The following days stayed quiet. Lessons ticked on, spells behaved, students stopped trying to duel in stairwells for a week. Cassian kept waiting for a shoe to drop, but it seemed the castle had decided to let him have a breather. Sort of.

Bathsheda drifted in and out of his office whenever she pleased, usually with a stack of parchment and tea that had gone cold five minutes in. They didn’t talk much during those hours. Just traded heat and the occasional stolen biscuit.

Sometimes, though, she’d look up and tell him what would’ve happened.

“Umbridge would’ve been High Inquisitor by now.”

Cassian blinked. “What, like a pink Gestapo?”

“She started handing out decrees. Cancelled half the clubs. Tried to sack Trelawney.”

He glanced over his glasses. “…And you’re telling me I missed Snape being speechless?”

Bathsheda didn’t look up. “You did.”

Cassian sighed. “Bloody waste.”

She shrugged. “Wasn’t worth the trade.”

He didn’t argue. Letting that woman parade around like she was the chief of the castle wasn’t something he could stomach. Hogwarts might have its curses, its sentient staircases and haunted corridors, but it didn’t deserve that toad clomping through it with a clipboard.

The problem was, Bathsheda’s sight worked backwards. She could see the timeline from her point-of-view, parallel to the current date. Which meant predicting ahead was guesswork at best, blindfolded spellfire at worst.

Still, they made do.

Classes were the same. Every lesson meant carving out new rune sheets, syncing light spells with the overhead projector, bribing students into pedalling, and managing not to throw it out the window when it whined. Somehow, it worked.

He also kept teaching his spells. They caught on. Students started using them in duels, in class, in casual arguments over biscuits. Two more visions followed.

The glade was quieter than before. Light came slower. Leaves less glowing. Something was pressing in, thick and dark, curling along the edges of the forest like rot spreading through damp wood.

He couldn’t see the source, but could see it creeping. Like a shadow bleeding into a page.

The tree was still standing.

But it looked tired.

The mist wrapped around the outer trees first. Then the vines. Then the roots. He felt the resistance, strong and ancient, but losing.

When he woke, his palms were shaking, his chest was tight.

The third time was worse.

The mist had spread further. Half the forest faded behind it. The glade still held, but only just. Like the tree was standing on a thread, holding back a tide no one else could see.

Cassian hadn’t moved for five minutes after coming back.

Bathsheda eased him onto her lap, and stroked his head until his hands stopped twitching.

Cassian didn’t like that the forest might be dying, but he had no idea what those visions meant. Each time the vision came, the tree pulled harder. It was asking him to come closer, to touch its bark. And as he did that, something would spark within him.

The first time, he’d written it off as hope. Wishful thinking. Loss did that. You lost something big enough and the mind started offering substitutes. He’d felt the tree, felt the pull, and felt, briefly, something stir under his ribs. Then it faded. Easy enough to ignore.

The second time killed that excuse as it didn’t fade. He woke with his palm buzzing, fingers twitching like they’d brushed live wire. He sat on the edge of the bed, stared at his hand, flexing it. Nothing visible but his chest felt… warmer.

Bathsheda noticed before he said anything.

“You’re humming,” she said, not looking up from her notes.

“I am not.”

She paused, quill hovering. “You are.”

He shut up then, because she was right.

The third time, it was everywhere. In his chest. In his hands. In his bones. It’s like the magic wasn’t gone, but been asleep.

Buried. Starved. Shut down so hard it had curled in on itself and waited.

REMEMBER.

Cassian jerked back, heart slamming as he remembered the voice filled his mind whenever he touched the bark.

“Alright,” he muttered, breathing rough. “I hear you.”

The word echoed again. Like someone knocking from the inside.

REMEMBER.

He came back gasping, fingers dug into the arm of the chair, spine rigid. Bathsheda was there instantly, one hand on his chest, the other gripping his wrist.

“Easy,” she said. “You’re here.”

He swallowed hard. Nodded. Didn’t trust his voice yet.

The warmth was still there. Under his skin. In his hands. It hadn’t gone with the vision. That was new.

He clenched and unclenched his fingers.

The air responded.

Bathsheda froze.

“…Cass.”

He looked at her. “Yeah.”

“You felt that too?”

“Mm.”

It was one of those days when someone knocked on his door while he was working on his essays.

“Come in. Unless it’s the Ministry,” Cassian called when he heard it.

The door opened. Daphne walked in first, Tracey close behind, Pansy at the rear like she was checking for ambushes.

He set his pen down, already grinning. “If the three of you are showing up together, it’s either gossip or catastrophe.” He leaned back. “I’m in either way.”

Tracey rolled her eyes and dropped into the chair nearest his desk. “We’re not that dramatic.”

Cassian snorted. “You are. It’s charming.”

Pansy smiled faintly. “We just came to chat.”

Cassian stood, heading for the kettle. “Dangerous phrase.”

He slapped a rune onto the side and started digging out mugs. The biscuit tin thunked onto the counter behind him, lid half open.

He handed mugs around. Daphne took hers with a quiet thank-you. Pansy sniffed it before sipping. Tracey swiped two biscuits before anyone else could reach the tin.

Cassian sat back, sipping his own tea. “Alright. Spill.”

Tracey flicked a crumb off her lap. “You know that Hufflepuff prefect? Ernest?”

Daphne didn’t look up. “What about him?”

“He got caught kissing a Ravenclaw behind the Owlery. Thought no one would see.”

Cassian raised his eyebrows. “Scandal.”

Pansy smiled into her mug. “He hexed an owl by mistake. That’s how they found him. The bird launched itself at Mandy Brocklehurst the next morning.”

“And the bird told her?”

“No,” Tracey said. “It just wouldn’t stop trying to steal her hair ribbons. Bit her twice.”

Cassian blinked. “You lot get weirder every year.”

Pansy sipped. “He’s now banned from the Owlery. Temporarily. But the Ravenclaw visits him at Herbology, so it’s not a tragedy.”

Tracey leaned back in her chair. “She told you,” she asked to Pansy.

“She did.”

Daphne turned to Cassian. “There’s also talk of a love creeper being set loose in the greenhouses.”

He groaned. “Not again.”

“It smells like mint this time.”

“I told Pomona to burn the last one,” he muttered.

Tracey grinned. “Maybe it evolved.”

Cassian raised his mug like it was alcohol. “To evolution.”

They clinked.

Pansy set her mug down on the edge of a book. “Is it true Umbridge wanted to observe your Duelling Club?”

“Observe, no. Shut down, yes.”

Daphne didn’t look surprised. “Figures.”

“She sent a letter to the governors. It was a bit of a rant. Half of it in pink ink.”

Tracey made a noise like she was choking on her tea.

Cassian nodded. “Underlined, too. Six times. Then came a line about ‘inciting the youth to revolt.'”

Pansy tilted her head. “You did duel Professor Black in front of a hundred students and destroyed his self-esteem.”

“That’s an old dispute.”

“Mm-hm.”

Daphne reached for a biscuit this time.

Pansy glanced toward the door. “How long do you think she’ll last?”

“Depends,” Cassian said. “If she gets bored, six weeks. If she gets stubborn, six months. If she gets power, well…” He sighed, taking another sip. “Best to make peace with ghosts.”

The girls didn’t look happy about that, they quieted down, sipping their tea.

“So?” he said after a while. “What are we actually here for? Or am I meant to guess?”

Tracey bit into a custard cream. “Can’t we just exist near a competent adult without being interrogated?”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “You, no. Greengrass, yes. Parkinson’s on probation.”

Pansy looked mildly pleased. “I’ll take that.”

Daphne set her mug down. “We did want to ask something.”

Cassian tilted his head.

Tracey sighed. “We are having our O.W.L.s this year, and we wanted to ask your opinion. Like, what do you think we should do?”

He blinked. “What, generally? Or am I supposed to divine that from the tone of your tea?”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Career-wise. After school.”

“Ah.” He sipped his tea. “The annual fifth-year existential crisis. Good. Right on time.”

Tracey made a face. “It’s not a crisis.”

“Every year,” he said, pointing at her with the mug, “someone realises they might not actually want to be a Hit-Wizard-slash-professional-Quidditch-star, and suddenly I get flooded with questions about cursebreaking and magical law.”

Pansy leaned back in her chair. “And what do you tell them?”

“That neither career comes with enough benefits.”

Tracey gave a huff.

He glanced at Daphne. “You already know, don’t you?”

She didn’t deny it. “I’ve had ideas.”

“Of course you have,” he muttered. “Greengrasses plan three generations ahead. You probably have Astoria’s wedding menu already drafted.”

She raised her cup in agreement.

He looked back at Tracey. “Alright. You go first. What d’you want?”

She frowned. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a start. What don’t you want?”

“I don’t want to sit behind a desk and fill out Ministry forms.”

“Smart.”

“I don’t want to be stuck doing potion inventories in Knockturn Alley.”

“Also smart. You’ll go blind from the damp alone.”

She pulled a cushion into her lap. “I thought about Cursebreaking. But Mum says it’s not for girls.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Tell that to the woman who stabbed an ancient summoning altar with a knife last year because it tried to whisper at her.”

Tracey’s eyes narrowed. “Professor Babbling?”

“Mmm.”

Tracey looked thoughtful now.

Cassian nodded at her. “Don’t let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do because you’re a woman. Blood purity, gender, age, your bloody star sign, none of it means anything unless you let it. Capability’s not hereditary. Stupidity might be.”

Tracey blinked. Then grinned. “You sound like my nan.”

“Does she also throw chalk at people when they’re wrong?”

“No, she throws spoons.”

Cassian looked impressed. “In another life…”

Daphne rested her chin on her hand, eyes half-lidded. “So you’re saying you think we’d be good at it?”

“I’m saying if you want it, and you’re willing to be better than good, then go do it. Cursebreaking’s half brain, half nerve. You’ve got both. Pureblood matriarchs won’t like it. Curse doesn’t care.”

Pansy tilted her head. “And what about me?”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Planning on a career or just enjoying the biscuits?”

She gave a small smile. “Undecided.”

“You’ve got sharp instincts,” he said. “Might do well in diplomacy. Intelligence. Something that requires a spine.”

Tracey laughed. “You calling her sneaky?”

“I’m calling her aware,” Cassian said. “You lot are good at reading people. That’s rarer than you’d think.”

Tracey leaned back. “So what would you have done? If you’d had the choice.”

Cassian blinked. “I did have the choice.”

“And?”

He glanced at the window. “History. Teaching. Bit of risking my life on the side, but that’s more of a recurring hobby.”

Pansy raised a brow. “So you’d still pick this?”

“Every time,” he said. “I get to mess with people’s heads and mark essays in red. What’s not to love?”

Daphne shook her head with a laugh.

The kettle in the corner hissed again. Cassian stood and refilled the pot.

“You lot don’t need to have it all sorted now,” he said, pouring another round. “You just need to ask the right questions.”

Tracey picked up her fresh cup, steam curling around her fingers. “Like what?”

“Do I like who I become when I do this?”

That made them pause.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Forget titles. Forget salaries. Pick a thing. Do it long enough that it changes you. Then ask if the change was worth it.”

The room went quiet again.

After a bit, Daphne finished her tea and stood.

“Thanks, Professor.”

Cassian gave a nod. “Anytime.”

Tracey followed, pocketing one last biscuit. Pansy trailed behind, hands in her coat pockets, eyes misty.

Just before they reached the door, she slowed.

She turned back, one hand still on the handle. “What if I am wrong,” she said. “What if I don’t like it.”

Cassian lifted his mug. “Then next time,” he said, “your chances are a lot higher.”

She held his gaze for a second, then nodded, and slipped out with the others.

Cassian took a sip, grimaced.

“Cold,” he muttered.

Drank it anyway.

(Check Here)

The party enters the cavern. Glittering troves of story lie ahead.

They loot everything, trigger no traps, leave no notes.

Roll for shame.

Nat 1.

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