Cassian walked into the Great Hall like he hadn’t just vanished off the face of the Earth three months ago. His coat was damp at the edges, the wooden staff tapping the ground with each step, and perched on his shoulder was a dragon the size of a curled-up cat, scales a deep red-black.

The hall had gone dead quiet.

Hundreds of students stared as if a ghost was strolling through their pudding. The staff table froze. Even the floating candles flickered.

The dragon let out a chuff, then lifted off with a lazy flap, coasted above the tables, and dropped down to Bathsheda’s arm. She caught it without blinking, eyes still locked on Cassian, smiling like she’d known all along, as Ash melted into a tattoo on her forearm.

Then the penny dropped.

And the whole place exploded.

Cheers slammed through the room. Half the Gryffindor table stood so fast their benches scraped. Hufflepuffs were clapping like mad. Ravenclaws were banging on the tables. Slytherins breathed sighs of relief, “He lives!” a few commented with smiles.

Fred and George didn’t bother with the aisle.

“PROFESSOR R.!”

They vaulted the bench. Fred got there first, arms out. George lunged from the side.

Cassian stepped clean to the right.

The twins collided mid-air and crumpled onto the floor in a heap.

“Ah, gravity,” Cassian said. “Never fails.”

George groaned from the floor. “Why would you dodge our expression of love?”

Fred rolled over. “We were going for a heartfelt reunion.”

“Precisely why I dodged.”

They both grinned up at him.

Someone started chanting “Roh-sier, Roh-sier.” Someone else tossed a hat in the air. Cassian ignored all of it and made for the staff table.

He stopped just in front of Umbridge, one brow raised.

“You’re in my seat.”

She looked up, still smiling. The kind of smile you get from someone who’s about five seconds from selling you poison and calling it tea. But the tension in her jaw gave her away. That, and the way her hands stayed flat on the table, fingers twitching.

“Ah, yes. How rude of me,” she said, standing neatly. But she didn’t leave. Just hovered beside the chair, as if she hoped the furniture might decide she was still the better option.

Cassian didn’t sit. He looked at her, then at the chair, then back.

“Well,” he said, waiting.

Her smile strained. She cleared her throat. “I was under the impression the Ministry had-“

“Oh, no, I’m sure they were. Very under the impression. Sounds exactly like them.”

A few snickers drifted from the Gryffindor table.

She tried again. “The Minister felt-“

Cassian sat, ignoring her.

He reached for the goblet by his plate, gave it a sniff, then took a sip like he’d been here the whole time and everyone else was late.

Dumbledore wore a fake concern. “Mr Filch, please fetch a chair for Miss Umbridge.”

Umbridge’s smile thinned even further.

Filch had already shuffled in with a spare under one arm. He shoved it into place at the far end of the table with a grunt.

Umbridge didn’t sit.

Dumbledore raised his arms again, smiling wide. “Now, let us eat.”

The food blinked into existence. Roast chicken. Potatoes. Gravy. Vegetables in neat rows. Some first years jumped.

Umbridge still hadn’t sat.

Cassian popped a roast potato in his mouth and kept chewing.

Bathsheda filled his plate. Chicken, mash, a bit of stew, enough bread to start a trade route. Cassian glanced at it, then her.

“Bit much,” he muttered.

“When did you last eat properly?” she asked, not looking at him.

She slid the gravy boat over. He poked a carrot and took a bite. Yum.

The students had mostly calmed down. Some were still grinning, others halfway through retelling their own version of the entrance like they’d witnessed a miracle and were determined to embellish it by dessert.

At some point, Umbridge vanished through the side door. No one stopped eating. A few students glanced over. Nobody cared. Even the ghosts didn’t bother.

Sprout leaned in from her end, smiling through a mouthful of roast. “Where were you all this time?”

Cassian shrugged, picked up a piece of bread. “Here and there. Seeing around.”

Flitwick chuckled into his goblet. “Nice beard.”

Cassian ran a hand down his jaw. “Adds a certain wisdom, I’d say.”

“Covers the lack of it, at least,” Snape said, without looking up from his plate.

Cassian bit into the bread. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Severus. You’d look terrible with facial hair.”

Snape didn’t respond. His fork stabbed the poor potato.

Bathsheda sipped her drink, smiling into it.

Cassian shifted in his seat, nodded to McGonagall down the table, who gave him a smile before turning back to her pudding.

***

Cassian was sprawled in the armchair nearest the fire, coat shrugged over the backrest, his boots propped one atop the other, staff resting against him. Bathsheda had claimed the armrest of his chair, legs crossed, one arm resting on his knee. McGonagall stood, arms folded, near the desk. Flitwick perched on a thick stack of books beside the hearth. Sprout clutched a mug of something aggressively herbal. Snape hadn’t sat at all.

Dumbledore turned from the window at last. “Tell us about your travels.”

Cassian scratched his cheek. “Still no magic, if that’s what you’re really wondering.”

He didn’t look away. Dumbledore didn’t either. He just nodded, looking at the ring in his hand, but said nothing.

Cassian leaned on Bathsheda. “Right. So. Good news first, I didn’t die in a bog. Bad news… I nearly did. Twice. Possibly three times, depending on how you count a cliff edge and a sentient tree with abandonment issues.”

Bathsheda huffed through her nose.

“Started north. Highland caves. Found a few markers, nothing in a readable script. They like their spiral motifs and bleeding rock walls. Then moved west, tried some standing stones out in Brecon. Thought I’d struck gold when the wind shifted and half the moss peeled off to reveal some ogham. Turned out to be someone’s prank. Said ‘piss off, thief.'”

Sprout looked faintly scandalised. Flitwick let out a small laugh.

Cassian waved a hand. “Druids weren’t fans of writing things down, apparently. Said it weakens memory. Makes the mind soft.”

McGonagall frowned. “Rather arrogant of them.”

“Oh, absolutely. But very on brand. Everything’s oral tradition. Song, poem, ritual, ceremony. If you didn’t memorise it, it didn’t happen. Excellent for the soul, horrific for historians.”

Snape huffed sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh.

Cassian shrugged. “Found ruins older than the castle. Doors fused shut, some half-sunken into peat. The wards didn’t let me in. Not magically, anyway. They just… didn’t open. The kind of silence that feels personal.”

“Anything dangerous?” Flitwick asked.

“Define dangerous.”

Flitwick raised an eyebrow.

“There was a cave that tried to eat me,” Cassian offered. “Opened like a mouth. Full set of stone teeth. Didn’t like the dragon. Backed off when she growled. I’ve since upgraded her from travel companion to personal security.”

He then stretched a bit. “So, yes. A few druid markers, a lot of nature trying to kill me, and not one blasted clue how to undo what the Cup did.”

Dumbledore moved closer. “Do you believe it can be undone?”

Cassian looked at his hand. Flexed the fingers.

“No idea,” he said finally. “Magic leaves echoes. Always. Whether it can be reversed… that depends on whether the Cup meant it as a sacrifice or a trade.”

“Trade?” Flitwick asked.

Cassian tilted his head. “My magic went. The Tournament shut. But Mingyu still completed it. Feels like it took what it needed.”

Sprout shifted uneasily. “That doesn’t sound reversible.”

“Doesn’t sound fair, either,” Cassian muttered.

They fell into silence.

McGonagall’s voice was quiet. “You’ll stay, then?”

Cassian blinked at her. “Of course I’ll stay. I like my job.”

Snape made a noise. It might’ve been an actual laugh this time.

Cassian ignored him. “Besides, Hogwarts has excellent food, mediocre beds, and a staffroom I’ve already stocked with my tea. Not going anywhere.”

Bathsheda nudged his leg with her knee.

Cassian cleared his throat. “Sorry. And my beloved.”

Sprout snorted into her mug.

Bathsheda didn’t look at him. “I made peace with my ranking years ago,” she said. “History. Food. Sleep. Tea. Then me.”

Cassian tipped his head toward her. “See? Well-adjusted.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “I’m glad you’re back, Cassian.”

“Me too,” Cassian said. “This place would be dull without me.”

Dumbledore clasped his hands behind his back. “We’ll speak properly tomorrow.”

***

After the heads of house left, Cassian leaned back in the chair, kicked his boots toward the fire and looked between Bathsheda and Dumbledore.

“How did it go in China?”

Dumbledore sighed, slow and long.

Bathsheda’s fingers curled into her sleeve. “Utterly boring. Mingyu’s grandfather, Deputy Headmaster, folded too quickly. Barely put up a puff.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Disappointing. You’d think a man with a white beard and ancient robes might have some backbone.”

“Master Ji didn’t give him the chance,” she said. “He was angry, swift and brutal. Dragged out names, documents, all of it. Anyone involved was caught before breakfast.”

“And the Marauder?”

Bathsheda’s jaw clicked. “Didn’t trust them, it seemed. He disappeared long before we arrived.”

“Figured he might,” Cassian muttered.

“Flamels stayed behind,” Dumbledore said. “Master Nicolas is convinced the Marauder will resurface. Perenelle agrees.”

Cassian picked up the spoon from his teacup and gave it a twirl. “So, not a total waste. Still, I was hoping you’d at least get a dramatic betrayal out of it.”

Bathsheda shrugged. “One of the aides tried to bolt. Master Ji transfigured him into a fountain.”

Cassian grinned. “That’s more like it.”

Before they left, Cassian’s gaze darted on the parchment unfurled across Dumbledore’s desk. The Marauder’s Map. After last year’s fiasco, they had agreed it was safer in the Headmaster’s desk. Better that Dumbledore keep watch than risk another lunatic slipping unseen through the castle’s passages. Privacy be damned.

The wards alerted the Headmaster anyway, but they did not tell him who moved within the walls.

***

The next morning, Umbridge was back at the staff table. New robe. Same pink.

She passed the letter to Dumbledore like it was a summons to a duel. He took it without blinking, cracked the seal, and read. Slowly.

“I have a statement from the Minister,” Umbridge said, standing again. She didn’t wait to be asked. “I am to act as Curriculum Control Liaison for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, on behalf of Minister Fudge and the Department of Magical Education.”

Sirius made a sound like he’d swallowed his tea wrong. “Sorry, what exactly is a Curriculum Control Liaison? Someone who alphabetises hexes?”

Umbridge turned to him, smile widening. “It means I am authorised to oversee educational content, advise on academic rigour, and ensure the school maintains alignment with Ministry-approved standards.”

Cassian hummed. Hogwarts wasn’t a Ministry department. The Board held sway, but even then, staff held seventy percent of the voting rights. Dumbledore alone had more say than the entire board. Fudge could bluster all he liked. If Dumbledore and the staff said no, that was the end of it.

So Umbridge’s new post boiled down to a Ministry mouthpiece with a clipboard. She couldn’t issue detentions. Couldn’t veto lesson plans. She wasn’t even on the rota. Her chair wasn’t technically hers. Filch had to drag it out again, and it still wobbled.

Nobody asked where she’d been the night before. No one cared.

McGonagall spent most of breakfast pretending she didn’t exist. Flitwick didn’t bother hiding his snort when she tried asking about the third-year Charms curriculum. Bathsheda stirred her tea chatting with her group. Snape gave her a look halfway between bored and mildly amused, then turned the page on his paper.

It was clear to everyone except Umbridge that she was a decorative plant. Loud, pink, and unwelcome.

By mid-morning, she’d already begun collecting copies of textbooks, pestering classroom doors, and peeking through office windows like a nosy neighbour who’d been given a clipboard and mistaken it for a crown.

Cassian didn’t engage.

He had notes to clean, a term plan to reshuffle, and no magic.

She’d learn eventually.

Or she wouldn’t.

Either way, he couldn’t care less.

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They were brave. They took every chapter head on. And in the end… said nothing. May the odds remain forever awkward.

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