One afternoon, Cassian was knee-deep in parchment and poor spelling. Seated cross-legged on the carpet, papers spread around him. His desk had given up hours ago. Dried biros perched on the floorboards like landmines.

The top scroll was from Romilda Vane, Gryffindor first year.

Title: “The Four Founders: Legacy and Stone.”

Bit grand, but not bad.

The essay outlined the usual folklore, the boat across the lake, the castle rising from raw hill and harder spells, but then took a left turn. Cassian grinned when he spotted the phrase, “It is likely the castle continued to accrete magically long after the Founders died. This might explain its fluid geometry and contradictory blueprints.”

“Accrete,” he muttered, impressed. “Not bad for twelve.”

Romilda had even cited their illusion lesson from week two. The one where Cassian had summoned the Founders into the boat mid-lecture and had Godric complain about Salazar’s hat shedding in the wind. Bonus points for quoting the part where he told them, “Don’t treat myths like scripture. If it’s written on a scroll, your job is to make it bleed before you believe it.”

He marked the top corner with a neat check. “You’re a menace, Miss Vane. Keep it up.”

He read the rest of the first-years quickly, mostly fluff, a couple with promise, one that quoted Lockhart and earned a violent twitch in his eye, then picked up the top scroll from the second-years.

“Oh, joy,” he muttered. “The Rise and Fall of the Mud? Gulping Plimpy’s Great Revolution?” He squinted at the name. “Lovegood.”

Of course it was.

The title alone had more personality than half the staff room. He unrolled it, half expecting to find glitter or pressed seaweed inside. Instead, it opened on a hand-drawn map of a swamp, labelled with tiny flags. A few had smudged. One read, “Hamish’s Splatter Zone – caution: trajectory uncertain.”

He stared at it a moment, then grinned.

The actual essay was half battlefield report, half campaign poster for “Mud Rights.” Luna had apparently taken the Dunwither lesson and decided Hamish the Fork deserved a posthumous Order of Merlin. She’d detailed his tactics like a war chronicler, noting the levitation arcs, wind resistance, and even a footnote about the “mud’s emotional state.”

The thing was… it tracked.

“If the mud’s in the air, sir, is it still ground?”

He laughed, reading next.

“But the turning point of this battle must be Gulping Plimpys. The little mischievous Plimpies feed on Mud Crabs. It is clear as day that Plimpies had whispered into Hamish’s ear in efforts to clear the mud and unearth (unmud?) the crabs. This is a stellar example of magical symbiosisism.”

Cassian paused. “Symbiosisim,” he repeated aloud, squinting. Then added, “Symbiosis” next to it. “She’s either a genius or twelve centimetres off the edge.”

“Unmud,” he muttered, scrawling it in the margin. “Word of the year.”

He paused just long enough to reread the bit about the Plimpies conspiring with a swamp-drenched rebel general. Then he added,

“Bonus points for aquatic propaganda. See me after class, this deserves a mural.”

He grinned to himself and tossed the scroll into the “keep forever” pile beside the Lovegood folder.

Next was Goyle’s. Title:

“Three Uses for Murtlap and Two I Definitely Didn’t Try.”

As he let out a deep sigh, Cassian’s door knocked. He welcomed the interruption like a man being pulled from a sinking ship.

“Come in,” he said, a little too excited.

The twins slinked through the doorway with identical grins, the sort that usually preceded a crater.

“Professor R.,” Fred greeted, already halfway across the room.

George wandered over and squinted at the parchment Cassian had been glaring at. “‘Three Uses for Murtlap and Two I Definitely Didn’t Try’? What is with that perchance at the end of the sentence?” he read aloud. “Oof. That’s not a good read.”

Cassian rubbed his temple. “What do you want, and how much damage is already done?”

“We come bearing a gift,” George announced.

Fred reached into his robes like he was about to perform a miracle and revealed… a crumpled brown paper bag.

“Biscuits,” he said, dropping it onto the stack of unmarked scrolls like it was holy offering.

Cassian eyed the bag. “Is this a bribe or an apology?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

He pulled the bag open and peered in. Chocolate digestive. Two missing. Possibly bitten.

“Was this stolen from the staffroom or from Sprout’s stash?”

“Again,” Fred said, with the straight face of a man who’d made peace with his sins, “yes.”

Cassian took one. “If I find gillyweed in this, I’m hexing your kneecaps out of sync.”

Fred held up three fingers. “Scout’s honour.”

“You were never scouts.”

“And yet,” George said, plopping into the nearest chair, “we uphold their finest traditions.”

Cassian bit into the biscuit and immediately regretted it. Stale. Possibly pre-curse.

Fred flopped into the chair beside his twin, legs kicked out.

George leaned forward. “So. We were thinking about our career prospects.”

Cassian stared at him.

“And you thought I was the man to discuss those with?”

“You’re a teacher,” Fred offered.

“You’re a Slytherin,” George added. “You understand ambition.”

“You blow things up on purpose.”

“You appreciate innovation.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Are you trying to butter me up for something, or are you genuinely hoping I’ll help you with whatever crazy idea you have?”

The twins exchanged a glance. George nodded slightly.

Cassian leaned back. “Please tell me you haven’t set anything on fire this week.”

“No fires,” Fred said, counting on his fingers. “Just the one minor explosion.”

George leaned forward, getting all business-serious, “We’re here to offer you a partnership.”

Cassian didn’t move. “You sell nosebleeds and detention slips. What could you possibly have that I want?”

The twins looked at each other, then back at him.

“Something that might help you catch Sirius Black,” Fred said. “A truce… and a share in our future joke shop.”

Cassian didn’t dismiss them. The twins weren’t idiots, too clever for their own good, more often than not. In their third year, they’d started peddling self-made trinkets under the table, half of them probably illegal, the rest just too effective to be sold to first-years. After he’d “accidentally” nudged them toward Runes, the ideas only got worse. Worse, of course, meaning better.

They’d make a fortune someday. Probably get banned in twelve countries, too, but money was money, especially since their passion and talent actually lined up. Rare, that. Most people had one and flopped the other.

‘Well, this is a book after all,’ he mused, then shook his head. “Alright. I’m interested. Tell me about the Sirius Black bit.”

The twins grinned. “We knew you had business acumen,” George said.

Fred nudged the desk with his knee. “Right, remember the map you robbed from us?”

Cassian gave them a look. “I prefer the term confiscated.”

They rolled their eyes in perfect sync. “Whatever. We presume you haven’t actually managed to use it yet?”

He clicked his tongue. “What, you want me to return it?”

“On the contrary,” Fred said. “We’ll give you the method to use it.”

Cassian raised a brow “And in return?”

They got up, right hands pressed to their chests like they were pledging allegiance to a pack of biscuits.

“Fund our first shop!” George said.

“We promise to pay everything back,” Fred added, already halfway to grinning.

“And you still keep your share,” they finished together.

Cassian chewed the last bite of biscuit, then hummed. Thought about it for all of three seconds. He could open a few shops in Diagon Alley with his savings alone, never mind the coin pouring in lately. Give it a few years, he could bankroll a hundred without blinking.

“Agreed,” he said, brushing crumbs off his knee. “But I’m adding a few clauses.”

The twins beamed like he’d just agreed to adopt them.

“Whatever you say,” Fred said quickly.

Cassian raised a finger. “Don’t be hasty. You haven’t heard them yet.”

George made a noise of mock dread. Fred stood straighter.

“One,” Cassian said, “you graduate. No shop before that.”

They exchanged a quick glance.

“We’re in fifth year, halfway there.” George said with a solemn nod.

Cassian ignored it. “Two, N.E.W.T. level Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, and Runes.”

Fred raised a brow. “All four?”

“Three if you want to blow yourselves up in a garden shed,” Cassian said. “Four if you want to do something clever. You’re clever. Try living up to it.”

They didn’t argue.

“Three,” he went on, “I want E.E or higher in all of them. None of this ‘barely scraped by’ nonsense.”

“What if we get Outstanding?” George asked, eyes gleaming like a kid trying to upsell himself.

Cassian tilted his head. “You get two shops.”

Fred choked. “Really? Not lying right, because if you do that’s extortion.”

“That’s ambition,” Cassian corrected.

The twins leaned back, clearly turning it over. The stakes were steep, but so were their odds, and they knew it.

“Alright,” George said.

“We’ll take the deal,” Fred added. “E.E or better. Shop’s ours. O in everything? Two shops. And you get a third of the cut, permanent.”

Cassian raised a brow. “I want veto power if you try to sell anything that turns people into pineapples.”

“Too late,” George said, grinning.

“Trial run was inconclusive,” Fred added.

Cassian grabbed the nearest scroll, flipped it over, and started scribbling clauses, signatures, a line about magically binding contracts, another barring pineapple-related transfigurations. He underlined that one twice.

“Right,” he said. “Towel.”

There was a pop, and the elf appeared. “Yes, Master Cassian,” the elf said, bowing low.

Cassian crouched, holding the scroll at eye level. “Take this to Gringotts. Get it witnessed, sealed, and filed. Tell them it’s urgent. If they whinge, tell them I’ll switch banks.”

Towel’s ears flapped. “Yes, Master Cassian.”

Another pop, and the elf vanished.

Fred watched the empty air. “You named your elf Towel?”

Cassian stood, brushing his knees off. “Would you rather Dishrag? It is the family’s elf.”

Towel popped back in soon enough. Cassian took it, skimmed the ribbon, and passed it straight to the twins.

Fred reached for a quill. Cassian smacked his wrist.

“Read it first. Three times.”

George groaned. “We’ve seen you write it.”

“Never trust a contract,” Cassian said, dropping into his chair. “Go on. Read it, then call a house-elf. Blubber’s on Gryffindor rotation this week. He’ll check if I’ve snuck a clause in about selling your souls.”

Fred opened the scroll with a muttered “This is very Slytherin of you.”

George was already halfway through the first read, lips moving slightly.

By the third pass, Blubber was standing beside them, wringing his hands and squinting over their shoulders with a muttered, “All’s clean, sirs. No hexes, no traps, no magical forfeitures of bodily autonomy. Sir Rosier is very polite for a Slytherin.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Put that on my tombstone.”

Once they’d signed, and elves left, Fred with a dramatic flourish, George with a fake monocle he’d conjured just for the bit, Cassian tucked the scroll into his coat.

“You’ve now got a contract more binding than half the Ministry’s marriages,” he said, reaching into his robes and pulling out the blank parchment “Right. Show me what this ‘map’ does.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance, then Fred with the solemnity of someone about to summon an ancient spirit laid it on the desk.

George tapped it twice. “Bit dusty,” he said, blowing on it.

Together, they drew their wands.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The ink bled like it had been lying in wait. Fine black lines darted out, crawling over the surface, etching towers and halls and staircases as if the parchment was carving out Hogwarts in real time.

Cassian leaned in. “Bloody hell.”

Little dots flickered to life. Bathsheda Babbling – North Tower. Neville Longbottom – Herbology Greenhouse Two. A dozen more spilled across the scroll.

George pointed. “See there? That’s you. And us.”

Cassian watched the dots labeled Cassian Rosier, Fred Weasley, George Weasley drift around the corner of his office like polite bacteria.

He stared at the map, jaw slack, eyes flat with disbelief.

“This is a gross violation of privacy,” he said, like someone had just handed him the blueprints to Hell and asked if he’d like a tour. His eyes darted over the scuttling names, the real-time movements. He tapped a finger against one of the dots. “You can see everyone?”

“Everyone,” Fred said, grinning like it was the best thing he’d ever invented.

Cassian kept staring. A dot labelled “Minerva McGonagall” was hovering suspiciously close to the library, a good hour before dinner. “This is ridiculous. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to make this? Did you make it?”

George snorted. “Wish we had. We’re good, but not this good.”

“The Marauders,” Fred said.

George pointed at the signature curling across the corner. “Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.”

“Where the hell did you get this?”

Fred beamed. “Bit of scavenging. Bit of luck.”

George leaned on the desk. “And a lot of running from Filch. They left it behind. We found it in Filch’s confiscated drawer of doom.”

Cassian watched Snape disappear into Lupin’s office, mouth twitching. Those two hated each other. Had done for years. Probably plotting a silent duel where neither of them had to speak. Or share air.

“We already know every secret path,” Fred said. “So we don’t need it.”

George added, “To activate, tap with your wand, say ‘I solemnly swear I am up to no good.'”

Fred gestured at the map like he was unveiling a masterpiece.

“And to turn it off, ‘Mischief managed,'” George finished. “Oh, and sometimes it shows dead people.”

Cassian looked up. “Ghosts?”

They both shook their heads, a little too serious for comfort.

“Nah,” Fred said. “Like, people who shouldn’t exist. At all.”

The twins stepped back from the desk in sync.

“Well then,” George said brightly, “we’ll be on our way.”

“Honour to do business with you, partner,” Fred added, throwing an exaggerated bow.

Cassian raised his biscuit. “If you get arrested before graduation, I’m selling the shop rights to Filch.”

Fred grinned. George pulled the door open. “See you in class, Professor.”

They vanished down the corridor, snickering.

Cassian kept staring at the map.

Peter Pettigrew.

He leaned forward.

He hummed. “So this is what they meant.”

*If you’re wondering when Cassian took the map from the twins, I mentioned it back in Ch. 35: The Staff Meeting and again in a few later chapters, if I remember right.

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