Cassian debated warning the others, start throwing up alerts, have the DMLE tighten the perimeter, but the crowd was already half-feral. Someone sparked a wand too bright, you’d have a panic stampede and a dozen lawsuits by morning.

He needed someone useful. Someone with authority. Preferably not drunk. He still thought all this could be a trick, a prank, but well… Better awkward than dead.

He found the DMLE chief on the northern path, overseeing security rotations. The crowd was thinner there, half a dozen officers posted with wands tucked just beneath their cloaks. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood at the centre of it all.

When Cassian finally came face to face with the man, he had to admit, just privately, mind, it was a bit impressive. The man looked like he hadn’t blinked since sunrise, tall as a bloody tree and built like someone who bench-pressed trolls for fun.

He slowed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, and gave the man a once-over. The man clearly didn’t like him. Which, honestly, made Cassian like him more. No fake smiles or pretend respect. And thank gods, none of that Ministry hand-wringing.

“Shacklebolt,” Cassian said, stopping a few feet short. “Good. I was hoping for someone competent.”

Kingsley nodded upward. “Rosier.”

Cassian checked over his shoulder, then said under his breath, “Heard there might be an attack tonight.”

Kingsley’s eyes hardened. “What sort of attack?”

“If I knew that,” Cassian said, “I wouldn’t be out here playing messenger boy, would I?”

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed. “Source?”

“Anonymous,” Cassian said. “Dramatic. Possibly allergic to sincerity.”

Kingsley gave a tiny grunt.

Cassian tilted his head. “I wouldn’t bother you if it felt like nothing. But someone went through a lot of effort to sound vague and mysterious, and unfortunately, I have a soft spot for weirdos in cloaks.”

Kingsley gave a flick of his wand. A lynx burst from the tip, brilliant silver, silent, fast. It bolted between tents, weaving through the night like it had somewhere very important to be.

“Your warning’s appreciated,” he said without looking up.

Cassian gave a vague salute and turned away, not stopping. By the time he reached his tent, the sleep was long gone. He sat instead. There was nothing in his past life about this day. Either things had shifted because of him, or it wasn’t that big of a deal. Or Draco was full of it.

It could be any of the three. Or all of them. Comforting.

Bathsheda returned close to midnight. She peeled the flap back, boots crunching softly.

“Nothing?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“We marked most of the proximity,” she said. “We’ll know if anything happens.”

He muttered something noncommittal, rubbing his temples.

He was halfway through convincing himself the boy had just fancied playing spy when the ground bucked.

A sharp, rolling boom split the air, distant but heavy, from the far west side of the camp.

Both were already on their feet.

Tents rustled open. Aurora came barrelling from hers, wand in hand, face tight. Septima wasn’t far behind, barefoot and swearing under her breath.

Charity was pointing at the sky.

Cassian followed her gaze.

Over the forest, green smoke curled upward, twisting like oil through water.

His face darkened.

He reached for his wand but paused mid-draw. “You do it,” he said, low. “Yours’ll go farther.”

Bathsheda nodded, “Expecto Patronum.”

The dragon exploded from her wand with a scream, massive, iridescent, the wingspan of a nightmare. A Norwegian Ridgeback, all steel and firelight, carved in light. It surged upward and tore through the sky, the flames of its mouth flickering as it went.

High above, the Dark Mark hovered.

But not for long.

The dragon hit it head-on. Magic clashed in the air, smothering green with silver. The skull and serpent buckled, then cracked, smoke spiralling off the remnants as the Patronus dissolved it into nothing.

Cassian stood watching, jaw tight.

“Someone’s bold,” he said.

He turned to the others. “Protect the area and yourselves. I’m going in.”

Girls were about to stop him and put some sense into his head, but since Bathsheda was as calm as ever, the others shut up.

Cassian gave them a quick grin, then vanished where he stood. A few gasps went up behind him, but he was already gone, slipping between tents as the shadows folded over him.

He was still amateur at best at Consors Umbrae, but the panic rolling through the camp made the shadows easier to slip into. People were sprinting everywhere, tripping over tent ropes, dragging kids, shouting names. He ignored all of it. The Aurors already on rotation were herding the frightened toward the lit paths, barking orders, clearing lanes.

When he reached the break in the treeline, he slowed.

Kingsley and a handful of Aurors stood in a tight line, wands raised. Opposite them, half‑ringed in torchlight, were cloaked figures. Masks. Hoods. Wands pointed at faces.

Death Eaters.

Cassian clenched his jaw and slipped around the edge of the nearest tent, cutting wide to find a better angle. If he came in from behind, he might draw a few away from the main group. Maybe give Kingsley’s lot some room to breathe.

He stepped over a fallen lantern, ducked behind a canvas pole, and caught a glimpse of one of the masked figures shifting stance.

Cassian moved further round, feet silent on the grass. He angled himself until he had a clean view of the line.

Kingsley barked something he couldn’t hear from where he stood.

Cassian lifted his wand.

His free hand moved, subtle as a twitch. Kingsley stiffened for a half-second, then gave the tiniest nod, like someone listening to a voice that wasn’t there.

Cassian took that as a yes.

“Lumos Noctis.”

The air around the Death Eaters swallowed itself. Light vanished, completely and unnaturally, draping them in a patch of black so thick it looked torn from the sky.

Panic landed hard.

“What’s happening?!”

“Who cast that?!”

Aurors started firing spells into the darkness before anyone could stop them, bright streaks of light vanishing into the shadows like they were trying to colour in the black. None of them were aiming. Most weren’t even looking. Cassian added a few of his own.

He didn’t know if the spell had hit anyone. Could’ve been five or none. Could’ve blown someone’s teeth out or just singed a robe. Hard to say, given the dark swallowed every speck of light. Even the wandflashes didn’t cut through it, they just vanished within.

He held it a few seconds longer, weighing whether to drop it. The shouting hadn’t stopped yet.

Then, his brow pinched. The shadows warped slightly. Something inside was resisting him. Should’ve been impossible. That spell didn’t have room for argument.

He waved his wand and cancelled it out.

The darkness peeled back like someone yanking a curtain.

At the centre of it all stood a house-elf, half crouched, supporting one of the Death Eaters.

Cassian stepped forward, wand raised.

Kingsley’s voice cut sharp through the air. “Stop!”

Too late.

The elf snapped his fingers and vanished, dragging the Death Eater with him.

Cassian swore under his breath.

The Aurors surged forward, cutting down the rest quick, two dropped by stunners, one tackled by a cloak-heavy spell that flattened against a tree. A few tried to flee. Didn’t get far. The ground was still lit with residual warding and half the DMLE was in motion now.

A few managed to get out, vanishing into the woods. Neither Cassian nor the Aurors chased. Could’ve been a trap, or worse, bait. They held the line until the last spell fizzled and the clearing stopped humming.

Then, late as ever, the Rosier enforcers came trudging through the trees like they’d missed the memo. Lucian at the front, cloak all neat, wand unsmudged, face a picture of wounded pride.

Cassian didn’t bother to hide the stare. “Where the hell were you?”

Lucian’s jaw clicked. “We were patrolling. By the time we arrived, it ended.”

Cassian waved a hand at the wreckage. “Clearly.”

Lucian’s lip twitched.

Cassian turned to Kingsley. “What do you think? Real Death Eaters or blokes playing dress-up?”

Kingsley gave Lucian a glance. Then Cassian. “I don’t think I’ve seen them before. Either new or hired.”

Cassian clicked his tongue, shifted his stance. “Of course they are.”

Kingsley gave a brief nod. “Thanks for the help.”

Cassian waved him off. “Family business.”

He left it there and walked off.

Bathsheda and the others were waiting at the tents, already taken control of the area. No one hurt. No damage on their end.

***

The rest of the night was a sweep, Rosier enforcers fanned out, Aurors ran checks across the forest edge and through the camp lanes. Stunners and shield-charms still crackled faintly in the air. They found two with minor hex injuries, one kid with a twisted ankle, and a handful of tents torn to ribbons by stray spells. No deaths. Fortunately.

Regulus and Magnus showed up not long after, storming in from the main wardline.

They looked like they’d walked straight out of a diplomatic brawl and into a minefield. Not a great combination.

Lucian got hauled into the family tent so fast he didn’t even have time to straighten his collar. Cassian followed without being told, Magnus’s glare had all the subtlety of a thrown axe.

The tent flap shut behind them.

Magnus didn’t bother easing in. “What the hell happened?”

Lucian lifted his chin. “We were patrolling-“

“Patrolling where?” Regulus cut in, arms folded, voice sharp.

“Eastern boundary,” Lucian said, tight. “We were covering gaps in the second ward ring-“

“And missed a full-blown raid three hundred feet from the northern pitch,” Magnus snapped. “You realise if that had gone wrong, our name would be done?”

Lucian’s face twitched. “We had rotation patterns-“

Cassian leaned against a post. “You left your entire sector hollow. Anyone with half a brain could’ve slipped through.”

“You’re not part of the enforcer unit,” Lucian muttered.

“No,” Cassian said. “But I’m still not the one who showed up ten minutes after the fight ended.”

Regulus stared at Lucian like he was weighing the exact cost of his mistake, “If something had happened to any delegate… we’d be a headline by sunrise. And not the kind we can bury.”

Lucian didn’t answer.

Magnus turned away, jaw clenched.

Cassian pushed off the post. “Great. I’ll go not-sleep now.”

The next morning, the papers were borderline smug about how quickly they’d found a hero.

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Thousands witnessed the fall of Rome. Few bothered to write it down.

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