Dumbledore turned to the rows of stalls, pointing. “And these?”

He followed Dumbledore’s gaze, half-assembled booths, toolkits strewn everywhere, crates with haphazard labels. A few had handwritten signs hanging off them already. “Wand Buffing Station,” “Protective Gear Rentals,” “Snacksmiths.” Most were crooked. Some sparkled.

Truth was, he was tired of watching students group up into separate clans, house pride warped into walls. Even with the war gone, the castle still separated with old divisions. Slytherin kept to itself. Gryffindors scoffed at Ravenclaws. Hufflepuffs got overlooked unless someone needed a favour or a biscuit.

This was his fix. Not grand speeches or house unity banners. Just work. Shared, stupid, clumsy, messy work.

Something where they could build together, sweat together, argue about prices until they forgot why they didn’t like each other in the first place.

But he didn’t say all that. He just gestured at the clutter with a shrug.

“Going to let them run stalls,” Cassian said. “Sell things. Craft. Build. Little clubs if they want. Projects. Anything that forces them to work side by side instead of glaring across dinner tables.”

Dumbledore’s brow lifted. “You’re proposing we allow students to… operate businesses?”

Cassian sipped his tea, grimaced at the cold. “Small ones. Call it entrepreneurial learning if it makes you feel better.”

Dumbledore walked to one of the crates, nudged it open. Half-assembled trinkets and ink-smudged parchments. He turned back, quiet.

“That treads rather close to student labour.”

Cassian didn’t flinch. “It treads close to student initiative.”

“Hogwarts isn’t a bazaar.”

Cassian leaned back against the railing. “Neither is it a prison. Look, they already do half the work anyway. They tutor each other. They sneak supplies, mend things behind the professors’ backs.”

He stepped off the dais and crossed the space between them. “You want them to grow up, right? Let them earn something for it.”

Dumbledore was quiet again.

Cassian insisted, “Did you know Tracey Davis makes killer pastries? Like actually killer. Almost poisoned myself trying one, worth it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled faintly.

“Hannah Abbott’s brilliant with broom care. Not just polishing, real tuning. She’s practically been fixing the first-years’ kit for free. And Penelope Clearwater’s got half the school wearing her ‘hex-resistant skin balm’ already.”

Dumbledore made a faint, thoughtful noise.

“Give them the space,” Cassian said, quieter now. “Let them own something. Let them make mistakes. Argue over signage. Fight over pricing. Learn.”

Dumbledore looked back at the stands.

“I don’t want this becoming a distraction from their studies.”

“It won’t”

Dumbledore finally turned to face him fully. His expression was unreadable, except for the tiniest ghost of amusement in his eyes.

“Very well. But if this becomes a mess…”

“I’ll handle it,” Cassian said.

Dumbledore gave a quiet, resigned sigh. “I’ll inform Minerva.”

Cassian saluted him with the empty mug. “Brave of you.”

“May I trouble you for a moment more?”

“Oh no,” Cassian said. “No no no. Whatever it is, it’s a no.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. That was never a good sign.

“I was merely thinking,” the old man said mildly, “that since you’ve spent such effort designing a room for magical combat, it would be, what’s the phrase? Ah, yes, a shame not to give it a proper spin.”

Cassian stared. “You want to duel me?”

“Unless, of course, you’re afraid,” Dumbledore added, with such serene innocence it circled all the way back around to being smug.

“Yes, very much so.” Cassian stared. “You’ve seen me duel. I’m not sure you understand how humiliating this is going to be. For me. Just to be clear.”

“Then it shall be an excellent lesson in humility,” Dumbledore said, cheerfully.

Cassian narrowed his eyes. “I’m not entirely convinced you’re joking.”

Dumbledore gave no reply, only walked to the centre, his steps light, as if his bones hadn’t counted their years in decades.

Cassian turned his head toward the doorway. No students. No professors. No witnesses. Escaping wouldn’t be humiliating with no witnesses. He looked back at Dumbledore and sighed, loud and theatrical.

“You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?”

“I insist.”

“I’m going to regret this.”

“Very much.”

Cassian rolled his shoulders. “Fine. But if you knock me on my arse, I’m reprogramming the rune feedback to bark every time you walk through the door.”

Dumbledore’s eyes squinted. “A fair wager.”

They stepped into place, Cassian on the left, Dumbledore on the right.

Cassian drew his wand carefully. “Alright,” he said. “Ground rules?”

“No maiming,” Dumbledore offered.

Cassian grinned. “Tempting as that was.”

A low chime started the duel.

Cassian moved first, because of course he did, because Dumbledore wouldn’t. A flick of his wand sent a streak of red toward the old man’s feet, weak but fast, meant to test footing.

It never reached. The spell dissolved midair with the grace of smoke brushed aside by wind.

Cassian adjusted. He snapped his wand left, then cut right, drawing the glyph of Vitrata (Fracture) into the air and sending it toward Dumbledore’s left flank.

Dumbledore turned one step, lazily, and raised a single warding charm. The spell shattered on impact, fizzled out.

“Lovely form,” Dumbledore said mildly.

Cassian’s jaw ticked. “You’re not even trying.”

“I’m giving you room.”

Cassian launched three spells at once.

One for speed. One for sharpness. One with a feint baked in, delayed under a counter-charm that would only detonate if the first two were blocked.

Dumbledore parried the first with a twist of his wrist, absorbed the second into a null-field, and when the third triggered, his wand moved faster than Cassian could follow. The pulse of energy dissipated with a pop.

“Oh, come on!”

Dumbledore tilted his head, watching him. “Was that… a trap? How cute.”

Cassian planted his feet.

This time, he didn’t go for clever.

He drew deep, deeper, into the duelling stance Bathsheda kept trying to break him out of, loose shoulders, anchor heel, wand high.

Lightning arced, cracked from his wand in a coiling web that burned in streaks of indigo and gold. The floor runes caught it, mirrored it, carried it across the arena with violent speed.

Dumbledore moved. Like he knew exactly how far every spell would reach and had no need to panic. He stepped forward through the lightning field like a man pacing through mist. A single charm, Aerodensia, twisted the air, and the lightning folded around him like ribbon through water.

Cassian raised both hands. “That’s not fair.”

“Life rarely is,” Dumbledore replied, and flicked his wand.

Cassian braced.

He didn’t see the spell. Felt pressure. The runes under his feet screamed for a heartbeat, then spat him backward in a whirl of momentum.

Cassian hit the barrier. Hard.

Dumbledore looked far too smug, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve as if Cassian hadn’t just been bounced off a magical wall. “I heard,” the old man said, eyes glinting, “you have a spell that can darken any environment. You may use it, if you wish.”

Cassian gritted his teeth. He swung his wand. “Lumos Noctis.”

The room obeyed.

It wasn’t the shadow creeping in. It was absence. The light just vanished. Candles, rune-glow, the faint shimmer of the wards… all snuffed, erased from existence as though the world had never known brightness.

Cassian breathed softly, swallowed by the void.

Dumbledore stood very still. He turned his head, eyes narrowing, though Cassian couldn’t see him now. “Hm.” The sound was thoughtful, almost impressed.

Wandless flickers of magic rippled from him. Lumos. Solisflare. Argentum Lux. Claritas. One after another, spells rolled out of him, wandless, wordless… Light charms layered, bent, twisted, and all devoured by Cassian’s spell before they could flare. The air quivered faintly with their death.

“Better than the Deluminator,” Dumbledore murmured. “Curious.”

Cassian crouched low. His wand traced a circle and he whispered, Vox Multorum.

Footsteps bloomed.

All around. Echoes multiplied and scattered. Dozens of Phantom Cassians moved at once, boots clicking against the boards, circling, closing in.

Dumbledore’s ear twitched. He did not move his feet. Instead, he lifted one hand, palm open, and pushed.

A ring of light burst outward from Dumbledore’s body, omnidirectional. Normally, light would bloom and chase the edges of a room. Not this time. The darkness devoured it on contact, swallowed the reach of its illumination.

But Dumbledore didn’t need to see it. He only needed to feel what it touched.

The pulse skimmed across the floorboards, brushed along the rune-lined platform, rippled through the room, and collided with everything within.

He muttered, “Ah. Fake sound. Clever.”

He trusted the spell more than he trusted his ear, it seemed. He raised his wand and pointed, precisely, at where Cassian was crouched low against the floorboards.

Cassian barely registered the movement. A flick, a breath, and his entire body locked. Totally petrified.

Limbs snapped together like iron bars slamming shut. His wand arm slammed tight to his side, jaw clenched by an invisible vice. He toppled backward in the dark, landing hard on the rune-circle with a graceless thud. The spell left only his eyes free, rolling wildly, swearing silent profanities that would’ve had Bathsheda jabbing his ribs for the next week.

The absence held for a beat. Then another.

And then, Dumbledore let it go.

The old man’s wand dipped, and Cassian’s body unlocked with a sudden lurch of freedom. He sat up, gasping, flexing his fingers, furious with the indignity.

Silence followed.

“Would you like to yield?” The old man said, gleeful.

Cassian groaned as he pulled back the Noctis.

Then sat up.

Dumbledore offered him a hand. Cassian ignored it and pulled himself upright.

“That was educational,” he muttered, brushing dust off his coat.

“Indeed.”

Cassian cast a minor diagnostic charm on his shoulder. Bruised. Not broken.

“You know,” He said, voice hoarse, “I think I just learned something very important about my own mortality.”

Dumbledore nodded, as he started to walk out. “Good.”

He stopped, turned to look at Cassian, then, with a shake of his head, he turned toward the door again.

Cassian raised a brow. “Something you’d like to say?”

Dumbledore paused.

Turned halfway, half-moon glasses catching the rune light.

And smiled.

“Still missing something.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow.

Dumbledore gestured vaguely toward the space where Cassian had been flattened.

“A cushion.”

And with that, he left.

(Check Here)

Observed hovering near narrative events without disturbing them, like a magical screensaver.

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