Cassian was upside down on Bathsheda’s couch when she walked in. Feet draped over the back, book balanced against his chest. He didn’t move when the door clicked shut behind her.

“Did you know,” he said, “that Godric Gryffindor once lost a drinking contest to a ghost?”

Bathsheda dropped her satchel on the nearest chair and blinked. “That’s not a question I was expecting.”

Cassian wiggled the book in his hands.

“Appendix D, marginalia in A Charter of Arms and Illusions. Copied from a source so old the ink tried to eat itself. Author helpfully notes: ‘Gryffindor drank well but not wisely. Ghost couldn’t drink, thus no limit.'”

Bathsheda raised both eyebrows. “That is… almost impressive.”

Cassian sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. “He challenged a spectral baron to a mead duel.”

He tossed the book onto the low table, the page already marked. Cassian flicked his wand toward the centre of the room.

“Here. Lemme demonstrate.”

A shimmer broke the air. An illusion sparked into life, vivid and ridiculous. A crude tavern, wonky benches, flickering candles, a lopsided Gryffindor flag above the hearth. Cassian conjured two figures at a table. One, a wide-shouldered man with a mane of red-gold hair and a sword propped against his chair. The other, translucent, floating slightly, adorned in an ancient tunic and smugness.

Bathsheda folded onto the rug, laughing. “Is this historically accurate?”

Cassian gestured broadly. “Absolutely not. But deeply educational.”

The Gryffindor figure raised a mug the size of a cauldron. The ghost raised a spectral goblet, faintly glowing. They clinked, mugs passing through each other harmlessly. The first round went down in one gulp. Gryffindor slammed his empty mug down and roared. The ghost nodded politely.

Round six. Gryffindor swayed. The ghost hovered.

Round twelve. Gryffindor hiccuped. The ghost sipped.

By round twenty, the founder was flat on the floor, boots in the air, mumbling something about chivalry being overrated.

Bathsheda covered her mouth, trying not to laugh too loud. Cassian smiled wide, adjusted the ghost’s crown of wilted mistletoe.

“Oh, I’m not done,” he said. “Apparently, there were witnesses. Helga annotated the back of a bread recipe, ‘Note: Godric still claims he let the ghost win. Also, do not trust him to bake during hangovers. Burned the scones. Again.'”

Bathsheda cackled. “You made that up.”

Cassian held up another book. Founding Feasts and Magical Misfires. “Footnoted. Possibly embellished. Definitely hilarious.”

He flicked his wand again. The illusion shifted. Now Gryffindor was trying to fight a broom he thought was the ghost. The ghost just hovered nearby, deadpan.

Bathsheda wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Why don’t we teach this version of history?”

Cassian leaned back on his elbows. “Indeed. Why not?”

She hummed. “Might be a better recruitment strategy.”

Cassian nodded solemnly. “Come to Hogwarts. Lose to a ghost, catch fire, burn breakfast.”

They both fell into laughter again. The illusion faded as he let the magic go slack, but the grin stayed on his face.

“I’m putting it in the lecture,” he said.

Bathsheda smirked. “You’re gonna get into trouble.”

“Even better.”

She picked up the fallen book, flipping through the page he’d marked. Then another. Then another. Her smile turned sly.

“You know,” she said, tapping the margin, “if we ever host a staff party, we should re-enact this.”

Cassian’s eyes lit up. “You, me, Sprout judging from the corner, Snape pretending to be a wine critic…”

“And Flitwick wins the whole thing by quietly finishing a bottle under the table,” she finished.

Cassian leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his. “History should be proud of us.”

She looked sideways at him. “We’re going to rewrite it in sarcasm and bad illusions.”

Cassian chuckled. “Exactly as it was lived.”

But then Bathsheda sobered a little. “So he lost to a ghost that cannot drink. You know how that sounds, right?”

Cassian raised a brow. “Either Gryffindor was stupendously bad at pretending, or something else is off.”

Bathsheda sat back against the couch, arms folded. “Alright. Riddle time. Why does one compete with someone who can’t drink?”

Cassian grinned. “Finally, you say something romantic.”

She snorted. “Focus.”

He tapped his chin. “Option one: he faked it. Godric wanted an excuse to pass out and made a show of it. Unlikely. Too proud.”

“Option two,” she offered, “He drank himself under to hide something.”

“Shame? Guilt? A wager?”

“Grief,” she said quietly.

Cassian looked over at her. “You think he was grieving?”

Bathsheda reached for another book, flicked pages. Her voice was softer now. “There’s a half-verse in Ballads from the Wandering Years. Mentions Gryffindor raising his cup to ‘a flame long fled, and a hearth grown cold.’ Some think it was a lost daughter. The records are spotty.”

Cassian sat up. “Godric lost a child?”

“Maybe. If it’s true, it explains a lot. The ghost… that could have been a dare. A distraction.”

The next hour was quiet. Books shuffled across the rug. Old texts opened and closed. Cassian pulled three volumes that hadn’t been touched in years, ones with cracked bindings and unfamiliar fonts, all of them mentioned Founders. None by name, some just by epithet: the red knight, the fire-hearted, the man who vanished for winter.

Others were as cryptic, the mind with wings, she who built in spirals, the silence between spells. The hearthkeeper, friend to the soil and the stubborn, the hand that fed wolves. The oathmaker, he who spoke beneath, the man who taught shadows to bow.

None of it was definitive. All of it was true.

Bathsheda read aloud a note scribbled in the margin of Wandfolk Lore:

“He vanished to cry and returned with a sword. The girl had gone. The man was angry.”

Cassian closed his eyes. “That fits.”

They found one more thing.

A faded letter, pressed between two pages in First Castings and the Founding Bonds, unsigned. The script elegant, sharp.

“Brother, he won’t say her name. Let him bleed it out another way. I’ll make it loud. I’ll make it stupid. But it will be enough. He needn’t break in front of the others.”

Cassian traced the edge of the parchment.

“Salazar wrote that.”

Bathsheda nodded. “Salazar noticed Godric’s grief, but knew he wouldn’t show it openly. So he dared Godric to outdrink a ghost. And Godric accepted. Played the fool. Got drunk. Passed out. Everyone laughed. And no one noticed he was crying until he slept.”

Cassian exhaled. “Salazar carried him to bed. Let the story spread that he’d lost to a ghost.”

“Because grief needs time. And pride needs cover.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand.

Cassian flicked his wand once more. The illusion returned, but quieter now. The tavern dim. The ghost seated, watching. Gryffindor raising his mug to the ceiling.

“To the fallen,” Cassian whispered.

And let the mug vanish into smoke.

Spoiler

[collapse]

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep