“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. How have I never thought about it before?” Cassian froze, hand still halfway to another parchment.

In his old life, his friends had talked about Harry Potter films. The main villain was Voldemort, right? But… Voldemort was killed. Wasn’t he?

The details were fuzzy, just the odd conversation drifting back from pub nights years before he appeared in this world. There was a boy wizard, lightning scar, snake-faced villain… and somehow that villain kept coming back.

Or was it the main antagonist of that anime? What was its name… oh right, Boruto’s dad.

Cassian frowned, fingers drumming the edge of the desk. No, that wasn’t it. Different snake, same problem, the bad guy doesn’t stay dead. He was sure of it. Well, as sure as a bloke could be when his memory of late-night pub chatter about wizard films and anime villains kept tripping over each other.

He rubbed his temples. “God’s teeth. I’m actually comparing Voldemort to an anime villain. Brilliant.”

But the more he tried to straighten the threads, the worse it got. He could practically hear his old mates back home arguing over whether Voldemort died properly or kept sprouting back, persistent as mould. None of them ever agreed, and Cassian hadn’t cared enough at the time to remember.

Now, though? Oh, now he cared.

“Right,” he muttered, shoving his chair back. “Let’s assume snake-face isn’t as dead as advertised.”

If Voldemort was still crawling about somehow, and the Stone was in Hogwarts, then that break-in at Gringotts wasn’t some random dark lord he first assumed. Cassian wasn’t a genius tactician, but he didn’t need to be one to see what was staring him in the face. Someone was after the Stone. Someone dangerous. That was why he dissuaded Hermione and Harry from testing the third-floor corridor. He knew most of the obstacles weren’t all that dangerous, but there was still a real troll, and whatever Snape might have cooked up.

He grabbed a fresh roll of parchment and yanked a biro from the jar.

“Things I know,” he muttered, scrawling a quick list.

Gringotts break-in, vault emptied.

Dumbledore brings the Stone to Hogwarts? (Possibly)

Traps laid in the third-floor corridor.

First-years poking their noses where they shouldn’t.

Snake-face might not be worm food.

He stared at the list, chewing the end of his pen.

“Bloody hell, it reads like the set-up to a bad heist novel.”

If Voldemort was after the Stone, Cassian wasn’t daft enough to get in the middle of it. He’d survived this long by keeping his head down, teaching his classes, and not sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. But the itch was still there. The itch that came from being a historian, knowing something monumental was happening and not being able to record it.

“Don’t do it, Cass. You’ve got an amazing girlfriend, a cushy job, a warm office, and enough essays to mark without inviting snake cultists to the party.”

But even as he said it, his mind kept spinning.

***

On April 24, Bathsheda woke up to find a giant egg floating above her head.

“N—” she started, but the thing dropped before she could finish. The egg cracked open with a wet splorch, soaking her down to her underwear.

She froze for a moment, dripping slick, pearlescent goo onto the sheets. “Cass, I swear to Merlin…” she growled, brushing a slimy chunk of eggshell off her shoulder.

Then she spotted the letter stuck in whatever mess was covering half her room. She plucked it out between two fingers, snapped the wax seal, and skimmed the contents.

Find me. Clue is in the next egg. It is in your room. Hurry or I might really get hurt.

Bathsheda let out a sharp sigh and held the parchment over a candle until the message turned to ash. She clenched the ash tight in her fist. “You are mine!”

“Bloody bastard.”

She peeled herself out of bed and padded across the room, goo squelching underfoot. Sure enough, in the far corner, floating serenely, was another egg, this one glowing faintly blue.

“Brilliant,” she said flatly.

Bathsheda reached for her wand, flicking it sharply. “Scourgify.”

The worst of the mess vanished, though she still felt tacky. Another flick and the blue egg drifted down into her hands.

“Let’s get this over with.”

The shell split cleanly with a faint pop, releasing a gust of cold air and the faint scent of mint. Inside was another slip of parchment.

The real hunt starts now. Don’t take too long, this time, it is timed.

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, it is timed now, is it? He’s going to regret this.”

She grabbed her robe, jammed her feet into slippers, and stalked out of the room, muttering under her breath about idiotic historians and their obsession with riddles.

“Egg hunts. At my age. Next he’ll send me hopscotching through the courtyard,” she grumbled.

Down on the first floor, Aurora Sinistra was leaning against the banister, arms folded. She spotted Bathsheda instantly.

“You look like you’ve been wrestled by a Flobberworm,” She said, eyebrow arched.

“Cassian,” Bathsheda muttered.

Aurora’s smirk widened. “Ah. Say no more.”

Vector stepped out of an adjoining corridor, arms full of charts and scrolls. “We can leave no—” She looked up briefly, then gave Bathsheda a knowing smile. “He’s started again, hasn’t he?”

Bathsheda let out a short huff. “Started? He never bloody stopped.”

Aurora glanced between them. “What is the game this time?”

“Eggs. Riddles. And apparently a timer, because he thinks he is clever.” Bathsheda’s tone was flat, but her fingers tightened around her wand.

“You sound like you are enjoying it,” Vector said lightly.

Bathsheda shot her a look. “Enjoy?! Do I look like I am enjoying it?”

“Maybe a little,” Aurora said, biting back a grin.

Bathsheda spotted another faint glow at the end of the hall that made her jaw clench. Of course. Another egg.

“Excuse me,” she muttered, brushing past the two of them.

The blue egg hovered lazily just below a portrait of a frozen witch. Bathsheda snatched it out of the air.

Inside was another scrap of parchment.

“Next clue, I see the stars but never the sky. You have five minutes. Try not to trip over your own feet.”

“Cheeky bastard,” she muttered, crumpling the note in her fist.

Aurora peered over her shoulder. “Where’s that one pointing?”

“Merlin knows. Cassian’s riddles are only half riddles. The rest is him showing off.”

Vector gave a quiet laugh. “At least he’s consistent.”

Bathsheda shook her head. “Consistently irritating.”

She turned on her heel, muttering under her breath as she headed up the next staircase. She didn’t notice the two professors exchanging amused looks behind her.

“Enjoy yourselves. I’ll remember this when he drags you into his next disaster.” She said over her shoulder.

The egg had to mean the Astronomy Tower. Where else would the man send her to have her legs fall off from climbing hundreds of stairs?

By the time she reached the landing, she was slightly out of breath. Another glow caught her eye near the tower door.

“Got you,” she said under her breath.

This egg was green. Bathsheda snatched it from its perch, cracking it open with a little too much force.

She noticed the tower was warm despite the chilly Scottish wind. Northern Draconic Rune? Probably his work. Typical. Bathsheda smirked despite herself, then cracked the egg open.

“Don’t fall from the tower. Or do. It might be funny. Next clue, I sit where the sun never rises, and the stars never set.”

“Cassian Rosier,” she muttered through gritted teeth, “you are two clues away from becoming an omelette.”

She stuffed the note into her pocket. He was probably lounging in some forgotten corner, laughing at her running up and down the castle like a sixth-year on a dare.

Bathsheda started down the stairs. On the second-floor landing, she nearly collided with Professor Sprout, who was hauling a basket of potted dittany.

“Bathsheda?” Pomona blinked, taking in the dishevelled robes and damp strands of hair sticking to her forehead. “What on earth happened to you?”

“Cassian happened,” Bathsheda said flatly.

Pomona’s face softened into an amused smile. “Ah. One of those days.”

Bathsheda gave her a long look. “Not like that.”

“Of course not.” Pomona’s grin widened.

Before Bathsheda could reply, the glow of another egg caught her eye behind the banister, tucked neatly beneath a battered suit of armour of Sigurd.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, sidestepping Pomona to grab it. The armour creaked ominously as she crouched, fingers brushing cold metal.

Pomona peered over. “You are not seriously…”

Bathsheda cracked the egg open with a snap. The note inside read, “Quick, clever, or covered in yolk. Clock is ticking. Next clue, where wisdom is chained, and secrets whisper in dust.”

“The library,” Bathsheda said under her breath.

Pomona laughed. “You two really ought to find a hobby that doesn’t involve terrorising each other.”

Bathsheda stood, brushing egg shards from her robe. “He started it. Again.”

“And you are playing along.”

Bathsheda shot her a glare, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “Go tend your dittany, Pomona.”

“Try not to hex him too hard,” Pomona called after her as she swept down the corridor.

She spotted Madam Pince prowling near the restricted section, eyes sharp as a hawk’s.

“Bathsheda,” Pince hissed as she entered.

“Evening, Irma,” Bathsheda said blandly.

“You are dripping something on my floor.”

Bathsheda glanced down. A faint trail of lavender mist curled off her robe hem. “Blame Rosier.”

“Oh, I do. Regularly. For every bad thing,” Pince said, turning away with a dramatic flick of her skirts.

Bathsheda’s eyes swept the room. There… floating just above the encyclopaedias, a faint green glow.

“Subtle,” she muttered, moving quickly before Pince could swoop back around.

She plucked the egg from the air stood between Whisper of Frost and Song of the Rider, cracking it with her thumb.

“Getting warmer. Try not to lose your head. Next clue, I keep watch where the stone beasts sleep.”

“The courtyard.” Bathsheda groaned softly. “Of course it is the courtyard.”

She was halfway to the door when she almost bumped into Minerva McGonagall.

“Bathsheda,” Minerva said, one eyebrow arching. “You look… damp.”

“Rosier,” Bathsheda said.

Minerva’s lips thinned. “Ah.”

“That is all you are going to say?”

“What else is there?” Minerva replied smoothly. “You’ve been tolerating his games for years.”

Bathsheda huffed and kept walking.

Minerva’s voice followed her. “If you break a leg chasing him, I won’t sign the accident report.”

She grumbled.

The courtyard was bitterly chilly.

“Alright, Cass,” Bathsheda muttered, scanning the corners. “Where is your next bloody egg?”

It took her five minutes to find it nestled in a gargoyle’s claw. The stone beast’s eyes seemed to follow her as she reached up.

The egg split open.

“Final clue, I sit where history breathes, and old bones dream. You’ve got three minutes.”

“History… old bones…” Bathsheda closed her eyes briefly. “The bloody catacombs.”

She spun on her heel and jogged towards the backyard.

If Cassian thought this was clever, she’d make sure he regretted it.

As she passed by Hagrid’s hut, she unwittingly looked towards, then she froze. There was a strange glow spilling out of the window, and some sort of commotion rattling the walls.

“Glow in a hut? That’s too… normal. He’d never stoop so low.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Cassian, if you are sending fake clues now…” she muttered. With a sharp sigh, she strode up and kicked the door open.

Inside, the air smelled of smoke and wet fur. Hagrid jumped like he’d been caught mid-crime, his enormous hands spread in front of a rickety table. Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger froze in place, guilty as anything. And on the table, squirming awkwardly in a nest of rags, was a dragon hatchling.

Bathsheda stared at it. Then at them.

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Prophecies shape destiny. Yours predicts a long, uneventful nap.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep