Next day, the Petrified students were treated… no lingering damage, not even for Nearly Headless Nick, who went straight back to floating through walls or whatever counted as a hobby for a ghost. Exams were cancelled too, which had Hermione looking as if someone had stolen her birthday. The rest of the castle, however, erupted in cheers.

Bathsheda was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Cassian walked out. She was sitting on the edge of the balustrade with one boot tucked beneath her, a sketchbook balanced across her knee. She was halfway through outlining the arches above the courtyard, charcoal moving in clean lines.

Cassian leaned against the wall beside her, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her hand glide across the page, picking out bricks and shadows like she was mapping the bones of the place.

“You’re doing the fountain wrong,” he said finally. “It’s smugger than that.”

She kept drawing. “You always talk to it like it’s sentient?”

“Only when it spits at me.”

She snorted, finishing the arch, only then getting up. He offered his hand, she took it.

They walked to the gate when Harry spotted Cassian striding past with Bathsheda at his side. Granger, Weasley, and Longbottom trailed after Harry, trying to keep up with the flow.

“Professor R!” Harry called, quickening his pace.

Cassian paused mid-step and turned to catch sight of him. “Potter. Another year without setting the place on fire. Barely.”

Harry managed a faint grin. “Thanks to you, sir.”

Cassian snorted. “I wouldn’t go tossing gratitude my way just yet. I am still trying to decide if dragging you out of a basilisk’s gullet was worth the trouble.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched, torn between scolding and thanks.

Neville shifted his bag higher on his shoulder and blurted, “We just wanted to say… thank you. Both of you. For… well, everything.”

Cassian tilted his head, looking faintly amused. “You lot sound like you’re signing off a will. Go on, then. Out with it. What’s got you so soppy?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “We mean it. If you hadn’t been there in the Chamber…”

“You would probably be shin-deep in snake dung right now. Yes, I know.” Cassian waved a hand. “Just make sure you lot aren’t sneaking off down pipes next year, and we will call it even.”

Bathsheda stepped forward. “And don’t think we haven’t noticed the way you four attract trouble like moths to a flame.”

Ron muttered something under his breath. Cassian’s brow arched. “What was that, Weasley?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Thought so.”

“You’ve a talent for stumbling into trouble that makes my younger self look tame,” Cassian said with a snort. “Try to stay alive over the summer, yeah?”

Harry ducked his head, his ears pinking. “I’ll… try, sir.”

“Good lad.” Cassian’s lips quirked faintly before he straightened.

***

The train doors clanged shut, and the whistle shrieked again. Cassian stepped back, hands slipping into his coat pockets as the carriages began to crawl forward.

Granger waved furiously through the window. Weasley stuck his head out and yelled something inaudible over the noise, earning a sharp tug from Hermione to pull him back in.

Cassian watched the train pull away until it vanished around the bend, steam curling through the air.

“Another year survived,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Miracle, that.”

Bathsheda held his hand tight, her fingers cold despite the warmth of the summer starting. “We failed all our objectives. We lost the diary, almost caused a massacre in the castle. Lucius slithered free.”

Cassian gave her hand a squeeze. “He lost an elf, if Potter’s right. That is something.”

She let out a humourless laugh, resting her head briefly on his arm. “It is not enough. He should be rotting in Azkaban for what he’s done.”

Cassian sighed, shaking his head. “Malfoy is too slippery for that. His gold greases more palms than soap ever could. But he’s rattled now.”

“You think the diary is really gone?” she asked finally.

Cassian’s thumb brushed over her knuckles absently. “Potter stabbed it. Ink spraying everywhere like a stuck pig. If that didn’t kill it, then I will eat my wand.”

Her brows drew together. “You’re sure the diadem was another Horcrux?”

Cassian let out a long breath, raking a hand through his hair. “Afraid so.”

She shivered, hugging her arms tighter. “How many do you think he’s got?”

Cassian kept walking, boots scuffing on the flagstones. He shook his head, jaw tight. “No clue. But I’m guessing… too many.”

***

Cassian stepped through the front door and barely got his boots off before he was told, “Master Regulus is waiting.”

He sighed, pinched the brigde of his nose, and didn’t even bother asking if it could wait.

Upstairs, the drawing room smelled like varnish and tobacco. The fire was going, despite the early summer heat. Of course it was.

Regulus was by the window, hands clasped behind his back. Lucian sat ramrod-straight. With the stick up his arse, he didn’t have much choice. Magnus occupied his usual place.

He shut the door behind him and dropped into the only empty seat.

“The trinity,” he muttered. “Must be an event.”

Regulus didn’t turn. “What happened in the Chamber? Did you see Voldemort?”

Cassian sank into the armchair. “Not really. Lockhart got himself puppeted by the diary Lucius so generously planted in Bathsheda’s bag last summer. Idiot practically walked into it. By the time I got down there, he was already halfway gone.”

Magnus’s jaw set. Regulus finally faced him, sharp-eyed. “Horcrux.”

Cassian tilted his head, mostly for show. “Huh?”

Lucian’s brows pulled in, the crease between them deepening. “What’s a Horcrux?”

Magnus sighed through his nose, like the word itself tasted sour. “Abomination. You split your soul and trap part of it inside an object. Anchor it. Usually through murder. It protects the soul even if your body dies. Not something your average curse-breaker stumbles into.”

Lucian frowned. “Even if your body dies?”

Regulus stepped away from the window. “Yes.”

Lucian leaned forward, frowning. “You’re saying You-Know-Who actually did that? Split his soul?”

Cassian huffed. “Why would anyone even do that? What sort of utter cretin looks at murder and thinks, ‘You know what would go well with this? Immortality.'”

Regulus didn’t answer. Just stared out the window.

Magnus lit his pipe with a tap of his thumb, puffing slow. “Voldemort was always… insecure,” he said, eyes on the far wall. “Didn’t think he’d crawl this low.”

Insecure. That was a generous word. Opportunistic coward in a snake costume felt more accurate.

Cassian filed the tone away anyway. That wasn’t outrage or shock, just mild distaste. Which tracked. The Rosiers hadn’t backed Voldemort out of loyalty. They’d picked a side because it was winning. That’s why one idiot Rosier had died for the cause, and another got tossed into Azkaban. Magnus hadn’t lost sleep. He’d cut them loose the second Voldemort fell. Probably before the dust even settled.

Regulus turned slightly, not bothering to sit. “What of the basilisk?”

Cassian slid a small cloth pouch out of his coat and dropped it onto the table.

“Fang. Rest of it’s Dumbledore’s problem.”

Regulus gave it a glance but didn’t reach. Lucian looked more interested, leaning forward slightly like he might ask if it could be weaponised.

Cassian ignored that.

“You’re sure the Horcrux is gone?” Regulus asked.

“Potter killed it,” Cassian said. “Thing screamed like a boiling kettle. Lockhart got the backlash. Brain’s cooked.”

Regulus murmured. “And the boy?”

“He’s fine,” Cassian said. “Madam Pomfrey’s already threatening to lock him in the Wing if he so much as sneezes.”

***

For the next week, Cassian didn’t do much beyond showing up to Bathsheda’s place like it was his full-time job. Morning coffee, evening wine, rinse and repeat. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes she threw a cushion at his head because he kept pronouncing “rune” with what she insisted was a smug accent.

He took it as a compliment.

Neither of them mentioned travel. No tombs. No temples. No ancient underwater crypts filled with whispering bones. They’d had enough of those for a while. They had enough cursed ancient temples. And Cassian had a plan for one big one next year.

So they stayed on the Island.

Quiet wasn’t something Cassian did naturally, but with her, it worked. Their flat above the herb shop was a crooked little thing, full of mismatched mugs and half-sketched maps, and the ceiling creaked whenever the gulls landed too hard. But it was theirs.

One Sunday, they slipped out early and caught a Knight Bus to London. Just for the hell of it.

Disguised as proper Muggles, they wandered the streets eating ice creams that melted faster than they could lick them.

Cassian had half a cone left and most of it on his fingers.

“We look ridiculous,” Bathsheda muttered, glancing at the reflection of them in a bakery window. “You look like a hungover detective from that book, and I’m dressed like I got lost on laundry day.”

Cassian sucked strawberry off his knuckle. “Perfect cover.”

“For what? Escaping fashion?”

“Exactly. No one suspects the poorly dressed.”

They turned down a narrow street where the shadows fell long despite the noon light. Somewhere behind them, a bus wheezed around the corner, and a radio blared the latest from Pet Shop Boys.

Bathsheda slowed as they passed a bookshop. Cassian’s head tilted.

“Don’t even think about going in,” she said without looking.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Cassian raised both hands, sticky and all. “Swear on my last brain cell.”

“Is that the one that told you licking cursed ink off your fingers was a smart idea?”

“That ink tasted like sassafras. I regret nothing.”

She rolled her eyes and tugged his sleeve. “Let’s find a cafe before you melt completely.”

They cut across the pavement, aiming for the little cafe with the crooked chalkboard sign when someone stepped directly into their path.

“Professors Babbling and Rosier.”

Cassian blinked. The woman looked like she’d walked out of a particularly dangerous perfume advert, long pale hair, flawless skin, and a voice with that odd melody that set off all sorts of internal alarms.

He glanced at Bathsheda to see if she knew her, but she was frowning too.

The woman smiled, and something tugged faintly at the edge of his thoughts. Subtle. Just enough to make him blink and brace, like a draft had slipped under his collar.

“Apolline Delacour. Pleased to meet you. I was sent by Master Flamel. Please come with me.”

(Check Here)

I prepared a whole counter-argument.

Still waiting for the argument.

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