During Dinner, when Cassian saw Hermione poking half-heartedly at her food with the grace of someone losing an argument in her own head, he marked it down as a minor win. She wasn’t hurling accusations across the room or trying to unionise the Kitchens. That was progress.

He didn’t like how servile the house-elves were, not by a long shot. But as he’d told her, probably too bluntly, it was built into them. Unpicking it would hurt more than it helped. Like snapping the tusks off a Babirusa, yeah, those spirals could eventually grow inwards and kill it, but yanking them out early meant agony, shock, maybe death. And without them the poor sod’s got no defence. Nature didn’t make them ornamental.

Bathsheda sat beside him, quietly buttering a scone. She passed him the paper without comment.

Cassian skimmed the article, eyebrows climbing the more he read.

Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”) over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of “Mad-Eye” Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr Moody’s heavily guarded house, that Mr Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene.

Cassian frowned. “Haven’t we warned her already?”

After that mess she tried to stir up after the World Cup, Regulus had sent her a letter. Definitely not something printable. Apparently, the woman took it as encouragement.

“I need to expedite my plans a little,” he muttered.

She glanced over. “Is it time to buy the Prophet?”

He gave a nod, jaw tight. He’d been putting it off, his accounts weren’t exactly overflowing yet, but it looked like he’d have to shuffle a few things. Maybe sell a kidney. Or ask Severus if powdered spleen counted as a donation.

The nerve of the woman. She made Arthur look like a lunatic, made Moody out to be a senile old warlock blowing up his own doorknobs for fun. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far off.

Bathsheda tore a bit of scone. “You’re buying it to shut her up.”

“No,” he said. “I’m buying it so when I shut her up, it prints clean.”

She smiled faintly. “Very noble.”

He slid the paper back to her. “I’ll make sure to add that to the press release. Right next to ‘profit margins’ and ‘preventing public idiocy.'” He rubbed his temples. “If I buy it, I’ll need someone running it. Someone who doesn’t faint at punctuation.”

She gave a thoughtful hum. “You’ll also need someone to cover for you while you’re suddenly missing from classes four days a week.”

Cassian grunted. “Fine. I’ll clone myself.”

“You’d get distracted arguing with yourself.”

“True,” he said. “Also, the Clone would try to kill me.”

Below, at the tables, the students had already reached the same article Cassian had. Crabbe and Goyle were snorting into their plates, elbowing Draco like they’d discovered comedy for the first time.

Draco didn’t even glance at the paper. He ate his dinner in slow, bored bites.

Ron shot to his feet, face the colour of a tomato. “Shut up, gorillas.”

Crabbe and Goyle heaved themselves upright as well. Someone muttered something about Weasleys, Ron fired back twice as loud, Harry pushed his bench back and stood beside him.

Hermione and Neville tried to tug the two Gryffindors back down, but Ron shrugged Hermione off and Harry stepped around Neville’s hand.

Insults got louder. Chairs scraped. Hands went for wands.

Cassian didn’t bother standing. He flicked his wand.

Four wands clattered across the table, rolling between plates and cutlery.

Silence snapped across the Hall.

Dozens of heads whipped toward the staff table as if remembering, belatedly, that teachers existed.

Cassian arched a brow. “Sit. Down.”

Before anyone spoke, heavy thumps sounded from the entrance.

Moody limped in. He cut straight through the aisle, coat dripping, hair plastered to his face.

He didn’t spare the Gryffindors a glance.

His magical eye, however, swivelled clean past them and locked on Draco Malfoy.

Draco stiffened. His fork stilled mid-air.

Students shrank back instinctively, carving a path.

He raised his wand and fired without a word. A streak of hot white shot across the Hall toward the knot of students.

Cassian jerked his hand up, magic snapping through his fingers instinctively. Moody’s spell stopped mid‑air like it’d hit a wall, hung for a beat, then guttered out.

Moody blinked then swung both eyes straight to Cassian.

Cassian stood, chair scraping back. His gaze was flat.

Moody’s brow twitched. “What is the meaning of this?”

Cassian tilted his head. “I was going to ask the same. Why’re you hexing students at dinner?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Moody’s voice dropped a notch.

Cassian stepped down from the dais. “Think you do. You just tried to hit Mr Malfoy, who, unless I’ve gone blind, wasn’t even part of that mess.”

Moody’s magical eye darted between him and Draco. “He was instigating his friends. I saw it.”

“Then you saw wrong. And even if he was,” Cassian said, shrugging one shoulder, “I’d already disarmed the lot. No one was duelling. No one was hurt.”

A few students flinched at the sharpness in his tone. Moody didn’t.

His normal eye narrowed, the magical one spun, then fixed on Cassian again. “I’ve seen battlefields you can’t imagine, Rosier?” His voice had that gravelly bite. “You think intent isn’t a threat?”

Cassian took another step forward. “Intent’s not a hex, Professor. And you still don’t fire spells at children over dinner.”

Moody leaned in slightly. “Boy was winding them up. You didn’t see it. I did.”

Cassian didn’t blink. “Funny. I watched the entire thing from ten feet away. Malfoy wasn’t even talking. Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle did their usual goblin‑brain routine, and Mr Potter and Mr Weasley bit like fools. Mr Malfoy ate his dinner. That’s all.”

Draco’s head snapped up at that, jaw tight. Crabbe and Goyle seemed deeply confused, like the thought of being blamed for their own actions had never once crossed their minds.

Moody’s lip twitched. “You think I fire at random?”

“I think,” Cassian said calmly, “if you want to teach eating etiquette, you don’t start by hexing the wrong student.”

Moody’s fingers flexed around his wand.

“Alastor, Cassian. That’s quite enough,” a voice called from the entrance.

Cassian turned. Dumbledore stood there with a Prefect at his elbow. Snape and McGonagall swept in a heartbeat later. McGonagall looked ready to tan someone’s hide.

Moody didn’t move. “Boy was provoking-“

McGonagall cut in sharply. “We will address that. You do not hex students as a punishment, Professor Moody.”

Her tone had Crabbe, Goyle, Ron, and Harry sinking down.

Dumbledore looked at the four boys, two on each side of the aisle, all stiff as fence posts. “Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Mr Crabbe, Mr Goyle. You will each serve detention. Separate nights. Separate staff. You’ll be informed of the schedule.”

Ron looked mutinous. Crabbe and Goyle looked confused.

McGonagall added, “And ten points from each house involved.”

That earned a chorus of groans from Gryffindor and a louder one from Slytherin. Draco stared at his plate as if trying to bore through it.

Snape stepped forward, cloak dragging behind him. “You two.” He pointed at Crabbe and Goyle. “My office. Now.”

The boys scuttled past him like guilty furniture.

McGonagall beckoned sharply. “Mr Potter. Mr Weasley. Come with me.”

Harry shot Cassian a look like he wanted to say something, but McGonagall’s pointed finger shut him up.

Once the students were gone, Dumbledore turned back toward Moody. “Alastor. I must insist you refrain from using hexes as a disciplinary measure.”

Moody’s jaw twitched. “You’re coddling them.”

Dumbledore’s voice didn’t rise. “I am ensuring they remain uninjured. That is part of the job.”

Moody grunted, something between irritation and a growl.

Cassian folded his arms. “Next time you feel the urge to fire off a spell, shout instead. Startling them works wonders.”

Moody’s magical eye whirred toward him. “You questioning my methods, Rosier?”

“Yes,” Cassian said. “Out loud. Bold of me, I know.”

Moody stared at Cassian for a long, tense moment. Then turned to Dumbledore, he gave a single stiff nod.

Cassian didn’t miss the way the magical eye swung back to Draco Malfoy again before Moody turned away.

Cassian stopped him before he reached the doors. “That wand,” he said, nodding at Moody’s hand. “It’s rather interesting.”

Moody halted mid‑step. He didn’t turn. Didn’t answer.

Cassian tried again. “What’s the core?”

Moody gave a snort. “As if I’d casually reveal it.”

Cassian frowned. Ever since he’d awakened Sylvanima, it was as if he had a new sensory organ. Plants hummed when he walked past now. No, not actual humming, maybe awareness, like a murmur under skin. Wands, obviously, weren’t alive. But maybe the cores… or how they were made… gave them something close. A flicker. A voice.

Moody’s wand had one. And it didn’t sound right.

He couldn’t put his finger on it. Resistance? Like trying to tune into a frequency and getting static instead. Off-key. Hostile, even.

Dumbledore and Moody left together a moment later. The double doors creaked closed behind them, swallowing whatever discussion followed.

“You’re twitching again,” Bathsheda muttered from beside him.

Cassian frowned as she reached out for his hand. “I don’t like it.”

(Check Here)

I wonder if there is a hidden chamber somewhere, lined wall to wall with glass jars, sealing your voice never used. Or perhaps you simply prefer not using it.

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