“History is mostly made by lunatics with enough magic and not enough supervision.”

“No one remembers the sensible hedge-witch who healed toes and minded her cauldron,” Cassian continued, watching their horrified faces for a second. “But they will etch Bellodrix’s rune into prison walls for three centuries. That is influence. Terrible, bloody influence. But it sticks.”

He paused beside Kenneth. “Which is why you are learning it. Not to use it, obviously. But to know it. Because one day, some bright-eyed anarchist will carve it into a bathroom stall and call it a revolution, and I would rather you recognise the shape before it is carved into your classroom door.”

Lee Jordan raised his hand, brows drawn together. “But you showed us the rune, told us how to charge it, and even what to use. Isn’t that… a bit dangerous?”

Cassian tilted his head with a smile. “That is a genuinely good question, Mr Jordan. Naive, but good.”

He raised his wand, and with a wave, dozens of runes blinked into existence… suspended mid-air like ghost scripts etched on glass.

“Now,” Cassian said, stepping back, palms open like a stage magician about to ruin someone’s dinner. “Common misconception, so don’t take it personally. People think runes are just drawings.”

He gestured to the floating symbols. They pulsed lightly in the dim classroom light, rows of hooks, slashes, jagged spirals stacked like an angry alphabet.

“That,” he said, nodding at them, “is your first mistake.”

A few students leaned forward, eyes wide open.

“From their conception to completion, the runes have to be crafted properly. Precise conditions. No exceptions. Same as a spell. You don’t just flail your wand and mutter ‘Lumoso’ hoping it turns into light, do you?”

George opened his mouth. Cassian jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t answer that.”

He paced a few steps, “You need the whole set, gesture, intent, mental image, magic. Miss one, and best-case, it fizzles. Worst-case, your eyebrows end up on your knees.”

Alicia stared hard at the air, tracing the lines with her eyes.

“Runes are trickier,” Cassian added. “Because people assume they are passive. Scribble a few lines, bleed a bit, job done, yeah? No.”

He stopped in front of the board, tapping his wand against it, “Doesn’t matter how fancy your carving is, how calligraphy-ready your script looks… if you don’t know how it works underneath, it is nothing. Useless. Worse than useless, actually. You have to know how each node connects, where the charge flows, which angle shifts what effect, the whole thing falls apart. Or worse. You end up with a fire in your lungs and your teeth explode.”

George grinned, elbowing Fred. “Sounds like fun.”

“Seriously,” Cassian went on, “they’re not decor, they’re machinery. They aren’t like those silly glowing stones you stick on a bracelet and pretend make your luck better. They are circuits. Intent channels. You muck it up, well… Could make your door swing open at the wrong word. Could make your bones hum when someone lies.”

Angelina raised an eyebrow. “That is… specific.”

He pointed at her. “Because it happened. Some idiot in 1483 tattooed a truth rune on his ribs and couldn’t go to market without confessing every time he overcharged someone for bread.”

Kenneth squinted. “Wait, so why use them at all?”

Cassian grinned. “Because when they work, they are brilliant. You can carve one rune into stone and make it hold a spell for ten years. You can layer three into a shield and make it ignore flame, curse, and sound. And if you are Bellodrix the Unwashed, you can try to vanish an entire battalion and instead give them spontaneous combustion every time they sneeze.”

Roger Davies had that look Ravenclaws got… curious, already replaying half the explanation in his head. “But if they are unstable, how did anyone use them in war?”

Cassian waved his wand, and the runes hanging in the air twisted. In a blink, the floating glyphs morphed into something altogether different… angular lines collapsed into a long cartridge, a brass casing, a tapered tip. One by one, it assembled until it hovered there in the middle of the classroom like a conjured warning.

“This,” he said, tapping the air just behind it, “is a bullet. Muggle invention. Uses mundane materials… metal, powder, pressure. When excited…” he flicked the casing and it spun, “it explodes. Very exciting. Fires a chunk of metal fast enough to ruin someone’s week.”

Kenneth leaned forward, eyes squinting at the ghostly shape. “Is that… magic?”

Cassian tilted his head. “Not even slightly.”

He gestured again, and the bullet expanded, rotating. Inside, layers appeared… the tip, the powder, the casing, a thin rim of primer. Each section lit up in turn.

“For years, the powder was used solely for fireworks, until a brilliant man, bit of a maniac, probably, decided it could do more. You know. Damage. Very dramatic. His name doesn’t matter. He died in his own house when he mishandled a prototype.”

“So Muggles invented runes,” George said, mock-serious.

Cassian gave him a look. “No, they invented death in small packaging. Different achievement.”

He raised his hand before they could derail into something worse. “What I am trying to say is, this little creation here?” He pointed at the suspended bullet. “Volatile as sin, but it is the foundation of Muggle warfare now. They make them by the million. Some countries sell them by the bucket. And like runes, most people who fire them don’t know what they are made of. Just point. Pull. Hope.”

A few faces twitched at that. Roger looked faintly horrified. Angelina just narrowed her eyes like she was deciding whether this counted as part of the syllabus.

Cassian let the bullet vanish with a casual swipe of his wand. “So. Just because something is dangerous doesn’t mean it is useless. The point of this isn’t ‘don’t touch.’ It is, learn how not to get yourself turned inside out while handling it.”

He took a few steps, then dropped a palm flat on the desk. “Rune Masters, real ones, not the sort who write a book and suddenly start calling themselves experts, learn thousands of these symbols. Thousands. Each with its own structure, its own limit. They know where every node is. How much charge a line can hold before it cracks.”

Seeing their amazed faces, and glowing eyes, he grinned. He checked his watch. “Right then. We will carry on with Bellodrix the Unwashed next week. Off you go, before one of you tries to charge a rune with sheer belief.”

There was the usual rustle of scrolls and ink pots and half-tied shoelaces. Fred tripped on his own robe and somehow blamed George. Cassian watched them file out like a group of migrating owls… noisy, scattered, mostly upright.

Angelina paused at the door. “Professor?”

“Mmm?”

“Did she actually lose her fingers?”

Cassian smiled without teeth. “Only the left three. Never stopped her. Used to stir cauldrons with her elbow after that.”

Angelina blinked, then nodded like she expected nothing less.

When the last of them vanished into the corridor Cassian dropped into his chair and laced his fingers together like a cartoon villain, grinning at the empty room.

“Hehehe,” he said to no one. “Oh, my foolish love. You thought you were free of the Weasley Twins.”

He leaned back, tapping his thumbs together. “Watch now. Watch how I make them curious about Ancient Runes. Watch how they take your class, unravel your notes, ask questions at dinner.”

A pause.

“Muhahaha.”

That night, Cassian was on the floor, hunched over a mess of parchment and books like a raccoon dissecting a crime scene. There was ink on his sleeve, tea cooling on the desk, and three failed diagrams of a logic ward balled up near the bin. Dumbledore had asked for a “non-violent deterrent.” That narrowed it down to riddles, bureaucratic paperwork, or mild haunting.

He was halfway through sketching a charm that rearranged cardinal directions when Bathsheda came in.

Just walked straight in, coat still on, holding a folded bit of parchment like it had personally offended her.

Cassian glanced up. “If that is another invitation to the staff gala, I am faking a coma.”

She dropped the paper on his notes.

“Why,” she said, “are third year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws suddenly obsessed with my class?”

Cassian looked at it. List of names. Neat columns. Familiar ones. Jordan. Spinnet. Both Weasleys, naturally. Someone had even added a doodle of what looked like a rune sneezing.

He looked away, hands up. “No idea.”

She was on him before the words even landed. Ink bottle went flying, quills clattered, and parchment crumpled under her knees.

“You bastard,” she growled, shoving his shoulder hard enough to tip him sideways. “You are a terrible liar, and they had class with you today. You convinced them how amazing Runes are, right?”

Cassian caught her wrist, twisted, rolled… pinned her clean to the mess of parchment. “Damn right I did. You laughed at me when I was reading their essays. Now we suffer together.”

She narrowed her eyes, then twisted beneath him then flipped him clean over. She straddled him, palms flat against his chest. “I am going to kill you.”

“Bold claim,” he said, grinning up at her. “You need me alive for their detention slips.”

“I will forge your handwriting.”

He let his head thump back against the rug. “Fair.”

The parchment dug into his back. A broken quill jabbed his ribs. She leaned down until her nose almost touched his.

Then they started to roll for another reason.

The parchment didn’t stand a chance. Half the diagrams got crumpled into the rug. Quills snapped. One of them elbowed the inkpot and sent it crawling towards the diagrams.

Cassian grabbed for it, missed, and promptly forgot about it when Bathsheda bit his shoulder.

A chorus of voices. A good deal of cursing, too, like a particularly profane opera. They spent enough time in the field to know how to make things efficient, but somehow the floor got involved, then the desk, then the back of his knees gave out and they ended up tangled in a way that made him question the structural integrity of the carpet.

At some point, he might’ve shouted “Oh gods,” but whether it was over the way she bit him or the fact that she cracked a rune pun mid-way through was still up for interpretation.

Later, much later, she lay sprawled half on top of him, the skin of her back warm under his hand and her breath slow against his throat.

“You realise,” she said eventually, “you are the worst.”

“I thought that was the point.”

She nipped his ear in answer. Then rolled off him with the grace of a cat that had just decided the room belonged to her.

Cassian stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, legs numb, brain mostly in restart mode. He could already feel ink drying somewhere inappropriate.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “That was very educational.”

She stretched beside him, arm over her eyes. “Very.”

He pointed a finger in the air, completely serious. “We should set a warded essay subject. ‘Describe the ritual properties of horizontal positioning.'”

She snorted. “You would get fired.”

“Only if they read it.”

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Rome wasn’t built in a day. Guess my comment section won’t be, either.

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