Cassian and Bathsheda walked the streets of Diagon Alley hand in hand, weaving past shoppers and stalls with the kind of ease that came from years of dodging both curses and overenthusiastic street vendors.

The late-summer air clung to their clothes. One of the goblin-run booths had set up a discount charm-scroll bin, which was currently smoking. Nobody seemed that fussed about it though. People were passing by, some holding ice-cream, others cages of their new pets.

Cassian side-eyed it. “How long before someone explodes?”

Bathsheda didn’t glance over. “Three scrolls ago.”

Cassian chuckled as he dodged a witch in peacock robes, and steered them toward the narrow path between Flourish and Blotts and the new cafe that insisted on serving butterbeer with cinnamon foam.

She squinted up at the chalkboard menu. “Why is everything foamed now? Can’t people drink things like adults?”

“I think it’s an allergy,” he said. “To dignity.”

They grabbed a table tucked near the front window. One of the legs was shorter than the others and kept clicking against the floor like a metronome trying to pick a fight. Cassian folded a napkin under it, absolutely wasn’t going to be driven mad by a wobbly table. Not again.

A moment passed while they sipped from mismatched mugs and watched a third-year argue with her textbook with fangs, outside.

Bathsheda broke the silence first. “When’s the hearing?”

“Week after next.” He blew on his drink. “Magical Creatures Committee. Official reinstatement. New wand, paperwork, job reclassification.”

She rested her chin on her hand. “And?”

“And Fudge gets a medal for doing the bare minimum while Hagrid gets grilled by people who still flinch when he ducks through a door.”

Bathsheda’s mouth twitched. “You’ll go with him?”

Cassian gave her a look. “Nah. He’s gonna be alright.”

She hummed. “You really think they’ll approve full reinstatement?”

“Not out of kindness. But the press is watching now. And the Prophet’s already warming up a puff piece. ‘Misjudged Giant Wins Right to Education’ or some such rot.”

Bathsheda didn’t say anything. Just looked out the window.

Cassian followed her gaze.

Kids ran past, new robes flapping wildly as parents tried not to lose their temper before the school year even began.

He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Do you remember your first trip to Diagon?”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes still on the crowd. “My mum cried. Not in the sentimental way. Someone stepped on her foot.”

Cassian snorted.

“I had ink on my shirt and thought every cauldron shop was a front for dark magic.”

“Well, that part’s not wrong.”

“Perenelle’s written. They’ve almost completed the footpath,” she said, taking another slow sip.

Cassian hummed thoughtfully. “We should visit next year.”

She arched a brow. “I thought you hated Australia.”

Cassian grimaced. “Hate is a strong word. I’d say… ‘prefer not to set foot anywhere near.’ But, well, meh. We survived creatures of darkness. I think we can handle the rest of muggle lethality just fine.”

She chuckled and glanced away. “Still strange.”

He turned to her, curious. “What is?”

She exhaled, straightening in her seat. “That you can see memories of the past, and that they somehow brush against reality. But at the same time, they don’t, since you’re not tied into the causal threads. And then there’s the fact you have a memory that never fades.”

Cassian gave her a deadpan look. “You could’ve just said I’m weird.”

Her expression softened as she reached for his hand. “Baby… you are.”

He huffed, which only made her laugh harder.

Her gaze drifted then, catching on at the bookstore across the street. “First Voldemort, and now these new messes. Can we ever rest?”

Cassian shook his head slowly, then nodded as though convincing himself. “Next year, we’re doing nothing. Only vacation.”

She shot him a look that clearly meant you and I both know that’s impossible. But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, after a beat, she tilted her head and asked, “You think we did enough?”

Cassian didn’t answer right away. A cart went by with a squeaky wheel and a pile of charmed fireworks balanced far too confidently on top. An old wizard was seated on top, smoking from his pipe, dressed in old gowns all in grey.

He sighed, slow. “No.”

“But we did what we could,” he added.

Bathsheda watched him over the rim of her cup. “That diary was clever. We underestimated how subtle it could be.”

He nodded, leaning back in his chair. Just as Bathsheda opened her mouth again, three heads popped into view over the flower boxes outside the window.

“Hello, Professors,” Tracey said, all sunshine and confidence.

Daphne gave a polite nod. Pansy looked mildly bored but smiled too wide.

Cassian blinked. “Ah. The Unholy Trinity. I was starting to worry, thought maybe you’d matured over the summer.”

That got a giggle out of them. Pansy rolled her eyes and pushed the cafe door open.

“Here for a breather?” Cassian asked as they made their way over after ordering their drinks.

Tracey flopped into the seat beside him without hesitation, already tugging Pansy down with her. Daphne dragged a chair from the table next.

“We wanted to try the new foamy butterbeer,” Tracey said.

Cassian pointed at the cups that’d just arrived. “And? Verdict?”

“It’s amazing,” Pansy said after taking a sip. She’d finished half the mug in one big gulp, so that spoke louder.

Bathsheda leaned forward a little. “Does it actually taste different, or are we all just dazzled by the froth?”

“Cinnamon,” Tracey said. “And something else. Bit like nutmeg, but fancier.”

Daphne shrugged. “It’s fine. Better than what they serve in the Great Hall.”

Pansy lifted her mug. “Everything’s better than what they serve in the Great Hall.”

Cassian sipped his own drink. “Don’t let elves hear that.”

Tracey tilted her head. “Is it true you’re taking on Duelling Club again this year?”

He gave her a dry look. “Was that meant to sound like a threat?”

“No,” she said quickly, “I just mean, last year was good.”

“High praise,” he said. “Especially from someone who submitted an essay on magical ethics written entirely in rhyming couplets.”

Tracey grinned. “You gave it an O.”

“I was feeling generous.”

All three laughed.

Bathsheda smirked into her cup. “You do know you’re encouraging them, right?”

Cassian raised his brows. “They don’t need encouragement.”

Daphne took a slow sip of her drink, then asked, “You think this year’ll be quiet?”

Pansy snorted. “Doubt it. With Black on the loose? We’re lucky the place isn’t wrapped in chains.”

Tracey leaned in, frowning. “Mum says the Ministry’s sending Dementors. To Hogwarts. And Hogsmeade.”

Pansy stirred the foam in her mug with the end of her straw. “Father says the Ministry’s just posturing. They don’t actually expect to catch him.”

Cassian leaned back, one arm thrown over the chair. “No. But if they look busy enough, no one asks why he slipped out in the first place.”

Bathsheda didn’t look away from the window. “You think they’ll put Dementors on the train?”

“Wouldn’t put it past them,” he said. “It’s hard to misplace a horde of dark-robed nightmares if they’re lined up like ticket inspectors.”

Pansy looked over at him, expression pinched. “Are they really that bad?”

Cassian tilted his head. “Imagine your worst memory. Then imagine it’s all you can remember. Now picture something feeding off that, like a leech with a taste for despair. That’s a Dementor.”

Tracey made a face and pushed her cup aside.

Pansy didn’t speak again.

Daphne smoothed a hand down her skirt. “Do we get taught to defend against them?”

Cassian nodded. “Patronus’s the only known defence. But it’s not a beginner’s charm. Third years can’t cast it. It’s normally O.W.L. level, at the earliest.”

Daphne eyed him. “Can you cast it?”

He tilted his head. “Sort of. Depends on the day. My corporal form’s temperamental.”

Tracey squinted. “What’s a corporeal form?”

Bathsheda took over, “Patronus Charm, in early stages, creates a shield of light. A projection. It repels Dementors, but only temporarily. Think of it like throwing up a wall just long enough to run.”

Tracey looked doubtful. “And the advanced version?”

“That one takes shape. An actual creature,” Bathsheda said. “Something unique to the caster. That’s the full corporeal form. Far stronger. More stable.”

Daphne leaned forward. “What decides the form?”

Cassian scratched the side of his nose. “Some say it’s personality. Others think it’s your happiest memory, bottled up and shaken until something pops out. Personally, I think it’s just magic being nosy.”

Tracey tilted her head. “So it’s different for everyone?”

“Supposed to be,” Cassian said, reaching for the napkin again as the table wobbled. “Although if yours ends up being a fruit bat or something, don’t let that discourage you. I’ve seen worse.”

Bathsheda made a face. “Worse than a fruit bat?”

Cassian nodded, eyes on his mug. “Basil’s is a goose.”

Tracey blinked. “What, really?”

“Full honk and waddle,” he said. “Chased a Boggart clean through the east wing when we were students. Nearly trampled Filch. Left feathers everywhere.”

Pansy snorted. Daphne tried to hide her smile behind her cup.

“That’s tragic,” Tracey said, deadpan.

“Heroic,” Cassian said. “The Boggart didn’t know what hit it.”

Daphne glanced between them. “What’s yours?”

Cassian paused, then gave the world’s most unhelpful shrug. “It doesn’t like to show up unless I’m actually dying. Bit shy.”

Pansy squinted. “Is that… normal?”

“No,” Bathsheda said.

“Yes,” Cassian said, at the same time.

She gave him a sideways look.

Tracey looked at her. “What about yours, Professor Babbling?”

“It’s a kestrel.”

Pansy blinked. “That’s a kind of hawk, right?”

“A small falcon,” Bathsheda said. “Fast. Very fast. Most people miss them completely.”

Neither of them said it, but hers had shifted lately. And that she had another now. Not that she wanted to talk about it.

Before they could press more, they heard commotion outside. A knot of students was clustering in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, pressing to the window like the display might start breathing.

They slid out of their seats and wandered toward the door after bidding girls goodbye. Cassian had barely stepped over the threshold before two streaks of red barrelled into view from opposite sides, nearly colliding in front of him.

“Professor R!”

Fred.

“Look at that.”

George.

“That is a Firebolt!”

They pointed together at the centrepiece of the display window.

It didn’t look like any broom Cassian had seen before. Sleek, all polished ash and burnished gold, clean lines. Probably had been drawn by someone who hated imperfections. He’d seen swords with less menace.

“That’s not a broom. That’s a midlife crisis with bristles.”

Fred bounced on the balls of his feet. “Zero to one-fifty in ten seconds, seven if there’s tailwind,”

“And stabilisation runes along the shaft and the footrests actually adjust mid-flight!” George added.

The price tag sat smugly beneath it, daring someone to argue. Even Cassian winced.

Bathsheda raised an eyebrow. “You could buy a small flat for that.”

“Or a dragon,” Cassian said. “Not a legal one, but still.”

Fred elbowed George. “Do you reckon Wood’s already crying?”

“Would explain the tremor in the Alley,” George said.

More students gathered, faces pressed to the glass. The Firebolt gleamed, perfectly centred, like it was seconds from taking off on its own.

Bathsheda peered over the crowd. “Do you think they’ll approve this for school games?”

Cassian scoffed. “Only if McGonagall gets to ride it first.”

Fred grinned. “That’d be a sight.”

George mimed a swoop. “Ten Galleons says she could outfly Flint blindfolded.”

“I’m not betting against McGonagall,” Cassian said. “That woman’s spine is made of dragonbone.”

The rest of the Weasleys came striding down the Alley in one half-chaotic pack. Harry, Hermione and Neville swept along somewhere in the tide. Ginny had a sherbet lemon in her mouth and a quill stuck behind one ear.

Arthur broke off first, beaming as he spotted Cassian. “Professor Rosier! I never got to thank you for sending Ronald’s wand back last year. That was, really, very kind.”

Cassian waved it off. “Hardly. Ignoring it would’ve been the crime.”

Arthur laughed politely, a hand patting at his coat like he’d lost his glasses again. He looked faintly out of breath already.

Harry had barely glanced at them. His eyes were glued to the Firebolt in the window, jaw slack, neck craned. He was weighing whether emptying his vault was worth it or not.

Cassian sighed, already feeling the coming avalanche of broom-related whining. He saw Percy at the edge of the crowd, who was standing taller than usual with his nose slightly up like the air around him had suddenly improved.

“Let me guess,” Cassian said, “Head Boy?”

Percy didn’t answer so much as expand. His chest puffed, smugness inflating him.

Cassian turned before the boy could brag about it.

“You might want to pull your friend away before he tries to marry that broom,” He said, tipping his head toward Harry, who hadn’t blinked in a full minute.

Hermione looked over, sighed, and tugged Harry’s sleeve. “You’re staring too much.”

“It’s staring back,” Harry muttered.

“It’s a broom.”

“It’s art.”

Neville gave it a cautious glance. “Bit sharp-looking, isn’t it?”

They left not long after the crowd started thickening, too many elbows and shrieking first-years for Cassian’s taste.

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You know, some expressions speak volumes. Then there is you. Even your expressions are silent.

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