Severus returned home late into the night.
He had downed an entire vial of restorative elixir—the one he habitually kept tucked in his pocket for Death Eater meetings—and it had done little more than dull the sharpest edge of his exhaustion. His muscles still ached from the evening's exertions, and the lingering soreness in his shoulders reminded him of how long he had spent on his knees.
He crossed the bedroom quietly and rummaged through the cabinet beside the wardrobe. He found another vial of pain-relieving draught and drank it in one swallow. He did not want Cassie to see him looking as haggard as he felt.
He stood beside the bed debating whether he ought to wake her. It was late. She had been asleep for hours, and he knew perfectly well that she would insist upon fussing over him if he disturbed her.
Unfortunately, his desire to tell her about his cousin eventually won.
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Cassie." She stirred beneath the blankets. When her eyes opened and found him standing beside the bed, a sleepy smile immediately spread across her face.
"You're home." She pushed herself upright. Severus barely had time to take off his outer robes before she was out of bed and gripping his hand.
"Cassie, I am fine."
"You look sore. You need a bath."
"I assure you—"
"Bath." She tugged him toward the adjoining bathroom.
Severus sighed. "Cassie—"
"For the third time, I don't care what you say." After removing his robes, he was all but shoved into the bathtub. His aching muscles did not protest when he lowered himself into the steaming water. If anything, the heat seemed to seep into every sore joint and pull the tension from his body, degree by degree.
He closed his eyes. For several moments, only silence remained.
Cassie knelt beside the tub and ran her fingers gently through his damp hair. "It's late," she murmured. "Was he angry?"
Severus opened his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss being tortured at the Dark Lord's hands. "Darragh Prince was there tonight."
The softness immediately vanished from her expression, and her blue eyes widened. He had successfully changed the topic. "In what capacity?"
"It seems he has won the Dark Lord's favor. He has already received the Mark and possesses a Death Eater mask."
Cassie's expression darkened. "Did you speak to him?"
"Briefly. There were... other activities taking place," he told her quietly.
She exhaled through her nose, clearly debating whether she wanted to know what he meant. "And how exactly did he earn a place among the Death Eaters?"
"The Glastonbury massacre," Severus said simply. He did not elaborate.
For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she shook her head. "I can't say I'm surprised." Her fingers continued moving slowly through his hair. "I wonder what your lovely Great-Aunt Moira thinks."
Severus gave a humorless snort. "I am confident that she encouraged him."
"Of course she did," she huffed. He closed his eyes again.
After he had soaked in the tub long enough to satisfy her, Cassie coaxed him into bed. She rubbed analgesic salve into his back despite his insistence that it was unnecessary.
He did not bother arguing again. In truth, he was grateful for her attention. He simply had no intention of saying so.
At Cassie's insistence, Severus eventually told her about Barty Crouch Senior's death. He kept his voice remarkably even as he described it.
His son had skinned him alive. Enough blood and bodily fluid had leaked onto the floor that the older man should have died within minutes. Instead, a carefully placed stasis charm had prolonged his life for hours, trapping him in a body that was already beyond saving. Only when his father's death became inevitable had Barty finally cleaved his head from his shoulders with a poorly aimed hex.
Cassie's hands slowed against Severus's back. The bedroom's darkness seemed to press around them. Eventually, she dared to give voice to the thought that had been circling her mind.
Her fingers worked at a stubborn knot in his lower back with enough force to make him wince. "What's the likelihood that Fudge will blame his disappearance on me?"
Severus stared into the darkness. "My prediction," he intoned, "is that there will be an article in the Prophet within the next week."
Cassie sighed heavily. She wanted to argue, but there was no point. They both knew how the Ministry operated. And they both knew how easily they could turn the truth into something unrecognizable.
-------------------------------------------------------------
The East Siberian taiga was a place where nature seemed determined to remind mankind of its insignificance.
Endless forests stretched across the frozen wilderness, broken only by mountains, rivers, and vast expanses of snow that could swallow a person without leaving a trace.
Winter temperatures could plunge to extremes so severe that exposed skin froze within minutes. Bitter winds tore through even the thickest layers of clothing, and the landscape offered little shelter to anyone who did not know how to survive within it.
Summer brought no true reprieve. Swarms of insects descended upon the forests in numbers almost incomprehensible to outsiders. Wildfires could consume thousands of acres, while the immense distances between settlements made the region nearly impossible to traverse without considerable preparation.
It was a land of extremes, unforgiving and vast. And largely untouched.
A place where a person could disappear for years and leave behind little more than footprints that the next storm would erase. Yet Anastasia Morozova soon began noticing things that nature could not explain.
A narrow trail through the trees where the grass had been flattened by recent footsteps. The blackened remains of a fire beneath a crude shelter of pine branches. A small pile of animal bones, picked clean.
Once, Anastasia found a strip of cloth snagged on a broken limb. It was weathered and faded, but unmistakably ripped from the sort of prison uniform Vitaly Pavlischev had escaped wearing.
Someone had been living here, and they knew how to move through the taiga without being seen. And with every mile the highly skilled Saint traveled deeper into the wilderness, a realization slowly settled over her.
She was not searching for a wizard who had disappeared. She was entering the territory of a man who had learned how to disappear.
Anastasia pursued him for weeks. She could count on one hand the abandoned camps she found, but it was enough to convince her she was on the right trail.
Vitaly had been careful. He had concealed his fires, covered his footprints, and changed direction frequently. And, most importantly, he had taken considerable care to leave nothing behind that could provide a magical trace.
He had even taken steps to prevent Anastasia from finding usable traces of his blood or other biological material. It was almost enough to impress her.
Then, one afternoon, she found a smear of blood. It came with another piece of torn prison uniform, caught on a fir branch.
The stain was small, and Anastasia nearly missed it. But it was enough.
She activated the tracking charm and felt the magic pull her deeper into the forest. Two days later, she found him.
Vitaly was emaciated and clearly starving. When Anastasia finally spotted him, he appeared to be stalking a lynx. Whether he intended to kill the animal or steal its prey, she could not tell. It hardly mattered.
She stepped into view. Vitaly stumbled when he caught sight of the young black-haired witch. The lynx bolted.
A dead rabbit remained behind, but Vitaly did not even seem to notice. His entire attention had fixed upon Anastasia. His eyes traveled slowly over her. Then they landed on her bloodied robes.
"Oh," Anastasia gasped. And then she ran. She fled back the way she had come, the tracking charm still active. Even with magic aiding her, the taiga's terrain was unforgiving. Twice, she tripped and fell. Each time, she scrambled back to her feet before Vitaly could reach her.
The sound of his pursuit grew steadily louder. Predator and prey moved through the trees for hours.
Anastasia's black hair became plastered to her sweaty face. Her lungs burned. Her legs ached. She barely managed to keep a safe distance between them.
Her only advantage was Vitaly's lack of a wand.
As the sun began to disappear behind the trees, darkness swallowed the forest by degrees. Anastasia dared not illuminate her wand. If she did, Vitaly would have an easier time tracking her.
She only had a few more miles to go. She was certain of it. If she was wrong, he would catch her.
She stumbled into a clearing. Whether it had been created by the destructive forces of nature or by human hands, Anastasia did not know. Regardless, it was exactly where she had intended to go.
A smile briefly touched her lips before she collapsed onto her knees.
Vitaly burst through the tree line moments later. He panted heavily, but unmistakable delight laced his voice. "Hogwarts," he drawled. He approached slowly. "So nice of you to visit me. I never would have dreamed I'd find you like this." He circled the raven-haired witch, gripping a large rock. "Exhausted. Bloodied." He smiled. "Weak."
His sharp features appeared even more sinister in the dimming sunlight. His dirty teeth gleamed as he sneered at her.
Soon, the moon would be the only light.
Vitaly stepped closer. But the growing darkness concealed the first changes taking place in Anastasia's appearance. The first hairs on her head paled. Then more. Jet-black slowly turned white-gold.
Vitaly did not notice until nearly the entire front half of her hair had changed. He stopped. "What—?"
"I beg you to spare me," Anastasia whispered. She lowered her head. Her voice, once light and familiar, began to change. It became deeper. Softer. Sultrier. "Will you show mercy?"
Vitaly stared. He took one slow step toward her. His eyes stayed fixed on hers as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Another step. He leaned forward. And then—
The blonde witch screeched. Her head snapped upward.
Vitaly stumbled backward as the woman's face elongated before his eyes, her features twisting into something monstrous as her nose and mouth fused into a cruel, curved beak.
Vitaly fell onto his back. "Please!" he cried. He threw his arms over his face as though that could protect him from the wrath of an angered Veela.
Laughter echoed through the clearing. Vitaly froze.
It had not come from Anastasia. It had come from behind him.
He rolled onto his stomach, and there she was. Lady Cassiopeia. Her dark hair blended almost perfectly with the darkness gathering between the trees. Boros, coiled around her shoulders, lifted his head and flicked his tongue at Vitaly.
Anastasia's head slowly returned to normal. The transformation left behind an extraordinarily beautiful young woman with glowing skin and pale golden hair. She rose and moved to stand beside her mistress.
More hooded figures emerged from the trees.
The raven-haired witch clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Chasing an injured girl through the forest, Pavlischev?" Cassie asked. Her voice was almost conversational. "What was your intention, I wonder?"
Vitaly glared at her. "Letting someone else do your dirty work!" He remained on the ground, unwilling to rise until he could properly assess the situation. Master Machado had ingrained that caution into him during his second year of training. "Couldn't be bothered to dirty your robes, Black?"
A sardonic smile spread across Cassie's face. "Was it satisfying? Chasing who you thought was me? Were you imagining all the ways you would end my life once you finally caught me?"
Vitaly pushed himself onto his knees. Now was not the time to admit that she was exactly right. "You are a coward!" he spat. "Using a decoy—"
"Anastasia is much faster than me." Cassie glanced affectionately toward the Veela hybrid. "And considerably more graceful."
Anastasia smiled at her mistress's praise.
Vitaly opened his mouth. For perhaps the first time since he had escaped, he found himself without an immediate response. Then a brunette witch standing on Cassie's other side pulled down her hood. Romily.
Vitaly's expression changed. He looked around the clearing. Six other figures stood among the trees. Saints of the Blood. For the first time, genuine fear crept into his eyes.
"Fine," he snarled. He held his wrists toward Cassie. "Arrest me."
Cassie laughed, and her Saints around her joined her. Vitaly's face paled. "You're not going back to Sol-Iletsk," she said. "You are to be executed."
His eyes widened. For several seconds, he was too stunned to speak. He had never believed the young witch standing before him would actually carry out the sentence. She did not have it in her. At least, that was what he had always believed.
"You won't," he croaked.
"I won't give you another opportunity to escape," said Cassie. Her voice remained perfectly calm. "You lost your chance to live out the remainder of your natural life in prison."
"My father!" Vitaly's voice cracked. "Think of my father!"
Cassie's expression hardened as she crossed the distance between them in several quick strides. Boros hissed from around her shoulders. "You handed me over to my father." Her pale face hovered inches from his. "You delivered me to him knowing exactly what he intended to do. I owe you nothing but contempt."
Vitaly swallowed hard. "Coward," he muttered. The word was quieter this time. "I am wandless, but you cannot even face me without your snake and your servants."
Cassie stared at him. Her blue eyes searched his face for several silent seconds. Then she straightened. "Fine." She turned her head slightly as she hissed in Parseltongue. The serpent slid from her shoulders, down her body, and onto the ground.
"Lady Snape—" Romily began. Cassie held up a hand to silence her.
Cassie reached for her wand. Then, to Vitaly's surprise, she held it out for Romily to take.
Cassie turned toward the Saints. A sharp jerk of her head sent them retreating several yards into the surrounding tree line. Once she was satisfied with their distance, she turned back toward Vitaly. "Now I am wandless and snakeless. And my Saints know not to interfere."
Vitaly slowly rose. His exhausted legs shook beneath him. "And if I defeat you?"
"Then you're free to go," she answered.
Vitaly inhaled deeply. She had evened the odds in his favor, but he would be a fool to ignore her wandless magic.
He was highly skilled in Dim Mak. He had subdued her with it before. He could do it again.
His eyes traveled over her. He pictured his hands around her throat, her pulse beneath his fingers. He imagined squeezing until she stopped moving. Or perhaps he would simply take the rock and bash it against her skull.
Plenty of fallen branches were within reach. He could drive one through her eye.
So many possibilities. So many satisfying ways to make her suffer.
He exhaled. His weight shifted forward as he prepared to pounce. He barely noticed Cassie's eyes flick toward a point just beyond his shoulder.
An impossibly large figure overtook him in less than a second. Fingers seized his hair, and his head was violently yanked backward.
Vitaly opened his mouth to scream as sharp fangs sank into his throat. All that emerged was a wet gurgle.
Cassie folded her arms. "Do you really think I would allow you to use Dim Mak on me again?" She rolled her eyes as she stepped toward Stellan and the dying wizard in his grasp. "I suppose you can no longer answer me." The vampire's fangs tore free, nearly ripping out Vitaly's throat.
Stellan's eyes met Cassie's. An amused gleam shone in them. Cassie grinned.
Vitaly's face twisted with terror as he finally understood. The vampire he had once aligned himself with was now draining him of his blood.
Cassie did not look away. She waited until Vitaly's body had gone completely still. Only then did she turn.
Romily approached and held out Cassie's wand. "My lady."
Boros slithered around her ankles before climbing her robes and returning to his favorite place around her shoulders. Cassie glanced down at Vitaly's corpse.
"What do you want done with his body?" Romily asked.
Cassie almost told her she didn't care. Then an idea occurred to her. "Send his head to the Russian wizarding prison." Romily's eyebrows rose slightly. "Let it be a warning to anyone else considering an escape."
Romily nodded. She was more than willing to carry out Lady Cassiopeia's orders. Though this particular task was rather gruesome for her taste, many Saints would happily volunteer to do it in her place.
Cassie turned away from the corpse. Behind her, the Saints began to move. Within minutes, the taiga would swallow the clearing once more.
But this time, the forest would not conceal a dangerous fugitive.
-------------------------------------------------------
Cassie slept late the following morning.
After returning to Ottery St. Catchpole in the early hours, she had seen little reason to leave the bed. She and Severus had no plans for the day, and their bedroom had become one of the few places where she could still convince herself that the rest of the world did not exist. So when Severus rose early to begin brewing, Cassie merely rolled over beneath the blankets and went back to sleep.
She was startled awake when the bedroom door flew open. She bolted upright as Severus stormed across the threshold, looking considerably more irritated than he had when he left. She barely had time to register the expression on his face before he tossed a folded newspaper onto the mattress beside her.
"Sev, what—"
"Skeeter," he interrupted with a growl. Cassie snatched up the Prophet. The front page bore an enormous photograph of Harry Potter.
She could tell at once that the picture was at least a year or two old. Harry looked younger, shorter, and his hair was considerably longer than it was now. The photograph appeared to have been taken during one of his pre-term trips to Diagon Alley. He stood near the entrance to Knockturn Alley, apparently unaware he was being watched.
His companions—almost certainly Ron and Hermione—had been cropped out. Only portions of their sleeves remained visible at either edge of the picture. Harry looked distinctly uncomfortable as he stared toward whoever had taken the photograph.
Beneath his picture was Cassie's old Hogwarts staff photograph. Apparently, no one had found anything more compromising.
Cassie's stomach tightened. Then she read the headline.
THE BOY WHO CRIED DARK LORD
Is Harry Potter's mind as scarred as his reputation?
Some stories simply refuse to die.
For years, the wizarding public has been asked to believe that Harry Potter is something extraordinary. A hero. A survivor. The Boy Who Lived.
But what happens when the boy who survived begins insisting that the Dark Lord has returned?
And what happens when the people around him are more than willing to encourage him?
According to Harry Potter, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned from the dead. According to Harry Potter, the Ministry of Magic is lying to the public. According to Harry Potter, the Death Eaters are gathering once again.
And according to the young wizard's increasingly troubling claims, only he—and a select few adults—can recognize the supposed truth.
It is a familiar pattern to anyone who has ever witnessed a frightened child invent a monster beneath the bed. The difference, of course, is that Harry Potter is no longer a child.
Or, perhaps more accurately, he is a young man carrying wounds that have never properly healed.
Those close to Potter describe him as increasingly angry, withdrawn, and obsessed with the events surrounding his latest "encounter" with You-Know-Who. His insistence that the Dark Lord has returned has been accompanied by increasingly alarming accusations against the Ministry itself.
Yet Potter has found powerful allies willing to validate his extraordinary claims.
Most prominent among them is none other than Albus Dumbledore.
The Hogwarts headmaster has long enjoyed a reputation for wisdom and sound judgment. But even the most respected wizard can become dangerously attached to a particular version of events.
Dumbledore has publicly supported Potter's account, lending his considerable influence to the claim that You-Know-Who has somehow returned. One might reasonably ask why.
Is the headmaster protecting a frightened young man from public scrutiny?
Or is he protecting his own reputation by ensuring that Potter's story is believed?
Perhaps even more curious is Potter's association with Cassiopeia Snape, née Black.
Madam Snape, once a Hogwarts student and later a professor's assistant, is hardly an impartial observer.
The daughter of You-Know-Who and the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange, and a member of one of Britain's most notorious pure-blood families, Cassiopeia has spent much of her life surrounded by precisely the sort of dark history that Potter claims is returning. And yet she, too, apparently believes him.
What an extraordinary coincidence.
Madam Snape has reportedly been among those defending Potter's version of events and supporting Dumbledore's position regarding the alleged return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
One might wonder whether Potter's story has been strengthened by evidence—or merely by how many people are willing to repeat it.
There is another uncomfortable question.
Why does Potter seem so certain that everyone who disagrees with him must be mistaken? The Ministry has investigated the claims surrounding the Dark Lord's supposed return. No public evidence has emerged sufficient to substantiate Potter's increasingly dramatic accusations.
Still, Potter insists that he alone knows what happened.
That would be troubling enough if Potter were an ordinary student. But Harry Potter is not ordinary. He is a young wizard celebrated since infancy. He has spent years surrounded by people telling him that he is special, important, and destined for greatness.
Could the weight of that expectation have finally become too much? Could a young man who has spent his entire life defined by the Dark Lord now be unable to imagine himself without him? It is an uncomfortable possibility.
And perhaps the people closest to Potter should be asking themselves whether they are helping him—or harming him.
Dumbledore's unwavering support may be understandable. The headmaster has always presented himself as Potter's protector.
But what of Madam Snape? Why would the daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange, whose family history is inseparable from the darkest period of modern wizarding history, be so eager to reinforce Potter's accusations? Could her own complicated relationship with the Dark Arts have influenced her judgment?
Or has she chosen to stand beside him for another reason?
These are questions the wizarding public deserves answers to.
Instead, we are being told to believe. Believe Harry Potter. Believe Albus Dumbledore. Believe Cassiopeia Snape.
And, apparently, disregard the Ministry's assurances that the public remains safe.
The Daily Prophet would never suggest that Harry Potter's suffering is imaginary. Nor would this reporter dismiss the very real trauma he has endured.
But trauma can distort memory. Fear can distort judgment. And obsession can make a person see patterns where none exist.
Perhaps Harry Potter truly believes that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned.
That does not necessarily mean that he has.
Perhaps the saddest part of this entire affair is that the young man who once represented hope to an entire generation may now be surrounded by people too afraid—or too loyal—to tell him he could be wrong.
One thing is certain. Harry Potter has spent his entire life fighting the shadow of You-Know-Who.
Perhaps the question we should all be asking is whether, this time, the greatest danger is not the Dark Lord himself—but the possibility that Harry Potter can no longer tell the difference between the shadow and the wizard.
RITA SKEETER
Daily Prophet Special Correspondent
Cassie folded the newspaper. "More of the same."
"I beg to differ." Severus's voice was cold. "She is becoming more brazen."
Cassie tossed the Prophet onto the nightstand. "Why wouldn't she?" She stretched her arms above her head, unconcerned that her movement drew her husband's eyes to her. Her blue nightie left little to the imagination. "She has the Ministry encouraging her."
"Even so," Severus replied, his gaze returning to her face, "her repeated claims that all three of you are unstable are absolutely imbecilic."
Cassie hummed thoughtfully. "Is it the suggestion that I am deranged that bothers you?" She gave him a teasing smile. "Or is it that the proud Snape name is being dragged through the mud?"
Severus snorted. "You are a silly thing." He sat down beside her.
Cassie caught the familiar scent of eucalyptus and ginger clinging to him. Whatever he had been brewing downstairs, she had no intention of asking about it. She reached behind her head, pretending she needed to adjust the ponytail she had slept in.
Severus's eyes betrayed him as they flitted back to her chest. Cassie's smile widened.
She had spent enough time with him to know precisely what she was doing. The events of the previous night had left her with a restless energy she had not quite managed to shake. After dealing with Vitaly, she had considered waking Severus, but ultimately decided he needed sleep.
Now it was morning, and he was already here. That was enough.
She barely had time to laugh before Severus pushed her backward onto the mattress. She wrapped her arms around him, delighted by the sudden change in his mood.
She loved the feeling of his lanky frame pressing into hers. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him to her even tighter. He kissed her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. He freed her breast from the top of her nightie, and she arched her back when his mouth surrounded her nipple.
Severus was spurred on by her little moans. He was sure to give each breast the equal amount of attention, using his long, lithe fingers to stimulate her when his mouth was occupied elsewhere. By the time he removed his pants, she was dripping.
He coaxed her to move to all fours before taking her from behind. Her soft moans turned into unhinged groans as he took her at an unrelenting pace. It hadn't been lost on him that she had seduced him with only a few well-timed movements of her arms. But it wasn't just the stretching that had encouraged him. She only put on that sinful blue nightie when she intended to fuck him.
Husband and wife lay panting, arms and legs tangled together as they came down from unhampered pleasure. Severus was about to suggest that they cram into their bathtub together when Cassie suddenly sat up.
"Shit!" she said, scrambling out of the bed.
Severus immediately looked alarmed. "What is it?"
"Draco!" She snatched up a dark green bathrobe and hurriedly tied it around her waist. In her hurry, she failed to notice it was Severus's, not hers. "I'm supposed to pick him up from Diagon Alley!" She barely finished speaking before she raced toward the stairs.
"Cassie—" Severus called after her.
There was no time. She disappeared through the front door before Severus could offer to go in her place. A moment later, a loud crack sounded outside.
Cassie appeared in front of the Leaky Cauldron.
Draco was nowhere to be seen.
"Oh, Merlin." She hurried inside in a flurry of green fabric, far too long for her. Then she spotted him. "There you are." Draco sat at the bar with a mug of butterbeer in his hands. Cassie stared at him. "Really? Butterbeer at this hour?"
"What difference does it make," Draco drawled, deliberately glancing down at his wristwatch, "when you're so late that it's nearly lunchtime?"
"I'm sorry!" Cassie immediately began searching the pockets of the bathrobe for coins. There were none.
Draco sighed. He reached into his own pocket and withdrew several Galleons. "No matter. Can we get going, please?"
His silver eyes flicked around the pub. Several patrons were staring, and Cassie knew exactly why. She looked like a disaster with her excessively long bathrobe, disheveled hair, and mismatched slippers. If Rita Skeeter wanted evidence that Cassiopeia Snape was unstable, Cassie thought bitterly, she had just provided it.
They stepped outside. "What time are your parents planning to pick you up?" Cassie asked.
"It'll be one of the house-elves." Draco rolled his eyes. "And I told them I'd be with Crabbe and Goyle until seven."
"Good." Cassie linked her arm through his. "Then no harm done."
Draco glanced sideways at her. "You know, most people would simply apologize for being late."
"I did."
"You shouted it."
"I was in a hurry."
"You are wearing your husband's bathrobe."
Cassie looked down. She had not noticed. "Bugger."
Draco smirked. For the first time that morning, Cassie laughed. Then they Disapparated.
A crack echoed across the open fields of Ottery St. Catchpole. Cassie appeared with Draco beside her and all but shoved him through the front door.
Before Draco could protest, she Disapparated again. It took only a few minutes to collect Hermione from her home in Heathgate. When Cassie returned, she pushed open the cottage door with the Gryffindor witch at her side.
Severus was waiting. His expression was icy. "What in the bloody hell is going on?"
Hermione immediately flushed. "Oh. I'm sorry, Professor, it's just that—"
"I invited them here," Cassie interrupted firmly. She glanced down. The robe had fallen open at the top during her frantic travels. She hurriedly pulled it closed and tightened the belt.
Draco, already seated comfortably in Severus's favorite armchair, looked entirely unbothered. "I already told him that."
Hermione smiled faintly at the blond Slytherin.
Severus opened his mouth. Cassie seized his elbow and dragged him toward his laboratory. She shut the door behind them.
Severus stared at her. "What in Merlin's name do you think you are doing?"
"I'm giving them a chance to spend time together."
"That is the most asinine idea you have ever had," he hissed. "What brought about such a brainless idea?"
Cassie rolled her eyes. "It's not brainless."
"Wait until Lucius finds out!"
"He won't. He thinks Draco is with Crabbe and Goyle."
Severus folded his arms. "And you intend to maintain this deception?"
"Yes. I don't give a fuck what Lucius thinks."
Severus scoffed. "If that were true, you wouldn't be helping his son sneak around behind his back."
"Sev." Cassie's voice softened as she stepped closer. "I understand your concerns. I meant to tell you. The plan came together suddenly, and then I received the message that Vitaly had been apprehended. But this is a good thing."
Severus looked unconvinced. Cassie opened the laboratory door just enough to peer into the sitting room. Draco had moved from the armchair to the sofa. Hermione sat beside him, but a respectable amount of space still separated them as they talked quietly.
Cassie smiled and motioned for Severus to look. He leaned toward the opening to peer through. Then Cassie shut the door again.
Severus sighed. "I suppose there is no stopping you."
"No." She smiled sweetly. "There isn't." She wrapped her arms around his torso. "Who would be a better influence on Draco? And who knows?" Cassie batted her eyelashes. "Maybe they'll fall in love."
"Zero chance." Despite himself, Severus pulled her closer. Cassie smiled against his chest.
Later that afternoon, Cassie found herself wishing she had made a bet. She stood at the cottage window and watched as Draco and Hermione walked slowly down the gravel road toward the little village. At some point, Draco reached for Hermione's hand. She took it.
Severus appeared in the doorway. Cassie pointed toward the window.
"They're holding hands," she whispered, even though they were the only two people in the cottage. "They're holding hands, Severus!"
"I have eyes," he intoned.
The Prophet could call her unstable. The Ministry could question her judgment. Rita Skeeter could invent whatever story she pleased.
Cassie had other things to worry about, like apparently being right about Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.
She watched them disappear around the bend in the road. Then she turned toward her husband with an unbearably smug expression, but a smile threatened to burst through. "I told you."
Severus gave her a withering look. "Merlin, help us all."