“Saw it a few times, back then. Potter and his lot, Potter and Black mostly, going after Snape.”

Bathsheda was a few years ahead of Cassian at school, saw things he didn’t. She wasn’t close to either Cassian or Snape at the time, but she’d seen enough from across corridors and classrooms. Back then, Cassian was too young, tucked safely in lower years, watching older students bully Snape at every turn.

Cassian glanced at her. “Like pranking?”

“Not pranks,” she said quietly. “Humiliations… Didn’t always end in curses, but… it wasn’t subtle. Most professors looked the other way.”

“Makes sense,” he muttered, popping a bit of roast parsnip in his mouth. “Nothing fuels grudge like being mocked with impunity.”

She nodded. No argument. “James could be charming, when he wanted to be. But he often chose not to.”

“He had that hair.” Cassian gestured vaguely, then mimed a toss. “Didn’t trust him the moment I saw it. Looked like the sort who would start a war and win just to get the front page photo.”

Bathsheda didn’t smile. “They hexed Snape in public more than a couple of times. Once during lunch.”

“Of course they did,” Cassian muttered, jabbing his roast potato. “Can’t think of a better time to humiliate someone than when they are trying not to spill soup.”

“He never reported it. Not once.”

Cassian looked toward the end of the table where Snape sat, motionless, staring at a bit of untouched shepherd’s pie with grudge. “Yeah,” he said. “Doesn’t strike me as the sort who asks for help.”

Bathsheda sipped her drink. “I think he believed he deserved it.”

He hummed, didn’t think on it long. Trying to untangle Snape’s reasons would be like guessing which rune would explode first, pointless until it happened. But he was sure about one thing… Snape hated Harry Potter.

Not mildly. Not the way he frowned at slow cauldron-stirrers or sighed at badly bottled potions. No, this had weight. It was the kind of disdain that simmered behind the eyes and curdled in the throat. The kind that didn’t need logic.

It wasn’t about Harry, not really. The boy was too quiet, too unsure. He didn’t have the arrogance needed to earn a grown man’s loathing. But he had the wrong name, walked in a face Snape couldn’t forgive.

Cassian watched him a moment longer. Potter had a chicken leg in one hand, mostly untouched. His eyes flicked from plate to plate like food might disappear if he blinked. The boy ate with the caution of someone who learned to hide hunger. Cassian had seen that in real kids before. The kind shuffled through orphanages, made polite by force, grateful by habit.

His lips pressed together. That wasn’t normal.

And none of these staff seemed to care.

He leaned sideways. “Did you figure out where the boy’s been all these years?”

Bathsheda shook her head, still watching the Great Hall. “No. Never mentioned. No records in the books. Just dropped off.”

“Dropped off,” Cassian repeated, raising an eyebrow. “As in bundled like a parcel and left to ferment in anonymity? That seems… oddly convenient.”

“It is Dumbledore,” she said, not quite defending, not quite accusing. “He has his reasons.”

Cassian clicked his tongue. “Of course. The old man deals in reasons like the rest of us do socks.”

“Some of us wear matching ones.”

“I live to disappoint.”

She fixed her gaze on him, voice stern. “Cass, promise me you’ll step out of this. The Headmaster’s plans aren’t something we can meddle with freely.”

Cassian held her stare, a storm of defiance and doubt churning inside him. He almost despised the words as they left his mouth. “Fine… but only if it doesn’t go too far.”

By the time dessert floated in… floating tart platters and a violent custard that splashed itself into bowls with too much enthusiasm… the students had already loosened into the buzz of familiarity. First-years clumped together like sheep. Older ones started sorting themselves by noise level and house pecking order. Someone already started a betting pool on who would cry before midnight. Twins did it. It was them.

Cassian didn’t touch the tart. He stuffed himself stupid already. Instead, he leaned back and caught Flitwick’s eye across the table.

“Tell me we upgraded the textbook list this year,” he said, raising his goblet in mock despair. “I can’t take another term of ‘Wizards and Their Wands: A Patriotic History.'”

Flitwick cackled. “We added supplemental readings. I convinced Minerva to approve ‘Curses Through the Ages.'”

“Ooh,” Cassian grinned. “That one has illustrations. You can practically smell the hexes off the page.”

Bathsheda looked up. “You mean the third edition?”

Cassian pointed at her with his spoon. “Yes. The one where the author had that affair with the banshee scholar and rewrote the entire chapter on vocal-based hexes out of spite.”

“Iconic,” she agreed.

They clinked spoons.

Snape, from the far end of the table, made a faint noise of disgust.

After the feast ended and plates sat cluttered with the aftermath of gluttony, Dumbledore rose again.

“Now that we are all watered and fed,” he said, smiling, “a few announcements.”

A soft collective groan rippled through the tables.

Cassian mouthed, ‘Here we go,’ at Bathsheda.

“We are pleased to welcome Professor Warren to our staff,” Dumbledore said, tilting his head toward the Muggle Studies end of the table. “He will be taking over from Professor Skander.”

A smattering of polite applause. Warren gave a nod, smiling politely.

Dumbledore’s voice cut on. “Professor Quirrell has returned from his travels.”

Cassian looked over in time to see Quirrell flinch at his own name.

“He will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts this year,” Dumbledore finished.

Cassian frowned slightly. “That is… bold,” he murmured, surprised. He had assumed Quirrell and Warren would divide Muggle Studies, never imagining Quirrell would take over Defence Against the Dark Arts instead, especially with the curse on the position. He’d been there when Mulford was nearly succumb to the curse. And before that, too.

Bathsheda didn’t look up. “He requested it.”

“I bet he did. Man gets chomped by a vampire and comes back for seconds.”

Quirrell’s smile barely held together under the weight of attention. The man looked as if he was three blinks away from fainting.

Dumbledore didn’t pause. “Lastly, a reminder. The Forbidden Forest is, as its name suggests, forbidden.”

Half the Gryffindor table sniggered.

Dumbledore smiled softly, “And finally,” he said, “I must inform you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

Cassian paused. “Right,” he muttered. “Lovely start-of-term messaging. Nothing motivates children like threat of death.”

Bathsheda arched an eyebrow. “Did he say painful?”

“Very painful,” Cassian confirmed. “Wonderfully specific.”

Gryffindors perked up like someone had offered extra credit for trespassing. Hufflepuffs stiffened. A few Ravenclaws started whispering already… probably guessing what was there and if the riddle was worth solving. Slytherins just glanced at each other like they were placing bets on who would crack it first.

Prefects called names, herding their flocks toward common rooms. Half of them looked half-asleep already. The rest buzzed with sugar and gossip. Cassian stood with the rest of the staff. Dumbledore already left, off to whatever he did after feasts. Probably writing his next opening speech.

Cassian entered his room and went straight to sorting. Cloak off, folded. Books aligned by size, then subject, then publication date… he liked knowing where they were without looking. His writing desk had its own rhythm, fresh parchment to the back, quills in rows, ink bottles uncapped for tomorrow’s lessons. Pens at the front.

His underwear, however, had no system. He held a pair in one hand, about to decide whether they deserved a drawer or exile to the sock basket, when someone knocked.

He opened the door, still holding them like a white flag.

Flitwick stood there, smiling. “Good evening, Professor Rosier.”

“Good evening, Professor. Anything I can do for you?” Cassian raised the briefs. “Can’t imagine my underwear is relevant, but they are yours if you insist.”

Flitwick chuckled. “Thanks for the offer, but I rather you don’t.”

Cassian shrugged, dropped the undies back onto the bed. “So?”

Flitwick gestured toward the wardrobe. “Put those away first. Headmaster wants to see you.”

Cassian didn’t ask what for. Flitwick wasn’t one for dramatic pauses or cryptic scrolls, so it had to be business. He made his way through the castle. Flitwick led him to the winding stair. The door opened before they knocked.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, fingers steepled. McGonagall stood to his right, arms crossed. Snape leaned against a bookshelf. Sprout stood near the window. Quirrell hunched in a corner chair, fiddling with his sleeves.

“Professor Rosier,” Dumbledore greeted.

Cassian gave them a once-over and scratched back of his head. “Anything I can help with? Seems like House Heads plus Quirrell and me. Either I am being promoted or you all collectively lost a bet.”

Dumbledore smiled, looked humoured with the joke. “Thank you for coming. This will be brief.”

McGonagall looked over her glasses, she doubted that.

Dumbledore folded his hands. “As you heard during the feast, the third-floor corridor is now off-limits. That is not… decorative.”

Cassian drummed his fingers on the armrest. “You mean the one you just told a hall of children might kill them?”

Quirrell twitched.

“That is the one,” Dumbledore said, cheerfully unbothered. “We are securing something in that corridor. It will be warded. Locked, of course. And there will be… protections.”

Cassian glanced around. No one else was reacting. “So we are safeguarding something, and you are telling the entire school where it is.”

McGonagall stepped in. “The warning is enough. No student would dare challenge that.”

Cassian snorted through his nose, the international sound of ‘Are you sure?’ “You clearly haven’t met Fred and George.”

Sprout muttered, “They will poke anything if it looks forbidden.”

“Which is why we are placing safeguards,” Dumbledore said again. “Each of you, if willing, will contribute something. A measure of deterrence. Magical, of course. Nothing extreme.”

“Define ‘nothing extreme,'” Cassian said, still watching Dumbledore.

“Think more… obstacle course. Less execution chamber.”

McGonagall gave him a sharp look. “Albus.”

“Minerva, I trust our staff to use sense.”

Dumbledore turned his gaze to Sprout. “Pomona, I trust you can arrange something with your… collection?”

Sprout nodded. “I have a few plants that bite. Nothing lethal.”

McGonagall added, “Mine will be… mental.”

Cassian squinted at her. “That sounds terrifying.”

“I mean puzzles, Mr. Rosier.”

“Still terrifying.”

Snape didn’t speak. If anyone was going to use something that looked like a cauldron exploded and cursed its own shadow, it would be him.

Dumbledore looked to him. “Severus?”

“I have something in mind.”

Cassian raised a hand. “Just to clarify. We are placing defences for an object none of us are being told about, but we are told to treat it like it is worth fortifying with magic, riddles, and potentially carnivorous shrubbery?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, smile not fading.

“Brilliant. I shall supply a series of animated insults and a particularly aggressive door handle.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “I trust you’ll come up with something more suitable.”

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Are we a match made in heaven? I bring the lecture, you bring the silence… perfectly balanced.

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About images at the end of my chapters;

Spoiler

A reader recently asked how I create the images at the end of each chapter, so here’s the rundown:

I usually come up with the concept after rereading the chapter before publishing. I pick a moment that, to me, feels either the most important or the funniest, depending on the chapter’s mood. The images themselves are fully generated by AI, mostly DALL.E 3 for consistency. I’ve made a few character templates for the important ones, and I feed those in before prompting so the characters stay consistent. 

The credit goes entirely to the AI and the data it was trained on (stolen or otherwise). I used to edit them more, photo manipulation, adding text, tweaking details, but these days I mostly just prompt and leave it at that.

So yeah, I cannot draw. I’ ve tried, I promise. What I can do is Photoshop, I’ve been doodling and playing for over 15 years now. I started by coloring manga back in 2010, moved on to some black and whites, then around 2015-2016 I was designing novel covers for others (for free) and making my own early covers through photo manipulation.

Drawing will never be my strength, and I’ve made peace with that. Instead, I use the tools I have to bring a little color and life to my chapters.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep