Cassian was sitting at the edge of the Quidditch pitch with a heavy coat around his shoulders. Bathsheda dropped down next to him, passed over a steaming cup, then stole half the blanket without asking.

“You hate Quidditch,” she muttered, nudging her icy nose into his side, it was red from the cold already.

He wrapped his coat around her head like a burrito, and yanked her closer till she folded up against him like a frozen squirrel.

“I do,” he said, tilting the cup toward the field. “Take a look.”

She blinked at the field through the gap between his arms.

Slytherin and Gryffindor were standing on opposite sides of the pitch. Just… standing. No one hexing the other or insulting.

Her brow furrowed. “Wait, are they…?”

“Yep.”

She blinked. “They’re training together?”

He nodded. “Practice game. Potter’s the Gryffindor captain now. Malfoy’s got Slytherin. Guess they figured it was faster to test their rosters together.”

Bathsheda stared. “They hate each other.”

“True.”

She looked again. “Like, properly. Fought-on-a-rooftop hate.”

Cassian sipped his tea. “And now they’re comparing Keepers.”

“Did we miss the apocalypse?”

“Possible. Let’s see if the sky splits open before lunch.”

Bathsheda glanced down at the field again. Malfoy was barking something at a younger Slytherin, gesturing sharply. Potter pointed at the same spot a second later, like they were syncing.

“Alright,” she said. “That’s unsettling.”

“They’ve stopped screaming at each other, which is either growth or a shared vendetta.”

On the pitch, the Chasers launched into a pass relay. It wasn’t graceful yet, but it was fast.

Bathsheda shifted closer again. “Did you tell them to?”

Cassian gave her a weird look. “Gods, no. I couldn’t care less about Quidditch.”

She squinted. “Then why are you here?”

He shrugged. “Heard shouting. Thought they were fighting. Came to pull one of them off the other and saw this.”

He took a sip of tea. “Well, they both have a flair for dramatics. Potter keeps nearly dying. Malfoy’s one bad day away from staging a monologue in the Great Hall.”

A sharp whistle cut across the air. Both teams broke into a sprint, moving with actual coordination.

“Look at that. House unity through mutual annoyance.”

Bathsheda wrapped the coat tighter around herself. “Think they’ll stick with it?”

“Doubt it,” he said. “But they’ll pretend long enough to terrify Ravenclaw.”

She laughed and tucked herself further into him. Below, the teams had started another round, Potter calling the shots, Malfoy snapping right back like he’d been waiting all year to run drills properly.

Cassian watched a beat longer, then muttered, “They’re going to make this year interesting.”

***

“Door’s open,” Cassian called, not looking up.

Harry stepped in, shut it behind him. Cassian pointed at the chair across from his desk.

“Sit.”

Harry dropped into the seat without comment. He looked tired. Not end-of-practice tired, more like something had been eating at him all day and he’d run out of places to stash it.

Cassian finally set the pen down. “Alright. Let’s get on with it. You’ve got that look. Go on, hit me.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Why didn’t he tell me sooner?”

Cassian blinked. “You’re going to have to narrow that down. I believe there are a lot of hes around that hasn’t told you a lot of things sooner.”

“Headmaster,” Harry said. “About the prophecy. About the Horcrux. About what I am.”

“So… you two spoke?”

Harry nodded. “He’s known for years.”

Cassian leaned back. “He has. Bit of a nasty habit, keeping things under the hat until they’re half-rotten.”

“I don’t get it,” Harry muttered. “I was eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Every year something tried to kill me and he still didn’t say a word. If you haven’t told me, would he ever? I hate that he didn’t trust me.”

“He didn’t trust himself,” Cassian said. “He didn’t know what to do with it.”

“He said I had a choice,” Harry said. “But it doesn’t feel like one. It’s always the same thing… ‘You’ve got power he doesn’t,’ or ‘You’ll have to face him in the end.’ It’s like it’s already written.”

“It’s not,” Cassian said. “We already established that, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed. “So why does everyone act like it’s carved in stone?”

“Because it’s easier,” Cassian said. “If something’s destined, then no one has to take responsibility when it goes wrong. Fate’s a great scapegoat.”

Harry laughed at that then rubbed his knuckles across his knee.

“I keep thinking I’m going to turn into him,” he said. “That I’ll slip. That this thing in me will twist me when I’m not looking.”

Cassian stood and stepped around the desk till he was next to Harry.

“You’re not him,” he said. “That thing in you doesn’t get a vote. You do.”

“Tell that to my nightmares,” Harry muttered.

“Potter,” Cassian said, standing again, “if nightmares made you evil, this school would’ve burned down in ’94. And that’s 1094 for your information.”

Harry let out a short breath.

“Look,” Cassian said, picking up the book on the desk and tossing it onto the cabinet, “you’ve got something inside you. It’s not you. If a rat crawled into your boot, would you start calling yourself vermin?”

Harry blinked. “…No?”

“Exactly. Don’t confuse the infestation with the house. It’s disgusting and sickening, yes, but it’s not what you are.”

Harry’s gaze stayed on the ground. “I feel it sometimes. When I’m angry. When something’s wrong. It’s like… like something waiting to speak.”

Cassian crouched slightly, met his eyes.

“Good. That means you can hear it. People who’ve lost the plot don’t question whether they’ve still got one. If you’re worried about turning into a monster, that’s the clearest sign you won’t.”

Harry blinked.

Cassian stood again and headed to the far cabinet. He opened it, pulled out a biscuit tin, and tossed it.

Harry caught it on reflex.

“Eat something,” Cassian said. “Your face looks like a rain cloud.”

Harry opened the tin, pulled out something that might’ve once been gingerbread, and bit into it.

Cassian leaned against the desk again. “You’ve got questions. I’ve got time. Pick one.”

Harry chewed slowly, then said, “The soul piece. You said you were working on something.”

Cassian nodded. “I am. And it’s not a pipe dream either. We’re getting close. Might not be pretty, but there’s a way to pull that fragment out without turning you into soup.”

Harry looked at him. “What if it tries to stop you?”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Let it try.”

He meant it. Harry could tell.

Harry muttered, “You ever feel like we’re all being moved into place for something?”

Cassian tilted his head. “What gave it away? The prophecy? The soul fragment? The fact that a third of this school has nearly died at least twice?”

Harry didn’t smile this time. “It feels like something’s coming.”

Cassian didn’t look away. “It is.”

Harry met his eyes. “And we’re not ready.”

Cassian raised his hands to the side, “That’s life. You don’t get to control what it throws at you. You control what you do with it.”

Harry gave a small nod. Didn’t look up.

Cassian watched him a beat longer, then, “While we’re at it, I need to borrow your Invisibility Cloak.”

That got his attention. Harry looked up fast, blinking like he hadn’t heard right. Then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

But something shifted in his face. Jaw clenched, eyes a little too still. Cassian caught it.

“I’ll give it back,” he said dryly. “Not planning to elope with it.”

Harry huffed, more breath than laugh. “It’s not that. It’s stupid, really.”

Cassian tilted his head. “I like stupid. Go on.”

“Last time someone borrowed it,” Harry said, voice tight, “my parents died.”

Cassian frowned.

“I got it in my first year. Christmas. Came with a note. Said borrowed it from my dad to study it. And was now giving it back.” Harry’s hands pressed against his knees. “Didn’t think much of it then. But lately I keep wondering… if they’d had it that night. Hidden better. Maybe Voldemort wouldn’t’ve found them.”

“You can’t hide from d-” Cassian stopped mid-word.

Then he stood, crossed the room, and yanked a book off the second shelf. Dust puffed. He flipped through pages fast, lips moving as he scanned. Found the section, skimmed quickly, then again slower.

Harry watched him, frowning. “Er…?”

Cassian didn’t look up. “How long did your family have that Cloak?”

Harry blinked. “I… I’m not sure. I know my dad had it in school. Sirius said so. And he got it from his dad.”

Cassian’s frown deepened. “That’s two generations. At least.”

He tapped the edge of the book, gaze dropping back to the text.

That Cloak worked against Dumbledore’s wards. Potter had slipped right through them in first year. He’d thought maybe the boy had been keyed in somehow. He even thought the cloak could be special at the time. But now…

His eyes dropped back to the page. The story wasn’t long. Three brothers. One wanted power, another wanted love, the third asked for a way to leave Death without being followed. The first two died.

The third survived. Passed the Cloak down.

The book didn’t say who’d got it next.

Could it really be it?

Could they be real?

He looked over the edge of the book at Potter.

The Cloak had been passed through the Potter line. Still worked. Still flawless. Not degraded at all.

Cassian closed the book and set it on the desk.

If it was the Cloak, then the rest existed too. Which meant someone out there had the Wand. The stone too…

Cassian rubbed a thumb across his brow, then finally looked up.

“Potter,” he said slowly, “I need to see that Cloak.”

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