A small reminder: Bathsheda and Cassian decided not to use the Map after catching Sirius, as they both considered it a major human-rights violation. At its core, it’s spying, plain and simple, and as functioning adults, they chose to put it away. Cassian even wanted to destroy it or hand it over to Dumbledore outright. Bathsheda argued it would be safer with Cassian instead, as she trusted him not to use it. And since there is no reason to suspect Dumbledore’s close friend, as they agreed, for now they are not using it.

Does this serve the plot? Yes, just as it did in the original.

Secondly, “Arnold Weasley” was not a typo. Rita Skeeter butchers names all the time. That excerpt from the chapter was copied directly from the book.

—

Neville walked out of the classroom like he was trying not to throw up. His fists were clenched tight enough to dig into his palms. He didn’t notice the corridor until he was already in it. Just wanted to keep moving. Away.

Hermione caught up first. Then Harry. Ron brought up the rear, patting him on the shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked.

Neville gave a small nod. It didn’t feel like much, but it was all he could manage.

Moody’s first Defence class, and the bloke had opened with the Unforgivables. Without even warming up. Just pointed his wand and said, “Name them.”

Neville had frozen when he finally blurted the Cruciatus under those intense eyes.

It was like being called out in a dream, where you’re the only one without robes, or you’ve forgotten the words, or your wand’s snapped. But worse. Because this wasn’t a dream. And the pain he remembered wasn’t pretend either.

Seeing that spider twist on the desk brought up things Neville had spent years shoving down deep. Memories no one else knew he had. He buried them the same way he always did, quick, rough, like stuffing clothes into a trunk you didn’t want to open again.

Last year, when Professor R. taught him the Patronus, nothing had come up. Boggarts weren’t Dementors. They didn’t reach that place. But during the fight at the end of the year, when everything went sideways, he’d heard screams. Screams full of pain. His mum. His dad.

At least… he thought so.

The problem was, he didn’t remember being with them at the time. It didn’t line up. He shouldn’t have had those memories at all. He shook his head hard. Maybe his mind was playing tricks. Maybe he’d filled in the blanks wrong.

Harry had gone pale too. Moody had turned to him last, asking about the Killing Curse, and he had looked like he’d been hit with a bucket of ice. Neville didn’t blame him. The whole room felt wrong.

On the way out, Neville spotted Malfoy in the corridor. Crabbe and Goyle were lumbering after him, calling something, but Draco didn’t even look back. Walked straight ahead, stiff, jaw set. For a moment Neville wondered if he was scared of Moody.

Moody stopped dead in front of Neville, wooden leg thunking into place.

“Longbottom,” he growled. “Come with me. I’ve a book you might be interested in.”

Neville’s stomach turned. Something in Moody’s tone made the skin on his arms prickle.

“Sorry,” Neville said, stepping back. “I promised I would meet with Professor Rosier, sir.”

And he walked away before the man could say anything else. Hermione and Ron stared after him, mouths hanging open.

Neville didn’t stop. He didn’t trust his own voice yet.

He headed for the one place in the castle that didn’t make his chest tighten. Cassian’s classroom. The man had a way of cutting through things without digging into them. Didn’t ask for everything. Didn’t grab at you like you were a puzzle to solve.

Right now, Neville needed that more than anything.

The classroom was quiet. Neville stepped inside, half-hoping Cassian would already be at the desk, making some offhand comment about posture or forgetting to ward the ceiling again. No such luck. It was empty. He glanced at the time. Maybe he was off with Professor Babbling. Or doing whatever borderline-mad thing counted as normal for him.

The thought made Neville smile, just a little. He let out a slow breath, headed for the second row, and sat on the edge of a desk, staring at the blackboard, heart still thudding in his chest. He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, letting it slow.

Then the door creaked open.

He looked up, expecting Cassian.

It wasn’t.

Draco stepped in, stopped short when he saw him, then made a noise that sounded halfway to a scoff.

“Where’s Professor Rosier?”

Neville gave a shrug.

Draco lingered for a beat, then turned to leave. “I was just here to ask about something. Nothing else.”

Neville didn’t say anything. Didn’t really care.

It was maybe an hour later when the door creaked open and Cassian walked in, robes dusted with rain and a damp curl escaping behind his ear. He stopped short when he saw Neville sitting in the second row, hunched forward.

“Mr Longbottom,” Cassian said, brows going up. “What can I do for you?”

Neville froze. He hadn’t really thought this part through. “Um. Nothing, sir.”

Cassian didn’t miss a beat. “Brilliant. Love doing nothing.”

He dropped into his chair, flicked his wand, and two mugs appeared mid-air, one steaming in front of Neville, the other landing neatly in his hand. He kicked his legs up onto the desk and leaned back with a sigh.

Neville stared at the mug for a second, then picked it up, more to give his hands something to do than anything else. He didn’t even try the leg-on-desk thing. His gran would faint dead away if she saw him do anything of the sort. He kept them on the ground, proper.

Cassian took one too, glanced over. “So,” he said lightly, “how badly did the day kick you?”

Neville’s throat tightened. “I… um…”

The words felt too big to say. He stared at the swirling tea instead. His hands shook a little, he hoped Cassian didn’t notice. Or if he did, that he’d pretend not to.

Cassian didn’t push. He tipped his head towards the window. “Weather’s grim. Fits the mood.”

Neville’s breath wobbled out. He hadn’t meant to make a sound, but there it was.

Cassian didn’t look over. “Moody’s class was rubbish, then.”

Neville’s fingers tightened on the mug.

Cassian finally turned his head, eyebrow raised like he already knew the answer and was only waiting to see if Neville would say it out loud.

Neville let the silence stretch before he whispered, “He showed us the Unforgivables.”

He saw Cassian frown.

“That’s not the fourth‑year curriculum, is it?”

Neville stared at the tea instead of answering. His stomach twisted. He didn’t see the way Cassian’s eyes sharpened, only felt the air in the room shift, like something silent had snapped into place.

Neither of them spoke after that.

When the bell finally rang, Neville jolted a little. He stood, set the mug down gently.

“Thanks for the tea,” he said.

Cassian waved him off. “Anytime. You know the way.”

The corridor outside was brighter than he wanted it to be. His eyes still felt sore. He rubbed them quickly, hoping no one saw.

He didn’t get three steps before Moody appeared around the corner. The man didn’t stop walking, just reached into his coat and shoved a book into Neville’s hands as he passed.

Neville looked down.

Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean.

He didn’t want it. Didn’t want another second of today, didn’t want the man’s attention on him, didn’t want to think about any of it. But refusing felt dangerous, or at least exhausting, so he mumbled a quiet, “Thank you,” and clutched the book to his chest.

Moody grunted something, approval? maybe, then stalked off, wooden leg thumping unevenly down the hall.

***

The term picked up as it always did, messy, loud, and full of teenagers trying their absolute best to give staff early grey hair. Cassian lasted until Wednesday before deciding he’d quite like to hide in a broom cupboard and pretend “adulthood” was a problem for Future Him.

He’d barely turned on his heel to escape when a kestrel burst out beside him, all feathers and light.

He frowned at the message.

He marched straight toward the Defence corridor. Halfway there, he flicked his wand and vanished from sight. Then under the door, he threw a spell. Screams spilled out from behind the classroom door, the panicked, high‑pitched kind that meant someone had done something incredibly irresponsible.

Fifth years burst out the moment the door swung open, shoving past each other in a scramble for the stairs.

Moody followed a second later.

The man was furious, face set like stone. His magical eye spun wildly before snapping toward exactly where Cassian stood invisible.

“Come out,” Moody growled. “I can see you.”

A voice answered from thin air, somewhere halfway down the corridor. “You can see someone. Not me.”

Footsteps pelted away before Moody could follow. He swore loud enough to rattle a suit of armour, then tried to give chase, only to be reminded that wooden legs and sprints didn’t get along. He hobbled a few metres, stopped, muttered something murderous, then limped back.

By then, the students had fled all the way to the gardens.

Cassian dropped the invisibility charm once Moody was out of sight and headed for the Headmaster’s office. He took the stairs two at a time, stormed straight up, and nearly kicked the door off its hinges.

“Unforgivables on students?” he snapped the moment he saw Dumbledore. “Before we even start arguing, I want to know if you seriously allowed that, or if Moody forgot to mention he’d be traumatising the children.”

Dumbledore set down his teacup. “Ah, Cassian.”

Cassian pointed at him. “Don’t ‘ah’ me. This isn’t an abstract ethics debate.”

Dumbledore’s mouth pulled into a thoughtful line. “Cassian, Alastor’s curriculum was approved by myself and all Heads of House. I will admit, the idea of practical exposure to the Imperius raised concerns, but Alastor assured us he would use it sparingly. He believes that early exposure will help them strengthen their will.”

Cassian stared at him.

Then stared harder.

His foot twitched, itching to punt the nearest chair through the window.

He dragged his hand down his face. “Right. So let me get this straight. You signed off on a man who thinks ‘sparingly’ means waving an Unforgivable at children?”

Dumbledore let out a breath. “Alastor has a unique method-“

“No,” Cassian cut in. “He has the wrong method. There’s a difference. One you can print in a pamphlet, the other you need therapy for.”

The Headmaster folded his hands on the desk. “Cassian, he is attempting to prepare them-“

“For what?” Cassian shot back. “War? Puberty? Because I swear, only one of those requires actual torture demonstrations, and it’s not the one fifth-years were about to deal with.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked to the window, as if searching for patience out in the sky. “You know the world is changing.”

Cassian took a long breath through his nose, calming himself down before he committed arson.

“Headmaster, have you ever heard of Imperius Acclimation?”

Dumbledore’s eyebrow went up. “Can’t say I have, Cassian. The Unforgivables were rarely the focus of my research.”

Cassian let out a humourless huff. “Imperius Acclimation,” he said, flicking his fingers, “is what happens when you keep hitting someone with the Imperius until their magic stops fighting it.”

Dumbledore’s face shifted, very slightly.

Cassian pushed on. “Human magic isn’t static. It remembers patterns. It adjusts. You hit someone with a mind‑bending curse again and again, and guess what? Their defences get tired. They get holes. And those holes don’t heal quick.”

Dumbledore murmured, “I was under the impression resistance strengthens with practice.”

Cassian nodded, “It can. Under the right circumstances, I’d even recommend it. Bit like tempering steel, heat, pressure, water. Done right, you get a blade that won’t bend if the sky falls on it. But if you overdo it or wrong, you crack the metal.”

He tapped the edge of Dumbledore’s desk. “People aren’t steel, though. They don’t come with instructions, or consistency. We’re already pushing it by cramming thirty different brains into one lesson plan. That’s still manageable. Students can grow around it, lean into their strengths, stumble through their weak bits.”

“But Imperius doesn’t flex. It’s a single, sharp edge. And it only cares about one thing, willpower. Which, by the way, most teenagers don’t have in spades. Half of them can’t even say no to a second pudding. You think they’re ready to stare down full mental override?”

Dumbledore said nothing.

Cassian tilted his head. “If you try to ‘train’ a weak will with an Unforgivable, you don’t make it stronger. You carve grooves into it. Grooves that never quite go away. Next time someone else uses the spell, it slides right in easy.”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, brows drawing into a worried frown.

Cassian kept going. “This isn’t teaching resistance. This is sanding it down. You want them to fight it? Teach them how to anchor thought. Practice boundary spells. Defensive focus. Anything else. Hell, drop a mild compulsion hex in class and let them break it off slowly. But you do not start with the killing tools.”

The Headmaster’s gaze sharpened. “You’re assuming Alastor would carve a hole in every student’s willpower? Putting them in danger?”

“No,” Cassian said. “I’m assuming he’d put at least one. That’s enough.”

He pushed himself off the edge of the desk. “I get it, Headmaster. Dark times, dark measures, sharpen the children for what’s coming, fine. But you don’t forge a sword by slamming it with a war hammer. You don’t toughen a mind by pouring nightmares into it. You want them ready? Teach them properly. Give them tools. Give them space.”

Dumbledore let out a long, quiet sigh. “Thank you, Cassian. You are right.”

Cassian huffed a breath too, relieved. “Finally. Thought I’d need to carve it on your desk.”

Dumbledore gave him a look. Cassian ignored it.

“About that theory.” The Headmaster leaned back.

Cassian pulled a worn book from his coat pocket. The thing looked like it had been passed around for generations. He dropped it on the desk with a soft thump and flipped it open, pages crackling. “The Art of Mental Shielding,” he said, tapping the page. “Chapter thirteen. ‘Will, Mind, and Cracks.'”

Dumbledore’s eyes followed the movement.

Cassian pushed the book across. “You can keep it. Doubt you’ll find another copy unless you raid the Rosier vaults, and those are a nightmare. Supposedly written by one of my ancestors.”

Dumbledore turned another page, thumb resting lightly in the margin. “This… ‘repeat coercion smooths the edge of rejection’… that’s what you meant.”

Cassian pointed. “That’s the one. He calls it resonance erosion. Sounds fancier than ‘your defences get used to the boot on your neck.'”

Dumbledore’s frown said it all as he kept reading.

Cassian reached for the kettle on the sideboard, poured himself a cup. “You want to fix this, start with that chapter. Then chuck Moody’s lesson plan out the nearest window.”

Dumbledore glanced up. “I’ll read it.”

Cassian gave a slight nod. “Good. And if he tries it again-“

He leaned forward, the edge in his voice sharpening. “Headmaster, you know I don’t like hurling threats. But next time this speech won’t be from a teacher to a headmaster.”

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. “You’ve gained quite a standing lately, haven’t you?”

Cassian turned for the door. “I’ve always had it. Now I can call it my own.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet click.

(Check Here)

The stars keep burning, unaware of the audience. I suppose that’s one way to cope.

—

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