Walking out the Headmaster’s office, Cassian clenched his fist. He had no illusions. This wasn’t about pens. Or tone. Or even that bloody badger comment. He taught the same class last year. Same jabs, same tricks, same teacup stunt. Dumbledore knew it too. Probably read half the assignments over his nightcap and chuckled into his beard. 

So this? This was about the audience.

New faces. Sharper ears. Bigger names. Not all the first years came in equal… Malfoy’s name might as well have been carved on half the bricks, and Cassian didn’t need a seating chart to know which students had owls that carried family crests. The complaints hadn’t come because he said something wrong.

They came because he said it to the wrong people’s children.

Dumbledore hadn’t stopped him, hadn’t even frowned. He knew exactly what this was, a show for Lucius, not a trial for Cassian. And the reason he pushed back as hard as he did was simple, this wasn’t a fight with Dumbledore or McGonagall. They were just the messengers. He knew it. They knew it. His jabs weren’t aimed at them, and they weren’t the ones who’d lose sleep over his tone. It was theatre, every line performed for the sake of whatever name sat behind the complaints. Everyone played their part, well, except Snape, of course. Snape wasn’t acting. Snape was just an arse.

He made his way to Bathsheda’s room. Candles lit, a half-drunk mug of something steaming on the desk. Cassian spotted her behind a stack of scrolls and immediately threw himself across her lap with all the grace of a flung cloak.

“Mommy,” he whined, muffling his face in her robes. “They made me sad.”

She slapped his arm without looking up. “Stop that.”

“Mean,” he muttered into the fabric.

“You’re heavy.”

“I am emotionally fragile.”

“You’re a grown man.”

“I’m traumatised. That meeting violates international treaties.”

She sighed, shoved her scrolls aside and poked his ribs until he sat upright. “What happened?”

He flopped back into her armchair, legs kicked out. “They staged an intervention. I got told off for revolutionary pen use…”

After hearing the whole story, she blinked. “You serious?”

Cassian held up a biro from his pocket like it was Exhibit A. “Apparently, this is too modern for the magical world. God forbid the children write legibly. And I might have accused Salazar Slytherin of starting a slap-fight with a badger.”

Her brow twitched. “You didn’t.”

“Allegedly… and lost.”

“Cass…”

“It was relevant to the discussion! They were reciting textbook nonsense like gospel. Someone had to say it.”

She leaned back, arms folded. “What did Dumbledore say?”

“Didn’t hex me. But he is worried I am a stage performer radicalising the youth.”

“That is… not unfair.”

He threw a cushion at her head. She caught it, unimpressed.

“They had the nerve to say I am undermining magical authority,” Cassian went on, sitting up to grab a biscuit from her plate. “Like that is hard. The system is so fragile a strong breeze could undermine it.”

“You did steal the Malfoy Heir’s voice.”

“Borrowed. Gently. Returned with minimal scarring.”

“And told students Hogwarts: A History was full of lies.”

“I said edited.”

“You are such a pain.”

Cassian bit the biscuit in half. “That is what they said.”

She nudged his boot with hers. “So what, you come running to me for sympathy?”

“I came for tea. But I will take pity if it’s going.”

She pushed herself up and crossed the room to fetch another mug. “You could make this easier on yourself. Don’t push so hard. Don’t dig your heels in every time someone raises an eyebrow.”

He slumped back again, stared at the ceiling. “That is the problem, isn’t it? I like it. The teaching. The mess. The questions. I actually care. And now I got bloody Draco’s dad writing letters because I gave a kid a biro.”

She handed him the tea, “What you gonna do?”

He scratched at the line of stubble under his jaw. “I will deal with Daddy Lucius directly. If they think I am Professor Binns, they are sorely mistaken.” He smirked. “I am not a ghost. Hehehe.”

Bathsheda squinted at him. “Here we go again.”

He kissed her, quick, soft, and a bit too to annoy her. “Catch you later.”

“‘You don’t have to win every skirmish to win the war.’ They say, right?”

And with that, he swept out of her office like a man on a mission. Which was bold, considering his mission involved exactly what any self-respecting pureblood did when things went sideways… cry to his own daddy.

Once inside, he locked the door, dragged a chair to the fireplace. He pulled out a blank sheet, clicked his biro, and stared at the paper…

“Dear Father,

I write to assure you that my mission remains unchanged. The work you and Grandfather outlined continues, as promised. The students have responded well… some more than expected. Your concerns about influence and precedent are noted and accounted for.

You asked for a method that would teach them to distinguish between the magical world and the non-magical one. A contrast. Sharp lines, obvious truths, cold logic. That is precisely what I am delivering. Nothing cements superiority better than comparison.

The plan remains simple… show them how Muggle solutions look clever. Highlight the mechanisms. Let them marvel. Then show where it all breaks. Where magic outstrips machine. Where centuries of wizarding tradition still hold the upper hand. Let them taste that thrill… then show them the limitations. It is how you train a palate. Offer sweetness, then salt.

I incorporated these ‘demonstrations’ subtly… pens, non-magical theories, historical reinterpretation. Not as replacements, mind, but as examples. Small interjections. Enough to spakr interest. Enough to set the boundaries. The clever ones try to bridge the gap. The others recoil. Either outcome is useful.

You wanted them primed to understand what they are not. I am doing exactly that. They think I am provoking. They don’t realise I am preparing.

The younger students are particularly pliable. That is to be expected. They’ve not yet settled into ideological grooves. They parrot what they hear, chase whatever earns points. I’ve been careful to present magical authority not as oppressive, but… established. Stable. Safe. In contrast to the Muggle world’s unpredictability. Its noise. Its bluntness.

That is the word I used, in fact. Blunt. No finesse. No wandcraft. Just wires and buttons and accidents that occasionally result in progress.

The first-years soaked it up. Potter, especially. Eager to understand, desperate not to fall behind. He parrots less than the others. Observes more. Dangerous, that. But manageable. He is at the stage where approval still matters. If I offer it sparingly, he will lean the right way.

But that Malfoy is as arrogant as expected. He believes himself clever, but leans heavily on his surname to fill the gaps. I let him flounder once. Took his voice. It made a point. He will recover. Slytherins always do. But the memory will stick.

But Father,

How am I supposed to carry out your vision… Your and Grandfather’s vision… if I am being throttled by the same Purebloods who wouldn’t know a real legacy if it hexed them in the arse?

Lucius. Lucius Malfoy, with his little parade of peacocks and pocketed Ministry favours. He wasn’t made, he was placed. Dropped into power like a stone into a pond, and now he wants to pretend the ripples were his own doing.

This… this ridiculous summoning, the tone-policing, the implied threat of a committee isn’t about the pen, or the lesson, or even the snatched voice. It is an insult. Meant to sting. Meant to remind me where I stand.

I was raised for this. Sent for this. But they look at me and see an upstart in a borrowed coat, stirring trouble instead of saluting portraits. They forget your name, our name, built half the bones in this castle.

So I ask plainly… handle them. Outside these walls, where I cannot. I can fight for the classroom. I can weather their pointed whispers and snide letters and whatever next pathetic little tantrum they send my way. But I cannot wage war with Lucius Malfoy while teaching eleven-year-olds how not to blow their fingers off with basic casting.

He plays the political game like it is a family heirloom. I will not. Not here. I don’t have time to smile for his allies or tiptoe around his spawn.

What I need… what I demand is space.

And you owe me that.

C

Cassian grinned. “Let’s see whose Daddy is stronger, Draco. Hehehe.”

He slid the finished letter into a thin parchment sheath and sealed it. Then called, “Tweak.”

A loud pop cracked the air. Tweak appeared on the rug with a startled blink.

“You called for Tweak, Master Professor Rosier?”

Cassian nodded, stretching his legs out in front of the fire. “I need to send a letter. My elf will come pick it up. Be a dear and warn the others, will you? I would rather not start a turf war.”

Tweak gave a quick nod. “Right away, Master Professor,” and vanished with another pop.

Cassian clicked his pen, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “Towel.”

Another crack. A second elf appeared.

“You summoned Towel, Master Cassian?” it squeaked, already reaching for something invisible.

Cassian waved him down. “Relax, it is not about cleaning. I need you to relay this straight to the Rosier estate. Personal delivery to Father. No detours, no eavesdropping, no swapping letters with curious paintings, yeah?”

Towel straightened. “Yes, Master Cassian. Straight to the ancestral door. No talking. No sniffing the walls. Towel is invisible and dignified.”

“Good. Go.”

Towel vanished.

***

Cassian kept teaching. A little shinier round the edges, sure, no biro endorsements, no snatching voices mid-sentence, no telling first-years the Founders were glorified roommates who nearly killed each other over dorm decor. But he didn’t exactly go soft.

He still used pens. Claimed he “retired the last one for reasons of national security.”

He left out the sharper jabs. But the class still got history, raw and twitching, not the sanitised museum version.

Somewhere between Draco’s father’s letter and Snape’s passive-aggressive scowling, Cassian figured it was time to stop painting targets on his back with neon paint. At least for now.

Though Regulus’s chat with Lucius, well… that was something Cassian would’ve paid galleons to watch.

Rosier Patriarch didn’t write ahead. Just showed up. He stepped straight through the Ministry’s front-facing politeness and walked into Malfoy Manor like he owned the damn place. Technically, he did, twice removed, on his mother’s side.

Cassian didn’t get the details. But he could imagine. He liked imagining.

Lucius’ face when the tall, unbothered shadow of Regulus Rosier crossed his velvet threshold, hands behind his back, voice flat as parchment… Cassian smiled every time it crossed his mind. He could practically hear Lucius choking on his own welcome.

Whatever was said, it worked.

The letters stopped. No more “concerns.” No more notes about “tone” or “content not aligned with curriculum.”

Cassian walked into class the next morning and wrote the word “Authority” on the board in six languages, then underlined it, twice. No one said a word.

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

You’re quiet, which is fine. But quiet in history usually ends up labelled “lost civilisation.”

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep