Bathseda and Cassian left in silence.

Cassian waited until they were two corridors down before he spoke.

“So. Magical contraception wards.”

Bathsheda didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

“Hogwarts is full of surprises.”

She stopped mid-step. “You are not slipping this into your lecture slides.”

He put a hand to his chest, scandalised. “Please. I have standards. I would never bring up contraception during a lecture on goblin rebellions. Unless it is relevant. Which, you know, sometimes it is.”

She kept walking.

He caught up. “So what do you reckon happens if someone tries to beat the system? Slip through the cracks. Do the forbidden deed under a particularly rebellious tapestry?”

“Nothing, except a faint buzzing noise, magical interference, and an urgent need for cold showers.”

“That does explain Filch,” Cassian muttered.

They reached the fork in the hall where the staff quarters split off from the rest of the castle. She paused there, glancing his way.

“Behave yourself.”

“I always do.”

She raised a brow. “You made a joke about contraceptive architecture like twelve times now.”

“And wasn’t it enlightening?”

She shook her head and walked off, shaking her head and most probably muttering sweet nothings.

Cassian turned toward his rooms, whistling softly. It was already shaping up to be a very strange year.

***

By the time the train finally dragged itself into Hogsmeade that evening, Cassian was already done with everything worth doing. His classroom was sorted… desks aligned, scrolls arranged by century, samples pinned in a neat row on the back board. His quarters were clean, too, which meant the house-elves were either very proud or deeply concerned. 

So now, all that remained was feast.

Lovely.

The Great Hall had already been dimmed for the evening, most of the candles hovering lower than usual, throwing shadows across the rafters. At the long staff table, the usual suspects were gathering. Cassian stepped in with his best academic scowl in place… enough to keep conversation at bay until he found a seat.

Flitwick waved. Sprout offered a warm nod, eyes crinkling. Hooch glanced up from a battered copy of Quidditch Today and gave a non-committal nod. Vector was halfway through her drink, talking to Aurora. McGonagall sat in the middle, chair angled slightly, glass of wine untouched.

Snape, predictably, didn’t look up. Man could probably sense joy from twenty feet and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Cassian took his usual seat next to Bathsheda, who was already pouring herself tea. She didn’t say anything, but her eyebrow arched in a way that said, Don’t start. He offered a little bow and sat anyway.

Cassian looked across the staff table at Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with Silvanus Kettleburn, gesturing wide, a nearby jug of pumpkin juice wobbled in protest. The man was practically glowing with enthusiasm… about what, Cassian couldn’t hear, but judging by Kettleburn’s half-laughing, half-concerned expression, it probably involved something with far too many teeth.

He sighed. Gods, old Cassian was such a dick to Hagrid. Not just snide, either. Proper little aristocratic toe-rag. Hagrid hadn’t deserved half of it, and last year was awkward attempt at civility hadn’t done much to patch it over. This year, he would try again. Maybe offer a bottle of mead and not sound like he was reading from a guilt-soaked apology scroll.

He got up, smoothing down his robes, and wandered over to where Hagrid and Kettleburn were animatedly discussing something involving flying boars or possibly a flying boar-related accident.

Kettleburn caught sight of him first. “Ah, Rosier! You will love this… Hagrid here was just telling me about the time he had to tranquilise a Catoblepas with nothing but a shovel and a promise!”

Hagrid chuckled, rumbling warmly in his chest. “Weren’t quite a shovel. More of a spade, really.”

Cassian stopped beside them and offered a chuckle “Sounds like an excellent use of Ministry-approved handling techniques.”

Hagrid blinked at him, unsure if that was a dig.

Cassian met his eyes. “Glad the boar didn’t win.”

The silence lasted half a beat too long, but Hagrid’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Well, yeh know how it is. Can’t let em think they won.”

Cassian smiled. “That is my entire philosophy, actually.”

Kettleburn barked a laugh, thumped Hagrid on the back with his good hand, and returned to some elaborate gesturing involving tusks and accidental levitation.

Cassian stood near, pretending he wasn’t checking whether Hagrid looked like he wanted to throw him out a window. So far, no signs of imminent ejection. Good start.

“By the way,” he said, casually tipping his head toward the far end of the table, “we got a new face.”

Bathsheda, who just arrived, glanced over. “Defence Against the Dark Arts. He is the new one.”

“Bloody,” Cassian muttered, squinting across the table. “Didn’t realise there would be new applicants after what happened last year.”

Kettleburn, who had just buttered half his beard by mistake, let out a sigh through his nose. “You were the one who saved Mulford, right?”

Cassian gave a mild shrug. “I was in the right place.”

Which was, frankly, an understatement. The last Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Mulford nearly died when one of the older tomes woke up and decided to curse her spine inside out. Cassian found her in the library, slumped over a text on counter-curses, barely breathing.

Still, no need to brag.

She survived, but only just. Rumour had it she retired straight to a coastal cottage with no magic, no wands, and a cat named Brian.

“Curse doesn’t like getting ignored,” Kettleburn muttered. “That post’s been hexed to the brim since before I had both legs.”

Cassian nodded absently, eyes flicking to the newcomer.

The new professor was already saeated. Tall, lean build, skin a deep brown, hair short and curled close to the scalp. His robes weren’t fresh-off-the-rack Hogwarts standard either, woven with subtle protection runes and dragonhide along the cuffs. He looked like the sort who brought his own wand holster and knew how to use it.

“He is Marius Vale.” Kettleburn added. “Used to be with the Department of Magical Defence, worked under Robards for a stretch. Bit of a specialist… counter-curses, wardcraft, and dark artefact containment. Rumour is he turned down a seat on the Hit Wizard task force.”

Hagrid chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “I remember him from my days. Always kind, that one. Even let a kelpie chew his robes once without hexin it.”

Cassian sipped the tea Bathsheda had just handed. “That is either a ringing endorsement or an excellent reason not to lend him clothes.”

He settled back into his chair when Hagrid got up to get new students. Not long after the doors swung open and McGonagall strode in with a trail of soaked first-years at her heels. They dripped all over the flagstones, a herd of miniature ghosts in oversized robes, eyes wide and necks craning as they tried to take it all in.

Hooch let out a sigh. “And so it begins.”

Cassian watched them file past the staff table, a few already elbowing each other. Someone sneezed dramatically. Another whispered something about the ceiling.

The Sorting Hat waited on its stool, limp and vaguely annoyed, like a pensioner forced to entertain visitors. McGonagall cleared her throat, unrolled a scroll, and began calling names.

“Bell, Katie.”

A small girl with straw-coloured hair stepped forward. The hat barely touched her head before it barked, “Gryffindor!” and she dashed off to thunderous applause.

Next came “Belby, Marcus.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Bet he is a crier.”

Bathsheda muttered, “Ten sickles says he gets Ravenclaw.”

Belby sat down, the hat frowned, and after a long pause, said, “Ravenclaw.”

“Called it,” she said, not even smug.

Cassian sipped his tea. “You and Trelawney should start a book.”

“Dunbar, Fay,” came next. Another Gryffindor. Then “Carmichael, Eddie,” who looked like he read three textbooks on Sorting and still wasn’t sure it was real.

Hat took its sweet time with him. Eventually, “Ravenclaw.”

“McLaggen, Cormac” swaggered up like he already had a Quidditch broom waiting. The hat tried to say something before he cut in, yes, actually cut in, saying, “Definitely Gryffindor. That is where my uncle was.”

The hat muttered something indistinct before agreeing. “Gryffindor.”

The names went on, Carl Hopkins… another Gryffindor. Marietta Edgecombe, quiet and wide-eyed, went to Ravenclaw. Cho Chang followed her and joined the same table.

Students clapped, housemates yelled, ghosts hovered. Cassian caught a glimpse of Peeves floating upside down above the Hufflepuff table, whispering something into a first-year’s ear that made her pale instantly.

Cassian nudged Bathsheda with his elbow. “So. New Defence professor with Curse Division flair. You think the old man brought him in to lift the curse?”

She didn’t look up from her tea. “Doubt it. If he did, he is about two decades too late.”

“Still,” Cassian murmured, “he looks like the sort who patches wounds with one hand and digs graves with the other.”

Bathsheda didn’t blink. “You are being weird.”

“I am just saying, if someone like that shows up mid-summer, either Dumbledore wants something sorted or he is keeping his options open. Could be here to do the real job while the rest of us argue over quills and class schedules.”

The Sorting dragged on. Names came and went, some quicker than others. The hat got snippy about halfway through and demanded quiet when the Ravenclaw table burst into cheers mid-announcement.

When it finally ended, Dumbledore rose, gave the room a mild smile, and kicked off the feast with his usual speech, and the tables filled themselves with food like magic was a well-trained servant.

Spoiler

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep