Inside, most of the “important” people were already seated. That didn’t stop the Rosier lounge from looking like someone had tried to cram a diplomatic summit into a high-end theatre box.

Cassian, with Bathsheda’s hand in his, cut to the side and took one of the corner tables, still within range of the enchanted viewing arch, but well out of reach of most of the family’s smug glances.

The lounge had been stretched as far as the wards would allow. Rows of plush chairs circled the massive glass panel that flickered with charmwork, giving them a crystal-clear view of the pitch. Sound charms buzzed faintly under the hum of conversation, feeding in crowd noise from the stands without letting the stench or chaos follow through. Very refined. Very selective. Very Rosier.

Each table was set for performance. Bowls of snacks refilled themselves on command, Omnioculars hovered politely beside nameplates, and the drinks charmed to remain perfectly chilled no matter how long someone forgot their goblet. Which was good, since half the people here were too busy scanning each other to bother with refreshments.

Master Ji settled in a seat just to Cassian’s left. That prompted Dumbledore to amble over and take the next spot down. Madam Maxime followed, nodding politely, and Madam Ekwensi drifted over not long after.

Sirius dropped into a chair nearby as well, not because he gave a toss about where the diplomats sat, but because Harry was within range and he hadn’t had a proper word since they got here.

Cassian finally got some time to speak with Madam Ekwensi, after catching up with Madam Maxime.

Ekwensi surprised him. She was a lot warmer than he expected, smiling brightly, as soon as the conversation began.

“Professor Rosier,” she said, tilting her head mischievously, “or should I say, the man who’s been making half my researchers ask the wrong questions.”

Cassian gave her a smile. “That depends. Will those questions get me cursed?”

“The best ones always are.”

Bathsheda had already slid into the conversation by then. Ekwensi greeted her like they were old colleagues, started talking about her books before Cassian could even open his mouth again.

Apparently, Uagadou had picked up Bathsheda’s last paper on fragment binding and had integrated part of it into their third-year spellcraft module. She looked genuinely impressed, even brought up one of their own techniques, intent layering in open-field runes, which Bathsheda immediately latched onto.

She was more intrigued than she let on. Uagadou had always been known for their work with nature-linked spellcraft, intent-based magic, wandless casting, drawing on surrounding energy instead of brute force. But it was Bathsheda’s theory on beast-binding that really caught Ekwensi’s attention.

“Your theory on beast binding. The one about magical creatures. That stirred quite the storm back home.”

Bathsheda didn’t blink. “Good storm or the sort with pitchforks?”

Ekwensi laughed. “Bit of both. Our older tribes have binding traditions, mostly wildcats. Leopards, servals, occasionally a hyena. All ritual. Blood, breath, offerings, timing. But none of it works on magical creatures. The moment magic enters the beast, it rejects the tether.”

Bathsheda didn’t hesitate. “That’s the part I found odd,” she said. “It’s not that they don’t respond. It’s that we haven’t asked properly. We keep treating magical creatures as either tools or threats, never potential equals.”

Ekwensi hummed. “You think that’s all it is? Arrogance?”

“It’s our entire magical history. Look at centaur studies. Goblin artefacts. Even dragons. Every attempt to control or contain. Never connect.”

“Invitation over domination,” Ekwensi murmured. “That’s… new.”

Bathsheda shrugged. “It’s slower. Less dramatic. But more stable. At least in theory.”

Ekwensi leaned back, thoughtful. “You should come to Uagadou next year. Let our seventh-year enchantments team walk it. We’ve been trying to understand the problem for decades.”

Cassian looked sideways. “You’re volunteering her as bait?”

Ekwensi grinned. “Of course. That’s how research works.”

He gave Bathsheda a nudge. “Think of the prestige. Eaten by an African chimaera in the name of science.”

“I’ll add it to my obituary draft.”

Ekwensi smiled again. “Jokes aside, your work has stirred interest. Especially among the older lines. They’ve always said magical beasts can’t be reasoned with. You’re implying they can be… persuaded.”

“They can,” Bathsheda said simply. “They already are. We just haven’t recognised the patterns yet.”

Master Ji let out a thoughtful hmm. “So the question isn’t whether it can be done. It’s whether the beast sees you as worth the effort.”

“Exactly,” Bathsheda said.

Sirius sipped his drink. “Good luck convincing a Thunderbird to negotiate.”

“I’d have better luck with a dragon,” she muttered.

When the match finally kicked off, their table quieted. The conversations trailed off bit by bit. The children had already bolted for the viewing arch like someone was giving out sweets.

Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, Cedric, every last one of them was plastered to the glass like they thought they’d miss it otherwise.

Then the mascots started.

Ireland led with their leprechaun swarm, tossing gold into the air. Half the kids jumped at it instinctively.

Bulgaria followed and brought the Veela.

It caused quite a stir when the Veela danced, but no one in the Rosier Lounge was climbing over the railings or setting their robes on fire, so the enchantments were clearly working. Cassian had figured as much. Last thing the family needed was a Swedish delegate trying to duel a chimney because his brain had gone foggy with lust.

Once the actual match started, the buzz dulled into polite interest. Cassian didn’t even try to hide the yawn halfway through the first ten minutes.

Bulgaria had nothing but Krum. Bloke flew like he had a grudge against gravity, sure, but the rest of the team couldn’t hold a Quaffle if it came with a handle. Ireland, on the other hand, were relentless, tight formation, fast passes, clean shots. They ran circles around Bulgaria’s Chasers before the first time-out.

“Logical play now would be stall tactics,” someone said, by the time Ireland had stacked up a 160-point lead. “Close the gap. Hope Krum finds the Snitch.”

Fred, nearby, muttered, “Hope’s a strong word.”

George hummed agreement. “More like desperation.”

But Bulgaria hadn’t really come to win, had they? Krum caught the Snitch barely twenty minutes in, ended the game with a sharp dive and a fist in the air. Ireland still took it by a mile. Final score, 170 to 160. One of the shortest finals in Cup history.

Half the stadium didn’t even notice the game was over until the lights changed.

“Cheers for wasting our night,” Cassian muttered. “Could’ve just tossed a coin.”

“Still broke the record,” Bathsheda said, already halfway through her third scone. “Quickest final match since ’42.”

“And somehow, still managed to be boring.”

“Brilliant Seeker, that one,” Sirius said, sprawled on the table. “Terrible tactician.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “There’s a kind of poetry to it, though. A single moment outweighing hours of effort. Perhaps that’s what makes it magical.”

Cassian eyed him. Too lazy to even answer.

Dumbledore just smiled.

The Rosier lounge began to thin. Some guests took it as their cue to make polite exits, while others drifted into smaller conversations, hunting for gossip. Fudge was already halfway to the French delegation, goblet in hand and shoulders bouncing with importance.

Cassian caught Bathsheda’s eye, then tipped his head toward the exit.

“Come on. Before someone corners us about wand permits or bloodline preservation.”

He let out a long breath.

“Well. At least no one died.”

Bathsheda snorted. “That’s your bar now?”

“After last month? Yes.”

Before they got far, Sirius jogged up behind them. “Rosier, a word?”

Cassian glanced back, one brow already cocked. “This the part where you finally punch me back?”

Bathsheda gave his hand a squeeze, before stepping ahead with a knowing look, then slipped off into the crowd as if she had no interest in hearing the conversation. Probably for the best.

Sirius slowed, a bit out of breath, a lot out of his depth. He looked… sheepish. The sort of expression you’d expect from someone about to confess they’d accidentally set your shed on fire years ago and were only now owning up to it.

“You look like you’re about to propose,” Cassian said flatly.

That got a snort, but Sirius didn’t bite. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders rolled forward like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“I heard things,” he started. “From Harry. From Remus.”

Cassian didn’t blink.

Sirius sighed. “About you. I…”

He trailed off, looked skyward.

“Look,” he said finally. “What James and I did to you back in school—”

Cassian raised an eyebrow.

Sirius pushed through. “You know they were pranks, right?”

Pranks. Sure. Cassian remembered being hexed to moo during lectures. Remembered waking up suspended by his ankles over the Slytherin table. Remembered being stripped to his pants and left in the Astronomy Tower during a blizzard.

“Mm. Hilarious.”

Sirius winced. “I was a git.”

“‘Was’ is generous.”

“But I’m trying,” Sirius said, quickly. “I mean it. And… thank you. For helping Harry. And for helping me.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening as if the next bit hurt worse than Azkaban.

“You outed Peter. You cleared me. You didn’t have to.”

Cassian watched him for a long second. Didn’t speak.

Sirius looked back, waiting for, something. Cassian wasn’t entirely sure what. Forgiveness, maybe. Validation. A swift hex to the teeth.

Instead, Cassian just shrugged.

“You were a prat, Black. Still are. But at least now you own it. Stick to being a decent godfather, yeah? He needs it.”

Sirius nodded, eyes down. “His family…”

Cassian raised a hand. “I’m sure Dumbledore gave you the full tragic monologue. You can’t pull him out of there. Not until he’s legal. Doesn’t mean you can’t be around, though. You’re rich. You’re free. Buy a house in the neighbourhood. Rent one. Hell, build a tent in their bloody garden if you’re that desperate. Be there, don’t stalk from a rooftop.”

Sirius blinked. “…Huh.”

Cassian sighed slowly. “There it is. The lightbulb.”

He didn’t wait for thanks. Just turned and walked off, waving casually.

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