Cassian didn’t bother hiding his grin when Lucius left the meeting room, cane tapping against the stone, mouth pinched like he’d bitten into a lemon.

“You’ve lost, Malfoy,” Cassian said as they passed in the corridor. “Try not to trip over your own pride on the way out.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, but he kept walking.

Potter spent the next few days holed up in the Wing with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. Every time someone popped in, she gave them a glare sharp enough to flay skin and told them to “either sit down quietly or get out.”

They got out.

His friends were another story. They flocked around Harry as soon as Madam Pomfrey let him out, chattering like he’d walked out of a legend. Fred and George started bowing to him in the corridors. Hermione seemed torn between fussing over his arm and telling him off for being reckless. Ron, of course, lapped it all up.

Cassian didn’t intervene. He figured the kid deserved a few days of glory after nearly getting skewered by a house-sized reptile.

The diary was… well, gone. Destroyed, as far as he could tell. Potter claimed he’d slipped it back into Lucius Malfoy’s hand on the way out, and earned himself a lifetime’s worth of Malfoy spite for the trouble. Cassian couldn’t have been prouder if the boy had smacked Lucius across the face with it. And a freed house elf was just the bonus.

The best part? Hagrid was cleared of everything. Well, nearly. That was Cassian’s next job.

He stood in Dumbledore’s office now, watching Cornelius Fudge fidget like a schoolboy. The Minister’s hat sat awkwardly in his lap, his face blotchy and damp as his eyes flicked between Cassian and the Headmaster.

“You-Know-Who, you said?” Fudge asked, his voice thin.

Cassian didn’t so much as blink. “You read my and Potter’s report, didn’t you?”

Fudge shifted in his seat, fingers twisting the brim of his hat. “Er, well, yes, but…”

“Then don’t act surprised.” Cassian folded his arms. “Or shall I sketch it out for you? Cursed diary. A student nearly killed. Malfoy’s fingerprints all over it. Every path leads to Voldemort, no matter how much you dress it up in polite euphemisms.”

The Minister paled, his mouth opening slightly. “You-Know-Who…”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Cassian snapped, leaning forward a fraction. “Say the name. Voldemort. See? Nothing exploded. No dark clouds, no lightning bolts. It is just a name. Stop giving it power it doesn’t deserve.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched faintly behind his beard.

Fudge looked very uncomfortable just hearing the name, his voice faltering. “That’s not the point, Cassian.”

“Now, Uncle Cornelius,” Cassian said, with a fake sugary smile. “Please make sure your press release is painfully clear that Hagrid wasn’t responsible. No ‘ifs,’ no ‘buts.’ He’s innocent, full stop. And while you’re at it, tell Lucius next time he thinks he can buy people to take a swing at me, he’d best remember who the Rosiers are.”

Fudge’s forehead gleamed under the candlelight, and he tugged at his collar like it was choking him. “Haha, don’t jest, Cassian. Everyone knows your family. I owe your grandfather a lot.”

Cassian chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, Lucius doesn’t remember the debts he owes. Not to worry, though… I plan to remind him.”

Fudge opened his mouth, “Yes, yes. We will see to it.”

Cassian tilted his head. “The ministry banished him as a child for something he didn’t do. Kept him trapped in the grounds like a ghost. That was Ministry’s doing. The least we can do is give him back the chance they stole.”

Fudge’s gaze shot to Dumbledore, who hadn’t said a word since Cassian started. Not even a blink. He just sat there, folded hands resting over the curve of his desk, watching the exchange like a man reading tomorrow’s newspaper.

Cassian sighed. “Uncle, this will look good on your reputation as well. The previous Ministries acted unfairly. If you show magnanimity, it will reflect on the fairness of the Ministry under your command. It’ll show you’re not shallow and petty, but the sort who can acknowledge mistakes and act to fix them. That you’re bigger.”

That last word made Fudge sit up a bit taller. His eyes twitched to Cassian, then to the portraits on the walls, as if hoping one of them would nod approvingly.

He squeezed his chin with one thumb and puffed out his chest. “You… are right.”

Cassian didn’t say anything. He let the man crown himself.

“Hagrid was mistreated by the previous Ministers,” Fudge declared, voice rising with each syllable. “It is high time he is exonerated!”

Cassian nodded, lips twitching.

Dumbledore reached calmly for his tea.

Fudge was still going. “Yes, yes, indeed. Misjudged. He was misjudged. A victim of bias and bureaucracy. I shall see it reversed.” He paused, suddenly struck by his own decisiveness. “Of course, it’ll require signatures. Documentation. But the will is there.”

“Oh, naturally,” Cassian said. “I’ll draft the letters. You just sign them with that golden quill you like waving about.”

Fudge smiled faintly. “It is a good quill.”

Dumbledore took a long sip of his tea.

Cassian leaned forward. “You’ll also need to inform the Department of Magical Education that Hagrid’s reinstatement as a student is not optional. He’ll have full access to materials, supervised study, wand work under oversight, all that. The usual accommodations for… adult learners.”

Fudge nodded, still riding the wave of self-congratulation. “Yes, yes. There are… precedents. I’ll make sure the files are unsealed. A fresh start.”

Cassian tilted his head. “And the wand?”

Fudge’s enthusiasm wavered slightly. “Well, we’d need to source one, of course. Custom—”

“No half-measures,” Cassian cut in, tone dry. “Proper core. Fitted. Paid in full by the Ministry, since it was their lot who snapped the last one without cause. He doesn’t get the leftovers from some dusty shop drawer. He gets a wand that fits. Or Ollivander and I will have a very long, very public chat.”

Fudge cleared his throat, looking righteous. “Yes… yes. Of course.”

“Good.” Cassian said casually. “I’ll speak to him myself later. He’ll need convincing. After all, you lot did spend most of his life treating him like a walking security risk.”

Fudge made a faint noise in his throat, something between a grunt and a hiccup.

Cassian chuckled. “Don’t worry, Uncle. I’ll make sure he knows who to thank.”

Fudge chuckled awkwardly. “Yes, well. Hagrid will be thrilled.” He then glanced at the Headmaster. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Albus.”

“I was waiting,” Dumbledore said, setting his cup down and folding his hands once more. “But I doubt I need to add more.”

***

After Fudge left, Cassian and Dumbledore sat in silence. The office had gone oddly quiet, save for the soft tick of that ridiculous silver contraption puffing smoke into the air every five minutes.

Cassian was slouched in his chair, legs stretched out, one ankle resting over the other, arms folded like he was contemplating whether to nap or hex someone. He stared at the old man across from him. A good target indeed. But too strong.

“I know what you did last summer,” the old man said, very seriously.

Cassian didn’t even look up. “Are you watching Muggle films now?”

Albus tilted his head. “What film?”

Cassian blinked, did the maths, then shook his head. “Never mind. Too early.”

He shook his head, adding. “Which part? I did lots of things last summer. Buried a cursed comb, warded a cliff, probably offended a few Pureblood dinner parties by breathing too loudly.”

Dumbledore sighed, slow and heavy, clearly he regretted opening his mouth. “You should know I didn’t leave Harry alone.”

Cassian snorted. “You mean Mrs Figg? Yes. I’m aware.”

Dumbledore’s brow lifted a notch. “You do?”

Cassian feigned surprise. “Why not? I thought she was incapable of making sane decisions. Not noting things properly. Utterly useless in her duty? Otherwise I cannot see how Mr Potter was still treated like livestock with her ‘reporting everything.'”

Dumbledore didn’t rise to it. Just folded his hands, that same bland expression carved across his face.

“Arabella did what she could,” he said mildly.

Cassian snorted. “If that’s her best, then I’m going to start grading on a curve. A steep one.”

“She kept an eye on him.”

“Oh yes,” Cassian drawled, “brilliant work. A squib with a penchant for expired tinned peas and dead cats ‘keeping an eye’ from her lace-curtained tomb of a house, while Potter got starved, locked in a cupboard, and told magic was freak disease.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell me, did she think bruises were just an eccentric muggle fashion?”

Dumbledore’s gaze finally shifted, narrowing just slightly. “You used magic on a Muggle family. Threatened them.”

Cassian shrugged. “And?”

Dumbledore’s eyes locked on him now, colder. His demeanour shifting. “Professor Rosier, we do not use our powers to oppress.”

Cassian laughed, amused. “Really, you don’t?”

Dumbledore blinked in confusion. His aura pulled back like smoke caught in a sudden breeze.

Cassian stood, palms flat on the desk between them, leaning in.

“You do it all the time.”

Dumbledore didn’t speak, eyes locked on Cassian’s.

“You’re the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Head of the International Confederation. Supreme Mugwump. Order of Merlin, First Class. You’ve been on the chocolate frog cards since when exactly?” Cassian said. “You walk into a room, and no one hears what you say, they just hear who said it.”

He tilted his head. “You don’t have to curse anyone, Headmaster. You don’t need to raise a wand. You exist in a space, and the room bends around it. That’s power. And you use it. Every second of every day.”

Dumbledore’s lips pressed thin.

Cassian tapped a knuckle on the desk. “So don’t get sanctimonious with me. You might not hex people into submission, but let’s not pretend your shadow doesn’t stretch far enough to crush them anyway.”

He straightened, backing off the desk.

“Now, let’s talk about Vernon Dursley. A man with a house, a car, and keys to every room in which Potter was locked. He had money, control, and fists. He wasn’t magical, but he still bent a child to his will.”

Dumbledore’s jaw shifted, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He used his job to bar the door, his size to block it, and his voice to make sure Potter didn’t question why. He turned a cupboard into a prison and called it ‘home.’ He fed him lies and cold toast and beat down everything that made him different, and you let him.”

Cassian’s voice dropped. “You want to talk about oppression? Vernon made a child beg for scraps with no magic in sight.”

He stepped away, sitting again.

“So yes, I used magic. I scared the living piss out of a man who thought fear was a one-way street. I laid a hand on him. Raised my wand. Remind him what it feels like to be powerless.”

Dumbledore’s fingers curled faintly over the edge of his chair.

Cassian didn’t stop.

“And he’s lucky that’s all I did. Because if I had my way, Vernon would’ve been in a Ministry holding cell while we debated what kind of chain made the best lesson.”

Dumbledore’s voice finally returned. Almost a whisper. “You think vengeance is justice.”

“No,” Cassian said flatly. “But I know what it looks like when justice’s been dodging its post for ten bloody years.”

“You put Potter in that house. You trusted a squib who couldn’t watch a goldfish without it dying of shame. You watched from a distance while they crushed him into a shadow of himself. And now you’re shocked I pushed back?”

They stared at each other for a beat. Then another.

“Why?” the Headmaster asked at last. “You don’t have any relation to him. You weren’t friends with his parents. You weren’t their comrades.”

Cassian stood up, brushing his robes flat like he was done with the whole conversation. “Decades teaching. Never understanding.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

“Have a nice summer, Headmaster.”

The old man sat there. Wanting to stop him, ask questions about Diary, Diadem, Voldemort. But Cassian had already left.

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