Bathsheda caught his sleeve. “Cassian,” she said quietly, “this is Minister Cornelius Fudge.”

The woman puffed herself up, clearly pleased with the introduction but when Bathsheda didn’t continue, she cleared her throat again, louder.

“Hem hem.”

Bathsheda turned to her with a polite blink. “Sorry. I don’t know you.”

The woman’s face flushed the exact colour of her cardigan, before Fudge laughed awkwardly. “This is my Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Umbridge. Professors Rosier and Babbling. What a pleasure.”

Cassian stopped before he could say something that would cost him a job offer. He forced a smile toward Fudge. “It’s our honour, Minister.”

“Ah, Cassian, don’t be a stranger. Your grandfather is a great friend of mine, yes, yes, you’re Professors as well,” Fudge said, rocking slightly in place. “Always a treat to meet Hogwarts faculty. You’re both very talked about, these days.”

Bathsheda smiled. “You’re too kind, Minister.”

Fudge puffed up like a pigeon that’d spotted breadcrumbs. “Not at all, not at all. I’ve heard your name at least twice at every table. Your fame precedes you. Even the foreign delegates are speaking of you.”

He turned slightly, placing a damp hand on Cassian’s arm, steering him a half-step away from the crowd like they were about to trade Ministry secrets over fizzy drinks.

“Say,” Fudge murmured, “I heard something happened in the Temple. Athens, wasn’t it? But everyone’s terribly tight-lipped.”

Bathsheda blinked. “The earthquake buried the site, Minister. Can’t say a lot happened.”

She wasn’t lying. Even she didn’t know why diplomats kept nodding at them like they’d survived an assassination attempt since Nicolas Flamel had oblivated everyone.

She continued, spotting the shift in Fudge’s face. “Cassian did manage to read some of the warning before we left. We’re not sure if the earthquake was tied to the Temple or not.”

Fudge’s smile froze for a second, then thawed back into something vaguely friendly. “Is that so?”

“Mostly a misreading of fault lines,” Cassian added, tilting his head slightly. “Magic ones. Unfortunately, magic doesn’t submit proper geological surveys.”

Fudge gave a light, baffled chuckle. “Yes, well. Quite. Tricky things, ruins. Always collapsing just when you’re about to discover something useful.” His eyes slid toward the cluster of foreign delegates in the corner. “I say, you’ve been abroad quite a lot this past year, haven’t you?”

“Here and there,” Cassian said. “Mainly trying not to die in caves.”

Fudge blinked. “Heard about China too. That must’ve been… something.”

“Bit warmer,” Cassian replied. “Bit louder.”

“Hem hem.”

The toad-woman again, already stepping between them to do her solo croak show.

“The Minister is acting with your safety in mind, mind,” she said, syrupy sweet and smug as sin. “Clarity on the subject would allow our Ministry to respond in case something were to happen in international relations, especially in a dig site in a foreign country. It would be in your best interest, if you were to enlighten us. We only want what’s best for you, after all.”

Cassian opened his mouth. Probably to say something involving a plague and a pair of earmuffs.

Bathsheda smiled. “We appreciate your concern,” she cut in lightly, “but as I said, it was an earthquake. We spent a few nights in the hospital in Delphi, then we went for holiday.”

Cassian gave her a sidelong look. One eyebrow raised. Close call.

Fudge beamed. “Well, that’s excellent to hear. The Aegean Sea is wonderful that time of year.”

Then, like someone had reminded him he was hosting, he turned back to the room with a polite wave. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to entertain other guests.”

He drifted off with Umbridge trotting at his side, pink bows bobbing, mouth already opening for another hem hem.

Cassian sighed through his nose. “How does someone sound like a cough and a threat at once?”

Bathsheda chuckled, watching them leave. 

“I’m going to write a paper called The Lasting Consequences of Bureaucratic Nose-Poking, and dedicate it to her.”

“Include diagrams.”

“I’ll make it interactive. Moving charts. Possibly a pop-up.”

The rest of the evening passed without much incident. They ate, danced. A few chatted them up, more out of curiosity than manners. Conversations came and went.

Most were forgettable. Names, pleasantries, some stale joke about Hogwarts weather or the state of British education. They smiled through it. Cassian nearly hexed a wine-stained hem under the table out of boredom.

They spoke to a few parents, some of Lucius’s usual circle, but nothing useful came up. No odd behaviour. No mentions of missing books. No whispers of cursed objects passed down in inheritance chests.

Cassian tested the waters now and then, comments about wards, student accidents, old magical items floating through the castle. Not a bite. Either they didn’t know, or they were very good at pretending they didn’t.

Eventually, they gave up.

Cassian and Bathsheda had just turned when an older woman appeared in front of them, and every nerve in Cassian’s body immediately pulled tight.

The woman was all smiles, too wide, too knowing. Her presence alone made the air colder. Cassian resisted the urge to step behind Bathsheda like a coward.

She didn’t seem fazed. She caught his sleeve lightly. “Professor Bagshot.”

Cassian shut his eyes for a brief second, already regretting his life. “Oh, brilliant.”

“Heh heh,” the woman chuckled, her voice pitched. “Babbling, how is your grandmother?”

Bathsheda let out a sigh sharp enough to slice parchment. “She passed away.”

“Unfortunate,” Bathilda said, with the level of sympathy reserved for wilted potted plants.

Then her attention swivelled, and her eyes landed squarely on Cassian. “And who do we have here?”

Cassian straightened slightly, resisting the urge to introduce himself as ‘Just Leaving.’ “Professor Cassian Rosier.”

“Rosier?” she repeated, with interest that set his teeth on edge. “One of those Rosiers?”

He gave her the blandest smile he could manage. “Afraid so.”

“Your family made quite a history,” she said, which wasn’t remotely reassuring.

“I’m sure they were all deeply misquoted,” Cassian replied, folding his hands behind his back lest he poked someone in the eye with them. “Especially the ones who made it into the history books by accident.”

Bathilda squinted at him. “You don’t look like a Rosier.”

“Thank you,” Cassian said immediately.

Bathsheda made a soft noise that was halfway between a snort and a cough.

Bathilda continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’re the one who’d written that book, aren’t you?”

Cassian blinked. “One of them, yes.”

“Curious magic there. Ancient wards. Symbols older than script.” Her voice had dropped a little, quiet yet half-thrilled. “I saw the notes.”

“Oh good,” Cassian said. “That’ll save me the trouble of pretending I don’t want to rewrite half of them.”

She actually chuckled at that.

“So, heard you say I lie all the time.”

Cassian froze like she’d just thrown a textbook at his head.

“I—”

“I’m joking,” Bathilda said, with a laugh that was far too pleased with itself.

He didn’t laugh. Mostly because her eyes were still squinted like she was trying to solve a riddle written in blood. He didn’t trust it.

“Look,” he said, puffing up what little courage he had left, “from one historian to another, you know what I’m trying to achieve, right?”

“Being an arse?” she asked, far too casual.

Cassian blurted, “That’s just the side quest.” Then winced.

“What I’m trying to say is, if you approach books assuming they’re biased or flat-out lies, you’re less likely to take them as gospel. Doubt’s the core of any science. Without it, we’d still be trying to figure out how to sharpen a stick.”

She nodded, slower this time. “That I can get behind.”

Cassian chuckled. “With no dagger in hand, I hope.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Was that a Brutus reference or Cassius? Hope it is the latter. Fits the theme and everything.”

Cassian was taken aback. “You—”

She grinned. “What? I know Muggle history? Well of course. I’m a historian, after all.”

Cassian exhaled. “Thought you’d be another—”

Bathsheda coughed lightly.

Bathilda laughed, clearly catching it but not calling it out. “You thought I’d be another Ministry puppet, parroting cleaned-up battle dates and heroic nonsense, didn’t you?”

Cassian smiled, not denying it. “You wouldn’t believe how many start a sentence with ‘According to official records’ and end it without a shred of sense.”

“I burned my first Ministry transcript at fifteen,” she said dryly. “Been suspicious of ‘official records’ ever since.”

Cassian’s grin turned real. “Wish I’d started that early.”

Bathsheda, somewhere between entertained and exasperated, murmured, “Why does it feel like you two are going to be best friends?”

Cassian and Bathilda laughed, then shook hands like it was a duel they’d both agreed ended in mutual bruising.

“Respect,” he said, loud enough for a few heads to turn.

She nodded. “You’re not bad.”

Cassian gave a theatrical sigh. “I’ll frame that.”

Bathsheda dragged him by the arm before he could ask for it in writing.

“Alright,” she muttered, “you’ve offended half the Ministry and charmed the other half. That’s enough diplomacy for one night.”

“Technically, I’ve only offended one and a quarter. The other three quarters were already halfway there.”

They passed a waiter with floating platters. Cassian nicked a sugared fig without breaking pace.

They made their goodbyes, careful not to look like they were fleeing. Polite smiles, brief handshakes, one final flute of something cold and unnecessary.

And through it all, they didn’t visit the Rosier family table once.

The Rosiers didn’t come to them, either.

Cordially cold.

It was something Cassian came up with. He told Regulus and Magnus they’d act like strangers at events like this, cordial at best, distant at worst. So no one would think to look too closely at the France Fund sitting quietly under Cassian’s name.

Said it was a diversion.

Truth was, he just didn’t want to deal with them.

Regulus never looked his way. Magnus hadn’t so much as twitched when they walked past. Even Aunt Viola kept her mouth shut. Aside from Damien’s embarrassing attempt to insult him, nothing scandalous.

Perfect.

Not a Spoiler, Just an image! ↓

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Maybe this is what prophecy feels like… knowing the silence will arrive right on time.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep