The garden was decorated to the smallest detail. Rows of white chairs curved round a makeshift aisle, flowers everywhere, music floating. Cassian and Bathsheda took their seats in the front row, sunlight warming their shoulders, the whole scene far too cheerful for the summer they’d had.

Cassian leaned in until his shoulder bumped hers. “So explain to me how they’re getting married this quick. We’re away for a few months.”

Bathsheda smoothed her skirt and shrugged. “Aurora and Sirius patched things up over the summer. Properly this time.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And by properly, you mean…?”

“They went to Iceland,” she said. “He booked some cabin near a volcano, she nearly hexed him off a cliff, then they talked it out. They might have stolen a goat.”

Cassian blinked. “That… sounds familiar.”

Bathsheda smiled smugly. “Our method works. Dragon’s armpit for the win.”

He huffed. “Fine. But Remus and Septima? They haven’t been dating for a year? They look like they planned this in a tea break.”

“Septima’s mother is very old-school,” Bathsheda said. “She wanted it official before the next term. And Remus finally stopped overthinking everything.”

Cassian nodded as though that explained the mysteries of the world. “Right. Deadlines and maternal pressure. Inspirational.”

Down the aisle, Sirius was nudging Aurora, who was batting his hand. Septima was speaking quietly with Remus, smoothing something on his robe with a softness Cassian rarely saw from her.

Cassian tipped his head toward her. “You know, if they get any sweeter, I’ll have to leave. I’ve a reputation to maintain.”

Bathsheda tapped his knee. “Take me with you.”

The music shifted, guests turned. Sirius muttered something that made Aurora roll her eyes. Septima’s mother dabbed at her eyes like she’d trained for it. Remus looked like someone had handed him a future he wasn’t quite sure he deserved, but wasn’t foolish enough to turn down.

Harry stood beside Sirius in a neat dark robe, looking torn between pride and suspicion, as though he kept waiting for Sirius to trip over his own feet and bring the whole ceremony down with him. Sirius, to his credit, was standing still. Mostly. He kept elbowing Harry whenever the boy fidgeted, which was a lot.

The Weasleys occupied an entire block of chairs, all in varying degrees of tidy. Molly sniffed into a handkerchief every ten seconds, Bill and Charlie were arguing over who had the worse haircut, and the twins were whispering with the sort of innocent faces that guaranteed something would explode after the vows.

Hermione sat next to them with a clipboard she wasn’t even hiding. She glanced at the aisle, then at the seating chart, then at the aisle again. Ron leaned back and muttered something that looked suspiciously like, ‘put it away,’ and Hermione swatted his arm without breaking stride.

Neville sat with his parents. Frank and Alice looked healthier than anyone had seen them in years, both leaning in close as Neville spoke. People still stole glances their way, the story hadn’t settled yet, even a summer on. Alice kept brushing Neville’s hair like she couldn’t quite believe he was real, and Neville smiled at them.

The Greengrasses arrived soon enough. Astoria waved at Cassian before her mother gently lowered her arm. Daphne nudged her sister and whispered something, making the little troublemaker giggle.

Luna drifted past them with her father in tow, wearing a crown of radishes and something that might’ve been an actual bird feather. Xenophilius carried a camera made of brass and optimism.

Charity stood with Kingsley at the end of a row, pretending she absolutely wasn’t glaring at him. Kingsley stared straight ahead, pretending nothing was wrong. Cassian leaned forward slightly.

“What’s that about?” he murmured to Bathsheda.

“Kingsley forgot their anniversary,” she murmured back.

“Oof. Rookie mistake.”

“His third time.”

Cassian winced. “That’s not rookie territory. That’s a pattern.”

Hagrid stood proudly with Madame Maxime on his arm, both dressed in their best, Hagrid in a suit that looked one seam away from surrender, Maxime in deep navy silk that made half the crowd sit up straighter.

Filch stood near the aisle, probably cursing Sirius and Remus.

Dumbledore waited at the arch, hands folded neatly over his robes, way too pleased.

Cassian scanned the area, frowned a little. “Where’s Severus? I thought he’d be skulking somewhere close enough to glower at everyone.”

Bathsheda snorted. “Sirius and Remus invited him together.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“He laughed,” she said.

Cassian stared. “Severus Snape laughed?”

Bathsheda nodded. “Burst into one.”

A chill went straight down his spine. “That’s… deeply upsetting.”

“Mm.” She pressed her lips together. “Both of them looked like they’d witnessed a death omen.”

Cassian rubbed his arms. “Fair. If Severus ever laughs near me, I’ll assume I have hours to live.”

Minerva, Flitwick and Sprout chatted a few seats over, all dressed for the occasion, all unabashedly happy.

Cassian glanced around at the crowd, students, friends, colleagues, the odd eccentric relative. People who’d bled for each other, argued for each other, changed each other.

Dumbledore drifted forward once the last round of muttering died down. Someone must’ve begged him to officiate, probably all four in a moment of shared panic.

Aurora, Sirius, Septima, and Remus were already lined up together, two couples trying very hard to look serene and not at all like they were seconds from bolting. Sirius adjusted his sleeves for the fourth time.

Dumbledore lifted his hands. “My friends, today we gather-“

A toddler in the third row dropped a toy wand with a squeak. Sirius jumped. Dumbledore pretended he hadn’t seen a thing.

“-to celebrate two unions,” he said, smile warm. “Unions built on friendship, perseverance, compromise… and a frankly heroic amount of patience.”

Cassian snorted. Aurora shot him a warning glance over her shoulder. He mouthed, ‘Congratulations,’ and her lips curled in response.

Dumbledore guided each pair through the vows. Sirius stumbled over one line, but Aurora caught his hand so cleanly that it looked rehearsed. Remus spoke with a wide smile while Septima watched him love-struck.

Flitwick conjured the ring cushion with a little flourish.

Dumbledore reached the final lines.

“With these vows,” he said, “you bind your lives, your hopes, and your futures. May you meet challenges with the same resolve that brought you here.”

He turned first to Sirius and Aurora. “You may kiss each other.”

Sirius attempted a dramatic dip. Aurora stopped him halfway and hauled him upright before he toppled into the arch. The crowd cheered.

Then Dumbledore looked to Remus and Septima. “You may kiss each other.”

Remus leaned in, Septima’s hand slipped to his jaw, they kissed, sparkles flew everywhere.

Guests spilled toward the reception tables, throwing congratulations and compliments, some of them deserved, some of them loud enough to frighten small wildlife.

Then came the fireworks, obviously.

A whistle cut through the air, and the first burst went up, gold, then blue, then a streak of red that split cleanly into the shape of a dog chasing a wolf across the sky. The crowd tilted back as the pair bolted toward a glittering little castle, snatched two princesses, then tore off into a painted forest where the shapes promptly settled down and built a tiny cottage.

The next firework made the cottage shake.

Molly’s face paled. She flicked her wand mid-air, the display snapped from “suggestive” to “family-friendly” in under a heartbeat. She shot the twins a look strong enough to blister paint.

Fred and George stared very hard at a distant hedge.

Cassian barked a laugh. “Beautiful work,” he murmured to Bathsheda. “We should hire them for ours. With supervision. And possibly chains.”

Bathsheda squeezed his hand. “You’re not letting them near our wedding.”

For the first time in months, the sky wasn’t warning them about the end of the world. It was celebrating something. Fireworks, chaos, Molly Weasley policing the heavens.

Yeah. It was good.

***

Cassian and Bathsheda crossed the garden together, hands linked, the evening breeze carrying that first-day hum across the lawns. Students were already filtering inside, chattering, dragging trunks, herding friends.

Bathsheda sighed. “It feels weird.”

He squeezed her hand lightly. “What is?”

She tilted her head toward the castle. “In the other timeline, Snape’s Headmaster by now.”

Cassian stopped walking.

“Pardon?”

She looked almost apologetic. “Dumbledore’s dead, the school’s taken, Snape gets the job. Public didn’t know the details, only that the Ministry fell and the new term opened under… well. Him.”

Cassian stared at her, scandalised. “Snape. In charge. Of children?”

“Yes.”

“Holy spirit of Gods.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Were there no other applicants? A lost hat? A broom?”

She snorted. “Harry, Ron, Hermione never returned to school that year.”

Cassian blinked. “So the Ministry collapses, Snape gets promoted, and Potter drops out. Truly a golden age.”

Bathsheda nudged his shoulder. “Snape as Headmaster wasn’t as bad as the public thought. The Carrows were the real disaster.”

“Oh brilliant, so he outsourced the misery. Classic management approach.”

She laughed under her breath. “You asked.”

Cassian groaned. “I did. And now I have to live with the knowledge that, in another timeline, my place of work was run by a man who glowers at bread.”

Bathsheda squeezed his arm. “This year’s ours, not that one.”

“Good,” he said. “Because if Snape tries sitting in that chair in this timeline, I’m filing a complaint. Or an exorcism.”

Bathsheda giggled, leaning into him as they started walking again. They could hear the Great Hall swelling with noise up ahead, cutlery, chatter, the usual chaos waiting for them.

Cassian eyed the open doors. “Right then. Opening feast. New term. No Carrows. No Snape with managerial authority. Already an improvement.”

Bathsheda smiled. “Try not to jinx it.”

He lifted her hand and pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles. “Baths, please. This is Hogwarts. It was jinxed centuries before we got here.”

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