On the tenth of December, Cassian was horizontal, head comfortably settled on Bathsheda’s thigh, staring at the ceiling. She was sifting through a stack of student essays, red quill moving across them. A fire crackled. One of her slippers was under his arm. It was peaceful.

Then, someone knocked.

Cassian didn’t even glance toward the door. “We’re not here.”

Bathsheda smacked his shoulder with a soft laugh. Before he could add anything else, McGonagall’s voice came through.

“May I come in?”

Bathsheda shot upright so fast Cassian hit the floor with a thump.

“Ow.” He stayed down a moment. “Don’t help me or anything, I’ll just evolve into a carpet.”

Bathsheda pulled open the door. “Minerva.”

McGonagall stepped in, giving Cassian a look. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

He climbed back onto the sofa with a grunt. “Our peace and quiet? A bit, but that’s fine. You have a pass.”

She ignored him. “I come with a request. Well, more of a conscription.”

Bathsheda folded her arms. “Go on.”

“It’s the Yule Ball,” McGonagall said, like it physically pained her to say the words. “As the only official couple on staff, I need you two to assist.”

Cassian squinted. “Assist how?”

“Guidance. Supervision. And,” she paused, gaze flitting between them, “instruction. Etiquette. Dancing.”

Cassian let out a groan, “How about… a no?”

Bathsheda, of course, smiled. “We’d be happy to help.”

Cassian sat up. “Would we?”

McGonagall gave a small, satisfied nod, as if she’d known how this would go. “Fourth to seventh years. Each evening. Starting today.”

Cassian opened his mouth.

Bathsheda cut him off. “We’ll manage.”

“I could be doing something valuable,” he muttered. “Research. Reading. Staring at walls.”

Bathsheda was already ushering McGonagall out the door with polite nods and vague words about schedules. Cassian flopped back across the couch and covered his face with the closest pillow.

“Balls,” he muttered.

Bathsheda called back from the door, cheerful, “Yes. That’s the point.”

So that evening, dressed like they were due on a ballroom poster, the two of them walked into the classroom. The expression on his face suggested he’d lost a bet. Bathsheda looked like she’d actually volunteered.

Fourth Years had already packed the room. Gryffindors in the middle. Hufflepuffs pretended this was fine, just fine, while Ravenclaws had their noses in scrolls about proper waltzing rotations. The Slytherins lounged like they’d rather die.

McGonagall gave them a once-over as they entered. “You’re here. Let’s get this over with.”

Cassian gave a lazy wave to the students, which earned a few excited waves back.

Ron snorted. “Looks like he got dragged.”

Hermione nudged him. “You’re not exactly skipping, either.”

Cassian stopped near the desk and clapped his hands. “Alright, children. Welcome to the magical land of rhythm. Today, we sacrifice dignity on the altar of tradition.”

Bathsheda moved past him, a far-too-bright smile on her face. “This will be useful. You’ll thank us later.”

“I’ll remember that when I break my ankle,” Seamus said.

Parvati elbowed him. “Don’t be dramatic.”

McGonagall cut through the noise. “Professor Babbling will demonstrate the lead. Professor Rosier will follow.”

He sighed, but let her pull him forward. “Just so we’re clear, if I trip, I’m taking you with me.”

“Fair,” she said.

The two of them moved into position. Cassian slotted in. He wasn’t thrilled about it, but he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself in front of teenagers.

The music charmed into the background, some old string-heavy piece, fancier than necessary.

Bathsheda stepped into the rhythm, Cassian followed, perfectly timed.

His whole posture shifted the moment the music hit. One second, Cassian looked like he’d rather bite off his own foot than be there, the next, he was spinning her with ease.

It didn’t take long for the girls to start swanning. Lavender had locked onto the footwork like it was a choreography scroll and was already nudging Parvati, who looked ready to faint if Cassian did one more pivot like that. Even Daphne, parked by the wall with her arms crossed, was eyeing the movement closely.

The boys looked somewhere between confused and annoyed.

“They are so…” Pansy stared.

“Perfect.” Tracey finished.

Pansy nodded, properly enchanted.

“I didn’t know he could dance like that,” Daphne muttered.

“Bet he choreographed it,” Blaise said. “Probably keeps a scroll under his pillow.”

“Oh shut up,” Tracey hissed.

Ron, slouched near the back, looked mildly disgusted. “It’s not even that good.”

Hermione looked over. “You can’t even walk without tripping over your own trousers.”

The music slowed, but Cassian didn’t break rhythm. He swept Bathsheda into a final twirl, stepped back with a ridiculous bow.

Half the class clapped. Someone whistled.

Bathsheda gave a small curtsy, hiding a smile.

McGonagall gave them a look so flat it looked ironed. “You’re here to teach, not show off.”

Cassian dropped an exaggerated, “Oops,” complete with raised brows and zero remorse.

“Pair up,” she sighed, already regretting this.

The class groaned in unison. School spirit.

“Go on then,” Cassian said, waving a hand as if he was releasing prisoners. “Pick your victims.”

The Gryffindor lot split for a battlefield, Parvati yanking Lavender toward Dean before the boy could blink. Hermione looked around, then grabbed Harry by the sleeve before he could retreat behind Neville.

In the back, the Slytherins moved as if aristocrats selecting wine. Pansy sniffed, flicked her hair, and took Blaise. Daphne gave Draco a look, then pointed at Neville instead. Malfoy looked mildly offended, but said nothing. Tracey, to her credit, simply walked straight up to Theodore and offered her hand.

The Ravenclaws were already sorting by height.

Cassian watched the chaos unfold, arms crossed. “And to think, some of you’ll be trusted with wands unsupervised.”

Bathsheda flicked her wand. Music floated up from the air.

Harry looked down at his feet, and if Cassian was reading right, the boy was planning to break one. Hermione sighed and took the lead herself.

Susan and Justin were already spinning, clumsy but meh… they were okay. Megan was correcting Wayne’s posture every few beats.

Padma and Anthony had it down. Terry Boot was muttering counts under his breath. Michael Corner had already stepped on Lisa Turpin’s foot twice.

Cassian circled back toward the Slytherins, slowing when he passed Pansy and Blaise.

“Try blinking, Blaise,” he said. “She won’t hex you for it.”

“He might enjoy it if I did,” Pansy replied sweetly.

Tracey had her eyes on Cassian instead of Nott, who kept trying to shuffle her arms like they were chess pieces. “Is this part supposed to feel like I’m wrestling?”

“No,” Cassian said, “but it’s good to know for later.”

Meanwhile, Neville had managed to spin Daphne in the opposite direction of everyone else.

Cassian winced. “Bold move, Longbottom. Bit avant-garde.”

“Sorry!” Neville yelped as Daphne elbowed him into place.

“Right then,” Cassian said, clapping again. “Break.”

Half the pairs stumbled out of step at once.

McGonagall let out a tiny breath through her nose. “Well. Not bad.”

Cassian flashed her a grin. “Brilliant. We’ll pick up next week. Practise in your free time. If you fumble on the night, it’ll be much more embarrassing for all of us.”

A collective groan rolled through the room.

Bathsheda caught his sleeve before he could make it worse. “Alright, that’s enough for today.”

Students scattered like released livestock. Bathsheda towed him out by the arm while he threw last‑minute comments over his shoulder.

“Potter, stop counting out loud, no one wants to hear your maths.”

“Zabini, good effort. Parkinson, try not to kill him.”

The door shut behind them.

And then they had to do it three more times for the older years. By the fourth session, he’d stopped pretending to dislike it.

By the time the seventh‑years finished their last run‑through, Cassian ended with a clean sweep of his arm and a bow that earned a few claps from the students.

He straightened with a flourish. “Right, that’s you lot. Try not to disgrace yourselves.”

A seventh‑year Ravenclaw raised a hand. “Professor, will you be-“

“No,” Cassian said immediately.

Bathsheda sighed. “He means yes, we’ll be there on the night.”

He even got some dance mastery out of it. Something about barking instructions at hormonal teenagers over and over again had quietly nudged his mastery forward. It was subtle, but he could feel it.

He was starting to wonder if enough of this might finally unlock an ancient variant. Was there even Ancient Dancing Variants?

He’d never had any history variants before, despite teaching for years, though the usual masteries always showed up like clockwork. Maybe dancing was the key. Gods help him.

“Imagine that,” he muttered. “Not ancient curses or dead languages, but the Viennese bloody waltz.”

Bathsheda was flipping the room back into order, meaning throwing his stuff into bags, pretending not to hear him.

He flopped onto the couch, “Do you reckon the Founders danced? Bet Salazar hated it. Probably cursed the floor so he wouldn’t have to.”

She hummed. “Bet he loved it. He was probably quick on his feet.”

Cassian nodded, lounging deeper into the couch. “True. He was snakey. Get it, snakey?”

She gave him the driest “ha” he’d heard all week.

Rude.

On the other hand, the following days were actually fun.

Students had started asking each other to dance. In public. With actual words. The corridors were flooded with all sorts, awkward confessions, smug grins, faintly tragic rejections, and the kind of accidental hand-touch moments that could launch a duel. Frankly, Cassian found it all delicious.

He was leaning on the mezzanine railing one afternoon, a mug of tea cradled in both hands, watching the chaos unfurl below as if he was some retired monarch who’d just let his court run wild.

Ginny and Luna appeared on either side of him without a word, flanking him like sad gargoyles. He glanced at one, then the other. Neither looked pleased to be vertical.

He took another sip. “What a lovely, sunny pair.”

Ginny crossed her arms. Luna stared at the floor.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Your dates were tragically lost in a magical accident involving silence and basic communication skills?”

Ginny didn’t answer.

Luna tilted her head. “We weren’t asked.”

He blinked. “Ah.”

Ginny scowled at nothing in particular. “Not that I wanted to be. It’s stupid.”

Cassian hummed into his tea. “Of course. What could be more ridiculous than a night of enforced twirling with sweaty hands and zero rhythm?”

Luna sighed. “My father says waltzing was invented by trolls to spy on humans.”

He nodded seriously. “That tracks. Can’t trust a dance that goes in circles.”

Neither laughed.

He eyed them both again. “Well, you have options.”

They looked up, hopeful.

“Option one, find someone now. Bold. Slightly chaotic. I endorse it.”

Ginny tilted her head. “That’s it?”

“Option two,” he went on, ignoring her, “You come anyway, laugh at everyone who takes it too seriously, and spike the punch with ice petals so they all start hiccuping butterflies.”

Ginny cracked a smile. Luna looked intrigued.

“And option three,” he said, lowering the mug, “you sulk here with me, judge everyone, and make loud commentary until McGonagall asks us to leave.”

They both considered.

“I like option three,” Luna said.

“Same,” Ginny muttered.

He held out a hand between them. “Welcome to the balcony of bitterness.”

They each bumped his fist.

Ron was lurking in the corner, eyes fixed on the double doors. Every few seconds, his head jerked toward the Great Hall, face so red it was starting to blend with his hair.

Cassian sipped his tea. “What’s he doing?”

Ginny leaned on the rail. “He’s going to ask Delacour.”

Cassian gave a small “Oof,” and flicked his wand. Three bags of popcorn zipped into their hands. The girls grinned and tucked in.

Below, Ron took a deep breath so large it made his shoulders rise like he was preparing to dive off a cliff. He squared himself, tried to fix his fringe, and stepped out onto the battlefield of social suicide.

Fleur appeared a moment later, walking like she’d been carved by something expensive and French. Heads turned. A sixth-year stumbled into his friend, both falling.

Ron approached.

Cassian leaned forward a fraction. “And here we witness the tragic courtship display of the British adolescent.”

Ginny was already wheezing.

They watched in silence as Ron said something, too fast, too loud. Fleur blinked. Whatever she said back was gentle, polite, and final.

Ron turned redder.

She smiled, touched his arm, courtesy, not promise, then walked on. Her heels didn’t even click against the floor. That was how little effort it took.

Ron stood still. Then shuffled back toward the wall.

Ginny tossed a popcorn kernel over the balcony. “Brutal.”

“Painfully,” Cassian agreed, eyes still on Ron. “But informative.”

Luna nodded. “I admire his commitment to despair.”

“Reckon that’s enough social carnage for one afternoon,” Cassian said. “Time to retreat before someone else tries their luck and I run out of snacks.”

He tossed the last of his popcorn in the air, caught it with his mouth, and turned back into the corridor with the girls in tow.

Below, Ron faceplanted into a suit of armour.

(Check Here)

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