For the next few weeks, the castle stayed still. Too still. Cassian had grown used to the rooster illusions crooning every hour, faint, scratchy caws that echoed through the halls like a haunted farmyard. Annoying, but comforting. Meant the wards were still alive and shrieking on schedule.

In their quarters, Cassian stepped barefoot over a half-folded cloak, then spun sharply, striking a pose and gaving Bathsheda a look.

She didn’t glance up from her book.

“Nothing?” he said, arms still out, foot still mid-dramatic pose. “That one had flair.”

“You did that yesterday. And the day before. And I think the first time you did it, you were actually trying to get to the loo.”

He lowered his arms, faked a wounded sigh, then flopped down beside her on the bed.

“You used to be fun.”

“I still am,” she said, not looking up. “Just not for you, every single night.”

Cassian rolled over and buried his face into her lap. “Cruel. Cold. Rejection at the hands of a woman who once tackled me for sneaking jam rolls.”

“I regret nothing,” she said, adjusting the pillow behind her. “Jam rolls are worth more than your dignity.”

“Fair.” He blinked up at her. “Is this the part where you say, ‘maybe tomorrow’?”

“No,” she said, still reading. “This is the part where you check the wards, like you said you would an hour ago.”

He groaned and dragged himself off the bed. “Fine. But if we die in our sleep, it’s because you didn’t accept my offer of midnight bonding.”

“Cass,” she called after him, flipping a page, “if we die in our sleep, it’s because you keep leaving cursed objects near the tea cupboard.”

He poked his head back in. “That was once, and it had a ‘do not touch’ sign.”

“It was written in Akkadian.”

Cassian scoffed, loud and affronted. “Oi. That one’s on you. I cannot fathom how you still don’t know Akkadian.”

Bathsheda looked up, deadpan. “Are you calling me ignorant?”

“Not ignorant,” he said, raising his chin. “Just academically underfed, selectively educated.”

The book hit him in the chest before he saw it coming. He let out a startled noise, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, just as she launched across the bed and tackled him square in the ribs.

“Uncalled for!” he wheezed, trying not to fall off the mattress as they twisted sideways.

“You called me underfed!” she shouted, half-laughing as she dug an elbow into his side.

“You threw a book at my lungs!”

They rolled. She got a knee on his thigh, tried to pin his arm, but Cassian shifted, twisted, and brought his weight over her with a quick sweep.

“You are so annoying,” she muttered, breath short now.

“I’m undefeated,” he grinned, pinning both her wrists to the mattress with theatrical flair. “And annoyingly handsome. But mostly undefeated.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You cheated.”

“I won,” he said, leaning in, smug and far too pleased with himself. “You’re just bitter.”

“I’ll hex your eyebrows off.”

He tilted his head. “Could be an improvement.”

“You’are insufferable.”

“Thank you.”

She huffed and let her head drop back onto the pillows. “Fine. Gloat. You’ve got five seconds before I kick you in the shin.”

Cassian grinned wider. “One… two…”

She kneed him.

He yelped, flinched, and toppled sideways off the bed with a thud.

Bathsheda sat up, looked over the edge, and smirked down at him. “Still undefeated?”

Cassian groaned from the floor. “Technically. But I’m calling that one a draw.”

She tossed a pillow at his face. “Check the bloody wards.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rubbing his leg and dragging himself upright. “Academic violence. Truly the height of romance.”

“Check. The. Wards.”

He shuffled toward the door, muttering under his breath, then stopped dead.

He felt the roosters snuff out.

He didn’t wait. “Bathsheda!”

She was already up, wand drawn. Cassian grabbed his coat on the run.

They bolted down the corridor, boots thudding against cold stone. Halfway down the south corridor, he saw someone taking the turn at the far end.

A flick of a cloak, pale fingers vanishing around a corner. That definitely wasn’t a ghost.

“Oi!” he shouted, breath clouding as they ran. The figure didn’t stop.

Cassian picked up speed. The stones were slick, and he nearly lost his footing rounding the same corner.

“Left!” he barked. But as they turned… “Damn it!” He hissed, skidding to a stop. He scanned the walls, floor, corners, nothing.

As he was about to punch the wall and be done with it, a sharp shriek cut through the corridor.

Cassian spun, bolting. Bathsheda was right behind him. They skidded to a halt at the entrance of the girls’ loo.

First thing he saw was the sink, ripped straight out of the floor. The stone around it had sunk in on itself, spiralling down into dark, like the castle had cracked open its throat.

Second thing, Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, all crouched near the hole like they’d been caught nicking biscuits.

Cassian skidded to a stop beside them, breathing hard. “What the bloody hell are you lot doing here?”

Ron flinched, his hands twisting in his sleeves. “We thought… we thought the Chamber might be here. We were just checking. I swear.”

Cassian’s mouth twitched. “Oh, did you now? And why, pray tell, didn’t you think to mention this to me before gallivanting off to poke at it in the middle of the night?”

Neville shifted, staring at his shoes. “We wanted to make sure first.”

Hermione jumped in, her voice tight. “Professor… he- he took Harry down…”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“It is Lockhart!” Ron burst out, his ears crimson. “He said he would go down and fight the monster, but…”

“Harry is down there?!” Cassian’s voice shot up a notch.

Hermione nodded frantically. “We tried to stop him, but Lockhart… he said he was going to solve the Chamber’s mystery and dragged Harry with him.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened, his face twitching like he was fighting the urge to swear. He rubbed a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth. “Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?”

“You lot have no idea how lucky you are,” he said quietly. “Next time you decide to go Chamber-hunting, you come to me first. I don’t care how clever you think you’re being.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, but Cassian held up a hand.

“Not a word.”

Ron made a noise in his throat. “We’re not seriously going down there, are we?”

Cassian stared at Ron, jaw tight. “You’re not.” He jabbed a finger towards the three of them. “None of you are setting foot near that hole.”

He turned to Bathsheda. “Can you keep an eye on them and drag the rest of the staff in on this? I’ll go down to check on Potter.”

Bathsheda’s fingers curled lightly around his sleeve. “Are you sure?”

Cassian shook his head, tugging free. “No. But with Dumbledore sacked and McGonagall being a stubborn goat, I doubt we’d get a proper response this side of next Christmas if we try to do it the right way.”

Her lips pressed together, but she didn’t argue.

The sink loomed before him, as he stepped up to it, crouching briefly to inspect the gaping hole in the floor. The smell rising from the darkness was damp and old.

“Brilliant,” Cassian muttered under his breath. “A bloody snake pit in the girls’ loo. Hogwarts never fails to impress.”

He dropped down without waiting for a reply.

The slide was long and exactly as enjoyable as being flushed down a centuries-old toilet. Somewhere halfway, he gave up trying to slow himself and let gravity take over, arms tucked in, boots skimming slick stone.

He hit the bottom with a grunt, the impact softened by something that gave a little under his weight.

Cassian sat up, wiped muck off his palms, and muttered, “Parceled into the underworld like last week’s washing.”

He lit his wand. The glow spilled across a wide tunnel, all curved walls and damp stone, the air filled with mould.

The pipe stretched on ahead, slick and wide, designed for something massive to slither through.

He took a careful step forward, the soles of his boots squelching against the wet stone. The walls felt closer the deeper he went, the sound of dripping water marking each stride, tick tock.

A faint vibration trembled underfoot. He froze, muscles tensing.

“Please be plumbing,” he muttered. “Please don’t be…”

Something scraped against stone in the distance.

Cassian gritted his teeth, shifting his grip on his wand. “Of course not.”

When the air grew colder still, he knew he’d arrived.

The pipe opened into a vast chamber. Carved snakes twisted up every column, their eyes glinting green in his wandlight. At the far end stood a towering stone face, its mouth yawning open in a black void.

And there… Harry. Crumpled on the ground like a discarded doll, panting.

Cassian’s stomach lurched.

“Potter!” he barked, striding forward.

A faint, slithering hiss scraped through the air.

Cassian’s head snapped up. A massive, scaled body coiled slowly from the shadows, its emerald hide slick with moisture in the dim light.

Harry looked back, voice tight. “Professor. The bird… Fawkes, took its eyes out.”

Cassian grabbed his arm and yanked him behind, his free hand already raised. “Stay there and don’t argue.” His eyes flicked to the figure standing ahead in the dim light.

The man stood too still. His blond hair fell neatly against his jaw, his smile carved and cold, like he’d practised it in a mirror too many times. A diadem resting on his head glimmered faintly in the wandlight, delicate and oddly feminine, like it wasn’t meant for him at all.

And in his hands… there it was.

The black diary.

(Check Here)

Some days I talk just to see what language loneliness prefers.

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