Snape stared at the closed door. The quill he'd been holding was bent between his fingers, ink blotting down the stem. He set it aside before it snapped.
Rosier's voice still rang in his ears, loud, foolish, insistent, speaking plainly about things Snape had buried too deep to touch.
'You didn't know it was them. You didn't know it was him.'
As if that absolved anything.
He stood up, felt like pacing, and crossed the room. Then again.
Potter knew.
Potter knew that now.
He pressed a hand to the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. He'd expected many things to collapse in his lifetime, plans, allegiances, colleagues, but not this particular truth landing in the hands of the one person who should never have heard it. Not like that. Not from Black, drunk and lashing out, and not patched together by Rosier with blunt honesty and dangerous accuracy.
A doe.
His throat tightened at the memory.
That day in the forest, he should never have gone out there when he'd been thinking of her. He'd miscalculated. Then Rosier's Patronus had reacted, dragged the thought out like a hook through old scar tissue. He'd wiped it out instantly, but both of them had seen enough to root the warning.
It didn't matter now. Potter knew the worst part of him... the one decision that had gutted his life and hers.
He turned and went straight to Dumbledore's office.
Inside, Dumbledore sat behind his desk, glasses on his nose, quill hovering above a parchment.
When he looked up, his expression brightened in that irritatingly mild way. "Ah. Severus. Do come in. Is something the matter?"
Snape shut the door with more force than intended.
"The boy knows."
Dumbledore blinked. "Which boy?"
"Potter."
Dumbledore set his quill down very softly. "Knows what?"
Snape felt the words jam in his throat. He forced them out.
"About the prophecy. About my involvement. About... why the Dark Lord came after the Potters."
A long silence followed. Dumbledore lowered his hands to the desk and checked Snape over the rims of his glasses.
"Sirius?"
Snape's mouth pulled tight. "Yes."
Dumbledore sighed. "And Harry's reaction?"
Snape gave a sharp laugh. "How do you expect he reacted? He shattered half his dormitory."
Dumbledore pressed his lips together. "I see."
"And Rosier," Snape went on, voice hardening, "saw fit to involve himself as well."
"Cassian spoke to him?"
"He did. Of course he did." Snape paced, then faced Dumbledore again. "He patched it together. Told the boy more than Black did. Confirmed things. He clarified. He..." Snape shut his eyes briefly. "He said enough."
"What's Harry's reaction ot it?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
Snape hesitated. "He isn't directing his anger at me. But he knows now."
Dumbledore folded his hands. "It was always going to reach him one day."
"Not like this," Snape snapped.
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "Would you have preferred he hear it from Voldemort?"
Snape stopped pacing.
"That boy," Dumbledore continued, "has had pieces of his life taken from him without his choosing. Sorrow finds him whether we shield him or not. Better he hears the truth from those who care for him, imperfect as they may be."
Snape's jaw clenched. He looked away.
Dumbledore waited a beat, then said, "You fear what he thinks of you."
Snape shot him a look. "I don't require his approval."
"Perhaps not," Dumbledore said. "But you value his mother's memory. It is natural to fear her son's judgement."
Snape's throat tightened.
"He shouldn't know," Snape muttered. "He shouldn't have to carry any of it."
"And yet he carries far worse," Dumbledore said softly. "Severus... he deserves the truth, even the painful parts. He deserves to see the complexity of those who've shaped his life."
Snape lowered himself into the nearest chair. His hands had curled into fists without his noticing.
"He is not you," Dumbledore added. "He does not see the world with your bitterness. He sees nuance. Compassion. More than either of us ever did at his age."
Snape said nothing.
Dumbledore leaned back slightly. "What concerns me most is not the boy's knowledge... but Sirius. This should never have come from him."
Snape's expression darkened. "He weaponised it."
"And out of jealousy, no doubt," Dumbledore murmured. "Harry holds deep respect for you. Sirius does not always know how to share."
Snape huffed something unimpressed but didn't deny it.
Dumbledore tilted his head. "What did Cassian say?"
After a bit of silent cursing, finally, grudgingly, Snape said, "He mitigated it."
Dumbledore's brows rose. "Did he."
Snape scowled. "Don't look pleased."
"I'm not pleased," Dumbledore said, though he clearly was. "I am relieved. Cassian has a gift for speaking to young people when the rest of us fumble."
"He has a gift for inserting himself where he shouldn't," Snape countered.
"That too," Dumbledore allowed. "But his instincts are seldom unkind."
Snape looked away again.
Dumbledore softened his voice. "Severus... Harry will ask questions. He will want to understand you. When he does, answer him. You need not expose old wounds, but neither should you hide behind them."
Snape's voice dropped. "What am I meant to say to him?"
"The truth," Dumbledore replied. "That you made a terrible mistake. That you have paid for it every day since. And that you protect him not out of duty, but out of love for the woman who gave him life."
Snape flinched.
Dumbledore watched him a moment longer. "He will not hate you for that."
Snape breathed in slowly, then stood.
"If Sirius touches this subject again," Snape said, "I will remove him from the corridor through which his brain tries to function."
Dumbledore didn't even blink. "I'll have Minerva prepare a rota."
Snape turned for the door.
"Severus," Dumbledore called gently.
He paused.
"You have carried this burden alone for a long time. Let the boy carry the knowledge. Not the blame."
Snape didn't answer. He stepped out into the stairwell and let the door click shut behind him.
He stood on the landing for a long moment.
Potter knew.
And somehow, impossibly, the world hadn't collapsed under the weight of it.
He would have to live with that.
***
Aurora wasn't crying so much as leaking everywhere. She'd folded herself into Bathsheda's arms, face pressed to her shoulder, breath hitching every few seconds. Bathsheda kept one arm round her and rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades.
Septima sat nearby with her knees pulled up, watching the carpet. Charity perched on the edge of the coffee table, hands clasped. She kept biting her lip to prevent herself from cursing.
Bathsheda shifted slightly under Aurora's weight. "Alright, love. Breathe."
Aurora only managed a louder sniff.
Bathsheda tightened her hold for a moment. "He said something stupid, didn't he."
Aurora made a noise that was somewhere between yes, no, and set him on fire.
Bathsheda glanced at the others. "That's a yes."
Aurora's voice finally cracked through the fabric of her robe. "He- he said he didn't realise dating me meant-" Her breath broke. "-meant we'd have to spend every second together."
Charity shut her eyes. "Oh, Sirius."
"And he said," Aurora went on, wiping her face on Bathsheda's sleeve without shame, "he said he doesn't understand why I suddenly want to be with him all the time just because Cassian spends all his time with you."
Bathsheda squinted. Very slowly, she asked, "He said that?"
Aurora nodded miserably into her shoulder.
Septima muttered, "Idiot," under her breath.
Charity leaned back, shaking her head. "He's spiralling."
Aurora pulled away enough to glare weakly at her. "He said Cassian has no friends. That it's easy for him because he's got nothing else in his life."
Bathsheda made a noise in her throat, but thought it'd be wiser to keep the commentary for the time being.
Aurora pressed her palms to her eyes. "I don't even care about Cassian in that context. I care that he thinks he can talk about people like that when he feels cornered."
Bathsheda brushed a strand of hair off Aurora's cheek. "He's scared."
"Yes!" Aurora cried. "But does he have to be awful about it?"
"No," Bathsheda said. "He really doesn't."
Aurora slumped against her again. "I thought we were fine. I thought... Merlin- I thought we were actually going somewhere."
Charity softened. "You are. But Sirius panics when anything looks like structure. He's spent so long running from walls, he thinks a comfortable room is a trap."
Aurora let out a snort. "That's poetic. Terribly unhelpful, but poetic."
Bathsheda squeezed her shoulder. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I feel like I did," Aurora whispered. "I asked him to show up more than once a week. That's all."
"And he heard," Charity said dryly, "marry me now and hand over the keys to your soul."
Septima shrugged. "At least he's consistent."
Aurora groaned and hid her face again.
Bathsheda kept stroking her back. "You want my honest opinion?"
Aurora nodded into her arm.
"He likes you quite a lot," Bathsheda said. "Enough that it's dented his brain. He doesn't know what to do with that kind of liking."
Aurora sniffed. "I'm not asking for a ring."
"No," Bathsheda said. "You asked for company. Sensible request. He'll either rise to it or he won't."
Charity leaned forward. "And if he doesn't, you're not the failure in that equation."
Aurora let out a shaky breath. "I really do like him."
"We know," Bathsheda murmured. "And he likes you. He's just stuck in whatever mess he built around himself. Give him time to pull his head out."
"And if he doesn't?" Aurora whispered.
Septima answered before anyone else could. "Then you walk. You don't set yourself on fire to keep him warm."
Aurora closed her eyes.
Bathsheda guided her upright, thumb brushing her cheek. "Cry if you need to. We're here. And when you're done, we'll figure out what you want to do next."
Aurora nodded and leaned into her again.
Septima stretched her legs out, settling back. Charity reached over and rested a hand lightly on Aurora's knee.
***
In McGonagall's office, three senior professors were drinking after hours. Sprout sat nearest the fire, nursing a mug. Flitwick dangled his legs off the arm of a chair, sipping with a wide smile. McGonagall stood behind her desk with a glass of firewhisky.
She sighed deeply. "At what point," she said, "did this school turn into a blasted soap opera?"
Flitwick chuckled. "I'm going to blame Cassian as usual. Ever since he joined the staff, he's brought... oh, what's the word..."
"Chaos?" McGonagall offered dryly.
Sprout raised her mug. "Life."
Flitwick brightened. "Yes, that. I was going to say pizzazz, but yours is better."
McGonagall stared at both of them as if weighing the pros and cons of early retirement.
Sprout took another sip. "You have to admit, Minerva, the castle was quieter before."
"Quiet was nice," McGonagall muttered. "Quiet didn't involve dragging professors off ceilings, patching emotional crises between departments, or referring two members of staff to couples' counselling."
Flitwick gave a small hum. "Well, Cassian does seem to... accelerate things."
"Catalyse," Sprout suggested.
"Instigate," McGonagall countered.
The other two nodded, reluctantly impressed.
Flitwick swirled his drink. "Still, the children adore him."
"Yes," McGonagall said. "That is half the problem."
Sprout hid a smile behind her mug. "You like him too, Minerva."
"I said no such thing."
"You can admit it. We won't tell anyone."
McGonagall's glare flicked between them. "If either of you repeat that accusation, I'll assign you both to supervise Gryffindor's next full-moon sleepover."
They sobered immediately.
Flitwick cleared his throat. "Well. That's settled."
Sprout muttered, "Merlin, she's serious."
McGonagall took a big gulp of her drink.
Sprout sighed. "Some things needed stirring."
McGonagall frowned at her drink, as though trying to drown the memory of seven different catastrophes in the bottom of the glass.
"Stirring," she echoed. "Yes. That's one word for it."
McGonagall would never admit it out loud, not even under Veritaserum, but she liked Cassian. In the reluctant way a long-suffering teacher grows fond of the colleague who makes the job less of a trudge.
History had been a nap with a syllabus before him. Every year, the only prayer the students muttered was "let Binns drift past my row without noticing I'm drooling." Goblins, goblins, rebellions, goblins, treaties, goblins. McGonagall still wasn't convinced Binns knew the twentieth century had happened.
Then Cassian arrived.
Within a term, History had queues outside the door. Students actually took notes. Some even fought for front seats. Worse, or better, depending on the day, they understood things. He dragged the past up by the collar and shoved it under their noses, explaining why spells existed, who broke them, who panicked and invented them in the first place. He taught intent like it was an instrument. He made them picture magic instead of parroting it.
Even she caught herself sitting in on a few of his early lessons. Illusions, projection work, and that cursed pen demonstration that gave her a headache for a week. Still, the improvement across the school was undeniable.
Unfortunately, his tongue was mightier than his wand. No, that wasn't a fair comparison. His tongue was lethal.
Cassian's wand in his first year at Hogwarts had been... well, loyal in spirit, if not performance. His mouth, on the other hand, could've levelled buildings. Snappiest thing in the castle. Good thing he reserved most of it for the Board and whatever unfortunate soul had annoyed him that day. If left alone, he was tolerable. Even pleasant on the rare days he forgot to bite.
But she remembered the night he chose her.
The Forest incident. She'd sent Potter and the others into the trees as punishment, perfectly reasonable at the time, only for them to stumble across something old and foul wearing Voldemort's face. Within an hour, Cassian had stormed into her office, white with fury.
He'd slammed the door, shouted her name like it was an accusation, and proceeded to give her the kind of dressing-down Hogwarts hadn't heard since Dippet's nervous collapse. Sprout and Flitwick had burst in thinking someone had been cursed.
"What part of 'Forbidden Forest' suggested 'safe'? What part of 'students' suggested 'expendable'?"
McGonagall had matched him tone for tone, she was hardly new to shouting, but she'd gone to bed that night realising two things.
One... he cared about those children in a way she recognised too well. Two, he wasn't afraid of her in the slightest. Or anyone, for that matter. Infuriating man.
Now she sat in her office with whisky and colleagues and listened to Sprout saying Cassian had brought "life" to the place, and Flitwick calling him "pizzazz," and she wanted to deny it. Truly deny it.
But she couldn't. Not after seeing what he'd built.
The club. The spellwork. The way the younger students lit up when he walked in. The confidence the older ones carried now.
He was trouble, constant trouble, but not the useless kind. She took another swallow of whisky and muttered, mostly to herself,
"Merlin help me... I like the man."
She drained the glass.
"And I blame him entirely for that."
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