A week later, the peace in Cassian office was shattered when Flitwick barged in.

“The Board is here to inspect,” he squeaked, “Are you prepared?”

Cassian groaned as he shoved back his chair. “Of course they are.” He grabbed his coat off the backrest and muttered something about cursed timing under his breath.

By the time he stepped out into the corridor, the voices had already reached him. A small entourage was sweeping through the halls, all cloaks and polished boots. At the centre of the group, a figure stood out.

Lucius Malfoy was striding ahead, cane tapping lightly against the stone as if to let anyone with ears to know he had, indeed, arrived. His platinum-blond hair gleamed like it was waxed that morning, and the faint sneer on his lips said he was waiting for this moment.

“Ah, Professor Rosier.” Lucius’s drawl cut across the corridor as soon as he caught sight of him. “How delightful to see you… still standing.”

Cassian raised two fingers in a lazy salute. “Wotcher, Uncle Lucius.”

Lucius scoffed faintly and strode ahead. Flitwick hurried along behind him, muttering under his breath about lesson plans and inspection forms. Cassian trailed at a comfortable distance, hands in his coat pockets. 

“Why are you so bloody casual?” Flitwick hissed under his breath, half-running to keep up.

Cassian shrugged. “I am a Rosier.”

Flitwick faltered mid-step. “Ah. Right.”

The Greengrass patriarch walked along Lucius. The man was all sharp lines and thinning silver hair, the sort who looked like he would rather be anywhere else. Lucius probably dragged the rest. Thankfully, Magnus wasn’t among them. Cassian wasn’t in the mood to dance verbal circles around that old stubborn coot today.

Lucius didn’t bother to glance back. “You certainly made yourself comfortable here, Dear Nephew. Dumbledore’s favourite pet, from what I hear.”

Cassian’s lips twitched, “Oh, I wouldn’t say favourite. More like the odd spice he sprinkles in just to make people wonder if the dish is poisoned.”

Lucius only huffed dismissively, not bothering to answer.

Board business was board business, wandering the halls like they were founders. Fair enough, most of them were established magicians. Powerful ones too. But that only made it worse. Half these people had either openly or quietly supported Voldemort. And now they were here, scrutinising the next generation’s education like it was their sacred duty. Cassian didn’t know what was worse, Dumbledore letting them in or the Ministry pretending they weren’t a threat.

They paused outside Bathsheda’s classroom. One of the witches, tall, hawk-faced, reached for the door handle.

Cassian stepped in front of the door, “Class is in session. You lot aren’t bloody Ofsted inspectors.”

The hawk-faced witch froze.

Lucius clicked his cane to the ground, sharply, “Dear Nephew, it is our duty to inspect the quality of classes. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.”

Cassian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course not, Dear Uncle. But this happens to be a Rune class. If you barge in now, there is a fair chance at least one rune will explode if anyone is startled. Might be a small one. Might take off your eyebrows. If you are desperate to inspect, feel free to sit in before the lesson starts.”

Lucius’s lip curled, but he didn’t move.

Greengrass cleared his throat. “I see no harm in waiting.”

Cassian gave him a nod. “Wise man.”

They sat in on a few more classes that afternoon, trailing each other like vultures in expensive cloaks. Poor Trelawney nearly cried under their stares.

When it was time for his, Cassian rapped the board with the edge of his wand as the seventh-years filled the room.

“Right, eyes front. This isn’t a Renaissance portrait, though God knows the hairstyles are criminal enough. What you are looking at is the court of King Gwenthar, circa 1423. And these,” he gestured  at the cluster of overdressed figures whispering around the throne, “are the finest collection of magical advisors ever to ruin a kingdom without lifting a single wand.”

A few students chuckled under their breath.

“Weasley,” Cassian called, pointing to the Gryffindor boy near the back, “if you were king, would you listen to that lot?”

Charlie frowned. “Depends… are they actually competent?”

Cassian grinned. “That is the twist, they weren’t. They spent more time squabbling over titles and elbowing each other for influence than, oh, I don’t know, protecting the kingdom from a plague of bloodthirsty creatures. By the time the king realised, his magical defences were a joke, his treasury was bleeding gold, and half his advisors had buggered off with cursed heirlooms.”

Tonks raised a hand. “So what happened? Did someone finally hex them?”

Cassian shrugged. “Not quite. One clever healer put a curse-breaking clause in the council’s charter and banished the lot. Too late, though, kingdom collapsed in a fortnight. Moral of the story?”

Andre piped up from the Ravenclaw side, “Don’t trust sycophants?”

“Close,” Cassian agreed. “Don’t surround yourself with idiots who value their own pockets over the state of your wards. And yes, Andre, sycophants count double.”

Cassian spent nearly the whole class staring straight at the Board of Governors, as he explained in painstaking detail how incompetent advisors had toppled empires. 

Watching Lucius barge out with the rest huffing behind him was almost better than tea. Almost.

“Victory.” Petty, but satisfying. He would take it.

The Board didn’t linger after that. They left a few notes of caution, scattered advice for the professors, and a chest full of pride for having “done their part.”

Flitwick and Sprout caught Cassian just as he was stepping out of the classroom.

“You are going to get yourself fired, Professor Rosier,” Sprout said with a sigh.

Cassian chuckled, completely unbothered.

Flitwick gave a small shrug. “He is a Rosier.”

Sprout’s brows lifted, and then she nodded in understanding. “Ah. Right.”

Cassian smirked waving his hands without turning back.

“Anyway, if the Board didn’t like my methods, they shouldn’t have sat in on my lesson,” he said. “And if Lucius Malfoy chokes on his own ego because I compared him to a court jester, well… I will sleep soundly.”

Flitwick’s lips twitched, but he said nothing.

Sprout pressed her lips together, half amused, half exasperated. “Cassian, honestly. One of these days, that sharp tongue of yours will land you in a cauldron of trouble you can’t wiggle out of.”

Cassian looked over his shoulder, grin widening. “And until then, I intend to enjoy myself thoroughly.”

He disappeared down the corridor, leaving the two professors exchanging looks.

***

Two weeks later, he prepared everything he needed. Or, well… “Prepared” was generous. He couldn’t cast half the spells he was meant to demonstrate, but he could hold chalk, so really, that made him a solid five steps ahead of Binns.

When Tonks turned up, it wasn’t to the classroom.

It was his room. Not his office. His actual living space.

She shoved the door open, froze. Her gaze darted over the chaos, books teetering near a kettle, a lone biscuit trapped under a paperweight, and Bathsheda perched on the low couch, notebook in hand like she’d been there for hours. She had.

Tonks stared.

“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone,” she muttered.

Cassian, seated cross-legged on the desk like it was a throne, raised a hand, “First of all,” he said, “you are in a male professor’s private room.”

Tonks blinked. Then blinked again, as the implication properly landed. “Oh.”

“Mm.” He gestured vaguely at the door. “See? Headlines write themselves. Student in Professor’s Quarters: Ministry Scandal or Romantic Subplot?”

She muttered something under her breath, either an apology or a curse.

“Second of all,” he added, tipping his head toward Bathsheda, “Professor Babbling was gracious enough to help, so we should thank her.”

Tonks crossed her arms. “Why don’t you just say you are scared of going behind her back?”

“I am,” Cassian said, cheerfully. “That too.”

Bathsheda didn’t say anything. Just sipped her tea and gave Tonks a slow once-over.

Tonks shifted. “So what is the plan? Am I going to sit on the floor and breathe until I stop turning into other people?”

“Not unless your Animagus form is a cushion,” Cassian drawled. “You are going to learn control. Like the rest of us. Only your muscle happens to be your face.”

She frowned. “Not a great sales pitch.”

“Not a great condition,” he countered. “You came to me. You want help, you get the full experience. That includes surprise supervision and unhelpful commentary.”

Tonks glanced between them, then let out a sigh and dropped onto the nearest chair. “Fine. But if I start growing extra limbs, I am blaming both of you.”

“That is fair,” Bathsheda said, setting her cup down.

Cassian clapped his hands together. “Right. Let’s get started.”

He got up, stretched the stiffness from his shoulders, and walked over to the worktable shoved against the far wall. Row of identical potions waiting, each marked with a neat Roman numeral on the neck.  Bathsheda helped stabilise the brewing process last week, well she did most of it, really. He didn’t know how to brew even the simplest potions… yet.

Cassian picked up the first vial, then reachad into a narrow wooden box tucked beside it. Inside, a careful row of tiny glass tubes, each sealed with wax and numbered. He plucked one out with two fingers.

Tonks squinted. “Wait, is that…?”

“Hair, yes,” Cassian mumbled without looking up. “Not yours. Relax. Also not mine. Not hers either.”

She sat straighter. “Whose, then?”

He popped the cork on the vial and tilted the glass tube to drop a single strand in. “You see, I have this genius idea… shocking, I know. If you transform into someone else with Polyjuice, and then try to morph back into yourself without waiting for the potion to wear off, you might start getting a grip on your default state. Train your muscle memory from the inside.”

Tonks stared. “That sounds like a very clever way to die.”

Cassian grinned. “Please. If this kills you, I will just tell the Prophet you were trying to turn into a teacup. No one will question it.”

She groaned. “You are the worst.”

“Again, highly debatable. Now, listen. When the Polyjuice kicks in, I want you to push your form back to your usual face. Not some random thing, not purple hair and a lopsided smile. You. Think of forcing your shape back to baseline while it is resisting you.”

Spoiler

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Cassian shuts the classroom door behind you.

“Take your time.

I am sure history can wait another century for your vote.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep