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

Two years back, when Cassian was fresh-faced and hadn’t yet figured out how many broom closets hid illicit Firewhisky, he remembered Quirrell helping with these very decorations. He’d even seen the man elbow-deep in garland, untangling charms alongside the elves or helping Madam Pomfrey with tedious paste creation. This year, though? Quirrell barely left his room. The vampire fiasco in Romania had rattled him good it seemed, and Cassian couldn’t shake the sense the man was trying very hard not to be noticed.

McGonagall arrived with lips pursed in a way that said she’d been expecting the banners to hang themselves by now. She flicked her wand, and the House colours overhead rolled smoothly into Hogwarts crests.

Sprout was humming to herself off to the side, waving her wand in broad arcs. The trees shimmered, branches stretching fuller, needles looking sharper and greener than they had moments ago. A stray pinecone popped off and rolled across the floor. Cassian caught it under his boot and nudged it toward a corner.

“Marvellous,” Cassian called. “Now they will shed even more.”

“Better than them looking half-dead by Christmas Eve,” Sprout replied mildly.

Septima and Aurora came in with Bathsheda, the three of them laughing at something that probably involved a student and an experiment gone wrong. They joined Cassian by the nearest tree.

Aurora’s hands were full of gold tinsel that trailed dangerously close to her boots. “We are late. Blame Septima. She spotted a fifth-year trying to charm mistletoe into sprouting over the Slytherin common room door.”

“Educational,” Cassian said, stepping aside so a floating box of baubles could whiz past. “A bit forward, but educational.”

Bathsheda handed him a smaller box, filled with fragile glass baubles that glimmered faintly in the candlelight. “Try not to break these. They are from before your time.”

He peered inside. “Everything is before my time here.”

He hung the fragile ornament and stepped back slightly, eyeing the tree, then nodded proudly. “Alright, that one is secure. How many of these bloody things are we putting up?”

“As many as fit,” Bathsheda said. “Flitwick says symmetry is everything.”

Aurora stepped up, dropping an armful of tinsel on the bench. “You are doing a fine job, Rosier. For someone who clearly never helped decorate anything in his life.”

Cassian didn’t even glance at her. “I will have you know I once managed to string lights around a tiny plastic tree with no fatalities.”

Aurora raised an eyebrow. “Plastic?”

Cassian froze. Right, no plastic here. No cling film, no cheap toys, nothing, he’d been mistaking glossy charms for polymers since he arrived. The only plastic in the castle was probably his biros.

He snapped out of it, forcing a shrug. “Muggle thing. Don’t worry, it wasn’t cursed.”

Bathsheda grinned faintly, tinsel in her hands. “You’ve a habit of saying strange things when you are distracted.”

“Occupational hazard,” Cassian said. “Historian’s brain. We are trained to question why we can’t find a single bloody polymer in a civilisation built on magic.” He placed another bauble carefully on a low branch. “For instance, I am now wondering if y— our Ministry ever tried replacing parchment with typewriters.”

Aurora rolled her eyes. “You think too much.”

“Probably,” Cassian muttered. “Keeps me out of trouble. Mostly.”

Bathsheda moved to his side, looping a strand of gold garland between her fingers before draping it around his neck like she was crowning a particularly uncooperative Christmas tree. Cassian let out a chuckle, tilting his head as the garland tickled his chin.

“Oh good, festive strangulation. How thoughtful,” he said, tugging it loose.

She ignored him and kept fussing with the ends, twisting them until they sat in something resembling a bow. Cassian flicked his wand lazily, and a sprig of mistletoe appeared above them, dangling in midair.

Aurora groaned from across the tree, rolling her eyes so hard Cassian was half-surprised they didn’t summon a gale. Septima sighed and turned her back entirely, muttering something about standards and professional decorum.

Bathsheda slapped his arm lightly, though her lips curled faintly as she glanced up at the mistletoe.

“You are impossible,” she murmured.

“Incorrect. I am improbable,” Cassian corrected, leaning close to brush his nose against her cheek. “Completely different academic category.”

She shook her head but didn’t move away, letting him catch her lips in a quick kiss. A handful of enchanted baubles floated awkwardly nearby, almost as if they, too, had opinions about staff fraternisation.

Cassian pulled back with a lopsided grin and plucked the garland from his neck, setting it on the nearest branch. “Satisfied?”

“Not even slightly,” she replied, reaching for another roll of tinsel.

“Excellent. That means we are even.”

***

Cassian was at the long table with Bathsheda to his right, Professors gathered at the far end and students filling out the rest. A handful of stragglers and orphans, plus the Weasleys who were impossible to miss. On Cassian’s left sat one of them, Fred or George, he didn’t bother guessing which. It wasn’t worth being wrong twice.

He nudged his plate away, eyeing a suspicious pile of roasted parsnips. “So,” he said lightly, “how long before one of you tries to start a pudding war?”

The twin smirked. “Depends. How throwable do you think it is?”

Bathsheda pressed her lips together, clearly holding back a laugh as she reached for her glass. “Encouraging food wars at dinner now?”

“I am supervising,” Cassian said. “Besides, I would rather see the pudding go up than watch Percy recite the etiquette for passing the salt.”

The twin beside Cassian gave him a conspiratorial glance. “So you are not seeing family either, Professor?”

Cassian arched a brow. “What gave me away? The fact I am here or the fact I am sane?”

The boy snorted, nearly choking on a sip of pumpkin juice. Harry glanced up briefly at the exchange, then went back to stabbing his Yorkshire pudding.

The food was good. Hogwarts elves never failed to deliver. Snape was eating in silence, as though stabbing a piece of potato was all the communication the table needed. Quirrell sat further down, hands tight on his cutlery. Every so often, his head would twitch like he’d caught a phantom sound, eyes darting to the door. Nothing there. Cassian tracked his nervous little flinches with mild interest.

At the head of the table, Dumbledore sat with that same serene smile, eyes bright and too sharp for someone who looked half-asleep. He glanced over the hall as though memorising every plate and face.

George leaned in. “You ever hex someone at the table, Professor?”

“Not unless they deserved it.”

Fred’s grin widened. “What did they do?”

“Asked too many questions during.”

Both twins laughed.

After the feast, the Great Hall had emptied. Most of the students had trudged off to their common rooms, leaving behind only a handful of stragglers.

Cassian sat in an armchair near the fire. Bathsheda was curled sideways on the sofa, head resting on her hand, watching Harry and Ron fumble through a round of Wizard’s Chess on the floor.

The board barked insults every time Ron hesitated. One of the pawns looked ready to leap off and strangle him itself.

“Name is sexist,” Cassian muttered, eyes flicking over the pieces.

George tilted his head from where he lounged on the carpet. “What is sexist, Professor R?”

Cassian blinked, looking over at Bathsheda as if silently asking whether the word hadn’t made its way to 1990, the magical world, or just these particular kids yet. She didn’t answer, her mouth twitched slightly, but she kept her eyes on the chessboard.

George was still watching Cassian expectantly. The chessboard made a loud cracking sound as Ron’s knight took a pawn.

Cassian sighed. “Right. ‘Sexist.’ That is a term used when someone assumes one gender is superior to another. Or when they exclude, belittle, or downright erase the other half of humanity in something as mundane as a game.”

Fred blinked at him. “What’s that got to do with chess?”

Cassian pointed his fingers at the board on the floor. “Everything. The name. Wizard’s Chess. As if witches can’t bloody play it. Which, if you want a history lesson, isn’t just a name. For centuries, in both magical and non-magical societies, women were barred from tournaments, excluded from guilds, or told their ‘delicate constitutions’ couldn’t handle strategy.”

“Yeah, but ‘Witches’ Chess’ doesn’t sound as cool.”

Cassian gave him a flat look. “Congratulations, you’ve just explained centuries of problem.”

Bathsheda gave him a sidelong glance, faint amusement in her eyes. “You are going to ruin their game.”

“Good. It deserves ruining,” Cassian said, not missing a beat. “This isn’t just about a silly name. Back in the day, plenty of magical households wouldn’t even let girls learn the game. Boys played chess, girls learnt embroidery and hoped their future husbands wouldn’t lose the family fortune in three moves. Bloody thrilling, that.”

Fred frowned. “So why is it still called Wizard’s Chess?”

Cassian spread his hands. “Because people are lazy. Names stick. Nobody questions them. By the time witches were allowed, half the magical world had already decided it wasn’t a ‘ladylike’ pastime.”

A girl hovering near the board raised her brows.

“Exactly,” Cassian said, catching her expression. “Imagine being told you can’t play a game because someone’s great-great-granddad thought women’s brains might boil if they planned two moves ahead.”

Harry made a face, tugging his knight forward. “That is stupid.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Cassian muttered. “Welcome to history.”

Bathsheda laughed, shaking her head. “He is only warming you up so when I thrash him repeatedly, he won’t look so tragic in comparison.”

Cassian’s triumphant smirk faltered mid-formation. He froze, eyes narrowing slightly as his brain caught up to the betrayal. “Et tu, Bathsheda?” he said. “I expected this from the twins, but from you? Treachery.”

Fred snorted so loudly it startled one of Ron’s pawns. “She got you there, Professor R.”

Cassian huffed, sinking back into his chair, arms folded. “I am surrounded by snakes. And not even the dignified Slytherin ones… just the garden variety that bite for sport.”

Bathsheda didn’t even look up. “Stop sulking. If I play, you won’t even touch the board before I’ve swept it clean.”

“Blasphemy,” Cassian muttered. “Absolute slander.” He leaned forward and squinted at her. “You know I could beat you with one rook tied behind my back.”

“You couldn’t beat me if you used all your pieces and mine.”

Ron winced. “Yeah… she is Ravenclaw.”

Cassian snorted, cracked his knuckles, and sat down at the board with the air of a man preparing to stage a grand intellectual comeback.

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

If detachment were a Quidditch position, you’d be Seeker. No effort, still winning.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep