I'll post another Between the Lines chapter in about an hour or so...
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Ten minutes later, Cassian was staring at an empty field of ash and splinters that used to be his army.
Bathsheda leaned her chin on her hand. "That is three for me."
"Well," Cassian said, flicking a piece of pawn off the board, "as I said... women are as great as men. Possibly greater. At least in strategy and cruelty."
"Was that your excuse last time too?" she asked mildly.
George grinned from where he'd sprawled on the rug. "You are losing, Professor."
"I am testing her," Cassian said flatly, reassembling his side of the board.
Fred snorted. "You are handling it by sulking."
"I am handling it," Cassian said, slamming his knight, "by formulating a counteroffensive so elegant it will be sung in taverns."
Bathsheda moved her queen. His rook exploded into shards.
Cassian stared at the wreckage.
"Or," she said, voice mild, "you will be remembered as the man who lost six matches in a row and blamed the board."
It wasn't six times in a row. It was seven.
***
Cassian sprinted down the corridor, Bathsheda draped across his arms, held limp.
"Drop me before anyone sees us," she hissed, swatting at his shoulder.
He tightened his grip and ran faster. "No."
"Cass..."
"Nope. I'm the pack mule now. And you are lucky I am not adding sound effects."
Her head thumped against his chest as he took a sharp corner, boots sliding slightly on the polished stones. A portrait of a knight glared down at them as they passed, muttering something about propriety and lady's honour. Cassian ignored it.
"You can't keep carrying me around like this," Bathsheda said, voice muffled.
They rounded another corner, this one narrower, lined with dusty suits of armour. One clanged as his elbow clipped it.
"Drop me!" she tried again, wriggling.
He adjusted his hold. "You really think I am giving you the satisfaction of walking the castle looking like you just thrashed me at chess?"
Bathsheda burst into laughter and smacked his chest. "This is about the chess?"
"This is absolutely about the chess. I am staging a strategic retreat. Don't ruin my momentum."
"You are ridiculous."
"And you are heavy."
She gasped in mock outrage and pinched his side. He flinched, nearly stumbled, then righted himself with a grunt.
"Fine, fine! You are featherlight and glorious. Happy?"
"Very."
By now, they were halfway down the main staircase. A pair of second-years froze at the sight of them... Cassian with his scarf askew and Bathsheda's hair a mess of curls trailing over his arm.
"Professor Rosier…?" one of them started.
"Quidditch training," Cassian said without slowing. "She is the Quaffle."
They gawked. He barrelled past, robes flaring.
Bathsheda buried her face in his coat, shoulders shaking. "You are going to get sacked."
"Worth it."
He reached her room, didn't even bother with finesse, and dumped her on the bed. She bounced twice, let out a muffled sound of protest, and immediately found herself wrapped in a blanket. Cassian yanked the edges tight around her like he was tucking in a reluctant burrito.
"Here. Delivered. No refunds," he said, dropping onto the mattress beside her with an exaggerated sigh and throwing an arm around her middle.
She wrestled an arm free and pinched his cheek, but her heart wasn't in it. "You are the worst courier."
He hugged her tighter, smirking against her hair. "And you are the best girl to princess-carry."
Bathsheda rolled her eyes. "That wasn't a princess carry."
"Excuse me, did I or did I not haul you through three corridors while narrowly missing every wall. If that isn't a princess carry, then Snow White's been lied to."
"That was closer to a sack of potatoes," she said flatly, trying to shove him off.
Cassian grinned, locking his arms tighter. "A very well-packaged, premium tier sack of potatoes. One with excellent hair."
Her glare softened slightly, but her hand still gave his shoulder a shove. "You are a fool."
"True. But I am warm and I've got a solid record of not dropping you down the stairs, which I think counts for something." He shifted so his chin rested lightly on her shoulder, voice dropping to a murmur. "Also, you've got this terrible habit of passing out mid-gloating. I am doing the noble thing here."
"You wouldn't know noble if it hexed you in the face."
"Harsh. Here I am, risking my vertebrae to ensure Her Smugness arrives safely in her chambers."
"Because I keep beating you?"
He pulled back to look at her, brow arched. "Seven games, Bathsheda. Seven. That is not beating... that is war crimes against my dignity."
"You don't have dignity."
Cassian gasped. "And now you've stabbed the corpse. Cruel woman."
Bathsheda reached for the nearest pillow and tossed it at his head. He caught it lazily and propped it behind him.
"Do you plan on sleeping here?" she asked.
"Wasn't planning on moving. My legs are still in mourning after the stairs."
"I am not heavy!" Bathsheda slapped his chest with the flat of her hand.
"Ow. Are you suggesting I'm weak? Because that is offensive. Historically inaccurate too. My ancestors lifted entire libraries, probably."
She shifted, climbing onto him before he could roll away. Her knees pinned his sides, and her hands braced on his shoulders as she leaned in, hair falling in a soft curtain around his face. "Show me how strong you are, then," she murmured, lips brushing his in challenge.
He smirked up at her. "Careful. You say things like that, and I might take it as an invitation."
"Do it," she said simply, and kissed him.
The blanket tangled around them as he pressed her down into the mattress, his weight braced on his elbows so he didn't crush her entirely. She hooked her legs around his hips anyway and pulled him closer, like she didn't care if he flattened her.
"Strong enough for you?" he grumbled against her throat, lips ghosting the sensitive skin there.
"Acceptable," she managed between quick, shallow breaths. Her fingers dug into his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him hiss. "You started this. Prove you can finish it."
And he did.
For the rest of the night, neither of them managed a coherent sentence.
They woke up a few hours later to open their gifts.
Cassian was still half-dead on Bathsheda's bed, and his hair stuck out in about seven directions. Bathsheda was still tucked against his side, one arm flung across his chest like she'd claimed him in her sleep. He stared down at her hair, a messy halo of dark curls, and sighed. Loudly. The sort of sigh meant to wake someone and earn sympathy.
No reaction.
"Up," he called, prodding her shoulder.
A faint grumble.
He turned and caught sight of the little pine in the corner of her room, well, little for Hogwarts standards, and the neat row of boxes under it.
"They've dumped my presents in your room," Cassian muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "No privacy in this bloody castle. None."
Bathsheda didn't even lift her head from his chest. "They are just sending gifts. Not spying on us."
"That is exactly what they want you to think." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing at his neck. "First it is gifts. Next thing you know, a portrait is narrating our every move to Dumbledore over tea."
She shrugged. "That is actually possible."
"Right. Let's see which relative's passive aggression made it through customs this year."
Cassian checked the labels on a few parcels from his family, then tossed them into his enchanted bag without hesitation. The bag was already half full with years' worth of unopened Rosier gifts. Some still sat in their original boxes, as if waiting for him to care. He didn't.
He cracked open a box from Professor Flitwick and blinked down at a delicate charm, a tiny bronze bell inscribed with runes.
"Supposed to ward off ill fortune," Bathsheda murmured.
He set the bell aside carefully and ripped into the next one... a thick woollen scarf from Professor Sprout, all earthy greens and browns. A little card fluttered out. For long walks and cold corridors. Don't let your neck catch a chill.
"Sweet," Cassian said. He looped it around his neck and let it hang. "Makes me look like I am about to start a hedge-witch commune."
He snorted, tossing the wrapping aside. A neat stack of gifts from students sat at the edge of the bed. One was clearly from Tonks... she started interning in Ministry, still had time to send him ridiculous things. He pried open the paper to find a pair of violently clashing socks, one lime green, one hot pink, both enchanted to flash when he walked.
"Glamorous," he said, holding them up for Bathsheda to inspect.
"They suit you," she said, entirely serious.
"Everything suits me. It is a curse." He balled them up and chucked them at the pile.
The Weasley twins' offering was next. Cassian raised an eyebrow at the box labelled "Professor R's Emergency Kit." Inside sat a small flask, a joke wand that sprouted daisies on command, and a bar of Honeydukes chocolate.
Cassian barked a laugh and held up the flask. "They know me too well. Terrifying."
Bathsheda took a sip of her drink. "Try not to encourage them."
"I will encourage them right into their first detentions of the year." He tugged open another package, this one neatly tied in blue ribbon. Hermione Granger's handwriting decorated the tag. Inside was a small, leather-bound notebook and a carefully inked note, "For recording anything interesting over the holiday. Happy Christmas."
Cassian thumbed through the blank pages, lips twitching faintly. "Alright. Bright kid. Might live long enough to hate her first Ministry job."
Bathsheda reached over to pluck the notebook from his hands, flipping it open. "She writes like she is forty."
"That is what happens when you peak at eleven."
From Bathsheda herself came a long, narrow box wrapped in muted gold paper. Cassian opened it carefully and found a rune-etched pen resting inside, sleek black with silver runes curling along the barrel. It felt unnaturally warm in his hand.
He glanced at her, one brow arched. "Bribing the staff again, are we?"
"Call it professional encouragement," she said, not looking up from her pile.
Cassian gave the pen a testing flick. The runes glimmered faintly, then settled. "It is stunning. I will use it to grade Slytherin essays exclusively."
Bathsheda chuckled at that.
They checked Bathsheda's gifts next, the pile considerably larger and far more impressive than his sad little collection. Runes professors, apparently, had an international fan club.
First came a soft, dove-grey jumper, hand-knit, with a faint shimmer in the wool that suggested it was charmed against spills. She ran her fingers over the weave with the sort of reverence Cassian reserved for rare manuscripts.
"Let me guess," he said, sipping from a mug she shoved at him earlier. "Your mother, who is determined to out-knit every witch from here to Stockholm."
"Grandmother," Bathsheda corrected, holding it up to the light. "She still thinks I live in a frozen tower."
"You do live in a frozen tower," Cassian pointed out, "but go on."
The next box revealed an assortment of rune-etched quills so fine they made his own battered set look like they belonged in a primary school pencil case. Bathsheda hummed, testing the balance of one against her palm.
"Imported from Frankfurt," she murmured, reading the little card. "Hilde again. Irsan says hi."
Cassian just hummed, as if he'd expected it. "Wait... who's Irsan again?"
Bathsheda sighed. "The other German scholar, the one who reached Hilde first. Hilde's best friend." She went back to opening gifts.
He leaned back on his elbows, watching as she unwrapped a slim black case and found a pendant stitched with fine golden thread.
"That from an admirer or a 'colleague'?"
Bathsheda didn't answer straight away. She traced the embroidery with her thumb. "Colleague."
"Mm-hm. The kind of colleague who sends perfectly tailored leather?"
"The kind of colleague who owes me three favours and is trying to bribe me out of collecting."
"Better." Cassian grinned, she kissed him. Her lips curved.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"You are welcome. I will bill you for the hours."
Bathsheda laughed quietly and tucked the pendant under her shirt.
(Check Here)
Some students chase glory, others chase knowledge. You... I have no idea.
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