Ji was standing in the centre of the gathering. Hands tucked behind his back, long silver moustache trailing down. His robe, crimson and black, stitched with gold dragons coiling from shoulder to hem, glimmered under the floating lights.

Cassian squinted, tilted his head towards Bathsheda. “Yeah. I think I know why they summoned us.”

She rolled her eyes. “Rosier family warmth. Can’t beat it.”

Master Ji turned politely from the man who’d been talking at him. “Ah! Bathsheda, Cassian!” He laughed as he strode toward them, eyebrows bouncing with every step. Either he was genuinely thrilled to see them or he’d just found the perfect excuse to escape diplomatic small talk. Probably both.

Cassian snorted. “So much for staying under the radar.”

Bathsheda pinched his palm, pulling him forward.

He hissed a curse, but let her drag him up. They crossed the floor together and bowed in tandem.

“Master Ji.”

The old man’s laugh rolled through the room.

“Missed you this summer,” Ji said.

Cassian straightened, grimaced. “No worries. Another old relic nearly got us killed.”

Ji roared at that. “I’ve heard. Great job, by the way.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “You have?”

The old man leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “We found monoliths in China too. I invited the Flamels, couldn’t make sense of them at all. But they told me what you lot pulled off in Australia. Impressive.”

Cassian’s eyes flicked to Bathsheda. Her lips had thinned.

Ji didn’t miss it.

“Turns out the monoliths are spread all over the world. The Flamels are hunting them now, creating new footpaths through all. Sealing what they can.”

“Any escape?” Cassian asked, quiet.

Ji shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Cassian sighed in relief, shoulders relaxing. “Good.”

He pointed his chin toward the long table in the centre of the ballroom, where half the Ministry’s upper crust seemed to be loitering overdressed vultures. “What’s all that about then?”

Ji waved a hand. “They invited us for something. I believe your Headmaster will be arriving soon enough.”

Cassian arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Ji only shrugged like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in passing. Every eye in the room had already clocked them the moment Ji stepped forward, Cassian might’ve been tolerated at these things, Bathsheda respected, but Ji was a living legend. Which meant now they were all very interesting by association.

Before they could get into anything serious, three shadows broke from the crowd and made their way toward the table. Draco, Theodore, and Blaise, clearly shoved out of the nest by very persuasive parents. Their collars were stiff, their robes too crisp, and they were trying so hard not to stare at Master Ji, they might as well have been holding up signs that said we know exactly who you are and we’re pretending we don’t.

“Professors,” Blaise greeted first, a little too politely.

Draco managed a nod that almost passed for respectful. “Evening.”

Theo gave a sharp, “Hello,” then stared off to the side.

Ji gave Cassian a sly look. “Ah, so this is where I get to see you in your own element.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “Yes, behold, indoor lighting, political games, and students pretending they don’t want something. Truly, my natural habitat.”

Bathsheda pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. The boys stood, not sure whether they were being mocked.

Draco cleared his throat. “It’s quite an event this year.”

“Oh, stunning,” Cassian said dryly. “Fudge must’ve personally threatened the decorators.”

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitched. Blaise and Theo were less careful.

Cassian sighed. Poor sods. None of this was their fault.

He turned slightly. “Master Ji, these three are Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, and Draco Malfoy. Quite capable, for third years.”

Ji gave them a warm nod, smiling brightly. “What a wonderful new generation rising in Britain. Dumbledore is doing good work.”

The trio bowed, stiff and out of sync. They mumbled something about needing to find their families and wandered off, still half-staring at Ji.

Cassian had barely taken a sip of his drink when the crowd stirred again.

Bathsheda leaned in, whispering. “That’s Madame Maxime. Headmistress of Beauxbatons.”

He followed her line of sight.

Ah. That was definitely Madame Maxime. The woman beside Dumbledore was a full head taller than him, and Albus Dumbledore was not a short man. Her robes were silver, embroidered so subtly it took the floating light to catch the detail, a school of stylised swans rippling across the hem. Cassian felt mildly underdressed just looking at her.

Behind them, the rustle of formalwear turned collective. Dumbledore’s arrival always did that. They could hate him, love him, conspire against him, none of it changed the way the air seemed to shift when he stepped into a room.

Master Ji stepped back, folding his hands neatly behind him. “My friends. I must join the other Headmasters for a very long and slightly painful discussion. But don’t vanish before saying goodbye.”

Cassian waved lazily. “No promises.”

Bathsheda offered a polite nod. “We won’t.”

Ji gave them a final grin, then disappeared into the diplomatic knot near the northern archway, where the Bulgarian delegation was just trickling in. A short man with sharp cheekbones and a thicker coat than was strictly necessary led the group, Karkaroff, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Followed behind was a boy, shoulders already tense under too much attention.

“Another headmaster down,” Cassian muttered. “If we collect three more, do we win a prize?”

Bathsheda turned her glass in her hand. “A migraine, probably.” Her eyes narrowed. “Greece?”

He nodded. They had met Karkaroff in Greece, though Bathsheda couldn’t remember. Not that the memory was a pleasant one.

Karkaroff noticed Ji instantly, straightened up, forced something that might’ve passed as a cordial nod.

“That’s Viktor Krum,” Bathsheda murmured, nodding towards the boy lingering a few steps behind Karkaroff, who was already elbowing his way toward the cluster of Headmasters. The boy separated from his Headmaster, finding an empty table, “Rising star in Quidditch. He plays for Bulgaria.”

Cassian hummed. Krum looked seventeen at most. Gangly and grim-faced.

Then…

“Hello, Cousin.”

Selena dropped in beside him with all the subtlety of a cat landing on a full dinner plate.

Cassian reached a hand towards her to ruffle her hair, thought better of it when she narrowed her eyes like a hawk spotting movement. He wisely let it fall.

“Let me guess,” he said, “the family sent you. I’d ask if it was for my wellbeing, but that’d require a sense of humour.”

She ignored him completely, turning instead to Bathsheda with a wide, polished smile.

“Hello, Professor. How are you doing?”

Bathsheda smiled, returned the greeting. Cassian stood there, mildly offended. The two of them slipped into quiet gossip, school updates, who got promoted where, which colleague had a nervous breakdown mid-inspection, while Cassian stood two feet away, very much not part of the conversation.

Ten minutes passed. He timed it.

Only then did Selena turn to him. “Uncle and Grandfather want your connection with Master Ji to get the World Cup tender.”

Cassian didn’t blink. “Of course they do.”

He’d guessed it the second Ji walked in. The old man didn’t cross oceans for Ministry puffery. Galas like this weren’t his style. So the question wasn’t why he was here. It was how the hell they got him to show. Cassian doubted Magnus had the sway. He also doubted Ji would arrive on Fudge’s invitation.

Maxime and Karkaroff too. He clicked his tongue. “Why are the Headmasters here?”

Selena shrugged like it was nothing. “Master Goshawk said something big’s coming next year. But they’re keeping it quiet. Don’t want it spreading early.”

Regulus looked their way. Cassian had about three options… ignore him, pretend blindness, or walk over like the dutiful little heir he’d never managed to be. He glanced at Bathsheda. She nodded.

He sighed, laced their fingers, and started across the floor.

They made it five steps before the Toad blocked them.

“Professors,” came that grating little hem-hem, “this is a high-class gathering. Reserved for Ministry delegates and international Headmasters.”

Cassian shrugged. “Perfect. Sounds exactly like where I don’t want to be.”

He moved to go back, but Bathsheda didn’t budge. Her hand locked on his like she was anchoring a rogue Hippogriff. Where did she get that arm strength?

“Madam Senior Undersecretary—” she started.

Umbridge lifted a hand, nose twitching. “Please make way. Ah, Madam Bagshot.”

Cassian turned at the name, just in time to see the woman herself swoop in like a storm front wearing pearls.

“You didn’t disappoint again,” Bagshot said, eyes twinkling behind her glasses. “It was a great read.”

Cassian grinned. “Yours wasn’t bad either. Bit dry on the Battle of Hvalfjord, but I forgive you.”

She laughed, loud and pleased, then caught sight of Umbridge still standing there like a decorative obstacle.

“What seems to be the issue?”

Umbridge hesitated. “Hem, the meeting—”

A new voice cut her off.

“Make way.”

Everyone turned.

Madam Goshawk had arrived. Gown stiff, eyes sharper. The crowd parted for her.

Umbridge turned, relief creeping into her expression, finally, someone with a proper stick up their—

“Well?,” Goshawk raised an eyebrow, and tossed her a look.

Umbridge blinked. “M-me?”

“What are you waiting for?” Goshawk said, stepping forward. “Move.”

As the words landed, it became clear she didn’t mean Cassian.

Umbridge shrank sideways, almost tripping over her own hem as she backed away.

“Explain to me,” Goshawk turned to Cassian, giving him a look, “how you managed to decipher the Dairthech script when a dozen archivists couldn’t make sense of it in forty years.”

Cassian forced a grin. “Oh, you know. Sheer dumb luck.”

Bagshot let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh muffled under a sigh. “Luck again?”

Bathsheda crossed her arms. “He uses that excuse a lot.”

“Because it works,” Cassian said, shrugging. “Also keeps expectations low.”

They started toward the table without another word. No one looked at Umbridge, though her face had gone blotchy enough to match the curtains, and her mouth twitched like she was chewing on an insult she couldn’t legally say in front of witnesses.

Cassian looked round the table, eyes narrowing as they passed over one stiff-backed figure down the line.

“Is that Barty Crouch?”

Bathsheda nodded. “Yes.”

Then she reached over, fingers squeezing his hand.

“Want me to kick his arse?”

Cassian smiled faintly, ran a thumb over her knuckles. “No. He’s dead anyway.”

(Check Here)

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