Percy’s frown deepened. “That is hardly…”

“Hardly surprising, yes, thank you for making my point.” Cassian shoved off the desk and started pacing between the rows of desks. “Here is the thing, people love neat little narratives. ‘Brilliant witch invents Memory Charm, saves the day, everyone claps.’ No one likes the messy truth, that most spells are just borrowed tricks dressed in new robes.”

Penelope Clearwater raised her hand. “Sir, if she didn’t invent it, how did she even get credit in the first place?”

“Timing,” Cassian replied, not missing a beat. “Radford lived in an age where Britain was trying to re-establish itself as a magical authority after centuries of quietly mooching off everyone else’s hard work. She took an old practice, found in Sumer, Egypt, even early Scandinavian settlements, and gave it rules. Clean, tidy, Ministry-approved. Suddenly, instead of some dangerous old ritual your granny muttered over the soup pot, it was a spell an Obliviator could use in broad daylight without accidentally frying a bystander’s mind.”

Percy Weasley’s hand shot up. “Professor, are you suggesting Radford wasn’t brilliant in her own right?”

“Oh, she was brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, she turned an obscure, messy ritual into a clean little charm you lot still use every day. Not many spells stick around this long without getting butchered or ‘improved’ by someone with more ego than sense.” He tilted his head, pacing a few slow steps in front of the board. “And as I said, no, Radford wasn’t some glory-hungry maniac. She didn’t care if people sang her name. She wanted people to learn, use, refine. That’s it.

“Alas,” Cassian said with a faint smirk, “like all good innovators, she wasn’t half as clever in politics. That, my dear fifth-years, is where the Ministry came in and decided to paint her as some shining poster witch of British magical prowess. Because why let facts get in the way of a good nationalistic bedtime story?”

Penelope raised her hand again. “So, sir, would you say Radford’s version is better? Or the older ones?”

“Depends what you mean by better. Safer? Absolutely. More efficient? Probably. But the Sumerian variant, for example, had… interesting side effects.”

Oliver Wood frowned. “What sort of side effects?”

Cassian shrugged like he was discussing the weather. “They would completely destroy the being. You can call it a soul remover if you like.” He flicked the wand to underline KU-DU again. “See, unlike your friendly Ministry Obliviators, whose job is wiping poor Muggles’ brains after someone’s blown up a chimney, the Sumerians used this charm on the most notorious criminals. This wasn’t your casual ‘oops-I-saw-magic’ memory wipe. This was designed to scrub a person clean and recycle the sinner back into society. Whether there was much of them left afterwards is… debatable.”

Class froze collectively, staring with the jaw slacking. A Ravenclaw boy at the back leaned forward slightly, quill hovering.

“That sounds more like… punishment than rehabilitation.” A Gryffindor girl said.

He looked at her, lips quirking like he’d just spotted a trap laid out in the open. “Is it? What is the purpose of prisons, Ms Loxley?”

Phoebe’s quill hesitated mid-scratch. “To, er… punish wrongdoers?”

“Punish,” Cassian repeated, rolling the word like it was sour in his mouth. “Interesting answer. One I would wager ninety percent of the world would parrot without thinking. And yet, prisons claim to be about rehabilitation. Reforming the criminal. Rebuilding them into something society can tolerate again.”

He spread his hands. “Do we really buy that? Or is it just easier to tell ourselves we are noble, rather than admit we enjoy locking people up and forgetting they exist?”

Alden Cresswell let out a whistle from the back, slouching deeper in his seat. “Heavy for a Firday morning, sir.”

Cassian shot him a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth curling. “Oh, we haven’t hit heavy yet, Cresswell. That comes when we cover how the Egyptians used memory-stripping to create slaves who couldn’t even remember their own names.”

He turned back to class, one brow raised.

“Prisons weren’t built for punishment or to heal society’s collective conscience. Originally, they were nothing but holding pens. You stuck criminals in there, waited for a war to kick off, then shoved them to the frontlines in exchange for their freedom.” He paused, letting that hang for a moment while the room shuffled uncomfortably. “Why? Because the most valuable commodity on earth has always been people. Not gold. Not jewels. People. Especially the sort already willing to kill to claw back their freedom.”

Cassian’s voice cut before anyone could make a joke of it.

“So no,” he went on, “prisons weren’t created to punish or rehabilitate. That is a modern gloss we slap on so we can all sleep better at night. If anything, the Sumerians were closer to humane. They knew a person’s cruelty wasn’t born in the bones, it was taught. And what’s taught can be erased. Their logic was brutal-pragmatic, erase the learnt violence, start again.”

“Wouldn’t that…” a Gyffindor girl in the second row faltered, her quill halfway to the parchment. “Wouldn’t that just… erase who they were?”

“Exactly,” Cassian said. “And isn’t that the whole point?”

The girl shrank a little.

“You are all thinking it is barbaric. But consider this, if someone’s life has been steeped in violence, cruelty, all the worst lessons the world could teach them… is it more barbaric to lock them in a stone box until they rot, or to give them a chance to start again?”

Percy Weasley made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a cough and a huff. “It isn’t justice.”

Cassian’s head tilted, swallowing the derisive laughter. “Define justice, Weasley. Is it vengeance? Is it rebalancing the scales? Or is it making sure no one else gets hurt?”

Percy’s lips thinned, but he didn’t answer.

“Thought so,” Cassian said, eyes flicking lazily from one student to the other. “Now, if you think this sort of thing is ancient history, archaic and irrelevant, think again. Obliviate still uses the same core principle. We just prefer to use it on unsuspecting Muggles instead of murderers.”

Penelope raised her hand, cautious but curious. “Would that even work today? The… Sumerian method?”

Cassian snorted softly, “Work? Sure. The principles are sound. Memory, identity, behaviour, it’s all threads in the same weave. Tug too many, the whole thing unravels. But do I trust any modern witch or wizard not to botch it and turn someone’s brain into porridge?”

He shook his head slowly.

“See, the Sumerians weren’t messing about with dainty little wands and Ministry-approved protocols. They carved their runes into stone, chanted until their throats gave out, and poured raw will into the spell. If they failed, the subject died screaming or wandered off as a husk. Simple. Brutal. Effective.”

“That sounds… risky,” Oliver Wood muttered.

He chuckled, tossing the chalk lightly from one hand to the other. “There was a blunder recently. Some bright-eyed intern managed to fry a Muggle’s brain. Young bloke. So they did what the Ministry always does… Obliviate the parents, the neighbours, the schoolmates, the milkman, probably the dog too. Everyone who’d known him, wiped clean. Except they missed one. His mate. Old friend who moved out of town years before. When he visited, he found no one remembered the bloke. Not his mum, not his dad, not the kids they’d grown up with. Nothing. Like he dreamt him up.”

A gasp went through the classroom.

“The mate went home, convinced he was losing it. Properly insane. He dug out an old shoebox full of photos just to prove to himself the guy existed. Found one, grainy, sun-bleached thing of them both grinning like idiots at a school fair. Relief, right? Except he was still confused. So he posted the picture in the paper. Headline: ‘Anyone else remember this person, or just me?'” Cassian gave a wry smile. “Ministry nearly wet themselves over that one. Had to work overtime to clean it up. Special task force, memory audits, even on Muggle side.”

A Gryffindor let out a low whistle. “That is mental.”

“Exactly,” Cassian said, tapping the table. “This is the cost of meddling with memory. You start off thinking you are doing a harmless clean-up and end up deleting someone from the collective consciousness. One slip, and it all unravels. People aren’t just their own memories, they are stitched into everyone else’s too. It is not something that should be used casually.”

A Ravenclaw boy frowned, glancing up from his notes. “Couldn’t they just restore the bloke’s memories later? If they fixed the mistake?”

“You would think,” Cassian said, turning slightly so the whole class could see him. “But memory charms aren’t just reversible like a simple levitation spell. They carve grooves into the mind. Even if you undo the magic, what’s left might not fit back together. Imagine smashing a vase, then trying to glue it back with half the shards missing and the rest warped from the impact. At best, you get a lopsided vase that leaks. At worst? Nothing recognisable at all.”

Oliver tapped his quill nervously on his parchment. “So… what happened to the Muggle?”

Cassian shrugged. “He lives in a care home now. Sweet lad, apparently. Smiles a lot. Doesn’t know who he is.”

He walked to his desk, allowing them to sit with it.

“Now,” Cassian went on. “Picture this. Someone mugs you. Takes your wand. Maybe hexes you in the process. Under British law, they get ten years in Azkaban, if the Wizengamot is feeling generous. They rot there, Dementors sucking them hollow, until they come out worse than they went in. That is justice, right?”

No one answered.

“Or,” Cassian continued, “you strip the memories. Wipe away every trace of the crime. No mugging, no hex, no sense they were ever the sort of person who could do it. You set them up in a little cottage with a nice job in the Floo Network Authority and let them think they’ve always been a model citizen.”

He stopped pacing and stared at them. “Which one is the punishment? And which one actually stops them from doing it again?”

“But… sir… wouldn’t that be like killing them? If you erase all their memories, aren’t they… gone?”

Cassian tilted his head, “That is the question, isn’t it? Is a person still themselves without their memories? Or are we just the sum of every lesson, mistake, and heartbreak we’ve ever had?” He shrugged. “The Sumerians didn’t care. They believed the soul was separate from memory. Wipe the mind, and the soul was free to try again.”

He basked in their uneasy faces, like a cat watching trapped mice. Then he waved his hand lazily.

“You are dismissed. Three feet on alternative uses of Memory Charms in ancient civilisations. Cite properly, don’t give me bedtime stories. And as always, you are free to skip.”

A flick of his wand, and the chalk scrawled Due Friday across the board with a little underline for emphasis.

Half the Gryffindors slumped in relief, already gathering their parchment. The Ravenclaws, predictably, looked insulted at the very idea anyone would skip homework.

“Merriton,” he called as the boy sauntered past. “Your essay better have fewer ink blots than last time, or I am feeding it to the fire. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Leo drawled without looking back.

“Don’t ‘yes sir’ me. Prove you’ve seen a library.”

The door clicked shut, leaving the room blissfully quiet. Cassian dropped into the chair behind his desk with a long sigh and let his head fall back.

“Three feet. Why do I do this to myself?” he muttered, staring at the ceiling.

A sharp knock at the door pulled his attention back down. Bathsheda leaned in, parchment in one hand.

“You’ve traumatised another set of fifth-years, haven’t you?” she said mildly, stepping inside.

“They are fine. A little fear builds character.” Cassian shoved a stack of essays to one side, making room for her parchment. “What is that?”

“Runes from the Hanling Mausoleum. I copied the inscriptions before leaving China.”

Cassian perked up, straightening in his chair. “Finally. Something interesting.”

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Battles are won with fire. You win yours with silence.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep