Cassian marched toward Dumbledore’s office, simulating the fight in his mind. He’d suspected for ages the whole thing was one giant charade, carefully laid out for Potter and his two tagalongs. It wasn’t even subtle. The chessboard alone gave it away, three empty spaces, like a giant neon sign screaming this bit reserved for Gryffindor’s finest. He raked a hand through his hair, fingers dragging down his face in exasperation.

Making a challenge Ron Weasley could handle was probably harder than rigging the entire gauntlet. The boy wasn’t completely useless. He could swing a wand and take up space, but his strong suits were limited in color.

And the first task? Subtle as a Bludger to the face. Hagrid’s “challenge” basically boiled down to spending five minutes in his company. The man couldn’t keep a secret if it were glued to his tongue. But who else could’ve gotten the details out of him? Especially when most didn’t even know what the obstacle was ahead of time.

Devil’s Snare? That was practically handing them the answer sheet before the exam. They’d learned about it just this year, revised it for their Herbology exams a week ago. It was a warm-up.

Keys and a broom. Potter’s specialty. His most glaring specialty, really. The boy could barely keep his shoelaces tied half the time, but give him a broom and suddenly he was the Chosen One of aerodynamics.

A troll. An actual, full-grown mountain troll. Because naturally, if a trio of eleven-year-olds once survived one in a bathroom, they’re now certified troll-busters? Please.

And Granger? Snape’s logic puzzle might as well have had her name carved into the base. The girl probably dreamed in logic puzzles.

He hissed the password to the gargoyle and stormed up the stairs without waiting for them to finish turning.

He knocked, hard, then shoved the door open.

Dumbledore didn’t even flinch.

He was seated behind his desk, looking entirely too serene for a man caught playing puppet master.

“Professor Rosier,” he said mildly, “do come in.”

“I’m in,” Cassian snapped. “And I’m not in the mood for riddles today.”

Dumbledore gave a small smile, entirely unbothered. “Ah. That must be a first.”

Cassian didn’t sit. He paced for a couple of times, then dropped into the chair. 

“What the hell is the meaning of those obstacles?” he snapped, voice sharper than he intended. “When you said ‘delay, dissuade, confuse, not maim,’ I didn’t think you meant ‘create a matinee performance for three first-years.'”

Dumbledore’s eyes sharpened, the twinkle gone. “They came to you, didn’t they? About Nicolas Flamel.”

Cassian gave a dry, humorless laugh. “I should’ve known the moment they said they couldn’t find the name of a six-hundred-year-old wizard in any book in the library. Were you deliberately delaying them? Pacing their discovery so it lined up with whatever slow-burning plan you’ve got ticking away under that hat?”

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. “Professor Rosier, I am not playing games. The Stone is real. It is in Hogwarts. And we are protecting it.”

Cassian slammed his palms onto the desk.

“From whom?” His voice dropped, quiet but venom-laced. “The wraith I saw in the forest? That cursed thing feeding off unicorn blood? Voldemort?”

Dumbledore’s fingers steepled.

“You think Devil’s Snare, trolls, and flying keys will stop the Dark Lord? Really? Even you can’t be that delusional, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore spoke, jarringly calm. “They are not meant to stop him. Only to slow him. Long enough.”

Cassian paused, his face hid the fury underneath, just for a second. That calmness, it was like staring into a bottomless well. Dangerous in its quiet. His lip curled. “Long enough for what? For Potter to stumble in with Gryffindor guts and divine timing?”

Dumbledore didn’t blink. “Long enough for me to arrive.”

Cassian snorted and stepped back from the desk. “You’re gambling.”

“I am preparing.”

“You’re gambling. With children.”

Dumbledore’s gaze didn’t waver. “You think I want them involved?”

“You built it for them,” Cassian snapped. “The dog. The chessboard. A flying key challenge. A logic puzzle. The only thing missing was a slot for a chocolate frog card with Potter’s face on it.”

“I built it for Voldemort,” Dumbledore said softly. “For him to overestimate himself. For him to walk through believing he has won… only to find he hasn’t.” Dumbledore’s eyes dimmed, just slightly. “Harry walks it only if he must.”

Cassian’s expression was hard. “And if he will! You’ve left him breadcrumbs, a neat little trail of house points and heroics.”

“I’ve left him choices,” Dumbledore corrected. “It’s not the same.”

Cassian laughed again, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the idea. “You’ve left him bait. And just like the last war, you’re playing with people’s lives.”

Dumbledore’s silence said everything.

Cassian turned to leave, jaw clenched. “I am not letting you or Minerva put my students in danger anymore. I said it last time. Don’t mistake me for bluffing, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore’s voice came quiet, tired. “Professor Rosier, I ask you not to act on this. I promise, everything is under control.”

Cassian stopped in his tracks.

Turned.

And when he looked at Dumbledore again, his face wasn’t angry, it was furious.

But beneath it, something colder had cracked open.

“Tell me why,” he said, softly. Too softly. “Why was Potter skin and bones when he arrived here? Why did he look like a kicked stray wearing hand-me-downs from a bin? Why was the vanquisher of the Dark Lord, Heir of the Potters, no less, treated like something someone wanted to forget?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer.

Cassian stepped closer. “Tell me why he had no idea about magic. About who he was. About anything. Tell me why no one, not even the Ministry, bothered to check on the boy they plastered across history books.”

Still silence.

Cassian’s voice sharpened. “And now you want him to walk into a trap you’ve dressed up like a riddle hunt? You want him to ‘have a choice,’ what, to die neatly this time?”

Dumbledore closed his eyes.

“I did what I had to do,” he said at last.

“No,” Cassian snapped. “You did what you wanted to do. And you’re dressing it with words that you think makes it sound better. It doesn’t.”

Dumbledore’s fingers curled slightly. “He needed time to grow up. To be unshaped. If he grew up famous, if he grew up knowing… everything would be different.”

“And now?” Cassian’s voice was ice. “Now he gets to grow up bleeding?”

Dumbledore’s voice was very quiet. “You’re not a father, Cassian.”

“I’m a teacher,” Cassian said, cutting him off. “That’s worse. I get to see them when they’re still soft. Still hopeful. And I get to watch the world crush them with consequences that weren’t theirs to begin with.”

He stepped back.

“I refuse to be part of this, Headmaster. I’ll keep my students safe, whether you like it or not.”

“Professor Rosier. My decision is final.”

Cassian turned. “Why? Fucking why?”

Dumbledore shook his head slowly. “The fewer people who know, the better.”

Cassian gritted a smile. “If something happens to any one of them, only one of us can remain in this school, Headmaster. And even if it’s not me, I’m not leaving quietly.”

Dumbledore didn’t argue. He just sighed. “Thank you.”

Cassian’s mouth twisted. “Don’t thank me.”

Then he stormed out, the door slamming behind him with enough force to rattle Fawkes off his perch.

***

The next few days passed without trouble. Exams came and went. Students dragged themselves between classrooms, quills snapping, parchment tearing, and not a single one of them remembering to drink water. Cassian let them stew. He wasn’t about to hold their hands, panic was part of the process.

By the time the last day rolled in, the castle felt hollow. Too quiet. Even Peeves seemed subdued.

Cassian caught sight of Potter, Weasley, and Granger huddled by the courtyard fountain, voices low, eyes darting about like they were plotting a jailbreak. Which, knowing what was coming, wasn’t entirely unlikely. He’d seen that look before… students trying to carry the weight of something too big for their shoulders.

His last exam was with First Years.

They were huddled in the classroom, staring down at the single sheet of parchment, expecting the trick. A few of them exchanged wary glances.

“Sir,” Tracey Davis said cautiously, “why is it so easy?” For original chapters go to NoveI~Fire.net

Cassian lounged against the edge of his desk, expression deadpan. “I’ve told you enough times already. Education means sod all if it is just about proving how good you are at passing instead of actually learning something.”

A few students blinked at him, unsure if this was some elaborate trap.

He gestured lazily toward the paper. “Pass my class, don’t pass my class. I don’t care. But if you haven’t learned a single useful thing from me, I might cry. And I am an ugly crier.”

On the parchment, there was only one question, written in his neat, slanting hand…

“Explain in your own words, how magic shapes history and how history shapes magic. There is no wrong answer. Just show me you’ve thought about it.”

Cassian nodded to the page like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Now go on, answer the question.”

A few quills scratched tentatively.

He scanned the room. Granger already had her head down, scribbling like the world depended on it. Potter stared at the question as if the question were about to hex him. Weasley leaned toward him to whisper, and Cassian snapped his fingers.

“No conferring. I want your thoughts, not a committee report.”

They jolted and went quiet.

Cassian smirked faintly, pushing off the desk. He strolled between the rows of desks, hands stuffed in his pockets, pausing every now and then to glance over shoulders.

“This isn’t about right or wrong. It’s about thinking. If I wanted parrots, I’d teach at a bloody aviary.”

He walked behind Hannah Abbott, scanning her answer. “Hmm. Not bad,” he muttered. “You’ve got a knack for seeing past the Ministry gloss. Keep that.”

Humming faintly, he moved to Susan Bones. Neat handwriting, measured argument. Cassian tipped his head. “Well-structured. Bit heavy on the dates, though… history isn’t just a timeline, Bones. It is a conversation. Let it breathe.”

Next, he bent over Justin Finch-Fletchley’s parchment. Halfway down the page, his brow arched. “Did you just compare Merlin to Churchill?”

Justin flushed crimson. “Er, well, the impact…”

Cassian straightened with a faint smirk. “Ballsy. Wrong, but ballsy.”

Over in the Ravenclaw row, Anthony Goldstein was already watching him approach, eyes wary. Cassian tilted his head as he read. “Goldstein, decent insight on magical isolationism, but don’t just parrot Madam Bathilda Bagshot. Give me your thoughts. Otherwise you are a dictionary with legs.”

Anthony muttered, “Yes, sir,” and scratched something out.

A seat down, Padma Patil’s quill flew across the parchment. Cassian glanced at her answer and gave a nod. “Finally. Someone’s got a grip on nuance. Good work.”

As he circled back to the front, Cassian paused by Neville Longbottom. The boy’s parchment was crumpled at the edges, ink blotted in three places. Cassian read the opening lines, then crouched slightly to meet his eye.

“You’re on the right track. You’ve got the heart of it, Longbottom. Now trust yourself. Stop writing like you expect the paper to bite you.”

Neville nodded, clutching his quill tighter.

Cassian straightened and strode back to the desk, leaning lazily against it.

“Two minutes,” he called. “Finish your thoughts, sign your name, and don’t forget to breathe. I’d hate for any of you to pass out on my watch. Not because I care. I just don’t want the paperwork.”

A ripple of nervous laughter broke out.

He let it settle before adding, “And remember… history isn’t about memorising dates and names. It’s about asking why people did what they did… and what you would’ve done standing in their shoes. Remember the quote I told you? Emperor Taizong of Tang said, ‘With bronze as a mirror, we tidy our clothes; with history as a mirror, we can discern the rise and fall of dynasties.'”

Chairs scraped as students shuffled, parchment rustling. Cassian stayed where he was watching as the first-years queued to hand their work over. Once the last sheet hit his pile, Cassian tapped it with his wand. The parchment stacked itself neatly, the ink drying instantly.

“Congratulations. You survived.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Go eat something. Sleep if you are lucky. And try not to hex anyone before breakfast tomorrow.”

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Sometimes I wonder if you’re a myth I invented to keep myself company.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep