Three weeks into the new term, Bathsheda ambushed him with what might’ve been her most dangerous idea yet.

“Absolutely not.” Cassian’s head whipped side to side so fast it stirred the papers on his desk. “You are out of your bloody mind.”

She leaned back in her chair, looking infuriatingly calm as she twirled her quill. “You haven’t even heard the full plan.”

“I don’t need the full plan.” He jabbed a finger at her. “The first ten seconds were enough to tell me you’ve lost the plot.”

“Cass—”

“Bath.” He dropped into the chair opposite her, fingers pressing hard against the bridge of his nose. “You are suggesting we wipe our own memories, then poke at a cursed diary like a pair of idiots on holiday? Do you hear yourself?”

Bathsheda didn’t flinch. She sat cross-legged on the armchair, quill tapping a slow beat against her knee. “It is safer. If something goes wrong, the memories are sealed and we don’t drag any fallout with us. We can still break the seal later if we need to.”

Cassian leaned back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him a better option. “Safer? That is your pitch? Sounds more like the opening line in every terrible cautionary tale ever told.” He dropped his hand. “Two Hogwarts professors willingly lobotomising themselves so they can play with a dark artefact. That’s going to read well on the front page of the Prophet.”

Her lips twitched faintly. “It is hardly a lobotomising. Just a precaution. You said it yourself… you are curious what happens when someone writes in it, but we are not stupid enough to test it raw. This way we control the damage.”

He barked a short laugh and pushed himself upright. “Control? That is rich. You don’t control cursed objects, love. At best you get a quiet standoff. At worst, you end up bleeding from your ears wondering what year it is.”

“You’ve got a better idea then?” she asked, arching a brow.

Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, pacing to the window and back again. “No. That is what is pissing me off.” He shot her a sharp look. “Every option feels like it ends with one of us sprouting extra limbs or screaming in a padded room. And here you are, suggesting we cut out a chunk of our memories and hope that diary doesn’t crawl into the gap like a cockroach.”

“It won’t,” she said simply.

“You don’t know that.” He growled. He braced his hands on the table and leaned in. “That book isn’t some run-of-the-mill jinxed kettle. It tugged at you and woke the bloody dragon. You really think a memory lock is going to hold if it decides to get clever?”

Bathsheda met his gaze without flinching. “We build redundancies. I’ve already started sketching them.” She held up a scrap of parchment covered in neat glyphs. “Even if the diary pushes, the seals collapse in on themselves and destroy the affected memories. Clean break.”

Cassian stared at the parchment, then shook his head slowly. “Right. So best case, we wake up confused and cranky because we can’t remember what happened. Worst case, I get to watch you turn into a grinning shell while I try to figure out how many brain cells I’ve lost. Bloody brilliant.”

“Better than handing it to Dumbledore,” she said.

He snorted and flopped back into the chair. “Don’t get me started on him. If we toss this in his lap, he will vanish it into some locked drawer and give us a sermon about trust and greater goods. Meanwhile, Lucius skips off into the sunset.”

Bathsheda set the quill down and rested her chin on her hand. “Then we agree on that much.”

Cassian rubbed at his jaw, eyes narrowing on the black diary lying silent in its warded circle. “Fine. Let’s say we try it your way. Who’s handling the pen?”

She hesitated.

“Oh no. Don’t you dare.” He jabbed a finger at her. “If anyone is getting their brain scrambled, it is me. You are not playing lab rat.”

“I am better at Occlumency,” she said mildly.

Cassian dragged his gaze from the ceiling. “Actually, I might be better.”

Bathsheda smiled at him, that slow, condescending sort of smile that made him want to hex the furniture just to ruin the mood. “Cass, I love you, but you are not a genius. You only started to practice Occlumency two summers ago.”

He let out a sharp huff. “Yeah, about that. I think I’ve got some sort of innate protection against mind tricks.”

Her brows drew together. “Innate Occlumen?”

Cassian shrugged. “Not sure.”

Her frown deepened, lips pressing thin. “How certain are you?”

He wanted to say bloody certain, especially since even Nicolas Flamel hadn’t been able to dig around in his head. But he held his tongue. “As certain as I can be without proving it the hard way.”

Bathsheda didn’t say anything for a long beat, her fingers tapping against the armrest. Cassian could almost hear her mind turning it over, dissecting it like one of her cursed rune circles.

Finally, she leaned back and folded her arms. “If you are wrong, it is going to end badly.”

“Good news is, I am not wrong.” He met her eyes, tone light, but his eyes were not. “And if I am, you will have the joy of saying, ‘I told you so,’ while my brain dribbles out my ears.”

She didn’t flinch at the image. Instead, her head tipped slightly to the side. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

Cassian gave a nod and closed his eyes, running through the small bundle of memories he decided to shield, not strictly necessary, but there was no harm in adding a little padding. When he was satisfied, an hour later, he opened them again and sighed through his nose.

“Let’s take it to my room,” he said. “We don’t know if this thing can see its surroundings.”

Bathsheda nodded, following.

In his room, they stripped away the runes and wards encasing the diary one by one. The circle of glyphs hissed and cracked as the protective magic broke apart, leaving the small black notebook sitting there, inert and unassuming. Cassian rubbed at his jaw and crouched to eye it half expecting it to bite.

“Right,” he muttered, fingers brushing over the cover. It felt cool, almost slick. “Here goes.”

He flipped it open, the spine creaking softly. Blank pages stared up at him, off-white and faintly yellowed at the edges. He leafed through the pages, finding nothing.

He took a deep breath and scrawled two words on the first page.

‘Hello, world.’

They waited.

The ink bled into the parchment for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, new words began to curl across the page in neat, curling script.

‘Hello.’

Cassian’s brow furrowed. “All right, that’s… not ominous at all.” He shot Bathsheda a look. “That was fast.”

“Too fast,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the page. Her hand hovered near her wand.

He tapped the pen against the edge of the desk, considering. “Well, whatever it is, it’s got enough spark left in it to talk. That’s more than half the relics in Rosier Vault.”

Bathsheda’s gaze didn’t leave the writing. “Ask it a question. Something harmless.”

Cassian snorted faintly. “Define harmless.” Still, he pressed the nib to the page.

‘Who are you?’

This time, the response took longer. Letters spread slowly, like someone was thinking carefully before answering.

‘I am a memory. A friend. Someone who can help you if you let me.’

Cassian’s lips twisted as he stared down at the curling letters on the page. “Oh my God. It’s an AI.”

Bathsheda tilted her head. “What is an AI?”

He waved a hand, dismissive. “Never mind. Muggle nonsense. Forget I said anything.”

He scrawled across the paper, ‘That is awesome. Can you do my chores?’

The ink shimmered for a moment before neat, looping script spread across the page…

‘I am afraid I cannot perform physical tasks, but I can offer advice, information, or conversation.’

Cassian gave a small nod. “Definitely AI.”

Bathsheda crouched down beside him, her eyes scanning the words. “It is… chatty.”

He raised a brow. “Understatement of the year.” Resting his chin on his palm, he tapped the page. “All right, let’s see how clever you really are.”

He wrote, ‘What sort of help can you offer?’

‘I can be a guide, a friend, and a keeper of secrets. If you are willing to trust me, I can show you things no one else will.’

Cassian snorted. “Right. Because a sentient notebook with terrible boundaries is exactly what my life needed.”

Bathsheda frowned slightly. “It is trying to sound… reassuring.”

“Mm. Or manipulative.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “If this thing offers me a personalised horoscope next, I am setting it on fire.”

Bathsheda’s gaze lingered on the curling letters. “Ask it something it shouldn’t know.”

He thought for a moment, then jotted, ‘What is the capital of Mongolia?’

The diary paused, as though considering, then wrote, ‘Ulaanbaatar.’

Cassian blinked. “Well… that is bloody accurate.”

Bathsheda gave him a flat look. “That wasn’t the test I had in mind.”

“Worked for me.” He grinned faintly.

‘You are very well-travelled for a book.’

The words bloomed across the page, ‘Books contain entire worlds, don’t they?’

Cassian let out a quiet whistle. “Oh, that is cute. It thinks it is poetic.”

Bathsheda’s brows pinched slightly. “Cass… do you think someone is watching through it?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He leaned forward again, his expression sharpening as he scrawled, ‘Are you connected to anyone else? Or are we just talking to you?’

The pause was longer this time. Then, ‘It is just us here. No one else can hear. No one else can interfere.’

Cassian tilted his head. “Well, that is suspicious as hell.”

Bathsheda folded her arms. “Or honest.”

He shot her a look. “No such thing as honest cursed objects, love. First rule of surviving long enough to retire with all your limbs intact.”

Bathsheda’s lips twitched. “Second rule?”

“Don’t retire.”

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You bring such peace to the room. The unsettling kind.

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