I can’t believe this needs to be written, but here it is. One of the core premises of this fic is Cassian gaining spells through the interface. Yes, his magic is gone. No, it’s not permanent. And no, I’m not going to drag this out. I said it before, I don’t want to milk the fic for the sake of it.

It was not for the sake Voldemort’s resurrection. I could have very easily kept Cassian out of it, and his presence did nothing for the resurrection except saving the Longbottoms. It does serve a purpose in the plot, and it’s something I thought through before starting this fic as I said before.

Many of you have said you don’t like power losing arcs. That’s fair. As a reader, I’m not a fan either. But in this case, I felt it was necessary.

Overall feedback so far for the following year has been positive. I hope you can stick with the story and continue to give feedback as it progresses as well.

—

Cassian sucked the air in like he hadn’t done it in weeks. His vision clearing, although his mind was still foggy.

First thing he saw was Bathsheda, hair half-unpinned, eyes wide, wand glowing.

She looked furious. And terrified. And relieved.

He blinked at her. “Was that… did you just resuscitate me?”

She pressed her lips together. “Don’t be daft. You weren’t dead.”

“Felt like it.”

“Maybe next time, don’t throw yourself through a portkey without warning.”

“Noted.”

Cassian tried sitting up. Regretted it immediately. He collapsed back onto the cot with a hiss, ribs squealing.

She held his hand.

“Cass,” she said. Her voice barely made it out.

He squeezed her hand. Felt the tremble. “Yeah. My magic’s gone.”

She nodded.

One tear dropped. Then the next. She didn’t wipe them.

Cassian’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “It’s alright. I’m alright.”

Bathsheda didn’t speak. Her jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping her together.

He shifted slightly, wincing. “Alright-ish.”

Her shoulders shook with a breath that was too close to a sob. She ducked her head.

He lifted her hand again, kissed the back of it. “Hey.”

She didn’t look up.

“Love,” he said gently. “I didn’t die.”

“You nearly did.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t. Can’t get rid of me that easy. You’d have to try harder.”

She let out a half-choked laugh. It broke somewhere around the middle.

“I was so scared,” she whispered. “When you dropped. Your magic just… went.”

He nodded, eyes slipping shut for a second. “What about others?”

She took a breath, then another. “Mingyu can’t speak. Master Ji said they put him in a blood contract.”

Cassian stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“They need to hear it from you.”

“Of course they bloody do.”

“He’s unconscious, you absolute turnip!” Madam Pomfrey’s voice came from outside, before Cassian could curse more. She was in full battle mode. Someone muttered something about protocol.

“Protocol? You want protocol? I’ll protocol you straight out the door!”

Cassian smiled faintly. “She’s missed me.”

Bathsheda glanced toward the door. “You’re her worst patient.”

“What can I do? I outlive the others.”

The door creaked open, but no one dared step in until Madam Pomfrey’s wand did a lap around the bed like a sniffer dog on a warpath.

“Vitals stable. Vessels are intact. Head not cracked open. Fine.” She huffed. “You have exactly seven minutes. And if a single syllable sounds like an interrogation, I start throwing hexes.”

Dumbledore was the first to step through, looking about five hours older. Fudge and other Heads of Schools followed, flanked by Bones. McGonagall was right behind, lips pressed so tight they looked stitched on. Cassian could feel Snape lurking somewhere near the back, probably hoping he was concussed enough to forget the last decade.

Cassian lifted a hand halfway. “Is this a press conference or a wake?”

No one laughed.

Fudge cleared his throat. “Professor Rosier-“

“Oh, so we’re doing titles now. Right.” Cassian shifted slightly in bed, flinching as his ribs complained.

Fudge shifted restlessly, eyes darting about the room. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Cassian looked at them as though they were all fools. “Mingyu’s screen was active, wasn’t it? Didn’t you see what happened?”

They exchanged uneasy glances. At last, Dumbledore sighed, “The vision ended the moment he stepped into the center,” he said quietly. “We saw you, standing opposite Moody… or rather, Barty. The two of you faced one another. And then, nothing. Whatever followed was hidden from us.”

Cassian clicked his tongue. Of course it bloody went off. “Do you want the short version, the one that fits your political needs, or the actual truth?”

Fudge puffed up like a frog in a kettle. “Cassian, this is a serious matter.”

“Then stop talking.” Cassian cut across him. “The real Moody, did you save him? The man teaching here was Barty Crouch Jr. Yes, that one. Still breathing. Or was. Depending on what the Dark Lord did after I left him in a graveyard with Voldemort.”

“We saved him already, Cassian. He was in the Defence room, imprisoned in a trunk.” Dumbledore sighed.

Cassian winced. “Oof. Poor man.”

Bones moved closer. “Are you saying You-Know-Who-“

“Don’t,” Cassian snapped. “Don’t call him names. He’s a noseless cult leader who’s obsessed with teenagers. He’s not a god.”

That stunned the room into a brief silence.

He went on, quieter now. “Yes. Voldemort’s back. He’s got a body again. Properly resurrected. Lovely little ritual. Had a cauldron and everything.”

McGonagall’s fingers twitched at that.

He then told them everything.

About the graveyard. About Lucian and Barty dragging Death Eaters out of the shadows like rats returning to a nest. About the ritual and the way it had pulled Voldemort from his half-life and stuffed him into a body.

He explained why the Longbottoms had been there. How they were used.

He told them how Voldemort looked.

What it felt like to stand there, helpless, while the Dark Lord stretched back into power.

He didn’t spare any detail except a few secrets of his own.

When he finished, the silence was long. Everyone stared at him, some in disbelief, some in dawning horror. The professors, the Ministry, even Kingsley looked like he’d bitten something sour.

Dumbledore, Ji, and Ekwensi were the only ones who didn’t look surprised.

“We suspected as much,” Dumbledore said quietly. “We examined the Cup. It took time, but we found traces of foreign Portkey magic woven deep into its handle.”

Ji nodded. “Once we identified the thread, we followed it to the location. The graveyard.”

“It was empty,” Ekwensi added. “But your darkness spell was there.”

Cassian nodded weakly.

“There was a large cauldron left behind,” Ji continued. “Still warm.”

“We found four holes,” Dumbledore said, voice a touch colder. “What were they?”

Cassian gave a shrug. Not bothering to explain. “I don’t know what they did after I left.”

Fudge eased his collar. “Is it true? Your brother, Lucian?”

Cassian let his head fall back against the pillow. “Yeah.”

Umbridge gave a prim little cough that sounded like a dying goose. “Hem hem. Pardon us for our confusion, Professor. But we can’t exactly rely on your account. And Mr Xu cannot testify.”

Cassian didn’t even glance at her. His eyes were on Dumbledore. “Do what you want with that information. I’ve said my bit.”

Fudge inhaled like he was trying to find his backbone on the way out. “Cassian, I don’t want to doubt you. But this is… significant. Can we review your memories?”

Cassian turned his head slightly. “Really?”

Dumbledore’s shoulders shifted. “With your magic drained, you can’t extract them for the Pensieve.”

Cassian nodded. “And you know no one can pull them out of my head either.”

Umbridge’s laugh grated his ears. “What do you mean no one can? That’s rather bold of you, Professor.”

Dumbledore raised a hand without looking at her. “Cassian’s mind is… uniquely guarded. No Legilimens has ever been able to breach it.”

She sniffed. “How convenient.”

Cassian sighed. “I can’t help being interesting.”

Umbridge opened her mouth again, no doubt winding up for a speech about procedure or protocol, but Dumbledore cut her off.

“That will do, Miss Umbridge.”

She shut her mouth with a snap, eyes narrowed.

Bones cleared her throat. “We’ll need statements. Veritaserum if necessary.”

Cassian gave her a tired look. “You think I haven’t got enough bruises?”

“Standard procedure.”

“Of course it is. Though equally useless.”

Fudge looked like he wanted to run. “You’ll understand, Cassian, this will spark international panic if confirmed. We can’t act on partial claims-“

Cassian cut him off. “It’s not partial. It’s not a claim. It’s not an opinion piece in the Prophet. He’s back. Alive. Whole. In case anyone missed the bit where he had a face again.”

Silence.

Cassian pushed the blanket down, trying to shift upright again. “Look. I don’t care what you do with the information. Hide it. Deny it. Blame me for all I care. But don’t stand here pretending this is a theory. I dragged three people back from a dark ritual and a fourth from being flung through a portkey trap. If that’s not enough for you-“

Bathsheda touched his arm. “Cass.”

He stopped, letting out a slow breath, jaw working. He lay back again.

“Well,” he muttered. “At least tell me someone punched Karkaroff on the way out.”

No one answered.

“Cowards.”

***

Once most of them were out the door, only three remained, Dumbledore, Bathsheda, and Pomfrey, who was glaring at the man.

Dumbledore gave her a tired smile. “This will be brief, Poppy. I promise.”

She snorted. “You always say that.” But she turned anyway, muttering all the way to her office.

The moment the door shut behind her, Dumbledore turned back.

“How did you escape?”

Cassian winced remembering the scene. “My magic was bleeding out, so fighting him wasn’t an option. Lucky break, really, Voldemort promised my idiot brother the honour of killing me.”

Both Bathsheda and Dumbledore flinched. Neither of them liked hearing that.

Cassian dragged in a breath. “When Barty first fired up the Cup, he used ropes to drag Mingyu and Potter in. I pushed Potter clear, but the rope clipped my shoulder and took me instead.” He lifted a hand as if to mime the motion, thought better of it, and dropped it onto the blanket. “Gave me the idea.”

Dumbledore waited.

“I sent vines under the ground for Mingyu and the Longbottoms. Managed to get a grip on all three, but everything was crawling. My magic was dragging its heels. Felt like trying to cast through wet sand.” He rubbed his ribs at the memory. “Couldn’t get them out before Voldemort finished the ritual.”

Bathsheda’s jaw tightened.

Cassian blew out a breath. “Once he was… whole again, he got distracted admiring himself. That was my gap. I pulled. Hard.” His fingers twitched. “Summoned the Cup and dragged the lot of us back.”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened. Eyes locking on at his temples. “You saved them. All three.”

Cassian’s eyes sharpened. “It was my family’s doing, wasn’t it.”

Dumbledore didn’t answer at first. His gaze drifted to the foot of the bed, then back up. “Regulus and Magnus sent out a declaration.” He exhaled. “Lucian is no longer a Rosier. There’s a bounty on him now. Fifty thousand Galleons if he’s caught alive. Ten thousand for the body.”

Cassian let out a short scoff. “Serves him right.”

Bathsheda held his hand. Dumbledore bowed his head.

“I am sorry, Cassian,” he said. “I should have trusted you. I should have cancelled the tournament.”

Cassian waved a hand vaguely. “What’s happened has happened. You need to look forward.”

Bathsheda’s didn’t speak, but he felt the tremor. Her eyes were still rimmed red, dried trails catching the light.

Cassian shifted, ribs whining in protest. “What’s the fallout?”

Dumbledore took a moment before answering. “St. Mungo’s has already taken Frank and Alice. They’re stable. Shaken, but alive.”

***

When it was only the two of them, Bathsheda’s fingers curled around his, firm and shaking all at once. Her gaze locked to the white streaks at his temples, as if they were proof something inside him had burned out and left a mark.

“Did you use Sylvanima?” she asked, voice soft, almost scared to ask.

Cassian nodded with a sigh.

The ancient Druid spell. The one he’d awakened last year. The only one that still obeyed him without stutter or drag. Even now, he could feel it. The flowers by his bedside and the wood of the cot he was lying on, the leaves outside brushing the windows, the roots spiraling under the school like nerves under skin.

Four holes, Dumbledore had said.

They were where he’d sent the vines. One to Mingyu. Two to the Longbottoms.

He’d started it the moment they were brought out. Focused his magic into the roots beneath the graveyard. But it had to be slow. Each inch they moved left creaks and groans in their wake. If he rushed, they’d notice.

Although Barty thought his temple whitening was a cost of the Cup’s magic.

But it wasn’t.

The Cup had taken his magic. That was true.

But it hadn’t done anything else.

(Check Here)

Now fold the heartbreak gently into the narrative like this… yes, perfect. Then set it in the oven and forget about it completely.

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