Cassian opened the door and found Fudge already halfway to a meltdown, sweat pooling in his collar, while McGonagall glared like she was seconds from transfiguring him into a dung beetle. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, fingers steepled.

“It is Sirius Black, Albus,” Fudge was saying, pacing short, agitated lines. “You know what he’s capable of. The Dementors are here to protect the students—”

McGonagall huffed so loud that, inkpots rattled.

“Protect?” she snapped. “One nearly kissed a third-year this morning!”

Fudge turned to her with a pained look, seemingly offended that she brought it up. “Yes, yes, tragic business, but nothing happened.”

“Because Rosier and Babbling were there,” she said. “And lucky, at that.”

Cassian shut the door behind him. “I’ll pretend I’m not insulted by that.”

All three turned. Fudge stiffened. “Ah, Cassian.”

Cassian strolled in, pulled the spare chair back from the desk, and dropped into it, “Uncle Cornellius.”

Fudge smiled, probably hoping Cassian to be on his side. “You saw it as well, right? Dementors were just checking the perimeter.”

Cassian nodded, pleasant as anything. “Absolutely.”

McGonagall made a sound, probably lining up a full verbal lashing, but Fudge raised a hand, already sighing in relief.

Dumbledore didn’t move. He was still watching Cassian.

Cassian leaned back, crossed one ankle over the other. “If by perimeter you mean Potter’s molars? Absolutely. The Kiss was just a routine security check. Bit of tongue and trauma for good measure.”

Fudge blinked.

McGonagall sat back, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Fudge’s face worked through a range of colours before landing somewhere between blotchy and baffled. “Now see here, I’m sure the Dementors—”

“—are under Ministry control,” Cassian finished, tone dry as a desert. “And I’m sure you’ve got all sorts of safety protocols for keeping soul-eaters from snacking on students. Very reassuring. Shall we start the incident report with ‘Boy nearly kissed by mistake’ or ‘Oops, Potter still has a soul, our bad’?”

McGonagall finally relaxed, now realizing Cassian was fully on the case. Dumbledore knew since the first ‘Absolutely.’

Fudge flushed deeper. “They are there to catch Black, not frighten children!”

“Then perhaps,” Cassian said, “they should learn the difference between a murderer and a third-year.”

Fudge turned to Dumbledore. “Albus, I must insist we not overreact. We need the Dementors, this is a sirius threat—”

“And the threat,” Cassian cut in, “was in Azkaban under their surveillance. Which means either they weren’t watching him properly, or he’s smarter than all of them combined. And you trust them with children?”

Fudge’s lips pressed into a line.

Cassian tilted his head. “I’m not suggesting you panic. I’m suggesting you stop pretending the Ministry’s plan is working.”

Dumbledore finally spoke. “The presence of Dementors on school grounds is… unwise.”

Fudge turned to him, clearly looking for backup. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest—”

“I mean exactly that,” Dumbledore said, calm as ever.

Fudge stepped away from the desk, tugging his coat straight. “We have no other choice.”

McGonagall snapped. “Get them off school grounds.”

“I’ll speak to them,” Fudge said, hanging his head.

Cassian raised a brow. “In what language? Dementorese? Hope and political admonishing?”

That earned him a look from all three.

Cassian stood. “How about this, Uncle. Draw a neat little circle, far side of the Forest, miles from the walls. Blockade the whole damn country if it helps you sleep, just not near the children.”

Fudge, already blotchy with stress, nodded like a man clinging to a life raft. “Fine. I’ll move them to the boundary.”

***

That night, Cassian watched from the staff table as Dumbledore stood, cleared his throat, and snuffed what little joy the castle had left. Ironically, very Dementor-esque.

“All Hogsmeade weekends are suspended until Sirius Black is apprehended.”

The groan that followed could’ve cracked the stonework. Across the Great Hall, every face turned in one direction, straight at Harry.

Cassian sipped his tea. Not a flicker of sympathy.

The twins were already whispering furiously. Ron looked like someone had just stolen his broom. Hermione was chewing her lip and scribbling something into her planner under the table. Likely rearranging her weekend revision schedule in real time.

Harry just looked miserable.

Dumbledore sat again, with a little schadenfreude in his eyes. Clearly aware he had just lit the match under a castle full of hormonal teenagers.

A few Slytherins actually stood up.

“Sir,” one of them called, a hand half-raised. “Why are we being punished? It’s clear the Dementors are going after Potter.”

Cassian didn’t even wait for Dumbledore to frown.

“You do know they feed on happiness, right?” He tilted his head. “So what, you lot reckon Potter’s the happiest student in the castle, and the rest of you are just wandering around absolutely miserable?”

A few snorts broke out near the Hufflepuff table. The Slytherin boy sat down again, jaw tight.

Cassian gave them a cold smile. “And that reason is this, Dementors aren’t supposed to be around the bloody castle.” His tone dropped a little. “Victim-blaming’s a lazy habit. You don’t ask someone what they were wearing after they get hexed in a back alley, and you don’t ask what a thirteen-year-old was doing to attract soul-eaters.”

The laughter dropped off into a hush, just sharp enough to sting.

No one argued.

Cassian sat back, as if that settled it. Dumbledore gave him a look, he ignored it.

McGonagall cleared her throat. “Thank you, Professor Rosier.”

Cassian raised his glass. “Always a pleasure to defend common sense.”

Harry slumped forward like he was trying to disappear into his pudding. Well, at least he was warned beforehand.

***

That night, just as Cassian was setting his wand on the nightstand and contemplating whether he’d earned the right to have some quality time with Bathsheda, a Patronus phased through the bedroom wall.

A silver cat, tail high and flicking, landed on the floorboards and opened its mouth. “Sirius Black attacked the Fat Lady!”

Cassian froze half-buttoned, hissed a word that probably wasn’t in any respectable textbook, and yanked his trousers back on.

Bathsheda was already halfway into her boots, dragging a jumper over her head with one arm while stabbing at her hair with the other.

“He picked tonight?” she snapped, fumbling for her wand.

Cassian grabbed his coat, didn’t bother fastening it. “Damn you, Sirius Black!”

They were out the door in under ten seconds, weaving through staff corridors. Cassian nearly slipped on a rug, rounding the corner into the main hallway just in time to see Peeves pelting down the other end screaming “Ripped! Shredded! She’s got no face!”

By the time they reached the portrait hole, the corridor was crammed with students in slippers and dressing gowns, all half-asleep and buzzing like someone had dropped a hive in the middle of Gryffindor Tower.

The Fat Lady’s frame was still hanging, but the canvas had been torn nearly end to end. Shreds of paint peeling.

Dumbledore was halfway through a hushed conference with the nearest painting, sending it lurching off through the canvas network in search of the Fat Lady, whose current whereabouts were somewhere between “missing” and “desertion.”

A good number of Gryffindors were stuck outside their common room, half in pyjamas, huddled in clumps. Lavender Brown was hiccuping into Parvati’s sleeve. Seamus kept squinting at the shredded portrait.

Dumbledore turned back to the living.

“Professor McGonagall, Professor Babbling, please stay with the Gryffindors. The rest of you, search the castle. In pairs.”

Cassian hummed under his breath. Felt a bit targeted, really. Like being sat apart from your mate in class because someone noticed you passing notes. Absolutely spiteful. He gave Bathsheda a grand wave like they were parting at sea.

She rolled her eyes.

He turned and saw Lupin. Others were already paired.

Cassian took one look, raised a brow. “Right. Let’s go hunt your ex-best mate then.”

Lupin didn’t flinch, just nodded. Bit tense, but keeping it together. Not that Cassian was expecting him to start blubbering in the hallway or anything, but still.

They moved off down the corridor, the crowd of students and staff falling behind. The castle was quieter this far in.

Cassian glanced sideways. “Any idea where Sirius’d go?”

Lupin was watching the shadows ahead. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be having this chat.”

Cassian nodded. “Helpful.”

They turned down a stairwell.

Cassian flicked his wand, sent a glowing thread along the corridor ahead.

“You reckon he actually tried to get in? Through the portrait hole? He wanted to get to Potter,” Lupin asked, biting his lip.

They passed a suit of armour that twitched as they walked by. Cassian added with a shrug. “He’s not an idiot,” he said. “Reckless, yes. But that’s not the move of someone with a plan. That’s panic.”

Lupin frowned. “Or anger.”

“Still stupid,” Cassian muttered. “You don’t break into Hogwarts through the front door unless you’ve lost the plot.”

They paused at the end of the corridor. Nothing.

“You think he’s losing control?”

Cassian raised a brow. “You tell me. He’s your blood-sworn brother in brooding.”

Lupin didn’t rise to it.

“I think he’s desperate,” Lupin said.

The light from Cassian’s wand blinked blue, and the stones lit up with faint smudges, scuffs, hair, something squashed. A trail of chaos, basically.

He crouched. “Brilliant. Every cat, rat, and vaguely sentient shoelace in this castle dropping their DNA. How exactly am I meant to track one person?”

He clicked his tongue, switched angles, muttered something under his breath as he looked at the dark hair on the ground.

Lupin leaned closer, squinting. “What is that?”

Cassian stood, already turning the wand back to normal. “Variation of Lumos. Doesn’t matter, can’t sort out the trail with this much interference. I might as well try reading tea leaves.”

Lupin didn’t press, though the look lingered.

Well, they failed to find anything. Not a trace of Sirius Black beyond the mess he left behind. Bit anticlimactic, really.

The Fat Lady eventually returned, after several hours of sulking across a half-dozen paintings and two actual landscapes. She agreed to come back only on the condition that Sir Cadogan, the overcompensating nutter three frames over, guard her at all hours.

Dumbledore agreed. Probably just to end the argument.

With that, Gryffindors were finally allowed back into their tower, most grumbling about the draft and traumatised by Sir Cadogan’s poetic door passwords.

Fudge, of course, was livid. Positively blotchy with rage. All it took was pulling back the Dementors, barely, for Black to slip in like it was a revolving door. And he had that look, too. That smug, teeth-clenched look that basically screamed “I told you so,” without needing to move his mouth.

Cassian didn’t linger for the rest. He left it to Dumbledore, who probably had an entire speech prepared anyway.

Instead, he made for his quarters, Bathsheda on his heels.

He was already unbuttoning his coat as the door clicked shut behind them. “Can we continue, my sweet, warm Bath—”

Bathsheda pushed him backwards onto the bed before he could finish the sentence.

“No,” she said, tone flat, wand already halfway to the window latch. “There is a murderer in the castle.”

Cassian lay back dramatically, arms splayed His shirt hung open, one boot halfway off.

His bottom lip jutted out. “But, but—”

“No butts,” she snapped, turning to secure the window. “And don’t try pouting. You’ve lost privilege.”

He made a pitiful noise, somewhere between a groan and a dying cat. “Not even a cuddle?”

She pulled the curtains tighter. “You can cuddle the lesson plans.”

He flopped onto his side “You’re cruel. This is actual emotional abuse.”

“Try sleeping next to a man who talks in dead languages,” she muttered.

“That happened once.”

“Twice. Last time you conjugated one mid-snore.”

He sighed, flopping flat onto the mattress. “Fine. But if I die of suppressed affection, you’re explaining it to my ghost.”

Bathsheda climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, fully clothed, arms folded.

“No haunting,” she said. “You’ll just show up in my next lecture and start correcting my Ancient Norse again.”

Cassian closed his eyes, already stealing half the blanket.

“…Damn you Sirius Black.”

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