Dumbledore cleared his throat. “As I was saying,” he said, flashing a mild smile at the sea of students, most of whom were still too busy staring at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the honour of hosting a rather exciting event over the coming months. One that hasn’t been held in over a century.”

Dumbledore went on, “The Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

Fred Weasley nearly fell off the bench. “You’re JOKING!”

The tension that had strangled the Hall since Moody’s storm-limp entrance broke in a heartbeat. Laughter rippled through the room. Even Dumbledore chuckled.

“I am not joking, Mr Weasley,” he said, eyes glinting. “Though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer. Something about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun walking into a bar-“

“Maybe not the time,” McGonagall said, daring anyone to make more joke out of it.

“Yes, quite right,” Dumbledore nodded. “Now, where was I? Ah. The Triwizard Tournament. There are some upgrades to the tournament.”

He straightened, a bit of pride sneaking into his tone. “This year, instead we will be hosting the Quintic-Magick Tournament.”

Dumbledore carried on as though unveiling a great treasure. “The heads of Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, Fenghuang, and Uagadou will be arriving in October with their final shortlists. Selection for the five champions will take place on Halloween. One from each school, including Hogwarts. All five will compete for the Quintic-Magick Cup, school glory, and a thousand Galleons in prize money.”

Fred Weasley lit up like someone had thrown a Lumos straight in his face. “I’m going for it!” he hissed to George.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Quintic-Magick Cup to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, eyes flicking from table to table, “the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction this year.”

That earned a couple mutters.

“Only students who are of age, that is to say, seventeen or older, will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration.”

The grumbling turned into sharp outrage in some corners.

Fred and George looked personally betrayed.

“This,” Dumbledore went on, now raising his voice a bit over the growing racket, “is a measure we feel is necessary. I will personally ensure that no underage student manages to hoodwink our impartial judge into choosing them as Hogwarts champion.”

He looked directly at the twins. His eyes twinkled. Their faces did not.

“I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.

“The delegations from four schools will be arriving in October and will remain with us for the greater part of the year,” Dumbledore continued. “I know you will all extend the proper courtesies to our guests, and give your whole-hearted support to whichever Hogwarts student is chosen to represent us.”

He clasped his hands, beaming. “And now, it’s late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and well-rested for tomorrow’s lessons.”

Several groaned audibly.

“Bedtime! Chop chop!”

He sat down again, turning to say something to Moody, who gave a grunt.

Benches scraped back in protest, students grumbling their way out of the Hall. Some were already plotting ways around whatever Dumbledore would come up with.

“They can’t do that!” George snapped, still standing by the table, glaring up at Dumbledore.

“We’re seventeen in April!” Fred added, arms folded, scowl deepening. “Why can’t we have a shot?”

“They’re not stopping me entering,” Fred muttered as they finally joined the trickle toward the doors. “Champions’ll get to do all sorts you’d never be allowed to otherwise. And a thousand Galleons.”

***

Upon returning to Bathsheda’s room, Cassian kicked the door shut and started pacing back and forth.

“It’s not good.”

Bathsheda didn’t look up from the shelf she was sorting. “What now?”

He swung around, pointing at nothing in particular. “Do you remember that Age Ring test I do with first-years?”

She frowned. “Yeah?”

He gave a sharp, humourless laugh. “Yeah. So I’ve been wondering where I got the idea from. Guess what? The moment Dumbledore mentioned the Cup, it clicked.”

She stilled. “You mean?”

“Yup,” he said, flopping onto the couch like a man facing his own poorly-disguised crimes. “I think our dear Headmaster’s grand assurance, ‘personally ensuring no underage student manages to hoodwink our impartial judge,’ might not be that foolproof.”

Bathsheda dragged a hand down her face. “Maybe he remembers your lessons and changed it?”

Cassian perked up, hopeful. “You think?”

She looked half-convinced. “Maybe. But telling him would mean outing your little secret.”

He sighed, covering his eyes. “Great. More waiting. My favourite.”

She didn’t respond with sympathy. She climbed over the back of the sofa and dropped herself on top of him, arms settling around his shoulders.

“Your selective memory’s causing chaos again.”

He groaned into the cushion. “Tell me about it.”

She chuckled, shifting to steal half his blanket. Neither of them moved after that. Not even when the window rattled from a storm rolling in.

The real chaos would come soon enough.

***

After Bathsheda returned to her room to prepare her teaching materials, and Cassian was about to go to sleep, someone knocked on the door. Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Did she forget something?” he muttered. No, Bathsheda wouldn’t knock.

His brows drew together as he opened the door. “Mr Potter. Sneaking out, are we?”

The kid kept glancing over his shoulder, nerves all over him like a second cloak.

He gave a sheepish chuckle. “I wanted to talk to you about something important, sir.”

Cassian stepped aside, waving him in. “Come on, then. Don’t drip all over my floor while you’re at it.”

He flicked his wand at the kettle as he shut the door, and it hissed as if it too resented being dragged out of sleep. Cassian pointed at the chair near the hearth. Harry dropped into it, hands tight in his lap.

Cassian leaned back against the table, arms crossed. “Right. Go on.”

Harry glanced toward the window before he started. “It’s about… my scar. It hurt. Before the World Cup. Badly.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “When exactly?”

“Night before the match,” Harry said. “I… I had this dream. Or it felt like a dream. There was this room, stone walls, firelight, a chair turned away from me. I think someone was sitting in it.”

He fidgeted with his sleeve, fingers twitching at the cuff.

Cassian tilted his head. “And?”

“There was a man,” Harry went on, voice almost a whisper now. “He called the thing in the chair ‘my Lord.’ Then there was a snake. Huge. It was… watching me.”

He swallowed hard. “Then someone else came in. A man, I couldn’t see him properly. But they killed him. The snake attacked. That’s when I woke up. My scar felt like it was burning.”

Cassian stayed quiet for a beat. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “I meant to. I didn’t know if it mattered. And then everything happened, and…”

Cassian moved to the shelf behind him, grabbed two mugs, and poured. “Told anyone else?”

Harry shook his head. “Just Sirius. He said to keep an eye on it. Write again if it gets worse.”

Cassian handed him a mug. “Drink first.”

Harry took it, fingers curling tight round the handle. He stared into his tea. “It felt like I was there.”

“Then you probably were,” Cassian said. “Not bodily, but close. Connection’s still tethered somewhere.”

Harry glanced up. “You think it’s… him?”

Cassian frowned. Dark Mark at the World Cup. Death Eaters crawling out of retirement. And now Harry dreaming about giant snakes and murder meetings. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Another year and Potter at the center of it.

Two years ago they’d dealt with two Horcruxes and, as far as Cassian was concerned, the odds of that being all of them were about the same as Severus smiling.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think there’s a connection between you two.”

Harry’s face pulled in tight. He clearly hated that.

Cassian let out a breath. “Right. Not the fun sort of news. Sadly, that’s what we’ve got. Which means,” he tapped the side of his head, “it’s high time you learned Occlumency, Mr Potter.”

Harry blinked. “What is that?”

Cassian paused, then sighed. “Well… simplest way to put it? It’s mental fencing. Keeps people out of your head. Stops dreams like the one you had from turning into something worse.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “People can get into your mind?”

Cassian chuckled. “I had the same reaction when I first heard it, believe me. Worst part is if you don’t learn Occlumency, you won’t even know someone’s poking around in there. Normally, you’d just avoid eye contact and hope for the best, but in your case…”

He gave Harry a look. One that said you’ve already missed that train, mate.

Harry shifted in the chair, eyes flicking to the fire. “Because of the scar?”

Cassian gave a grave nod. “I’m afraid so. I’ll talk to the Headmaster, see if we can find you a proper teacher.”

Harry brightened a little. “Can’t you teach me?”

Cassian paused, frowning at the fire. He could do it. He wasn’t bad at Occlumency, but he had a natural buffer so he really couldn’t relate, and teaching it was another beast entirely. Bathsheda could help, but Ash would make the whole thing a nightmare.

“Maybe not,” Cassian said at last. “Let’s see what the Headmaster decides.”

Harry deflated fast enough Cassian could practically hear the air leaving him. He stood and patted the boy’s shoulder.

“Come on, don’t let it drag you down. You need to get a grip on this. So far it looks unintentional, more bleed‑through than anything. But if you don’t learn to control it, you’re letting Voldemort steer the wheel. He was a master at Occlumency and Legilimency.”

Harry frowned. “Legilimency?”

Cassian flicked a hand. “Never mind. Different nightmare for a different day. Go on, bed.”

Harry nodded and slipped under his cloak, vanishing in a ripple of fabric as he headed for the door.

Cassian shut it, locked it and headed straight for the Headmaster’s office.

Dumbledore was buried in parchment, stacks of it spilling over the sides of his desk like a small paper avalanche. Fawkes snored from his perch in the corner, beak tucked into his wing, completely ignoring the state of administrative chaos around him.

Cassian stepped in after knocking.

“Cassian?” Dumbledore looked up, surprised. “You’re out late.”

Cassian dropped into the chair opposite. “It’s Potter.”

Dumbledore’s expression tightened. “Is he hurt?”

“No. But his scar is being nosy.”

Dumbledore set down his quill. “Tell me.”

Cassian walked him through the dream. The stone room. The snake. The man killed. The scar pain.

Dumbledore listened without blinking.

When Cassian finished, the old man leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “As I feared.”

Cassian rubbed his temple. “Potter needs Occlumency. Sooner rather than later.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I was planning to introduce it later. Give him a chance to grow up a bit. But I fear we can’t wait.”

Cassian pushed himself up from the chair. He took two steps toward the door, then stopped and looked back.

“Don’t let Moody teach Mr Potter. Please.”

That actually made Dumbledore frown. Deep lines, all gathered at once. “Why?”

Cassian shrugged, hand flicking out slightly. “No reason. Just… don’t. Bathsheda and I can’t take it on either.”

Dumbledore watched him for a moment, the way he did when weighing something no one else could see. Then he dipped his head.

“I will find the right teacher.”

“Good night, Headmaster.”

Cassian left before the old man could add anything else. He didn’t fancy another round of cryptic wisdom or gentle prodding.

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They came, they saw, they said nothing.

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