Cassian lifted the spell and the black slid off the air like it’d never been there. At the far end, Feng bloody Marauder flared gold and red, wings stretched wide, rushed to Voldemort, grabbed the bastard by the neck and vanished in a burst of flame. One flash and both were gone.

The smoke barely cleared before Magnus came through the far door. The rest of them followed. Kingsley, Aurors and Unspeakables in full gear.

Dumbledore reached Cassian, checking his injuries.

“What the hell was that?” Cassian asked, pointing vaguely at the empty space Voldemort used to occupy. “Because I’m almost sure I just watched an unkillable war criminal get snatched like a sock.”

Dumbledore didn’t answer straight away. He glanced at the floor, then up at the air like he was checking for aftershocks. When nothing exploded, he finally looked at Cassian.

“Marauder took him.”

“Right,” Cassian said. “No, sorry, that’s not an explanation. That’s a headline.”

Dumbledore gave him that long-suffering look. “It means Marauder needs Voldemort for something.”

Cassian stared. “I gathered. He carried Voldemort by the neck.”

Magnus was already moving past them, checking what remained of the room. Aurors spread out. Someone muttered something about a full reconstruction team. Another asked if the walls were still real.

Magnus came up beside them.

“Did he take anything else?” he asked.

“I was rather busy getting my ribs kicked in,” Cassian said, “so if he did, he was subtle.”

Magnus looked at the wreckage. “That was subtle?”

Cassian gestured broadly at the aisle. “Compared to last year, sure.”

Bathsheda arrived soon after with the rest. Amelia, the Family Heads, and Fudge shuffling somewhere near the back, looking like someone had swapped his morning brief for a brick to the face.

He took two steps into the ruined hall and froze.

Bellatrix lay stunned and bloody near the shattered fountain. Rookwood was cuffed, wand broken. Barty and Lucian were being held upright only because the vines coiled tight around their limbs. A dozen others sat slumped or unconscious under Ministry restraints. In Hogwarts, the others had already been dragged off. Lucius. Selwyn. The whole circle of them, taken down in one sweep.

Fudge turned, eyes wide, voice faint. “This…”

Cassian clicked his tongue. “You deal with that,” he said, flicking a hand toward him.

Bathsheda reached him. She slipped a hand under his arm, steadying as he wobbled, and leaned close enough for him to hear her swear under her breath.

They stepped out of the fake floor. The room split open down the middle, dissolving into something real again. The light steadied. Walls reformed. The wards stilled.

Cassian pulled away gently, ignoring the ache in his ribs, and walked down the nearest aisle.

He slowed near the one Voldemort had almost touched. It pulsed faint gold, glass dusty but whole. Label still there.

SPT to APWBD

Dark Lord and ? (Harry Potter)

Cassian stared at it.

Dumbledore stepped into view beside him and caught his wrist.

“You shouldn’t.”

Cassian’s gaze snapped back to the title.

APWBD.

There was no doubt about it. Only Albus Bloody Dumbledore could possibly have a name that long. And beneath it, that cursed question mark.

Harry Potter.

A chill crept down Cassian’s spine. Had Voldemort come for this? Was this some twisted prophecy binding Voldemort and Harry together? Another riddle wrapped in fate and blood?

Cassian loathed prophecies and divination as much as the next sensible magick. Vague words. Self-fulfilling nonsense. An excuse for chaos. And yet… Voldemort went through all these troubles just to get this… Then whatever this was, it was ominous.

Cassian forced himself to look up.

Dumbledore’s face was unreadable, set into something grim and… defensive? The usual twinkle in his eyes conspicuously absent.

And suddenly, Cassian understood something far worse than the title itself.

Dumbledore had known about this all along.

Cassian squinted at him. “What the hell are you hiding?”

Dumbledore’s face shifted. He dropped his hand. Lowered his gaze.

“It’s better if you don’t hear it.”

Cassian touched the globe.

The glass vibrated. Then it whispered.

A voice Cassian didn’t recognise at first, soft and careful. Sybill Trelawney’s. A second voice under it, layered deep and heavy. Like something old had grabbed her and puppeted the words out of her throat.

…

Cassian stood still as the whisper faded. The globe dimmed.

The three of them stood there.

Bathsheda’s jaw set hard. She looked from the prophecy to Dumbledore, then back again, like she was trying to decide which one disgusted her more.

Cassian’s stare stayed on Dumbledore.

Slowly, pieces slid into place. The way Voldemort had been given space. The way Dumbledore had never quite cornered him. The way the Philosopher’s Stone had sat at Hogwarts, bait on a hook, wrapped in protections that felt more theatrical than necessary.

A lure.

Cassian breathed out through his nose. His hand curled, so tight that his knuckles ached.

“So,” he said, finally. “You heard this. Years ago.”

Dumbledore’s mouth thinned.

Bathsheda laughed, sharp and humourless. “Don’t insult us by pretending otherwise.”

Dumbledore’s shoulders sank a fraction. “Yes.”

Cassian nodded. He looked down at the floor, then back up.

“And the last part?” Cassian asked. “The bit that explains why you keep letting him walk away.”

Dumbledore hesitated.

Cassian’s nails dig into his palm.

“Cassian,” Dumbledore said softly. “It’s not what you think.”

“I don’t know what I’m thinking,” he said. His voice stayed calm, which surprised even him. “I’ll try not to jump to any conclusion for now.”

Bathsheda stepped back a bit, eyes cold. “You’ve been managing a war like a chess problem. Pieces sacrificed. Time stretched. All while pretending it was a necessity.”

Dumbledore lifted a hand. “That wasn’t my intention. Let me explain.”

Cassian looked at that hand with a squint.

“Then you’d better have a good explanation,” he said, “because right now it looks like you’ve been gambling with children and calling it wisdom.”

He turned away.

“For now,” he said, already stepping back toward the others, “I’m not saying anything.”

He stopped at the edge of the aisle and glanced over his shoulder.

“But don’t mistake that for agreement.”

Then he walked off, Bathsheda falling into step beside him.

***

The Wizengamot reconvened the next day, before the Ministry’s clean-up reports had even cooled. Word had already spread, Voldemort’s return confirmed, Death Eaters in custody, Lucius and his lot caught mid-collapse.

Fudge had resigned two hours after the records dropped. He hadn’t even waited for the vote, walked out of the atrium looking like someone had stabbed him through the career. Last anyone saw, he was in a Floo with half his paperwork stuffed in his sleeves and no shoes on.

Cassian had only said, “Could’ve saved parchment if he’d grown a spine last year.”

Crabbe Senior, Goyle Senior, Nott Senior, the Avery matriarch, Bulstrode matriarch, and what remained of the Selwyn line stood boxed in the defendant’s tier. Lucius Malfoy and the Selwyn Patriarch side by side, like they still thought that meant something.

The rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight watched from above, scattered across the upper benches.

Cassian leaned against the gallery rail, Bathsheda next to him, both watching as the doors closed and the wards came down.

Dumbledore stood slowly from the Supreme Mugwump’s chair.

“The defendants are charged with attempting to seize control of Hogwarts,” he said, “by circumventing both the Board of Governors and the Headmaster.”

He paused. “They are also charged with the bribery of Ministry officials, forced transfer of Auror resources, unlawful manipulation of the Department of Magical Education, and attempted political displacement of Cornelius Fudge.”

A few murmurs from the gallery. No one interrupted.

“They are further charged,” Dumbledore added, “with collaborating with known supporters of Voldemort for the purpose of power consolidation. And conspiracy to commit blood ritual within British territory.”

That one landed hard.

Lucius didn’t blink. Just smoothed his sleeve and stepped forward.

“Let’s stop the theatre,” he said. “This is revenge, not a trial”

He turned, talking like he knew they couldn’t do anything to him.

“We acted to protect the state. While the Ministry floundered, we responded. Hogwarts was under threat. The Headmaster let the castle run unchecked, and Rosier…” he gestured to Cassian without looking, “allowed dangerous, foreign ideas to spread unchecked through the student body.”

Cassian mouthed dangerous foreign ideas and raised his eyebrows at Bathsheda, who snorted.

Lucius continued, voice rising, smoother now. “The Triwizard Tournament brought external forces into our borders. Security failed. Twice. One boy almost died, returning broken. Our actions were necessary.”

“Unlawful entry,” Goshawk called from the side. “Subversion of the Board. Use of compulsion charms on elected officials. Those were necessary too?”

Lucius didn’t turn to her. “We did what we had to do. We had no interest in power for its own sake. We only stepped forward when those already in control proved unfit.”

The Selwyn Patriarch stepped forward. “That school was drifting. The Ministry was already compromised. What we did, what we attempted, was to restore order.”

Someone in the upper seats scoffed.

Dumbledore leaned forward. “And the Ministry staff who were sacked?”

“They were under investigation,” Lucius said. “We had no hand in that.”

“The forty-seven files found in your home suggest otherwise,” someone muttered.

Lucius turned to Dumbledore. “Is this what passes for trial now? Public condemnation? Family throwing family to the wolves?”

The Avery matriarch lifted her chin. “You act like we dismantled the government. We attempted a transition. The Minister was weak. That’s not a crime.”

Crabbe Sr. added, “And now we’re being punished for trying to keep things from falling apart.”

“Interesting,” said Dumbledore, resting both hands on the bench. “So we are to believe that all your coordinated actions, removal of key staff, installation of puppet administrators, repurposing of public funds, attempted silencing of Hogwarts faculty, and an armed march into a protected site, were simply overzealous patriotism.”

Lucius tilted his head. “Would you rather we stood idle while chaos bloomed?”

Bulstrode’s matriarch shrieked, “There are enemies within. The Prophet is bought off, spreading lies.”

Selwyn stepped up again. “We warned you. You dismissed us. You told the public we were reactionaries clinging to a dead age. But we were right.”

He looked down his nose at the bench. “Supreme Mugwump, you’d be careful with that kind of accusation. Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, ritual use, none of it sticks. You can’t prove a thing. Let’s end this charade already.”

Dumbledore gave a polite smile that didn’t even try to look reassuring. “Thank you for the warning,” he said. “But we’ve already proved it. Bring in the witnesses.”

There was a moment where Lucius and the others all tensed. Then, just as fast, they relaxed.

Lucius smiled slowly. “Witnesses?” he said. “Let me guess. Flint? Or are we using edited memories now? Since when does the Wizengamot take rumour for truth?”

The courtroom doors opened behind him.

Lucius turned.

Draco Malfoy stepped through first, back straight, fists clenched at his sides, Theodore Nott by his side. Millicent Bulstrode followed. Then Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.

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