When Cassian and Bathsheda entered the Great Hall, the entire student body stood up. The applause was loud, unfiltered, and very much not stopping. Somewhere near the front, Fred and George were whistling like they were trying to summon banshees. Ravenclaws had started a chant. Hufflepuffs were clapping in sync. Slytherins were doing that dignified but proper clapping thing.

Cassian winced in embarrassment. “Alright, enough.”

Didn’t help. If anything, they got louder.

At the High Table, Snape rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. Flitwick chuckled into his napkin. Sprout had already started clapping along, and Hagrid was wiping his face with something suspiciously handkerchief-shaped but absolutely the size of a picnic blanket.

Bathsheda leaned in with a chuckle. “Missed opportunity,” she said. “A dramatic entrance would be much better. Maybe me carrying you in my arms?”

He was about to reply when a third-year tried to hand him a paper crown folded from his own exam.

Cassian blinked. “Where did you even get this?”

“Transfigured it from my homework,” the boy said brightly.

Cassian handed it back. “Mark yourself a T. For effort.”

News had travelled fast, faster than it had any right to. Dumbledore, Cassian, and Bathsheda had gone to the Ministry and walked back out again, with Voldemort gone, Death Eaters caught, and Fudge resigning before lunch. So they thought a standing ovation was due.

Dumbledore, seated in the centre, lifted a goblet in his direction without a word. The enchanted ceiling above flickered into soft gold, as if the castle was trying to look nice for the company. House banners lined the walls.

Then the Headmaster stood.

The Hall quieted on instinct. Not total silence, but enough.

“This year,” he said, “was not simple.”

Understatement of the century.

“We faced more than just magical trials. Our defences were tested. Our politics strained. Our truths questioned.”

A few students glanced at each other. Some teachers looked tired.

“But this castle stood. Because people within it, staff, students, families, chose not to break. You chose to fight. Not for glory, or gain, but because it was right.”

The applause started again, softer this time.

Dumbledore let it fade.

“There will be more challenges. The Dark Lord has returned. That fact no longer sits in shadow. The world knows. But so does the world know who stood against him.”

Dumbledore raised his voice for the final line.

“Let it be known,” he said, “Hogwarts will never be ruled by fear. We will never kneel. And we will never forget those who stood with us.”

The Hall stood again. Then chaos ensued.

They partied hard that night. Barefoot dancing, someone levitating a pie for reasons no one questioned, and a Gryffindor dragging a Slytherin into a conga line like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Even the exam committee joined in, which was worse than it sounded. Goshawk was surprisingly good on her feet, much to Fleur’s shock. One of the others tried to juggle jellyflame shots and nearly lit his robes. Sprout turned the flames into tulips.

The house-elves brought out trays like they’d been planning it for weeks. Hermione made sure they were part of the party, even if they still insisted on doing most of the work. Firewhisky didn’t make the cut, but something suspiciously close did. Someone was definitely passed out in the Hufflepuff salad bar by midnight.

Someone charmed the suits of armour to waltz, which sounded clever until one stepped on a fourth-year’s foot and apologised in French. Peeves dive-bombed the dessert table, shrieked “LIBERATION!” and yeeted every eclair he could carry into the crowd before being hexed into a glitter bomb.

Cassian tried to sneak out twice. Someone kept dragging him back. It was Baths. That traitor. A well-aimed levitation spell by her dropped a streamer net over his head just as he reached the side door. Gods help him.

“Cowards don’t get pudding, sir!” students shouted.

He managed to pull the tinsel off his ears before Bathsheda caught his sleeve.

“Oh no,” he said.

“Oh yes,” she replied, and dragged him bodily into the crowd.

Fred spotted them immediately and grabbed his partner. George followed suit.

“Go on then, Professor R.!” someone yelled. “Give us a spin!”

Cassian raised both hands. “I am a serious academic-“

Bathsheda twirled him before he could finish. He felt like a princess!

Then, mercifully, Kingsley and Charity walked in holding hands, and the entire room shifted focus. Wolf-whistles. Shrieks. Someone tried to conjure floating hearts and set the punch on fire instead.

“Saved by the hot couple,” Cassian muttered, stepping aside before he was roped into another dance.

“They are rather photogenic,” Bathsheda said, breathless from laughing.

“I’m going to frame a picture of them and put it on my desk,” he said. “Label it ‘Distraction Tactic A.'”

At one point, Cassian spotted Professor Vector teaching Luna how to moonwalk. That’s the highlight of his night.

Snape didn’t leave the corner all evening. He looked like someone had glued a lemon to the inside of his mouth.

Sometime around three, a small mob of students ambushed him with a magically embroidered banner that read:

“YOU SURVIVED ROSIER’S HISTORY EXAMS. THE DARK LORD DIDN’T.”

He stared at it. “Fine. I like this one.”

By the time the last torch dimmed, and the floor was covered in confetti, biscuits, and one pair of shoes no one claimed, it was nearly dawn.

***

Dumbledore waited for them in his office.

Cassian and Bathsheda stepped through the door without speaking. He didn’t even sit. Just stood there, shoulder against the bookshelf, as the old man turned from the window.

“Let’s talk this through,” Dumbledore said.

Cassian’s tone shifted.

“Alright,” he said. “Then start with this.”

Dumbledore didn’t move.

Cassian’s gaze narrowed. “Were you raising Potter as the Child Soldier?

“I want the truth,” he added. “Because depending on it, this conversation’s heading two very different directions.”

Dumbledore took a deep breath.

“It wasn’t what I intended, not fully. I didn’t plan to raise a soldier. I saw a child carrying the mark of war. I meant to prepare him.”

Cassian stepped away from the bookshelf.

“Right,” he said. “And when did preparing him stop looking like leaving him in a cupboard?”

Dumbledore winced, just slightly. “I placed him with family.”

Cassian tilted his head. “You placed him with people who starved him. Beat him. Hid his wand. That’s not family.”

“He was protected by the blood ward,” Dumbledore said. “That magic-“

“Doesn’t justify abuse,” Cassian cut in. “You didn’t visit. You didn’t write. You let him rot because it was tidy.”

“I was watching-“

“No, you weren’t,” Cassian said. “You placed a cat‑mad woman who couldn’t even tell the boy was being abused. You sent him into a house where even the walls hated him and called it safety. You don’t get to dress it up in protective runes and hope no one checks.”

Dumbledore didn’t speak. He didn’t move either.

Cassian stepped closer. “He didn’t know what he was. Didn’t know anything about his parents. He grew up in the dark, and when you finally handed him a wand, you expected him to be grateful.”

“I never asked for gratitude,” Dumbledore said.

Cassian squinted. “You didn’t need to. You had the whole school do it for you.”

That shut the room up.

Bathsheda stayed silent, but her fingers curled near the edge of the desk. Her gaze didn’t leave Dumbledore either.

“If Mrs Figg reported it and you did nothing, that’s worse,” Cassian went on. “And if she didn’t report it, that only proves she was never fit for the role. What was she there for? To wave if Death Eaters turned up? Or to step in when the boy was already halfway to tearing himself apart?”

He took another step, closing the space.

“You were lucky,” Cassian said. “Obscenely lucky. The Dursleys hated magic so much Potter didn’t even know what he was. He didn’t have words for it. He didn’t try to suppress it on purpose.”

Dumbledore opened his mouth.

Cassian didn’t let him.

“Because if he had known,” he said, “if he’d understood what was happening to him and tried to bury it anyway, you’d have had an Obscurus on your hands. Living in a cupboard. Afraid. Angry. Pressed down year after year.

“That potential was there,” Cassian said. “Every sign fits. Isolation. Fear. Magic punished out of him. You want to talk about blood wards? Fine. Blood wards don’t stop internal collapse.”

Dumbledore looked shaken now. Truly so.

“I believed the ward was enough,” he said.

Cassian dragged a hand down his face, then dropped it.

“You gambled on ignorance,” Cassian said. “You let him stay small because small children don’t ask dangerous questions. And you told yourself that was protection.”

Dumbledore’s voice came quieter. “I never meant for him to suffer.”

Cassian’s eyes hardened. “Intent doesn’t change the damage.”

Silence settled again, heavier than before.

“When you speak about preparation,” Cassian said, “understand this. Preparation means support. Teaching. Watching closely enough to step in before things break. What you did was distance yourself and hope the maths worked out.”

Cassian clenched his fist. “If I know anything about human psychology, it means you were trying to distance yourself from the boy. Lest you bonded with him. Lest, when the time came and you needed him to die to kill Voldemort, you could still make that decision.”

Dumbledore didn’t respond. His face had the kind of stillness that usually came before a collapse.

Cassian didn’t give him time.

“Plenty of things in this castle suggest that’s what you were angling for. You gave him scraps of truth and called it guidance. You left him out of decisions, shoved him into danger, let him chase monsters on the back of half a clue and a lot of guilt.”

He paced, not because he couldn’t stand still, but because the weight in his chest needed somewhere to go.

“You raised a Hero-complex kid,” Cassian said. “You let him grow up in silence and fear, then dumped him into a war with applause and secrets. Behind him was a world he hated, nothing to look back for, and ahead? He was the gold star. The Boy Who’d Do What You Wouldn’t.”

He stopped, sharp.

“So tell me again,” he said, voice flat. “And be honest.”

Dumbledore’s hands didn’t move. His eyes stayed on Cassian.

“Were you raising a child or Child soldier?”

(Check Here)

Invention: The Feedbackinator 3000

Purpose: Convert silent readers into vocal ones.

Status: Theoretically impossible.

—

To Read up to 50 advance Chapters and support me…

patreon.com/thefanficgod1

Please drop a comment and like the chapter!

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep