The day's work began earlier than usual, though the Manor's clocks hadn't yet struck seven. The pale light creeping through the servants' windows was thin and reluctant, as if it didn't want to touch this part of the house. Outside, frost clung to the narrow panes in delicate veins, turning the view of the garden into a blurred white maze.
Cassian was in the linen room, folding the freshly pressed tablecloths for the evening's dinner service. The heavy white fabric was cool under his fingers, the faint scent of starch clinging like frost. Each fold had to be exact — sharp, aligned, no loose edges — or Evelyn would notice. Not just notice, but stop him, unfold the cloth, and make him do it again.
The linen room itself was small, barely wide enough for the worktable that ran its length. Wooden shelves lined both walls, stacked high with folded fabric in perfect order: pale damask for formal dinners, darker cloths for winter months, napkins rolled and tied in neat bundles. From the other side of the room, the iron boiler hissed softly. Its steam curled in lazy threads, gathering at the low ceiling before disappearing into shadow.
Cassian worked without hurry, but without pause either — each motion part of the rhythm Evelyn had drilled into him. Fold, smooth, align, stack.
The door opened without a knock.
Rowle's presence filled the narrow space before Cassian even looked up. The guard didn't step inside right away — just stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame. His dark coat absorbed most of the dim light, making his face seem carved from shadow except for the faint catch of amber in his eyes.
"You handle those like they matter," Rowle said. His tone was unreadable — not mocking, not kind. Just stating something, as if he'd been watching long enough to decide it was true.
Cassian kept folding, his gaze fixed on the fabric. "They do," he said simply.
Rowle stepped in now, the floorboards creaking faintly under his boots. He didn't come closer than the edge of the worktable, but his shadow stretched across the white fabric, long and dark, bending with the flicker of the single overhead lamp.
"Careful," Rowle said, not looking at the cloth this time. His eyes stayed on Cassian's face. "Get used to treating small things like they matter, and someone might hand you something… bigger."
The words hung in the air, heavier than their casual tone suggested. There was no follow-up. No explanation. Just the faint scrape of leather as Rowle shifted his stance, then turned and left, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Cassian stood still for a long moment, the final fold suspended halfway through. The linen's edge was perfectly sharp — but his grip had tightened enough to crease the corner.
The rest of the morning passed in silence, broken only by the dull clink of dishes being stacked, the muted splash of water in the scullery, and the muffled sweep of brooms along the flagstones. The Manor had its own rhythm — slow, deliberate, the kind of stillness that pressed on the ears until even the smallest noise felt too loud.
Cassian carried a small stack of polished silver toward the great hall, the weight cool and balanced in his hands. He kept his stride quick but measured, boots touching the flagstones without echo. Evelyn had drilled the habit into him: never rush, but never linger.
He knew the timing of this route by heart — the narrow window when the hall would be empty before the Malfoys took their midday tea. No one to watch. No one to comment. Only the sound of his own breath and the faint hum of the wind beyond the high windows.
The great hall was cooler now, the fire a low bed of embers that sent no more than a faint ripple of warmth through the vast space. Ash hung in the air like a faint, bitter perfume, mixing with the cold scent of stone. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in pale, narrow blades, catching the polish of the silver and making it gleam cold and white against the dark table.
He set the forks and knives down at the far end, each in its exact place. The movement was steady, deliberate, his mind half on the task, half listening to the way the Manor spoke when it thought no one was listening.
From somewhere above, the faint echo of voices drifted down — too far to make out words, but not tone. One voice sharp and controlled; the other low and even, a thread of sound that carried weight without needing volume.
Cassian's hands stilled for half a breath, the prickle of awareness running down his neck. He had learned to hear these things — the texture in the air when something in the Manor shifted.
A shift behind him now. Subtle. Too close.
He turned slightly, enough to catch the outline in the corner of his vision. Rowle — not at the doorway this time, but halfway along the wall, where the shadows pooled thickest. He stood like a man who belonged to that stillness, as though he'd been there all along. No sound of boots on stone had preceded him.
"You hear better than most," Rowle said at last, his tone low, the kind of voice that left no ripples. "That's a useful thing… if you know when to use it."
Cassian didn't answer. His gaze flicked once toward him, unreadable, before dropping back to the silver in his hands. Another fork placed precisely. The faint clink against the polished wood was the only sound he allowed in return.
Rowle didn't move closer, but the space between them felt smaller with each passing second. The silence thickened — not empty, but coiled, as if waiting for one of them to make the next move.
When Cassian finally looked up again, the space along the wall was empty. No sound of retreating footsteps. No sign of passage. Only the faint stirring of cold air in the place where Rowle had stood.
The kitchen had begun its afternoon lull, that brief hour when the morning's chaos had faded but the evening meal preparations had not yet begun. The air was warm, fragrant with the last traces of baked bread cooling on the racks. The great iron stove breathed heat into the room in slow waves, making the light from the narrow windows blur faintly.
Evelyn stood at the central table, a knife in hand, trimming the ends off a bundle of carrots. Her movements were automatic, the kind of work she could do without looking — and yet her eyes kept drifting toward the doorway.
Cassian had been gone longer than the errand should have taken. She told herself there were reasons — the winding halls, the chance of being stopped by a steward for some small task — but the unease stayed, settling under her ribs like a weight.
When he finally stepped into the room, she didn't greet him. She only watched.
He crossed to the sink with that same quiet grace she had drilled into him, the silverware in his hands gleaming faintly. He set it down without a clatter, then reached for a cloth to wipe the water spots. But there was something in his movements — not the careful elegance of a servant avoiding mistakes, but the kind of carefulness meant to keep from showing what else he carried.
"You're late," she said, her tone light enough to pass for casual, but her eyes never leaving him.
Cassian's reply was equally smooth. "The hall wasn't empty. I had to wait."
It was plausible. True, even, for certain hours of the day. But Evelyn had lived long enough in Malfoy Manor to recognize the gap between what was said and what was meant. She saw the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the slight way his shoulders had set — not in tension, exactly, but in awareness.
She rinsed the knife, letting the water run longer than necessary, the sound filling the space between them. "Anyone speak to you?" she asked without looking up.
He didn't pause in polishing the silver. "No."
It was too quick, the word landing before her question had fully settled. Evelyn dried her hands, setting the towel aside, and leaned on the edge of the table, studying him openly now.
"You've been… measured," she said finally.
That drew his eyes up, though only for a heartbeat before they fell again to his task. "It's nothing."
Evelyn didn't believe that. She could see the shape of something unspoken — the same way she had once seen it in men who returned from the outer guard halls, carrying an invisible mark left by someone's attention.
She said nothing more. Just reached for the basket of carrots and moved to the pantry. But as she passed him, her fingers brushed the back of his hand in what looked like an absent gesture. In truth, she was checking — for the faint tremor that would tell her just how deep whatever this was had settled into him.
There was none. His hand was steady. But steadiness could be armor.
By the time she closed the pantry door behind her, she'd decided: she would watch him more closely in the days ahead.
The Manor at night had a way of swallowing sound.
Even the wind, when it moved through the high chimneys, seemed muffled, as though the stone itself drank it in. The sconces along the back corridors burned low, their flames guttering when the drafts crept past. Shadows stretched in strange shapes over the flagstones, bending with every flicker.
Cassian moved carefully through the narrow hall that led to the scullery, a small bundle of linens tucked under his arm. His route was one Evelyn often gave him late in the evening — practical enough to avoid suspicion, but also a quiet excuse to keep him away from the main floors.
Tonight, the quiet was deeper than usual.
He reached the midpoint of the corridor, passing beneath an arched alcove where the ceiling dipped low. That was when he felt it — not a sound, not a shift of light, but the simple certainty that he was no longer alone.
His eyes caught movement before his mind did. At the far end of the corridor, just beyond the halo of the last torch, a figure leaned against the wall. The darkness hid most of him, but the outline was unmistakable — tall, solid, with that deliberate stillness that belonged only to men who knew they didn't need to chase.
Rowle.
He said nothing. Made no move forward.
Cassian's steps slowed by the smallest margin, his body's instinct caught between flight and indifference. He forced himself to keep walking, the sound of his own breath loud in his ears. The torchlight wavered, and in the brief tremor of shadow, Rowle's face came into view — the pale curve of a scar at his jaw, the faint gleam of his eyes fixed, unwavering.
By the time Cassian reached the last door before the scullery, the man still hadn't spoken. He stood there as if he'd been carved into the wall, as much a part of the Manor as the stone pillars and heavy locks.
Cassian turned the handle slowly, the iron groaning in the silence. He stepped inside, letting the door swing just far enough to block most of the view down the hall. But before it closed entirely, he glanced back.
The space where Rowle had been was empty.
And yet — the air still carried him. Not a scent, not a sound, but a presence, heavy and deliberate, lingering like the echo of a step you didn't hear but knew had been taken.
In the scullery's dim warmth, Cassian set the linens down, but his fingers stayed on the fabric longer than needed. The small room should have felt safe — a servant's space, cluttered and familiar — but the thought settled in, cold and certain:
If Rowle wanted him found, there would be nowhere in the Manor too small to hide.
Evelyn had learned to tell the time in the Manor without ever seeing a clock. The creak of the rafters as the last heat of the day bled from the walls, the way the candles in the servants' wing burned down to stubs — all of it told her when the night was settling in for good.
She was in the laundry room when she heard the faint groan of the scullery door. Not unusual, but there was something about the pause that followed — a silence just long enough to make her hand still on the folded sheet.
Cassian stepped in a moment later, his head ducked slightly, carrying that same quietness he always did. But she saw the stiffness before he even set the linens on the bench. His shoulders were held too tight, like he'd been bracing against something.
"You were gone longer than this job needs," she said, voice light, casual on the surface.
He didn't look at her. "Had to take a slower route."
It wasn't a lie, not exactly, but it wasn't the whole truth either. She'd heard that tone before — the kind that people used when they were making sure their words couldn't be picked apart.
"You pass anyone?" she asked.
"No." The answer came too fast.
E Subjects: Evelyn turned back to the table, but her eyes stayed on him from the corner of her vision. He was folding the linens like the task demanded all his attention, each movement precise, almost rehearsed. That precision told her more than his words did.
There had been years, before Cassian, when she'd seen men come back from certain rooms in the Manor with that same quiet precision. Not shaken. Not visibly afraid. Just… measured. As if someone had weighed them, piece by piece, and left them wondering what the result had been.
The thought made her jaw tighten.
She didn't press — not here, not now. Pressing too hard in this house could make people close up tighter. Instead, she slid another stack of linens across the table to him, as though that were all she'd meant to say.
But when he took them, their hands brushed for a moment. His skin was cold. Too cold for someone who'd just come from the warmth of the scullery.
"Finish these, then turn in," she said, stepping past him toward the door.
She didn't look back, but the image stayed in her mind as she walked the quiet corridor — the way his eyes had been just slightly distant, as though part of him was still standing somewhere else in the Manor.
And she knew, without needing him to say it, that somewhere in the shadows of those halls, someone had been watching.
The servants' quarters were quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed on the ears until even a breath felt loud. Cassian lay on his narrow cot, staring at the low ceiling, the faint orange glow from the dying hearth across the room tracing the lines of the beams.
Sleep didn't come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the shadow in the hall, the way Rowle stood as though time itself bent to him. No hurry. No words. Just presence.
A board creaked somewhere beyond the door.
He pushed himself up slowly, careful not to wake the two other servants sleeping in their cots, and padded barefoot to the corridor. The stones were cold under his feet, the air carrying the faint scent of damp wool and banked embers.
The hallway stretched empty at first glance.
Then, at the far end, just beyond the spill of lamplight, a figure. Tall. Still.
Rowle.
He stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, the faintest tilt of his head suggesting he had been there long enough to know Cassian would come looking. The lamplight didn't reach his face, but it didn't need to. Cassian felt the weight of his gaze across the distance like a hand pressing between his shoulder blades.
Neither of them moved. The only sound was the low hiss of the wind seeping through the old windowpanes.
Then Rowle turned — not hurriedly, not even fully, just enough to step into the deeper dark, and the black swallowed him whole.
Cassian remained in the doorway, pulse steady but deep, as though his body hadn't yet decided whether to fear or to follow.
Somewhere in the Manor above, a door closed.
The sound carried through the stone like a whisper, and in the silence that followed, he knew one thing with a certainty that lodged cold in his bones — this would not be the last time he woke to find Rowle waiting in the dark.