Lucian stared at his own hand.

It shook around the wand, knuckles white, fingers cramping. He dragged in a breath that did nothing for him, then another, sharper this time.

“How?” he snapped. “How do you do all this?”

He lifted his head, eyes wild now, fixed on Cassian like the answer might crawl out of his face if he stared hard enough.

“You were useless,” Lucian went on, words tumbling faster. “For years. Absolute rubbish. Dirt under my boot. I could’ve crushed you and spared everyone the embarrassment. I didn’t. That was mercy.” His mouth twisted. “And now you’re throwing spells I’ve never seen. How?”

Spit flew when he spoke. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What did you do?” he demanded. “What did you change?”

Barty stood a little behind him, jaw tight, eyes flicking between Cassian and the shattered shelves.

Cassian didn’t answer. He stood there, wand loose in his grip. He looked at Lucian like he was something that had stopped being impressive a long time ago.

He didn’t hate them… before. He wasn’t the boy they’d hurt. Not the kid they hexed raw for sport, humiliated in front of friends, carved down until nothing useful was left. It wasn’t his pain.

But maybe he should’ve hated them anyway.

Lucian and Barty weren’t cruel in passing. They hadn’t snapped for an occasion, lost control, gone too far. They’d done it because they liked it. They planned it. Tweaked it. Repeated it. Laughing while they took him apart.

The silence dug under Lucian’s skin.

“You think this is funny?” Lucian barked. “You think staying quiet makes you clever?”

He took a step forward. “Were you faking it?” His voice cracked on the last word. “All those years. Pretending you were nothing. Was that the joke?”

Cassian still said nothing.

That hurt more than anything else.

Lucian’s face flushed dark. “Answer me!”

Barty finally snapped. “The Cup took it,” he said sharply. “Your magic. It stripped it clean. It was meant to be final.”

He turned fully on Cassian now. “So how are you standing here?”

Lucian latched onto it. “Yes,” he said, almost desperate. “How did you get it back? The Cup doesn’t miss. It’s absolute.”

Cassian lifted his head.

He smiled.

It was small. Casual. And it made both of them want to scream.

“How?” Cassian said, dragging the words. “That part’s simple.”

Lucian’s teeth ground together. Barty’s fingers tightened around his wand.

Cassian didn’t raise it.

“I remembered.”

The words landed flat.

For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Then both reacted at once.

“Stop messing with us!” Barty shouted, wand snapping up.

Lucian moved too, rage boiling over, spell already forming…

Then.

Tap.

Two light touches, right between shoulder blades.

Both of them flinched on instinct and turned.

Then everything slowed. The hall stretched. Sound thinned out. The shelves stopped shaking. All Lucian saw was a fist filling his vision, knuckles broad and closing fast.

So this was it.

Time dragged him backwards whether he wanted it or not.

Summer, two years ago.

Cassian Rosier was everywhere.

Witch Weekly. The Prophet. Ministry letters turning up at Regulus’s door with seals and polite panic stamped all over them. Cassian’s face smiling from moving photographs, robes clean, posture right, like he’d been born knowing where to stand.

The Tree Patronus. That ridiculous thing that had people talking for weeks. Then the werewolf incident. An adult werewolf petrified clean. Ministry praise wrapped up as concern. Magnus and Regulus talked about him constantly. At dinner. In meetings. In passing.

Perfect son. Brilliant mind. Connections everywhere.

Lucian felt his own name fade in those conversations. He noticed when people stopped asking his opinion first. He had plans. He was meant to secure the World Cup tender. They knew what it meant. International attention. Contracts. Trade lines. Influence that lasted a decade if you played it right. The profits were obscene. That was supposed to be his win. Real money. Family vaults swelling enough that no one would look past him again.

And even then, it wasn’t enough.

He still needed Cassian.

The World Cup.

They would have done anything to get the tender.

The family forced Barty Senior’s hand. Master Ji had to be invited to Yule. Ji refused, as expected. Too busy. Too much sense. No patience for shiny robes and hollow compliments.

But Barty Senior owed Regulus. Debts mattered. If Ji wouldn’t come for pleasantries, he might come for something bigger.

Barty Senior had one thing. The Triwizard Cup. An idea that already had people whispering. What if China was added? What if they made it broader? Louder. Another continent. Then another school. Five instead of three. Bigger reach. Bigger purse.

And it worked.

But Lucian hated it.

Hated that even this, the one thing meant to prove his worth, leaned on Cassian’s name and Cassian’s ties. Hated that people said it like it was obvious.

“Well, Cassian can smooth that over.”

When Cassian came back that summer, Lucian cornered him. Same familiar heat in his chest. He wanted that old feeling back. Wanted to see Cassian flinch. Wanted proof that the hierarchy hadn’t changed.

He’d nearly drawn his wand.

Nearly.

Cassian tapped his shoulder, just like now.

“There,” Cassian had said, tired as if he was dealing with a toddler. “You win.”

No spell. Just that.

It had made Lucian furious in a way hexes never managed.

When Barty Crouch Junior found him later that summer, Lucian was already rotting. Barty’s father had locked Sirius Black in Azkaban without a trial and paid for it fast. Crouch Senior vanished behind wards and locked doors, disgraced and sidelined, while his son slipped free.

“You look like shit,” Barty said, eyes sharp, smile thin.

“You’re supposed to be dead.” Lucian answered.

“People keep hoping,” Barty replied. “Haven’t had the decency to oblige.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping as he added, “I found him.”

Lucian didn’t look up. He was polishing his wand. The Rosier crest on his ring caught the lantern light.

“We’re going to announce it,” Barty said.

“Announce what?” he asked.

Barty smiled. “That he’s back. He’s ready. And I’m done waiting.”

Lucian finally looked at him. Barty’s eyes were bright in that fevered way. Always had been. Like he’d stepped half a pace ahead of everyone else and couldn’t stand still long enough to let the world catch up.

They talked through the night. About the Cup. About how it should end with some noise.

“We need to do it clean,” Barty said, pacing, “Finals. Crowd. Ministry eyes everywhere. He rises, declares himself, and no one can pretend anymore.”

Lucian laughed. “You’re dreaming.”

Barty stopped. Looked straight at him. “I asked if you wanted in.”

Lucian stiffened. Family rule pulsing in his mind. Rosier heir. Untouchable. Not allowed to take the Mark when they were students. He remembered the cousin they’d sent instead. Barely trained. Eager. Dead within the year, name reduced to a line in a ledger and a polite dismissal from the family.

“That was then,” Barty went on. “You’re not a child now.”

Lucian stared at him. Cassian’s face flickered through his mind without permission. Cassy, everywhere. Cassy, praised. Cassy, protected. Cassy, son-in-name-only who somehow took up all the space Lucian used to own.

“I’m sick of watching him take everything,” Lucian said. “My name. My place. My future.”

Barty tilted his head. “Then help us.”

Lucian swallowed. “What do you want?”

“Thin the defences,” Barty said simply. “When the time comes. I’ll handle Cassy.”

Lucian didn’t hesitate. “Kill him.”

Barty nodded. “Gladly.”

Lucian’s breath caught. He covered it by turning away, pretending to adjust the clasp on his sleeve.

“You swear it,” Lucian said.

“I do.”

Lucian nodded.

That night, the sky above the stadium burned green, half-formed, sickly, the Dark Mark struggling to take shape. It never fully did. The response came too fast. Shacklebolt tore through the edge of the camp like a storm, Aurors at his back. Cassian was there too.

Lucian watched it fall apart from the shadows. Watched Barty snarl and push forward anyway. Watched Cassian and Shacklebolt lock it down, hard and fast, until panic drowned the spectacle and the crowd scattered screaming.

The attack faded before it could settle.

They failed.

After that, Lucian waited. Waited for Cassian to gloat, to walk in with that smug little smirk and say it plain… You failed. I didn’t.

But the bastard never came.

He did the opposite.

He disappeared from the credit. Slipped right out of the spotlight like he was never there. Left Lucian and Shacklebolt holding the wreckage and, somehow, the praise.

The Prophet ran the headlines. Kingsley Shacklebolt leads a decisive defence at the Cup. Rosier heir supports ground effort with precision charmwork. Witch Weekly sent him three letters about the Most Charming Smiles feature. There were biscuits in the office. People clapped his shoulder. Called him a war hero.

Lucian wanted to vomit.

Every nod felt like pity. Every smile felt like Cassian letting him breathe. It felt like living under Cassy’s mercy. Like every word of praise had his name stamped behind it. Letting him wear his victory. And Kingsley? Bloody statue with a pulse. Watched him from across the Auror bullpen with those quiet, unreadable eyes. Like he knew.

Lucian leaked Kingsley’s rota not long after. It didn’t work. He nearly tried again, but then they promoted him. Head of International Magical Co-operation. Bright office. Better robes.

And a front-row seat at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Cup.

Lucian made up his mind that day.

He was done. Done being useful. With the Ministry. With the family. With playing golden boy for a legacy that was never really his.

He went to Barty. Took the vow. He carried that half-formed, wet-eyed creature across cursed forests and frozen dungeons, wiped its chin, fed it potions with trembling hands, not because he cared, but because that ugly, gasping thing promised him a head.

One chance to kill Cassy.

He needed it. Needed to look him in the eye and see it end.

He couldn’t live otherwise.

He couldn’t live knowing his worth had come from Cassian.

He was beneath him. Always had been.

When they needed to prove their loyalty, Lucian brought Frank and Alice Longbottom. Took them from St Mungo’s like a gift. A thank-you to Barty. He knew the Lord would be pleased. And he was.

Even better, really. Because Potter never showed. Barty failed. But the ritual still worked.

The body was built, almost complete.

But Cassy still survived. Even without his magic.

Escaped the flames with that stupid Fenghuang boy, the Longbottoms on his back, and nothing but grit holding his bones together.

Lucian wasn’t worried.

Magic stripped. Future gone. The world would take care of him.

And today, seeing him here…

Lucian thought it was luck. Fate. The world giving him one clean shot at redemption.

Cassian’s hands were bare.

Lucian saw the line of the knuckles. Saw the certainty behind them.

With the fist almost there, he saw it for what it was.

He was nothing. A drifting insect in a river too deep for him to cross.

The memory shattered as the punch finally landed.

Lucian felt it before he understood it. Impact, brutal and clean, right across his jaw. His head snapped sideways. Pain flared white. He heard himself scream as his feet left the ground.

Barty went with him, a heartbeat later, Cassian’s other fist catching him square and sending him skidding across the stone. Wands flew free, spinning up into the air, caught in the strange pull of magic curling around Cassian.

Lucian hit the floor hard, breath gone, vision swimming. He tasted blood.

He looked up.

Cassian stood above them.

Light cut in from somewhere behind him, flooding the hall, catching on shattered glass and floating wands. They orbited him in slow, terrible arcs, like comets caught in a private gravity. Dust hung in the air around his boots.

For a second, Lucian couldn’t tell if it was spelllight or something else entirely.

Cassian looked unreal. Distant. Untouchable. Like the room itself had decided to stand up and take a side.

It was almost…

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