In the weeks that followed, they watched the map like hawks on caffeine and spite, and still came up empty.

Peter bloody Pettigrew didn’t appear. Not once. Not a flicker of a name, not even a twitch in Gryffindor Tower. It was like he’d known the exact second to leg it.

“You think he left the school?” Bathsheda asked one evening as they collapsed onto the couch. Cassian ended up half-sideways across her legs, one arm draped over his face.

“I don’t know,” he huffed. “Feels like he vanished the moment we got close. Like he’s reading our bloody lesson plans.”

Her hand drifted into his hair, absently combing through the mess. “Maybe Sirius spooked him. Breaking into the tower, slashing at beds, if he was hiding in there, that would’ve been his warning shot.”

Cassian let out a hum that might’ve been agreement or indigestion. “Makes sense. And Sirius is gone too. Map’s quiet. Not even a tail twitch.”

She paused mid-stroke.

“What if they know?” she said.

Cassian’s arm dropped from his face.

“Know what?”

“The map. What it is. How we’re using it.”

He sat up so fast he nearly cracked heads with her. “Oh, shit.”

She blinked. “What?”

He was already scrambling across the room. “Oh, I’m a bloody idiot.”

“What now?”

Chalk screeched against the board as he scrawled four names.

Moony

Prongs

Padfoot

Wormtail

He stepped back and jabbed a finger at it. “It’s in the corner of the bloody map. We’ve had the answer etched on it since day one.”

Bathsheda squinted. “You mean the fake names?”

“Not fake. Codenames. Their codenames.”

Her brow furrowed. “Wait, Moony… Lupin?”

“Lupin.”

“Padfoot?”

Cassian’s mouth twisted. “Sirius Black. I’d bet every pair of my socks.”

“Which makes Prongs… James Potter?”

He nodded, hand still hovering near the board. “And Wormtail… Pettigrew.”

For a moment, neither spoke.

“Merlin’s bollocks,” Bathsheda muttered.

Cassian dropped into the nearest chair. “They made the map.”

“And now they know we’re using it.”

Cassian laughed, mad, almost cackling. “No, no, this is better than I thought. I bet Sirius assumes Peter has the map, and Peter’s convinced Sirius has it. So they both legged it outside the bloody range to avoid being tracked the second they realised they couldn’t suss each other’s next move.”

He threw his head back, grinning at the ceiling. “They’re not running from us. They’re running from each other. This is bloody hilarious.”

Bathsheda rubbed her temple, not bothering to hide the tired exhale. “They’ve turned this castle into a one-sided chess match and we’re stuck playing referee.”

“I’d say they’re both pawns, but one of them actually turned into a rat, so.” He gestured vaguely at the board with a bit of chalk still in hand. “Do we even need to bother? Let them chase each other in circles. We’ll sweep up whoever drops dead first.”

Bathsheda’s eyes snapped to him. “You think either of them dying solves this?”

Cassian twirled the chalk between his fingers. “One less fugitive. One less rat. Call it natural selection.”

She nodded. “Darvin.”

Cassian was never more proud. He walked up to her to kiss her.

He then pointed again at Wormtail. “You realise what this means, right? They’re outplaying each other with a map neither of them has. Two blokes stuck in a Cold War over a bloody piece of parchment. All while we’re here babysitting it as if it’s cursed gold.”

Bathsheda leaned over the desk, palm braced on a stack of notes. “So neither of them’s in the castle anymore.”

“Looks like.” He pushed off the chair. “And here we are, with the world’s most intelligent piece of parchment… watching ourselves drink tea.”

She rubbed her temple. “You think they’ll come back?”

He shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

Well, they didn’t.

Days passed, and the castle slouched back into its usual rhythm, grumbling staircases, gossip in the courtyards, ghosts playing through the walls like nothing had ever broken into Gryffindor Tower with meat back on the menu.

Then Easter rolled in. Cassian opened his eyes that morning and immediately caught sight of a giant floating egg hovering overhead. It hummed.

“N—” he started, too slow.

The thing dropped like a rock. Burst against his chest and exploded into a puff of petals and off-key, magically harmonised singing roses.

“Happy Easter,” said Bathsheda from the door, arms crossed and grin far too satisfied.

He sat up, brushing singing flower bits off his face. “This was my move.”

She leaned in through the door with a grin. “I stole it.”

Cassian groaned. “I hate you.”

“Liar.”

That day, Hogwarts was in a suspiciously good mood. Term break had loosened everyone’s sense of self-preservation, and chocolate was being smuggled like it was classified contraband. Students roamed in packs, sharing sugar and terrible ideas. Someone was flying a kite indoors. The portraits were judging it, loudly.

Cassian walked the length of the courtyard with Bathsheda beside him, her hair full of glittery petals from her own ambush. He hadn’t commented. Yet.

The Weasley twins caught sight of them near the lower arches.

“Professor R!” Fred called, skidding to a halt in front of them. George wasn’t far behind, already mid-grin. “Loved the birthday gift!”

Cassian raised a brow. “Somehow I doubt that. It was a book.”

Fred held up a singed corner of parchment. “How to Brew Trouble Without Getting Caught. A classic.”

Cassian tilted his head. “That was a joke title. The actual book was Advanced Potioning.”

“We read both,” said George. “Yours is more dangerous.”

Cassian didn’t smile. “Good. You’re not supposed to like safe books.”

Twins peeled off with matching grins, leaving Cassian and Bathsheda to resume their stroll under the low spring sun and the faint scent of chaos still wafting from the Great Hall.

Across the courtyard, a pair of blondes trudged toward them, matching green cloaks and the usual Greengrass look. Daphne slowed first, Astoria bouncing along beside her.

Daphne stopped. Astoria didn’t.

“My mum wanted me to give you this,” she said, thrusting a neat little box of chocolate into Cassian’s hand. “For what you did.”

Cassian took it with one brow already halfway up. “Tell her thanks from me. And not to worry, I didn’t do anything.”

Astoria smiled like she didn’t believe him for a second and skipped off before he could say another word.

Bathsheda glanced sideways. “What did you do?”

He sighed through his nose, flicking the lid of the box open with one finger. “A Gryffindor girl made comments about her condition. Took her voice. Made her apologise.”

She made a low noise of approval and didn’t press.

***

Later that night, Bathsheda ditched him for Girls’ Night, something involving nail polish, stolen wine, and Aurora’s carpet. Cassian, who’d been promised leftovers and got nothing but glitter. Left to his own devices, Cassian tried to read, failed, tried to nap, failed harder. The silence in his quarters itched. Every time he glanced at the map, Pettigrew’s absence gnawed like a missing tooth.

“Fine,” he muttered to the empty room, grabbing the cordial. “If the rat won’t show himself, I’ll drink until I stop caring.”

Ten minutes later he was scaling the Astronomy Tower stairs two at a time, bottle swinging from his grip. He told himself it was for the stars. Truth was, he hated the walls closing in when Bathsheda wasn’t there to mock him.

He was halfway through spotting constellations that didn’t exist when someone else entered the tower.

“Professor Rosier,” came a voice far too polite to be accidental. “Forgive the intrusion. I thought this place was empty.”

Cassian didn’t even look. “No one buys that polite-oblivious bit, Albus. You snoop better than a cat with a keyring.”

Dumbledore chuckled, settling onto the ledge beside him. “Still, I find the view improves with age.”

“Try better glasses.”

The old man didn’t bite. He gazed up at the stars.

Cassian glanced sideways. “You here to pretend this is a coincidence, or skip straight to the cryptic bit?”

“Do I always sound cryptic?”

“No, but I’ve met your fans. Half of them think you walk around in riddles for fun.”

Wind tugged at Dumbledore’s sleeve, as he kept looking up.

“I wanted to ask if you know anything,” He said eventually. Cassian turned to him, flat. “I know Lupin’s a werewolf. I know Sirius Black isn’t here for Potter. And I’ve got a working theory Peter Pettigrew’s alive. That do?”

The old man’s face twisted like someone had just told him Sherbet Lemons were made of dragon spit. Cassian didn’t know if the shock was real or theatre, but it was worth it either way.

“That’s not possible. Peter Pettigrew—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassian cut in, waving a hand. “Killed by Black. With another twelve Muggles. Left behind a finger and a dramatic crater. I’ve read the bedtime story.”

Dumbledore sighed through his nose, a sound somewhere between tired and knowing. “You believe Black isn’t after Harry.”

“You do too,” Cassian said, stretching out his legs. “Otherwise, you’d have tossed half the school into a bunker by now and glued Potter to McGonagall’s hip.”

The old man didn’t argue. Just nodded, slow and thoughtful.

“I’ve had my doubts.”

“Well,” Cassian said, cracking his neck, “consider them upgraded.”

Dumbledore turned his head, studying him. “How do you know all this?”

Cassian shrugged. “Bit of sleuthing. Bit of luck. Bit of insomnia. Bit of a rat showing up on a map he shouldn’t. The usual.”

Then he looked sideways. “Now skip to the fun part. Did we get the green light?”

The old man reached into his sleeve and pulled out two tightly bound scrolls. “I was able to secure three positions on the expedition.”

Cassian frowned, snatching two of the scrolls and untying one. “Three? Who’s the tag-along?”

Dumbledore smiled.

Cassian made a face before the words even landed. “Oh, for… no. You?”

“This site is not what it seems, Cassian,” the old man said, all gentle graveyard calm. “Master Nicolas sent a letter, he believes something… older, and far more dangerous, sleeps beneath it.”

Cassian groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Another ominous feeling?”

Dumbledore raised a brow. “Another?”

“Forgot it.” He stretched, joints clicking as he stood. “Good night, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore didn’t turn. Still watching the stars. “Good night, Cassian.”

(Check Here)

Destination reached. Passenger not confirmed.

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