That night, in the dead quiet of the castle, Cassian felt his illusion breaking. Someone had gone into the corridor. Bathsheda shifted against him, snoring faintly as her hair tickled his jaw. He let out a long breath, staring at the ceiling.

Closing his eyes, Cassian focused. His illusion… Torn. Marred. Ripped from the inside.

“Oh, Quirrell,” he muttered.

He’d suspected something was wrong with the man for months now. Ever since that sabbatical, he came back different. Everyone had blamed it on the vampire run-in in Albania. Cassian didn’t buy it.

Quirrell was too quiet. Too careful. Always watching the room like he was waiting for something to catch fire.

And he was certain Quirrell couldn’t break his illusions. Especially not this one. The rune was hidden in another dimension, a trick he’d learned in a tomb-turned-monastery in China. A layered spatial magic.

Which meant…

Either Quirrell wasn’t alone.

Or he wasn’t Quirrell anymore.

“Kill the damn troll. We don’t have time.”

The voice hadn’t come from Quirrell’s mouth. It came from the back of his head.

Cassian sighed.

Of course.

Was that Voldemort?

He sat up, shifting slowly so Bathsheda didn’t wake. Her hand twitched where it rested against his ribs. He eased her fingers away gently, got to his feet, bare toes hitting cold stone.

A shared body.

And the second he thought it, the name hit him like a brick, Quirrellmort.

Stupid. That stupid name his friends used in the past life when they joked about the first book.

How the hell had he not thought of it sooner?

Would’ve saved him the paranoia, the sleepless nights, the second-guessing.

Or would it?

Even now, knowing didn’t help.

Because if he’d thought of it back then, he might’ve tried to stop it. Would’ve gone to Dumbledore sooner. Or worse, straight into the gauntlet himself.

And maybe that would’ve been the bigger mistake.

Dumbledore’s board was already set. Potter was already in play. He hated it! He still didn’t like any of it, but just this once, he wanted to see what Dumbledore was really playing at. 

Cassian moved to the window, leaned his forehead against the glass.

He wanted to go in, barge through every locked door, tear the place down if he had to. Screw Dumbledore’s plans.

But he closed his eyes.

And sure enough, two figures appeared in front of the illusion. Hermione and Harry. No Ron.

Cassian frowned. ‘Where’s Weasley?’

The floating book hovered above them.

Walk through me and you shall perish.

Wait here twenty-four hours and you shall be safe.

Books never lie.

Harry paced under it, anxious. His eyes flicked from the hovering book to the stone corridor ahead. Every few steps, he looked like he’d bolt.

Hermione on the other hand, squinted at the lines.

That last line… was placed for her.

The book, the wording, “Books never lie.” It wasn’t a deterrent. It was a message for her.

Hermione had spent the whole year trying to convince him that books couldn’t lie. She came to him after class, citation in hand, footnotes marked, sometimes two or three editions of the same text, just in case he claimed one was outdated. Every time, he’d proved her wrong. Not because the books were lying, but because the authors were.

He remembered the look on her face when he showed her how easy it was to plant a lie in a citation. A book, printed quietly under a pseudonym, sold only to a single library, just enough to make it real on paper. Just enough to be referenced. A system that could be tricked so easily.

She glanced at Harry.

He didn’t understand her hesitation.

Hermione swallowed, then she stepped forward.

Harry followed.

The illusion didn’t flicker. The runes didn’t burn. The book stayed silent.

They passed through as if nothing were there.

Cassian watched as runes attached themselves to the two of them, threading through their steps.

“Hopefully it will protect you,” he muttered. “And hopefully nothing will happen to you.”

He turned from the window.

The bed creaked faintly as he slid back under the blanket.

Bathsheda rolled toward him in her sleep, arms wrapping around his chest, forehead pressing into his collarbone like she’d been waiting. He wrapped an arm around her.

His eyes stayed open, fixed on the dark.

The illusion was down. The gauntlet had begun.

And there was nothing left to do now but wait.

***

By morning, word had already swept the corridors… Potter was unconscious in the Hospital Wing.

Cassian visited the Wing and made sure all three were still breathing, with all limbs attached.

Weasley had a bruise blooming on one cheek and dried blood on his temple. Hermione had a scratch across her jaw and her hair was tangled, but otherwise fine. Potter was unconscious, pale and still, but the chart at the end of his bed showed stable vitals and no internal bleeding. Nothing broken. Nothing cursed.

He watched them for a long minute. Just three kids in beds that looked too big for them.

He sighed and left.

As he stepped into the corridor, footsteps approached in the corridor. Dumbledore walked calmly, hands folded.

They passed each other without a word.

Cassian didn’t stop, didn’t glance back. Neither did Dumbledore.

***

Two days later, Gryffindor lost to Ravenclaw in Quidditch. With Potter still out, the chasers didn’t stand a chance. Cassian had caught sight of McGonagall that evening, her lips were pressed so thin they nearly disappeared.

By Monday evening, the Great Hall was a sea of green and silver. Slytherin banners hung from every beam and torch bracket, the House crest gleaming like they’d just won a war. The tables were crammed with chattering students.

Cassian strolled in late and slid into his chair at the staff table. The Slytherins were celebrating already, Malfoy smirking like he’d personally secured every House Point they’d earned. The Gryffindor table sat stiff-backed and sulky.

“Cheerful lot tonight,” Cassian murmured.

Flitwick hummed, a faint smile playing at his lips.

Dumbledore rose from his seat. Conversations died off as hundreds of heads turned.

“Well done, Slytherin,” Dumbledore said, suppressing the last of the cheering. Applause erupted from the Slytherin table.

But Dumbledore raised a hand, and silence fell again.

“However,” he said. “It takes more than academic success and Quidditch victories to shape a year at Hogwarts.”

Cassian’s mouth twitched. Ah. Here we go.

“I have a few last-minute points to award.”

Students murmured among themselves.

“To Mr Ronald Weasley, for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years… thirty points.”

Weasley’s jaw dropped. His brothers clapped him on the back so hard he nearly toppled into his plate.

“To Miss Hermione Granger, for her cool use of intellect when others might have panicked… thirty points.”

Granger looked stunned. Cassian arched a brow.

“To Mr Harry Potter,” Dumbledore went on, his voice soft but carrying, “for pure nerve and outstanding courage… fifty points.”

The Gryffindor table erupted. Cheers, whoops, and a few celebratory bangs from the twins echoed across the hall.

Cassian glanced down the table at Snape. The man looked murderous, his fingers curling against the tablecloth like he wanted to hex the cutlery.

Dumbledore raised a finger. “And lastly… to Mr Neville Longbottom. It takes great bravery to stand up to your enemies, but even more to stand up to your friends. For this, I award Gryffindor five points.”

The roar from the Gryffindor table nearly shook the enchanted ceiling. Cassian smirked.

The banners overhead rippled. Slowly, the green and silver drained away, replaced by red and gold. The Gryffindor lion stretched, roaring silently as confetti burst into the air.

Cassian waited for the noise to crest, then stood smoothly, drawing a dozen curious looks as his chair scraped against the stone floor.

“Headmaster,” he said lightly. “Might I steal a brief word before the feast begins?”

Bathsheda’s hand shot out, curling around his sleeve. “Cassian, sit down,” she hissed under her breath.

He smiled faintly, tugging his arm free. “Relax, I’m not here to overthrow the Gryffindor monarchy. Not tonight.”

Dumbledore turned, still in his placid expression. “Of course, Professor Rosier. You have the floor.”

“Much obliged.” Cassian stuffed his hands into his pockets, as though preparing for a casual chat rather than addressing the entire Great Hall. “Now, before anyone panics, this isn’t about house points. Gryffindor’s victory stands untouched, as it should after Headmaster had decided so.”

A few mutters rippled through the Slytherin table, he ignored them.

“I only want to mention a few names. Contributions that, while quieter, struck me as no less worthy of recognition than… ah, high-stakes chess and heroics.” New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on nοvelfire.net

Cassian raised a finger. “And, of course, if my esteemed colleagues think these acts deserve house points, they are free to award them. If not… well, I trust their judgment entirely.”

He began before anyone could interrupt.

“Firstly, Miss Clearwater,” Cassian continued, as casual, almost bored. “She’s been ferrying library books to Madam Pince for students too scared to ask her themselves. That woman’s glare could crack stone… takes bravery to go near her desk.”

The Ravenclaw table burst into chuckles. Penelope gave a small shrug, ears tinged pink.

“Miss Greengrass,” Cassian went on. “Tutored six of her classmates from different Houses in Charms last month without anyone asking her to. Even kept her patience when one set fire to his sleeve. Impressive restraint.”

Daphne looked down at her plate, hiding a small smile behind her glass.

“Miss Abbott.” Cassian tipped his chin toward the Hufflepuff table. “Fixed a batch of brooms in flying class. Saved four kids from face-planting in the dirt. I would say that deserves a toast.”

Hannah blinked, startled, then ducked her head as her housemates clapped politely.

“Mr Zabini. Did you know he spends his free time helping Madam Pomfrey restock and clean up after injuries? Not glamorous work, but invaluable. Lovely lad. Bit of an attitude, but still, good hands with a broken nose.”

The hall went still. A few heads turned to stare at Blaise. The boy looked faintly surprised, though a smirk was already forming.

“And Mr Macmillan,” Cassian finished, glancing at the boy. “Volunteered to clean up after one of Peeves’ little incidents in the west corridor. Not exactly a noble quest… he just wanted to annoy Peeves back. Still, effort counts.”

A few scattered laughs echoed off the enchanted ceiling.

Cassian folded his arms loosely, gaze sweeping the hall. “Amazing, isn’t it? All these decent behaviours, all these quiet contributions. Yet I don’t recall anyone handing out house points for them until now. Curious.”

McGonagall’s jaw locked so hard Cassian could hear her molars grind.

Cassian lifted his head towards Dumbledore. “Anyway, that’s all from me. No points given. If my colleagues see merit in these acts, they know where the hourglasses are kept. If not, I simply ask the students to remember these names alongside the others celebrated tonight.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, unbothered. “A thoughtful reminder, Professor Rosier. Indeed, recognition takes many forms.”

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

A revolution with no noise is just someone pacing.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep