Snape looked like someone had slipped lemon juice into his morning tea, but with just the faintest glimmer of smugness under the scowl. Probably sniffed a bit of troll spleen before bed. That would lift his mood for at least a month.

Cassian lifted his mug. “Good to see you dry, Severus.”

Snape didn’t answer.

At the Gryffindor table, Weasley was claiming he “distracted the troll by throwing its own snot at it,” which didn’t even make sense, biologically.

Cassian watched their table. Granger hadn’t touched her breakfast. Potter was whispering something to her. She nodded eventually.

She clearly felt both grateful and guilty. That wasn’t a good combination for a twelve-year-old. Cassian considered reminding her that her friends hadn’t been in danger because of her, but because they’d wanted to help her. There was a difference.

He didn’t correct her when she took the blame, as he realized it was a growing moment for her, and he was even a little proud to see Granger lying to a professor, McGonagall of all people. Still, if it started to turn into something ugly, he knew he’d have to step in.

That kind of guilt, if left unchecked, could harden into something dangerous, the sort that drove a child to overcompensate. He could already see it, a girl who would triple-check her every decision, never to trust her gut again, who’d throw herself between danger and the people she cared about, not because she was fearless, but because she refused to feel this helpless again. It could make her brilliant, resourceful, and utterly exhausting to herself.

***

November 3rd was cold enough to make Cassian rethink the whole open-air sports tradition. Again. He sat hunched in the Professors’ box, coat collar up, scarf wrapped like a tactical defence, and a look on his face that said he would rather be reading cursed Sumerian tablets than watching teenagers throw themselves off brooms. Wait, that wasn’t a good compression. He would rather read them any day.

Bathsheda, seated beside him with a thermos that suspiciously steamed of something stronger than tea, nudged his arm.

“You still don’t like it?” she asked, just as Lee Jordan’s voice rang out, introducing the new Gryffindor Seeker.

Cassian huffed like a kid dragged to church on Sunday morning. “It is a game designed to glorify Seekers.”

McGonagall was three seats down, tartan hat at maximum fluff, eyes already sparkling with unholy Gryffindor pride. Cassian said it like he either didn’t notice her or didn’t care. She was the kind of fan who treated Quidditch like war strategy. One wrong word and she would have him hexed into the next House Cup.

“What do you mean?” she asked, in hush, because Cassian’s face already had that look, half smug, half tired of everyone else’s nonsense.

He shrugged. “Game continues until a Seeker catches the Snitch. Snitch is worth one hundred and fifty points. So unless one team got that exact margin of lead or more, which they rarely do, the Seeker decides everything.”

She blinked at him. “That is the point, isn’t it?”

“It is like watching fourteen musicians play a symphony, but the bloke with the triangle wins if he dings it first.” He leaned forward a little, “They could be fifty points up, two Bludgers to the face, an arm dangling off, and none of it matters. If Seeker sneezes on the Snitch, they wins”

Bathsheda sipped her suspicious tea. “So what, you want it to be fair?”

“I want it to make sense,” Cassian muttered.

Below them, the teams shot out onto the pitch in a blur of red and green. The crowd roared. Cassian winced.

Lee Jordan’s voice cracked through the air. Names were shouted, stats no one cared about blasted across the stands, and somewhere a third-year released a lion-shaped charm that promptly tried to eat a snake banner.

Cassian barely glanced at it. “Great. Another symbolic murder.”

Bathsheda nudged him. “You are being grumpy. It is a tradition and fun.”

Cassian turned to look at her like she just confessed to enjoying midterm grading. “Really? It is fun to watch a game that might never end. Okay. Now I get your point.”

Below them, the brooms shot across the pitch in erratic arcs, chasing after a ball half the stadium couldn’t even see. The Quaffle got passed, Bludgers got dodged, a Slytherin beater nearly took out his own Keeper. Cheers erupted every few seconds, no one really tracking the score, just reacting to whatever Jordan shouted loudest.

Cassian took another sip and grimaced. “And they say history is chaotic.”

Bathsheda leaned into him. “You hate this less than you pretend.”

“Don’t slander me,” he said. “I am entirely consistent in my contempt.”

Below, Marcus Flint elbowed a Gryffindor Chaser so hard it knocked the poor boy sideways off course. The stands howled… half in outrage, half in encouragement. No foul was called.

Cassian gestured at the pitch. “That was assault.”

Bathsheda didn’t even flinch. “That was Quidditch.”

He glanced at Madam Hooch, squinting through her flying goggles. “The rules are a rumour, and someone is definitely going to hospital by the end.”

Bathsheda raised her thermos. “Cheers to that.”

He took another swig from his own, the spiced warmth doing a poor job of compensating.

A roar went up as Fred, or maybe George, Cassian couldn’t be arsed to keep them straight, dodged a Bludger and spun mid-air. A Gryffindor in the crowd let off a charm that fired red sparks over the pitch, promptly getting hexed by a very fed-up Ravenclaw sixth-year.

Then, like someone yanked a string, the entire stadium leaned forward at once. The Snitch had appeared, glimmering just above the Slytherin goalpost before vanishing again into a blur of motion.

Harry dove.

Then Harry’s broom started to wobble.

Cassian squinted. “That is not wind.”

The broom pitched left, then right, too sharp, like it had decided to throw him off mid-flight. Harry clung to it with both hands, legs kicking as the broom bucked under him.

Below, the rest of the players hadn’t noticed yet. The game carried on, Quaffle flying, Bludgers dodged, someone screamed as a bat clipped a helmet. But all eyes in the professor’s box turned now to Potter, who was twisting in mid-air, clearly trying not to be flung to his death by school-issued transport.

Cassian looked around. Too many people… half the pitch was up and screaming, the other half craning their necks. His eyes skimmed the stands, trying to spot a wand out, someone muttering, anything. But there were robes everywhere, flags, hats shaped like lions and snakes, floating sweets, someone waving enchanted foam fingers… nothing useful.

Potter’s broom kept jerking sideways like it was trying to buck him off. Just as he was about to shout something, possibly “someone get Potter down before he eats turf,” a sudden flicker caught his eye.

Flames burst into life near the staff seats.

Cassian turned, squinting through wind and screaming, and saw a spark gutter into full fire right by Snape. Robes licking up like someone had hexed a candle into his arse.

He stood.

Not because he was feeling helpful, Snape could fall into a pit and he would send a polite note to his family, maybe a fruit basket, but because he saw a Gryffindor student, suddenly ducked out of sight, bushy hair trailing behind her. Bit of a sprint down the rows. Cassian caught only a flash of her scarft and hair, as she disappeared under the seats.

Snape was flailing now, stomping, trying to smother it with the edge of his cloak while simultaneously not looking like he cared anyone could see him panic. He hissed something, batted out the rest of the flames with a snarl, and sat back down, his hem singed.

Cassian blinked.

Potter’s broom stopped shaking.

Cassian blinked again.

Lee Jordan shouted something about the match ending, but he didn’t catch the exact words. The stadium was too loud, voices piling on top of each other. He looked up just in time to see Potter spitting out the Snitch like it was a hairball into his hand.

Gryffindors went feral.

Scarves flew, hats launched. Madam Hooch didn’t even get the chance to blow her whistle before she was swarmed by half the red-and-gold section, all screaming.

McGonagall looked positively euphoric, hands clasped, smile wide. Cassian made a mental note to never mock Gryffindor tactics in her hearing again. Or at least not without a three-exit escape plan.

He tracked his eyes towards the staff exit, catching the flutter of dark robes as Snape slipped through. Still smoking faintly at the hem.

“Think he realized who set him on fire?” he asked.

“If he didn’t, he is losing his edge.”

Cassian didn’t argue. He watched as Hermione Granger emerged from under the stands, smoothing her skirt and brushing ash from her jumper. The girl didn’t look triumphant. Just… wary.

He tucked that away. Later problem.

Right now, the match was technically over, and the stadium was turning into a circus. Jordan was still shouting, mostly nonsense at this point, something about Potter’s digestive prowess and the record for youngest Snitch ingestion. Someone behind Cassian started a chant. It was loud, off-key, and had far too many syllables for a proper cheer.

Cassian stood and stretched. “We done here?”

Bathsheda nodded and rose. “You think anyone will question the broom thing?”

“Probably not.”

And he was right, no one talked about it. Most just chalked it up to Harry’s inexperience, first time on a broom, nerves, maybe a stomach spell gone wrong. A few muttered something about faulty equipment. Filch was already poking around the broom shed. Probably didn’t know Harry’s broom was special. But no one asked the obvious question. Why a school-approved broom had suddenly tried to murder its rider in mid-air.

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

I once saw a student drool on their desk and at least it was feedback. Silence, meanwhile, is just… silence.

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