The third task
Cassius reaches for the golden cup.
In the smooth surface of the trophy he can see Potter laying on the ground, leg clearly broken from the fall with the acromantula.
His hand stops inches from the handle.
Frustrated, he sighs, dropping it to his side and turning towards Potter.
“Come on” he huffs, draping his arm under the younger’s armpits (And he’s sure a fourteen years old should be heavier, why the hell is this kid so light? Of course he’s a good seeker, he weighs next to nothing.)
“Wha-” starts Potter, but Cassius cuts him off.
“Hogwarts wins whatever we do, might as well go along with the whole ‘inter Houses unity’ thing” he says “Not that any of you trusts us Slytherins enough to give it a shot” he adds under his breath.
Potter looks at him with his green, green eyes, that seem to read Cassius for any ulterior motive.
Cassius blinks back, onyx eyes meeting the unsettlingly green ones, raising his occlumency shields.
You are never too safe.
(‘Constant vigilance!’ sounds a voice inside his head, and Cassius has to hold back a snort at the fact that he, the son of a Death Eater (and here he has to fight a grimace, because really, stereotypes aren’t entirely unfounded, are they?) is now listening to the teachings of Alastor Moody of all the people)
Slowly, Potter limping but refusing to be carried, they reach the cup once again, red and green clad arms reaching for the handles.
Cassius feels it before he sees it, the familiar tug of a portkey, and then they land in the darkness, seemingly in the middle of nowhere.
The last thing he sees, aside from lots of tombstones, is too young green eyes widening in horror as an equally green light hits him in the chest.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind, his Slytherin brain can’t help but hiss a soft fitting, as his body crashes dead on the ground of a cemetery.
And then Cassius Warrington is no more.