When they reached the table, the air changed. Bagshot and Goshawk slipped off toward the front, already angling to greet Fudge and the foreign delegates, slipping back into the smooth rhythm of polite diplomacy.

Dumbledore, of course, was already seated, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just stepped into a nest of political snakes.

“Ah,” he said warmly, “Bathsheda, Cassian. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Cassian rolled his eyes and muttered, “Right,” under his breath.

He glanced sideways, caught sight of Barty Crouch deep in conversation with Ludo Bagman. He didn’t stop. His hand curled slightly, jaw tight. He steered himself away before instinct or spite got the better of him.

Instead, he angled toward the other side of the table and found the massive figure of Madame Maxime already seated, towering over the rest of them. Her eyes flicked down as he approached.

“And who zou might be?” she asked.

“Cassian Rosier, Professor of Magical History, Hogwarts. The only department with scrolls older than the school.”

Bathsheda gave him a look that was half amusement, half warning.

“And this,” Cassian continued smoothly, gesturing beside him, “is my beloved, Master of Ancient Runes, mother of—”

Bathsheda jabbed him sharply in the ribs.

“Ahem,” she said, smiling tightly. “Bathsheda Babbling. Also a professor at Hogwarts.”

Cassian cleared his throat. “Right. Also the only person who’s ever successfully threatened me with a footnote.”

“A well-cited footnote,” she muttered.

“Deadly accurate, too,” Cassian added, under his breath.

Madame Maxime smiled, faint and tight. “Ah. A Rosier. I have heard of your family. And Babbling… Apolline also mentioned zou two.”

Bathsheda dipped her head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Madam Maxime.”

Cassian just sipped his wine. He’d learned ages ago that whenever someone said Ah, a Rosier, it meant they were either about to gossip, hex him, or pitch a business deal. Sometimes all three.

The conversation barely had time to stretch its legs before Ludo Bagman leaned over and beamed like he was mid-match commentary.

“Quite the turnout this year, eh? Didn’t expect so many Headmasters!” He grinned at Maxime, then gave a little wave toward Karkaroff, who was very obviously pretending not to see him. “Was only told it’d be you and Old Igor.”

Madame Maxime offered a polite nod. Karkaroff didn’t bother.

Lucius scoffed softly into his own wine, “Remarkable timing,” he murmured. “One might almost think someone had a… personal interest in ensuring so many esteemed Headmasters were in the country at the same time. Fortunate coincidence, I’m sure.”

Cassian and Bathsheda looked at each other. No clue what they’d just walked into.

Whatever the hell this was shaping up to be, it clearly wasn’t the usual Yule schmoozing. A game board where someone had just pulled back the cloth to reveal a second layer underneath.

Fudge coughed, his signature ‘let’s pretend I know what I’m doing’ cough, and rose slightly on his seat. “Er, yes, yes, what a splendid gathering indeed,” he began, arms spreading. “It’s a pleasure to host so many of our esteemed foreign guests during the holiday season. Truly, er, wonderful turnout.”

Goshawk looked over them, both hands folded in front of her. “Given the attendance,” she said, “perhaps we should address the matter now, while everyone is present.”

She didn’t specify what the matter was, but her tone didn’t leave much room for doubt.

Barty Crouch was knee-deep in conversation with a tall delegate from the French committee when the latter leaned back, scowling faintly.

“The event, as I understand it, has long been upheld by three institutions with an enduring balance,” he said, folding his hands neatly. “I only wonder if a sudden expansion might prove… difficult. Accommodations, oversight, the hosting framework, it’s no small undertaking.”

Cassian caught the flick of Crouch’s eyes toward Magnus, quick as a flinch, but there. Then it was gone, smoothed into that flat diplomatic smile he usually wore.

“The purpose of this event,” Crouch said, “is not competition. It’s cooperation. We are no longer dealing with the world of eighty years ago. Portkeys, floo corridors, owl tracing, our systems of communication have expanded. The rest of the magical world hasn’t stood still. Neither can we.”

With that, they exchanged a few more lines, small things, all surface-level agreement, half smiles, nods like pieces sliding into place.

Then Regulus cleared his throat. “And next year, we have another exciting event,” he said, eyes drifting across the table. “The World Cup will be played in our house.”

That sparked a flicker through the room.

Ludo beamed. “Yes! Can’t tell you how excited I am. I’m really rooting for our three teams.”

There was a scattered chuckle.

Crouch leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping a rhythm. “With its coming to Britain,” he said, not quite looking at anyone, “there’s the question of hosting rights. Who’s handling venue oversight?”

Lucius shifted slightly, his voice cool. “The Department of Magical Games and Sports is well-equipped. They’ve already mapped several possible sites. Wiltshire, Snowdonia, parts of Cornwall. All secure. Minimal Muggle interference.”

Regulus didn’t look at him. “Safety’s not the only factor.”

“No,” Lucius agreed, too quickly. “But it’s the first one discussed. Tradition demands proper ceremony, but that doesn’t mean we abandon practical structure.”

Magnus leaned forward, folding his hands. “Structure’s only as good as the hands holding it.”

Lucius smiled like someone had just told a joke about taxes. “Which is why the Ministry’s in charge.”

“You mean the committee,” Regulus corrected. “Not the Ministry.”

Crouch gave a short nod, as if confirming that for everyone else.

Lucius didn’t blink. “Of course. But it’s a Ministry-led committee.”

Magnus gave him a look that didn’t carry any warmth. “Then it’s time the committee decided. Rather than circling the same name.”

Ludo glanced between them, chewing on the edge of his glass. “Well, as long as we don’t end up with another Bulgaria ’83, fireworks in the tent lines, that manticore that ate a referee… charming it was, really.”

“Which is why we’re looking for discretion,” Regulus said, voice smooth. “And efficiency.”

Lucius’ hand slid along the stem of his glass. “And connections, I imagine?”

Magnus didn’t flinch. “Experience. Access to international handlers. Materials. Enchanted infrastructure.”

Crouch cut in, quick. “Who exactly could be providing all that?”

No one said anything.

Magnus gave a smile so thin it was practically a suggestion. “Those in trade. Those with long-standing contracts abroad.”

Lucius’ eyes narrowed a hair.

Regulus turned to Cassian, voice light as if he were reaching for a change of pace. “My son had the chance to see the world recently. Why don’t you tell them about the temple you found in China, Cassian?”

Cassian didn’t roll his eyes. Not because he didn’t want to, but because every muscle in his face had already gone rigid trying not to. He could feel Bathsheda squeeze his hand under the table, probably to remind him not to say something obscene. Master Ji gave him a knowing smile.

Cassian took a breath. “It was a monastery built over a royal tomb. Wards thick enough to make a dragon flinch. Hundreds of layers of protection, most of them inscribed right into the mountain’s fault lines.” He shrugged. “Professor Babbling and I had to head back for term before they broke through. But from what I’ve heard… when they finally did, the whole thing vanished.”

A few murmurs. Some brows raised.

Master Ji let out a single, short laugh. “It was a great shock.”

Lucius scoffed quietly. “Interesting story. Not sure the relevance to the table.”

Lucius’ gaze swept the table, as he looked straight at Cassian and Bathsheda, then back to the delegates.

“And forgive me,” he said, tone just on the right side of polite, “but I’m still unclear on the relevance of two Hogwarts professors in this discussion. With respect, this is a matter of international governance.”

He didn’t even get to finish before the Australian delegate raised a hand.

“With greater respect,” she said dryly, “those two professors, alongside the Flamels, averted what would’ve been an arcane-level disaster last year. We’re still studying the monolith aftermath in Melbourne.”

That cracked it.

The Greek delegate leaned forward next. “My Minister sends his regards. He asked me to personally thank Professor Rosier and Professor Babbling.”

“Same from Ankara,” said the Turkish delegate.

Goshawk followed smoothly. “The binding work was exceptional. You cited the Eisen manuscripts without parroting them. That’s rare. You actually understood them.”

Before Cassian could even blink, they pivoted.

“And your runic prototype,” Goshawk said, now to Bathsheda, “the Veil-layer weave you published last month, it passed trial testing at the Norwegian Reserve. Held up under extreme ley pressure.”

“Remarkable stability for something that subtle,” Bagshot added. “Frankly, I assumed the Ministry would botch implementation, but it held.”

That was enough to set off a chain reaction. One of the French delegates mentioned having forwarded her paper to their Eastern institute. Another muttered something about adapting it for ward-dampened corridors.

Even Maxime raised her glass. “Zat was your work? We had trouble with similar veils in our eastern wing. But zis, yes, it worked beautifully.”

The table tilted, just like that. A full sweep of attention now locked on the pair of them, flicking between Cassian and Bathsheda.

Even Regulus looked thrown, which was saying something. Magnus just stared between the two of them like someone had swapped out the chessboard mid-game and replaced it with a hand grenade.

Neither of them had expected this. They’d brought Cassian along for show. Maybe tug on a few threads, lean into the Ji connection, let the idea of influence float in the room but this. But this…

Magnus sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers lightly, then glanced down the table.

“The point stands,” he said mildly, “that this tournament, however we intend to dress it, isn’t just a sporting event. It’s going to need a stabilising hand.”

A few heads turned.

“Someone with resources,” he went on. “Infrastructure. Access to secure international channels. But more than that, someone trusted across multiple departments.”

He didn’t name a single person. But everyone understood what he meant.

Fudge looked between Magnus, Cassian, and the foreign delegates, then bobbed his head quickly. “Yes, yes. We will discuss this later. Right, Ludo. Rosiers have always been dependable.”

Ludo, cheeks pink from drink, beamed. “Absolutely! I’ll arrange a meeting soon.”

Magnus leaned back, Regulus with him. Both looked like they’d been holding their breath for half an hour. Cassian noticed Crouch also exhaling in relief.

The table loosened after that. Conversation drifted back into safer waters, Quidditch scores, minor Ministry gossip, the sort of things that kept wine flowing and tempers in check. Soon enough, people were pushing back their chairs, breaking off toward other tables. Some went straight to business, heads together, parchment already out. Others simply collected drinks and wandered into fresh clusters of acquaintances.

Bathsheda tilted her glass his way. “Well. That could’ve gone worse.”

He clinked his wine against hers. “That’s the Rosier motto, isn’t it?”

The night eased after that. No more daggers at the table, only the low hum of polished voices filling the hall.

Cassian and Bathsheda made their escape at last, stepping out into the cold night air. He tugged his cloak tighter, muttered, “Next year, remind me to fake pneumonia.”

Bathsheda only smirked, linking her arm through his. Together they walked away from the glow of the Ministry’s finest, leaving velvet and politics behind.

(Check Here)

Hard to introduce someone who keeps leaving no evidence they were here.

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