Cassian’s hand was tucked loosely around hers as they strolled through Hogsmeade, weaving past clustered students and a pair of third-years arguing over the best place to get sick on sugar. He pointed lazily at a stand selling enchanted scarves that changed colour with mood.

“You need one of those,” he said. “Could save me hours trying to guess whether you’re annoyed at me or just hungry.”

She squeezed his hand, not looking. “You’d burn it within a week.”

“Optimistic of you to give it that long.”

Then they rounded a corner near Scrivenshaft’s and very nearly walked into Adrian Fairborne and Clara Hensley, also holding hands, though theirs vanished apart faster than you could say “caught.”

Clara flushed scarlet. Adrian straightened like someone had just handed him a broomstick and told him to recite the school charter.

“Professors,” Adrian said tightly, nodding.

Cassian raised a brow. “Fairborne. Miss Hensley.”

Clara gave a small wave. “Hello.”

“Nice afternoon for school-sanctioned scandal,” Cassian said. “Do carry on.”

Adrian’s ears turned red. “We were—”

“—About to inspect the structural integrity of Madam Puddifoot’s tablecloths?” Cassian offered. “Romance is a serious academic pursuit. Didn’t see anything. Have fun.”

Adrian opened his mouth, thought better of it, and gave a rigid nod instead. They slipped past without another word.

Once they were gone, Bathsheda blew out a laugh.

“You’re evil.”

He swung their joined hands a little. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Poor Clara’s going to need a Cheering Charm after that.”

“She’s fine. It’s Adrian who’ll be writing a formal apology to his own reflection.”

They turned down a narrower lane, quieter here, snow crunching beneath their boots. The wind cut round the buildings in brief gusts, tossing a stray flyer off a noticeboard.

Bathsheda glanced sideways at him. “Did you ever do that?”

“What, get caught snogging behind Honeydukes?”

She gave him a look.

He grinned. “Only by teachers with worse eyesight.”

“Seriously.”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “I was a major git, but also rich. Swings and roundabouts.”

Bathsheda snorted. “A winning combination.”

She’d asked similar questions over the years. He was never one for digging into the past, so he didn’t press her in return, though every so often she would prod. He didn’t really mind, after all, it wasn’t him who had done those things.

They were nearly at the Three Broomsticks. The smell of butterbeer was getting stronger. Warmth. Fire. Possibly cake.

And then…

“Hello,” came a voice from roughly waist height.

Cassian stopped just short of stepping on a shoe.

Hannah Abbott stood there, pink-nosed, smiling wide. Susan Bones trailed behind her, scarf slightly askew, chewing her bottom lip.

“Hello, Miss Abbott, Miss Bones.”

Susan smiled softly, clearly dragged into it and not the mastermind behind the surprise stop. Cassian glanced between them. “What’s this then? Petition to ban homework? Early Christmas carol strike?”

Hannah shook her head, bright as anything. “We had a question.”

“Daring,” he said. “You realise I might actually answer?”

She nodded, undeterred. “It’s about the club.”

Cassian squinted. “Which part?”

Hannah sighed, shoulders dipping a little. “We were wondering if we could improve on it.”

Cassian glanced down at her, one brow lifting. “Improve how?”

She glanced at Susan, who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, but squared up anyway.

“Well… your classes are brilliant,” she said. “We always learn something new. But the Club’s been a bit… slow lately. It’s always one spell, then we practise, then it turns into free duels. Every week. It’s sort of… samey.”

Cassian gave a thoughtful hum. He wasn’t surprised. He’d been thinking the same, if he was honest. The Club had slipped into being just a hands-on repeat of his classes, great for his own mastery, but not quite the extra layer it was meant to be. He nudged the toe of his boot against a bit of snow.

“Alright,” he said. “Any suggestions?”

They both looked at each other, not quite expecting that.

He tilted his head. “Pre-set practice drills? Spells in combos? Dummies that hit back? Real criminals smuggled in from Azkaban? Death matches? Shiny prizes? A leaderboard with blood oaths?”

Hannah giggled. “Not the death matches, maybe.”

“Soft lot,” he muttered.

Susan fiddled with her sleeve. “Maybe something that isn’t always duelling. Like, magical challenges? Or team things. Where we solve a puzzle with spells, or have to figure something out under pressure.”

Cassian nodded slowly. “Bit like war games. Controlled chaos. Magic under stress.”

“Exactly,” Susan said, a little more confident now.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t a bad idea. Spellwork in context. Practical problem-solving. Still within safety margins… loosely.

“Alright,” he said. “You’ve earned yourselves five house points, each, for not wasting my Sunday. And I’ll think on it. Maybe change it up next week.”

Hannah beamed. “Really?”

“No, I’m lying to keep you hopeful. Obviously, really.”

Susan smiled, half-hiding it.

He pointed at them both. “But if one of you ends up stuck inside a magically locked coffin because the challenge goes sideways, I am absolutely telling the Prophet it was your idea.”

They both nodded too fast, still grinning.

Cassian grinned back. “Better yet, now you’re tasked with creating a battle plan. Miss Abbott, Miss Bones, congratulations. You’re officially the Duelling Club’s Event Managers.”

The girls squealed like he’d just handed them a Ministry post.

“Really?” Hannah asked, eyes wide.

Cassian nodded once. “Really. Now off you go. Go enjoy your weekend before I assign homework.”

They all but skipped down the lane, scarves flapping, whispering plans already too ambitious for someone with a budget of precisely nothing.

Cassian watched them disappear round the corner, then muttered, “I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?”

“Definitely,” Bathsheda said, and hooked her fingers into his sleeve. “Come on, genius. I need something warm before I catch frostbite listening to you charm your way into child labour.”

She dragged him toward the Three Broomsticks.

Inside, it was the usual chaos. Tables crammed, windows fogged, Rosmerta moving between clusters, busy as usual.

Cassian shook the snow from his coat, headed for a small table near the back. Bathsheda slid into the bench opposite.

Rosmerta walked over with two butterbeers, a plate of chips, and a pile of shortbread wedged between. She slid them onto the table without spilling a drop, smiling brightly.

“My favourite couple,” she said, giving Bathsheda a wink.

Cassian took a sip. “No tip.”

Rosmerta made a face. “Still cheap.”

“I work at a school,” he said, waving his mug like it was explanation enough. “Be grateful I’m not paying in stickers.”

She tutted, turned back toward the bar with a swish of her skirts.

They sat in the warm fug of the pub, half-listening to the chaos around them. A Hufflepuff dropped a flagon too hard two tables over. Someone near the window was snogging too loudly. Standard weekend crowd.

He popped a chip in his mouth, crunched, then reached across for another. Bathsheda blocked him with her fork.

“Eating too fast, slow down or I’m assigning you bedtime patrol.”

He raised both brows. “Kinky.”

She kicked him under the table. “Behave.”

They finished the chips in mostly peace, save for Cassian occasionally flicking crumbs at the nearby snoggers just to test if they’d notice.

They didn’t.

When the mugs were empty and the plate held only the sad remains of two biscuits and a single, slightly scorched chip neither wanted to eat, Cassian stood, brushed the crumbs from his robes, and held out a hand.

“Shall we go cause a minor administrative nightmare somewhere else?”

Bathsheda took his hand, lacing her fingers through his as the air suddenly turned colder.

“That’s either a sudden winter or…” he said, glancing toward the window.

“Dementors,” she finished.

The wind slapped hard as they rushed outside. The village, normally loud and messy on a Saturday, had gone oddly still. Somewhere ahead, over the slope near the Shrieking Shack, the sky had gone darker.

A cluster of them, five, maybe six, drifted just above the shack’s crooked roofline.

A scream split the air.

Potter, Neville, Ron, Hermione, clustered near the fence, faces turned up. The twins and Lee Jordan in front of them, wands out but shaking, feet shifting like they weren’t sure whether to fight or run.

Bathsheda’s wand was already up. Her kestrel burst out in a sharp streak of silver, slicing clean through the air and diving straight for the closest Dementor.

Creatures shrieked, shrivelling back from the Patronus as it cut through them. The air snapped colder as they scattered.

Cassian already had his wand out.

“Don’t,” Bathsheda said, eyes still on the Dementors.

He paused.

Then nodded.

The kestrel of light tore past them again, spinning up and back, pushing the Dementors off the slope. They drifted higher, spines curling, and vanished beyond the trees.

Bathsheda huffed.

The kids didn’t move right away. Harry looked ready to pass out.

Hermione was the first to spot them. “Professors!”

Cassian quickly checked them all with a look, then turned to the boy on the ground.

“Potter,” he called. “You alright?”

Harry looked up, pale but steady. “Sort of.”

Neville slumped to the grass, knees finally giving up.

Cassian pulled a bar from his coat pocket, half-melted, slightly crushed, but still recognisably chocolate, and snapped off chunks with one hand. He handed them out each.

They took it in silence. Even the twins, usually the first to crack a joke, didn’t say a word. Teeth chattered. Fingers trembled. No one quite met each other’s eyes.

Hermione stared at hers. “Professor Lupin gave us chocolate too. Does it actually help?”

Cassian tilted his head, eyes flicking to Neville. “Mr Longbottom. Why do we eat chocolate?”

Neville blinked. “To, er… warm up?”

“Close,” Cassian said, “but no.”

He gestured with the rest of the bar. “Chocolate makes your brain cough up something called serotonin. It’s basically happiness in science form. Tastes better than trauma.”

Neville chewed his piece a little more thoughtfully.

Hermione frowned. “But… don’t Dementors suck out happiness? Wouldn’t chocolate just… make it worse?”

Cassian nodded. “Vampires suck your blood too, Miss Granger, but if one had its fangs in your neck, would your first concern be starving vampires or running out of blood? Body needs happiness to function.”

Hermione opened her mouth, paused, then shut it again.

Cassian stuffed the rest of the chocolate bar back into his pocket and turned toward the Shack.

“The hell are they doing that close to a school?” he muttered.

Bathsheda stepped beside him, wand still in hand. “Routine patrol, according to Fudge.”

He snorted. “Right. Because children make such a tempting target when they’re minding their own business with a bloody butterbeer.”

Cassian turned toward the kids, expression flat. “Alright. What are you doing so far from the village?”

Nobody rushed to answer. Four pairs of eyes suddenly discovered the fascinating texture of grass. Harry shuffled his feet. Neville picked at the corner of the chocolate. Ron coughed like that might distract him from the question entirely.

“No takers? Thought so.” Cassian sighed. Then turned to the twins. “You two showing them hidden exits now?”

Fred grinned, George perked up. “Professor R., you know them too?”

Cassian didn’t bother replying. He just pointed toward the path. “Get up. We’re going back.”

“Oh, and Potter?”

Harry glanced over. “Yeah?”

“Be ready for the backlash.”

Harry frowned. “What backlash?”

Cassian gave him a dry look. “I’m going to have a very grown-up conversation with Fudge about why soul-sucking prison guards are terrorising school children on their day off. He’ll retaliate by cancelling Hogsmeade weekends.”

Harry blinked. “Seriously?”

“And the whole castle,” Cassian went on, “will blame you.”

Harry groaned. “Brilliant.”

Cassian patted his shoulder like he was offering condolences. “Welcome to politics.”

(Check Here)

You’re the kind of person future historians will argue about. “Were they real, or just echoes?”

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