Cassian met up with Bathsheda a little ahead, out near the edge of the encampment where their tent was pitched, charmed canvas and reinforced poles, nothing fancy. It wasn't the sort of thing the rest of the Rosiers would slum in, but it did the job. Aurora, Septima, and Charity had a tent set up nearby, so Bathsheda peeled off to join them for drinks and scandal updates, leaving him to fend for himself.
He'd invited the lot of them to the Rosier Lounge earlier but was met with a wave of laughter so aggressive it might've counted as assault. Fair. He didn't blame them. Rosier hospitality was a very specific flavour. Like being offered tea by a basilisk. Best avoided unless you fancied choking on family pride.
Quidditch was a fickle mess, prone to dragging on for days or ending before you finished your first drink. That's why most of the crowd had camped out, tents everywhere, from Ministry staff to overeager schoolkids with parents just barely clinging to sanity. Technically, they could've left after the match. But they were here already, and no one wanted to miss the parties or the drama.
Cassian had just kicked off his boots, flopped sideways onto the narrow camp bed, and was seriously considering a tactical nap when the wards gave a sharp ping.
"Professor R."
He groaned. Just from experience he knew it was headache.
He pushed up, shoved the flap aside, and squinted into the light.
Twins. Ron. Ginny. Hermione. Harry. And Luna, who he was fairly certain had apparated directly out of a dream.
He blinked. "How did you find me?"
The twins grinned, like they'd just won a scavenger hunt.
Fred answered innocently. "Followed the guilt trail. It led right to your tent."
"Also," George added, "Harry tracked your magic signature. Unintentionally. Bit creepy, actually."
Cassian stared. "You stalked me, haven't you?" Then gave them a flat look. "I'm burning this tent."
"Technically, yes," Fred said cheerfully.
"But lovingly," George added.
Luna gave him a wave. "Your tent smells like burnt elderberries and decisions."
Cassian stared at her. Then at the group. Then back at Luna.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We just wanted to say thanks."
"For what?" He leaned on the doorframe. "Letting you watch a rigged game and not strangling Lucius?"
"That." Harry said.
"Right," he said, stepping aside and waving them in. "Come in. Before you attract someone worse. Like my brother."
He pointed at the stove, and the kettle started up with a hiss. With his free hand, he nudged a few low stools toward them, then waved vaguely at a battered armchair near the tent corner.
He yanked open a tin, dumped a handful of biscuits into a dented bowl, and dropped it onto the crate that passed for a table.
"There. Tea, seats, biscuits. That's the extent of my hospitality quota for the week. Feel free to be impressed."
Hermione, already halfway into arranging cushions to make a proper circle, raised an eyebrow. "This is surprisingly domestic."
"I'm trying out new forms of suffering," Cassian said, rummaging through a drawer until he found clean mugs. "Next week I might knit."
Luna took the stool, folding her legs up. "Do you knit emotions into the pattern? Some cultures believe stitches hold memory."
Cassian nodded. "That's why all my socks have intentional errors."
Luna lit up. "My grandmother would say the same. A backdoor."
"A woman of culture," he said, plonking down the mugs. "We'd have got on."
Hermione was squinting at Luna as if she were trying to decode whether that was an actual family tradition or just something Luna invented on the spot. She gave up halfway and reached for the biscuit bowl.
Ron had already nicked two and looked vaguely guilty about it. "So... uh," he mumbled around a mouthful, "this what you do after big posh parties? Sit in a tent with kids and feed them biscuits?"
Cassian deadpanned, "No. Highlight of my evening would've been the nap, but you lot came along and wrecked it."
Ron scratched the back of his head, chewing the last of the biscuit. "Can't you just... nap after?"
"Sure," Cassian said. "Right after I feed a dozen teenagers tea and philosophical debate like." He waved his wand, summoning the kettle off the heat.
The kids drifted into talk once the tea had made its rounds. The conversation meandered, as it always did when you dumped too many teenagers into a space without adult supervision and forgot to chain the biscuits.
The match came up first. Fred and George were still bickering about tactics, or lack thereof, while Ginny argued that the Bulgarian Keeper deserved a raise just for surviving the second half. Ron insisted Krum could've turned it if the rest of Bulgaria hadn't played like headless chickens.
Hermione made a sound as if she wanted to agree but would rather not fuel the argument. Luna, on the other hand, seemed quite taken with the Veela, apparently one had looked right at her, which meant they were now bound in mutual appreciation, whatever that meant.
Then someone mentioned how quiet Draco had been. How odd that was, considering he usually carried himself.
"I thought Malfoy looked off," Ginny said. "Didn't even glare properly. Just kept... watching."
"Yeah," Harry said. "Didn't try to insult anyone. Barely said a word."
Hermione shrugged. "He was probably warned not to do anything embarrassing with so many international guests around."
Fred snorted. "Unlikely. His father probably doesn't know the meaning of the word."
That got a few snorts.
Then Ginny looked up, cutting the joy.
"Is it true he died?" she asked, quiet.
The room dipped into silence. No one had to ask who she meant.
Hermione nodded. "Avada Kedavra was used. In the holding cell. But..." She frowned. "No bodies."
Fred made a face. "That's comforting."
George leaned forward. "You reckon he faked it?"
Cassian took a sip of his tea before answering, "Faking death's a hobby of his. But that cell was sealed with three layers of Ministry-grade wards."
"So?" Ron asked. "You think he's gone?"
Cassian sighed through his nose. "I think if he's still breathing, someone helped him. And I think whoever did it knew how to vanish someone and fool a dozen ward signatures."
The kids cleared out not long after. A chorus of thank-yous, a few lingering biscuits stuffed into pockets. Fred tried to hug him. Luna gave him a seashell. Then the lot of them were gone, off into the maze of tents and Ministry-approved pathways like some well-behaved caravan of chaos.
Cassian waved them off with one hand and shut the flap with the other, already dreaming of horizontal living and a pillow's cold side. He charmed them so all sides were cold. Always!
He was three steps from bliss when the wards flared again.
"For the love of-" he grumbled, dragging himself upright with a grunt. "What now?"
He tugged the flap open, and blinked.
There stood someone trying very hard not to be Draco Malfoy, under a thick cloak, hood drawn low, glamour over the lower half of the face, the kind used by sixth-years trying to sneak past curfew or exes trying to dodge small talk and a mask covering the other half of his face. Like a discount Death Eater, two decades early.
Cassian frowned. The clearing behind him was empty.
He pulled the flap aside.
The kid slipped in without waiting. Then spoke, thickening his voice, "Professor Rosier. Trouble awaits the night."
Cassian's eye twitched.
But he didn't say a word.
Draco, bless his little melodramatic soul, seemed to take that silence as proof he was fooling someone.
Cassian put on a shocked face, not that it took much. "What kind of trouble?"
The boy looked almost relieved to be taken seriously. His shoulders lost that pinched tension as he muttered, "An attack. That's all I can say. Be prepared or clear the area."
And just like that, he turned on his heel and headed for the flap.
Cassian's frown deepened. "Thank you."
Draco froze mid-step, didn't turn around, then slipped out into the clearing without another word.
Cassian didn't move for a second, then flicked his wand.
Thin leaves of light flared from the tent and scattered like fireflies.
He hissed through his teeth. "Bloody perfect."
Dumbledore was off somewhere deep in diplomatic talks, along with every other adult who actually knew what to do when things got nasty. Regulus, Magnus, all the delegates, even the Ministry heads. Wonderful. That left the DMLE crew and whatever muscle the Rosiers had deigned to leave behind for show.
He stepped out of the tent and crossed three rows down, rapping on the pole before calling, "Announced. Don't hex."
Inside, Bathsheda looked up from the floor, glass of wine in hand, legs folded beneath her. Aurora sat cross-legged beside her, Septima perched halfway up a cushion pile, and Charity was giggling into her drink.
They looked up, relaxed and half-buzzed, until they saw his face.
"A bird told me there might be an attack," he said. "Be sharp."
In an instant, the laughter was gone. Glasses were set down. Wands came out.
He didn't tell them who the bird was. If Draco had gone through the trouble of playing spy in a cloak and glamour, it felt wrong to toss him to the wolves. For all Cassian knew, the kid would get throttled by his father just for speaking to him.
So he left it vague, then left the tent entirely.
As he walked, he flicked his wand every few steps, laying rune anchors along the way. A net of quiet little pulsework charms. Just in case. The sort of thing you only bothered with if you were half-sure something would go wrong and too stubborn to sit still and wait for it.
Which made him wonder if Draco was taking the piss.
Wouldn't be the first time. Wasn't like they had Sunday brunches and heart-to-hearts. And Draco hadn't exactly been lining up to play messenger boy for the greater good. Cassian couldn't think of a single solid reason for him to try and help, unless he'd got wind of something and panicked. Or someone had made him.
Cassian tried to track down Lucian. Started with the family sectors, then the security lanes. Asked a few aides. Got a dozen polite shrugs and one house-elf who offered him soup.
No Lucian. No Armand, no Alistair, not even Basil bobbing around in his ridiculous robes. Whole bloody branch had vanished.
Cassian's jaw tightened. Not great.
(Check Here)
Strange how often knowledge is devoured in silence. One might start to believe ghosts make excellent students.
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