Cassian rolled as he landed, wand already flicking mid-air.

“Consors Umbrae.”

The world dimmed, pulled in around him, and then he was gone, swallowed by the cemetery’s fog. Colour slid over his skin, hiding him in plain sight.

The impact still rang through his ribs. Gravel bit at his palm as he slid to a stop behind a crooked headstone. His breath caught. A pulse went through him, burning his veins, his magic was kicking the inside of his ribs. His fingers trembled before he forced them still.

He looked around. Old graves. Twisted statues. Mausoleums with names half-bitten off by time. Wherever they were, it hadn’t been used properly in decades. The kind of place ghosts probably gave a wide berth. A thin vine coiled lazily over a broken angel’s foot.

In the clearing ahead, Mingyu dangled like a caught rabbit. Moody had him by the collar, wand pressed to his neck.

“I can still see you, Cassy,” Barty called, Moody’s false eye locking in the exact direction Cassian had ducked behind the stone. His smile thinned into something sharper. “Had to ruin the Lord’s plan, didn’t you? I worked so hard to drag Potter here, twice, and you ballsed it up both times.”

A faint rustle answered him from beneath the dirt, like vines tightening around stone. Cassian stayed crouched. Another surge rolled under his skin. He gritted his teeth. Was this the Cup’s backlash? A penalty for stopping the Tournament? Was he being punished?

He bit his tongue, his free hand digging at the soil below.

“Do you know how hard it was getting his name in that Cup? Especially after they’d kicked my father from his office.” Barty snarled, voice bouncing between headstones. “Had to sneak past more wards than I could name to Confund it before they awakened the damn cup. Polyjuice in my sleep, charmwork up the arse, and that bloody Cup, old thing still bites if you rush it. But no. You had to play clever little teacher, didn’t you? Cassy bloody Rosier, you keep stepping in the way like you’re playing Hogwarts babysitter.”

Barty pressed his wand deeper into terrified Mingyu’s neck. “Do you know how long I’ve been building this? How long he’s waited?” His hand jerked at the air, like he wanted to throw something. “You don’t even like the kid!”

Cassian stepped out from behind the grave. “Yeah,” he said, tone flat. “But I like you less.”

His knees nearly dipped as another wave punched through his navel, magic snapping against his ribs like an over-wound wire. He masked it with another step, stepping forward before anyone could see. ‘What the hell is happening to me?’

Barty looked at Cassian with a flicker of surprise, eyes catching on the white at his temples. He laughed, ugly and loud.

“Oh, is that what it costs?” he jeered. “You interfere with the tournament and it starts peeling time off you?” His grin widened. “That’s rich. Bet you didn’t read the fine print, did you? You are going to get punished for your sins. This is justice!”

Cassian squinted, “Didn’t you also interfere with the tournament?”

Moody tilted his head. With Barty’s smile stretched across his twisted face, the expression was deeply unsettling. “Did I?” he said mildly. “All I did was drag an unrelated person into the center of the maze before the final stage even began. Then I sat and waited for the champion to arrive. I even meant to protect it… by taking you out.”

Cassian clenched his jaw.

“You’re doing all this for Voldemort?” Cassian said, looking around. “The man who can’t even stay dead properly?”

That got a twitch out of Barty’s eye. “Don’t you dare disrespect my Lord, Cassy.”

Cassian cocked his head. “Why not? Where is your precious Lord? Last I saw him, he was clinging to the back of Quirrell’s skull, pitiful, helpless. Lost to an eleven-year-old and then scattered like the dirt he is. Frankly, I expected more.”

Barty’s face flushed like he’d swallowed acid. Before he could spit back, a voice cut through the graveyard.

“That’s enough, Barty.”

Barty froze mid-breath, dropping his head, spine straightening. “Yes, my Lord.”

A figure stepped out of the shadows behind him, holding the ugliest baby Cassian had seen to date. Pale, shrivelled, half-formed, like a curse still in draft form.

But that wasn’t what froze Cassian.

It was the man that was carrying it.

Lucian.

He tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Hello, little brother.”

Cassian’s wand stayed in the air. “Lucian?”

Lucian tilted his head. “I thought you’d appreciate the drama. Always had a flair for it.”

Cassian glanced down at the creature in his arms, then back up. “What the hell are you doing with them, Lucian. Did you lose your damn mind? And what the hell are you holding?”

Lucian’s mouth twitched. “You still talk too much.”

“I’m traumatised. Let me cope.”

Voldemort hissed, “Enough.”

Lucian bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

Cassian’s teeth ground together. “Why?” he said. “Why would you do this?”

Lucian didn’t answer. He just stood there with his head hanging low.

Cassian raised his wand but movement rippled through the graves behind Voldemort.

Figures stepped out in a slow, grim row. Lucius Malfoy. Nott Sr., Crabbe Sr., Goyle Sr., and of course the Selwyns, all of them cloaked in Death Eater robes.

“Don’t kill him yet,” Voldemort said, voice like a nail scraping glass.

Cassian spat a curse under his breath.

The Dark Lord turned his head toward Barty. “Did you fail to bring Potter?”

Barty collapsed forward, hands sinking into the gravel. Seeing Moody kneeling on all fours before Voldemort was a cursed image. “Sorry, my lord,” Barty said. “Cassy ruined it.”

Voldemort’s eyes flicked to Cassian. “Yes. He ruins a lot of things.”

Cassian didn’t answer. He looked over the gathering instead. Voldemort eyeing the lot of them like he was choosing which one to break first.

Then Voldemort’s gaze slid to Mingyu.

The boy stiffened. His voice cracked. “D-don’t kill me. My grandfather is the Deputy Headmaster of Fenghuang. I can join you.”

Cassian almost groaned.

Voldemort tilted his head, studying him as though the boy were a lump of clay someone had dropped at his feet. “I don’t need your loyalty. And Fenghuang…” his raspy voice turned into a whisper, “belongs to the Feng Shui Marauder.”

Lucius leaned slightly toward him. “My Lord, the Feng Shui Marauder was killed.”

Voldemort paused, head tilting slightly. “Killed?” he repeated, voice dipped in disdain. “Feng Shui Marauder cannot be killed.”

The way he said it made the idea sound absurd, like claiming you’d outrun the wind or hex the ocean. Lucius stiffened. A few others shifted uncomfortably. It didn’t make sense. After all, the man had vanished years ago. International reports, magical intelligence briefings, even Ministry dispatches had confirmed it. Feng Shui Marauder had turned to ash.

The uproar started when Lockhart claimed the kill. But when Lockhart was exposed, and no trace of the Marauder surfaced again, people assumed it was true, just that Lockhart stole the credit.

Before anyone could voice it, Mingyu stepped forward. “He’s not dead!” he said quickly. “My grandfather and the Marauder work together. He hides.”

Voldemort made a soft sound, like tasting something odd on his tongue. “Then it’s even worse,” he said mildly. “I already have Dumbledore sniffing at my doors. I don’t need Ji at my back as well.”

He looked at Mingyu for a long moment. “So I cannot hire you.” Then he glanced around the circle of robed figures, considering. “But I cannot kill you either. Not unless I silence every person here.”

His gaze swept the ring slowly. As if he was really considering killing everyone there.

“No,” he said at last. “Too early to invite China to war.” His chin lifted. “Barty. Make him sign a blood contract. We’ll release him later.”

Barty flicked his wand and ropes snapped around Mingyu’s arms and torso, jerking him back toward a leaning headstone. The boy didn’t resist, he was too busy trying not to faint.

“Now,” Voldemort said softly, “let us resume.”

Lucius’s teeth clicked. “What about him, my Lord?” He didn’t even bother pretending. His wand hand was twitching already, pointed straight at Cassian.

Voldemort didn’t look at him. “I know you hate him too, Lucius. But I made a promise.” His voice was cold. “Lucian gets to destroy his brother.”

Lucius bowed his head, barely hiding the twist in his jaw. “Yes, my Lord.”

“But without Potter…” Voldemort continued.

Lucian hesitantly spoke, careful with each word. “My Lord, forgive my boldness. The ritual requires the blood of your enemy, yes?”

Voldemort lifted his gaze from Lucian’s hands. “Speak.”

Lucian dipped his head. “It is our reunion with Barty… and as a gift for the occasion, I brought two individuals who might cheer him up.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “They happen to be your enemies as well.”

Voldemort hummed. “Bring them.”

Cassian froze as one of the Death Eaters pushed two wheelchairs into the clearing.

Frank and Alice Longbottom.

They sat stiff in their seats, pale under the moonlight, eyes vacant. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a twitch.

Cassian’s fingers clenched so tight around his wand, wood creak could be heard.

“My Lord,” Lucian stepped up beside the chairs, voice far too loud, clearly for the benefit of the gathering, gestured like he was unveiling a masterpiece, making sure Lucius and the others heard every word.

“These two…” he said, almost cheerfully, “were broken by Barty. Tortured, the night you va- He was grieved.”

Cassian’s stomach turned.

Lucian carried on. “He searched their home for clues. Hunted for any sign of you. Wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t stop. It was devotion, pure and simple.”

Barty stood to the side, head tilted. Seemed happy with Lucian’s recounting.

And when Voldemort turned his head ever so slightly to glance at him, Barty stood straighter. As if the broken husks of the Longbottoms were medals being pinned to his chest.

Voldemort studied the Longbottoms for a moment, then turned back with mild curiosity.

“Their minds seem to be lost,” he said. “What have you done?”

Barty’s face didn’t change. “I was… lost, My Lord,” he said simply. “You were gone. I thought they knew something, anything. I needed answers.” He gave a faint smile. “So I kept casting Crucio. Over and over. Until they stopped screaming.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like anyone would’ve done the same.

Voldemort hummed, neither pleased nor angry. “Without a mind, malice is thin.”

Lucius stepped forward quickly. “My Lord, if I may-“

Voldemort turned his head.

Lucius bowed slightly. “The Rosier is here. He’s armed. A threat. And if it’s enmity you require-“

“No,” Voldemort cut him off. “I don’t feel any enmity from him. It’s probably a spell blocking it. Intriguing, but not worth the risk.”

Lucius fell silent.

Nott Sr shifted beside him. “Then perhaps we find another. Someone suitable. Potter, even…”

“We don’t have time,” Voldemort said sharply. “Dumbledore might try to find them.” He looked again at the Longbottoms. “It would be cleaner if they were restored. At least enough to hate. I could if I had my power. But… Their blood will do for now, at least partially.”

“Will it really work, my lord?” Goyle asked, looking at the pair.

“Blood is blood,” Voldemort mused. “But blood that fights back burns hotter.”

Cassian’s throat dried. His jaw cracked as he forced it shut. He swallowed hard, throat burning. If this kept building, it wouldn’t matter who killed him first, the Tournament might do it for them.

“You left them like this. You broke their minds until they forgot how to cry. And now you parade them like party favours?” He said, staring coldly at Barty and Lucian.

Lucian gave a shrug. “Better than wasting them in some hospital corridor, wouldn’t you say?”

Barty tilted his head, mouth curled like he was chewing something sour. “Oh come on, don’t go soft now, Cassy. You used to love torturing smaller people. If you could find anyone smaller than yourself, that is.”

Lucian laughed under his breath. Cassian didn’t.

His wand twitched up, but he didn’t get far. Six more moved faster, trained on him like they’d been waiting for an excuse. Lucius looked like he might burst a vessel just from breathing the same air. One twitch, and they’d all be on him.

He let his arm drop.

“Let’s begin. Their blood won’t finish it, but it will start it. Once I can stand, you’ll fetch something that truly hates me.”

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