their combined effort at body heat had dried into something tacky and unholy across his back. His vest felt like parchment left in the rain.

He shifted and immediately regretted it. A muscle in his side twinged like it had forgotten how to exist. His neck cracked so loud, it could wake the castle. Bathsheda didn’t move. Probably dead. Or pretending. Either option was valid.

Cassian let out another miserable groan. “We are disgusting.”

Her answer was a soft snore.

He reached and patted the nearest bit of her. “You are complicit in this crime against hygiene. Just so we are clear.”

She didn’t stir. Typical. He got the troll, the children, and the floor rash. She got warmth and plausible deniability.

He rolled her off like a sack of potatoes and dragged himself upright. His back popped in three separate places. Socks still on. One sock inside-out. His wand had vanished somewhere beneath the pile of discarded blanket and humanity, probably in a crevice.

Right. Morning sorted.

He stumbled toward the sink in the corner and caught his reflection. Hair looked like it’d been hexed mid-storm. His vest properly wrinkled, half-damp. Eyes bloodshot. He looked like the prelude to a cautionary tale.

Behind him, Bathsheda groaned and flopped onto her back, arm draped over her eyes. “What time is it?”

Cassian checked the window. “Late enough to be suspicious. Early enough to regret everything.”

She sighed and kicked the blanket off with one foot. “I hate you.”

“Good. That means I am winning.”

She squinted at him through a curtain of hair. “You look terrible.”

He bent his back. “I am aware. The floor was unkind.”

“Serves you right. Who collapses mid-conspiracy?”

“I was seduced,” he said flatly, “by a woman with violent thighs.”

Bathsheda rolled onto her side and flicked a pen at his head. It missed. Barely.

Cassian rinsed his face with cold water. Somewhere above, a plumbing charm clicked into life with a cough.

“You think Dumbledore is actually going to mention the troll thing again?” he asked, voice muffled in the towel.

“Nope.” She yawned. “He will let the whole school think it was a tragic one-off. One rogue creature, conveniently timed. Nothing to see here.”

Cassian dropped the towel. “Of course he will.”

He flopped onto the edge of the couch, “You reckon we are done with surprises for the week?”

Bathsheda raised an eyebrow. “You’ve worked here how long?”

He grunted. “Optimism is a disease.”

She kicked him in the thigh. Lightly. Meaning, she loved him.

He had to show his love as well. So, he carried her to the bathroom and chucked her into the basin, clothes and all. There was a splash, a shriek, and a slap of limbs against porcelain.

“It is cold!” she yelped mid-air.

“Oops,” Cassian said, without an ounce of remorse.

She came up soaked and swearing, hair plastered to her forehead, shirt clinging in unfortunate ways. He had half a second to feel proud before her hand shot out, grabbed his wrist, and yanked.

“Don’t you… bloody hell-“

Water hit hard. He landed half-on, half-in, knees knocking against the basin’s edge as she dragged him in by force and vengeance.

Cassian sputtered, blinked the water out of his eyes, and grabbed the edge for leverage. “Are you possessed?”

“You started it.”

“I started civilisation. This is war.”

Bathsheda shoved his shoulder until his head dunked under again. He came up coughing, hair dripping, coat ruined.

She laughed, with zero grace, just teeth and breath and full-bodied amusement as she leaned back against the basin wall like a victorious general in soaking socks.

He stared at her, deadpan. “Are you done? House-elves are going to salt this room.”

“Not yet,” she said, and dunked his head again.

He came up with a hand on her hip and dragged her down into his lap, sloshing water over the sides. She didn’t resist… mostly because she was too busy trying not to laugh into his face.

He hooked an arm around her waist. “Now that you’ve staged a minor flood in the name of petty vengeance, shall we call this bath concluded?”

She wiped her face with the end of his sleeve. “We?”

“You dunked me.”

“You threw me.”

“You dunked me while I was still gloating.”

“Which is why it was justified.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Bold words for someone soaked.”

She snorted. Water splashed again. The basin was too small for two adults and one grudge. One of them was going to get bruised. Probably both.

She tipped her head back, hair trailing along his shoulder, steam rising off her skin now that the charm had warmed the water. “What are we even doing?”

“Being profoundly irresponsible,” he said.

“Mm. Thought so.”

They sat there, back to chest, breathing heavy.

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

You’d think after resurrecting entire lost spells in front of an audience, I’d at least get polite applause

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep