Fred kicked the office door open with all the flair of someone who’d just robbed a vault and wanted applause for it. George followed, practically bouncing. Both dropped their N.E.W.T. result parchments onto Cassian’s desk as if they were laying down royal decrees.

Cassian raised a brow, picked up the nearest scroll, and started skimming.

“Transfiguration – Outstanding. Potions – O. Runes – O. Charms – O. History – O. The rest are either Os or E.E.s…” He paused. “Well. Look at that. You’ve both turned in actual academic performance.”

Fred puffed out his chest. George grinned wide.

Cassian tapped the edge of the parchment against the desk. “Alright. Per our stupidly specific contract, two shops.”

The twins whooped in unison, loud, ungodly, and utterly shameless. Fred launched into a wild stomp that might’ve been a dance or a seizure. George joined him, arms flailing overhead like he was summoning ancient spirits of capitalism.

“Two shops!” Fred yelled.

“Two bloody shops!” George echoed, spinning in a circle.

They slapped the floor, clapped, and chanted something that suspiciously resembled “Hustle and Hexes,” all while Cassian stared at them, deadpan.

“Are you done?” he asked.

Fred dropped into a crouch, breathless. “We’re entrepreneurs, sir.”

Cassian snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Name your spots.”

The twins didn’t even pretend to think about it.

“Diagon Alley,” Fred said.

“Hogsmeade,” George added, nearly tripping over his brother’s words.

Cassian nodded. “Figured. One’s a foot traffic goldmine, the other’s a Hogwarts adjacent.”

They looked smug. Cassian ruined it in half a sentence.

“The problem is, Hogsmeade’s dead in summer.”

The twins froze mid-celebration. “What?”

George frowned. “But it’s close.”

“And mostly empty,” Cassian said. “You’re heading into a three month break. Students won’t be around. Locals will either ignore you, out-snark you, or try to report you to the council for selling prank dust disguised as skincare. That’s three months of you losing money and man power to earn pocket change.”

Fred scratched the back of his head. George frowned.

Cassian folded his arms. “You want a second shop, pick somewhere better. Smart, not sentimental. If your business works, which I believe it will, you’ll have enough to open one in Hogsmeade on your own by the end of summer.”

Fred glanced at George. George raised his brows.

“That makes sense,” Fred said slowly.

George nodded. “Yeah. Hate it when it does.”

Cassian shrugged. “Your call. But you’ve got one guaranteed spot. Don’t waste the second one trying to sell puking pastilles to a village full of pensioners.”

They went quiet. Thinking.

Cassian picked up a pen and twirled it lazily.

“Let me know before the week’s out,” he added. “I’ve got two permits ready to file. Pick something bold for the second. Or don’t. I’ll keep the funds in escrow and enjoy watching you argue about it.”

The twins exchanged a look.

Fred leaned in. “…What about Knockturn?”

Cassian blinked. “You trying to get stabbed, or just fancy it?”

George pointed at Fred. “He’s got a pitch.”

Fred smirked. “It’s not a front. It’s a back door.”

Cassian held up a hand. “If you’re about to say ‘sells legitimate goods with illicit packaging,’ I’m going to bury you under contract law.”

Fred mimed zipping his mouth.

George looked thoughtful. “Maybe Bristol, then. Gets enough foot traffic. Weird enough crowd.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Now we’re talking.”

They broke into twin grins again.

Then Fred asked, “Do we get to name it?”

Cassian didn’t look up. “If you don’t, I will. And I swear, I’ll call it Bang & Sons: Purveyors of Magical Regret.”

George immediately shouted, “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.”

Fred threw both hands up. “That’s the one.”

Cassian nodded. “Good. You picked the non-humiliating option. That’s growth.”

They beamed.

“Thanks, Professor R,” Fred said.

George gave a salute. “You’re still our favourite war criminal.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “Get out before I change my mind.”

They left laughing. Cassian turned back to the scrolls, muttering, “Gods help whoever shares a wall with them.”

***

Steam curled lazily along the platform as the last of the students spilled out of the Hogwarts Express. Harry adjusted his trunk with one hand, Hedwig’s cage in the other, still half caught in that strange, heavy feeling of leaving the year behind.

Beside him, Sirius stretched like a man who had been cooped up far too long, grinning at the open sky beyond the station.

They walked a few steps before Harry slowed, a thought crashing into him with sudden dread.

“Your car?” he asked, voice tightening. “I previously didn’t think since I thought you were just taking me to the train, but it was sitting there all year!”

Sirius waved a hand dismissively, not even breaking stride. “Hogwarts has existed for a thousand years. Do you think we thought of adding a platform for our train and not one for our carts? Well, at least they were for carts at the beginning. Now almost no one uses it.”

Harry stopped dead. “There is free parking… just for Magicks?” he said, staring.

Sirius turned back, his grin widening. “Of course. Come on. I got some new songs with banger basses.”

Harry froze.

A very specific, very recent memory surfaced, of Sirius discovering Muggle music and deciding volume was a suggestion, not a rule.

Oh no.

He forgot that.

***

Cassian and Bathsheda left the school late, hand in hand. They didn’t go back to Diagon Alley. That place was cramped, loud, and one screaming kettle away from structural collapse. And the Rosier manor was out. Officially. He hadn’t set foot in it since the trial. Even Regulus had stopped asking. Which was probably wise, all things considered.

They took the Portkey to Ireland. West coast, edge of a forest that didn’t have a name on the public map. He’d bought the entire place a few months ago. Cash, no title games, no ancestral nonsense. No one could argue ownership if you controlled the land under the wardstone.

It was quiet. Cold in the mornings, dense with fog. The kind of place you couldn’t hear the rest of the world from.

Cassian liked that.

They passed the stone marker and the wards peeled back. The path opened into the clearing, their house rising from the slope like it had been waiting for them to notice it. He’d kept it simple, two floors, wide balcony, no servants, no family crest burned into the lintel.

Home.

Bathsheda dropped her bag by the door and stepped out of her boots. They stood side by side and watched the trees breathe.

It had been a long year.

Back when things were cleaner, or at least quieter, he might’ve stayed in Rosier manor for the sake of convenience. Now he didn’t trust it. Not after what Dumbledore did. And not when the rest of the family looked at him like a walking liability. He knew too much. They wouldn’t kill him for it, not directly. But someone would try to shut him up if it ever looked like he might talk.

So, no. He didn’t need the family estate. Or their wine. Or the fake congratulations they offered when Lucian got dragged out in shackles.

He had better things to do.

Like blocking half the Sacred Twenty-Eight from ransacking the Malfoy and others’ vaults.

That part had been impressive in a grim sort of way. Lucius was barely through processing, Selwyns still bleeding arrogance in the holding cells, and already the vultures had started circling. Land claims, bond disputes, ancestral debts suddenly dug up and waved like receipts.

Cassian’s lawyers tore through them.

Three departments. Eight solicitors. He hadn’t even waited for Dumbledore to weigh in. The kids were still underage on paper, but they had their O.W.L.s. That was enough. He used his vault ties, filed the right motions, pulled favours from a few names with grudges against the nobles. The paperwork hit the Ministry before the second estate claim could land.

By the time anyone realised what was happening, Draco and the others were legally emancipated. Fully independent. Those vultures couldn’t touch their assets anymore.

Cassian had made sure of it.

He tied the ownership documents straight to enchanted contracts, keyed through Gringotts, backed by a Ministry seal and three layers of ward signatures. Even the Goblins respected the work. It was that ironclad. These people still played word-games with him, not knowing even a Djinn lost to him.

Nobody tried again after that.

Dumbledore already had enough sins on his plate for using those kids in the first place. The least Cassian could do was stop the sharks from finishing the job.

Bathsheda leaned on the railing beside him, her hand slipping into his.

“Feels weird,” she said.

“What does?”

She watched the mist drift between the trees. “Winning.”

Cassian let out a breath through his nose. “Did we?”

She glanced at him. “You got Voldemort thrown halfway across the continent. Took down half the Death Eater ranks. Got a Minister out. Saved a prophecy. And gave those kids a shot at something better.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I still don’t have a kettle that works properly.”

She smirked.

“Suppose we’ll just have to rough it,” she said.

He nudged her shoulder with his. “We’ll survive. I’ve got a shed full of cursed cauldrons. One of them must boil water eventually.”

She huffed and slumped into his chest. Cassian tipped his head onto hers, eyes drifting out over the clearing. The mist had pulled back a little, leaving the grass slick and the trees sharp in silhouette.

It wasn’t much yet, some trees, some rocks, a bit of uneven ground and a crooked fence at the edge, but it was theirs. The whole bloody thing. Every metre of wild, mist-choked land.

Eventually, he’d bring in some creatures. Hagrid already offered to help with some legal, some… less so. He looked practically misty-eyed at the idea. Sprout had half a plan to get the soil prepped by September. Neville and Daphne had new powers to get a grip on, and this was the safest place to do it. One day, if they played it right, it could be another haven. A second Flamel House, minus the eccentric alchemy and awkward goat.

He grinned into her hair. “Only thing missing’s ten little monsters legging it about.”

She choked on air. “Ten? What d’you think I am, livestock?”

He chuckled. “No. You’re my lovely wife.”

Before she could argue, he swept her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

She yelped, thumped his back, kicked once. “Put me down!”

He kept walking. “Nah. You’re mine now. I caught you fair and square.”

She kept pounding on him, though it was more ceremonial than serious. “We’re adding contraception wards. That’s final.”

He gasped. “Blasphemy! We’re having a clan!”

“You’re having a back injury if you don’t put me down.”

He bumped the door open with a hip. “Worth it.”

She kept arguing all the way into the kitchen. He dumped her onto a chair with all the grace of someone setting down a full sack of potatoes, then spun to grab the kettle. The useless one, of course. It clicked twice and gave up. He sighed and warmed the water with a lazy Warming Charm, then poured two mugs, setting one down in front of her.

“Truce?” he asked.

She took the mug, sipped, then looked up.

“Two,” she said. “That’s my limit. Children, I mean.”

He leaned against the counter. “We’ll negotiate. I’ll start at ten, you start at two, and we’ll settle at seven.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Three.”

“Four and a half.”

She pointed her spoon at him. “What’s the half?”

“Tiny one with a bad attitude. Just like you.”

She threw a napkin at his face.

He didn’t dodge. Just sipped his tea, watching her with a grin.

Eventually, she leaned back, mug balanced on her knee.

The wind outside curled round the windows.

The End

(Joking)

(Check Here)

-Master, the spell worked. Everyone read it!

-Wonderful. And the response?

-They stared.

-…Ah.

—

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