On May 28th, Cassian was halfway through his class with the First-Year Gryffindors and Slytherins. The illusion shimmered faintly in the air above their heads, the voices layered over it giving life to the clash of spells. Flames roared as tiny figures darted across a charred battlefield, wands raised.

The voice of the battlefield was a new Ancient Variant Cassian had awakened recently, Vox Multorum. He’d first used it in the forest when he made Dumbledore speak, but this would be the first time he used it in a classroom. Thankfully, the memory bound to it was tame this time. It wasn’t some blood-soaked echo trying to claw its way free but a compilation from a bunch of bored wizards centuries ago, experimenting with sound illusions to improve theatre effects. Cassian, never one to leave good magic alone, had merged it with Lumos Spectaculum. The result? Absolute Cinema, Hogwarts edition. And judging by the slack-jawed stares, it was working.

Tiny soldiers dashed across scorched ground above the students’ heads, fire jets streaking past them as the sound of war rolled through the classroom.

Seamus Finnigan’s hand shot up, half-grinning. “Sir, is this, er… a real battle?”

Cassian flicked his wand, freezing the illusion mid-charge. A plume of flame hung in the air, frozen mid-arc. “Depends on your definition of ‘real.’ Late 1060s. Muggles file it under the early Norman pressure on Wales, Magicks later called this phase the Shrouding of Cymru, though they are not as proud of their involvement. A fine example of a fire-variant in combat. Ignivolatus, when you want to make people rethink their life choices.”

“Ignivolatus,” he said, rolling the word. “Fire leap. A small burst that hops five to ten feet from the wand. Think thrown spark, not bonfire.”

Hermione’s hand went up. “Sir, that isn’t in the first-year curriculum.”

“Neither is not dying,” Cassian said. “It’s related to Incendio, and you lot keep treating fire like it only does candles. Today you learn something useful.” Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on novel fire.net

A few Gryffindors snickered. Draco Malfoy’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Mr Malfoy?” Cassian said, not looking up as he prodded the illusion to rewind the volley of flame.

“Sir, why didn’t they just use Aguamenti to counter it? Seems… obvious.”

Cassian smirked faintly. “Because, Mr Malfoy, that’s the difference between sitting in a cosy classroom and standing in mud while a hopping flame ricochets at your knees. Panic tends to make people forget their textbook counters.”

Lavender Brown gave a soft giggle. Seamus Finnigan, sitting three seats back, whispered something that made Dean Thomas choke on a laugh. Cassian let it slide.

“Now,” he went on, “watch closely. This lot used Ignivolatus across the field to herd the Normans, not roast them, although,” his brow furrowed, “given how clumsy these recreations are, you would think wizards in 1067 were all pyromaniacs with poor aim.”

The tiny soldiers scrambled across the smoky ground as jets of fire whooshed from wand tips. Hermione Granger’s quill darted furiously over her parchment. She’d somehow managed to fill three feet already and didn’t look ready to stop.

Hermione lifted her hand again, quill never pausing, “Sir, is Cymru… is that Cymru?”

Cassian chuckled, folding his arms as he leaned on the desk. “Good pronunciation on Cymru, Miss Granger.” He caught the faint flicker of pride in her eyes and didn’t call out the fact she’d said it twice just to show off. “Yes. It’s that Cymru.” Well, he could pronounce it properly too.

The frozen illusion moved again, sending soldiers lurching back into motion. Smoke rolled out across the ceiling, faint embers raining down harmlessly.

“Now pay attention,” Cassian said, stepping into the aisle between rows. “You lot hear ‘fire’ and think Incendio and marshmallows. Meet its sprinting cousin, Ignivolatus. In the eleventh century, this wasn’t quaint. This was bloody terrifying. Wizards weren’t duelling for sport… they were burning entire valleys to the ground to push Muggle kings into submission.”

He tapped the air with his wand. A bead of flame hopped off the tip, skipped five feet, and died with a hiss. The class collectively leaned back.

Neville swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames.

“Anyone want to tell me what happens when you mix poor wand discipline with mass panic?” Cassian asked, stopping at the front.

Seamus raised his hand. “Er… people set themselves on fire?”

Cassian grinned. “Exactly. Five points to Gryffindor for honesty. Wizards in a battle aren’t thinking about their textbook counters or elegant flourishes. They’re thinking one thing only.., not the trousers, not the trousers.”

The class snickered.

“Mr Malfoy asked earlier about Aguamenti.” Cassian gestured at the Slytherin row. “Yes, it could’ve helped, in theory. But unless you’re some prodigy who can conjure a waterfall under pressure, you’re more likely to get a pitiful dribble and a face full of smoke.”

He let that hang for a moment, pacing slowly as he flicked his wand again. The illusion shifted, a line of cloaked figures, their wands raised, sheets of water clashing with fire midair. Steam hissed and curled, the sound loud enough to make a Gryffindor flinch.

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Cassian said, his voice cutting through the hiss of steam. “This wasn’t just magic for magic’s sake. The Cymru magicks were trying to push the Normans out, but they overdid it. The fire spread, scorched farmland, ruined supplies. Their own people starved that winter. Congratulations, victory by self-sabotage.”

Dean Thomas frowned. “Sir… didn’t they teach these spells properly? Wouldn’t they have known the risks?”

Cassian smirked. “Ah, the arrogance of youth. Every generation thinks they’ve mastered their tools. Then the tools remind them who’s in charge. Fire is predictable… until it isn’t. Remember that.”

He waved his wand again. The illusion snapped to another scene. A ruined field, blackened earth stretching into the distance. Crows circled overhead.

“Notice how the survivors never carved this into their family histories,” Cassian said dryly. “Muggle records call this a ‘mystery fire.’ Magicks… Well, they quietly tucked their wands away and went home. Nobody wants to be remembered as the idiot who burned half of Cymru by accident.”

Pansy Parkinson shifted in her seat. “So, basically, don’t play with fire?”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “You’re not entirely wrong. Five points to Slytherin for boiling down a thousand years of history into one sentence. I’ll have that inscribed over the Great Hall doors.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the class.

“But,” he added, “fire wasn’t the only weapon. The Cymru wizards layered their charms… heat wards, wind manipulation, even crude illusions to make their forces look bigger.”

With a muttered word, he cast another spell. Above their heads, shimmering figures appeared, duplicates of the cloaked warriors. They flickered faintly, their movements eerily in sync with the originals.

“The illusion doubled their numbers,” Cassian explained. “The Normans thought they were outnumbered three to one. That little trick forced a retreat without a single curse being thrown. Muggles faked numbers with banners and campfires, we just do it louder.” 

Ron squinted at the flickering figures. “Are they daft? How can they fall for that?”

“Smoke, mud, screaming, tell me again how daft they are when your lungs are chewing steam.” Cassian’s head snapped around, eyes narrowing. The haze thickened as more soldiers melted into the mist. “Tell me now, Mr Weasley,” he said, trying to rein in his annoyance, failing, “how many of them are real? Guess correctly, and I will give Gryffindor enough points to sit in first place for the next seven years…”

Ron shifted in his seat, glancing up at the identical warriors marching through the smoke. “Er… twenty?”

A sharp flick of Cassian’s wand made the illusion shimmer violently. Half the soldiers disintegrated into grey wisps, leaving barely a handful standing.

“Half wrong,” Cassian said, flicking his wrist. “Better odds than most first-years, I’ll grant you that. Still, not enough for Gryffindor to ride my goodwill to the House Cup. Sit down.”

He waved his wand again. The mist thickened, swallowing the classroom in a rolling grey fog. 

“A man hears footsteps… he doesn’t pause to count boots, he runs. That is what these magicks exploited. Now, eyes forward. Watch closely.”

The smoke parted to show a Norman soldier breaking from the line. His eyes were wide, breath coming in ragged gasps as he stumbled straight into a flaming trap.

Neville flinched. “That’s horrible,” he muttered under his breath.

Cassian caught it. “Horrible, yes. Effective? Absolutely. War isn’t polite, Mr Longbottom. You win by making the other side panic before you do.”

Malfoy raised his hand lazily. “So the illusions won the war?”

Cassian’s smirk returned as he leaned against a desk. “The illusions won a battle. The war? The Normans came back soon after and flattened half the valley. Illusions win battles, not winters. Tricks are brilliant, right up until someone calls your bluff and you’ve got no bread.”

He pushed off the desk and strolled back toward the front. “Right. You lot keep thinking magic is a tidy thing with counters and counters-to-counters. But on the battleground? It is chaos.”

Seamus Finnigan raised his hand halfway. “Sir, didn’t they have, y’know, proper leaders? Someone telling em what to do?”

Cassian snorted. “They did. Problem was, leaders burn just as well as foot soldiers. You think strategy holds up when the bloke next to you bursts into flames? Hard to take orders when you’re too busy rolling on the ground screaming.”

As the students settled back into their seats, Cassian gave the illusion a lazy wave. The tiny soldiers froze mid-charge, flames hanging in the air, perfectly still.

“The war lasts seven years. What you’ve just seen? One of the early skirmishes. The Magicks phase lasted only short, the Muggle fighting dragged much longer. Decades even.” He swept a hand over the parchment-strewn desk. “We’ll pick it up later. For now, I want you lot to do something for me.”

Every pair of eyes locked on him.

“Write me a scenario with Ignivolatus. Use it or counter it. No hero speeches. Mud, rain, slope, wind. What happens when your neat hop goes the wrong way? And don’t give me the ‘I wave my wand and everyone perishes’ nonsense. Think. Really think. How does it work in mud, rain, on a hill? What happens when you miss?” He fixed his gaze on Harry, Hermione, Ron and Draco, “How can you use it in a forest? Can it be used for defence? Attack? To create distance? Fend off predators. Draw attention? Divert attention?”

The class looked at him as though he’d grown horns.

“What?” Cassian asked, arching an eyebrow.

Daphne Greengrass raised her hand delicately. “Sir… all the other professors assigned a lot of homework already because of the upcoming exams. Yours is…?”

“Keep it between us,” Cassian said, cutting her off with a casual wave of his hand. “They don’t want you to rest or have fun. I am different.”

A wave of relief spread across the room. Someone clapped. A few students actually cheered.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Cassian added dryly. He winked, eyes flicking over Zabini, Greengrass, and a couple of others. “Also, I know you have other obligations outside of classes. Drowning you in homework wouldn’t be fair.”

“Best professor ever,” Seamus muttered under his breath.

Cassian heard and smirked. “Careful, Finnigan, flattery will get you nowhere. Points might, though. Five to Gryffindor for being brave enough to say it where I could hear.”

Hermione raised her hand, quill poised. “Professor, are we allowed to reference the Cymru battle in our scenarios?”

“You are encouraged,” Cassian said, stepping down the aisle between desks. “Just don’t copy it outright. If I see one more essay that wins by shouting Ignivolatus until the valley obliges, I might cry.”

A snicker ran through the class.

“Right,” Cassian said, stopping by Blaise Zabini’s desk. The boy was staring up at the frozen illusion with the air of someone trying to work out how much effort the homework might take.

“You, Zabini,” Cassian said. “A line of hopping flame comes at you and your wand arm’s broken, counter?”

Blaise blinked. “Run the other way?”

“Not a bad plan. But if you can’t run?”

“Hope I don’t roast?”

Cassian gave him a sharp grin. “At least you are honest. Five to Slytherin.”

He turned and tapped the air with his wand. The frozen flames rippled, flickers of orange and red licking out.

“Here is the thing about fire,” he said, pacing slowly. “It is not neat. It doesn’t care about your plans. You set it loose, and it eats whatever it touches. If you are clever, you use that. If you are an idiot, you get a very short obituary.”

Neville’s hand shot up timidly. “Sir… what if you cast a Bubble-Head Charm? Would that protect you from the smoke?”

Cassian paused mid-step. “Good thinking, Longbottom. Five points to Gryffindor. Bubble-Head works… if you can keep it up under pressure and don’t mind your hair smelling like burnt bacon for a week. But it won’t stop the heat cooking you like a Sunday roast.”

Neville went pink.

“Point is,” Cassian continued, “magic on a battlefield isn’t a game. Spells fail. Counters slip. And half the time you’re just in the wrong place when Lady Luck decides to ruin your day.”

Cassian clapped his hands. “Alright. That is enough.”

The illusion above their heads flared and then collapsed into a few embers, vanishing completely.

“Remember, be creative, but don’t forget the limits of magic. Or I will feed your essay to the fire and mark the ashes.”

The class groaned but started gathering their things.

“Sir,” Hermione said as she stuffed her parchment into her bag, “are diagrams allowed?”

“Only if they’re not tragic,” Cassian said. “Stick figures don’t count.”

She beamed and scribbled something on her parchment before hurrying out.

Cassian leaned back against his desk as the students filed out in twos and threes. The chatter faded down the corridor until only the faint echo of footsteps remained.

He sighed, stretching his arms over his head. Exams… Always fun.

“Right then,” he muttered, scanning the parchment pile on his desk. “A few days of quiet. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Sometimes I check the empty space in case you are there.

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