After everyone had arrived and enough wine had circulated to grease the political courtesy, Cyrus Greengrass stepped up to the platform near the Ministerial crest. He clinked his glass, gently enough to ask for silence but loud enough to cut through the hum of empty praise and strained conversation.

People turned. Conversations dulled. Chairs scraped back just a little too loudly, and half a dozen reporters lowered their quills.

“This year,” Cyrus began, looking at people’s faces, “has tested the limits of what a nation can endure.”

Straight to it. He was a Greengrass, alright. They didn’t dress up bombs in ribbons.

“There’s no point pretending otherwise. We’ve all seen the reports. We’ve stood in the aftermath. The Dark Lord has returned. He attacked the Ministry itself. People are injured. More would’ve, or could’ve even died, if not for the few standing here today.”

He gestured, briefly, to the row of polished seats lined along the edge of the dais.

“Last spring, Voldemort breached the Department of Mysteries,” Cyrus went on. “He was not alone. His Death Eaters walked through our walls and drew blood on our own floor.”

Some among them gasped at his name. Some sat calm.

“They weren’t just radicals and outcasts. We now know many were invited in. Protected. Enabled. Influenced. And in some cases, directly supported by sitting members of our own magical society.”

He let that hang a moment.

“Avery. Selwyn. Crabbe. Goyle, Bulstrode. The Malfoy line. The Nott patriarch. All implicated. All found complicit, either in direct conspiracy or by manipulating Former Minister Fudge into attacking Hogwarts.”

Faces went tight. A few turned away from their neighbours.

“But they failed,” Cyrus said. “Because a handful of people didn’t.”

He took a breath.

“Because people like Albus Dumbledore, Madam Goshawk, Bathilda Bagshot, whose expertise made this case airtight, stepped in when the rest of us were still floundering through protocol.”

Bathilda didn’t look up from her wine. Goshawk gave a stiff nod and downed the rest of hers in one go.

“Because of the Rosiers, the Weasley family. Because Amelia Bones. Because Kingsley Shacklebolt, Sirius Black, the Longbottoms, and the Parkinsons stood to guard our home.”

Cyrus’s gaze swept the room again, sharper this time.

“Because Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Millicent Bulstrode, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle stood in front of the Wizengamot and spoke. Because they testified. Told the truth. The whole truth.”

Everyone in the room already knew the details.

“These names will be remembered,” Cyrus said. “They’ve earned that.”

He paused. Then turned slightly, and the tone shifted.

“But two names stand above the rest.”

Everyone sat straighter.

“Cassian Rosier and Bathsheda Babbling. Together,” he said, “they orchestrated the single most comprehensive defence operation our world has seen since the first war. They predicted the attack. They gathered evidence. They drafted strategy while half this room still debated whether the Dark Lord had actually returned.

“They held the Ministry itself,” Cyrus continued. “They stood between the public and a curse designed to dismantle the very structure of magical governance. And when that line nearly broke. They countered instead of retreating. They turned the attack inside out. They held him back. Him.”

Another pause.

“Voldemort.”

A few flinched again. Cyrus ignored it.

“And when it was done,” he said, “they didn’t step back to count trophies. They kept working. They recovered and neutralised dangers. They worked with the Keepers to intercept arcane-level threats before they crossed into populated regions. We’re still assessing the full scope of what they stopped. But I can tell you this, without them, we’d be rebuilding from ruins.”

He reached into his coat.

“And that’s before we even get to the research,” he added. “You’ve all read the reports. Cassian Rosier and Bathsheda Babbling, without official backing or funding, developed a counteragent to Amortentia.”

He held the scroll high.

“And for these achievements. For their defence of Hogwarts. For their protection of the Ministry. For their commitment to restoring truth where it was buried in shadow… I am proud to bestow upon Cassian Rosier and Bathsheda Babbling the Order of Merlin, First Class.”

Everyone stood. Clapping with exaggerated enthusiasm. Whatever tension had built up since the speech started vanished.

Cassian reached for his drink. Bathsheda had her wand out before his fingers even touched the glass. His entire outfit flickered silver-blue. The thread shimmered, darkened, adjusted. Collars straightened. Cuffs shifted. Their worn edges were gone, the travel-scorched fabric replaced by something smoother, deep, dark navy edged in a narrow runic seam.

He glanced sideways. “What, embarrassed to be seen with me?”

Her nails pressed a little tighter against his sleeve. “No, just rather pictures look good.”

“If I’d known we’d be centre stage, I’d’ve dressed worse.”

“Too late,” she murmured. “You look passable now.”

He snorted. “How tragic.”

Cyrus was already walking toward them, cutting a line through the crowd. Two of them got up to receive the man.

“Professor Rosier,” Cyrus said. “Professor Babbling.”

He handed over the scroll first, both ends bound with white ribbon. The seal had already been cracked. Cassian took the scroll in one hand and turned it slightly, inspecting the crest.

Cyrus didn’t seem to mind. He reached into the inner pocket of his robes and pulled out the second piece.

The medal itself wasn’t much. Gold circle, engraved rim, a simple clasp. The Order of Merlin. First Class. The highest civilian honour in the magical world, if you believed the Ministry’s press team. If you didn’t, it was a coin they handed out when they didn’t want to owe you anything bigger.

Cassian gave it a once-over. “Is this actual gold?”

“Goblin minted,” Cyrus said.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “So it’s valuable?”

A few people near the front laughed, unsure if he was serious. Cyrus smiled faintly. “You’ve earned it.”

Cassian tucked the medal into his pocket without pinning it on. “Bit heavy for the robes. Might ruin the tailoring.”

Cyrus turned to Bathsheda next. Her medal came in the same velvet-lined box.

They turned together and faced the crowd.

The applause finally started to fade. Cassian tapped the scroll against his palm. “Do we sit now, or is there a parade?”

Bathsheda moved first. “Sit.”

The rest of the ceremony blurred into wine and orchestral filler. Cyrus stepped down. Someone else took his place. Another round of handshakes. More talking. Speeches about reconciliation and the future and something about a new educational initiative that sounded like it was doomed from the title alone.

Cassian tuned most of it out. Instead, he leaned closer to Bathsheda. “How long do we have to stay before it’s not rude to leave?”

“Five more minutes.”

“Right.”

She added, “Then we have to talk to at least three more people.”

Cassian closed his eyes. “You’re a sadist.”

“You’re a Rosier. You can handle it.”

Before they left, Regulus and Magnus stepped in front of them.

“Cassian,” his father said. “A word.”

Cassian paused with the sigh already halfway out of his lungs. He patted Bathsheda’s arm. “Won’t be long.”

She didn’t argue, just peeled off toward Goshawk and Bagshot.

Cassian followed the two men to a quieter part of hall behind one of the massive draped banners. It was still too public for anything proper, but private enough for them to pretend they weren’t being watched.

Regulus folded his hands behind his back. Magnus lingered by the archway, surveying the corners.

“I assume you know what this is about,” Regulus said.

Cassian tilted his head. “Well, I’ve won awards tonight and avoided poisoning. My odds are already high.”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“Never is with you.”

Regulus glanced at his father, then back. “You’ve been quiet.”

Cassian didn’t respond.

“Too quiet,” Regulus went on. “You had access to every secret. You saw our records. Read the dirt.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Is this your way of saying thank you?”

“No,” Magnus cut in. “It’s our way of asking when that silence ends.”

Cassian’s smile didn’t move. “Interesting phrasing. You ask like you’re hoping I’ll threaten you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Regulus’s mouth tightened. “You’ve always wanted leverage. Now you have it. So why haven’t you used it?”

Magnus, to his credit, didn’t shift. “Some of those bindings were countermeasures. Insurance. Centuries-old contracts. You know what happens if those collapse too fast.”

“I know exactly what happens,” Cassian said. “Which is why I didn’t burn the rest of it. But let’s not pretend any of that was noble. You built cages. You stitched obedience into your heirs and then called it tradition. That was fear, dressed in silver thread, not protection as you like to say.”

Regulus flinched at that. Barely.

“Ambition, in slivers or slabs, usually pairs with selfishness,” he said. “So no, I’m not airing out the skeleton drawer. You’re safe from that.”

Regulus didn’t blink, but his shoulders tensed like he’d been expecting that answer and still didn’t like hearing it out loud.

“But let’s not mistake that for forgiveness,” Cassian went on, stepping in closer. “You lot’ve got dirt soaked so deep it could fertilise the next three generations. If I see you bury another body, cut another corner, or try your luck with a blood-locked vault that screams when you open it, I’ll report it. Out loud. In public. With diagrams.”

Magnus snorted sharply. “You’d really do that.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Course I would.”

“You’d gut your own name,” Regulus said.

Cassian smiled flat. “Already did.”

Magnus gave him a hard look. “You think that badge in your pocket makes you untouchable now?”

“No. But it makes me loud. And right now, that’s more useful.”

He looked between the two men. “Try me.”

Magnus’s fingers twitched at his side, like he was weighing how far to push this. He didn’t.

Regulus stepped closer. “You’re still a Rosier.”

“You can consider this my renunciation. I’m in name only.”

That landed harder than it should have.

“You really think we’d let you walk away?” Magnus asked.

Cassian gave a dry huff. “You think I’d ask permission?”

They stared at each other, knowing they didn’t have a sliver of leverage against Cassian. On the other hand, Cassian had hundreds.

“You want to salvage the family?” Cassian asked. “Then clean it. Start from the inside. Take the good bones and leave the rest to rot.”

“Rosiers don’t rot,” Regulus said, cold.

Cassian grinned. “Go check your son in Azkaban and see for yourself.”

He turned to leave. Regulus didn’t stop him. Magnus didn’t move. They watched as he stepped back into the crowd, unbothered and already halfway to the drinks table by the time the noise swallowed him whole.

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