Since Bathsheda’s brain had nearly melted trying to wrap itself around Hermione-induced time splits and Cassian wasn’t willing to sacrifice the last of his single-digit brain cell count to the altar of theoretical time mishaps, they left the castle for some air.

The garden was quiet this time of late afternoon. Most students were still drifting between lunch and classes.

They turned a corner by the greenhouses and paused.

Hagrid was in the paddock.

He stood near the fence, arms waving as he introduced the class to a large, sulky-looking Hippogriff that was eyeing a cabbage with deep suspicion. The creature didn’t appear thrilled to be involved in anything educational.

Bathsheda hesitated. “Wanna say hi?”

Cassian held up a hand. “He hasn’t noticed us yet. Let’s not ruin the magic.”

They stepped behind one of the broader trees. Not hiding exactly, just staying out of sightline. No one needed the awkward pause of ‘Oh look, your colleagues are silently judging your lesson from the shrubbery.’

Cassian leaned one shoulder against the trunk, arms folded. “First class. Third years. And a Hippogriff.”

Bathsheda rubbed her temples. “He’s really asking for it.”

“I only met one in sixth year,” he said, watching the feathers fluff. “It wasn’t a good experience.”

“Your fault, probably.”

“Unlikely. I’m very charming.”

They fell quiet as the students approached in a nervous line. Some were gawking. Others kept their eyes firmly away from the Hippogriff’s talons. Potter stepped up. Well, failed to step back.

Cassian tilted his head. “Oh look. He’s bowing.”

The Hippogriff shifted, wings twitching, then returned the bow.

Cassian raised a brow. “Oh, that worked.”

They watched the boy climb up, slightly awkward, and then, just like that, the creature launched into the air. The class shrieked. The Hippogriff banked low over the trees, wings outstretched, and Potter held on like a terrified squirrel with a Gryffindor scarf.

Cassian whistled. “Well, there goes liability.”

The Hippogriff looped once more, then touched down with a crunch of grass and a spray of dirt. Potter slid off, knees wobbly but triumphant. The other kids burst into excited chatter.

Cassian was impressed. The boy really had a talent for flying. No matter what he rode. “I’ll say this. Kid’s got nerve.”

Bathsheda made a face. “Or no sense of self-preservation.”

“Same thing.”

Hagrid was beaming like someone had handed him a pub. He clapped Potter on the back, nearly knocked him over, then waved up the next student.

“Think the Board knows he’s doing this?” Bathsheda asked.

“Oh, definitely not,” Cassian said. “If they did, half of them would’ve passed out from clutching their pearls.”

Bathsheda hummed. “Should we intervene?”

Cassian tilted his head. “Not unless he tries to feed it a student.”

Just as they were about to leave, Cassian caught a flash of pale hair and a spine full of self-importance heading across the paddock. Malfoy, of course, chin high, spine stiff, and strutting toward the Hippogriff as if expecting a curtsy.

Cassian sighed. “Brilliant. Here comes Lord Confidence.”

Bathsheda glanced back, already wincing. “That won’t go well.”

Malfoy stopped just short of the beast, giving it a once-over. “You’re not really that dangerous, are you, you big brute.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. That tone never ended well. He had scars to prove it.

Then, like he’d heard something behind him, Malfoy stilled. His head turned slightly, brow furrowed, trying to locate the sound that wasn’t there. He took one step back. Another. Whatever bravado he’d walked in with had leaked out through his shoes.

Cassian gave it a beat. Then turned away.

Bathsheda followed, glancing sideways. “What did you tell him?”

He half-smiled. “That I made the same mistake years ago and nearly lost an arm.”

She snorted. “Did you?”

He looked at her. “Oh yeah. But unlike Lucius, when I cried to Daddy, Regulus said it was my fault. Not the school’s.”

Bathsheda blinked. “You cried?”

“Briefly,” Cassian said. “Then I bled on the staircase and passed out.”

She tilted her head. “Is that why you’ve got that little scar on your—”

“Nope. Different incident. That one was a cursed sword.” He gestured vaguely to his left arm. “Unsheathed it. Sword didn’t approve.”

Bathsheda’s brows drew together. “You know, most children played gobstones. Rode toy brooms. Maybe had a traumatic chess set or two.”

Cassian gave a lazy shrug. “Some kids had nannies. I had trapdoors and a brother with more hexes than hugs.”

She stared at him for a beat, then muttered, “Remind me to never complain about my mum again.”

They turned back toward the castle. Behind them, Malfoy was still sulking, arm cradled, probably imagining how stupid his mistake would have been. Hagrid fussed. The Hippogriff looked smug.

“Kids these days,” Cassian muttered.

“Old man,” Bathsheda said without looking at him.

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “And I intend to grumble about it all year.”

***

The two of them were sprawled on the stone bench near the courtyard, Cassian’s legs kicked out, Bathsheda reading over something with a half-broken biscuit balanced on her knee. A cool breeze pulled at her hair.

Harry spotted them first. “Professor R,” he called out as they crossed the grass.

Cassian nodded at them, “How many of you took Ancient Runes?”

All four hands went up. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville.

Cassian grinned, not bothering to hide it. “Good children.”

Bathsheda sipped her tea, apparently ignoring them, though the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth said otherwise.

Ron shifted on his feet. “It’s mental hard though.”

Cassian gave them a lazy thumbs up. “You’ll manage. Professor Babbling’s an excellent teacher.”

Bathsheda let out a theatrical huff, muttering, “Flattery won’t save you later.”

Neville still looked unsure. Fair enough, they hadn’t actually taken a class yet. For all they knew, “excellent teacher” could mean “throws runes at you when bored.”

Ron nodded. “Fred and George love it. Spent the whole summer mastering this one rune. Swore it’d make the greatest prank in Hogwarts history.”

Bathsheda froze, hand stilled in the air.

Her voice dropped. “Tell me it wasn’t Fehu-Athruz binding.”

Ron blinked. “Um. What?”

She set the biscuit down and stood, already heading toward him.

“Tell me it wasn’t Fehu-Athruz binding, Weasley.”

Ron took an actual step back. “I-I think it was? Maybe?”

“Damn it!” Bathsheda swore under her breath. Something short, sharp, and not fit for polite conversation. She shot a look at Cassian, accusatory and full of dramatic betrayal.

“This is your fault, Rosier! Your fault!”

She stalked off, muttering something about experimental sigils and unstable combustion.

Cassian grinned. “Love you too, darling.”

Harry looked between them, eyebrows pinched. “What’s Fehu-Athruz binding?”

Cassian waved a hand, still half-grinning. “You ever glue a knife to a ceiling fan and call it art?”

Hermione paled. “They wouldn’t.”

Cassian shrugged. “Those two? Absolutely.”

Neville looked vaguely haunted, hands twitching like he was debating whether to go check the walls for runes. “Why aren’t you worried?”

Cassian stretched his legs out in front of him. “Bathsheda can handle them.”

That seemed to reassure no one.

“Anyway. First Hogsmeade weekend’s coming up, yeah? You lot excited?”

They all perked up.

Harry nodded. “I was actually worried I couldn’t get the permit signed, but my uncle did.”

Cassian hummed, mildly impressed. “Was there a bribe involved or just trickery?”

Harry gave a small grin. “He thought I’d be out more, no time to write to them.”

“Ah. Motivated by peace and quiet. Classic guardianing.” He pointed lazily toward Neville. “You got yours?”

Neville nodded. “Gran was reluctant. Thought it’d be dangerous. But she signed it.”

Hermione turned to Cassian. “Are there any bookshops?”

Cassian tilted his head, counting off on his fingers. “Two. One sells general magical texts. The other’s got second-hand tomes and a deeply suspicious cat. Mind the third shelf, it’s cursed.”

Her eyes lit up. On the other hand, Ron’s darkened.

Neville grimaced. “Shouldn’t mention cats, Professor.”

Cassian blinked. “Bit sudden, Longbottom. You allergic or traumatised?”

Ron shot a pointed glare at Hermione, voice sharp. “He’s talking about your bloody cat.”

Cassian’s eyebrow lifted. “Is this going somewhere useful, or are we just blaming each other for fur-related trauma?”

Hermione huffed. “Ronald thinks Crookshanks ate his rat.”

Ron crossed his arms. “He has a name.” His jaw tensed. “He didn’t just vanish, alright? I woke up, and Scabbers was gone. No sign. Just a few orange hairs on the bed.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know it was Crookshanks. There could be dozens of explanations—”

“He’s been stalking him since we got back,” Ron snapped. “Every night. On the end of my bed. Watching.”

Neville shifted like he regretted opening his mouth in the first place.

Hermione squared her shoulders. “Crookshanks is intelligent. He doesn’t just attack things.”

“Right,” Ron said. “He writes letters too, does he?”

Hermione folded her arms. “Scabbers was old. He’d been ill for ages. He might’ve just wandered off.”

Ron’s face twisted. “He wasn’t some decrepit stray. He was fine till your monster started stalking him.”

Cassian groaned and dropped his head back against the bench. “Pet crimes. Brilliant. Above my paygrade. File a complaint with McGonagall. Or maybe Hagrid, if you want a speech about how ‘they’re just expressing their feelings.'”

Ron muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Hope Crookshanks chokes on him.”

Harry, wisely, kept his mouth shut. Neville glanced toward the castle, considering faking a sprained ankle to escape.

Hermione straightened her bag, jaw tight. “He’ll turn up.”

Ron didn’t reply.

Cassian pushed off the bench with a stretch. “Right. I’m going to go find Bathsheda before she starts enchanting biscuits again.”

“Why would she enchant—?”

Cassian raised a hand. “Just… don’t eat a biscuit if you find it unexpectedly.”

Ron blinked. “Wait, why—?”

Neville looked horrified.

Hermione tilted her head. “She doesn’t actually enchant them, right? Right?!”

(Check Here)

-When a story moves you, you’ve gotta stand up and move the story back.

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-It’s true, it’s called action and reaction.

Newton

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