It took the rest of April for Madam De Wit to restore Cassandra to full health. By May's first dawn, she emerged from the hospital wing with a renewed vigour that radiated from her every step.
Cassandra's reputation at Durmstrang had escalated to delusional and near-mythical proportions. News of her poisoning had spread like cursed fire and ignited an inferno of whispers. Many seemed to think the attempt against her life had been the climax of a months-long lovers' quarrel with Viktor Krum. His frequent visits to the hospital wing during her convalescence fueled speculations of an emotional reconciliation.
Viktor didn't help matters any. In a post-match interview after the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team's qualifying win against Russia, he dedicated his impressive performance to "a witch who changed his outlook on certain things" and refused to elaborate when asked who was the witch and what were the things.
"I don't understand why you bother with him," said Fidele as they turned into a deserted fourth-floor corridor. A small girl, previously absorbed in a tapestry of battling dragons, gawked at them and dropped her heavy brass scales.
"What's your problem?" Fidele snapped.
Cassandra, irked, levitated the dropped scales into the girl's arms. The girl kept her eyes downcast as they passed her by.
"Krum's an asshole," Fidele insisted.
"So are you," Cassandra replied, a touch of exasperation creeping into her tone. "And I still adore you."
Tove looked up from her floating Potions tome to chime in. "The World Cup is going to propel him into international fame. You're going to have a much easier time getting your way for the next two years with him on our side."
"I'll get my way regardless," Fidele said hotly.
"And I'll do as I please," retorted Cassandra. "Viktor couldn't stop me from befriending you. You'll be no more successful in stopping me from befriending him."
Off Tove's knowing look, she continued, "Or doing whatever else I might feel like doing to him."
The discussion was cut short by the sound of Klaus's flapping wings. Grateful for the distraction, Cassandra greeted the raven affectionately. "Hello, beautiful boy. Have you eaten yet?"
Viktor joined them for breakfast, sitting in strained silence across from Fidele. Cassandra acted as though she was quite oblivious to the tension, but the occasional smirk betrayed her amusement. Before her poisoning, the idea of Viktor and Fidele sharing a meal would've been inconceivable. But now, here they were, silently tolerating one another. She would have them making polite conversation before the year was out.
Cassandra was in an excellent mood all day, and by evening, she was ready to share the plan she'd been toiling over for weeks with her friends.
"We're throwing a party?" said Fidele, eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Yes. It's a tradition for the seventh-years, isn't it? To have a not-so-secret bash at the end of the term."
Tove, slipping into a pair of pink silk pyjamas, nodded. "They only invite fifth-years and up. No one wants a bunch of drunk twelve-year-olds vomiting all over the castle."
Cassandra leaned forward, eyes glittering with excitement. "This year, we'll host the real grand fête. An afterparty."
Tove looked sceptical. "You do realise the G. are right around the corner? Why not next year?"
"Because I want to catch the son of a squib who tried to kill me, and that's where I'll do it."
"I knew it!" said Fidele, smacking Tove's arm with a copy of Advanced Hexing and Counter-Hexing. "I told you she had to be plotting something."
"Of course I've been plotting. I'm not likely to let attempted murder go unpunished. Not my attempted murder."
The purposeful, feverish atmosphere brought upon by the encroaching exams drove nearly everyone to single-minded obsession. This suited Cassandra very well; she was free to move about without being noticed by her peers, who were much too preoccupied with last-minute revisions. Even Frau Hubberman, the caretaker, was overwhelmed battling the flourishing black-market trade in aids to concentration, mental acuity and alertness that had sprung among the students.
Taking advantage of everyone's distraction, Cassandra and her house-elves smuggled several dozen meters of canvas, a complete jazz orchestra (rhythm section and all), five crates of champagne and two hundred cocktail glasses into the castle. Finding a suitable hiding spot for this illicit haul proved challenging, but Fidele, ever resourceful, was able to place an illegal Expansion Charm on a schoolbag Galena had left behind.
Finally, the first of June arrived. No one talked very much at breakfast that day: Fidele was reciting incantations under her breath while the porridge bowl in front of her twitched; Tove was rereading A Guide to Object Transfiguration so fast that her eyes appeared blurred; and Viktor kept staring silently into the distance.
Once their meal was over, the fifth- and seventh-years lined up in a queue in the Entrance Hall, organising themselves by year and in alphabetical order. Then, at half past nine, they were called forwards to re-enter the Great Hall, which had been rearranged to accommodate many small desks, all facing the staff-table end of the Hall. When they were all seated and quiet, an hourglassed turned, and the exams began.
Cassandra turned over her paper and lowered her eyes to the first question: a) Give the incantation and b) describe the effects of a Switching Spell. She had a fleeting memory of a class shared with Adrian and McGonagall's commanding tone… a faint smile played on her lips as she bent over the paper and began to write.
"That was a doddle," she said to her friends as they exited the hall, two hours later. She tossed her exam paper to Tove, who was making grabby hands in her direction. "I wrote the first draft of my answers on the back, as you requested, my liege."
Fidele offered her own exam a tad more anxiously. "I don't think I did myself justice on Vanishing Spells. I just ran out of time."
Tove compared their answers to the course books while they ate lunch with the rest of the school (the regular tables had reappeared for the lunch hour). Then they trooped off into the Entrance Hall again, where they waited in line until called for their practical examination.
Viktor's name was called first. With the gloom of a wizard headed for the stake, he left the Entrance Hall with Jakub Kowalska, Mette Kristiansen and Aleksandr Kuznetsov.
Ten minutes later, the Transfiguration teacher, Professor Wechselmann, called, "Lazarević, Dragana – Lehner, Lukas – Lebedeva, Liliya – Lestrange, Cassandra."
She was guided towards an old, lavender-haired examiner with thin, drawn-on eyebrows who was sitting behind a small table in a far corner.
"Lestrange, is it?" said the witch, consulting her notes and peering over her cat-eye frames at Cassandra as she approached. "Professor Ivanovich's charge? The young witch who was poisoned?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Cassandra noticed one of the wizards who'd walked in alongside Viktor — Kuznetsov, a sandy blond Russian with a distinctive cleft chin — throw a scathing look over at her. The ermine he'd been trying to Vanish exploded into a cloud of feathers.
Cassandra grinned. "That would be me."
"It says here you haven't asked for any accommodations," said the examiner in her quavery old voice.
Cassandra shrugged. "I don't need any."
On the whole, she thought the practical went rather well. Though Transfiguration was not Cassandra's strongest subject, she could perform every spell required to a satisfactory standard.
There was no time to relax that night; Fidele and Tove dragged her straight to the common room after dinner and submerged themselves in revisions for Charms the next day; Cassandra went to bed early to escape the incessant talk about spell chains and theories.
They had their History of Magic exam on Wednesday, and then, on Thursday, Dark Arts. Here, for the first time, Cassandra cared enough to dazzle. She had no problem with any of the written questions and took pleasure, during the practical examination, in performing all the jinxes, hexes, and curses with an elegant viciousness she knew even her nastiest ancestors would've been proud of.
"Bravo!" exclaimed the examiner when Cassandra demonstrated a perfect Withering curse. "I have only ever examined one other student who was able to stop the rapid ageing process before the target perished." He leaned forward as much as his ancient body allowed, examining the decrepit mouse. "How do you know when to stop?"
"Instinct," said Cassandra to the tiny, stooped wizard with a face so lined it looked as though it had been draped in cobwebs. "I can feel its life force slipping away."
"Tangibly?"
"Like warm water running down my back."
"My, my…" said the tiny examiner. "Well, I believe that's all, Frau Lestrange… unless…"
He cleared his throat. "I heard from my dear old pupil Liutauras Krauja, that you are a deft hand at Ritual Magic. Like his wife."
Cassandra nodded.
"And you've devised a ritual to track down werewolves?"
"Yes."
"If one were to… Well. If one were to know a person. A magical person who was bitten by a werewolf many years ago…"
"If they're willing to cooperate I can locate the werewolf who bit them."
He started, then tried to remain composed. "Oh no, it would be the unfortunate victim of this tragedy you'd be searching out."
Cassandra frowned. She took a moment to read the wizard in front of her. His tone was longing, hopeful. He'd loved this person. He'd lost them to a werewolf. She knew the shape and feel of that wound. What if, instead of dying, her grandfather had been turned as a result of their violent encounter with Greyback's pack? Could she bear to have him in her life? Could she bear not to?
"I'll give you my address in England," she whispered, making up her mind as she spoke. "Drop me a line once the term is out and we'll discuss the requirements of the ritual. How does that sound?"
"Of course. Yes. It sounds very good indeed," said the examiner. "I fear I've been terribly unprofessional, but an old man has to take his chances." He grabbed Cassandra's right hand between his veined and knotted ones and shook it enthusiastically. "Thank you, Frau Lestrange. And your work—astounding."
Cassandra and Tove sat the Arithmancy exam on Friday while Fidele had a day off. Arithmancy was one of the most challenging subjects there were, with its labyrinth of numbers and formulas; Cassandra left the Exam Hall with her mind spinning between complex equations and their magical implications.
As she didn't care about her exam results nearly as much as her two coven sisters and didn't have an overbearing father breathing down her neck as Viktor did, Cassandra left them to their frantic studying over the weekend and instead spent her time straightening out the last details of her party — the invitations, the gift bags, and the golems.
Potions on Monday was particularly enjoyable; Cassandra had many comforting memories that revolved around a softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, having spent her girlhood underfoot one of the greatest potioneers in Britain.
Other than almost being seized unexpectedly from behind by an errant Venomous Tentacula, Cassandra felt she did well on the Herbology exam. Disappointingly, Runic Studies, the exam she had been looking forward to the most, was woefully boring. The written paper consisted of simple translations, and the most exciting thing she was allowed to do during the practical was to activate the runes in a ritual goblet.
Fidele had a meltdown on Wednesday after falling asleep during the evening Astronomy practical and leaving a good portion of her star-chart blank, which led to half of the fifth-year common room being smashed to pieces. Nobody was foolish enough to try to stop her, as even the older Prefects knew better than to get in the way of a raging Fidele Rosier.
Their last exam, Care of Magical Creatures, took place on Friday afternoon. Students were required to correctly identify the Fire-breathing chicken hidden among a dozen bog-standard chickens (the trick was to offer them all raw beef in turn; Fire-breathing chickens only ate charred meat and would let out a fiery exhalation to cook their meal), then demonstrate the proper technique for approaching and handling a Hippogriff; feed and clean out a Mackled Malaclaw without sustaining any bites, and choose the appropriate diet for a sick Erumpent from a wide selection of food.
The fifth- and seventh-years emerged from their final exams like brothers and sisters in arms; some were triumphant with victory, while others were sunken-faced with defeat. Regardless of the results, they all shared a sense of relief—their battle was over.
Cassandra's, however, was about to begin.
"Ugly, ugly, ugly," said Tove, discarding yet another dress into a crumpled heap on the floor.
"I thought you'd already settled on a dress," said Fidele, swilling a cocktail. She was still in her slip, sitting cross-legged on the floor while one of Cassandra's house-elves styled her hair.
"That monstrosity? It looked completely different in the catalogue," said Tove. She slipped another piece on over her head, a soft and flowy yellow chartreuse silk and nude silk chiffon dress held up by two tiny straps that rested daintily on her shoulders.
"What do you think?" asked Tove, pirouetting gracefully.
Cassandra padded out of the bathroom, where she'd been doing her make-up. "That's gorgeous. Is it enchanted?"
A frown creased Tove's brow as she downed her—was it third?—drink of the afternoon. "No. Do you think I should cast a Heating Charm on it?"
"Unless you want to turn into an icicle, yes. And an Impervious Charm as well," said Fidele, holding up a hand mirror to her left, then her right, to get a better view of her finished hairdo. "For the blood."
Cassandra's gaze drifted down the sleek sequined black evening dress and cape on her bed. Was it practical to exact her revenge in a gown? Not quite. But she could duel in heels and a hot dress. She could probably do it better.
It took them another hour to get ready and twenty minutes more to take enough photographs to make the three of them happy. When full dark fell, they made their way to the greenhouse, where the seventh-year party was in full swing.
"We'll stay for 15, maybe 20 minutes. Just long enough to distribute the invitations," said Cassandra, floating a stack of scrolls into each of her friends' bags. "They're Portkeys. They were a bloody nightmare to make, considering I needed to stagger the arrivals, but I couldn't risk some nosy teacher intercepting anyone on the way to the cave."
The sound of clumsily-played drums and murmurs of conversation wafted towards them as they neared the greenhouse. Wizards and witches stumbled past in a blur of drunken, end-of-the-year euphoria.
"'Hey, Rosier!" Amara von Sturmberg called out with a laugh, playfully pulling Dominik Kovařík behind a hedge.
"Find me later, Toves," said Gus Grimm as he slipped past, wearing nothing but his trousers.
"I love your dresses," Liv Højbjerg, cheeks flushed, squealed at them.
"What's up, Lestrange," said Nikita Petrovna, cool in her leather jacket and jeans. She was one of the few half-bloods who spoke openly about their Muggle heritage. She'd warmed up to Cassandra recently, likely thanks to the Krum rumours.
They followed a group of girls down a narrow path and through the back door. Inside the greenhouse, the music thumped and wailed and the air was thick with the scent of exotic plants and cigarette smoke. The glass building was dimly lit, packed with people circling vats of punch.
"Not very impressive, is it?" Fidele quipped, a smirk playing on her lips. She held up her clutch. "I'm off to hand these out."
"I'll do the same," said Tove. Before leaving, she grabbed Cassandra by the shoulders, a smile lighting up her pale face. "I'm really glad we're in this together. It should always be this way. All for one, right? I only wish Gali could be here."
"Gal's already played her part. She sent me some of the essentials for tonight without me even asking," Cassandra said over the throbbing music. "She's with us, in her way."
Tove pursed her lips to keep them from trembling. Her icy-blue eyes seemed to be growing larger and larger, and her cheeks were turning splotchy. Before the tears started rolling, she crushed Cassandra into a hug. "I love you. Thank you for becoming one of us. Thank you for being my sister."
Moved by Tove's emotion, Cassandra returned the embrace. The two witches swayed in place for a few moments. "I love you too, Tovey. But you should lay off the booze for the rest of the night."
Tove took a deep breath and nodded. "You're right. I was only trying to cool my nerves. But we have a rat to catch," she whispered, resting her forehead against Cassandra's.
"We do."
Cassandra moved through the mass of sweaty bodies, distributing the invitations amidst the chaos of the party. She was vibrating with anticipation like a broom in flight, pulling upwards to the inevitable long plunge.
Suddenly, the throng of partygoers around her went quiet. She turned, finding herself face-to-face with Viktor.
He took her in slowly: the loose curls of her dark hair, cascading down to her hips; the daring cut of her cleavage; the large diamond pendant resting between her breasts like a glittering star. And then, Viktor Krum smiled. His face lit up, unexpectedly boyish and charming, yet still a little wicked.
Cassandra couldn't help but laugh, caught off-guard by such an uncharacteristic display from the brooding, artless wizard she knew Viktor to be. "Are you drunk?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, lifting his cup in a toast to himself. "I've earned it."
"I'll take your word for it. How did the G. treat you?"
"Better than expected. I'll get a few, at least."
"Good enough for an international Quidditch player."
He bobbed his head in agreement. Overcome by an irritating thought, Cassandra glanced around at the shameless staring faces that littered the room. Viktor was an international Quidditch player and, as Tove had pointed out, would likely become a star before the year was out. The amount of attention he received now was already annoying; it would be downright unbearable once he played in the World Cup. Turning back to him, she found his gaze still fixed on her, intense and unyielding. So many people around them were looking at Viktor, and he only had eyes for her. It was flattering, unsettlingly so.
"You look beautiful," he said.
"I usually do," replied Cassandra.
He sighed. "That's true. It used to make me furious."
"Back when you were being a judgmental prick about my life choices?"
"Exactly."
Only Circe knew why, but she appreciated his bluntness. "And how do my looks make you feel now?"
Vikor leaned in, his strong face a hair's breadth away from hers. "It wouldn't be polite for me to say it around all of these people," he said, his voice a low murmur. "But then again, my thoughts about you have never even skirted polite."
Cassandra's heart was racing. This was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Viktor had none of Cedric's gentle, patient sweetness. He was a thunderstorm of a wizard; intense, temperamental, and thrilling. She smiled, feeling worked up and reckless. "Good. I like it when you're rude."
For a moment, Cassandra was sure Viktor would kiss her. Instead, he blew out a harsh breath and put some space between the two of them. She didn't need to ask why—they had a captive audience at this point. "Will you come to my afterparty?"
He blinked, reorienting himself. "I—Does this mean you got everything you needed? Is it happening tonight?"
She nodded.
"Of course, I'll go. Have you reconsidered—"
"No. For the last time, Viktor, the best way you can help me is by giving me a solid alibi. To do that—"
"I need to stay behind. I remember," he said a little sourly. "When are we leaving?"
Cassandra removed her wand from the discreet inseam pocket in the lateral of her dress and cast a Tempus Charm. It was almost eleven. "How about now?"