The rest of the year passed in a blur. Cassian went through the curriculum, covering everything from the first-year spells to subjects that weren’t technically his responsibility… but if Snape got to terrify students in Potions, Cassian saw no issue with throwing in a few history lessons that actually mattered.

He made sure they learned the origins of Potions, much to Snape’s irritation, and walked them through the ancient applications of Transfiguration. He covered the history of the Dark Arts and the defences wizards had developed over centuries, a topic that had Slytherins and Gryffindors equally engaged for once. Extinct herbs, long-lost magical flora, and their uses found their way into discussions, drawing even Sprout’s attention when her students started asking questions she hadn’t expected from History of Magic.

Through it all, he earned a few more variations. Every time he awakened an ancient variation, his mind pulled him into the past. A flicker of something ancient, a spell that had been lost, and then a memory that wasn’t his. Spells formed in his thoughts, knowledge settling like it had always been there, waiting.

He never experienced the same sensation he felt with Lumos Noctis, though. Whatever had caused that first shift… the eerie pull, the weight of something waking up, never happened again. But the memories didn’t stop.

By the end of the year, Cassian had a growing list of spells that technically shouldn’t exist anymore, glimpses of magic that had shaped history long before wizards had formalised it. Some of it was dangerous, but most of it was just… forgotten. A casualty of time, of shifting priorities, of magic being simplified and sanitised for modern use.

Not that he was going to hand this knowledge over to the Ministry on a silver platter.

Hogwarts carried on as it always did… students whining about assignments, Gryffindors picking fights with Slytherins, Filch chasing after rule-breakers with Mrs Norris at his heels. The castle remained the same, but for Cassian, the way he saw it had changed. Magic wasn’t just spells and wandwork. It was history, woven into stone and air, stitched into the very foundations of the world.

The final weeks of term were the usual mess of exams, last-minute panic, and students trying to squeeze in extra credit. Cassian wasn’t about to play nursemaid for last-minute panics. His exam was easy… insultingly so. If anyone failed, that was Darwinism at work.

“Professor R,” said a voice behind him.

He looked up to see Nymphadora Tonks flopping into the chair opposite his desk, her hair flickering between bubblegum pink and electric blue like a mood ring that couldn’t decide.

“You are here to negotiate points, aren’t you?” Cassian said flatly.

“Me?” Tonks pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Would I do that?”

“Yes.”

She grinned. “Fair. But no, I am not here to grovel. I am here to gloat. Your exam? Easiest thing I’ve done all year. Piece of cauldron cake.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying my beautifully-crafted test didn’t crush your soul? I must be losing my edge.”

“I am saying even a troll with a hangover could pass it.”

Cassian smirked. “Good. Maybe next year I will replace you with one and see if it improves the quality of answers.”

Her hair shifted to a smug shade of neon pink as she leaned back in the chair, balancing it on two legs. “Not my fault you asked baby questions. ‘Pick any spell and explain its history and how it was used outside of current trend. Give your original answer on how it can be used differently.’ Even my mum could answer those, and she doesn’t care about history.”

“Most of your classmates didn’t find them so ‘baby,'” Cassian said, flipping through a stack of essays.

“That is because most of them have the critical thinking skills of flobberworms.”

Cassian huffed a laugh despite himself. “Careful, Tonks. With commentary like that, you are on track to becoming a professor.”

She pulled a face, her hair turning a sour green. “Merlin forbid. I would trip over the desks before the first lesson.”

Cassian’s lips twitched. “Accurate.” He tapped the parchment in front of him. “Speaking of tripping… Did you even remember to sign your exam properly?”

“Of course I did. I wrote ‘Tonks.’ Full name.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your full name is Nymphadora Tonks. And don’t bother scowling… I saw the look you gave first time I said it.”

Her hair flared scarlet. “Professor. Tonks is my full name. The other one is… a cruel joke inflicted on me by my parents.”

“Nevertheless,” Cassian said with infuriating calm, “that is the name Hogwarts keeps on record. Which means if you want credit for the exam, you will rewrite it properly signed, unless you want me to give all your points to ‘Miss Tonks, whoever she may be.'”

Tonks groaned dramatically, throwing her head back so far she nearly toppled her chair. “You are evil.”

“True.”

“Fine. But if I die of embarrassment writing ‘Nymphadora’ at the top of my paper, my ghost is going to haunt you. And not even in a fun way. I will rearrange your bookshelves out of spite.”

Cassian smirked, sliding her parchment across the desk. “Looking forward to it. Now off you go. Leave me in peace to grade the rest of these essays before I start questioning why I teach at all.”

Tonks stuck out her tongue and snatched the parchment, signing with three hateful underlines. “Better stock up on tea, Professor. You will need it.”

Next, two identical first-years hovered by his desk, identical grins plastered across their faces.

“Professor Rosier,” one began with the grin of a boy already plotting his own funeral

“We were wondering…” the other chimed in seamlessly. “if you would like to make history… by being the first professor to say yes to us.”

“No.”

Both froze. 

“You didn’t even let us ask,” Fred protested, as though deeply wounded.

Cassian didn’t look up from the stack of essays in front of him. “I don’t need to. Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“But what if, hypothetically, we were being reasonable for once?” George countered, grinning like it was the greatest lie ever told.

“It is not.”

Fred crossed his arms. “You didn’t even hear us out.”

“I didn’t have to. You are identical, you finish each other’s sentences, and your idea of fun probably involves fireworks in the Great Hall. Whatever you are plotting, the answer is still no.”

George’s grin widened. “So you are saying if we were plotting, you would know?”

Cassian finally looked up, fixing them with a flat stare. “If? Don’t insult my intelligence. You two were born plotting.”

Fred elbowed George. “Told you he would say that.”

George smirked. “Alright, Professor. What about an extra assignment? We are willing to work for it.”

“No.”

Fred sighed dramatically. “Come on, you don’t even know what we want extra credit for.”

“You are first-years,” Cassian said, returning his attention to the essays. “There is nothing you could possibly want extra credit for that wouldn’t involve some ill-advised scheme or a prank I would have to clean up later.”

George pouted. “So that is it? No chance at redemption?”

Cassian didn’t even glance up. “No redemption. No chance. No deal. Go torment someone else.”

Fred and George exchanged looks, then identical mischievous grins spread across their faces.

“Alright then, Professor Rosier,” Fred said.

“You win this round,” George finished.

Cassian raised an eyebrow, already regretting every choice that had led him to teaching first-years. “Get out before I decide to assign you both a two-foot essay on the unfortunate Poltergeists and their gruesome ends.”

Fred opened his mouth, no doubt to fire off some cheeky retort, but before he could, a voice cut across the room.

“Fred. George. Out. Now.”

Charlie Weasley appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, looking every inch the responsible older brother.

Both twins froze mid-step.

“Charlie!” Fred said brightly, as if his arrival was the best thing to happen all day.

“Hey, Charlie,” George added, grinning. “We were just…”

“About to leave,” Charlie interrupted firmly, grabbing them each by the back of their collars like a pair of misbehaving Kneazles.

“Professor Rosier, I am sorry about them,” Charlie said with a weary smile. “They are… a lot.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow, “A lot is putting it kindly.”

Fred wiggled in his brother’s grip. “We weren’t causing that much trouble…”

George chimed in. “Just a little negotiation for extra credit…”

Charlie gave them both a tug. “Extra credit? You are first-years. Merlin’s beard, are you trying to set a record for annoying staff?”

“They started early,” Cassian remarked dryly. “At this rate, they will have half the castle hexing them by third year.”

“That is what we are afraid of,” Charlie said with a sigh. He tightened his hold on the twins and gave Cassian an apologetic look. “Sorry again, Professor. I will keep them out of your hair.”

Cassian smirked. “Good luck with that. Those two were born to get into people’s hair… and set it on fire for fun.”

“True,” Charlie admitted, dragging the twins toward the door.

“Bye, Professor R!” Fred called cheerfully.

“Don’t miss us too much!” George added.

Cassian raised a hand lazily. “I will try to cope.”

Charlie herded them out, the sound of the twins’ bickering fading down the corridor.

Cassian shook his head and muttered, “Hogwarts really doesn’t pay me enough for this.”

With the worst of the grading out of the way, Cassian stretched and leaned back in his chair. He enjoyed teaching, but if he had to read another essay where someone tried to claim Merlin invented every spell in existence, he might actually set something on fire. “Merlin invented every spell in existence.” He read aloud, as if that would make it less ridiculous. It didn’t.

A knock at the door made him glance up.

Bathsheda Babbling leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Survived?”

“Barely.” Cassian shut the last essay with a sigh. “Please tell me Ancient Runes essays are better than this.”

She smirked. “Marginally. No one tried to claim Merlin invented runes, at least.”

“Lucky you.”

She stepped into the room, glancing at the pile of parchment. “Planning to spend the holidays buried under all this?”

Cassian stacked the essays into a neat pile. “Better than spending it with the Rosiers.”

Bathsheda’s eyes brightened as she leaned forward. “I got an invitation to a dig site. They uncovered an ancient runic language… one no one’s seen before. Thought you might be interested.” She watched him expectantly.

Cassian raised a brow. “You want me to tag along while you poke at old rocks?”

She huffed, unimpressed. “They are not just rocks. This could change everything we know about magical linguistics.”

He smirked. “Dangerous words. Half the field loses their minds when you suggest anything older than the Egyptian hieroglyphs.”

“Exactly.” She sat near him. “Figured you would enjoy the chaos. You seem to thrive in it.”

He tapped a finger against the desk, considering. The truth was, he was interested. Anything pre-dating established magical history was worth looking into, and if the language was truly unknown, it meant magic older than modern spellcraft. That, and… though he wouldn’t say it outright, he enjoyed spending time with her.

Over the months, their relationship shifted. They weren’t quite friends, not in the way most people meant, but there was an ease between them now. A habit of finding each other in the staff lounge, sharing drinks in Hogsmeade, or staying up late discussing their work. Neither had put a name to it, and Cassian saw no reason to. Whatever it was, it worked.

“Where is the site?”

“Norway. Just outside Trondheim.” She watched him, waiting. “Well?”

He smiled. “I would love to.”

Bathsheda lit up. “We leave a week after term ends.”

Spoiler

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep