The Duelling Room was already noisy by the time Cassian and Bathsheda stepped in, spells fizzing mid-air, someone laughing too loud, and the faint crack of a dummy hitting the far wall. Students scrambled back into formation when they noticed the door open.

Cassian scanned the room, head tilted slightly. “Bit lively for the first five minutes.”

Bathsheda gave a shrug. “They’ve been cooped up all week. Probably happy to cause some controlled mayhem.”

Then they saw Sirius was perched on a stack of crates like a pirate in full recruitment mode. A few students had formed a rough circle around him, half of them grinning, the other half clearly waiting to be hexed.

Cassian didn’t think much of it. Professors wandered into his club all the time, some hovered in the back, others gave pointers during drills.

Sirius spotted him, grinned like a man who’d stolen something and gotten away with it.

“I decided to take over the club,” he called out.

Cassian blinked. “Oh?”

Sirius hopped down. “Thought it could use some new material. Shake things up.”

Bathsheda raised an eyebrow. “And who approved that?”

“I did,” Sirius said cheerfully. “In a mirror. Looked very official.”

Cassian tilted his head. “And I assume the mirror hasn’t punched that face for a long time?”

“Not yet,” Sirius replied. “But it did suggest I rename this place. Thinking ‘Black’s Battle Barn.’ Has a ring to it. BBB for short.”

Cassian stared at him for a long beat. Then turned to the nearest student. “Is this how he opened the session?”

Dean nodded, wide-eyed. “Said duelling’s outdated and we should learn ‘honest violence.’ Then he tripped over a bench.”

Sirius pointed a warning finger. “I meant to do that.”

Cassian ignored him. “Right. I see.”

He walked a slow line across the mat, staff tapping the ground.

“You’re aware,” he said, “this isn’t Gryffindor Quidditch Club with extra wand waving.”

“I am,” Sirius said, unbothered.

“And these are teenagers. Not backup for your next bar fight.”

“Technically,” Sirius offered, “only some of them are teenagers.”

Cassian gave Bathsheda a sideways glance. “Am I being replaced or recruited?”

“Depends,” she said. “Do you want to?”

Sirius leaned on the back of a chair. “We could make you Second Officer of Spell-Related Shenanigans.”

Cassian deadpanned, “Tempting. But I prefer Professor Rosier. Has a touch more dignity.”

Someone near the back muttered, “Barely.”

He pointed in that direction without turning. “Who said that?”

No answer.

Cassian shook his head, turned back to Sirius. “If you’re set on helping, fine. But this is still my club.”

Sirius’ grin slipped. “You really want me to say it?”

Cassian lifted his chin. “Say it.”

Sirius huffed, jaw tigh. “Fine. You lost your magic. How will you teach in Duelling Club?”

Cassian grinned, sharp and toothy. “I brought my better half.”

Sirius glanced at Bathsheda, then back. “Why don’t you let me have it?”

Cassian shrugged. “Simple. I don’t want to.”

They stared at each other. Eyes clashing. The room had gone dead quiet. Even the dummies looked as if they were holding their breath.

Then Sirius sighed. “Fine. How about a duel. She against me. If she wins, you can do as you wish. If I win, I get the club.”

Cassian’s eyes went cold. Students stepped back, even though every one of them knew Cassian didn’t have magic anymore. It didn’t matter. Instinct said move. Make space.

Bathsheda looked one second away from hexing Sirius through the floor.

Cassian chuckled.

“I’ve got a better one.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

Cassian walked towards the ring. “If you win against me, I’ll let you take the club.”

Sirius let out a short breath. “You?”

Cassian stopped at the edge of the ring, stepped in, and turned around. “Me.”

***

Fred and George were halfway through setting up a betting pool when Bathsheda turned her head and gave them a look. They froze. Grinned. Then quietly folded up the parchment and pretended they’d been discussing weather patterns.

The students shifted in a wide arc around the ring. Sirius bounced on his heels, wand loose between two fingers, the picture of someone who thought this would be quick and a bit of fun.

Cassian leaned on his staff.

“Sure you’re up for this?” Sirius asked.

Cassian tilted his head. “Planning to bore me into a coma?”

Sirius grinned wider. “You’ll miss my jokes when you’re face down on the mat.”

Cassian smiled. “Unlikely.”

Sirius didn’t answer.

He stepped back and spoke cleanly, wand cutting the air. “Confringo.”

Cassian moved on instinct. The blast tore past his shoulder and slammed into the mat, scorching a black seam across it. Heat clipped his sleeve, curled the fabric.

He landed, then stopped. The floor felt wrong. He squinted down at the mat. ‘When the hell did you lay this?’ There was no visible glow but he could sense it. Pressure ward, keyed to weight. Sit-and-wait type. The sort you place three moves before you need it.

Sirius, despite his casual look, was taking this siriusly it seemed.

Cassian shifted his weight to his toes and slid sideways. The ward answered him anyway, a faint blue pulse chasing the shadow of his step.

Sirius didn’t wait for him to figure out.

“Incarcerous.”

The word rang out, but the ropes didn’t come from him. They lashed in from the benches behind Cassian, snapping fast. Cassian dropped to one knee, felt one crack the air where his neck had been, another smacked into the wall. He slid sideways on the staff, boots barely brushing the mat.

Cold flared to his left. ‘Wandless and silent?’

He twisted as frost burst across the pillar behind him, ice racing down stone. His coat snapped. The chill bit through wool and skin. His heel dipped…

The floor ward stirred.

“Bloody-“

He caught himself with the staff instead, leaned his weight into it. The ward fluttered, irritated, but didn’t fire.

Sirius circled. Wand loose. Other hand raised briefly, fingers flexing like he was counting something only he could see.

Something scraped behind Cassian.

The cracked remains of a practice dummy hauled itself upright, wood flowing as it moved. Its torso stretched, head reshaping mid-air into scales and a snapping jaw.

‘Cheap,’ Cassian thought. ‘Which means the real one’s coming.’

He turned and swung in one motion. The staff cracked into it and the transfiguration burst apart into scraps of paper and ash.

Right on cue…

“Ventus.”

The word sent a wide gust tearing across the mat.

Cassian ducked into it and felt the real hit come in from the side, another wandless and mean. It caught his ribs like a soaked rope. Pain flared sharp. He sucked in air and kept moving.

‘Disarm with the wand,’ he realised, ‘hit with the hand. Bastard.’

The ropes snapped alive again.

‘Delayed spell?’

They lashed in from the side, one looping around the staff and yanking it off-line. Cassian didn’t fight it. He stepped with the pull, let it drag him to build speed, then ripped it free with the hooked end and spun.

Sirius was already moving.

Two spells followed each other so close they blurred. One skidded low, adhesive and spreading. The other warped mid-air, metallic sheen to it. Transfiguration layered over force.

Cassian jumped the first, clipped the edge. His boot dragged for half a second too long. He felt it grab.

He twisted through the second, hit the mat on his shoulder and rolled.

Up again. He was closer now.

Sirius shifted back, wand lifting, and his fingers flicked again.

The floor went cold.

Cassian felt the frost crawl under his boots, heard the mat crack as it locked. He lunged anyway, ribs flaring, breath tight. The freeze snapped shut behind him.

“Verdimill-” Sirius started.

Cassian was already inside the range.

The staff snapped forward and jammed between Sirius’s feet. Sirius tried to pivot on reflex. Too late. His boot caught the wood.

Cassian stepped through and brought his heel down.

Hard.

Sirius went down flat, breath punching out of him, wand skittering across the mat.

Silence slammed into the room.

Cassian stood over him, chest heaving. His side burned where the wandless hit had landed. Not crippling but hurt bad.

He pressed his fingers there, then let his hand drop, looking down at Sirius.

“Would you like to make a dramatic speech about teamwork now or later?”

Sirius groaned, arm over his face. “You’re a menace.”

Cassian offered a hand.

“You broke my foot.” Sirius whined.

He hauled him up. Sirius winced all the way.

From the doorway, Bathsheda was watching with the same cold expression.

“Are you done playing?”

Sirius muttered, “He cheated.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome to join in and give pointers.”

Sirius sighed, annoyingly long and theatrical, then turned toward the door. “Got it. Your club.”

He limped out with as much dignity as a man nursing a bruised foot could manage.

Bathsheda kept glaring at the doorway after it shut. “Should’ve let me handle that.”

Cassian glanced at her, mouth twitching. “And maim him? Students still need a Defence professor.”

She snorted, pleased despite herself.

Cassian turned back to the room. Every pair of eyes snapped to him, some buzzing, some still half-stunned by what they’d just seen.

“Alright,” he said, tapping the staff against the floor. “Fun time’s over.”

A few groaned.

“Wands up,” Cassian went on. “We’re learning a nice spell.”

Fred and George were already bouncing on their feet.

“Is it another one of your unique skills?” Fred asked.

“Please say it explodes,” George added.

Cassian’s mouth tugged upward. “It is. Today, I’m teaching you a spell I created. Lumos Spectrum.”

The room deflated.

A collective groan rolled through the hall. Some actually booed. Lee Jordan was the loudest of them.

“Lumos?” Lee called. “That’s it? We just watched you floor Professor Black and now we’re doing torches?”

Cassian ignored him and leaned his weight onto the staff.

“Relax. I haven’t taught Lumos in years,” he said. “Felt nostalgic. Old age does that.”

“You’re not old,” Lee shot back. “Just grumpy.”

Cassian squinted at him. “Should I use you as my test subject?”

Lee shut up.

Hermione was already standing straighter. Harry hadn’t said a word, but his eyes were fixed on Cassian. They’d both seen this spell before in the Forest.

Cassian nodded to Bathsheda. “Professor Babbling will now display the spell.”

She rolled her eyes, but stepping forward, wand raised.

“Lumos Spectrum.”

Light bloomed. It split, fanned, shifted. The air shimmered as colours slid past each other. The floor lit in uneven patches. Footprints appeared where none had been before. Faint heat ghosts clung to the stone where students had been standing moments ago.

Gasps rippled through the room.

Cassian tapped the staff. “See? It is really cool.”

Bathsheda let the light fade.

“Right,” Cassian said. “I’ll spare you the full lecture. Short version, it’s Lumos with range. Pushes the light across spectrums you don’t usually see. Heat. Organic traces. Residue magic likes to hide in.”

He glanced around. “Useful for tracking. Better for finding things that don’t want to be found.”

Hermione was taking notes already.

“Think of it as teaching your light to ask better questions,” Cassian went on. “Same base charm. Different answer.”

Fred raised a hand. “Can it show if someone nicked your biscuits?”

Cassian looked at him. “Only if they were warm and guilty.”

George grinned. “Brilliant.”

Cassian shifted his stance. “Your lovely Rune Professor will demonstrate again. You’ll copy the wand movement first. No shortcuts. If you rush it, you’ll blind yourself and I’ll laugh.”

A few students snorted.

Bathsheda lifted her wand again. The light returned, softer this time, cycling cleanly through the spectrum as Cassian talked them through the shape, the timing, where most people went wrong.

“Alright,” he said, stepping back. “Pairs. Take it slow.”

Wands came up. The room filled with uneven light, flickers, false starts, bands snapping out of place. One Ravenclaw yelped when his wand flared hot and went dark again.

Cassian pointed with the staff. “Too much push. You’re forcing it. Let it slide.”

Harry tried. His light shifted, unstable at first, then steadied. A faint heat shadow bloomed on the wall where Neville had been leaning.

Harry frowned. “Huh.”

Cassian clocked it and nodded. “There you go.”

Lee tried again. His wand spat white light and died.

Cassian tilted his head. “You’re sulking through the spell. It can tell.”

“I am not sulking.”

“Your wand disagrees.”

By the time Cassian called time, the hall looked like a painter’s studio mid-argument.

“Homework,” Cassian said. Groans. “Practise it somewhere safe. Corridor, dungeon, wherever Filch isn’t.”

“Next week, we break it. Figure out what happens when you push it too far.”

That got their attention.

Cassian turned, already moving for the door. “Pack up.”

***

Bathsheda shut the door behind them and kicked off her boots without a word.

She glanced at him. “Anything?”

Cassian let his staff lean against the armchair. “Not yet. But it’s close.”

She nodded, half-turned toward the kettle.

“Next week,” he added. “Should hit something then.”

She gave him an “OK” and went to sort the tea. Kettle hissed. Two mugs came down. Her favourite had a chip in the handle, he’d offered to fix it once, got threatened with wandpoint. He didn’t ask again.

So far, he had only taught regular spells and ancient variants that he awakened. Over the summer, he experienced a few more memories. The first occurred with the Marauder Feng Shui lunatic. And much like the first incident, he saw fragmented scenes of either Dark Lords or Keepers, discussing various matters in the following ones.

Some of them were worse than others. Two Dark Lords arguing over which curse broke cleaner. One Keeper explaining how to hide intent behind intent.

From this, he concluded that teaching Ancient Variants was leading him toward something. Something that might explain why he was in this world, why he had this cheat, and why he was the gate. This year, he wanted to test what he would gain if he taught spells of his own creation.

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