When Christmas arrived, most of the castle emptied. Trunks rolled, owls flapped, and the corridors went back to their usual winter haunt of draughts and creaking portraits. Cassian stayed. Bathsheda stayed. She always did… practically welded herself to the place. He was, of couse, invited to Yule, as always, ignored.

He had better plans. Mainly, chaos.

December twenty-fifth kicked off with Cassian launching the first snowball straight into George Weasley’s unsuspecting face. The courtyard was ankle-deep in fresh snow, untouched and glittering. Not for long.

“We are under attack!” George shouted, flailing back like he was cursed.

Fred appeared immediately, holding a half-formed snowball in each hand. “What lunatic fires without warning?!”

Cassian stepped out from behind a column, coat unbuttoned, scarf flapping. “This lunatic.”

Ron yelped as a second snowball slammed into the side of his head. “Oi! Professor!”

“Fight back or perish,” Cassian called, already scooping up another handful. “Those are your options.”

A few of the stragglers had gathered in the courtyard, Harry and a pair of third-years who’d stayed behind because their families lived too far or fought too often. Percy stood at the edge, arms folded like he might get infected if a snowflake touched him.

“I will have you know,” Percy said loudly, “this is highly undignified.”

Cassian whipped a snowball at him. Missed by an inch. “Education comes in many forms, Weasley. Today’s lesson is war tactics.”

A shriek from behind, Bathsheda, bundled in a scarf bigger than her torso, hurling a snowball the size of a Quaffle. It missed Fred by a hair and exploded against a pillar.

“Bloody hell,” Fred said, diving behind a bench. “She got siege weapons!”

Percy was horrified. Not scandalised. Not mildly disappointed. Full-on horrified, in the way only Percy Weasley could manage, back ramrod straight, nose in the air, like dignity itself had been insulted.

Bathsheda Babbling, esteemed Rune Master, decorated scholar, terrifying academic presence, was hurling a snowball the size of a cauldron at Fred Weasley. And laughing.

Percy looked betrayed. “P-professor Babbling, et tu?”

She didn’t answer. Probably didn’t hear him over the roar of impact as her next snowball slammed into a tree and shook the snow from its branches. Fred yelped and hit the ground, shielding from heavy artillery.

Cassian strolled past Percy without stopping. “Oh, she is gono. Fully corrupted. Light a candle for her soul.”

Percy’s mouth opened and closed, failing to form words.

Cassian bent, packed a snowball, and lobbed it underarm at George. It bounced off the boy’s hip. George spun and grinned like someone had handed him a licence to commit war crimes.

Harry got hit thrice before he could wrap his head around what was happening. First one smacked him square in the ear, second caught his ribs, third… right in the face.

By the time he realised he was under an ambush, the boy turned machine. Spun on his heel, scooped snow with a snarl, and started pelting back like it was survival instinct. George yelped as one nailed his kneecap. Fred dived for cover behind a statue. Ron tripped over his own foot, vanished into a snowdrift, and emerged swearing vengeance.

Cassian grinned.

“Now this,” he said, lobbing another shot over the top of the bench, “this is fun.”

A snowball whistled past his ear. He didn’t flinch. Just scooped another with one hand while sipping from a suspiciously warm flask with the other.

“You are meant to be the adult,” Percy shouted from behind a stone column.

Cassian turned, squinted, then chucked a snowball that smacked the column so hard, it rattled Percy’s glasses.*

“That was mercy.”

Bathsheda ducked beside him, cheeks pink from cold and murder. She tossed him a fresh snowball like a soldier handing over ammo. He caught it and shot it straight into Fred’s path. The boy skidded, slipped, and landed on his arse.

A triumphant shout went up from one of the younger students.

“WE’VE GOT A PROFESSOR ON OUR SIDE!”

Fred and George regrouped behind a bench, whispering. That was never a good sign.

Cassian narrowed his eyes. “They are planning something.”

Bathsheda hit him in the arm. “You are planning something.”

He gave her an innocent look. “Am I not allowed to enjoy the subtle art of snowball warfare?”

“You threw one at Percy’s head.”

“I missed.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Intentionally,” he added.

There was a moment of quiet… too quiet. The Weasley twins had vanished. Cassian stood, peering over the snowbank.

“Don’t like that,” he muttered.

Then the ambush hit.

Two twin-shaped blurs burst from behind the pillar, each with a snowball the size of a Bludger and less aerodynamic sense than a flying pig. One hit the tree. The other hit Cassian square in the chest.

He stumbled, almost dropping on one knee, and wheezed. “Assassinated by children.”

Bathsheda cackled and pushed him over.

He hit the snow with a grunt and a flurry of limbs. She dropped beside him and landed a snowball right in his stomach before rolling away, giggling into her scarf.

“Traitor!” Cassian coughed.

“Survival,” she shot back, already rearming, ducking behind a bench and hurling another snowball that clipped George’s ear.

Cassian rolled over, packed a tight, mean little ball, and stood. “Alright. You’ve had your fun. Now you’ve made it personal.”

The Weasleys took one look at his face and bolted.

Cassian didn’t chase. He aimed.

One, two… George and Fred both yelped as they got smacked in the backs. The courtyard roared in approval.

Ron was crawling out of the snowbank, half-covered in white, muttering something about unfairness. Harry was laughing so hard he’d dropped his own snowball.

Cassian stood victorious atop a bench, arm outstretched like a general mid-campaign.

Percy stepped out from the shadows. “Professor Rosier, this is chaos!”

Cassian pointed a snowball directly at him. “Correct.”

Another snowball hit Percy in the knee. Not Cassian’s.

He turned.

Bathsheda looked smug. “Oops.”

“Right,” Percy said stiffly, brushing snow off his robes. “This is entirely inappropriate.”

Cassian aimed again. “I don’t make the rules.”

“You are a professor—”

He threw it.

Direct hit.

Percy spun in outrage, slipped, and landed flat on his back.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

Then Ron howled with laughter.

Harry dropped into the snow, wheezing.

Fred shouted, “BEST CHRISTMAS EVER!”

Bathsheda staggered back against the bench, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

Cassian offered Percy a hand up.

Percy ignored it and marched off in a huff.

Cassian dusted his hands. “Right. Break is over. Time for strategic retreat.”

Bathsheda threw a snowball that caught him in the side of the head.

“You are terrible at retreats.”

He blinked snow out of his lashes. “You’ve gone rogue.”

She blew him a kiss and vanished behind a snowbank.

Cassian muttered something that might’ve been affectionate or a curse, hard to tell, and trudged toward the castle, brushing snow from his collar.

He spotted Hagrid on his way back in, shoulders hunched, dragging not one, not two, but twelve fir trees behind him. Snow clung to the bark. Pine needles trailed in his wake. Each tree was the size of a modest tower, and Hagrid was hauling them like laundry.

Cassian slowed as he approached, eyebrows raised. “Oh, they are bigger than last year’s. Planning to replace the walls?”

Hagrid beamed, red-cheeked and sweating under three layers of patched coat. “Grew em meself,” he said, giving one of the trunks a proud thump.

Cassian eyed the tallest. “That one could house students. Possibly a small village.”

“Good roots,” Hagrid said. “This one is from just south of the Forest. Grew fast, sturdy. Bit temperamental in summer, though… dropped all its needles when Flitwick tried a trimming charm.”

“Understandable,” Cassian muttered. “I would shed too if Flitwick tried to tidy me.”

Hagrid let out a wheezy chuckle and hoisted another tree into position against the castle wall.

“Need a hand?” Cassian asked, already not meaning it.

“Nah, nearly done,” Hagrid grinned. “Just gotta get em in the Hall now.”

He sighed, flicked his wand with a muttered Wingardium Leviosa, and trees lifted an inch off the snowy ground. “Gotta take advantage of magic.”

A tree creaked, probably disagreed.

Cassian gave it a look. “Don’t start.”

He guided the fir through the door, turning sideways so the trunk didn’t scrape the frame. Pine needles rained down, trying to mark territory. Hagrid herded the rest behind him, muttering encouragements to the trees like they were oversized pets. The Entrance Hall smelled of damp boots and sap now. Festive.

Inside, the Great Hall was half-done. Garlands draped evenly across the arches like some obsessive elf had used a ruler. Cassian was willing to bet his wand that every house-elf was clinically obsessive.

The four House tables were gone, replaced with a single long one stretching from end to end. Not many students stayed for Christmas, so there wasn’t much point keeping them separated by scarf colours. Even the professors ate at the same table. Cassian found that novelty wore off around the second time you had to pass gravy to Snape without “accidentally” tipping it.

Hagrid grunted, dragging the last of the fir trees into place.

Flitwick was already perched on a stool nearby, holding a glittering box of baubles and muttering charms that made them float up like bubbles. Little spheres of blue, silver, green, bronze, yellow, black, red and gold drifted toward the branches and settled into place, glowing faintly.

“Perfect timing, Professor Rosier,” Flitwick said without looking down. “Care to assist?”

Cassian shrugged. “Sure. Nothing like decorating a tree to remind you how fragile glass baubles are.” He raised his wand to float a handful of them toward the lower branches.

It wasn’t long before other professors trickled in. Well… most of them. Snape was conspicuously absent, and so was Quirrell.

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

If lurking were a House, you’d be Head Boy by now. Full marks, gold badge, the lot.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep