After the end-of-year feast, the castle shifted gears, trunks scraped all over, owls sulked about the sky with last-minute deliveries, and the air smelled faintly of summer and stress. Cassian had just shrunk his bookshelf (carefully labelled, colour-coded, and mildly cursed to hiss if mishandled) when someone knocked at his door.
He cracked it open, expecting a student with a forgotten wand or perhaps a misguided attempt at bribery. Instead, Penelope Clearwater stood on the other side, arms folded, eyes on the floor.
"Miss Clearwater."
She looked up, faintly startled, like she'd forgotten what she was doing.
"What can I do for you?"
"Sir, can I have a word with you, please?"
Cassian didn't bother hiding the raised eyebrow. Still, he stepped out, let the door click shut behind him, and walked her down to his office.
Inside, he lit the kettle with a flick, set two mugs on the desk, and slid a tin of biscuits toward her. She didn't move for the tin.
He poured the water. "Milk? Sugar? Existential crisis?"
She laughed, awkward and quiet. "Just tea, thanks."
He handed her the mug, then sat, stretching his legs out under the desk. She clutched the drink.
"Alright," Cassian said. "What's on your mind? And before you try to lie, your guilt face could sell out a spy ring."
She didn't laugh this time. "I'm not going to the Ministry."
"Right. Good start. More context?"
"I..." She stopped. Her fingers tapped the side of the mug. "I was supposed to. I even got the offer. Something in International Magical Relations."
"Ah," he said. "One of the bright ones Fudge can't wait to stick in a filing cabinet."
She blinked, caught between a smile and a wince. "I thought it was what I wanted."
"But now?"
"I don't know."
Cassian poured his tea. "Bit late to change your N.E.W.T.s."
She shook her head. "No... it's not the work. It's... the system. I used to think it mattered. That I could fix things from inside. Then I started watching."
He didn't interrupt.
Penelope glanced up. "Your classes didn't help."
"Thank you," he said dryly. "I do try to sow civil unrest where I can."
"It's not that." She flushed. "It's just... you made us think. Properly. Not just about spells or duelling tactics, but history. How it repeats. How people lie. What's ignored."
She fidgeted again, hands wrapping tighter round the mug. "And Percy..." She stopped, looking away bashfully. "We were... we were a thing."
Cassian raised a brow. "I taught the whole school, Clearwater. Not the ceiling. It wasn't exactly subtle."
Penelope blushed so hard it looked painful. "You knew?"
"Everyone knew," he said, deadpan. "You only just stopped short of engraving your initials into the library tables."
Her blush deepened. "We... broke up. A month ago."
"Ah."
"He's... he's still very Ministry. Rules. Order. Believes if the paperwork says something, it must be right."
"Optimistic, that one."
She nodded. "I thought I could be that too. But after this year..." She trailed off. "Everything with Black. And Professor Lupin. And Pettigrew. How much was hidden. How much nearly went wrong." Her voice got quiet. "I don't know if I trust it anymore. The Ministry."
"Right. So you're standing at the edge of the Ministry's glittering path, realising it's just a slightly polished bog, and wondering if wading through it will drown you."
She blinked. "Yes."
He gave a noncommittal grunt. "Well, welcome to adulthood."
Penelope gave a weak smile.
He picked up his mug again. "Look, Clearwater. The Ministry's not evil. Just lazy. Arrogant. Bloated. Like a bureaucracy that tried to eat a kingdom and choked on its own filing cabinets."
Her smile twitched wider.
"Now, if you want to work there, you can. You'll be useful. Sharp, good with details, and enough backbone to stand your ground. But don't expect it to thank you. Or reward honesty. That place feeds off compliance."
She nodded slowly.
"But if you're asking what I think," he went on, "then no, I don't reckon it's the best fit. Not yet. You still think rules are meant to help people. That won't survive three staff meetings with Crouch."
She snorted into her tea. "So what, I run off to the mountains and become a magical goat herder?"
"Tempting. But I'd suggest something less cold and less goat-heavy. There are good places. Research, teaching, private consultancies. Go where your skills are needed, not where they're swallowed."
Penelope looked up. "Would you write me a reference?"
Cassian didn't hesitate. "Already in your file. Dated, signed, and scarily complimentary."
She looked like she might cry, but blinked it back.
"Thank you," she said, quietly.
He got up and reached for the cabinet by the desk.
"I can put you in touch with a few people," he said, flicking through a half-jammed drawer. "Real minds, not Ministry drones. If you want to study deeper, which I believe you should, actually study, not just warm a chair at some diplomatic meet-and-smile loop. They'd be lucky to have you."
Penelope squeezed the mug gently in her hands.
"Truth is," he went on, rifling through envelopes, "the Ministry doesn't want brilliance. They want reliable cogs. Neat little wheels that spin when told. Every edge you've got, every thought that doesn't fit the template, they'll file it down until you don't even notice what they've taken."
She blinked, not sure where he was going.
"They'll give you a title. Maybe an office with a window if you last long enough. But the work? It'll all be scaffolding for the next bloke. The one with the family name or the right handshake. You'll sit in meetings where no one listens, drafting memos for people who don't care, and if you speak too loud..." He tapped a finger against the side of his head. "Out you go. No fuss. Just shuffled into something 'better suited to your temperament.'"
He finally found the parchment he'd been after and placed it onto the desk. He slid the envelope across the desk.
"System needs pieces to keep wheeling, Miss Clearwater. But we're not all circles and smooth edges. Some of us are jagged, wrong-shaped, inconvenient."
Penelope didn't move. Watched the paper.
"If you want to be part of something bigger," he said, "that's fair. Noble, even. The Ministry does serve people, on good days. There's value in that."
He leaned back slightly, the chair creaking beneath him.
"But you," he said, tilting his head, "you're too sharp to get blunted down into a cog. Would be a bloody shame to watch you get trimmed into something you're not."
She swallowed hard. The silence in the room grew a little heavier.
"Now, Mr Weasley," Cassian went on, "he's already halfway shaped for the machine. Starchy shirt, polished badge, five-year plan. He'll make it work. Until the day his own cracks start showing, and he has to choose, cut those bits off, or walk."
Penelope's eyes flicked up. She didn't argue.
"You," he said, "you'll have to make that choice every day. Whether to fit, or to stay whole."
She didn't say anything. Just stared at the rim of her cup.
Cassian didn't push her.
She made her decision.
***
Cassian was halfway through charming his trunk shut when something in his mind buzzed wrong. His stomach dropped.
The bag thudded to the floor as he bolted. The locking charms flared faintly as he reached the door. He shoved his wand forward, stripped the rest off with a sharp flick, and burst inside.
"Bathsheda?"
She was on the floor.
One arm limp under her, the other twisted against her stomach. Her head tilted back like she'd tried to sit up and hadn't quite managed.
Cassian was at her side in a second, wand out, spells flying. Diagnostics first, neurological, magical fatigue, potion residues, curse traces. A whole sweep in under ten seconds. Her mind was in shambles.
Cassian's gut clenched.
"Bloody hell, Baths," he muttered, half to her, half to the air. "What did you do this time?"
Her pulse was uneven, too fast. He'd seen overdrawn magicks look like this, too much channeling, too little rest, the mind catching fire faster than it could cool. But Bathsheda wasn't hot-headed or reckless. She taught children how to be safe, for God's sake.
"Alright, come on then." He gathered her up, arms hooking under her knees and shoulders.
He carried her out the door and straight down the main corridor. Madam Pomfrey was mid-pack, trunk hovering beside her, scarf half-tied around her collar when they arrived.
She saw the state of them and frowned, hard. "What in Merlin's-?"
Cassian stepped straight past her into the nearest bed bay. "She dropped. No curses. Magic's burning out. Might be feedback, might be mental overload."
Pomfrey followed, already pulling out a tray of vials and charms. "Set her down."
He laid Bathsheda gently on the mattress. Her breathing was shallow, lips pale.
"Looks like her mind's caught in a loop," he said.
"Sensory overload? Dream spill?"
"Possibly. Or something's leaking through memory barriers."
Pomfrey didn't stop moving. She slipped a pale blue stone under Bathsheda's palm, pressed her wand against her sternum. "Heart's stable. Magical pulse is erratic."
Cassian stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Madam Pomfrey hovered a bit longer, wand flicking through the final checks. Then, with a soft huff, she reached for two vials from the tray and eased one between Bathsheda's lips, then the next.
"She'll be out for a day, maybe longer," she said, adjusting the pillow behind Bathsheda's head. "I'll stay and monitor-"
Cassian shook his head. "No need. I'll take her to St Mungo's if she turns into a banshee."
Pomfrey hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, you shouldn't miss the ride. I'm not paying for it if you miss it."
That made her snort, reluctantly. "Let me know how she does, then." She gave Bathsheda a last glance. "See you after summer, Cassian."
He gave a lazy wave. "You too, Poppy."
When the door clicked shut behind her, the room fell properly quiet. Cassian stayed still for a long moment, listening to the soft hum. He hated the scent of antiseptic potion. He busied himself by straightening the blanket, adjusting the angle of her pillow, anything to keep his hands from shaking.
He then sat, arms folded over his knees for a second, then leaned forward and rested his forehead lightly against her arm.
"What the hell happened," he muttered.
No answer, of course. Just the slow, even rise of her breathing.
He stayed like that, head bowed, waiting for her to stir.
It took her nearly a full day to come round. Cassian had dozed off in the chair beside her, chin tipped forward, hair a right mess. The sound of her shifting stirred him up.
He blinked, sat up fast, then reached for the jug on the bedside table. "Water," he muttered, pouring too quickly and nearly sloshing it over his hand. "You're alive. Excellent. Your breath stinks, by the way."
Bathsheda gave a weak eye-roll that said you're insufferable, but she still let him help her sit up. Her fingers trembled when she took the glass, and Cassian steadied it with one hand as she drank.
When she set it down, she drew in a careful breath. "How long?"
"Twenty-three hours. You've beaten your old record."
Her eyes flicked to him, dry as dust. "You keep track?"
"Of course. Makes it easier to gloat later."
She huffed, the corner of her mouth lifting, then winced slightly as she shifted against the pillow.
"Easy," Cassian said, reaching out instinctively. "You move like someone who's fallen down a staircase."
She shot him a flat look. "That's oddly specific."
He shrugged. "Had a traumatic school life."
Her lips twitched, then faltered when a ripple of dizziness caught her.
"What happened?" he asked, trying to keep it light. Worried but the last thing he wanted was to dump it on her.
Bathsheda didn't answer. Looked past him, out the window maybe, though there wasn't much to see.
He tapped her arm. "Love?"
Her gaze drifted back to his.
"Cass..." Her voice rasped. "I have a new set of memories."
His brow pulled tight. "Granger caused another time-fracture?"
Bathsheda shook her head slowly. "No. This was five years' worth."
He went still.
Five years.
No wonder she'd dropped. That kind of mental load would fry anyone.
What could've caused such a—
Cassian stopped mid-thought.
"I've memories of Hogwarts without you."
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