A few weeks slipped by. Quidditch started up again, and for the first time since the boy set foot on a broomstick, nothing tried to murder Potter mid-air. Not even a faint breeze in the wrong direction. No cursed Bludgers. No rogue Dementors. No death threats from the sky. He just caught the Snitch, clean and quick, and that was it, game over. Kind of insulting, really, after the usual theatrics.

The following days blurred together, less murder, more homework. The castle settled into its usual cold-weather grumble, drafty halls, charmed scarves, gritted teeth in the mornings. By the time December rolled in, snow had coated everything, and the fireplaces were going full throttle in every common room.

McGonagall made her usual rounds with the parchment in hand, asking who was staying for Christmas. The same handful of students put their names down, orphans, wanderers, the stubborn ones who liked the quiet. Cassian didn’t bother pretending he’d decide late.

That evening, Bathsheda stepped into his quarters, coat still dusted with snow, scarf half-undone.

“Any plan?” she asked, toeing off her boots without any care in the world.

Cassian glanced up from his desk, pen still in hand. “Survive the month. Possibly commit light arson.”

She flopped onto the arm of his chair, knocking his elbow. “I meant for the holidays.”

“Same answer.”

She threw herself onto him, caught him square in the ribs, and knocked them both sideways into the bed. His arm curled instinctively, rolling them out of the way of the nearest stack of parchments. The snow clinging to her coat soaked straight through the blanket.

Cassian groaned. “Brilliant. Now I’ve got frostbite and soggy sheets.”

Bathsheda tucked her face into his shoulder, grinning. “Good. I didn’t want to sit through another bloody Yule.”

He sighed through his nose. “Lucian’ll try his best this year. Don’t fancy being within ten miles of it.”

She didn’t ask why. Not that he could speak of it.

They lay tangled for a while. Snow melting into the duvet. Warm enough to ignore it for now.

“Potter stormed out of Lupin’s room earlier,” she said. “I saw him heading up to the Astronomy Tower.”

Cassian made a noncommittal sound, thumb brushing her knuckles.

“If he’s not jumping,” he muttered, “it can wait.”

She smacked the back of his head with two knuckles.

“Bad Cass.”

“Ow,” he muttered, squinting at her. “Violence isn’t the answer, you know.”

She poked his chest. “Go.”

He groaned louder this time, flopping back dramatically. “Can’t I send a Patronus and spread warmth and happiness?”

“No.”

“Counter-offer. I bribe a first-year to bring him a biscuit and call it pastoral care.”

“Cass.”

He mumbled something, rolled off the bed, and staggered to his feet like a man marching into battle.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “If I freeze to death, I want it noted I died for a student who never once said thank you.”

She threw his scarf at him. “Try not to bully the boy into a lifelong trust issue.”

“No promises,” he muttered, wrapping it round his neck. “He is thirteen. Prime age for psychological scarring.”

Bathsheda didn’t reply. Just kicked him towards the door and shut it behind him before he could start negotiating for biscuits again.

Cassian climbed the Astronomy Tower, huffing at every step. “Damn you, Remus Lupin,” he muttered, hand tightening around the bannister.

He spotted the boy the moment he reached the landing, seated on the ledge like some tragic painting. Hair wild from the cold, legs dangling off the stone, shoulders drawn up.

Cassian cleared his throat, made a bit of noise on the final steps. Last thing he needed was the kid jumping out of his skin and off the bloody tower.

Harry didn’t move.

Cassian came to a stop just behind him, eyeing the distance between foot and ground. “I swear, Potter, if I have to scrape you off the lawn, I’m taking it out of your House points.”

Harry’s voice came slow. “I’m not going to jump.”

“Good,” Cassian said. “I don’t fancy paperwork tonight.”

He stepped up beside him, leaned against the parapet. Cold stone, wind sharper than it had any right to be. The view spread wide, snow, stars, the lake stretched out dark.

“You come up here to freeze dramatically, or is this brooding doing anything useful?”

Harry’s hands were in his lap, clenched tight. “Did you know?”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Did I know what?”

Harry’s fists clenched tighter. There was an ugly little pop from his knuckles.

“Sirius Black… he betrayed my father.”

Cassian’s brows drew together. “I did. Told you he was your father’s friend. But you should’ve seen the Headmaster if you wanted to know more.”

Harry’s voice tightened. “Not that.”

He glanced sideways, jaw set, knuckles white.

“They trusted him,” he said. “He was their Secret Keeper. Fidelius. Only one who knew where they were hiding.”

Cassian went still.

Harry kept going. “They picked him. Him. Said no one else would do. Then he turned around and told Voldemort where they were. Gave him the exact spot. And when it was done, when they were dead, he killed twelve Muggles and my dad’s friend. Peter Pettigrew. Blew them all up in the street. There was nothing left of Peter but his finger.”

Harry stared at the snow-laced trees below like he could set them on fire with just a glare. “He was supposed to be my godfather.”

Cassian let out a breath.

Harry didn’t look at him. “He laughed. When they arrested him. That’s what Lupin said.”

Cassian frowned, shaking his head. “I knew Black was reckless. Dangerous. But that? That’s not just betrayal. That’s handing someone your house keys and watching them burn it down.”

“He was proud of it.” Harry added, silent.

Cassian’s fingers curled against the parapet. “Maybe. Or maybe he’d already cracked.”

“Don’t excuse him.”

“I’m not.” His voice was flat. “But even bastards have breaking points. Doesn’t make him less guilty. Just harder to predict.”

Harry’s shoulders hunched. “He should’ve died there. Azkaban should’ve eaten him.”

Cassian didn’t argue.

“I think about it,” Harry said. “All the time. What it must’ve been like. Mum and Dad thinking they were safe. All because of him.”

Cassian glanced over. “That’ll drive you mad if you let it.”

Harry’s jaw twitched.

“You won’t find sense in it,” Cassian said. “There isn’t any. People don’t always betray you for reasons that make sense. Sometimes they’re cowards. Sometimes they’re bored. Sometimes they’re so wrapped up in their own rage they’d burn the world if it makes them feel taller.”

Harry looked up, eyes a bit too bright. “And what do you know about betrayal?”

Cassian’s mouth twitched. “Family’s a good tutor in disappointment.”

The wind scraped across the tower.

Harry wiped his face on his sleeve without pretending it was anything else.

“And now he’s coming for me,” Harry said, voice low. “To finish the job.”

Cassian dropped onto the ledge beside him, one knee bent, the other foot dangling into nothing.

“He won’t get to you.”

Harry gave a small shake of the head, as if that was the one lie too many.

“You don’t know that. He got in once.”

Cassian didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out the crumpled paper bag of honeycomb Bathsheda had “sneakily” stuffed into his pocket before kicking him out.

He held it out.

Harry blinked at it.

“It’s not chocolate, but it crunches, and no one’s ever made a life-altering decision while chewing something this sticky,” Cassian said. “Go on. Sugar might be a dentist’s worst nightmare but might buy your brain a minute.”

Harry took a piece without a word. Bit into it. It cracked loud in the silence.

Cassian wanted to say something, anything, but his thoughts were a right mess. Snippets of pub arguments and half-sober debates about Sirius Black being the world’s worst godfather surfaced from the depths of his mind. Someone else once called Pettigrew a snivelling rodent. All those pieces, and none of them matched what he knew now.

Long ago, he’d figured out things weren’t ever as tidy as they looked. Truth twisted. People lied. History cleaned itself up, left the rot underneath.

He’d also figured out something else, Potter was always in the centre. Every bloody time as the castle’s personal chaos magnet.

Some nights he’d even wondered, half-serious, half-sleep-deprived, if he was supposed to be in those books. The books. But that was nonsense. Old Cassian was about as remarkable as a chipped goblet. Couldn’t even land a Ministry internship, let alone a Hogwarts post. But then again… Lockhart.

“Harry,” he said, not looking at him. “You don’t need to carry the full weight of the bloody war your parents fought. No one expects you to fix everything. You’re thirteen. Most people your age are still struggling to eat peas without flinging them across the table.”

Harry didn’t laugh. But he didn’t look away either.

Cassian rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Look. The world’s full of liars. People lie because it’s easy, because they’re scared, because they want to sleep better at night. But facts don’t care what story you tell. They wait.”

“Your parents trusted the wrong man. Maybe the whole Order did. But the truth is always messier than the version written down for kids.” He turned, meeting Harry’s eye. “You want the truth? Fine. Go dig. Ask questions. Even if it pisses people off. No, especially then.”

He dropped the honeycomb bag between them. “And while you’re at it, maybe don’t decide your whole life based on what someone did when you were in nappies. People change. Sometimes for worse. Sometimes… you get to surprise them.”

He pulled his scarf tighter and stood. “I’m freezing my arse off. You coming or do I need to bribe you down with extra credit?”

Harry didn’t move right away. Then he stood slowly, still chewing.

They climbed down together. Cassian didn’t say much else, he’d said enough. The boy had enough ghosts already. No point handing him more.

Still, as they walked the long way back, Cassian couldn’t help thinking…

Someone, somewhere, was lying.

And it wasn’t just Sirius Black.

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