Cassian launched straight from the bench, leaping over the front, wand already raised. Bathsheda called after him, but he didn’t have time to explain. People turned, eyes wide, some rising from their seats. A few students gasped. Professors twisted in their chairs to follow the motion, heads snapping toward the front.

Snape was already on his feet, sweeping toward Draco with his robes flaring behind him.

“What did he do to you?” he hissed. He held the boy’s arm.

Draco barely looked up. His voice was a whisper. “There was a curse on my face. He helped to lift it.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. The noise in the crowd drowned out everything. He couldn’t hear what Cassian said before. A burst of cheers erupted behind them, someone had apparently downed a beast in the maze, but it all cut off in a single heartbeat.

Because a roar tore the air.

Gasps scattered through the audience as a massive shape erupted from Bathsheda’s arm. The fabric of her sleeve shattered, a glowing seam splitting down her forearm as a Norwegian Ridgeback burst from her skin as if coiled there the whole time, smoke curling off its hide.

People screamed. A few ducked. Some just went mad.

A massive bloody dragon had just unravelled from Professor Babbling’s sleeve like a summoned nightmare. Sleek, coiled smoke and fire, wings flicking out wide enough to rattle the platform. Someone near the press pit fainted.

Cassian swung up onto the dragon’s back with a single jump.

“D-did that come out of her hand?”

“No way-“

“Is that alive?!”

“That’s not legal!”

Cassian looked at the maze. Eyes darkening.

“Fuck!” He spun, wand already out. “Accio Map.”

A roll of parchment that dropped into his hand.

He swore again. “Damn it, come on.”

The protections he and Bathsheda had slapped on it last year were solid. Meant to stop either of them from abusing the damn thing. The temptation was too strong. They’d agreed to seal it. Now he was regretting being the responsible adult.

One charm peeled off. He winced. The next fought back. He broke it anyway.

“How can I be this stupid?” he muttered, half to the map, half to whatever deity had cursed him with hindsight. The signs had been there, too obvious. Hell, blinking neon if he’d had a brain cell that week. Moody calling him Cassy, for starters. The one name that could still make him twitch like a bloody trauma response. He hated that nickname. Hated it with something fierce.

Only two people had ever used it back in the day. Lucian and Barty bloody Crouch Junior. And not as a term of endearment, more like a bad joke stitched with broken ribs.

He’d fought them for it. Literally. More than once. Lost every time. Woke up in the Hospital Wing with all his bones rearranged like a cursed puzzle. Lucian laughed. Barty laughed harder.

And when he’d told Regulus, Cassian had been told to drop it. Next thing he knew, Barty Jr. was strolling down the corridor smirking, and Crouch Sr. said it was his fault for not being a better friend. Nearly got Barty a Prefect badge out of pity. That was Regulus for you, turning the very real possibility of Barty Jr.’s expulsion into a neat little business deal with Father Barty. Cassian was left hurt and broken in the fallout, but who cared, right?

He hated father and son. But that wasn’t the end of it.

After Lucian graduated, Barty Jr. had made Hogwarts his personal playground. With no one to rein him in, he carved Cassian into a joke, daily, public, thorough. Common Room, corridors, class, didn’t matter. Cassian became the punchline. Literally… The end of the line of every punch.

When Azkaban finally swallowed him, Old Cassian drank for three days straight and smiled through the hangover. Thought it was over. Thought the world had done something right for once. He threw a party. For a month. It was petty but overdue.

Although he’d heard he died in there a few years back, he didn’t care. Memories of abuse were Old Cassian’s. The one who bled for every insult, every curse. The boy who learned to flinch before he learned to fight. This Cassian didn’t carry that weight. Didn’t lie awake remembering how it felt to be hexed half to hell and laughed at for the trouble.

He’d read the papers. Recognised the name. Registered the Azkaban death notice with a raised brow and a muttered, “Took long enough.”

But then Draco’s memory snapped it all back into place. That grin. That voice. The lazy cruelty of it, clear as stone. Standing right there in Malfoy Manor, with Lucius bowing his head, listening to their Lord’s orders.

And then he dared to come to Hogwarts.

Pretending to be Moody.

Teaching.

Cassian’s heart was beating madly when he reached the last seal, heat building under his skin like he was about to explode. Of course. Of course it was him. No wonder the bastard kept trying to toss Imperius around like sweets. No wonder he was always a bit too enthusiastic when punishing kids. He hadn’t just hated Cassian. He’d enjoyed it. And now he’d slithered back in under a different face, probably laughing every time he handed out a lesson plan.

“I should’ve seen it,” Cassian hissed under his breath.

The bastard was in his castle. In his corridors. Around his students.

“He’s been near the kids.”

That sobered him harder than any punch.

Barty mocked them all. He marched through the bloody front door and taught children. Played house. Sat beside them at meals. It was audacious.

That explained a few things.

Of course it did. Why else would Moody make Neville and Potter name two Unforgivables? Neville’s parents were tortured with one till their minds gave out by the bastard himself, and Harry’s got killed by the other by the bastard’s lord.

“Sick, twisted bastard.” Cassian muttered, fingers moving faster.

Neville said Moody gave him a book on aquatic plants. Innocent enough. Until you realised it led to the boy cultivating and selling Gillyweed on the side like some kind of accidental entrepreneur. Which, surprise, conveniently solved Task Two. Cassian had thought it strange at the time, but not strange enough.

The bastard knew the Cup’s tasks. Probably the one who slipped Harry’s name in to begin with. Made a fuss when people wanted to pull him out too, demanded he compete.

That should’ve been the flag. Red, flapping, practically on fire.

Cassian had pushed back. He’d found a workaround. Pulled Harry out without breaking the Cup’s law.

He’d won.

Except now it didn’t feel like a win.

Another bit snapped into place.

Moody going out of his way to nudge Cedric and Harry together. Always praising them, always saying how nice it was to see Hogwarts unified for once. Making sure they stayed close.

Why?

Why go out of his way to make sure the two of them were glued together?

Cassian didn’t like the answer forming in his head. Didn’t like it one bit.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

The crowd was roaring still, but more started to notice the giant dragon.

Then the judges’ table moved.

All five heads of school stepped down.

Dumbledore, Ekwensi, Master Ji, Maxime. Even Karkaroff, looking like he’d swallowed something sour.

“We need to stop the tournament,” Cassian called from Ash’s back.

Dumbledore stepped forward first, brow creased. “Cassian, what’s this about? You know we can’t interfere once it’s started.”

Cassian turned his head. “Barty Crouch Jr. replaced Moody. That wasn’t Alastor this whole year. It was him. Polyjuice. Every lesson, every meal, every bloody moment, we had a Death Eater walking our halls.”

Dumbledore’s mouth parted, but no sound came. His gaze shifted slightly, calculating backwards, watching the puzzle click. The limp. The flask. The subtle habits that were never quite Mad-Eye’s.

Behind him, murmurs broke out.

“Barty Crouch is dead,” someone said sharply. Snape, maybe.

Cassian’s jaw clenched. “Not dead. Not even close. And he’s with Potter. Right now. Centre of the maze.”

Maxime straightened beside Dumbledore. “How do you know this?”

Cassian raised the map, fingers still clenched tight. “This. It shows everyone in the castle,” Cassian snapped. “And it’s showing Bartemius Crouch standing next to Harry bleeding Potter. At the centre of the maze. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and wait for the funeral announcement.”

Karkaroff barked a laugh. “How can you trust some enchanted scrap over official security? This is madness.”

Cassian didn’t even look at him. “I don’t have time to educate you on how magic works, Igor.”

“You expect us to halt an international task on your word?” Karkaroff demanded.

“No,” Cassian said. “I expect you to get out of the way.”

He shifted his legs on the Ridgeback’s back. Ash’s claws scraped against stone as she adjusted, wings twitching. She roared at Karkaroff.

“Headmaster, please,” Cassian said. “We’re wasting time.”

Maxime had moved closer now, gaze sharp, but not doubting. “Albus. I have seen his teaching. He would not speak this way without reason.”

Ji nodded. “Cassian wouldn’t lie.”

Ekwensi gave Dumbledore a look. “It aligns with too many oddities. The boy’s name in the Goblet was odd enough. We should have checked earlier.”

They knew Cassian enough to know he wouldn’t make a scene for nothing.

Dumbledore still hadn’t blinked.

“You can’t go in,” he said sharply, “Cup is protecting the field. It’ll punish you.”

Karkaroff sneered from behind them. “If you dare step into the maze, I will attack you. You have no right to sabotage this tournament.”

Cassian’s cold gaze locked on him. “Haven’t forgotten you either. Go on then. Show your arm, Igor. Show the mark.”

Gasps snapped through the crowd.

Karkaroff’s face went pale as mould. “You lying little-“

“Thought not,” Cassian cut him off. “Still hiding it under long sleeves like it won’t burn through?”

Cassian whistled.

Ash rose half a metre in the air, wings stirring dust, claws curling as she lifted gracefully. She hovered above the grass, waiting for Cassian’s signal.

“Check Professor Moody’s room.” Cassian gnashed his teeth. “You’ll find the original there somewhere.”

Bathsheda moved closer, her wand already drawn, at anyone who looked ready to step into Cassian’s way. “I dare anyone to make a move on him. Just remember that dragon came out of my arm.”

A few hands twitched. No one raised a wand.

Master Ji gave a chuckle. Ekwensi said nothing, but stood with her.

Dumbledore let out the kind of sigh that suggested he’d already aged five years tonight. His gaze drifted to the sky where Ash hovered.

Cassian crouched on her back, gripping the ridge behind her neck. Wind howled in his ears as they swooped in.

The view up here was clear. When he looked at where the Cup should’ve been, Cassian frowned. That corner of the maze was dark. He counted heads in the maze. One, two, three… four.

Five.

All Champions still in. That was something.

He turned sharply as they passed the northern corner, eyes squinting against the haze. Cedric, close to the centre. Closer than he should’ve been. The boy stumbled, then again.

“There.” He called. Ash moved towards where he showed.

“Dig in,” he muttered, and Ash spiralled before thudding onto the ground.

“Diggory!”

Cedric stared at the dragon overhead, breath caught in his throat. His wand lifted, hands shaking, like it might somehow matter against something that size.

Was this part of the maze?

Ash snorted, smoke curling from her nostrils. She leaned down and gave the boy a firm huff through her snout. Cedric stumbled back, nearly dropping his wand.

Cassian landed hard beside him, boots hitting the grass.

“Was Potter with you before the task began?” he asked, voice tight.

Cedric blinked, still staring at Ash like she might breathe fire and end the conversation right there. “He said he’d come,” he said slowly. “Said he’d meet me at the arch before we went in. But he didn’t show.”

Cassian swore under his breath.

Of course he hadn’t.

Bastard set it all up.

Damned Barty arranged all of this. Just to make Harry’s absence believable.

“Back out. Task’s done.”

Cedric nodded, stumbling away in relief. Ash rumbled low as he passed, but didn’t move.

Cassian turned.

He’d seen the path earlier. Middle corridor. Split three ways, two dead ends, one prize.

“Ash, stop anyone else coming through.”

She rose into the air roaring at the night sky.

He jogged forward, wand already spinning through a counter-hex. The hedges didn’t fight him.

“Why the Cup?” he muttered. “Why drag Potter all the way to the end?”

Kidnapping was messier than that. If Barty wanted Potter gone, he could’ve lured him anywhere. Classroom, corridor, even detention. Walk him out of class. Say it’s for “Auror business” and no one would blink. Invite him to Moody’s office under the usual paranoia-fuelled pretext, “constant vigilance” and all that, and shut the door behind him.

He could’ve caught him in a corridor after hours, a Disillusionment Charm and a stunning spell, job done. Or wait for a Hogsmeade weekend. Get him outside school grounds. Less eyes. Less questions.

The entire school trusted Moody. Enough to follow him anywhere.

So why the show?

Why the tournament? Why now?

But then, Hogwarts Wards weren’t famous with their privacy settings.

Nothing left the castle without the old man knowing. Floo or Portkey didn’t work. Sneaking out under an invisibility cloak wasn’t really possible. Not with the wards Dumbledore had in place. If Barty wanted Potter out, he couldn’t just walk him through the front gate without raising suspicions, right?

Then something clicked.

After the Napkin Tournament, when the temporary tasks wrapped and the Cup’s magic had burned out, Cassian had tried to approach it. But Moody had stepped in, blocking the path.

And yet… he’d guided Potter to it. Steered him right toward the cup like it was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Cassian blinked, breath catching.

Did he want Potter to touch it? But the Cup was too strong, wasn’t it? Warded. Watched. A binding magical artefact layered with enchantments from five different schools strengthened by fey lines so much so that even Dumbledore and others were afraid to break its rules. What was he trying to do with it?

He broke into a run. There it was.

The Cup sat dead centre, propped on its plinth. Harry lay crumpled beside it.

And standing just past him, wand loosely at his side, was Moody.

No.

Not Moody.

The smirk told him everything.

“Cassy, Cassy, Cassy.” The voice curled like smoke. “Knew you’d show up eventually.”

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