By the time night fell, Cassian was back in the corridors. Patrolling. Always patrolling. And Hogwarts loved to creak at night.

He turned into the south wing and spotted a familiar sash rounding the corner.

“Professor Rosier,” came a too-chipper voice.

“Miss Clearwater.”

“Nothing unusual on the third floor. Peeves tried to rearrange the armours again, but Per- Mr Weasley convinced him to duel a staircase instead.”

Cassian blinked. “What did the staircase do?”

“Won, sir,” she said, very serious. “He is now stuck on the third landing arguing with the portraits.”

He nodded. “Acceptable outcome.”

Percy jogged up a second later, slightly out of breath. “We checked all the east towers. One of the Hufflepuff second-years was crying behind a tapestry about missing pudding, but other than that, nothing.”

“Give the child a biscuit and tell them life only gets worse,” Cassian said flatly.

Penelope blinked. Percy smothered a scoff.

“Keep circling. Send word if Peeves starts rhyming in Latin,” he added.

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused, turning to vanish down the next corridor with a flurry of robes and over-polished shoes.

Nothing happened for the next hour or so. Cassian almost… almost thought it might be a quiet night, but the night didn’t disappoint.

The sound of a muffled giggle reached him near the east stairwell. He stopped, sighed, and pivoted toward the nearest broom closet. Knocked, hard.

“Out. Now. No need to get dressed in a panic. I am counting to five.”

A frantic whisper, a thud, then the door creaked open.

Eliza Windmill and Lenny Pindlebrook stepped out, suspiciously composed for two seventh-year Ravenclaws who clearly thought the word “closet” meant “hotel suite.”

Cassian didn’t blink. “Go to your rooms. You are lucky I am not assigning a scroll on magical hygiene. Next time I will dock points, hear me?”

Lenny gave him a rueful smile. “Good evening, Professor R.”

“Don’t flrit with me when you still smell like bad decisions,” he said dryly, waving them away. “Off you go.”

They fled, dignity somewhat intact, Eliza nearly tripping over her own shoe.

He turned back into the corridor, walking past the staircases when a sharp, dry cough echoed behind him.

Cassian paused. Slowly turned.

Argus Filch stood there, scowling like someone had pissed in his mop bucket.

“Argus,” Cassian greeted, nodding politely.

Filch just grunted. “Can’t believe they gave you a badge.”

“Technically I have two. One for teaching and one for charm.” Cassian gave him a faint smile.

Filch glared at him like he might combust from the sheer force of disapproval. Then, with a final sniff of disdain, he turned and shuffled off muttering something about “Rosiers and their damn smirks.”

Cassian watched him go, hands in his pockets. Fair enough, really. When he’d been a student, he paid an older student once to hex Filch’s shoelaces to scream every time he stepped near a ward. The man hadn’t slept a full night for a week. He had the habit of placing his shoes next to wards to go to sleep. 

He earned that scowl.

Heading toward the Charms corridor, he slowed near a darkened classroom.

Something felt off.

Then—

A hiss of laughter. A muttered curse.

Cassian moved.

Three Slytherins jumped like they’d been cursed.

Teddy Taylor, Dorian Blackwell, and Terence Higgs were crouched near the front desk with a scattering of enchanted items between them, exploding inkpots, dancing quills, and what looked suspiciously like a hovering wig that periodically slapped itself against the chalkboard.

“Gentlemen,” Cassian said flatly. “Busy evening?”

Dorian tried to palm the inkpot. “Just studying, Professor.”

Teddy chimed in. “Reinforcing Transfiguration theory with visual aids.”

“And sabotage,” Cassian said. He stepped forward, picking up one of the quills as it attempted to draw a moustache on his robes. “Planning to prank the first-years again?”

Terence offered a lazy smile. “Just some harmless fun, sir.”

Cassian flicked his wand. The wig tried to slap him, it froze mid-air, then crumpled like a dying moth.

“Fifteen points from each of you,” he said. “And another ten from Taylor for smiling like a cartoon villain while holding contraband.”

Teddy scowled. Dorian swore under his breath.

“You can collect your things and report to Professor Snape in the morning,” Cassian added. “Tell him I said hello and we should catch up one day.”

Higgs’ smirk twitched. “Will do.”

They slunk out like wet cats. Cassian glanced around the room one last time, then stepped into the corridor.

The night rolled on.

He turned into a long stretch of hallway lined with arched windows. The faint moonlight left the stone floor slick and pale. Halfway down, he slowed, squinting at the faint shimmer of something on the air.

Five steps back down the hall, it hit him.

Why had he turned?

Cassian stopped, turning it over in his head. He was about to check that corridor. Nothing had pulled him back, no noise, no odd smell, no sudden summons from Dumbledore. And yet he pivoted like a marionette on a snapped string.

“Alright, that is bollocks,” he muttered under his breath.

His heart thudded, matching the sense of something wrong in his mind. He knew what compulsion magic felt like… This was subtle, but not subtle enough. Whatever it was, it had teeth.

He rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Brilliant. Either the castle is cursed again, or I finally lost it.”

This time, he planted his feet squarely before the threshold.

“Right. Your move.”

Then he lunged forward. Fast. His boots clapped against the stone… one, two, three.

By the fourth, it hit.

His stomack lurched. The world tipped sideways. It was like someone grabbed his chest and yanked…

And he spun.

His feet turned him, dragging him back the way he came.

“Bloody hell!” he snapped, stumbling to catch his balance.

There.

That wasn’t right.

He backed up a step, eyes narrowing at the stretch of stone and shadow.

“Alright. Let’s see what you are.”

He tried a Revealing Charm. His magic hummed against the corridor, but nothing bloomed in the air.

“Not a standard ward.”

“I really don’t want to use this,” Cassian muttered, raising his wand, trying to push down the memories wanting to invade his mind. Apertis Oculus. The words tasted sour in his mouth. This particular variant came with memories he would rather leave rotting in the back of his skull.

He could still see the old wizard from that vision, crouched in some damp, echoing chamber, muttering the incantation under his breath. At first, the cave had seemed empty. Safe. Then the illusion cracked. Something moved, not one thing but dozens… creatures with too many eyes and limbs unfolding like broken furniture.

Cassian’s fingers tightened on the wand. The scary part wasn’t that the creatures had mauled him. It was that before the spell, they’d been harmless. Invisible, yes, but entirely passive. The act of seeing had made them aware. And awareness had teeth.

“Alright,” he whispered under his breath. “If something jumps me, I am blaming Dumbledore in my will.”

The hall ahead was quiet, shadows stretching long under the pale wash of moonlight. He kept his wand raised, though he had to stop himself from gripping it like a sword.

He drew the tip of his wand in a sharp spiral, breath hissing out. “Apertis Oculus.”

The air in front of him shuddered like he ripped a curtain sideways. Magic flared, sharp and strange, and the corridor rippled. For a breath, everything was still. Then it peeled back, one layer at a time.

Cassian froze.

The corridor wasn’t empty. Not by a long shot.

Thin ropes of magic criss-crossed the floor, faint as cobwebs caught in weak light. A tangled snare of runes glimmered against the flagstones, twisting and curling like snakes trying to swallow their own tails. The ward sat quiet and cold, like it was waiting for someone stupid enough to step in.

He squatted, head tilted, tracing the lines with his eyes. “Oh, you are pretty,” he murmured. “And very much in my way.”

It wasn’t old. Not in the sense of dusty ancient magic buried under centuries of headmasters’ egos. But it was clever. Whoever set this up knew their craft.

Cassian moved carefully around the edges. A Confunding Ward, he realised. That explained the forced turns, the way his feet had moved without asking. A charm layered over the net to muddle anyone approaching it. Clever and targeted. Most of the staff wouldn’t even notice… they would feel the pull and wander off, convinced they were heading the right way. Probably only a handful of people were keyed to walk straight through without feeling a tug, woven in individual signatures, threads so faint they barely sparked when he brushed them with magic.

He tried to follow the lines further, to see where the signatures hooked into the net, but they bled into the tangle and vanished. Either the runes were designed to collapse the pattern when probed, or they simply didn’t care to be understood. That alone was unusual. Most wardmakers liked to show off, leave a bit of flair in the structure so anyone who recognised it knew exactly whose work it was.

Not this one.

Clearly Dumbledore’s handiwork. The ward practically hummed with that brand of subtle overcomplication the man loved so much. The why could wait, the only thing that mattered now was seeing what was worth this much subtlety. He traced the knotted runes and threads of magic holding the net in place. Once you spotted them, the ward wasn’t too tricky. A few strands thicker than the rest… anchor points. He tapped the first with his wand, felt it give slightly, then skimmed for the second and third. The network softened like a spider web touched by rain.

He stepped forward, weaving carefully between the glowing lines. The Confunding charm tugged faintly at his senses again, but now that he found the tether points, it was like pushing through a thin veil. The ward curled back on itself with a soft ripple, letting him slip through without so much as a flicker. 

“Alright, old man,” he muttered, stepping clear of the ward’s edge. “What’ve you buried in here this time?”

The corridor beyond was… unremarkable. Stone walls, dust curling along the skirting boards. He approached, tiptoeing. The handle turned easily, no further charms. Either Dumbledore had stopped at one ward, unlikely, or he wanted whoever got this far to walk in.

Cassian eased the door open.

Empty classroom.

No desks, no chairs, no chalk dust hanging in the air. Just a single object in the centre of the room. It was tall, faintly rectangular, and leaned against the far wall as if someone had dragged it in, dumped it there, and promptly lost interest.

Cassian shut the door behind him and crossed the floor. Up close, the thing was obvious. A mirror.

“A cursed wardrobe for the soul.” He muttered, “Set to reflect an empty classroom. Definitely not ominous.”

He crouched, peering at the edge where the mirror met the floor. He didn’t detect any telltale glow, or hum of active enchantments like the Confunding ward outside. Whatever it was, it wasn’t shouting danger. Which somehow felt worse.

Cassian straightened, fingers brushing the edge of the thing.

His reflection wasn’t something he usually cared about, looked at it every morning, cursed his hair, carried on, but this wasn’t just glass. Nothing Dumbledore locked behind a ward ever was.

He stepped in front of it, closer.

At the mirror’s arch, something shimmered faintly in the low light, a string of jagged letters etched along the frame.

Cassian squinted.

“…Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.”

He stared. Then said flatly, “What in the name of all enchanted bollocks is that supposed to mean?”

He leaned in like that might help. It didn’t. The letters were still gibberish. “Is that a spell? A curse? A particularly bad attempt at Welsh?”

The more he stared, the less sense it made. He tilted his head, frowning at the scrawl. His own reflection frowned back. Then it clicked, of course it looked like nonsense. He was reading it straight-on, not through the mirror. Bloody obvious, really. It wasn’t encrypted, it was just… backwards. He had to read it as a reflection. Naturally. Text for a mirror, hidden in plain sight.

He huffed and read it the other way.

“I show not your face but your heart’s desire.”

Cassian stepped back. “Sure, infiltrate my mind and show me what my Id thinks.”

He snapped his gaze forward as he caught something.

Cassian froze.

Two steps back.

In the glass, he wasn’t alone.

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Picture it… centuries from now, scholars debating all the great people who read this fine fic, saying, “Less that we thought it would be. Maybe people in 2025 just didn’t know how to appreciate it.”

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep