The next morning, the whole school was buzzing.

They’d had a hell of a year. Voldemort back in the flesh. Death Eaters in the stands. Half the school nearly hexed into the stone floor. Cassian had blown himself halfway to the afterlife and come back glowing like a bloody star. And most importantly, Fudge had resigned.

And yet.

Every pair of eyes kept flicking up to the staff table, where Sirius Black was buttering toast like he didn’t have a potential death sentence hovering over his head.

“Maybe he should quit,” someone muttered near the Gryffindor table.

A few heads nodded.

The Defence curse. Still going, wasn’t it? Curse said no Defence professor lasted more than a year.

“Professor R,” Neville called out, glancing nervously toward the front. “Is it really okay?”

Cassian, who was elbow-deep in a plate of eggs and toast, looked up. “Is what?”

Hermione leaned forward. “Professor Black. Shouldn’t he quit before the curse gets him?”

He blinked. Tilted his head. “What curse?”

“The curse on the Defence post?” Hermione said slowly, as if maybe he’d taken a bludger to the brain.

Cassian stared at her. “Oh. That.” He wiped his mouth, then raised his cup casually. “That got lifted three years ago. You lot didn’t know?”

The Great Hall collectively stopped chewing.

Mouths opened like someone had declared the sun was pink and gravity was optional.

“Wait, what?” Ron stood halfway. “But Professor Lupin left. And Moody, well, Barty, two of them still got booted, right?”

Cassian gave him a flat look. “Lupin got outed as a werewolf. Didn’t want to stick around and scare the parents. That was his call. And Barty Crouch was a Death Eater pretending to be someone else. Sorry, we don’t hire those. Not since the sixties.”

A few chuckles rippled across the hall. A couple of students looked down like he’d just handed in five feet of homework on the “still-active curse.”

At the staff table, McGonagall had paused mid-tea. Flitwick was blinking rapidly. Even Dumbledore was staring.

Cassian turned to Bathsheda, eyebrows raised. “Wait, didn’t we tell them?”

She smiled over her cup. “Oops.”

“You what?” someone yelped from Ravenclaw.

“Three years?” Seamus shot up, nearly knocking over his goblet. “We’ve been living in fear of mythical job rot for three years?”

“Do you know how many bets I’ve lost?” Dean added, scandalised. “I owe Ernie five galleons!”

The noise surged. Some students were full-on standing, others clutching their heads like they’d just been failed by the entire academic system. Even the seventh-years looked betrayed.

Near the front, Colin Creevey raised his hand and shouted, “What else aren’t you telling us?”

Cassian just kept chewing. Calm as anything. “Probably loads.”

Dumbledore finally spoke. “Cassian… I believe the students deserve an explanation.”

Cassian swallowed his bite, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and leaned back in his chair.

“It was Voldemort,” he said simply. “Bit of a jealous man-child, really. Wanted the job. Was said no. So, naturally, he cursed the position out of spite. Used a cursed item that was already hidden in the castle, tied it to the post.”

Mouths dropped again.

“Wait,” Hermione said slowly. “A cursed object?”

Cassian nodded. “Yup. Three years ago, Lockhart accidentally helped me narrow it down. Potter and I dealt with it.”

He didn’t look at Harry.

Harry didn’t look at him.

Dumbledore’s eyes shifted. Towards the Gryffindor table. Toward Harry. Then back to Cassian. He said nothing.

The diadem. Both realized at the same time.

More students were now turning, not to Cassian, but to Sirius.

He looked up from his toast, halfway through shovelling more scrambled eggs into his mouth.

“Well?” someone called from the Hufflepuff table. “You staying?”

“Yeah!” someone else shouted. “You’re not cursed, right?”

Sirius, mouth full, gave them all a thumbs up. Then, after a particularly enthusiastic swallow, he said through a grin, “Of course I’m staying. This is great.”

He jabbed his fork toward his plate. “They do the eggs right here.”

The Hall erupted.

Cheers rang out across every table.

Fred and George stood up and raised their goblets. “To uncursed jobs!”

“To competent teachers!” Lee Jordan added.

“To no more terrifying Defence handovers!” Hermione shouted, half laughing, half furious.

“About bloody time,” muttered Ron, flopping back down with a sigh.

Cassian took another bite, shrugged, and muttered to himself, “Honestly, I thought someone would’ve clocked it by now.”

***

Harry climbed the stone steps two at a time, shoulders still tense from the sudden call. He and Sirius had been halfway through packing, set to leave the next morning, when a leaf made of bright light had drifted in through the open window. He’d recognised it instantly.

Now he stood outside the professor’s office, frowning.

He knocked lightly.

“Come in,” Bathsheda’s voice called.

The door opened. Cassian and Bathsheda sat near the hearth, two cups of tea on the table, a third waiting.

“You’re here,” Cassian said, rising to his feet and slapping a hand against Harry’s shoulder in a way that wasn’t quite casual but tried to be. “Sit.”

Harry dropped into the nearest chair.

Cassian didn’t sit back down right away. He looked at Harry for a beat, then drew a breath through his nose.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m going to tell you a few things. Heavy things. So before we begin, brace yourself.”

Harry blinked.

Cassian’s voice didn’t change. “You are not alone. And more importantly, none of this is your bloody burden to carry. You didn’t choose it. You didn’t cause it. You were a baby. A victim. That’s what you’ll remain, until the day you decide to fight back. Got it?”

Harry nodded, slower this time.

Cassian gave a small nod back. “Good.”

He glanced toward Bathsheda. She said nothing, but shifted slightly, as if preparing herself.

Cassian sat. “Right. Let’s start simple.”

He conjured a flickering image above the desk, light forming into a ragged, dark shapes, wreathed in something foul and stretched.

“This is a Horcrux. Horrible name. Worse concept.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Cassian went on. “It’s a piece of soul. Torn off. Anchored to something. Object, place, creature. Doesn’t matter. It makes the bastard who made it functionally immortal, so long as the Horcrux survives, they can’t properly die.”

He didn’t explain how it was made.

“Voldemort made several.”

Harry stared.

“We’ve confirmed five. I’ve tracked a few others. We’re working on it. But here’s the part that matters.”

The image flickered.

Cassian didn’t blink. “You’re one of them.”

The words landed like a fist.

Harry stared at the vision then Cassian then back at the vision.

“There’s a fragment of his soul in you,” Cassian said, quieter now. “Buried deep. Not active in the way others are. It doesn’t control you. Doesn’t steer your thoughts. But it’s there. That’s why your scar hurts. Why you dream his dreams. Why your mind cracks open when he’s close.”

Harry’s throat went dry. “I’m… what does that mean? Am I him?”

“No,” Cassian said instantly. “You’re you. That thing in you is a parasite. Think of it like an old curse that never got washed off.”

“But-” Harry’s hands clenched in his lap. “Can it be removed?”

“Yes. We’re working on it. For the time being, though, it can’t be removed.”

Harry looked at Bathsheda. She didn’t flinch. She wasn’t afraid of him. Neither of them were. She gave a smile and a nod.

Cassian let the moment sit, then waved away the illusion.

“That’s the first truth,” he said. “Now the second.”

He sighed again, longer this time, heavier.

“Look, there’s no neat way to wrap this up with a bow,” Cassian said. “But here it is. There was a prophecy once. About you and the Dark Lord.”

Harry froze.

Cassian held his gaze. “Prophecies aren’t gospel. They’re vague, messy, and usually more trouble than they’re worth. Most don’t name names. They talk in riddles. What matters more than the prophecy is how people react to it.”

Harry just stared blank.

“So,” Cassian continued, “Voldemort heard part of this one. Just a piece. But it was enough to send him into a panic. He thought it meant you’d be the end of him. So what did he do?”

Cassian spread his hands slightly.

“He tried to kill you. And in doing that, he made it real.”

Harry took a few deep breaths. His heart thudded behind his ribs.

Bathsheda stepped up beside him and nudged a cup toward his hand. “Drink.”

He glanced down. Then took the cup and sipped.

Warmth spread through his throat, but it didn’t loosen the knot in his chest.

She nodded. “Good.”

“The prophecy goes like this.”

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…” Bathsheda started.

“Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…”

Cassian took over. “And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not.”

Harry stared at the fire, eyes unfocused.

“The fate of the Marked rests with the Forest-Walker. They will decide whether one dies at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…”

Harry breathed, sharp through the nose, and again through gritted teeth.

Cassian leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “You were born at the end of July. Your parents defied Voldemort three times. He chose you. Marked you with that scar. And by doing so, he basically shoved the prophecy into gear.”

Harry’s fingers clenched tighter around the cup.

He didn’t ask the obvious question. The one everyone would think first… “So I have to kill him?”

Cassian saw it anyway.

“I’m not here to give you a sword and a pat on the back,” he said. “I’m telling you because this was kept from you. And you deserve to know what the hell you’ve been dragged into.”

Harry let out a slow breath.

“So,” he muttered, “I’m a soul-parasite-carrying, prophecy-targeted murder magnet.”

Cassian blinked, then huffed out a laugh. “Bit of a mouthful, but yes.”

Harry drained the tea like it was firewhisky. Then set the cup down.

“I think,” he said carefully, “I need to hit something.”

“Completely reasonable,” Cassian said. “We have dummies. Some of them even scream when you hit them. Very therapeutic.”

Bathsheda squeezed Harry’s shoulder before returning to her seat.

Cassian added, “As I said. You make what prophecy is about. You don’t need to take it literally. I promise, we’ll find a way to remove that parasite. Best if next year, but definitely before your N.E.W.T.s. It would be cheating if you had a second soul.”

Harry let out a laugh. Cassian caught the moment his shoulders dropped, even just slightly.

He smiled. “Neville was born a day before you. His parents defied Voldemort three times, too. If Voldemort had gone for the Longbottoms instead, your fates could’ve swapped.

“I’m not saying this to be cruel,” he went on, “I’m saying it because fate’s flimsy as parchment. Half the time it’s guesswork and panic. Voldemort heard half a sentence and did the rest himself.”

Harry tilted his head. “So… it’s his own fault.”

Cassian raised both hands. “Finally. Someone says it out loud. Yes. Exactly. He got spooked, tried to get ahead of a vague threat, and in doing so, made the bloody thing real. Classic prophecy trap. Self-fulfilling bollocks.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “And what happens if he dies and the Horcrux is still in me?”

Cassian’s expression didn’t shift. “He can’t die properly while it’s still in you.”

Harry’s fingers curled against his leg.

“But,” Cassian said quickly, “that doesn’t mean you have to die to kill it. Don’t let anyone, anyone, tell you that.”

Harry met his eyes, more resolute. “There’s a way.”

“There’s always a way,” Cassian replied. “Might be horrible, might be dangerous, might require a volunteer or two who don’t value their limbs, but we’ll find it.”

Harry stared at him. “You really believe that.”

Cassian nodded. “I really, really believe that.”

He let that sit a moment, then added, “Which means you’ve got time. We’ve got time. And we’ll use every bloody bit of it.”

Harry sighed, shakily.

Cassian leaned back, finally picking up his own tea. “You can stay here a bit if you want. Scream into a cushion. Hit a dummy. Raid my biscuit stash.”

Harry didn’t move right away. “…Do they really scream when you hit them?”

“They shriek,” Cassian said. “Try them.”

Harry gave a faint smile. “Alright. I’ll do that. And then maybe tell Sirius, Ron, Hermione and Neville.”

Cassian gestured toward the corridor. “Just don’t punch Ron. He looks like he bruises easily.”

Harry stood up, still pale, still shaken, but not broken.

He looked back once, hesitated. “Thanks, both of you.”

Cassian raised his cup. “Anytime.”

(Check Here)

And if you listen closely… you can hear nothing.

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