The promised second chapter of the New Year. And happy birthday, Zorokashi!

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Ji stood as they approached, smiling with a teasing glint in his eyes. Long grey robes, clouds and dragons, and that usual mirth in his eyes that suggested he’d already worked out half the room’s intentions and still thought they were all charmingly dumb for trying.

“Bathsheda,” he bowed slightly. “Cassian. It is always a pleasure.”

Cassian bowed in return. “Careful with that. Say it too loud, someone might think you’re being sincere.”

Ji chuckled. “You mistake me. I am always sincere, especially when it confuses people.”

Bathsheda took her seat with a quick nod. “Master Ji.”

He beamed at her, then gestured to the others at the table.

Dumbledore gave a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Cassian, Bathsheda. You’re both looking well.”

Next to him, Madam Maxime gave a little nod. “Is good to see you again, Rosier. Bathsheda, dear.” She didn’t bother rising, probably because she really didn’t need to.

On the far side sat Karkaroff. He didn’t stand when they arrived, eyes darting quickly over Bathsheda before settling on Cassian. Not bothering to acknowledge either.

Seated next to Madam Maxime was an older woman Cassian didn’t recognise. Dark robes, gold trim, a quiet sort of presence.

“That’s Madam Ekwensi,” Bathsheda murmured in his ear. “Headmistress of Uagadou.”

Cassian hummed. He’d read plenty about the school. Their spellcraft methods alone could fill an entire year of curriculum, wandless focus, skywriting incantations, that whole animagus-at-thirteen rumour. He’d always wanted to see it up close. He made a mental note to corner her later.

The duo took their seats. Magnus, Catherine, Regulus, and Ophelia were sat directly across at the centre. Lucian sitting at the center, a little too busy acting like Cassian didn’t exist. A noble effort, given the table layout had him prowling no more than ten feet away. The little Rosier was right in the thick of it. Host of the event. Heir of the family. Face of the Rosiers, if you squinted past the smug.

Fudge sat two seats down. Cassian clocked the seating arrangement and almost smiled. Lucius Malfoy had been parked at the far end of the same row, flanked by Bagman and the toad woman like someone had dipped a ferret in treacle and shoved it into purgatory. A little Ministry exile, all wrapped in taffeta and awkward eye contact.

Cassian took a long sip of his drink. That bit, at least, was satisfying.

Sirius, because of course he would, was parked near Lucian. Close enough to raise a few eyebrows, far enough to pretend it was coincidence.

Fudge’s grin widened the moment Cassian and Bathsheda reached the table, already half-rising out of his seat like he might clap if decorum didn’t have him by the tie.

“Ah! Excellent work in Turkiye,” he said, far too loudly for how close they stood. “I’ve had no less than twenty thank-you letters and glowing reports. Curses contained, threats neutralised, and most of the mystery at Göbekli Tepe unravelled. Remarkable.”

Cassian offered a faint smile. “It was academic curiosity, Minister. You’re being far too generous.”

Fudge puffed himself up, waving a hand. “You’re being humble.”

A few of the delegates gave slow nods. One of them, sharp-featured with a tailored robe and a lilt in his voice that landed solidly in Paris, leaned in.

“I heard about the things in the dark,” the Frenchman said. “Terrible conundrum. You show them you see, they strike. Ignore, they leave you alone. How can anyone study such things?” He gave a dramatic little shiver. “Master Rosier’s insight saved our team.”

Another nod came from further down the line. Then another.

Someone muttered something about it being a shame they couldn’t learn more.

“A pity,” Dumbledore agreed softly. “But not surprising. Some knowledge hides for good reason.”

More nods. Muted murmurs.

Then a woman Cassian didn’t recognise leaned slightly forward, expression pleasant enough to pass for harmless. “I heard there’s a statue,” she said. “One that looks… almost lifelike. They say it’s similar to the spell you used in the school this year.”

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Cassian’s shoulders shifted, barely. “I don’t think they’re related.”

Master Ji chuckled, steering the conversation away, “Cassian’s expertise never ceases to amaze me.”

Cassian gave him a dry glance, as he leaned in. “You don’t need to humour the family. They put us together just for this reason.”

Ji looked mildly offended. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re suggesting.”

Cassian snorted and leaned back in his chair, watching as Ji busied himself stirring sugar into a cup of tea.

They moved on, chatting about safer nonsense, tournament odds, cursed brooms, some poor sod who apparently tried to smuggle a Fwooper into the VIP tent. Eventually, the noise around them shifted. Plates vanished. Staff moved through with quick refills and cleaner cloaks. The match was close. Guests started rising in twos and threes, heading toward the Rosier Lounge entrance with the sort of polite anticipation that always showed up before a public disaster or a fireworks show.

The Rosier Lounge waited just beyond the eastern wing of the main tent, flanked by two massive willow-carved arches and a floating orb that read MATCH START IN 15 MINUTES in unnecessarily dramatic crimson lettering.

Cassian and Bathsheda were halfway across the gravel path when a pair of unmistakable redheads flagged them down.

“Professor R.!” Fred shouted. “You remembered we existed. I’m touched.”

Cassian didn’t stop walking. “I’m still weighing the regrets.”

George grinned. “You’ll regret it less when we triple your investment.”

“You haven’t even drawn up a business plan.”

“We will. Once we’ve figured out if we’re going to revolutionise magical sweets or blow up a shed.”

“I vote both,” Cassian said. Then his gaze flicked past them, and promptly narrowed. A small herd was trailing the twins. Arthur, Molly, the youngest Weasleys, Cedric Diggory with his parents, and, of course, Harry and Hermione. Grand.

Arthur jogged a few steps ahead, nervously adjusting his robes like he was preparing for a job interview. “Ah, Mr Rosier. Sorry for the number. Amos was kind enough to get my family tickets, so I invited him back in kind. I do hope it’s not…” he scratched the back of his neck “a bother.”

Cassian looked at the group, then at Arthur. “More the merrier,” he said. “At least I’ll have people worth talking to in the lounge.”

Arthur let out a quiet breath of relief.

As his future business partners, and, more importantly, a public link between the Rosiers and a family that people actually liked. Bridging the gap, so the older lot would stop whispering about missing the chance to get the Weasley vote in Wizengamot chambers. Purely out of hospitality, of course. Nothing to do with showing how easily the Rosiers could play nice with the very people they’d once dismissed as blood-traitors.

What he hadn’t expected was for Harry, Hermione, and the whole Diggory clan to tag along.

He didn’t mind, really. Molly looked ready to launch into something warm and maternal, half-smile already forming, when Lucius slithered in as a bad draught.

“Arthur.”

Draco trailed behind him, standing tall but uncomfortable. He gave Cassian a polite nod, then looked away.

Lucius didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You’re in the wrong place. Common entrance is that way. Though I must admit I’m surprised you got tickets at all.”

Arthur’s hand clenched at his side.

Cassian beat him to it. “Oh, Uncle Lucius,” he said, casual as anything, “high words for a man borrowing my family’s lounge.”

Lucius’s smile faltered.

“And do be a dear and try not to insult my business partners while standing in my bloody doorway, hm?”

Lucius’s face changed so fast it was almost funny. He glanced at Cassian, then at Arthur, mouth twitching like he couldn’t quite decide who to sneer at first.

At the lounge entrance, Lucian, who was receiving guests of honor, had paused mid-step. He didn’t much like Lucius, none of them really did, but lately, he’d found new and creative ways to dislike Cassian more.

“I believe,” Lucian said, louder than necessary, “as the host, it’s my say who gets to sit and who doesn’t.” His gaze landed on Cassian, daring him to argue.

Cassian tilted his head. “Is that so? You really going to make it difficult for your dear brother?”

Lucian smiled. It was hollow as his heart. “Of course my dear brother can sit.” He gestured vaguely toward the gate. “But sadly, we’ve no seats left for your guests.”

Arthur opened his mouth, probably about to say it was fine, that they’d head back to the common stands…

Cassian cut him off. “If you say so, brother.” He shrugged casually. “Then I’ll sit with them.”

Master Ji, who’d been following the conversation with an expression like he was watching a mildly disappointing play, smiled. “Ah,” he said, clasping his hand behind his back. “Then I shall join you.”

Lucian’s face drained so fast, one could assume his blood left his body. “Master Ji. How could that be?”

He actually sounded frightened. Which was understandable. If Master Ji sat at the common area because something Lucian did, it could even cause a diplomatic incident.

Before Lucian could spit something back, a voice rang from behind the side curtain, “Master Ji! Arthur. Please, do come in.”

Regulus stepped into view. He looked from Lucius to Lucian like he was reviewing two misbehaving dogs, then turned smoothly to Arthur. “My son’s an idiot,” he said. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Lucian opened his mouth. Regulus threw a look at him.

That was enough.

Cassian didn’t bother to hide the smirk.

Regulus held the flap aside.

Cassian patted Arthur’s shoulder. “Come on then. Let’s find out if these posh chairs explode when decent people sit on them.”

Arthur looked stunned. Sirius, who’d arrived to stand next to Harry, barked a laugh. Lucius turned away like someone had slapped him.

(Check Here)

I know, I know. It’s easier to observe than to participate, but damn if it isn’t boring.

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