The Great Hall gleamed under its floating candles, banners bright, tables full, and, miracle of miracles, nobody bleeding. Cassian sat beside Bathsheda at the staff table, staring across the hall expecting something to happen.

“Not a single explosion,” he muttered. “I don’t trust it.”

Bathsheda cut a piece of roast and nudged his arm with her elbow. “You’re meant to enjoy it. It’s called an end-of-year feast, not a precursor to disaster.”

“That’s exactly what someone would say right before disaster.”

She sighed. “Nothing is happening because we stopped it from happening.”

Cassian stabbed a potato. “Still feels wrong. Hogwarts usually tries to maim at least one child before pudding.”

Down the table, Sirius and Aurora sat beside each other. They weren’t touching, but the gap between them was no longer a declaration of war. They spoke quietly, calm in that careful way couples adopt when they’re pretending they’re not rebuilding from rubble.

Aurora said something quiet, Sirius huffed a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, awkward as ever. Cassian eyed them for a second.

“Look at that,” he murmured.

Bathsheda followed his line of sight. “They’re trying.”

“I wonder what he’d do if he knew that a summer escape is my thing.”

Bathsheda’s fork paused mid-air. “He’d probably combust from jealousy and blame you for inventing holidays.”

Cassian nodded. “Sounds right. Well, did you at least tell them to steer away from Norway, China, Greece, Turkiye, Australia and what else… ah, Mesoamerica.”

She hummed, “Well thought. I’ll make a list.”

Dumbledore, at the centre of the staff table, clinked his goblet gently, smiling at nothing in particular. Cassian squinted at the old man.

Bathsheda leaned closer. “You’ve been watching him all week.”

“Making sure he’s not planning a dramatic exit,” Cassian said.

She bumped his knee under the table. “Relax for five minutes.”

He loosened his fingers. “There. Perfectly calm.”

Flitwick piped up. “Cassian, did your first-years ever manage to stop setting fire to their hair?”

Cassian frowned. “They set one hair on fire. One. And it wasn’t even impressive.”

Flitwick chuckled, taking a sip from his goblet. “Your standards are unhelpfully high.”

McGonagall, who had been slicing her lamb, spoke without looking up. “If Cassian says it lacked flair, Filius, then I fear the child in question only managed smoke.”

“Exactly,” Cassian said. “If you’re going to blow something up, at least give it a memorable shape. A mushroom cloud. A dragon. Something.”

Snape made a noise. It might have been disapproval. It might have been indigestion.

Cassian glanced down the table. “Yes, Severus?”

Snape didn’t lift his eyes from his plate. “Encouraging structural explosions. Do you ever grow?”

“That wasn’t encouragement,” Cassian said. “That was aesthetic critique.”

Bathsheda elbowed him under the table. “Stop provoking him.”

“I haven’t said anything provocative,” Cassian protested.

Snape lifted his goblet. “Your existence is provocative.”

“See?” Cassian said to Bathsheda. “That wasn’t me. That’s just Severus.”

Septima snorted, then turned away from glaring Snape.

Dumbledore raised his goblet slightly, catching the staff’s attention. “A toast, my friends, to another year survived, and to all of you who make this castle feel more like home than it ought to.”

McGonagall rolled her eyes. “This year has run smoothly. For that, we should all be grateful.”

Sprout raised her glass. “Hear, hear.”

The students cheered as pudding arrived, giant trifles, treacle tart, summer fruit pavlovas, things that seemed to multiply each time one blinked.

“Merlin,” Sprout breathed, eyeing the puddings. “The elves outdid themselves this year.”

Flitwick brightened again. “I’ll try the trifle. It looks delightful.”

***

Bathsheda, Dumbledore and Cassian stepped into the Headmaster’s office. Cassian set Helena Hufflepuff’s goblet on the desk with both hands, slow and careful.

Dumbledore rested his fingertips on the edge of the desk. “Are you ready?”

“About as ready as anyone holding a screaming soul-fragment in a cup,” Cassian said.

White light slid over his palm, solidifying into something like a second hand laid over his own.

He flexed his fingers. “Right. Let’s hope this doesn’t bite.”

He reached for the goblet. The moment his glowing hand closed around the metal, the cup shrieked in a raw, human-wrong wail that made the portraits flinch in their frames. One of the former Headmasters actually ducked.

Cassian gritted his teeth. “Yeah, I hear you. Shut up.”

The white layer round his hand flared brighter, pushing against the black smoke trying to pour out of the cup’s rim. The Horcrux bucked as if it wanted out.

Bathsheda stepped closer, wand aimed toward the goblet, ready to nuke it if it twitched wrong. Dumbledore watched the cup closely for any sign the object itself was taking damage.

The shrieking spiked, then choked on itself as Cassian tightened his grip. The white aura crept further, crawling up the sides of the cup. The Horcrux recoiled, smoke slamming against the barrier, trying to fold back into the metal.

Bathsheda murmured under her breath, tracking the way the spell ate through the corruption. “It’s weakening.”

“Good,” Cassian said. “I’m not babysitting this thing all summer.”

The goblet jerked in his hand hard enough that the desk rattled. A final wave of dark pressure burst outwards, enough to ruffle Dumbledore’s beard and make Bathsheda brace her stance, but the white hand crushed the surge until it caved inward.

The scream cut off suddenly. The last whisp of black smoke curled and vanished. Cassian kept hold of the goblet for a few more breaths, light still burning bright over his palm. Then, slowly, he let the aura fade. His real hand came back into view, slightly red at the knuckles but otherwise fine.

He huffed. “Alright. That’s one foul parasite evicted.”

Bathsheda took the goblet from him carefully with a runed cloth between her hands. Out of caution, habit, and because she’d seen too many cursed objects pretending to be inert.

The gold was warm but solid. No visible cracks or warped runes. She tipped it to check the interior. Clean. She couldn’t see any residue or lingering dark rot had resided within the cup.

“It’s intact,” she said. “The enchantments haven’t buckled.”

Dumbledore ran a quick diagnostic charm over the cup.

He lowered his wand with a sigh. “It’s clean.”

Cassian leaned back against the desk and blew out another breath. “Good. I was worried it’d melt.”

Dumbledore gave him a smile. “You handled it well.”

Bathsheda touched Cassian’s wrist lightly. “How’s your hand?”

Cassian wiggled his fingers. “Still attached. Always a win.”

Dumbledore looked between the two of them. “One more Horcrux removed from the world.”

Cassian straightened. “Good. One less thing trying to chew on Potter.”

He dusted off his hands, flashing both of them a grin, the sort that meant trouble was loading.

“So,” he said. “You know what comes next, right?”

Bathsheda and Dumbledore answered in unison, “We find the snake and test the spell properly on a live subject.”

Cassian, at the same time, announced, “Make a fresh living Horcrux and try it on-“

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening.

“…I meant your version. Obviously. The snake. Yes. That one.”

Bathsheda stared at him like she was weighing up whether to hex him or put him outside for fresh air.

Dumbledore didn’t even bother with disappointment. He went straight to the silent, exhausted kind of judgement.

Even Fawkes gave a trill and rolled his eyes.

Cassian lifted both hands. “Alright! Message received. No new Horcruxes, no arts and crafts. I get it.”

He cleared his throat, trying to scrape the last of that mortifying sentence out of the air. He pointed at the phoenix. “You can stop glaring. I corrected myself.”

Fawkes trilled again.

“That’s not helping,” Cassian muttered.

Dumbledore moved to his desk, plucked a tin from a drawer, and offered it outward without looking.

“Sherbet lemon?”

Cassian took one automatically. Bathsheda declined with a shake of her head.

“Right,” Cassian said, sucking the sweet. “Let’s sort the numbers before we run off chasing things with fangs.”

Bathsheda raised a hand. “We have five accounted for. Diary, diadem, ring, cup and locket.”

Cassian nodded. “One was used to anchor himself to the world of the living when he first died. Leaves one.”

“Potter,” Bathsheda said.

Dumbledore hummed. “Tom has always leaned toward symbols. A great serpent would appeal to him.”

Cassian lifted a brow. “Excellent. So we’re hunting a highly venomous maybe-Horcrux with a tendency to swallow people whole. Lovely.”

Bathsheda gave him a look. “Better than your earlier suggestion.”

“That was a theoretical instinct,” he said. “I’m allowed those.”

Bathsheda leaned on the back of a chair. “If we remove the snake, remove Potter’s fragment… Voldemort is killable again, isn’t he? No anchors left.”

Cassian nodded. “That leaves us with good old-fashioned murder. A comforting return to tradition.”

Dumbledore gave him a flat look.

“What?” Cassian said. “We’re all thinking it.”

Bathsheda sighed. “First we confirm Nagini. Then we decide how to contain her.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair. “Confirming is simple. Catching is not.”

Dumbledore’s eyes drifted to the window. “I fear Voldemort won’t leave her behind.”

Cassian clicked his tongue. “Brilliant. So the minute we poke the snake, the owner turns up. That won’t complicate anything.”

Bathsheda glanced at him. “This is the part where you try to reassure us.”

Cassian shrugged. “You were always my better half. I’ll leave that to you.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing, as she dragged him away. “Goodnight, Headmaster.”

***

The next morning, Hogwarts rolled into breakfast in its usual end-of-term haze. Students half-packed, half-asleep, scraping toast and clutching pumpkins. Staff pretending not to count the minutes until the train carried several hundred children away.

Then the Great Hall doors swung open, cutting the chatter. Forks hovered mid-air. A few mouths stayed open around unchewed bites.

Two figures stood framed in the doorway. A handful of students blinked, confused. Most didn’t recognise them. But the ones who did, the ones who grew up hearing those names like a legend or a wound, went still enough that even the candles seemed to hesitate.

Neville shot to his feet, stunned. Beyond that, he couldn’t make a move at all.

Alice and Frank Longbottom stood at the threshold, hands linked, eyes bright. They looked at Neville with the kind of unconditional love only parents could manage.

Neville’s lips parted. No sound came out. His chest hitched hard, as if his tongue had short-circuited.

Cassian grinned. Bathsheda’s hand found his arm under the table.

Neville took one uncertain step. Then another. His face crumpled. He wiped at it fast, as if embarrassed, then gave up entirely.

Alice broke with a tiny, choked sound, and that broke Frank, and that broke whatever spell held Neville still.

He reached them in two steps.

His mother caught him by the shoulders. His father pulled him into both their arms. Neville folded in on himself and clung back.

Cassian gave Bathsheda’s hand a light squeeze.

“Now this,” he murmured, “is how I like my years to end. Let’s make it a new tradition.”

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