Cassian and Bathsheda made it something of a sport to bully the diary whenever the chance arose. “Daisy” managed to coax the name of its creator out of it, some chap calling himself Tom Marvolo Riddle. Cassian checked the archives for anything remotely close. Nothing. He considered asking Binns, but the ghost was still sulking about Cassian swiping his History post and refused to answer more than a single-word grunt if cornered.

They also realized how the Diary recognized who was writing, by brushing against the surface of the writer’s mind, a passive, near-invisible nudge that skimmed emotional tone, magical intent, and the “feel” of thought without breaching memories. It was clever, like a snake tasting the air, subtle enough to go unnoticed, but enough to distinguish one mind from another. That was how it knew when Cassian wrote, and why it reset when Bathsheda took the quill. It wasn’t reading thoughts, it was reading presence.

So, when Daisy finally got what she wanted, she announced with sugary cheer that the diary “smelled like a bog” and “tossed it into the bin.” Two days later, “Greg” picked it up. The diary got another round of abuse in a completely different tone… Greg favoured blunt questions and threats, treating it like a nosy neighbour caught peering through the curtains.

After Greg had had his fill, Elanor came next. She made a game of stringing the thing along, asking leading questions in her neat scrawl until it nearly tripped over its own answers.

All in all, it was far more entertaining than it had any right to be.

One evening, Cassian sat cross-legged on the floor. “Do you reckon it knows we’re passing it around like a pub quiz sheet?”

Bathsheda smirked faintly from where she was sprawled on the sofa, book in hand. “Oh, it guesses. You can see it getting snippier every time we change names. Poor thing hasn’t caught a single break.”

“Serves it right.” Cassian leaned forward, flicking the page. “Let’s see how it copes with Nero’s handwriting. It looks like he’s trying to strangle the quill.”

“You are one to talk.” Bathsheda’s eyes didn’t lift from her book. “Your S’s curl like they’ve been hexed.”

Cassian grinned. “My penmanship is perfect. This is artistic flair.”

The diary shuddered faintly under his fingers, ‘Do you dream?’

Bathsheda lowered her book and arched a brow. “That is unsettling.”

Cassian hummed, tapping the diary cover with two fingers. “Bit desperate too. Poor thing is trying to sound profound.”

“Or lonely.”

“Parasites don’t get lonely,” Cassian muttered, straightening. “They get hungry.”

They left it at that, throwing the diary at some corner, letting the diary’s words hang there for the night.

Their nerves about the diary eased, turning into a running tally, who could needle it worst. Testing its patience, seeing how often it’d bite. One week, they even forgot it entirely, leaving the thing perched in Cassian’s loo while they were buried in lesson plans and staff meetings. Cassian had nearly laughed himself sick imagining it sitting there, quietly seething, or maybe not. Could it even sense its surroundings? He didn’t know, and that made it funnier.

In the third weekend since Neville got his new wand, and, miraculously, could now manage most first-year spells without setting himself on fire, Cassian was lounging at the Gryffindor table. George Weasley was sprawled on his right, elbows planted on the table in blatant defiance of every bit of etiquette his mother had probably drilled into him. Across the bench, Bathsheda was picking at her toast with the air of someone actively ignoring the chaos around her.

For reasons known only to her, Luna Lovegood had plopped herself down next to him, humming softly. Hermione, seated a little further down, kept glancing between them, her lips pressed thin. She clearly wasn’t thrilled about sharing her professor’s attention with someone who believed in Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and was not a Gryffindor.

Percy Weasley hovered behind Fred, his lips pursed. “Professor Babbling, a moment, if I may? I’ve got a few questions about…”

“Not now, Perce,” Fred cut in, shooting him a sharp look. “We are in the middle of something very important with Professor R.”

Percy sniffed, clearly unimpressed. “You were asking his favourite biscuit five minutes ago.”

George didn’t even flinch. “Exactly. Crucial research.”

Cassian took a lazy sip of his tea. “I said shortbread. You asked, I answered. Not sure why you’re dragging me into this battle of the biscuits.”

“Because you’re the tiebreaker,” Fred said solemnly. “If we don’t get this right, Hogwarts may never recover.”

Percy made a noise that suggested he was either choking on his pride or resisting the urge to hex his brothers. “Professor Rosier, I really must insist…”

“Sit down, Mr Weasley,” Cassian said mildly, not looking up from the Prophet. “You’re casting a shadow over my marmalade.”

Luna, staring at the candles, said, “Do you suppose the flames are sentient? They might know things.”

Hermione let out a quiet huff, tugging her book closer like it might shield her from the nonsense.

“I highly doubt that,” she muttered.

Cassian chuckled. “Actually, there are fire spirits in some myths that talk about flame having a memory. Old Norse stories claimed you could ask a hearth fire questions, and if it liked you enough, it’d answer. Of course, if it didn’t, you would end up with your beard singed off.” He took another bite of toast, ignoring the fact that he just dropped an odd little nugget into the conversation.

Luna’s eyes widened slightly. “That makes sense. They’ve got personalities, I can tell.”

Hermione stared in disbelief, clearly deciding not to argue. Cassian glanced at her over the rim of his tea, smirking faintly. “Don’t look so scandalised, Granger. People have believed stranger things. At least fire gives you warmth. Half the stuff people worshipped back in the day would’ve happily eaten them.”

Fred leaned forward. “Like what, Professor?”

“Plenty,” Cassian said lightly. “Try binding a bog spirit and see how quickly it eats your toes. Or better yet, don’t. Makes for a messy afternoon.”

George propped his chin on his hand, eyes bright. “You are making that up.”

“Am I?” Cassian raised a brow. “Go on then, ask a hearth fire if it remembers anything. If it starts screaming at you, don’t come crying to me.”

Luna’s humming grew louder. “I think our fire would sing,” she murmured.

Percy had clearly had enough. He snorted, spun on his heel and stalked off, muttering something about “serious academic standards.”

Cassian watched him go with a faint grin. “Good lad, Percy. Very diligent. He’ll make a fine Ministry clerk someday, provided no one asks him to smile.”

Bathsheda hid a faint laugh behind her hand.

Cassian turned to Harry, leaning lazily with his teacup in hand. “How is your Defence Against the Dark Arts going, then? Since no one is floating around clutching ‘Magical Me’ with a lovesick look, I would say Lockhart’s little glamour is wearing off.”

Harry blinked at him, startled. “Er… it is… fine, I suppose?”

Cassian raised a brow. “Fine? That is not the glowing endorsement I was expecting. What’s wrong? Did he stop signing his own photos in class?”

Hermione gave a soft huff, biting into her bread. “It is all very… theatrical. He spent the last lesson telling us how he caught a Banshee in her lair with only a hairbrush and a copy of Witch Weekly.”

“Hairbrush and a magazine?” Cassian repeated, lips twitching. “Sounds less like a duel and more like foreplay gone wrong.”

Ron snorted into his pumpkin juice, earning a sharp elbow from Hermione.

“Don’t laugh,” she hissed. “None of us learned anything about counter-curses in a month.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Well, that tracks. Lockhart wouldn’t recognise a counter-curse if it danced naked in front of him waving a placard.”

“Sir?” Neville spoke up timidly from the other side of the bench. “Have there ever been real cases where… y’know… Banshees were defeated like that?”

Cassian arched a brow at him. “Oh, definitely. Right after the time Merlin defeated a dragon by waving a tea towel and whistling ‘God Save the Queen.'”

Fred snickered. George nearly choked on his toast.

“Sorry, Longbottom,” Cassian added smoothly. “If you want real Banshee lore, you need to go back a few centuries. Old Irish tales said a Banshee didn’t attack at all. She was more of a warning… crying on the eve of someone’s death. The smart ones lit candles, said their prayers, and hoped it wasn’t for them. The daft ones tried to chase her off and usually tripped over a stone wall in the dark.”

Luna, still humming faintly, piped up. “They say Banshees remember every soul they’ve ever mourned. Maybe that is why their wails are so sad.”

Cassian tapped the table with one finger. “Now there is a theory I can get behind. Makes more sense than Lockhart’s hairbrush heroics.”

Harry gave a weak smile. “So… we should just ignore him, then?”

Cassian leaned forward slightly, smirking. “Ignore? No, no. Watch him closely. One day he is going to try actually fighting something dangerous, and when it goes wrong, you will want front-row seats. Just keep a sword handy… just in case.”

Hermione almost rolled her eyes, then remembered table manners. “He isn’t even covering the basics properly. If we get tested on actual duelling techniques, half the class will fail.”

“True,” Cassian said lightly. “But at least you will all have beautifully autographed textbooks to cry into.”

Ron chuckled low under his breath. “I reckon Mum still got his full set at home. She would cry if she knew what he’s like in person.”

“Clever marketing, that is what it is,” Cassian said, sipping his tea. “Man got the Ministry eating out of his hand and a queue of witches lining up to hear him waffle on about ghouls.”

“Do you know any of those counter-curses, sir?” Harry asked.

Cassian shot him a sidelong look. “Do I know them? Potter, I taught half of them to Flitwick back when he still had hair.”

The knife in Hermione’s hand stilled. “Wait… really?”

He smirked. “No. But you believed it for a second, didn’t you?”

The twins cackled.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t joke about that.”

“Why not? Joking keeps me from flipping a table every time Lockhart opens his mouth.” Cassian stretched his legs under the table. “All right, I will tell you what, next time he tries teaching you to fend off a werewolf with a bottle of hair gel, tell him Professor Rosier knows a werewolf that can demonstrate the battle. Watch him make poor excuses.”

Fred grinned wide. “You actually know a werewolf, sir?”

–Chapter 88’s “But when you find out I alphabetise my tea and leave diary in the bath, don’t say I didn’t warn you” was a reference to this chapter. I know it caused some misunderstanding because I didn’t use “the,” but using the felt too on-the-nose, and “a” didn’t feel right either. Anyway, that’s the reasoning.

Not a Spoiler, Just an image! ↓

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

You’re not absent. You’re conceptually minimalist.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep