After most of the castle cleared out for Christmas, things went quiet. Cassian was trudging through the edge of the Forest with Hagrid and a trio of students, boots crunching over frost.

Hagrid was hauling a net over one shoulder, half-packed with branches and pine sap. Snow clung to his beard like icing.

“Thank ye for helping with this, Cassian.”

He gave a wave, stepping over a root that looked suspiciously grabby.

“Don’t mention it. Bathsheda kicked me out for girls’ night.”

Hagrid chuckled. “She got special plans?”

“Something about mulled wine and complaining about my laundry system.” Cassian gestured vaguely. “Apparently, I fold like a man who’s been cursed.”

Twin Weasleys grinned.

“What! The amazing Professor can’t fold?” Fred asked, scandalised.

George snorted. “Shameful, really.”

Cassian gave them a look that could fold steel.

Ginny, wisely, stepped two paces away pretending not to know them.

“If you talk a little longer,” Cassian said, flicking snow, “I’ll fold you both into origami and hang you from the tree.”

Fred elbowed George. “Think he means it?”

“Hope so,” George said brightly. “We’ve always wanted to see human swan formation.”

Cassian sighed. “You know, I came out here for a nice, calm, near-death trudge through the woods. Instead, I’m cursed with child hecklers.”

Hagrid grinned like this was the best entertainment he’d had. “Good walking weather though.”

Cassian shoved his hands in his pockets, scarf tucked up to his chin. “For a yeti, maybe.”

Reaching the clearing where Hagrid had coaxed a rough grove of pine into towering, straight-backed trees, Cassian knelt and pulled a bit of chalk from his coat. He drew a circle, scrawled a few quick runes, then pointed to it without looking up.

“Get in.”

Fred raised both hands. “You’re serious?”

Cassian looked up. “No, I’m Cassian. Get in the circle.”

George squinted at the lines. “Looks a bit like a summoning trap.”

“Good,” Cassian said. “If something starts chewing on you, you’ll know the wards work.”

He pointed at the circle. “I told you when you begged to tag along, you were watching from the safety zone. Not tiptoeing round a binding sigil like you’ve got a death wish.”

Fred stepped in, muttering something about “authoritarian figures.” George followed with a huff. Ginny just walked in without comment, dropped her gloves in her pocket, and stared him down ready for the show.

Hagrid grunted, slinging his net down beside the base of the tree. “We ready?”

“Sure,” Cassian said, giving the sigils one last check. “If you mean ‘prepared for controlled magical combustion,’ then yes, Hagrid, we are living the dream.”

He flicked his wand again. The runes flared pale blue, and then settled.

“How’re the classes going, by the way?”

Hagrid’s face lit up. “Much better, thank ye and Professor Babbling for the tips. Shouldn’t’ve started the year with Hippogriffs, though,” he added, shaking his head. “Could’ve ended in disaster.”

Cassian winced. “Bold. Suicidal, but bold.”

“Thought it’d be majestic,” Hagrid muttered.

“Majestically grusome, yeah,” Cassian said, “stick to Flobberworms and work your way up to murder-birds.”

Hagrid gave a hearty laugh. “Yeah. You know how to teach better than I do.”

Cassian smirked. “Don’t tell anyone. I am here for the free biscuits in the staff room.”

Cassian waved his wand at trees, whole ones, thick-trunked and still dripping frost, lifted clean out of the ground without so much as a crunch of roots. They hovered upright in the air, swaying a little, lining up in neat rows above them like very polite, very boring soldiers.

“Is that it?” Fred knocked a knuckle against the edge of the ward. It gave a faint shimmer, solid and unamused. “I didn’t come out here to watch trees levitate. Where’s the noise? The drama? The violently offended badgers? I was promised carnage.”

Cassian, still wand-out and muttering under his breath, didn’t even glance up. “It’s a grove,” he said. “Hagrid plants new ones every year. The wards keep creatures out so no one gets mauled mid-festivity. What were you expecting, a banshee turf war?”

Fred huffed, muttering something about false advertising.

George leaned on the edge of the circle, eyes on the floating trees. “It’s a bit too efficient, isn’t it? Like watching furniture assembly.”

Ginny didn’t say anything. Her expression said she hadn’t expected an axe-and-wild-beasts affair either, but wasn’t about to whine over it.

Cassian flicked another tree up, held it there. “This is Hagrid’s idea of sustainable forestry,” he said. “We’re basically in his glorified tree farm.”

Fred threw his hands up. “I want my Galleon back.”

“You didn’t pay anything,” Cassian said with a deadpan. “In fact, I’m about five minutes from billing you for magical labour.”

“You’re robbing us of a proper adventure.”

Cassian squinted at him. “You’re fifteen. Your definition of adventure includes setting things on fire and nearly dying.”

Fred made a face. “Still. Bit of warning next time. I’d have brought snacks.”

George eyed a floating spruce. “Can you at least make one explode?”

Cassian stared at him. “No.”

Ginny pointed. “That one’s lopsided.”

Cassian sighed and waved his wand again. The tree straightened. Two more floated up to join the row, bumping gently against each other.

Behind him, Hagrid returned dragging a trunk the size of a small wardrobe.

“This one’ll go in the Entrance Hall,” he said cheerfully, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Fred looked betrayed. “You said we could help.”

“I said you could watch,” Cassian corrected, “which you did. Badly.”

George raised a hand. “Can we at least ride the floating trees back?”

Ginny had already turned away, tugging her gloves back on. “They’re not broomsticks, idiots.”

Cassian nodded at her. “Thank you, voice of reason.”

Fred pouted. “You’ve changed.”

Cassian shrugged. “Four and a half years with you does that.”

The twins booed as if he’d insulted their collective honour. One of them threw a pine cone. Bounced back from the ward.

Hagrid chuckled, already busy planting the next sapling. The man really did operate like a one-man forest department.

Cassian flicked a hand, the rune circle dissolved with a soft hiss.

“Right,” he said, “Back we go. You lot can help with decoration.”

Fred brightened instantly. “Do we get glitter?”

“No,” Cassian said. “You get tinsel, baubles, and a lecture on safety regulations if you even look at the top of the tree.”

As they reached the castle, he noticed twins were scheming something.

“If either of you so much as suggests stringing a mistletoe over Snape’s chair, I’m feeding you to the tree.”

Fred grinned. “Define ‘suggest.'”

George elbowed him. “Define ‘tree.'”

Cassian sighed. “Define ‘why I drink.'”

Professors, except Snape and Dumbledore, and students who remained for the Christmas gathered to help them soon enough. Flitwick was, as ever, floating baubles.

Bathsheda, Aurora, Septima and their new addition to the team, Charity, were stringing garlands between the beams.

Bathsheda elbowed Aurora. “You left a gap.”

“It’s called asymmetry,” Aurora muttered.

“It’s called lazy,” Septima said from above.

Harry and Ron drifted toward the twins, all of them clustering round one tree that already had three crooked ribbons and what might’ve been a sock.

Fred was holding a tinsel string. “Professor R,” he called. “How much glitter is too much glitter?”

“Whatever number you’re thinking,” Cassian said, without turning, “halve it.”

***

After setting the Great Hall for Christmas, Cassian and Bathsheda returned to his quarters, and were knee-deep in a mess of scrolls and a very unfortunate ink spill when Towel popped into existence right in front of them with a loud crack.

The elf bowed so low his ears slapped the flagstones. He paused mid-bow, sniffed, and made a sound halfway between a squeak and an exorcism.

“Master Cassian! Mistress Babbling!” Towel chirped, wobbling upright. “Begging pardon, but—” He sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose. “This place is covered in dust and low magic, sir. Very disrespectful.”

Cassian waved a hand at him. “Not now. What is it?”

Towel puffed out his chest. “Master Regulus requests your presence at the Yule.”

Cassian froze halfway through rolling a scroll. “What now?”

Towel nodded so hard his ears slapped together. “He says this time it is important.”

Cassian groaned. Loud. Full-bodied.

The poor elf flinched as if he’d been hit with a weather charm.

“I swear to every minor household god,” Cassian muttered. “If it’s another family dinner involving bloodline charts and a four-course guilt trip—”

Towel coughed, unhelpfully. “He said urgent, sir. He used the word twice.”

Bathsheda arched a brow. “Twice. Must be serious.”

Cassian let out a sigh. “Brilliant.”

***

The Ministry’s Yule Gala had always been a mess of velvet chairs and even velvetier egos, but this year, someone had clearly gone mad with the budget. Crystal chandeliers floated low enough to decapitate the ambitious, enchanted snow drifted from the ceiling without melting, and everything, walls, tables, plates, gleamed bright.

Bathsheda’s robe was midnight blue, smooth as ink under candlelight, the fabric catching flashes of silver along the hem and cuffs. A clean line of metal-thread runes etched near-invisible at the sleeves, the kind that meant something if you knew how to read them. Her hair was pinned back in a twist.

Cassian’s was plain black. A tailored cut with the inner lining had a slight charcoal sheen when it caught the light.

The caller’s voice rang out above the soft hum of conversation, “Professors Cassian Rosier and Bathsheda Babbling of Hogwarts.”

Polite claps followed, mostly distracted ones. The two moved to the edge of the gathering, not even glancing at where the family was. They’d just reached their table when Bathsheda nudged him. It wasn’t the usual sharp jab, she had better manners than that in high events it seemed, to pull his eyes toward the centre table.

Cassian followed her line of sight. Right at the middle stood Fudge, wearing that painfully forced grin, like someone had told him it looked more ministerial than a real one. Next to him, that bloody toad woman was already mid-hem hem, nose twitching like she could smell joy and was plotting its murder.

Magnus and Regulus stood sharp, that brittle stillness the Rosiers did when they were surrounded by people they didn’t want to acknowledge but still wanted to intimidate. The Greengrass patriarch leaned close to Magnus, murmured something that didn’t travel far. The old man gave a low hum, could’ve meant agreement or “please stop breathing near me.” Either worked.

Lucius was stationed near Fudge dressed to imitate a peacock in mourning, robes immaculate, hair set. His gaze kept flicking to Regulus, like he was waiting for a twitch or a frown, something to read. Around them, the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight hovered like polished vultures, all of them dressed in the exact shade of power and boredom.

It was Lucian, trying far too hard to look important, that snagged Cassian’s attention, nearly made him groan aloud. The way he was bouncing between clusters of patriarchs like an overeager intern at his first summit… it wasn’t right. Lucian didn’t bounce. He was Law Enforcement. Broody. Polished boots and tight-lipped threats. This wasn’t him.

“Should I be worried,” Cassian muttered, “or is he finally getting into theatre?”

Bathsheda didn’t look away. “Well, he is trying.”

“Knew I smelled ambition and eau de desperation.”

His gaze followed the rest, when someone caught his eye.

Master Ji.

(Check Here)

Oof, I just realized I sent the wrong image yesterday. I knew I’d edited the eye because it looked a little off, and only now did I notice the version I posted wasn’t the one I fixed, lol. Anyway, since some people said they liked it, and in case you want to download it, this is the edited version.

Sometimes I wonder if you’re reading… or if I’m imagining you to cope with the workload.

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