The Son of the Dog Star

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual breakfast murmur, but Cassian barely touched his toast. His knuckles still ached despite the dittany, stiff beneath the bandage he'd rewrapped three times.

Across from him, Blaise Zabini ate with effortless calm, flipping through Advanced Defensive Theory like it was light morning reading. He hadn't said much yet, but the occasional side glance toward Cassian's hand spoke volumes.

Then the hall seemed to quiet—not completely, but just enough to notice—as Professor Snape entered.

His robes swirled behind him like smoke, his face set in the kind of cold fury that could curdle milk. He moved with purpose, black eyes scanning the room like a hawk circling for weakness.

Cassian didn't look up.

He didn't need to.

Snape stopped behind him, the air tightening like a noose. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper, but the chill in his voice cut through the warmth of the fire at the head table.

"Mr. Rookwood."

Cassian slowly set down his fork. "Professor?"

Snape leaned down slightly—not enough to draw attention, just enough for the words to stab directly into Cassian's ear.

"Seven o'clock. My office. Detention. For the brawl you so gracefully conducted last night in the common room."

Cassian blinked.

"You'll scrub every flagstone in the Slytherin dormitory until they shine," Snape continued, voice like venom. "And if you ever decide to act out your pureblood temper tantrums where I might see the aftermath again… I'll have you brewing so much rat spleen tonic you'll forget how to lift your wand."

Cassian clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on his plate.

Snape straightened but didn't move. He let the moment hang for just a heartbeat too long before finishing:

"And if you're going to spill blood in my house, at least have the decency to do it cleanly."

He swept off with a sharp turn, robes snapping like a whip.

Blaise didn't even look up from his book. "You've really impressed him this time."

Cassian muttered, "He sounded thrilled."

Blaise flipped a page. "He didn't deduct points. That's practically a love letter."

Across the room, Draco Malfoy arrived late—moving slower than usual, with a stiff posture and a swollen jaw. His lip was still split, his wand hand wrapped in gauze, and he sat alone. As he sat down he hesitantly glanced at Cassian, anger burning in his eyes.

Cassian raised his goblet in a quiet, mocking toast.

Draco sneered and lowered his eyes.

---

After breakfast, Cassian and Blaise followed through with their plan.

The investigation began quietly—subtly. They didn't question Luna directly. She wouldn't give them a straight answer anyway, not about the bullies. Blaise seemed to be under the impression that she was scared of what he'd do to the perpetrators.

She'd be right.

Blaise, naturally, took the more indirect route, starting with social feelers among their House connections, floating questions masked as idle gossip. Cassian went the opposite way—blunt, targeted. Straight to the Ravenclaws.

It didn't go well.

The first few he approached in the library—a fourth-year girl and her friend—clamped up immediately at the mention of Luna's name. One even had the gall to say, "She's just... strange. You can't take everything she says seriously."

Cassian seethed under his cold mask. "I bet you'd look pretty strange with no shoes and bruises all over too. Want to find out?"

The girl flushed, murmured something about homework, and bolted.

It was the same pattern again and again. Polite refusals. Shrugged shoulders. Feigned ignorance. A few Ravenclaws even insisted they "didn't know anything," but their twitchy eyes and defensive tone gave them away. Someone knew something—they all did.

Even the prefects, when approached, gave carefully rehearsed non-answers.

"We'll look into it."

"We're not aware of any ongoing issues at this time."

"Miss Lovegood is... eccentric. It's possible she's misplacing her things."

Eventually, it was time for History of Magic, so that called their hunt to a halt. They headed to lunch and gave each other a debrief on their findings.

Before they could dive deeper into what they found—or didn't find—Luna joined them again for lunch. She seemed fine, other than her ears being noticeably red and missing her trademark Dirigible Plum earrings.

Blaise and Cassian didn't speak about it, not until they were alone again during a free period in the Slytherin common room. Luckily, it seemed the other Slytherins were all busy.

"They got her again," Blaise muttered darkly. "Times like these, I wish I was a year younger—maybe I would've noticed these things sooner."

Cassian said nothing and stared at the fireplace, his eyes radiating malice, lost in thought while idly spinning his wand in his bandaged hand.

"They know. All of them," Blaise acknowledged. "Almost impressive. You'd think they were hiding a dark artifact, not a bullying problem."

Before Cassian could reply, a soft, echoing knock interrupted them—three sharp raps against the stone arch that led into the common room.

Both boys tensed.

Slytherin's entrance didn't allow for friendly visits. Someone had to give the password, and it wasn't shared outside the House.

Cassian rose first, approaching the door with a narrowed gaze. A second knock followed. Curious now, he pressed his wand to the stone and muttered the passphrase.

The wall slid open.

There, standing awkwardly just outside the entrance and glancing over his shoulder as if he expected to be hexed for breathing, was Terry Boot.

"Boot," Cassian said, voice low but firm. "You wanted to talk?"

Terry looked between them, swallowed hard, then nodded. "I—Luna's… she doesn't deserve what's happening to her."

"No, she doesn't," Blaise said flatly.

"Everyone sees it," Terry said. "They just don't do anything. No one wants to be next."

Cassian menacingly stepped closer. "Who is it?"

Terry looked away. "Cho Chang. Marietta Edgecombe. And two older girls—Mira Sun and Daila Fletcher. They've been at it for a while, ever since the middle of last year. Petty things at first. Hiding her books. Taking her shoes. Wanding her robes to change colors. But lately… it's worse."

Cassian's jaw tightened. "Worse how?"

"They hexed her to cough up feathers until she had to visit Madam Pomfrey last week," Terry whispered. "Turned her ink invisible during an exam. She got detention for 'not finishing her work.' Marietta started the rumor that she talks to ghosts that don't exist. I'd hoped they would stop after summer..."

"And you all just let it happen," Cassian growled.

Terry flinched. "You think I'm proud of it? I told our prefect. She said Luna was 'odd' and shouldn't make herself a target. The others just… act like it's normal. Or funny."

Blaise muttered under his breath, "Ravenclaws—brilliant minds, no backbone."

Cassian folded his arms. "Why tell us?"

"Because Luna doesn't fight back," Terry said. "But I think you will."

Cassian's eyes darkened. "That's a smart assumption."

Terry pulled something from his pocket—an odd, curved buckle. "I saw them nick this in Charms and toss it in the bin. I fished it out."

Cassian took it gently. "It's hers. Her mum gave it to her."

Terry nodded. "I don't want anything to do with what happens next. But if you do something… don't let them off easy."

He walked away before either of them could say another word.

Cassian stared at the small item in his hand. The brass was scratched and bent, but it still had Luna's initials etched into the underside in tiny, looping letters: L.L.

Blaise exhaled slowly. "Well. That confirms it."

"They've been doing it since last year," Cassian muttered. "And everyone in that tower just watched."

"You know Cho's Potter's new obsession?" Blaise remarked.

"Like I care who St. Potter fancies," Cassian scoffed, voice ice-cold. "Let's see how long that lasts when her wand disappears and her robes start smelling like a dungbomb. And that's just the beginning. I want them ruined."

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Dark and poetic. You're speaking my language."

Cassian slipped the trinket into his pocket with a quiet click. "I've got detention with Snape tonight."

He turned toward the castle, voice low and simmering. "After Umbridge's class tomorrow—we begin."