Chương 94: Ch88- House-Visit

Next morning, he and Bathsheda walked to Hogsmeade, hand in hand, their fingers swinging lazily. Cassian let out a low groan.

"Canon years hit different, huh?" he muttered. Bathsheda glanced at him, brow arching.

"What now?" He kissed her cheek, smirking faintly.

"Nothing, love. Just sad Quirrell is gone." She hummed, the sound more sigh than a word, and didn't press him. Her thumb stroked over his knuckles as they walked past a low stone wall half-swallowed by ivy. Students were darting around them, hauling trunks and owl cages, voices bouncing off the station walls as they scrambled for the train. Fred and George came striding past. The two beelined over, grinning wide.

"Professor R, see you next year," Fred said, giving him a mock salute. George wagged his brows.

"Try not to miss us too much, yeah?" Cassian tipped his head.

"Oh, I will try. Really. Might even manage to forget your names for a whole two days." Fred clutched his chest.

"You wound us, sir."

"Barely scratched the surface." Cassian jerked his chin at their trunks.

"On you go before the train leaves you behind. I doubt your mother would appreciate an owl explaining how her twins were outwitted by a timetable." They barked a laugh and jogged off, tossing him mirroring waves as they melted into the crowd. Not far, Longbottom was clutching his toad, the poor creature squirming and letting out a shrill croak that sounded suspiciously like a demand for freedom. Potter, Weasley, and Granger huddled near the fountain, whispering furiously probably plotting world domination.

Malfoy stood off to the side with Crabbe and Goyle, both looking like they couldn't decide whether to smirk or scowl. A few Ravenclaws drifted past... Terry Boot balancing a stack of books under one arm, Anthony Goldstein nudging him toward the train. Across the courtyard, Hannah Abbott waved goodbye to her friends. Nott was sprawled on a bench, flicking through a dog-eared copy of Magical Theory. Su Li and Patil were mid-argument, discussing something.

Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis approached with Parkinson trailing behind, the three of them moving in that seamless way Slytherin girls seemed to manage when they had something to say.

"Professor Rosier," Parkinson started, her tone syrupy, "can you explain why you helped Slytherin actually win?" Daphne tilted her head.

"Not that we're ungrateful." Tracey grinned faintly.

"But it's curious." Cassian looked between the trio, chuckling, "You lot tutored half your House through Charms and kept Madam Pomfrey from turning into a murderess. That's not curious, Miss Davis. I just told Heads of the Houses your deeds."

"Still," Daphne said lightly, "you made Gryffindor's loss look very... on purpose."

"That is because it was on purpose," Cassian said flatly. Bathsheda snorted beside him, her hand brushing his sleeve like she was holding back the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

"Worst thing in the world is realising the place you love, this castle, the people running it, the whole bloody system, isn't fair. You trust the authority. You think the walls will look after you. And then you watch them bend the rules for someone else for the very thing you were told not to do." He shook his head.

"Keep that in mind... Hogwarts isn't a person. Not the Founders, not the Headmasters, not even the teachers. She is a castle with a will of her own. She is home. And when home doesn't feel fair, it's not long before you're standing off to the side, watching everyone else belong. I hate that." The words sat heavy in the air, softened only by the distant hiss of steam from the train. Bathsheda's fingers tightened around his hand. Cassian's eyes tracked the students loading their trunks onto the train.

"Fairness isn't built into these walls. It is built by the people running about inside them. Trouble is, most of those people are too bloody sentimental to see it."

"When someone starts fiddling with the scales, stacking them in their house's favour, what do you reckon happens to the kids watching?" Tracey looked down.

"They lose trust." Cassian nodded.

"House Cups mean nothing to begin with. We tell you lot to do good, keep your noses clean, earn points for House pride. Build unity. Healthy competition is meant to make you better. And all of that is fine... if it is fair. But when someone can toss in points last second to tip the scales, what's the point of working hard?" The girls stared at the ground, lost in thought.

"You stop believing in the whole thing," Cassian went on.

"It is not about who's clever or brave. It is about who's got the attention that week." Tracey's mouth twitched, but she didn't speak. Bathsheda let out a hum beside him. He pointed at the train.

"Go on, then. Don't be late." The girls nodded in unison.

"Thank you, sir." Cassian gave a small wave as they hurried off. Bathsheda brushed her hair back from her face, then said it, calmly, like she was asking the time.

"Wanna move in together?" He froze mid-step.

"Pardon?" She raised a brow, entirely unbothered.

"You heard me." Cassian turned to stare at her, mouth half-open.

"That wasn't on the schedule."

"What schedule?"

"The one in my head where you put up with me for a few years before realising I am a terrible flatmate." Her lips quirked.

"We've survived rune excavations, heatstroke in Ankara, and three near-death experiences in China. Sharing a kitchen can't be worse."

"Bold words." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"You've never seen me cook."

"I have."

"That wasn't cooking. That was... tactical improvisation." Bathsheda smirked faintly, shaking her head.

"Alright," Cassian said at last, his voice lighter now.

"But when you find out I alphabetise my tea and leave diary in the bath, don't say I didn't warn you." This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"I will manage." Cassian's fingers curled lightly around hers as they walked.

"I know," Bathsheda said quietly, her thumb grazing his knuckles.

"Just funny timing, isn't it? You finally got free of them... and then we agreed to stay. Because of this." Cassian's jaw flexed slightly. She wasn't wrong.

"You still can't leave your family, but I wanted to ask. And you said yes, so when the time comes, you're now bound to come with me." He gave a soft snort, glancing sideways at her.

"Bound, am I? God forbid I try to back out now."

"You won't," she said simply, her grip firm despite the casual tone.

"You sound very sure for someone who hasn't seen my record with commitments." Bathsheda hummed faintly, eyes on the cobblestones ahead.

"You're here, aren't you?" Cassian rolled that over in his head for a moment, then huffed out a laugh.

"Fair point. Then. Yes, yes. Oh my god, yes." Bathsheda smacked his arm, the corner of her mouth twitching as she tried not to laugh.

"You are insufferable."

"True," Cassian said easily.

"But you are still volunteering to live with me. I'd call that reckless optimism."

"Reckless optimism is better than living in a shoebox of books and tower of pens like you do now." Cassian tilted his head, feigning offence.

"That is not a shoebox. It's a curated mess. There is a system."

"Uh-huh."

Bathsheda dropped Cassian off at the side of the road, squinting at the stretch of matching houses.

"Is this the place?" Cassian nodded, hands deep in his coat pockets.

"Yeah. Thanks for dropping me, love." She leaned over and kissed him.

"You sure you don't want me to come with you? I can drop you off after, too." He shook his head.

"That won't be necessary. I'll take the bus." She studied him for a second longer, then nodded.

"See you in a couple of days." He waved as she turned on the spot. The moment she disappeared, his hand dropped, and so did the smile. Cassian turned toward Number Four. The house looked built out of grayness. Every inch of it screamed dull. Dull door. Dull windows. Dull brick. He walked up and rang the bell. A voice screeched inside.

"Dad! The freak must've returned!"

"It is still early. See who it is." The door was yanked open a second later by— Cassian had to pause. Boy looked like a peeled potato in a school uniform. Hair like it was glued on. Face already set in that smug roundness only gained by years of never hearing the word no.

"Who're you?" the boy barked. Cassian smiled without warmth.

"A guest. Is your father in?" The boy didn't move. Just narrowed his eyes.

"He's not buying anything." Cassian leaned in, almost a whisper.

"That's good. Because I'm not selling." That shut the boy up. He blinked, then turned and bellowed down the hall.

"Dad! There's some weirdo at the door!" Heavy footsteps followed, and a large man in a buttoned shirt that barely contained his stomach came into view. His eyes landed on Cassian with immediate distaste.

"Can I help you?" Cassian's smile widened just a little.

"Yes. You can step aside."

"I beg your—" Cassian waved his wand. Three lights floated, one from the man, and the other from potato-faced boy just behind him. The third veered from the left, the figure coming from the kitchen. A woman with... well, Cassian chose not to be unkind. Ugliness of the soul had a way of shaping the face over time. It showed. All three of them clutched at their throats as their voices ripped free, flickering lights now hovering midair. He flicked his wand again.

The lights sank into three small glass vials and he corked them one by one.

"Now I've got your ugly voices," he said mildly, turning toward the sofa.

"Let's sit and talk. Well, I'll talk. You'll listen." He dropped into their stiff-backed armchair like he had every right to be there. The man, Vernon, if Cassian remembered right, stood frozen near the hall, face purple with impotent rage. The boy hovered behind him, blinking dumbly. The woman clutched the edge of the doorway.

"Oh," Cassian added, pointing his wand lazily.

"Tea. I'm not fussy. Just don't spit or poison it. I'll know." Petunia Dursley backed into the kitchen like a kicked dog, still clutching at her throat. He hummed a low tune as he waited, eyes flicking around the room. Middle-class decor, matched furniture in beige and brown, framed photos on every surface, the kind of television that was expensive enough to feel impressive in '91. Everything screamed curated normalcy.

Cassian's gaze lingered on a picture of the boy, Dudley, grinning beside a bicycle far too expensive for his age. Behind him stood Petunia, all rigid pride and fake pearls. Next to her, the husband. Vernon Dursley. Mustache trimmed, smile strained. No Harry. There wasn't a single photo of Harry. Not on the mantle. Not on the shelves. Not even a school portrait shoved behind another frame. Not surprising. He already knew the boy slept under the stairs. He'd seen it on the registry when he tracked the address.

The tea arrived with a rattle of porcelain. Petunia placed the tray on the table with shaking hands.

"Thank you," Cassian said, offering her a smile too polite to be kind. He picked up the chipped floral cup, took a sip, then pointed to the sofa across from him.

"Sit." They obeyed. Vernon lowered himself stiffly. Petunia perched on the edge. Dudley flopped next to her, wide-eyed and pale, fingers twitching like he wanted to bolt but couldn't work out how. Cassian crossed one leg over the other and set the teacup down.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here," he said.

"Well. Truthfully? What I'm doing is super illegal." He let that hang in the air. Vernon's fists clenched, but he stayed silent.

"But that's the thing. You can't prove any of it. No evidence. And even if you could, well... unfortunately for you, I'm... rather influential in the world your nephew belongs to." He reached into his coat, pulled out a slim silver pin, and held it up between two fingers.

"You can think of me as a Duke's heir. That won't mean anything to you, but in our world, it's enough to keep the Ministry nervous. If I kill a few peasants, at worst someone might slap my wrist and call it unbecoming." Vernon's face darkened. Cassian didn't stop.

"But I'm not fond of violence. It's messy. Loud. Uncivilized. Still..." He leaned forward slightly.

"I'm not above it. So don't push me. Got it?" Three nods. All stiff. No one met his eyes.

"Excellent," he said, settling back.

"Let's talk about the cupboard under the stairs." Trio stiffened by the mention of it, but Cassian raised his wand.

"No need to get worked up. Told you, I'm not here to hurt you." He tilted his head, voice calm.

"I'm here to tell you how much I will hurt you if you don't do exactly as I say from this day forth. So listen carefully." They froze.

"That cupboard," Cassian said, his tone darkening, "is no longer to be used for anything but storing your shame. If I find out Harry sets foot in it again, sleeping, hiding, punished, I don't care, I will put one of you in it. And I'll make sure you fit." Vernon looked like he might choke. Petunia let out a thin, wheezing breath. Cassian kept going.

"He gets a room. A proper bed. Food, clothing, books, space. Not a closet. Not hand-me-downs. Not scraps." Then he reached into his coat again, this time pulling out a single sheet of parchment folded into thirds.

"Here's what you're going to do." He unfolded the paper, placed it on the coffee table, and tapped it with his wand. The script glowed briefly before settling into dark, sharp ink.

"Daily schedule," he said.

"Breakfast, lunch, dinner. He eats with the family. He's included in chores, not burdened with them. I don't want to hear about any backbreaking errands or starvation punishments. You'll provide receipts, literal ones, I've charmed this list to track compliance." He pointed to a small rune in the corner. It blinked red, then dimmed.

"That light turns green when the schedule's followed. Yellow if you slip. Red if you ignore it." His eyes flicked to Vernon.

"Red is bad." He ignored their wide eyes, "Let's be clear. This isn't about teaching you empathy. I'm not wasting time hoping you'll change." His gaze settled on Petunia.

"And you? You'll be pleasant. Not kind, I know that's a stretch, but neutral. Civil. If I hear about cold stares, hissing behind his back, or shrieking about freakishness, I'll charm your voice so every word you say sounds like a fart in church." Her jaw tensed. Her fingers twisted in her lap, and Cassian could practically hear the hiss she wanted to give. Cassian turned to Vernon.

"As for you, you'll stop treating him like a stray someone dumped on your doorstep. He's not a charity case. He's a child. You are to speak to him like you would any other. Say please. Say thank you. No raised fists. No locking doors." Vernon's face had gone splotchy and red, but he hadn't moved.

"Second offence, you lose the ability to speak for a year. Third offence?" He turned toward Dudley, voice colder now.

"I start with his memories. I won't erase them. I'll just... shuffle a few things." Dudley went rigid.

"Imagine thinking your name is Oinky every morning. Being terrified of butter knives. Wetting yourself every time you see your own reflection." A squeaky breath escaped the boy. Cassian sighed and stood, brushing invisible lint from his coat.

"This arrangement isn't a negotiation," he said flatly.

"I'm not here to counsel you. I'm not here to soften you. I'm here to make sure you don't get another chance to ruin that boy's life." He glanced toward the hallway.

"You're not to speak about him when he's not in the room. No muttering, no blaming. He is not the cause of your misery. He's the proof of it." Cassian turned, heading for the door.

"I'll check in. Randomly. Without warning. If he's bruised, I'll bruise you. If he's missing meals, I'll take your appetite. If he starts believing he's worthless, I'll make you see yourselves the way he does." He paused with his hand on the knob.

"Last chance." Three silent, terrified faces watched him leave. He nodded.

"Oh, I was never here. Got it?" The trio nodded so fast their necks could've snapped. Cassian dropped the three glass vials onto the sideboard.

"Break them. If your voices feel like coming back, lucky you." Then he turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him. He caught a small movement in the window of a nearby house and smiled. Then left.