“I’m learning more of Yrsa’s runes.”

He caught something in her tone and stepped closer, tugging her gently into his chest. Her body settled against his without resistance, but her shoulders stayed tight.

“How’s it going?”

She shivered faintly, breath brushing his collar. “I’m still me. I don’t know where they’re coming from, but now that I know they’re there, I can track my memories from those appearing later. Runes… they don’t force themselves in. They feel like something I spent a lifetime studying. Like I lived it. Somewhere else. Still my memories. Just… not from here.”

Cassian hummed. “Could be Dreamscape bleed. Reincarnation. Residual timeline echo. Planar imprinting. Magical inheritance from a bloodline no one bothered to trace. Or the gods got drunk and scrambled your soul like a breakfast egg.”

She gave a soft noise. Could’ve been amusement. Could’ve been exhaustion.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Still you, though.”

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s like there’s a shadow behind the mirror. Same movements, same shape… not quite me. Not quite someone else either.”

He ran a hand down her back. “And the runes?”

“They come when I’m not thinking too hard. During lessons. Or just before sleep. Like muscle memory that doesn’t belong to these muscles.”

“Have you tried not remembering them?”

“I did. It hurt.”

“Do they feel dangerous?”

“No,” she said, though not with full certainty. “They feel… old. Like they were waiting. Waiting to be remembered.”

He stroked her hair until her breath eased. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. She stayed curled on top of him, once again, deciding his chest was a mattress. One arm tucked under her, the other wrapped round his waist. It was comfortable, in the way that sleeping in a chair wasn’t.

His back throbbed. He stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to her breathe. Eventually, he let his head tip back against the sofa and tried to doze without jarring anything.

Next morning, he woke up stiff as wood, and not in the good way.

His neck cricked when he tried to move. His spine had locked itself into some kind of medieval scroll position. His legs had gone numb halfway through the night and now prickled as if a thousand tiny needles were trying to riot.

Bathsheda was still there, face tucked against his collar like she’d melted into him. One leg thrown across his thigh, declaring it hers.

He sighed.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Might have to amputate.”

She stirred at the sound, mumbling something incoherent before settling again with a faint huff.

Cassian stared down at her hair, all over his robes. Somewhere in the back of his head, a tiny version of himself started going, don’t move, don’t move, she’s sleeping.

The rest of him said, your hip is about to give with a nasty crack.

He gave it another minute.

Then tried easing her off him as gently as he could, meaning he threw her like a sack of potatoes onto the bed.

“Wake up. Classes are beginning. AGGH—” His back gave a crack so loud it probably woke the portraits three corridors over. “Sweet mother of god,” he hissed, bent double and swearing through his teeth. “How are you made of stone and fog at the same time?”

Bathsheda groaned into the pillow. “M’legs stopped working halfway through the night. You kept twitching.”

“I was dying, thank you.”

He straightened with all the grace of rusted armour. His spine protested every degree of movement.

“I need a potion or a new body. Preferably both.”

She peeled herself off the sheets and blinked at the window. “Still dark.”

He headed to the bathroom to find something that wouldn’t make his hair look like he fought a thundercloud. No point looking tragic and hunched.

Five minutes later, he was back in his robes, flicking toast out of thin air and handing her one.

She caught it without looking. “Are we still doing the staff patrols?”

“Yes. You’re with Sprout today. Try not to hex her.”

“She’s the only one I don’t want to hex.”

Cassian paused, halfway into his boots. “Oh. That’s sweet.”

She bit into her toast. “You’re not.”

“I’m incredibly sweet. Ask the students.”

Bathsheda looked at him over her shoulder, unimpressed.

He held the look. “Alright, maybe not ask them.”

***

On Valentine’s Day, Bathsheda watched Cassian wake up with a startled, undignified yell and a kneejerk wand grab that nearly hexed the lamp.

The bed was covered in rose petals. The ugly, over-perfumed kind that made your nose twitch.

Every single one had a tiny enchanted face on it. Every single face was his.

All of them smiling.

One winked at him.

“Wh—” He swatted the blanket like it had caught fire, sitting bolt upright. “What in the… no, nope. Absolutely not. Is that my face?”

Bathsheda sipped her tea from the chair beside the bed. “Happy Valentine’s.”

He narrowed his eyes, still half-asleep. “This is because of the eggs, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer. Just took another sip.

The petals followed him as he swung his legs out of bed. Literally. A few floated after him in glittering regrets, humming softly. One started singing My Funny Valentine in a deeply off-key falsetto.

Cassian froze mid-sock.

He turned slowly. “That one’s going in the fire.”

“Not the soprano,” Bathsheda said mildly. “He’s the frontman.”

Cassian gave her a flat look. “Did you re-enchant a hundred petals with my own face just to get revenge for one minor Easter bunny mishap?”

Bathsheda folded her legs under her. “Minor? You enchanted a dozen eggs and sent me on a treasure hunt, one exploded in my face and I was covered in goo for the whole day.”

“They were educational,” he said. “Cross-disciplinary.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Filch is still finding shells in the carpets.”

“Still think that was unrelated.”

Cassian stood, wand in hand, and muttered something sharp. The petals scattered like birds hit with a gust of wind, crumpling mid-air and vanishing into harmless smoke.

Except the soprano.

The soprano screamed and exploded into pink confetti.

Cassian pointed at the empty air. “I liked that lamp.”

Bathsheda looked entirely unrepentant. “The rune I used has a half-life. You may find echoes for the next few days.”

He paused at the wardrobe. “Define ‘echoes.'”

“Turned your auditory illusions into a rune,” she said. “Subtle. Triggered by movement.”

Cassian eyed her suspiciously. “You turned my room into a haunted valentine.”

She smiled sweetly. “Consider it my heart speaking.”

“You’ve got a violent heart.”

“You brought this on yourself.”

He pulled on a shirt, muttering the whole time. “Romance is dead. Murdered. Died screaming under a pile of singing petals.”

From the floorboards below came a faint, ghostly whisper,

“You’re my darling valentine…”

Cassian pointed at the ground. “Shut up, you.”

Bathsheda finished her tea.

Walking hand in hand from the castle, making their way to Hogsmeade, she hummed a melody stuck in her head. Something about “On another love.” Cassian sang that from time to time. She had no idea where he’d heard it. Probably a Muggle song. Sounded sad, catchy, with too many vowels.

His hand was warm around hers, thumb moving absently, probably he wasn’t even thinking about it.

Plans were being finalised in her hand. Or the lack of it.

They stepped past Honeydukes. Cassian sniffed the air. “Caramel.”

“No,” she said. “Don’t even think about it.”

“But I—”

She tugged his arm. “Sugar makes you horny. I added caramel to the evening.”

Cassian’s grin was fast and furious. His breath tickled her ear as he leaned in. “Oh, you planned for the night.”

Bathsheda felt the flush bloom warm across her cheeks. “Come on.”

She pulled him along by the hand, ignoring his smug expression that only grew the closer they got to the main road.

Bathsheda could already hear the chattering crowd before they turned the corner. Since it was a special date, it meant students were trickling down into Hogsmeade, noisy and scattered, scarves flapping in the breeze, bags of sweets and charmed trinkets already tucked under arms. Someone shouted something about love potions near Zonko’s, and someone else yelled back that that was illegal.

Cassian raised a brow. Squinting at the shop.

She veered left, away from the shops, past the carriages, and down the narrow path that curved behind the Three Broomsticks. It wasn’t a trail students used much. Not unless they were up to something or trying to sneak back without being seen.

Behind her, his voice came lazy and suspicious. “You sure we’re not on the way to murder someone?”

“Not today.”

Cassian made a thoughtful noise.

It didn’t take long before the sound of the village dulled behind the slope. One turn more, and the trees began.

“Alright,” Cassian said eventually. “I’ve let you drag me into the woods. Should I start digging, or are you handling the burial?”

She stopped in the middle of a low clearing.

Cassian slowed beside her, hands in his coat pockets, looking around.

Bathsheda tilted her head back, scanned the treetops, then turned in a slow circle. Cassian waited.

Finally, she nodded to herself and knelt down, brushing away a patch of leaves. Beneath it, the ground was dry, flattened.

“This is the place,” she said.

Cassian peered down, then back up at her. “For what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small pouch. The drawstring flicked open with a tap of her nail. Inside were pieces of polished rune-stone, glinting faintly even in the shade.

She spread them on the ground in a loose spiral. Old ones. Not Yrsa’s. These were handmade, the script uneven. Made when she was thirteen.

“I tried to summon something here once,” she said, sifting through the runes. “Didn’t work. Obviously. I was half-trained, impatient, and using bloodroot from a dodgy supplier.”

Cassian crouched beside her. “And you’ve brought me back to relive your teenage disappointment? How romantic.”

She pulled out a square of parchment, old and creased, unfolded it over her knee. The ink was faded. A summoning circle, uneven lines. No name.

“I found this in my grandmother’s attic. She said it was a trick played on her by a boy who wanted to impress her. He vanished two years later. No body. Just a pair of shoes by the riverbank.”

Cassian didn’t smile this time. “What are we doing here, Bathsheda?”

She looked up, tucked the parchment away again. Her eyes didn’t flicker.

“Testing.”

His brow pulled. “Testing what?”

She glanced at the rune-stones, then to the ring of flattened earth.

“I need to know, Cass. This rune will show if my love is true or not. If true, nothing will happen. If not, you will vanish. Leaving behind only a pair of boots.”

Cassian opened his mouth, already half-formed around a joke, but before he could say, “If I knew, I would’ve worn the better pair,” Bathsheda tossed the stones.

They hit the ground with a sharp clatter. A pause.

Then—

BOOM.

The air cracked. Smoke burst up in a geyser. Trees bent like they were dodging a spell. Lightning forked sideways with a sound like tearing metal, frying a patch of sky above the clearing. The rune-stones pulsed red, then gold, then a blistering white. Wind roared in, lifting Cassian’s coat.

He threw an arm over his face, stumbled back a step.

“Bloody…! I haven’t signed a will, woman!”

The smoke churned. Flared green, purple, then sank low, hugging the earth. Cassian stayed still, one boot already half out of the ring.

For a second, it looked like the ground was going to open. Maybe swallow him. Or eject him into another plane.

And then the smoke popped.

Yeah… Popped. With a sound like a champagne cork and a puff of glitter.

Cassian blinked.

There, where the rune-stones had landed, was now a blanket. Red chequered, slightly wrinkled. On top of it sat a thermos, two wine glasses, and a basket of something that smelled suspiciously of cinnamon pastries.

Bathsheda sat cross-legged at the edge of it, already pouring.

“Happy Valentine’s, proper version,” she said, grinning like a snake with a lollipop.

Cassian lowered his arm slowly. “You absolute menace.”

She took a sip. “Did you think I’d curse you?”

“I thought you were about to resurrect a death god and feed me to it.”

“Were you scared?”

“I was not scared.”

“You covered your face and squeaked.”

“It was a tactical defence—”

He stepped into the ring, eyeing the pastries. “You realise I might never trust your runes again.”

“Oh, but you will.” She handed him a cup, her smile smug and unrepentant. “Because I brought the cinnamon things you like.”

He looked down at the blanket. Then at her. Then back at the scorched grass still smoking two feet away.

Cassian took a bite of a still-warm roll, mouth already full before he could argue. His eyes closed. He chewed. Swallowed.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Temporarily forgiven. But you’re on thin ice.”

Bathsheda leaned back on one elbow, hair catching the late light through the trees.

“Better than vanishing into boots,” she said.

Cassian took another bite. “You would have kept the boots, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely. Stuffed them. Kept them on the mantle.”

He grinned, mouth full. “Romance.”

She raised her cup. “To fatal rune tests and cinnamon bribery.”

Cassian clinked his glass against hers, then tossed back the rest in one go.

“Next year,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’m filling your pillowcase with live frogs.”

“Then I’m casting a permanent harmony charm on your hair.”

He froze. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She just smirked.

In the clearing behind the Three Broomsticks, Valentine’s roared on, with the taste of spice, smoke, and very bed intentions.

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Someone once said still water runs deep. I think you’re just marinating.

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