Unfortunately, the next morning the first class was Umbridge's Defense Against the Dark Arts. Cassian barely touched his breakfast as his thoughts churned over what he had planned for Ravenclaw today.
The boys made their way to class, with Blaise trying to calm Cassian, whose anger still hadn't abated from the night before.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom smelled like dusty lace and cheap perfume. The curtains were too frilly, the tea set too dainty, and the woman at the front of the class too pink to be real.
Cassian sat stiffly at his desk, jaw clenched so tightly he could hear his own pulse in his ears.
Dolores Umbridge smiled at the class like they were all six years old and in desperate need of a bedtime story. Her cardigan was violently bubblegum pink, her cheeks powdered like a cake, and her voice so sweet it made Cassian's stomach turn.
"There will be no need for wands today," she trilled, waving her stubby hand like she was offering cookies.
Cassian blinked once, slowly.
Across from him, Blaise leaned in slightly. "Oh, this is going to be a joy."
Cassian didn't respond. He'd come into the lesson expecting to be annoyed.
He wasn't prepared for this.
"Today, we begin with Chapter One of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard," Umbridge went on, still smiling. "Please turn to page five. Read silently, and we'll discuss at the end."
Quills rustled. Books opened. The class fell into an uneasy hush.
Then Harry's hand went up.
Umbridge paused, her eyes narrowing just slightly. "Yes, Mr. Potter?"
Harry's voice was tight, controlled. "Are we really not going to use magic at all?"
Cassian's head turned slightly. He hadn't even expected Potter to bother.
"There will be no practical spellwork in this class," Umbridge said sweetly. "The Ministry believes a theoretical understanding is sufficient for your level."
"But… that's not enough," Harry insisted. "What are we supposed to do if—if we're attacked? By Death Eaters? Or Voldemort?"
Several students gasped. Cassian's stomach coiled like a spring.
Umbridge's smile became carved from glass.
"There is no evidence," she said slowly, "that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned."
"But he has," Harry said sharply. "He killed Cedric Diggory right in front of me—"
"Detention, Mr. Potter," Umbridge snapped. "For repeating dangerous, inflammatory lies."
"That wasn't a lie," Harry growled. "Cedric—"
"Was a tragic accident," Umbridge cut in. "A terrible, terrible accident. Nothing more."
The room fell into brittle silence.
Cassian's hand curled into a fist.
An accident.
She dared to call what happened to Cedric an accident?
Blaise placed a hand on his shoulder, reading the tension in Cassian's posture and not wanting him to do something Gryffindorish.
When the bell rang, Cassian stood like someone had lit a fuse under him.
Blaise caught up to him in the corridor outside, stepping in beside him. "So. You look like you're ready to kill someone."
"She's worse than I thought," Cassian said, voice low.
"I'm assuming you're not talking about the drapes."
"She gave Potter detention for telling the truth. She said Cedric's death was a mistake."
Blaise didn't argue. "It's how the Ministry wants it spun."
"She called it a terrible accident," Cassian muttered. "Like Cedric tripped on a staircase. Like he didn't die in a graveyard."
His voice was low, but cold. Razor-sharp.
"She knows," he added. "Or suspects. She's not stupid. But she's pushing the Ministry's lies like gospel."
Blaise shrugged slightly. "Doesn't matter what she believes. Her job is to shut people up."
"She's doing it well," Cassian said. "Too well."
He reached into his pocket and ran his thumb along the edge of Luna's damaged locket. The little engraved L.L. scratched faintly against his skin.
"You think Potter's lying?" Blaise asked.
Cassian scoffed. "I don't like Potter, but no. He's not lying. I saw the look in his eyes."
Blaise gave a small nod. "So. Voldemort's back. The Ministry is lying. Our Defense class is a joke. And our friend's being tortured by half her House."
Cassian's jaw tightened further. "Sounds about right."
"So," Blaise said casually, "Ravenclaws first?"
Cassian's eyes darkened. "Edgecombe loves looking at herself in the mirror, right? Let's change that."
"I'll see what I can come up with," Blaise said thoughtfully.
"Fletcher's robes are going to turn into secondhand Weasley cast-offs in the middle of Charms," Cassian continued, voice as cold as stone. "Sun's hair? Cursed to fall out for a week. Let's see how funny they find that."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Diabolical. And lets not forget Cho's retribution."
Oh trust me, I haven't. They humiliated Luna and put her in the infirmary," Cassian said. "This is just the introduction."
---
Dinner was in full swing when Cassian slipped into his seat at the Slytherin table, the taste of Polyjuice still sour in his mouth.
"Everything in place on your end?" Blaise asked without looking up from his plate.
Cassian gave a curt nod. "Just watch."
As if on cue, a startled scream rang out.
All eyes turned to Mira Sun, who had just dropped into her seat and was now clawing at her scalp in horror. Thick tufts of her glossy black hair were falling out in clumps, drifting onto her plate and robes like feathers in a snowstorm.
"No—no, no, no!" she cried, scrambling to gather the strands, her voice cracking with panic. Her friends gaped, unsure whether to help or recoil.
Blaise arched a brow. "Rather dramatic, but effective. Now if you would turn your attention to Miss Edgecombe."
Blaise was already halfway through a plate of roast chicken, looking smugly entertained as distant shrieks echoed from the Ravenclaw table.
The shrill voice across the hall came from a magically enchanted silver hand mirror that hovered in front of Marietta Edgecombe, projecting loud and scathing insults:
"BAD HAIRLINE! UNEVEN BROWS! PATCHY SPELLWORK!"
"WHO LET YOU OUT LIKE THAT?"
"LIPSTICK? MORE LIKE LIP-SLIP!"
The Ravenclaw table burst into muffled giggles, and even a few Hufflepuffs were snorting behind napkins.
Marietta's face twisted as she tried to swipe the mirror out of the air. It ducked and bobbed just out of reach, gleefully announcing:
"NOT EVEN MAGIC CAN HELP THAT SKIN TEXTURE!"
Cassian sipped calmly from his goblet.
"Your mirror's a masterpiece," Cassian muttered, passing him a bread roll.
"Thank you," Blaise replied dryly. "I was going for emotionally devastating with a hint of theatrical flair."
"Oh, looks like another of mine just triggered," Blaise cheerfully added.
At the far end of the Ravenclaw table, Daila Fletcher tried to keep her head down, but it was impossible not to notice her robes.
The once-standard Ravenclaw blue now appeared faded, patched, and unevenly hemmed, like they'd been hand-me-downs five times over. Threadbare at the elbows, mismatched stitching at the cuffs—it looked like she'd been dressed by a colorblind tailor and abandoned in a donation bin.
A third-year muttered something, and Daila's cheeks burned red.
"Is that a new fashion statement, perhaps?" Blaise said innocently.
"Very Weasley-core," Cassian replied. "Except somehow… worse."
And then the real show started.
Across the room, Cho Chang entered last. She gracefully made her way to the Ravenclaw table, a look of concern on her face as she slid beside her friends—and then she immediately froze.
Then, almost as if choreographed, a collective recoil spread from where Cho Chang sat. She'd just joined the table and was already grimacing. Eyes around her were watering, sleeves pulled over noses.
Her robes—perfect this moment earlier—were now shimmering with a layer of grime that should have long been noticed. Then the scent, not just any scent: dungbombs. A lingering, sickly mix of decay and sulfur clung to her like a fog.
It hit the Gryffindor table next—gasps and muffled laughter as the scent carried across the room. She stood up mortified and hurriedly exited the Great Hall.
Students covered their noses as she passed.
Cassian caught her face as she passed, tears streaming down her face and her cheeks flushed with rage and humiliation.
"She smells like a dungbomb that bathed in fertilizer," Blaise muttered.
Cassian didn't even blink. "Took forever to figure out how to mask the scent trail through her dorm, not to mention the rune that hid how dirty her robes were tied to my control rune. But, worth every second."
Then a soft voice joined the mix.
"You shouldn't smirk so much during dinner. It makes you look like you've hexed someone."
Cassian glanced to his left as Luna slipped into the seat beside him, plate in hand, her usual air of calm weirdness settling like mist.
She didn't ask to sit. She never did. Sometimes she joined them. Sometimes she didn't. It had become normal.
"Good evening, Luna," Blaise said smoothly.
"I had a nice one," she replied. "Until someone spelled Mira's hair off. Tragic, but probably character-building."
She poked a carrot. "Daila's robes also look like they were knit by a sleepwalking drunk."
Cassian blinked. "You're… not bothered?"
"I'm just waiting to see if Marietta's mirror starts giving fashion tips," Luna mused. "Or starts crying. That would be something."
Cassian chuckled.
"Oh, and I found my buckle," she added offhandedly. "Strangely enough, it was sitting under my pillow this morning. No idea how it got there."
Neither boy responded. Blaise took a sip of pumpkin juice. Cassian kept his expression neutral, but his hand roamed his now-empty pocket.
---
Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick strode briskly into the Great Hall, wands raised and expressions sharp.
"Enough!" McGonagall commanded. "Cease this chaos immediately."
Snape aimed his wand at the enchanted mirror hovering before Marietta. "These runes are cleverly concealed," he muttered. "They're blocking the usual counter-curses."
The mirror spat insults louder than before, unfazed by Snape's efforts.
Flitwick hurried to Daila's robes, whispering charms, but the fabric only grew more tattered and mismatched, drawing more stifled laughter from the students.
McGonagall's tone sharpened. "This behavior is intolerable. If anyone continues—"
Her words were swallowed by the roar of laughter and the unmistakable scent of dungbombs drifting through the hall.
The three professors exchanged frustrated looks, their wands still raised, voices rising in spells and countermagic.
The chaos raged on as the scene slowly faded with no clear end in sight.
---
Cho bolted from the Great Hall, her robes still reeking of dungbombs, her face burning with shame. Whispers and suppressed laughter followed her as she hurried away, avoiding everyone's eyes.
Harry sat rigidly at the Gryffindor table, fists clenched, his jaw tight with anger. Seeing Cho like that—humiliated in front of everyone—ignited a fierce protectiveness inside him.
His gaze flicked toward Luna, who was sitting quietly between Cassian Rookwood and Blaise Zabini at the Slytherin table. The two boys spoke with calm confidence, their expressions unreadable, perfectly innocent to anyone not in the know.
But Harry knew better.
He knew the Slytherin well enough to spot his personal touch on things. He understood that his pranks could be ruthless, sometimes cruel. It reminded Harry too much of Sirius—brash, unapologetic, but fiercely loyal beneath it all. Still, there was a sharp edge to Cassian's sense of justice that made Harry curious as to what was really going on.
He might not know what was going on, but he knew one thing for certain: he couldn't let this slide.
The anger that had been simmering all year—mocked as crazy, punished unfairly by Umbridge—now boiled over at the sight of Cho's public humiliation.
Harry made a silent decision.
He would confront Cassian and Blaise after dinner.