The sting of split knuckles burns like fire in the cold November air, but Cassius doesn’t mind. He’s still riding the high, the drumbeat of adrenaline pounding in his ears louder than the chatter of students spilling out from the courtyard. His lip is cut, his nose trickles crimson down into the groove of his mouth, and there’s a dark bloom of bruising already swelling beneath his cheekbone.

Worth it.

He doesn’t even remember the first insult that set him off—something about Slytherin, as usual. Something about where he was when the Dark Lord fell, who his family swore allegiance to. Old poison, spit like it was gospel truth. But what he does remember is the look on the Ravenclaw’s face when Cassius’ fist connected with it.

There’s satisfaction in that. A pure-blood boy like him, taught since childhood that fists are crude, beneath him—lower even than mudblood filth. But right now, standing there with blood on his face and fire in his lungs, it feels cleaner than any hex. No wand flick, no whispered curse, no subtle family politics. Just bone meeting bone. Honest. Brutal.

The crowd had pulled them apart before it went too far. Professors hadn’t seen—yet. But the whispers follow him as he shoulders his way past the gawking onlookers, muttering about how Vale’s lost it or how Slytherins never learn. He ignores them, jaw tight, but their words stick like thorns beneath his skin.

Because the truth is, they’re not wrong.

Slytherin House wears its shame like a second skin this year. The war may be over, but suspicion hasn’t died—it’s only sharpened. Cassius can feel eyes on him everywhere: at breakfast, in the library, walking down the corridor. Every time he opens his mouth, he knows people are wondering what side he would’ve taken if he’d been of age last year.

And the worst part? He’s not even sure of the answer himself.

His stomach twists, but he shoves the thought down where it belongs—deep, where it can rot in peace. Better to focus on the ache in his hand, the steady drip of blood from his nose. He could fix it in a heartbeat, of course. One murmured charm, and the skin would knit together, the swelling vanish. That would be the smart thing. The Slytherin thing. Hide the evidence. Keep control.

But instead, he wipes at the blood with the back of his sleeve and smears it worse, leaving a rust-colored streak down his jaw. Some part of him likes it—the reminder that he fought, that he didn’t just swallow the insult like they expect him to. Another part of him... maybe wants someone to notice.

Someone specific.

His pace slows as he rounds the corner, boots scuffing the flagstones. He knows where she’ll be about now, same as every afternoon—taking the long way from class, probably with her nose buried in a book, trying to pretend the castle isn’t still thick with old scars.

Cassius runs his tongue over his split lip, winces at the sting, and lets out a low laugh. Bloody stupid, picking a fight like that. Bloody stupider still, hoping she’ll see him this way—raw, reckless, bleeding, like proof he’s not the perfect heir his family parades him as.

He doesn’t slow down. If she sees him, she sees him. And if she scolds him, maybe he deserves it.

Merlin knows he’d rather face her sharp tongue than the silence that always waits when he’s alone.

The corridor narrows, the din of the courtyard fading behind him until there’s only the steady click of his boots and the faint hum of magic that always lingers in the stones of the castle. His knuckles throb with each heartbeat, a pulse that keeps him tethered to the fight, to the anger still simmering low in his chest.

And then he spots her.

For a breath, Cassius forgets the ache in his hand, the sting in his face, even the weight of every glare and whisper carved into his back. The world narrows to that single figure in the corridor.

His steps slow instinctively. He doesn’t want to—he hates that he does—but something in him always pulls, sharp as a hook. The adrenaline in his veins tangles with something softer, almost unsteady, and he wipes at his lip again, smearing the blood more than cleaning it. His mouth twists into a crooked smile, though it’s more defense than expression.

By the time she looks up, he’s already watching. There’s no hiding the evidence of the fight: the split lip, the raw knuckles, the streak of crimson drying against his cheek. He knows what he must look like—a Slytherin brute, bruised and grinning at his own recklessness like some Gryffindor.

But he doesn’t look away. He tilts his head, tongue catching on the cut in his lip, and lets the smallest huff of laughter slip past.

"Don’t look at me like that," he mutters, voice low and edged with amusement. "You should see the other guy."

The words hang there, heavy with bravado, but his eyes—dark, sharp, and far too intent on her—say something else entirely.