Hello all! How’s everyone doing? How’s the new year treating you so far? Anyone rich yet? Remember the pact we made!

About Bathsheda’s Patronus, I hinted back in Chapter 145 that she has another one now. Patronuses can change in canon, though usually there aren’t two at the same time. Bathsheda does have two now, though, her Kestrel and the new Dragon.

This isn’t because there’s any chance of someone else living inside her, I shut that possibility down earlier, but I wanted to make it clear. The double Patronus is happening for a different reason. More on that later.

As for Bathsheda’s ability to see the timeline without Cassian, it works in hindsight. (I really want to make that superhero school joke, lol.) Anyway, she sees things from her point of view, and as they happen.

For example, if the current timeline is on 25 August, she has knowledge up to that point, no further. And she doesn’t have all the knowledge about the world, just what she would’ve originally known. So she wouldn’t know what Harry and the others are up to unless it was made public.

Hope this clears it up.

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

DMLE FOILS NIGHT RAID

ROSIER HEIR LEADS COUNTER‑STRIKE

A MODEL OF BRITISH RESOLVE

Cassian nearly choked on his tea.

He read the first line again. Then the second. Then looked over the rim of his cup at Bathsheda, who was still half-buried in blankets.

“They’ve given Lucian a medal,” he said.

She didn’t even lift her head. “Congratulations to him.”

“Mm. Yes. Very proud. Didn’t know unconscious arrival counted as tactical brilliance these days.”

Every article named the DMLE as the front-line heroes, praising Kingsley’s coordination. Exactly what Cassian had asked him to do. Kingsley had kept his word, no mention of the tip‑off, no mention of which Rosier son had actually fought through the mess.

Everything vague, clean, politically convenient.

Which meant all credit went to Lucian, the responsible Rosier, the eldest, the heir, the one officially assigned to security.

Regulus and Magnus were walking lighter than he’d seen in months. The relief coming off them could’ve powered a small village. Every international delegation suddenly wanted a word, wanted assurances, wanted the Rosiers to know how grateful they were that “their eldest boy” handled things so efficiently.

Cassian received a pat on the shoulder from Magnus that nearly dislocated something. Regulus gave him a look that, if translated, said I owe you one and you might be my new favourite. Cassian shivered.

Lucian looked like he might crack a tooth. Every time Cassian walked into view, Lucian’s jaw twitched like he had a parasite chewing its way to daylight.

The Dark Mark also vanished from the rumour mill in record time. By noon, the running story was that a giant dragon Patronus had swooped in and burned it out of the sky.

Many assumed it was Master Ji who’d cast the dragon. Who else could summon something that size and burn a Dark Mark out of the sky? It made sense to people. Comforting, even. A magical titan cleaning up the mess.

It also did wonders for international cooperation. The moment rumours spread that Master Ji had swooped in to protect the camp, half the delegations softened overnight.

Master Ji didn’t confirm it. Didn’t deny it either. He simply sipped his tea whenever someone thanked him.

Cassian and the others didn’t correct anyone. Bathsheda had no intention of revealing her second Patronus, and Cassian wasn’t about to hand the Ministry another thing to pester her about.

The only sour thing in the whole event was, of course, Rita Skeeter.

When the draft of her article landed in front of Cassian, he had to give her some credit, grudgingly, with a sigh and an eye-roll, but credit nonetheless. It was nasty, no question. But it was sharp. She’d sniffed out things that weren’t meant to leave the war room.

Like the bit about Lucian being chewed out behind closed doors. Regulus had done most of the talking. Magnus had loomed and broken a chair by accident. No one was meant to know that.

She also caught wind that it was a woman who cast the Patronus, massive and silvery and dragon-shaped, but “her sources” couldn’t get closer to the scene.

And then there was the part that made Cassian sit back in his chair.

“Witnesses describe a dark patch settling over the field, cutting off the attackers from outside help. Details remain unclear, but it is believed to be highly advanced wardwork… origin unknown.”

Cassian frowned, hard.

He hadn’t sensed another caster. His wards hadn’t picked up anything unexpected. Granted, he hadn’t exactly had time to run a diagnostic mid-battle, but he was thorough. He didn’t leave gaps. Someone either slipped in under his nose, or… worse, knew how to mask their work well enough to hide it from him entirely.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, reading that section again. Then again.

How the hell had she learned all that?

Lucky for them, the Prophet’s owner had more sense than spine. He brought the draft to Magnus himself, sweating like a hog in July and asking, very politely, if it was all right to publish.

It wasn’t.

By the time Magnus finished explaining things to him (in that slow, quiet way that made grown men rethink their lives), Rita was strongly, thoroughly, and permanently forbidden from printing any of it.

Eventually, she backed off. Either someone paid her off, or someone reminded her that leaking classified magical defence tactics, especially during an international summit, was a very fast way to end up cursed, sued, or socially obliterated.

Probably all three.

Cassian knew Rita Skeeter.

He’d grown up around reporters. As the not-quite-heir but very much a Rosier, he’d dealt with every quill-happy vulture the Prophet ever birthed. The old Cassian couldn’t hold his tongue to save his life, and had given the absolute worst interviews imaginable. Combative, petty, full of pointed corrections and dripping sarcasm. At one point he’d flat-out told a journalist that if she wanted a quote, she could kiss him for it.

After that disaster, the Prophet’s owner made it policy to run every Cassian Rosier feature past Regulus or Magnus first. Saved them all a lot of embarrassment. And bruised egos. And lawsuits.

So yes, Cassian knew Rita Skeeter. She was bold. Viciously curious. Had a nose like a bloodhound and a spine made of steel broom-bristles. She was clever, and annoyingly hard to corner. Was she good? Yes. But not this good. And definitely not this reckless.

That last article… She’d gotten inside information. From a sealed war room. From within the defensive ward analysis. From somewhere deep enough that Cassian hadn’t noticed the leak.

“What’s changed?” he muttered.

***

A few days later, they found themselves on Bathsheda’s sofa in her flat in Diagon Alley. Curtains drawn, tea cooling on the table, the two of them buried under a pile of blankets like hibernating creatures.

Cassian let his head tip back. “Still no idea why Draco tipped me off.”

Bathsheda shifted, tugging the blanket over his shoulder. “Mm.”

He stared at the ceiling. “Lucius wasn’t among the Death Eaters. Pretty sure, anyway. So the kid must’ve overheard something. Or somebody said too much. He probably couldn’t say more even if he tried.”

Bathsheda hummed again. That was the extent of her contribution to the mystery.

Cassian nudged her knee. “Ready for the new year?”

She didn’t answer with words, she yanked him under the blankets properly and wrapped an arm around him like he was a particularly clingy pillow.

“No,” she said into his shoulder. “We’ve a meeting in an hour. Dumbledore’s revealing something major.”

Cassian groaned and tucked her closer. “Can we skip it?”

She sighed. “Sadly no.”

An hour later, both of them looked far too awake for people wrenched from blanket paradise.

Cassian and Bathsheda slipped into their usual seats.

Cassian leaned close. “If this meeting is about Quidditch regulations, I don’t care anymore.”

McGonagall glared. Cassian grinned. Dumbledore entered then.

“Thank you for coming,” Dumbledore said, settling his hands on the edge of the table. “We are reinstating the Triwizard Tournament.”

The room stopped breathing.

Cassian stilled, tea halfway to his mouth. That name rang loud in the space behind his ribs, and not the good kind of echo.

“Uh oh.”

After Dumbledore explained the details, Cassian raised his hand. Slowly. Like someone volunteering to point out the house was already on fire.

Dumbledore paused, then nodded. “Yes, Cassian?”

Cassian gestured loosely. “That first stage? It won’t work.”

The room twitched.

Dumbledore blinked. “And why is that?”

Cassian deadpanned, “It’s a bit private. No offence. Something we revealed back in Greece. You should know.”

Dumbledore frowned. He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was flipping through a filing cabinet in his skull, then looked straight at Bathsheda.

“Oh. My.” His mouth thinned. “I can see how that could cause… trouble.”

Cassian and Bathsheda nodded, not saying more.

Dumbledore got to his feet so quickly his chair skidded back a few inches. “I’ll speak with the other four headmasters and the committee at once. They might drag their feet, since this isn’t something we can do often. We’ll see how it goes.”

***

The next evening had a proper downpour. Roads turned to puddles, cloaks stuck to ankles, and the ceiling charms in the Great Hall were doing their best impression of a leaking boat.

Dumbledore stood already halfway through the usual feast preamble, arms raised like Moses parting the mashed potatoes. Students barely looked up, too busy stuffing their faces after the summer stretch. The ceiling rumbled again.

“So,” said Dumbledore, bright as ever, “now that we’re all thoroughly fed and watered. I must ask for your attention again while I go through a few notices.”

“Mr. Filch, our ever-vigilant caretaker, wants me to inform you that the list of banned items has grown once more.”

A few students snorted. Someone in the back muttered something about black-market snacks.

“Now,” Dumbledore said, tone shifting just slightly, “it’s my unfortunate duty to announce that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not be held this year.”

Several forks froze mid-air.

“What?” Harry gasped, his voice slicing through the chatter.

At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George had gone stiff, mouths hanging open. They were mouthing words, but none of them came out. Just stunned blinking and a silent, horrified synchronisation.

Dumbledore went on. “This is due to an event that will begin in October and run for the remainder of the year. It’ll take up a considerable portion of the staff’s time, but I believe you’ll all find it rather enjoyable.”

“I am pleased to announce that this year, Hogwarts will be hosting-“

The rest was swallowed by a thunderclap.

The Great Hall doors slammed open so hard several students jumped. Some spilled pumpkin juice.

Wood bounced off stone.

Every head turned.

A figure stood there in the entrance, drenched from head to heel. The limp of his leg dragging with every step, a wet clink-clunk that echoed like a slow metronome of doom.

Cassian narrowed his eyes.

Alastor Bloody Moody, who looked as if he’d chewed through three wars and came out with worse manners. His coat was half off, drenched and dragging. His face looked like someone had stolen bits from a scarecrow and glued them to a thundercloud.

Moody made it all the way to the High Table before Dumbledore greeted him with a hug.

“Everyone,” Dumbledore announced, smiling wide, “may I introduce Professor Alastor Moody. He will be joining us this year as our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”

Polite applause followed. Hesitant. A bit confused. A few claps stopped halfway.

Cassian stared at Moody as the man thumped into the seat two chairs down. The fake eye swivelled straight at him the moment Moody sat, locked, unblinking, whirring.

Cassian didn’t look away.

Neither did the eye.

It was a ridiculous standoff. Moody spoke to Dumbledore with one normal eye, the magical one fixed on Cassian like it was waiting for him to confess to something. Cassian wasn’t blinking out of spite at that point. He could feel Bathsheda’s sigh brewing beside him.

It was only when she nudged his elbow, hard, that he finally tore his gaze away.

“What’s wrong?” she murmured.

Cassian rubbed the side of his face. “I don’t know.”

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