Bathsheda relaxed against him with a sigh, her head tipped slightly against his jaw. Despite the barrage of sarcasm, she didn't shift away.
"Iceland is growing on me," she muttered.
Cassian grinned. "You hear that? That is progress."
"Don't get cocky. I am still debating dunking you."
He just shifted, slid down and dunked himself without warning. Bathsheda lost her backrest and made a sharp, undignified noise, part protest, part splash, as she tilted backwards.
Then his face was very close to a place that made that protest die somewhere in her throat.
"Cassian."
It was a warning. Probably. Came out softer than it should've.
He didn't answer. Just looked up, eyes half-lidded, steam beading across his lashes. Then, with absolutely no regard for the sacred peace of the moment, he grinned.
That grin didn't last.
Not when her hand threaded through his wet hair and dragged his mouth up to hers. Her legs shifted. Wrapped. Pulled.
He caught her hips as she moved, grip tightening to anchor them both. The stone edge of the pool dug into his spine, and he didn't give a damn. How could he when her fingers were already under his jaw, her lips transmitting vibrations into his molars to communicate...
She moved again. Sat properly in his lap now, thighs around his. Nothing between them. No robes, no annoying curtain spells... nothing. All hesitation melted away, every trace of second-guessing gone.
His fingers skimmed her sides, cautious at first, then not. She wasn't cautious either. One hand slid over his shoulder, the other into his hair again... because apparently that was hers now. Fine. He had no objections.
She kissed him again, slower this time. Like she was learning him by taste.
Cassian dragged a hand up her back, over her spine, down again. Mapped her like parchment, pressed her to feel her heart hammer against his ribs.
They moved with the kind of urgency that wasn't clumsy, just overdue. Like two people who danced around it too long and had finally, finally, shut up about it.
When she sank onto him, it wasn't a sigh or a gasp... it was this rough, shaky exhale, like something between them had clicked into place. Cassian's hands gripped at her hips tight, too tight maybe. He didn't think she minded. Her mouth found his again.
He buried his face in her neck and lost track of everything else. They soon found a rhythm.
Her body shook and Cassian caught it... one arm around her back, the other tangled in her hair as she bit down hard on his shoulder. He held even tighter, followed her over the edge a breath later.
They stayed like that for a while.
He kissed her hair. Her head stayed tucked against his shoulder.
"Alright?" he said, after a minute.
She hummed.
He smiled. "Proper answer, that."
"Stop babbling."
Above them, the sky shifted. The aurora thickened, light flickering like it was breathing. Cassian tilted his head to watch, cheek resting against her.
"I am putting this in the diary," he said.
She snorted.
"'Unit Three: Magical Thermodynamics and Strategic Nudity.'"
"If you write that down, I will set your bed on fire."
"Joke's on you. I sleep in yours."
She pinched his side. He yelped.
"See?" she said. "Thermodynamics."
***
They spent a week in Iceland.
Long enough to soak the chill out of their bones, not long enough for Cassian to forget his family. The water stayed hot, the skies stayed green, and Bathsheda stayed.
They returned to Hogwarts before the break ended, professors weren't allowed the luxury of full holidays unless they fancied a mountain of neglected essays when they got back. Christmas break still had a week to go, decorations were already sprouting across the halls. House-elves strung up enchanted mistletoe in places that felt suspiciously strategic.
The day after they got back, Cassian stared at the envelope on his desk. The usual message inside, though he didn't have to open it to know. 'Be here, or you are disowned.' Sealed with a dark red wax stamp pressed deep with the Rosier crest.
Classic Rosier hospitality.
He dropped it in the fireplace. Then he cast Cinis Amissa, the ashes swirled, folding in on themselves. So, he burned it again. This way, no one could bring the cursed letter back to life.
Spending Christmas locked in a room with half the Wizengamot's most pompous egotists? No, thanks. He would take ghosts and enchanted mistletoe over Lucian's dead-eyed smile any day. And the castle had Bathsheda. Instant win.
He got Bathsheda and the other professors little gifts, nothing too grand. Thoughtful, yes. Vaguely useful, maybe. Just the kind that said, "I acknowledge your existence and am not actively trying to curse you." Even Snape got one... though Cassian doubted he'd appreciate the gesture.
The Muggle shampoo bottle had a cheery label that read, "Eliminates oily scalp from the first wash!" It was neon green. Cassian debated wrapping it in ribbon but figured the insult landed cleaner unadorned.
When Snape opened it, stared, then looked up with a glare like he just bitten into a lemon wearing Cassian's face.
"You are welcome," Cassian said brightly, already walking off before Snape could reach for his wand.
Only Bathsheda's was a bit pricier. Not because he was trying to win points. Well… maybe a little.
He hunted down an antique rune compass. Real one. Brass casing, obsidian dial, runes etched so fine they needed a magnifying charm to read properly. Pre-Classical, maybe late Achaemenid.
Bathsheda unwrapped it with that careful, narrow-eyed look she saved for old spells and suspicious essays. Then she looked up and said, "You got me a cursed object for Christmas."
Cassian nodded. "Surprise."
She loved it.
***
The last week of break ended too fast. One minute the castle was quiet, almost perfect, and the next it was loud again, stuffed full of overexcited kids who came back well-fed, well-rested, and absolutely ready to cause every kind of mayhem imaginable. A few of the younger ones returned even earlier... something about their parents needing "space." September was pregnant with good news.
Cassian was on a hunt during that week. He already marked every bloody mistletoe in the castle. Sadly there was no spell for that, but with the boredom of a man who had better things to do and chose not to, he managed. Every corridor. Every archway. So, whenever he "chanced upon" one with Bathsheda, it was a miracle of divine coincidence.
"Again?" she said flatly as they stepped under one for seventh time today.
He looked up, mock-surprised. "Well, would you look at that? Mistletoe."
Bathsheda didn't move. Neither did the plant. Cassian leaned slightly closer, all charm and no shame.
"You realise this is magically binding," he said. "If we don't kiss, the entire enchantment wing gets cursed"
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that for my benefit or yours?"
Cassian considered. "Bit of both. Mostly theirs."
She gave him a look that could strip paint but kissed him anyway.
Then she carried on walking without waiting for a reaction.
Cassian grinned after her, catching up in three lazy strides.
"Right then," he said, "I reckon the next one's by the Charms corridor."
"You reckon wrong."
"Oh?"
"I hexed that one."
He blinked. "You hexed the mistletoe?"
"I hexed the spot you keep standing under."
Cassian laughed. "God, I adore you."
Bathsheda didn't answer, but her smirk tugged a little at the corner of her mouth.
Break ended, classes kicked off again, and the chaos returned right on cue. Tonks' experim- helping resumed like they'd never stopped. She was improving, slow but solid. Every session fixed another twitch, another hesitation.
Most evenings, she would crash into Cassian's office like a sentient hurricane of complaints, then leave a few hours later, pale and shaky but one step closer to not turning green randomly.
By the end of January, Tonks managed a full transformation into her mother, mid-Polyjuice, without screaming. She sat slumped in a chair afterwards, face glistened with sweat, hair half-morphed into some kind of tragic lavender mullet.
Cassian handed her a cloth. "Well done. You look horrifying."
"Thanks," she muttered. "Feels like I swallowed a snake made of glass."
"That is the spirit."
Bathsheda didn't even look up. "Don't vomit on the carpet. That is a very old carpet."
Cassian pointed at her. "Exactly. We are trying to preserve history here. So if you must expel something, use Dumbledore's Gargoyle."
Tonks groaned, wiped her mouth, and staggered toward the washroom. She missed the doorframe by an inch, cursed for almost kissing it, and shuffled through.
Cassian leaned back in his chair. "Well. We made a little metamorphmagus cry. Shall we celebrate?"
Bathsheda finally looked up from her stack of essays. "There is stale shortbread in the drawer. That is the limit of celebration budget."
He made a thoughtful noise, digging through the bottom drawer like a man with low standards and high hopes, and came up with a dented can that looked like it survived two wars.
"Oh, beans. Treasure," he sing-songed, shaking it like it might jingle.
Bathsheda looked up from her notes, already unimpressed. "We are sleeping separately."
He frowned at the label. "Bit harsh."
"You fart when you eat beans."
Cassian huffed, cracking the can open with a tap and setting it beside the nearest stack of ungraded essays. "Not really sure which one wins, honestly. On one hand, beans. On the other, hugging you feels good."
He dug a spoon out from somewhere, he had a drawer full of questionable cutlery, none of it matching, all of it clean-ish, and took a bite. Chewed. Grimaced. "Alright, that might be poison. But I am committed now."
"You always are," she murmured. "Especially to poor decisions."
"Marvellous. I will put that on my tombstone. 'Died as he lived, full of beans and terrible plans. DO NOT OPEN!'"
She flicked a glance his way. "You won't need a tombstone if you keep eating like that. I will just tell the elves to compost you."
He held up a finger, still chewing. "That is very green of you."
"Recycling is important."
Cassian made a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh, then dropped onto the couch. He let out a long, slow fizzle that echoed off the room.
Bathsheda didn't even glance up. Just drew her wand and flicked it, a shimmer of blue springing up around her.
"You are getting too comfortable," she muttered.
He smirked, arms behind his head. "This is love, darling. I love you so much I can fart near you."
She narrowed her eyes at him over the top of her quill. "Romance truly is dead."
"No, no. It is alive and well. Just... a bit pungent."
She shook her head, muttering something that probably wasn't in Latin but carried the energy of a hex.
He yawned, cracking his knuckles one by one. "Tell me something," he said, still not moving, "why do students think handing in an essay written in sparkly ink will make me less likely to set it on fire?"
"Because one thing you love more than setting things on fire is sparkles," she replied flatly, scribbling a note in red across the top of a parchment.
"I don't set things on fire. That was once," he said. "Okay, three times. But only one was my fault."
"The 'Potions Through the Ages' essay you incinerated last week, because it said Gamp invented cauldrons."
Cassian didn't look remotely sorry. "That was self-defence. You don't read something like that and walk away the same."
Bathsheda flipped a page. "You are distracting."
"Good. I am bored."
"Mark your own pile."
He groaned. "But yours has the good ones."
"They are all terrible."
He made a noise of agreement. "Yeah. But yours are colour-coded terrible. Mine is a binfire with citations."
He dragged a parchment off his own stack, blinked at the title, then held it up. "This one just says 'Big Fire Good.' No author, no subject, just, big fire. Good."
Bathsheda didn't look up. "Fifth-year Hufflepuff?"
"How did you know?"
She tapped her head with her quill. "I have seen things."
In the end, he got her laughing, and they tumbled onto the bed. She accused him of ruining her essay stack. He accused her of having too many. It ended with her sock in his mouth and both of them out of breath for reasons neither wanted to explain if someone knocked. All for love.
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