Cassian rapped twice on the office door and stepped in before the second knock had fully faded. He was carrying a bar of Honeydukes dark and a bottle of firewhisky, because nothing said “cheerful reunion” like sugar and something strong enough to strip varnish. He had no clue what Lupin actually liked. Didn’t matter. Bribes were bribes.

Lupin looked up from a half-marked stack of essays with mild surprise.

“Professor Rosier.”

“Professor Lupin,” Cassian returned, holding up them as if he was carrying peace offerings. “Come bearing gifts. Chocolate and teeth-melting regrets. Flip a coin.”

He shut the door with his foot and made for the empty chair.

Lupin leaned back, gaze skimming the bottle before drifting up to Cassian’s face, not sure if this was an elaborate joke or some kind of trap.

Cassian set the chocolate and whisky on the desk. “Could’ve brought flowers, but figured that’d ruin your brooding reputation.”

Lupin’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t think I had one.”

“You’ve got the hair for it,” Cassian said, dropping into the opposite chair. “You lot had better cheekbones back in the day, though. Still can’t tell if it was natural or just the side-effect of sharing a dorm with James Potter.”

That got a proper smirk. Lupin’s fingers tapped the desk idly. “Didn’t expect you to knock.”

“Didn’t expect you to be working here, so we’re both having a weird year.”

“You’re not what I remember.”

Cassian shrugged. “Most people aren’t.”

“No,” Lupin said, slow. “But you especially.”

Cassian didn’t offer an explanation. Instead, he leaned forward, snagged the bottle, and twisted the cap off. “Right. You’ve got the Boggart, yeah?”

Lupin blinked. “That’s why you’re here?”

“Well, I’m not here for the decor.”

Lupin hesitated. “You want it for… what, exactly?”

Cassian waved a hand. “Patronus lesson. Potter asked. Longbottom too. I said I’d help, but I need something they can actually cast against.”

Lupin raised a brow. “You’re going to simulate a Dementor?”

“Boggart’s cheaper. Doesn’t come with the soul-sucking side effects.”

Lupin frowned, but not at the idea, at the name. “Harry asked you? Not me?”

Cassian didn’t answer straight away. He poured a slug of whisky into one mug, ignoring the other.

“Not visiting your best mate’s son for thirteen years does that.”

Lupin’s hand twitched against the desk.

“I was—”

Cassian lifted a hand. “Not really curious. I already told him life’s complicated and grief’s a bastard. It’s him you need to apologise to. Not me.”

Lupin’s mouth pressed flat. His gaze fell to the ground, blank.

“He’s braver than I thought.”

Cassian went on. “The kid’s got a dementor in his nightmares and a target on his back, and he still asked to learn. That’s not bravado. That’s survival instinct finally catching up with him.”

“He shouldn’t have to learn that now.”

“No,” Cassian agreed. “But here we are.”

Lupin grabbed the mug and knocked the drink back in one go.

“Look, I am really sorry.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “I really meant I don’t need the apology.”

Lupin looked away, jaw tight. “What we did… What Sirius did… was bastardy. We shouldn’t have.”

Cassian shook his head, leaned back in the chair. “I’m not losing sleep over it, trust me. I’m over it. Still a bit curious, though, how the hell did you lot keep finding me? I asked Lucian to check me for tracking charms. Three times. Nothing.”

Lupin didn’t show anything on his face.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Never did figure that bit out.”

When Cassian was a first-year and Sirius Black a seventh, he made the mistake of calling him a blood-traitor dog. Said it loud, too. He hadn’t meant it as a joke either. It was the sort of thing the old Cassian, pureblood Rosier, robes too clean, nose too high, was expected to say.

Didn’t end well.

Still, he hadn’t been particularly bothered at the time. Arrogance was a better shield than sense when you were eleven, near-squib and stupid. And frankly, the old Rosier had plenty of all that. He’d walked away from it with bruises and a detentions record, but barely scratch on his ego.

Cassian stood up and bit into a chunk of chocolate, “I’ll borrow the Boggart then.”

Lupin gave a small grunt.

Cassian didn’t wait for a goodbye. Just grabbed the old trunk with the rattling latch, tucked it under one arm and made for the door.

***

Bathsheda watched Cassian stroll in with a trunk tucked under one arm, the chest shaking like something inside had opinions about being carried.

He kicked the door shut behind him, dropped the thing beside her chair, and flopped onto the nearby couch.

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” she said, eyeing the box suspiciously.

He popped another bit of Honeydukes chocolate into his mouth from his pocket. “Depends. What do you think it is?”

“Please don’t say Boggart.”

“Then it’s a very aggressive tea set.”

Bathsheda muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a swear. “Where did you get it? Staff room?”

“Nope. Got it from Lupin.”

She raised her eyebrows. “He just handed it over?”

Cassian shrugged. “Eventually. After the chocolate bribe and mild emotional blackmail.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Mild?”

“By my standards.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

Cassian didn’t blink. “Not testing it.”

Bathsheda stood anyway, the grin already forming. “Scared?”

“Terrified,” he said. “I’m barely competent at Riddikulus. Let’s not add public humiliation to the list.”

“Lucky for you, I am.” She laughed and moved past him, tugging the trunk a little closer with her foot. “Can’t be that bad. What’s it going to show? Deadlines?”

Cassian sighed, head tipping back against the armrest. “If this ends with me being chased around the room by a giant essay, I’m blaming you.”

She ignored that, crouched by the trunk, and tapped the latch. It clicked. A soft rattle inside. The kind of sound you didn’t want under your bed.

Cassian shifted upright, arms folded. “If it turns into me, that’s just offensive.”

“No,” she said, straightening. “It won’t.”

She raised her wand. The lid creaked open.

Smoke leaked out.

The thing rose slowly, smoke curling around its limbs like it hadn’t decided on a final shape yet.

Before it could manage anything more than a flicker of form, the tattoo on Bathsheda’s forearm flared. Ash slammed into the room like she’d been launched from a cannon, mid-sized, angry, and fully convinced the trunk was picking a fight. The Norwegian Ridgeback tore through the smoke before it could decide if it wanted to be a spider, a corpse, or someone’s mother. The Boggart shrieked in a brittle, glassy sound, and recoiled.

The lid slammed shut on instinct.

“Alright,” he said after a pause. “So we know it works.”

Bathsheda sighed, rubbing the back of her neck as Ash paced a slow circle, tail thumping against a stack of books.

Cassian eyed the trunk. “Did it even get to pick a form?”

“No.” She flexed her hand.

He clicked his tongue. “Bit rude, really. I think I was looking forward to seeing what your nightmare is.”

Bathsheda shot him a look. “What would it be, you think?”

Cassian grinned. “You crying to life without me.”

Bathsheda rolled her eyes and stood. “Get up. And if it’s not you crying to life without me, we’re going to have a talk.”

He stretched one leg out but didn’t move otherwise. “What if it’s really a giant pile of paperwork and student essays?”

“Then we’ll burn it. Together.”

Ash, having settled beside the trunk again, gave a low huff like she’d be fine with that plan.

Cassian gave the Boggart a few minutes to recover, bit of mercy for the poor thing after Ash’s warm greeting, then opened the side of the trunk.

A plume of smoke swirled lazily, waiting to become something.

It didn’t.

He tilted his head. “Oh, come on.”

Bathsheda raised a brow. “Broken already?”

“It’s not broken,” he muttered, eyeing the smoke. “It’s sulking.”

He kicked the trunk. The Boggart puffed up like it wanted to do something, but nothing stuck.

Cassian crouched down beside it, wand out, and opened the latch properly this time. “Well, go on. I’m not getting any younger.”

The smoke shivered.

Then it gave up, curled back into itself, and dropped back into the trunk with a defeated hiss.

Cassian looked at the trunk, then at Bathsheda. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She stepped back from it, brow still drawn. “I’ve never seen one do that. It tried. Started to shift. Then just… gave up.”

Cassian let the trunk click shut with a small thud.

“That,” he said, dragging the thing over to the corner, “was pathetic. Either it’s scared of Ash or it’s defective.”

“No, I don’t think it is.” Bathsheda said. “It started shifting. Got partway through something. Then stopped.”

She crouched next to the trunk, knuckles resting on her knee. “You sure you’ve got a fear for it to find?”

“Please,” he snorted. “I’m British. I’ve got a spreadsheet.”

“I think it’s you,” she said.

Cassian raised a brow. “Bit harsh.”

“I mean—” she stood again, brushing soot from her knees “—maybe it’s not that it didn’t find a fear. Maybe it found too many. Couldn’t pick one.”

He looked back at the trunk.

He had fears. Plenty.

But it seemed like the creature simply couldn’t see them.

Probably.

“…you think I overloaded the Boggart?”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve broken this week.”

That, unfortunately, was fair.

(Check Here)

Funny thing about choices, even not choosing is a choice.

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