Cassian walked beside Bathsheda, their fingers linked, hands swinging slightly with no rhythm or reason, like two students who hadn’t figured out if they were showing off or just being smug about having someone to hold.

Bathsheda let out a sigh, her fifth, maybe sixth. Cassian had stopped counting after three. This one, at least, came with a smile.

“So,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly against his, “anything changed after Master Ji praised you?”

Cassian squinted up at the castle, “Bit more fanmail. Probably a statue being carved somewhere. You?”

She gave a short laugh. “Not much. I was an established Rune Master before too.”

He clicked his tongue. “Ouch. And here I thought we were having a moment.”

She grinned. “You are catching up though. Good for you, little Cass.”

He stopped walking to squeeze her hand. “There is nothing little about me.”

That earned a slight blush. Then, quieter, “True that.”

Peeves drifted out of a chandelier with a bucket and a grin.

“Hand-holding? In a school? Scandal!”

“Peeves,” Cassian said, “pour that and I’ll assign you homework.”

“Homework?” Peeves sneered, then brightened. “Exploding homework?”

Bathsheda flicked her wrist, the bucket sealed itself with a neat click.

Peeves booed. “Teachers these days, no sense of humour.” He somersaulted away, scattering confetti that smelled faintly of vinegar.

Cassian watched it settle. “He’s getting thematic.”

“What’s the theme?”

“Sticky disappointment.”

The staff room was already half-full. McGonagall stood by the hearth, arms folded and lips pinched. She was probably willing the meeting to be shorter by sheer willpower. Sprout was chatting with Sinistra about soil types again. Snape was rooted in his usual corner, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular.

Cassian’s gaze skated across the room, and then stopped.

Quirinus Quirrell was seated near the far wall, tucked into himself. Something about him looked… off. Not wrong in the obvious sense. Just skewed. Like a painting hung two degrees crooked. His robes were darker. His skin paler. The usual tired energy was there, but turned into something else. He looked… nervous. Jittery even. Still, his eyes flicked up when Cassian approached.

Cassian squinted at him, then grinned. “Back from sabbatical already?”

Quirrell blinked, then nodded, a twitchy stutter following. “Y-yes. G-good to s-see you, Cass-cass-cassian.”

Cassian paused. His grin faded. He frowned, glanced at Bathsheda beside him, then back at Quirrell. “What happened?”

Quirrell twitched. Didn’t answer.

Kettleburn, from his seat beside Flitwick, let out a long sigh, probably he’d been waiting for someone to ask. “He ran into some vampires.”

Cassian blinked. “Right.”

He waited for a follow-up. There wasn’t one. No dramatic flair. No mention of battle or escape or how many pints of blood were involved. Just… vampires. The way one might say “misplaced his hat.”

Cassian glanced around the room. No one looked surprised. Sinistra even nodded, like “vampire encounter” was part of the sabbatical package. That was Hogwarts for you. A man could come back with stutter and as long as he was on time for meetings, nobody asked questions. Well that explained the smell of garlic at least.

Up close, Cassian caught the details, a thread of garlic stitched into Quirrell’s cuff, a faint iron tang, old and unhealed, under the sour of tonic, a bandage line just visible at the throat.

“Chocolate?” Cassian offered, holding out a square.

Quirrell flinched, then shook his head too fast. “N-no, th-thank you.”

Cassian looked up to the new face at the far end of the table. Brown hair, mild beard, that air of someone who hadn’t yet figured out whether this job would ruin or reinvent him.

“Did Arif leave?” Cassian asked.

McGonagall gave a nod. “Yes. Sadly, Professor Skander stepped down before the summer ended.”

She adjusted her spectacles. “Professor Warren. Muggle Studies.”

Cassian nodded and offered the man a smile. “Welcome to Hogwarts. And good luck.”

Warren smiled back, grateful and a bit stiff. “Thank you.”

Cassian meant it. Always had a soft spot for the Muggle Studies crowd. The only ones in this castle who actually understood the rest of the world didn’t run on gobstones and exploding teapots.

Bathsheda nudged his foot under the table. “Be nice.”

“I am nice,” he muttered. “That was a compliment. You should see me with people I don’t like.”

She gave him a look. Somewhere between exasperation and fond. Probably more the latter than she would admit in front of a full room of coworkers.

Warren leaned forward, clearly trying to get his bearings. “I am looking forward to collaborating. I’ve read your papers on linguistic preservation you published recently.”

Cassian stared, one eyebrow climbing. “Wait. You read those?”

Flitwick laughed from his seat. “It seems you are not aware of your new fame, Professor Rosier.”

Cassian sighed. “Right. That.” He leaned forward, chin propped on his knuckles. “Well, it was only a matter of time before I shone.”

Snape snorted with a force gust straight from his sinuses. The papers in front of him fluttered from the force.

Cassian gave him a lazy glance. “Careful, Severus. You will dislodge something.”

Snape smirked. “I am not sure whether you fell into that tomb headfirst or simply rambled yourself senseless, but either way, it is comforting to know some minds remain impervious to actual academic rigour.”

“Severus,” Cassian looked up from his tea with an airy tone, “is that jealousy I detect? Or just the usual bile fermented from never having a fulfilling holiday?”

Snape didn’t flinch. “Just an observation. If I wanted to indulge fantasy in the classroom, I would let Trelawney guest-lecture.”

Across the table, Sybill blinked, teacup halfway to her mouth. “I’ve been invited?”

“No,” Snape said, flat.

Cassian grinned. “See, that is where we differ. You confuse logic with bitterness and call it academic restraint. I prefer reality, with colour, context, and the occasional accurate footnote.”

Snape’s mouth twitched, barely. Probably weighing hexes versus professional decorum.

“Enough,” McGonagall cut through, lifting her hand without raising her voice. It worked better than most spells.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, mildly disappointed. He had at least one more jab lined up involving cauldrons and chronic loneliness.

“I gathered this meeting to announce,” McGonagall continued, “that Harry Potter, yes, that Harry Potter, will be joining Hogwarts this year. He is on the train right now.”

Chairs shifted. A few gasps.

Cassian froze.

Harry Potter.

Right. That name.

He knew it. Sort of. Like someone might know the theme tune to a sitcom they never watched. Heard it. Seen it plastered on book covers in his old world.

He had never seen the movies though. Not once. Never read the books either. His interest never pointed that way.

Back in his old life, his mates droned on about it often enough, gushing over wands, houses, and whatever house-elf scandal was trending, but he tuned most of it out. Probably replaced it with actual history, or lunch plans. The few scraps that clung were vague, something about a tournament, someone named Voldemort, and a title that sounded more like a tax form than a fantasy, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Whatever.

Potter. Glasses, maybe? Lightning scar? Something with a snake? He couldn’t remember properly. Something about being the Chosen One. Famous. Magical messiah, probably. Supposed to be dead but wasn’t. Or maybe the other way round. But no clear image. No personality. The name was all he had. And over the years in this new life, he picked up the bare minimum just by osmosis, survived a murder spell, beat the dark wizard, walked away with a headline. Big fanfare. Instant myth.

That part made no sense. Why disappear after that? Why wasn’t he being carted around like the Boy Who Branded Britain? Unless someone hid him. Probably did. Easier to control a legend if you tucked him in a small house and fed him vague answers.

Cassian’s gaze flicked toward Snape.

That face. That was not the face of someone thrilled to welcome a child-hero back into the fold. If anything, he looked like someone had slipped dragon dung in his tea. Or perhaps spilled it over his ten-year plan to never interact with a Potter again.

Cassian tilted his head, curious.

‘Does he hate Potter?’

The question wasn’t even fully formed before something stirred in his head. Not his thoughts. Old Cassian. Not much came from that part these days, scattered memories, moods, the occasional craving for wine, but this one dropped in sharp.

His first year. Seventh year Snape, hunched under his robe, surrounded by taunting laughter. And James Potter. Wand in one hand, smugness in both shoulders, doing something flashy with a charm while his mates egged him on.

So the famous James Potter had been a prat. Cassian smiled slightly. Explains a lot.

Snape didn’t look at anyone. He rarely did, but this was different. His eyes weren’t narrowed, they were locked inward. Like he seen a ghost and it had dared to walk through his classroom door. Or maybe two ghosts. The father’s shadow. The son’s arrival.

“Interesting.”

The meeting wrapped not long after. McGonagall stepped out with her usual battle march to go greet the first-years. Chairs scraped, robes rustled.

Cassian followed, hands tucked into his robe pockets, wand somewhere in a pocket he would forget about later. The corridor to the Great Hall buzzed with sound… feet, chatter, the general scent of candles and teenage nerves.

The Great Hall had dressed itself for starting ceremony, soft candlelight, floating like lazy stars overhead, gold gleaming on the House banners, and a long line of polished plates glinting down the tables. Students were already pouring in, second-years jostling for elbow room, older years taking seats with the casual tyranny of experience.

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And as promised… although, much like Cassian, what I do cannot compare to Towel’s masterpiece

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep