The next day, the papers were bloody delicious.

Cassian bit into his toast, crumbs sticking to the corner of his mouth as he unfolded the Daily Prophet. Bathsheda was loading his plate with eggs.

“‘Ministry Clears Black: Pettigrew Lives,'” he read aloud, mouth half-full. “Bold of them to pretend they did the clearing.”

She plopped two sausages next to his toast. “Read the subheading.”

He read and almost sprayed his tea.

“‘Rosier’s Patronus Causes Earthquake, Panic, and One Pregnancy Scare’?” Cassian blinked. “What the hell.”

Bathsheda snatched the paper. “Give me that.”

“Page three,” he muttered. “Apparently I’m a menace to the forest, wildlife, and one emotionally fragile Seer who claims she felt her womb ‘shudder in prophecy.'”

Bathsheda was already flipping to the page, eyes skimming. “They called you ‘the silver-branched saviour.'”

He stared at his toast. “I liked it better when they thought I was the creepy professor.”

“You still are.”

“Right, but now I’ve got fan mail.”

She lifted the paper, reading aloud. “Sources close to the scene described the Patronus as ‘an enormous silver tree with leaves that hummed’ and ‘a holy symbol of balance and ancient masculine energy.'” She blinked. “Did you sleep with a columnist?”

“If you aren’t the columnist, I did not,” Cassian said flatly. “But someone definitely sniffed a scented candle and took liberties.”

Bathsheda tossed the paper onto the table. “At least they didn’t call it a weed.”

“They called it ‘verdant revelation in spectral form.'”

She paused. “Wow.”

He sipped his tea. “I’m suing someone.”

Bathsheda grinned and sat back. “You’re famous.”

He made a face. “Joy.”

She gave him a look. “Cass, your fan club was built the moment you knocked Lockhart off his sparkling perch with a footnote. This just confirms it.”

He sighed. “Gods. I hope no one turns this into a song.”

She leaned in, voice mock-whispered, “I heard Flitwick humming something this morning.”

Cassian shoved his toast into his mouth, grumbling under his breath.

Bathsheda took a sip of her tea. “On the bright side, Pettigrew’s under guard, Sirius has a room that isn’t made of horror, and the kids didn’t die. That’s… relatively successful.”

Cassian chewed, then shrugged. “By Hogwarts standards, it’s basically a holiday.”

She tapped the paper again. “And you’re a bloody hero.”

He glanced at the headline again. “They say that now. Give it a week, I’ll be back to ‘suspected dark artefact enthusiast who teaches muggle war theory to children.'”

She lifted her cup. “To silver trees and school liability forms.”

He clinked his teacup against hers. “And the paperwork they’re going to bury us in.”

Before they could get through their second cup of tea, a handful of owls crashed the mood.

One dropped a neat stack of letters in front of Cassian’s toast, sending a few crumbs flying. He picked them up, flipped through. Regulus. Magnus. Lucian. All ignored without ceremony. He paused at one marked in Bathilda’s handwriting, but before he could open it, Bathsheda plucked another envelope from the pile.

“Oh no,” she said, too cheerfully.

Cassian didn’t look up. “If that’s a late birthday card from the family again, throw them away.”

She held the letter higher, just out of reach. “Witch Weekly wants to interview you.”

His chewing slowed.

“And,” she went on, unfolding it with malicious delight, “you are nominated for ‘Most Charming Smile Award.'”

Cassian choked on his tea. “What now?”

Sprout, sitting neatly beside Bathsheda with toast halfway to her mouth, snorted. Then laughed. So loud that two first-years at the next table turned to stare.

Bathsheda held the letter out like it was cursed. “I’m framing this.”

“You’re burning it,” Cassian said, wiping his mouth with a grimace. “Then we’re putting the ashes in a jar and never speaking of it again.”

Sprout dabbed at her eyes. “Most Charming Smile!”

“Cassian Rosier,” Bathsheda read aloud with mock ceremony, “shortlisted for Witch Weekly’s annual Most Charming Smile Award. Nominated anonymously, with glowing testimonials from students and colleagues alike.”

Cassian blinked. “Right. I want names.”

Bathsheda flipped the letter over. “There’s more.”

“Of course there is.”

“‘Praised for his wit, poise, and a gaze that could cut glass.'” she stopped, snorted.

Sprout was still laughing, wheezing now. “Cut glass!”

Cassian gave her a look. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

Bathsheda kept going. “‘His mysterious air and academic elegance have captivated the hearts of readers across Britain.'”

“I have an air?”

Aurora, Septima, and Charity glided into the Great Hall, each had a copy of Witch Weekly in hand and a grin that promised trouble.

“Oh, if it isn’t Rosier,” Aurora called, sliding into the nearest seat. “Most Charming Smile himself.”

Cassian didn’t look up from his toast. “Please. I’m trying to die quietly.”

Charity snorted, already whispering something to Bathsheda, who didn’t even try to hide her grin. The other three were in full gossip mode now, whispers, smirks, and the occasional sideways glance.

Snape sneered at him on the way in, which was nothing new, but it still knocked a chip off Cassian’s mood. The man had all the charm of a cursed sponge and was apparently doubling down this morning. Cassian toyed with the idea of getting up and leaving altogether, until Lupin slipped in.

“Morning,” He said, in a whisper so it wouldn’t carry past the staff table. “I’ve decided to resign. Wanted you all to hear it first.”

Charity paused mid-buttering. “You what?”

Sprout turned her head slightly, smile disappearing. “Remus…”

“It’s alright,” Lupin said, not looking up. “Too many parents know, now. The Prophet will pick it up by the end of the week.”

“Fudge’s mouth already looked twitchy this morning,” Flitwick muttered.

“Still,” Sprout said with a sigh, “it’s a foolish choice.”

Lupin glanced over. “I’m not fit for the classroom anymore.”

“You’re not fit for the full moon. That’s not the same.”

A faint smile twitched across Lupin’s mouth. “Appreciated. But the board won’t see it that way.”

Aurora gave him a long look, then went back to stirring her tea.

Snape sipped his tea with all the grace of a man hoping someone would leave just so he could say “I told you so” without interruption.

Lupin turned to Cassian. “Rosier. A word?”

Cassian flicked the last of his toast crumb off his sleeve and stood. “Should I bring a chaperone?”

Lupin didn’t answer. Just walked off. Cassian followed.

In the staff room, Lupin took the couch, Cassian stayed standing.

“Thanks,” He said eventually. “For before. For… whatever it was you did. The petrification. You stopped it before it got… worse. For me, for the kids.” He sighed, eyes not quite meeting his. “And for catching Peter. Exonerating Sirius. He won’t say it, pride and all, but… he’s thankful. I am too.”

Cassian scratched at the corner of his jaw, then waved a hand. “I didn’t do it for you lot.”

Lupin’s brow ticked up. “Still. It mattered.”

Cassian gave a vague shrug. “Better than writing condolence letters.”

Lupin huffed a breath. “I suppose.”

Cassian looked at the fire. “You resigning for real?”

“I am.”

“Bit early for a midlife crisis.”

Lupin snorted. “It’s not safe.”

“No, it’s not. That’s why you dose up and don’t forget your bloody potion next time.”

Lupin didn’t argue. He just sat there, the lines under his eyes looking deeper today.

***

Cassian was halfway through folding his shirts with far more precision than strictly necessary when the door burst open without so much as a knock.

“Professor R!”

“We’ve failed you.”

Fred and George Weasley marched in, solemn as a funeral, each holding what looked suspiciously like a report card. They slapped them onto his table.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Did you burn a corridor again or just charm someone’s teeth into snakes?”

Fred pointed to the parchment. “Worse.”

George nodded. “Academic tragedy.”

Cassian picked up the reports and scanned.

O.W.L. scores.

Charms – Outstanding.

Transfiguration – Outstanding.

Ancient Runes – also Outstanding.

He hummed, vaguely impressed.

Most of the rest hovered around Exceeds Expectations. Then…

Potions – Acceptable.

He stopped.

The room quieted.

Cassian glanced up. “Well. There goes your shop.”

Fred gritted his teeth. “That bat.”

George muttered something rude under his breath.

Cassian dropped the parchment and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me what happened.”

Fred threw himself into the armchair, all arms and grudges. “He binned our final. Wouldn’t grade it.”

George took the dramatic pacing route. “Said the potion was ‘wrong.’ Because of the colour. The colour.”

Cassian blinked. “That’s it?”

“We improved the base,” George snapped. “Found a cleaner way to stabilise it, less wolfsbane, more fluid consistency, no side reactions.”

Fred leaned forward, arms flung wide. “And it worked. Perfectly. We tested it three times. Cedric tested it, for Merlin’s sake.”

Cassian frowned. “Snape refused to mark it?”

“Said it wasn’t the standard brew. Called it amateur rubbish, dumped the vial, then told us we’d be graded on our essays and previous classwork only.”

“So…” Cassian waved a finger between them, “he tanked your final because you outsmarted the syllabus.”

George sat down hard. “Basically.”

Fred’s jaw clenched. “He knew it worked. He just didn’t like how.”

Cassian sat quiet for a moment, thumb tapping against his knee. He then stood up, brushing past the twins without so much as a glance, muttering under his breath about “brilliant idiocy and poisoned cauldrons.”

“Let’s go.”

He was already halfway down the stairs before they scrambled after him, robes flapping, shoes scuffing the floor.

They stormed the dungeons. No knock. Just Cassian booting the door open.

Snape looked up from behind his desk, slow and sour as always. “Rosier,” he said, dry as old parchment.

Cassian stepped in, laid a palm flat on the desk.

“When did you turn into a follow-the-sheet brewing puppet, Severus?”

Snape frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The twins arrived right on cue, panting like they’d sprinted a mile. Snape barely spared them a glance before scoffing.

“Oh, I see. This is about that.” He leaned back, a sneer curling at the corner of his mouth. “Did they run to cry to you?”

Cassian’s fist curled. He didn’t hit the desk. But it was a near thing.

“Severus Snape,” he said. “Seventh-year potion genius. The one Slughorn raved about. You bent formulas like string. You rewrote base theory for fun. What happened to that mind? The one that looked at old methods and thought, ‘I can do better’?”

Snape’s expression didn’t twitch. “You think these two baboons are capable of improving a basic potion I somehow missed?”

Cassian’s knuckles clenched.

“And who says they can’t? You? The man who dumped the vial without even testing it?”

The room went quiet.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, cold. “They strayed from the syllabus.”

Cassian’s head tipped. “You strayed from the syllabus.”

“I understood what I was doing.”

“And you think they didn’t?”

Snape’s voice sharpened. “They played at invention. That’s arrogance, not mastery.”

Cassian leaned in, hand still firm on the desk. “Arrogance is calling yourself a master and refusing to test something that worked better than the standard brew. They improved the potion, didn’t break it.”

“They destabilised it.”

“They refined it.”

Snape stood. “It’s not your class.”

“No,” Cassian said, flat. “But they’re my students. And if we’re failing kids because they dared to think beyond the recipe, then we’re not teaching. We’re copying recipes off the bloody board.”

Snape’s eyes flicked between them.

“Let me be clear,” Cassian said, softer now but with the same edge. “You want to fail them, you give me a reason that holds weight. Not that they strayed. Not that they were cleverer than you expected. Show me where the potion fails. Show me the flaw. Otherwise, you test it again. And if it holds? You fix their grade.”

Snape raised his nose at him, voice dripping disdain. “And since when did you become a master in potion-making? If I recall correctly, you couldn’t brew a simple Cure for Boils without turning it into soup.”

Cassian grinned. “People change, Severus. You should’ve realised that by now.”

Snape snorted. “I can almost accept you’ve improved in charms, but potion-making? Beyond you, Rosier.”

Cassian tilted his head. “How about a bet, then?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “A bet.”

“Mm.” Cassian stepped back, folded his arms, and nodded toward the worktable. “We’ll both brew the same potion. You use your method, I’ll use theirs.” He jerked a thumb at the twins, who immediately perked up like dogs hearing the word walk.

“If their method produces the better brew,” Cassian continued, “you fix their grade, beg the O.W.L. committee to re-evaluate it, and apologise to them. Publicly.”

Snape’s mouth twitched. “And if mine proves superior?”

Cassian’s grin widened. “Then I’ll do whatever you want.”

Fred’s head snapped round. “Whatever… sir, are you mad?”

Cassian didn’t look at him. “Probably. But it’ll be fun to find out.”

Snape thought in silence for a long moment, eyes gleaming. Then he turned toward the stores. “Fine,” he said at last. “But don’t expect me to hold back. I don’t brew for spectacle.”

Cassian smiled faintly. “Good. I don’t want you to make excuses.”

The twins exchanged a glance that was equal parts awe and terror.

Within minutes, Snape’s bench gleamed with jars, scales, and cauldrons already simmering. His movements were crisp, sharp, all precision and pride. Cassian’s side of the bench looked calmer, tidier, but somehow more casual, as if he’d walked into a kitchen rather than a duel.

Fred and George whispered furiously behind him, trying not to look nervous. Cassian waved them quiet. “Trust me,” he said. “If he wins, it’s because I sneeze in the cauldron.”

Snape flicked him a look colder than the dungeon air. “If you contaminate the potion, I will assume you forfeited.”

“Relax, Severus,” Cassian said, stirring lazily. “You’re wound tighter than your own hair.”

The twin cauldrons hissed as heat took hold. Snape’s brew shimmered dark and glossy, smelling faintly of iron and cloves. Cassian’s stayed pale, almost translucent. A slow swirl ran through it, oddly smooth.

Snape sneered. “Too thin.”

“Too early,” Cassian shot back.

The twins watched, wide-eyed. “He’s actually doing it,” Fred muttered.

“Yeah,” George said. “And he hasn’t blown up yet.”

Cassian lifted his wand, gave the cauldron a swirl, then tipped in the last ingredient, the stabiliser the twins had created. The potion brightened instantly, glowing faint gold before settling into a clear, clean hue.

Snape’s, by contrast, was textbook-perfect. Every shimmer in the manual, every step memorised to the letter.

Cassian nodded to him. “Shall we test?”

Snape summoned a narrow-necked vial with a flick, then split both brews evenly into clean glass tubes. From a cage beneath his desk, he pulled out two snakes, thick-bodied, dull-eyed. Docile enough, probably dosed to the eyeballs.

“Let’s see,” he muttered.

He dropped a single bead of his potion onto the first snake’s head. It writhed immediately, scales spasming as if seared. The sheen along its skin vanished, breath stuttering, eyes glazing over. It didn’t die, but it curled tight and stopped moving.

“Calmative effect,” Snape announced. “Standard result.”

Cassian’s brow arched. “And very… twitchy.”

Snape ignored him, turned to the second. Poured a bead from Cassian’s.

The snake blinked. Paused. Then stretched out. Its muscles uncoiled slowly, head lifting as if it had just remembered what a spine was. A long breath slipped from its tongue. It looked downright content.

Cassian crossed his arms. “Mine smiled.”

Fred and George grinned.

Snape said nothing.

“Test it further,” Cassian said. “Temperature fluctuation, spell exposure, reactive ingredients… take your pick. Their method holds. It’s cleaner. Calmer. More efficient. Doesn’t shock the system.”

Snape still didn’t speak. He stared at the vial like it had insulted his mother.

“You didn’t even test it,” Cassian said, quieter now. “Didn’t give it a chance. Because it didn’t match your notes.”

Snape’s jaw flexed.

Cassian didn’t back off. “You of all people should know what it’s like to be overlooked for not colouring inside the lines.

Snape turned after a long pasue, picked up the paperwork. “I’ll submit a revision to the board.”

Fred blinked. “Wait, that’s it?”

George leaned in. “No gloating? No dramatic insults?”

Snape glanced at them like they were houseflies. “Get out before I change my mind.”

Cassian saluted on their behalf. “We’ll send you a signed copy of the patent.”

They didn’t run. But it was close.

In the corridors, the twins were already shouting and running rings around him.

“Thank you, sir! Thank you!”

“We’ve got four Os! We did it!”

“Two more years like this and we’ll have two shops!”

Cassian kept walking, dodging a flailing arm as George nearly took out a suit of armour mid-celebration.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, “rain me with gold and name your first-born after me later.”

Fred slid in front of him, walking backwards. “We owe you.”

“No, you owe Snape’s pride being slightly less shrivelled than usual,” Cassian said, brushing past. “I just gave him a nudge. You did the work.”

George shot a look over his shoulder. “Yeah, but without you…”

Cassian stopped, turned to look at them both.

“Boys. If you’re not careful, I’m going to start expecting consistent performance. And that would ruin your entire brand.”

Fred held up both hands. “No promises.”

George grinned. “Reckon we can stretch it to the graduation?”

“Miracles do happen,” Cassian muttered, and took the stairs before either of them tried to hug him.

(Check Here)

You keep coming back. That means something. What it means? No idea. You’ve chosen not to say.

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