On the 6th of December, the lesson for Apparition appeared on the board, just like it did every year. Students grinned. A few groaned. One Slytherin nearly fainted in advance.

Cassian, however, was lying flat across Bathsheda’s lap, watching the fireplace crackle. Her fingers slid through his hair, absently working through a stubborn knot, while her other hand held a book she hadn’t turned the page on in at least ten minutes.

He shifted slightly, cheek pressed into the warm fabric of her robes. “You think I should teach Apparition to kiddies?”

Bathsheda’s hand stilled. The book lowered just enough to show one arched brow. “To learn an ancient variant?”

He nodded into her thigh.

She hummed. “That makes sense.”

She then paused, “Though you only learned it recently. Can you teach it?”

Cassian shrugged, though from this angle it came out more of a vague wiggle. “I know more about space than the rest of this castle combined.”

She hummed again. Technically true. Because Cassian Rosier, Hogwarts Professor, magical menace, self-declared Walking History Book, hadn’t been born in this world. His soul had grown up in a world with physics textbooks, orbital mechanics, and a government that’d somehow decided it was fine to teach teenagers trigonometry but not how taxes worked.

He’d seen stars in motion on plasma screens before he ever saw them cast through a wand. Understood what gravity did to time. How motion changed when space bent. When he first learned Apparition in this life, it’d taken one attempt before his brain kicked in with, “Oh. This is teleportation by way of intention collapsing non-linear anchors across folded distance.” And then he’d done it. Clean.

Which was a great blow for Bathsheda and her little girl team, and Tonks, who had spent weeks plotting how to immortalise Cassian’s humiliation. She’d racked her brain, poked through spellbooks, even considered hiring a portraitist before Hermione, bless her, casually mentioned Muggle cameras during a completely unrelated rant about underfunded archiving systems.

That was all Tonks needed.

Two days later, she turned up with a plastic camcorder and the kind of grin that usually meant someone was going to end up in the Hospital Wing or detention.

Unfortunately for her, Cassian was as brilliant as ever. Not a hair out of place. Not a step wrong. He didn’t explode, stutter, or embarrass himself in any way whatsoever.

Until.

He did trip on a loose stone. Face first. Right after he’d spun dramatically to gloat at Tonks.

And she caught it. Got the whole thing, the smirk, the stumble, the undignified flail, recorded in grainy, glorious Muggle footage.

Or she would have, if the tape hadn’t mysteriously blanked itself right before she started laughing.

And she did laugh. For ten solid minutes. Possibly more. She had to run out mid-howl just to relieve herself.

Cassian said nothing. Smiled politely. Walked off with the air of someone who absolutely hadn’t tampered with anything.

The camera hasn’t worked since.

He’d taught himself the rest by cheating. Or, as he preferred to call it, “efficient interdisciplinary application of Muggle physics to emotionally unstable magic.”

Bathsheda flicked her fingers, tapping the back of his head. “You’ll have to pitch it. Dumbledore won’t hand over the lesson lightly.”

Cassian grunted. “I’ll tell him I’ve got a good feeling. He loves that mystical bollocks.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a fantastic liar,” he said, lazily. “You’re just inconveniently perceptive.”

She ignored that. She closed her book. “Alright.”

He blinked. “That’s it? No lecture?”

“I want to see what happens when you mess with the bounds of physical space.”

He smirked. “You’re a bad influence.”

“What can I say, I’m an enabler.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Her fingers threaded through the curls behind his ear.

He purred, “If I pull it off, I might end up with long-distance, one-hop Apparition. Or some sort of… interstitial shifting.”

“Try not to invent cuantom bleeding.”

“No promises.”

She nudged his ribs with her elbow.

He turned slightly, cheek now pressed flat to her thigh. “Did I ever tell you how absolutely stupid the Apparition spell is?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You did. Three weeks ago. And last term. And during that staff meeting when Wilkins brought up his ‘Apparition is about control’ diagram.”

Cassian groaned into her robes. “He called it the Trinary Focus Matrix.”

“He did.”

“It was three circles and a triangle. I’ve seen better logic in a toddler’s cereal box.”

***

Lo and behold, Dumbledore didn’t even argue.

Cassian had barely finished the pitch before the old man waved a hand and said something suspiciously close to “Have fun.” Either the Headmaster had gone soft as Christmas approached or Cassian’s track record bought him enough goodwill to start an educational uprising and get away with it.

He didn’t question it. Slipped the parchment into his pocket and went to find Bathsheda.

But before they could start rewriting Apparition drills, the summons came.

Official seal. Ministry parchment. Double envelope, the kind they usually reserved for political feuds or weddings where someone had to pretend to be happy. This one had both.

“Requested presence,” it said. Which was Ministry code for, “Get your arse here or we’ll file it under defiance.”

Dumbledore added a little note of his own at the bottom, charmingly unhelpful, “You should attend. This event is important to consolidate the new Minister’s authority.”

Cassian read that twice, sighed, then set the parchments on fire in the sink.

Bathsheda read hers and said nothing, just went to fetch her boots.

They Apparated straight to the Ministry’s upper guest entrance, marble corridor, too many sconces, the whole place smelling like money and paranoia.

Even the name of the event made Cassian twitch.

The Minister’s Yuletide Reconciliation Banquet.

He could already hear the speeches. The gold-framed niceties. The too-wide smiles and glasses filled with the sort of wine that screamed, “We’re not friends, but let’s pretend.”

Bathsheda elbowed him as they stepped inside. “No biting.”

He looked wounded. “I was going to be polite.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

As their names rang out, conversations paused mid-laugh. Heads turned. Someone near the orchestra whispered something sharp, and the violins missed a beat.

Cyrus Greengrass stepped forward to greet them. Patriarch of House Greengrass. Father of Daphne and Astoria. He was the newest occupant of the Minister’s chair since Fudge’s dramatic departure, if fleeing before the battle had even ended could truly be called resigning. Depending on who you asked, Greengrass was either the saviour of the century or a convenient placeholder until someone shinier came along.

He’d been a compromise candidate. Too clean for the purists, too polished for the radicals. Which, to Cassian, meant the man was smart enough to piss everyone off equally. He respected that.

Regulus had been in the running too. Strong contender, if Lucian hadn’t gone off the bloody rails and declared for Voldemort. Hard to sell your candidacy when your eldest son kidnaps a pair of warheroes and kickstarts a resurrection ritual. Even harder when the Purebloods start whispering it was Ophelia, Cassian and Lucian’s mother, who let him into St Margo’s in the first place.

And then there was Cassian again, who, after the attack, was exposed that he cracked open the Occlumency channels the families had relied on for decades. Ripped out the built-in lies and fail-safes. Burned every backdoor the old families had hidden in their children’s minds. A hundred years of silent control, gone.

After that, Rosier secrets weren’t secrets anymore. At least not safe ones.

This banquet was the first time they’d seen him since.

Cyrus didn’t linger. Offered both of them a smile, a few polite nothings, then peeled off to go shake hands with someone more important in political games. Cassian didn’t bother watching him go. He turned toward the back of the room, where Bagshot and Goshawk had parked themselves beside the drinks table away from the posh crowd.

“Evening,” he said, sliding in beside them. “Nice to see you both still alive. I was starting to think the Ministry had eaten you.”

Bathilda’s eyes didn’t lift from her glass. “Only because they choke on me every time.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Goshawk gestured vaguely at the tray. “Help yourselves. It’s drinkable. Barely.”

Cassian picked up a glass. Bathsheda didn’t bother. “That tastes like it’s been stored in a boot,” she muttered.

Cassian sighed, loudly, and too long. “Already regretting being here. What are the odds someone poisons the salmon tonight?”

“Higher than they were last year,” Goshawk said. “Lower than they’ll be next.”

Bathilda glanced up, took him in top to toe, and frowned.

“Nice robe,” she said, flat.

Cassian looked down, tugged the collar slightly. “This is my everyday robe.”

“My point exactly.” Her glass tilted, lips curled. “You’re at a state event, Cassian. Could’ve put in a touch more effort.”

Bathsheda shook her head. “Told him to wear something nicer, but he’s stubborn today.”

He sipped the wine, made a face. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Of course not.”

“Don’t start. It’s not the worst thing someone’s worn tonight. That bloke near the pillar looks like a sentient curtain.”

“You’re the only person here dressed as if it were laundry day,” she muttered.

“Tradition. Turn up looking half dead, lower the expectations.” he said cheerfully, turning to Bathilda. “Speaking of which, did you ever crack the Rauthen glyphs?”

That got Goshawk’s attention. She tilted her head. “You’re still on about those?”

“Yes. Because they don’t make sense. I’ve seen three different translations of that central cluster, and one of them suggested it meant ‘bone rain.’ Not helpful.”

“That’s because it probably does mean bone rain,” Bathilda said.

Cassian blinked. “Seriously?”

She nodded, lips thin. “There’s a root consonant, hrak, that shows up in similar formations in Kullinari texts. It’s used to describe unnatural weather events. Specifically those caused by cursed objects.”

Bathsheda raised her eyebrows. “So… rain made of bones.”

“Or cursed rain shaped like bones,” Bathilda replied dryly.

Cassian winced. “I’d rather not imagine either, thanks.”

“You asked,” she said, shrugging. “And that’s still more coherent than Goshawk’s theory.”

“I said it was a burial rite,” Goshawk cut in, unfazed. “The binding loop suggests spirit containment. That doesn’t show up in weatherwork.”

Bathsheda crossed her arms. “It wasn’t meant for burial. You don’t bury something and redirect its magic. That’s trapwork. Reinforcement layer wrapped inside a failsafe.”

Cassian nodded slowly. “That tracks. You still have that cast from the archive vault?”

“In my study,” Goshawk said.

“I want another look at the fracture lines. The flow was too clean for a break. Something bent the channel without interrupting it.”

Bathilda pulled a scrap of parchment from her sleeve, of course she did, and tapped the edge. “It’s not a fracture. It’s a redirection mark. Like the Draugr loops. Doesn’t break the channel. But bends it.”

Cassian leaned in. “So it wasn’t a cursed object.”

Bathsheda muttered, “It was a vault.”

“No,” Bathilda said. “A prison.”

Goshawk made a face. “Well, that’s worse.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair. “If that’s true, then all the translation works backwards. We’ve been reading it like a mirror.”

“Exactly,” Bathilda said.

“Fantastic. So the thing we thought was a warning-“

“-is a door,” Bathsheda finished.

Cassian sighed. “Perfect. Nothing says summer project like ancient containment glyphs pretending to be public safety notices.”

He turned slightly, eyes landing on Fleur and Selena across the room. They were mid-conversation with a cluster of fresh Ministry recruits, half of whom looked ready to faint.

“You sent them to Bassen Moor, didn’t you?” he asked Goshawk.

“She spotted a runic echo last week. Thought it might be a buried boundary line. Fleur tagged along.”

“Find anything?”

“Collapsed ley pocket. Still pulsing.”

Bathsheda shook her head with a laugh. “Lovely.”

“Fleur hexed a rock,” Goshawk added.

Cassian grinned. “Good girl.”

“She said it looked at her funny,” Goshawk said with a proud smile.

Cassian raised his drink in mock toast. “To bone rain, prison glyphs, and rocks with attitude.”

Bathilda clinked his glass without looking up. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

“I always do.”

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