Miranda closed the book with a soft thud. “The charm’s wrong, then?”

Cassian turned slightly, eyeing the diagram again. “The anchor’s off-centre. As the book says, some of the old scholars used mirrored or twice mirrored writing. Mirrored is often upside down. Rarely right to left. Twice mirrored is upside down and right to left.”

He tapped the parchment with one finger, right over the fifth line. “They botched it here. This one’s meant to reflect the directionality of the second array, but it’s flipped twice. Verb chain falls apart before it loops.”

Miranda didn’t blink. Her eyes traced the line again, slower this time.

Cassian kept going, “If you run it as-is, you get a stutter. Charm fires, then collapses in on itself. No outward force. Just fizzles and eats whatever you anchored it to. If it’s someone’s ribcage, unfortunate.”

“You’ve tested this?” she asked, not quite sceptical. Not quite impressed, either.

Cassian tilted his head. “On a very unlucky chair leg.”

Bathsheda coughed lightly behind her glass.

Miranda’s mouth quirked but she didn’t look away from the parchment. “Who told you it was mirrored?”

Cassian pressed his lips together. He couldn’t very well say he’d been bored stiff at an ancient Greek temple, could he? That he’d sat there while Bathsheda and old masters scratched runes into stone for six hours straight, and in a moment of profound academic laziness, he’d picked up one of Nicolas Flamel’s books left lying around and started mirror-sketching the symbols. He knew at least five cultures that used mirrored writing systems, Da Vinci being the most famous one, but it wasn’t something people casually thought about.

Didn’t even know what they meant at first, just thought they looked clever.

And then they worked. Well, most of them. Enough to get the old masters crowding over his shoulder like he’d just redrawn the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with a crayon.

He’d written the theory up. Small book. Quiet release. Meant it for rune researchers and insomniacs. He hadn’t expected Miranda bloody Goshawk to own a copy, let alone confuse it with his great-great-great uncle. (Ch96)

Couldn’t say any of that, of course.

“I saw it at a glance,” he said, deadpan.

Miranda stared at him, then tilted her head. “That is ingenious.”

Cassian puffed up his chest like he’d just been knighted, tossing Bathsheda a glance that screamed, “See? Your lover’s a genius.”

She rolled her eyes and sipped her drink, ignoring him with the seasoned grace of someone who’d sat through three hours of him ranting about the same damned trick.

Before he could make another show of himself, more people arrived. The Greengrass family, three generations of frost and pride wrapped in tailored robes, made their entrance. Grandpa Greengrass led them with his cane tapping.

Two blondes peeled away before the rest reached the Minister.

“Professor Rosier,” Daphne said, walking up with a wide smile. “This is my sister, Astoria. She’ll be starting Hogwarts next year.”

Cassian crouched slightly. “Hello, Miss Greengrass. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Astoria gave a shy smile, shoulders relaxing, “Pleasure is mine. Daphne can’t stop speaking about you.”

“I am not,” Daphne said quickly, a flush creeping over her cheeks.

Astoria giggled.

“You’ll be joining us next year, then?”

Astoria nodded, eyes wide. “I’ve already memorised half the first year books. Daphne lent me her term books. Some of them are a bit singed.”

“That tracks.” He flicked a look at Daphne, who raised her chin proudly.

Cassian was about to ask Astoria which book she’d singed when a voice barged in behind his shoulder, sour as vinegar, “Didn’t expect to see you out of the castle without a smoke cloud and ten screaming students.”

Cassian turned. “Damien. You look dreadful.”

Damien’s smirk widened, the kind that fed on family gatherings like a leech. He opened his mouth… too slow. Before he could get another word out, Madam Goshawk cleared her throat.

Damien stiffened. “Sorry, didn’t see you, Madam Goshawk. Please ignore my cousin. He must have been a bother.”

She didn’t even look up. “Your cousin and I were having a chat. You can join the rest of your family.”

Damien’s mouth hung open a second too long before he forced a smile. “As you say, Madam Goshawk.” He gave Cassian a look that aimed for insult and missed by half a mile, then turned and walked off without another word.

Cassian sipped from a flute he didn’t remember picking up. Fine. If the room wanted to be petty, he could be effervescent. “You’d think after three years in diplomatic service, he’d learn not to insult people with better memory than him.”

As the gathering thickened, the room started breaking into little clusters, old Ministry hands hovering near the music, foreign delegates marking out their corners.

Madam Goshawk wandered off after telling Cassian that Bathilda Bagshot wanted to meet him. Cassian let out a very undignified squeak of excitement before remembering he’d been calling the author of Hogwarts: A History a liar for years, and gulped hard. With Goshawk offering no further explanation, he stood frozen on the spot until Bathsheda finally dragged him along.

A wizard in silver-trimmed navy greeted them before they could get far, another in green and black after that. Both foreign. Both polite. Neither introduced themselves beyond stiff nods. They asked about the weather in Scotland. One of them gave them a strange little bow before leaving.

Cassian frowned. “Did something happen?” he asked no one in particular.

“Not yet,” said a voice behind him.

He turned as a woman stepped neatly into the space beside him, every movement graceful. She held out a gloved hand, her skin pale against the dark silk, her posture too polished to be anything but practiced. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant knot, sharp cheekbones catching the light as she offered the faintest of smiles. “Elisabetta Zabini.”

He took her hand, brushing a polite kiss over the knuckles. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Zabini.”

“Elisabetta,” she corrected, smile like cut glass. “The pleasure is mine.”

Bathsheda shifted half a step closer to him without a word.

Elisabetta’s smile widened. “Your name’s been travelling, Professor Rosier. When Blaise spoke about you last summer, I thought he was exaggerating. Teenagers do that. But then the summer ended, and I started hearing it elsewhere. A curious pattern, actually.”

Cassian kept his expression pleasant. “Is that so?”

“In the Mediterranean circle especially,” she said, lifting a glass from a passing tray without glancing. “Your name came up at the Athens symposium. Twice. Then again in Istanbul. Ministers from both countries mentioned you, by name.”

He tilted his head. “Must be all the charm.”

“That’s the odd part. They didn’t say why. Just… not to cross you.” She sipped. “As if something happened, but no one dares name it.”

Cassian scratched the side of his jaw. “Sounds like my kind of reputation. Vague and mildly threatening.”

Elisabetta chuckled. “I thought it was an error. Maybe they meant your brother.”

“That’s probably more likely,” he said with a laugh.

The woman just smiled. There was faint interest in it.

Cassian glanced away. Nicolas had said those people left reminders to themselves before the memory charms hit. Smart trick, really. You wouldn’t remember what happened, just that something had. Names like his. Probably keyed in with a neat little tag, “Do not cross.”

Cassian had a hunch his name had made a few of those lists.

When their polite fencing match wound down, Bathsheda hooked his arm and dragged him clear before the smile on his face slipped.

The main hall was filling. House colours, diplomatic ribbons, foreign accents cutting through the air like perfume. The band struck a polite, unbothered sort of chord.

He and Bathsheda exchanged a look.

It was time.

They left their corner and drifted toward the clusters. They hadn’t dressed up for mince pies and carols. They came here for one reason, same reason they’d gritted through the introductions so far.

To learn something. Anything.

About the diary.

They’d started to visit tables.

He let Bathsheda steer the conversation.

“How was Christmas in Belgium?” She asked a silver-haired couple in lilac robes, one of whom was apparently something Minister-adjacent.

“Snowed out,” the woman replied. “Wards froze.”

“Shame,” Cassian said, nodding. “We were just discussing that in class, actually, climate-warped warding. Never pretty.”

“Should teach the little ones to layer warmth anchors,” the man said. “We had to reset the protections three times. Still not sure which one of the grandkids left the front door open.”

Bathsheda nodded along, Cassian let the topic drift toward personal items.

He smiled politely. “You’d be surprised how often students lose things over break. Journals, quills… occasionally a cursed artefact.”

Neither of them blinked.

Wrong bait. Bathsheda’s heel tapped his shoe, next table. He sipped, moved on.

They stopped again near the Notts.

The Aunt was in her usual shade of pearl grey, eyes like polished stone.

“Professor Rosier,” she greeted. “Bathsheda. Lovely to see you.”

“And you,” Bathsheda said smoothly.

Cassian kept his tone lighter. “Was hoping to ask after your nephew, actually. Theo’s been quieter this term.”

“He’s always been a quiet boy,” she said, lips barely moving.

After a few more questions, Cassian didn’t bother pretending they’d get more. Bathsheda shifted the topic, asked about her sister’s wedding in Vienna. Learning nothing useful.

Mrs Parkinson smiled like she was running for something.

“Professor Rosier,” she said. “We were so pleased to hear about your award in Beijing.”

“Wasn’t an award.”

“Oh? Then what do you call a public commendation from Ji Wenqiang?”

“Awkward.”

Bathsheda pinched his arm.

He added, “Is Miss Parkinson enjoying her classes?”

Mrs Parkinson’s smile stiffened. “She says you’re very… progressive.”

Cassian snorted.

The woman gave a tight smile and excused herself.

Cassian sighed through his nose. Another dead end. The night was starting to feel like a string of locked doors.

Before they could continue, Cassian was stopped by someone squat and damp-looking, like a boiled turnip in plum robes. He was about to brush past, already regretting how many pure-blood hands he’d shaken tonight, when the woman stepped in front of him again.

“Hem hem.”

Cassian looked down at the toad-faced obstacle. “Are you lost or something?”

Not a Spoiler, Just an image! ↓

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

I tell myself this is patience. It’s probably denial.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep