Cassian leaned back in his chair, waving lazily as Dumbledore introduced him. “Pleasure.”

The Hall responded with murmurs, whispers, and not-so-subtle nudges. He caught a few familiar expressions among the older Slytherins. Recognition, mild curiosity, and in one or two cases, barely concealed amusement. They knew him. Wonderful.

The Gryffindor table, on the other hand, had a few particularly unimpressed faces. A group of redheads, Weasleys, obviously, exchanged glances before one muttered something that earned quiet snickers. Cassian had a fairly solid guess on the contents.

Mulford barely spared him a glance before returning to whatever quiet thoughts she was brooding over. Snape, seated beside him, didn’t even look his way. Probably pretending he wasn’t there at all.

Cassian smirked to himself. Oh yes, this year was going to be a bloody circus… and he had front-row seats.

Dumbledore carried on with the usual notices… reminders about Filch’s ever-growing list of banned items, and the fact that anyone caught trying to sneak into the kitchens after hours would be dealt with accordingly. None of it was particularly new, but the first-years hung onto every word like he was revealing the secrets of the universe.

Once the speech wrapped up, the food appeared, and the Hall erupted into its usual feast-time chaos. Cassian reached for a goblet, sipping as everyone settled for the feast.

“Quite the reaction,” Babbling murmured, cutting into her meal.

Cassian tilted his head. “Oh?”

She didn’t glance up, but there was a trace of amusement in her tone. “The students seem… intrigued.”

Cassian flicked his gaze toward the tables. A few students still cast looks his way, though most had moved on to more pressing concerns… namely, stuffing their faces.

“I imagine it is not every day someone with my stellar academic history lands a teaching job,” he said. Reaching for bread.

She smiled faintly. “It does raise some questions.”

“A little mystery does wonders for the reputation,” Cassian said lightly. “Makes them nervous. Keeps them awake.”

She gave him a sidelong glance before shaking her head, returning to her meal.

Across the Hall, the first-years gawked like they’d stumbled into Olympus, while the older students slid back into their little tribes.

The rest of the feast passed without much incident, aside from Peeves attempting to dump an entire pitcher of pumpkin juice onto a group of unsuspecting first-years. Filch lost his mind over it, but Dumbledore waved the poltergeist off like a mildly misbehaving pet, and things returned to normal soon enough.

Eventually, the plates cleared, and the students were dismissed to their dormitories. Cassian lingered only to avoid looking eager to leave, then slipped away as the staff filtered out.

The halls felt different now. He walked these corridors before, but never like this. As a student, he spent most of his time avoiding actual responsibilities. Now, he was expected to be the one keeping students in line.

Life was funny like that.

Cassian sorted his things quickly, keeping it simple. Books on the shelves, spare robes in the wardrobe, quills and parchment stacked neatly on the desk. Once everything was in place, he went through his usual routine… washing up, changing, making sure he didn’t look like he’d just rolled out of a ditch.

By the time he got into bed, the castle had settled into its usual late-night quiet. The distant rumble of moving staircases, the occasional hoot of an owl, the soft flicker of torchlight against the stone walls… it all felt strangely familiar, yet strange.

He closed his eyes. The job wasn’t the problem. The magic was. The floating list in his head, the spell mastery, the fact that teaching seemed to make him stronger… none of it made sense. But if Hogwarts was good for anything, it was giving him plenty of opportunities to figure it out.

***

The next day, classes began.

Cassian woke early, washed up, and dressed without dragging his feet about it. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a slob. His robes were crisp, his hair neat.

Despite what most assumed, he wasn’t a complete mess. Lazy? Absolutely. But when it came to teaching, he didn’t half-arse it. Always on time, always planned, always ready. In his last life, history had been his thing, and teaching it had been the only job he ever actually enjoyed.

This time wouldn’t be any different.

The castle was already stirring by the time he left his quarters. A few ghosts muttered greetings or cast him wary looks, still undecided about what to make of the new professor. Some threw him downright ugly glances… after all, he had taken Professor Binns’ job. The old ghost was still moaning about it to anyone with ears. He ignored them all and made his way toward the Great Hall.

Inside, students were trickling in, yawning and shuffling to their seats. The enchanted ceiling showed a grey morning sky, clouds heavy with the promise of rain. The scent of fresh bread, eggs, and roasted tomatoes filled the air, blending with the usual low murmur of conversation.

Cassian dropped into his seat at the staff table, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Good morning, Professor Rosier,” Babbling said, offering a polite nod.

Cassian raised his cup slightly. “Morning.”

Other side of him, Flitwick was already deep in conversation with Vector about some Arithmancy diagrams. Sprout was chatting with Kettleburn, who looked far too excited for this hour. Snape, of course, was ignoring everyone.

McGonagall rose from her seat, straight-backed as ever. “A reminder to all students… classes begin promptly after breakfast. First-years, follow your prefects. Schedules will be handed out shortly.”

A few groans from the Gryffindor table. Ravenclaws were already pulling out parchment. Hufflepuffs looked like they’d been awake for hours. Slytherins just nodded like they already knew the entire week’s lesson plan.

Cassian glanced at his own schedule. First class… Third-year Gryffindor and Slytherin. Should be fun.

Breakfast went by quickly. As the students started filing out, Cassian downed the rest of his tea and stood. Time to teach.

His classroom was on the third floor, tucked away from the noisier parts of the castle. When he arrived, the door was open, and a few students were already inside, loitering near the back.

Cassian stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. The students turned at the sound, some straightening up like they’d been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

“Find your seats,” he said, walking to the desk. “Unless you would rather stand for the whole lesson. Your choice.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as they scrambled to sit. The classroom wasn’t anything special… rows of desks, a blackboard, a few old maps on the walls. Dust still clung to some of the shelves, remnants of Binns’ complete lack of physical presence.

Cassian leaned against the desk and glanced over the room. Third-years. Gryffindors and Slytherins.

He tapped the desk. “Right. History of Magic. Probably the subject most of you plan to sleep through.”

A few nervous chuckles. One or two guilty looks.

Cassian smirked. “Can’t blame you. Professor Binns made it about as exciting as watching paint dry. But since I am not a ghost…” he tapped his chest “…and I don’t intend to bore myself to death, we are doing things differently.”

Percy Weasley raised a hand. “Differently how?”

Cassian shrugged. “We are actually going to learn something useful.”

Someone near the back muttered, “That will be a first.”

Cassian’s eyes flicked to them. A Slytherin. Warrington. “Oh? Got a problem with history, Warrington?”

The boy hesitated, then smirked. “Just never found much use for it.”

Cassian pushed off the desk, stretching his arms out like he was settling in for a casual chat rather than a lecture.

“I can’t blame you,” he said. “History is just a collection of glorified stories picked by the winners. Two sad truths about it, one, the victors always write it. If Binns hasn’t had some great awakening since my time here, I assume most of you have had the pleasure of hearing his version of the Goblin Wars.”

A few students laughed, some nodding.

“Yeah, well, first, he actually fought in that war, so he is biased. Second, wizards won, so the recorded history is ours. Not exactly objective.” Cassian tilted his head. “And the second sad thing about history? Most people don’t know what to do with it. But it is a lot more useful than you think.”

Warrington scoffed. “Not if you plan to do anything practical.”

Cassian shot him a look. “Practical, is it? Tell me, Warrington, what do you plan to do after Hogwarts?”

“Join the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” he said, with all the smug confidence of a boy who thought he had it all figured out.

Cassian nodded. “Right. And you think they don’t care about history?”

“They care about law, not stories,” Warrington shot back.

Cassian smirked. “You don’t think history and law go hand in hand? Tell me, who wrote the laws you plan to enforce?”

Warrington hesitated.

Cassian pressed on. “The Ministry. A governing body built on the foundations of magical history. Every law, every policy, every bit of legal precedent you will be studying? It all comes from historical events, conflicts, and, shockingly… winners deciding what gets remembered. You walk into a courtroom waving a law around, and if you don’t know why it exists, you are at the mercy of someone who does. You think the best Aurors, the best lawyers, the best enforcers don’t study history? They eat it for breakfast. Because knowing where something comes from means knowing how to bend it.”

Silence.

Cassian let them stew for a second before continuing. “That is just law. What about business? Politics? Healing? Even bloody Quidditch?” He pointed at Oliver Wood, who blinked, hiding the pitch book under his desk. “You lot ever wonder why some teams have rivalries going back centuries? Why certain games are more brutal than others? Why some teams refuse to hire players from specific regions?”

Wood hesitated, brow furrowed. “I mean… it is just tradition, isn’t it?”

Cassian grinned. “Right. Tradition. And what is tradition?”

Wood blinked again.

“History,” Cassian said simply. “Every so-called tradition is rooted in some event, some grudge, some deal made a hundred years ago that people are still clinging to. You think Quidditch teams play rough just because they feel like it? Some of those grudges are older than this castle itself.”

A few more students looked intrigued now, leaning in just slightly. Good.

Cassian turned back to Warrington. “Still think history is useless?”

The boy muttered something under his breath and looked away.

Cassian clapped his hands together. “Right, now that we established history isn’t just bedtime stories for dusty old wizards, let’s start with something simple.” He leaned back against the desk, scanning the class. “Who is the greatest wizard in history?”

A few students blinked, as if trying to figure out if this was a trick question, but the answer was obvious.

“Merlin,” they called out, nearly in unison.

Cassian nodded. “Right. Merlin.”

Cassian’s wand flicked, and threads of golden light wove themselves into the air, knotting, twisting. The students’ murmurs turned to stunned silence as a moving image appeared before them, Merlin, robed and bearded, standing beside a golden-armoured Arthur. It wasn’t still like a painting, nor choppy like a wizarding photograph. It flowed, smooth and lifelike, a silent projection of a scene straight from legend.

He didn’t know what Merlin had actually looked like, no one did… well perhaps Sorting Hat, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. His mind pulled from the only references he had, those grainy TV shows and old illustrations from his past life. Close enough.

Spoiler

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“Those who refuse to act are not neutral; they are complicit in their own erasure.”

– Professor C. Rosier (Probably)

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep