For a moment, every student looked at each other, not quite sure how to react. Hundreds of eyes drifted away from Cassian to others at the table. Students glanced between their Heads of House.

Well?

Would the professors step in? Would they weigh these small, thankless acts as worthy of the same sand that filled the hourglasses?

McGonagall’s gaze flicked sharply from Cassian to the Gryffindor hourglass… already brimming with the rubies that had won them the House Cup with Dumbledore’s last points.

At last, it was Flitwick who broke the silence. The man cleared his throat and pushed himself up.

“Well,” he said. “Ten points to Miss Hannah Abbott, for showing initiative and care for her classmates.”

Sprout straightened and nodded firmly. “And I believe Miss Clearwater has shown no small amount of courage in her own way.”

The Ravenclaw table broke into polite applause.

Neville clapped hardest, he’d clearly benefited from her help more than once. 

McGonagall drew a sharp breath through her nose. Then she turned her head toward Zabini and Greengrass.

“Ten points each to Mr Zabini and Miss Greengrass,” she said crisply. “For service above expectation.”

Snape remained perfectly still, lips pressed. Students turned to him. Staff turned to him. Even Mrs Norris seemed to hold her breath, her eyes fixed on him. Finally, he snorted.

“And five points… no more to Macmillan,” he said through gnashed teeth, “For irritating Peeves into retreat.”

The Hufflepuff table laughed and clapped.

“That is… actually fair, isn’t it?” a Gryffindor said.

Cassian looked around, mockingly shocked. “Well, well. It seems I underestimated my colleagues. Mark the date.” He tipped an imaginary hat toward Flitwick.

McGonagall glared at him. “This wasn’t your place, Professor Rosier.”

“Of course not,” Cassian said mildly. “It was yours. I simply… offered a reminder.”

Dumbledore gave a small, approving clap. “And a valuable one at that.”

The banners above shimmered, red and gold draining back into green and silver.

“Well, the numbers are what they are. Congratulations, Slytherin. Courage may be loud, but service accumulates.” Dumbledore added.

Cassian tilted his head slightly, mouth curling into a grin. Giving Gryffindor enough points to steal the Cup? Subtlety wasn’t in Dumbledore’s job description, then. 

But not on his watch.

Dumbledore didn’t look ruffled, of course. He never did. But that wasn’t the point. Awarding points for curfew-breaking, rule-breaking, for recklessly endangering one’s life… Dumbledore was telling Harry and his friends that what they did was right. It wasn’t. They had no business risking their lives, and Cassian would not allow this to set a precedent. He had to remind them that risking life did not equal winning the House Cup. And even if it did, some things weren’t worth the prize.

***

Leaving the Great Hall, Hermione sighed as Ron fumed to Harry.

“He’s insufferable. I knew you couldn’t trust a Slytherin.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re wrong, Ron.”

Ron threw up his hands. “Am I? He made McGonagall grind her teeth so hard I thought she’d crack them. He did that just to twist the knife.”

Hermione gave him a sideways look. “He didn’t take the Cup. He gave people a reason to care who else was in the room.”

“He made us look daft in front of the whole Hall,” Ron snapped. “Took our big win and turned it into a bloody kindness competition.”

“No,” Harry said quietly. “He turned it back into school.”

Ron stopped walking, blinking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry didn’t stop walking. “He didn’t take anything away from us. We got more than we deserved. You know that.”

Ron gawked at him. “You got nearly killed! Hermione solved half of it, I nearly got my head knocked off by a queen. And he just stands up in front of everyone and starts handing out praise like, like it’s a charity auction!”

“They didn’t save the Stone,” Ron muttered, quieter now.

“They didn’t need to,” Harry said. “Neither did we. Not really.”

Hermione’s lips pressed thin as Ron spluttered beside her. She dug into her satchel and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment.

“Look here,” she said, jabbing at a line she’d underlined twice. “He’s been doing this since September. He balances things out when it’s obvious the system isn’t fair.”

Ron scowled. “So what? He’s supposed to be teaching history, not playing accountant with House points.”

“He’s teaching history,” Hermione said evenly. “The history we’re making here. You saw it at the feast, he didn’t humiliate anyone, he just reminded the Hall that Slytherin and Gryffindors weren’t the only ones who worked hard this year.”

Harry nodded, gaze lowered. “Snape spent all year taking points off us for breathing too loud. Professor R put them back. Weren’t you indignant when Snape—”

“Professor Snape!” Hermione cut in automatically

Harry huffed. “Fine. When Professor Snape docked our points for no reason? Didn’t you notice how Professor R was more generous to give it back, or docking more points from Malfoy and other Slytherins for similar rule-breakings?”

Ron’s gaze darted between the two of them. “Then why would he wait until Dumbledore finished? Why not say something sooner?”

Hermione sighed, clutching the parchment tighter. “Because what the Headmaster did was unfair.” She didn’t add the rest aloud, her suspicion that what they had done in the dungeons was less about bravery and more about stumbling into a project no adult had stopped them from “willingly” taking on.

“Harry was injured because we saved the Stone,” Ron insisted. “If he wasn’t, we would have had the Quidditch Cup as well. We would have won.”

Harry shook his head, walking a step ahead of them. Did he save the Stone? His stomach twisted. From what he saw in the Mirror, the Stone had been safer inside it than in his pocket. Dumbledore’d said only someone seeking it selflessly could touch it, and Cassian’s voice from class still echoed in his mind, ‘Some ideas aren’t genius. They’re just complicated failures dressed up as wisdom.’

Harry bit his lip. If the Mirror was enough, then by taking the Stone out, hadn’t he only made it more vulnerable? Voldemort hadn’t stolen it. Harry had delivered it into reach.

Then, the only reason why he couldn’t attend the game was his foolishness. And it wasn’t anyone else’s fault that Gryffindor lost. It was his.

Behind him, Ron kept muttering about “Slytherins stealing our thunder,” but Hermione had gone quiet. Her eyes stayed on her notes, where Cassian’s scribbled asides twisted around her own handwriting, ‘Never trust a neat ending. The story is always messier than the books say.’

***

Fred threw a rune book at George, who stuffed it in his bag without looking. Lee Jordan lunged for his bed. Alicia and Angelina were standing by the door, arms folded, blocking escape.

“I can’t believe you passed Rune,” Angelina said, narrowing her eyes at George.

Fred snickered, already unrepentant. “I will always be indebted to Professor R for teaching us about Bellodrix the Unwashed. Every year, for a month, I won’t wash to honour her as well.”

Alicia grimaced. “Please don’t. You’d stink out the common room in a week.”

George slid down beside Fred, both of them staring at the ceiling like philosophers on the brink of revelation. “Who would have known runes were perfect tools for pranks. We can never pay our debts.”

Lee snorted from his bed. “You’re both ridiculous. But he did make it sound like history’s just… full of mischief.”

Angelina shook her head, but she was smiling too. “That’s because he doesn’t care about dates. He keeps saying it’s not about memorising names, it’s about who actually used the spells. Why they worked. Why they didn’t. That’s why people like you two can even sit through his class without falling asleep.”

“Oi,” Fred mimed lobbing a mud-ball. “Tell me another professor who would stop a whole lecture just to demonstrate how to weaponise mud.”

“Or,” George added, “how to cheat an age line around a cup.”

Alicia’s lips twitched. “Don’t remind me. He practically invited you to set the school on fire.”

“Educational combustion,” Fred said solemnly.

“Peer-reviewed inferno,” George added.

Lee sat up, laughing. “You two are going to kill yourselves one of these days, and he’ll probably turn it into a case study. ‘Here we see, children, why improvisation without brains equals Weasley flambe.'”

Angelina rolled her eyes. “And you’d still cheer him on.”

“Course I would,” Lee said. “He’s the only professor who’s ever admitted Quidditch is stupid and glorious at the same time. Said it was built on chaos and accidents. Finally, some honesty.”

Alicia frowned, thoughtful now. “He’s reckless, though. Half the stuff he says, if it wasn’t true, he’d be fired by now. I mean, he told us flat out that half the Ministry’s history is propaganda. I wrote that in my essay and Flitwick said it was ‘provocative.'”

“That’s the point, though,” Angelina said with a shrug. “He makes you argue. Even when he’s being insufferable.”

Lee flopped back onto his bed. “Messy, chaotic, infuriating… and more fun than half this school put together.”

Fred sat up, smirking. “So what we’re saying is—”

“—that Professor R is the best professor Hogwarts has ever had,” George finished, mock-solemn.

“Better than McGonagall?” Alicia challenged.

“Better than Binns,” Fred shot back instantly.

“That’s cheating,” Angelina said, but she was laughing.

Lee grinned. “Face it. He’s mad. But he’s our mad professor.”

Fred and George clinked imaginary glasses in the air.

“To Bloody Rosier,” Fred said.

“Long may he torment us,” George added.

Alicia groaned, covering her face.

***

Malfoy swept through the entrance like a conquering general. “In the end,” he declared loudly, “he’s a Slytherin.”

Greengrass and Davis brushed past him without a glance. If Draco thought it was that simple, he was as stupid as he looked. 

The older years glanced up from their books, some with smirks, some with scowls, then returned to their conversations.

“When he first appeared, he opened with Morgana. Said the books made her a cartoon and we’re idiots if we swallow that. Fine. I enjoyed watching Gryffindors choke on it.” Adrian’s mouth twitched, shaking his head.

“Yeah? And tonight, he makes a fuss over some Hufflepuff for fixing brooms. With the exact bloody tone.” Miles shook his head. “What is that? Pick a road, damn it.”

Cassius drummed his fingers on his chair, “You’re assuming the road is blood purity. He’s not walking our road at all.”

Miles snorted. “What you describe is a Blood Traitor, Cassius. He’s a Rosier. They are not traitors.”

Cassius shrugged. “Maybe that’s the lesson. Stop asking who someone ‘belongs’ to and look at where their work lands. He keeps telling them the neat stories are lies told by winners. Does he mean our histories are lies too?”

Marcus sighed through his nose. “He doesn’t respect us. Doesn’t even own the house colors.”

“He refuses to perform loyalty,” Cassius said. “There’s a difference.”

“Which is worse,” Miles said.

Adrian’s voice cooled. “No, which is harder to fight. Anyone can sneer at us. He makes our own first-years think. Greengrass will ask why skill isn’t enough without pedigree, Zabini will look for the person mending a thing instead of the one posing by it. That spreads.”

“And what do we do with that?” Marcus asked.

Terence’s eyes cut to him. “We report to families and they decide whether we want Slytherin to be a pose or a practice. If it’s a pose, then yes, he’s an enemy and we spend the next year teaching the little ones to clap the right banners on cue. If it’s a practice, then we prove we’re the best.”

Miles stared at the fire. “You sound like him.”

“I sound like someone who doesn’t want a Hufflepuff owning our future because we were busy polishing our last name,” Terence said. “He’s telling everyone where the leverage is. Either we take it, or we complain while someone else does.”

Marcus chuckled, grudgingly. “Merlin save me, I hate that I understand you.”

Terence nodded, as he got up, “You know who to thank for it.”

***

“Hear, hear,” someone called, raising an Arithmancy text. “Raise your books for our Prefect, who carried books to and from the library for us, frightened souls, and gained recognition for it.”

The cheer wasn’t loud, but it rippled through the room. A few more books lifted in salute before Penelope Clearwater turned a shade too red.

Honestly, in the beginning, Ravenclaws didn’t like Cassian. He had stood there, first week, sneering that “books lied.” To them, that was sacrilege. Books were the foundation, the backbone of the house.

But the strangest thing happened. As they kept showing up, as the illusions burned across the walls and the quills scraped faster than their wrists could keep up, irritation shifted into fascination. He wasn’t just mocking texts, he was unearthing them, pulling the bones out of the neat bindings and showing how much flesh and rot still clung.

Older students had started to linger near his classes too. Not officially enrolled, but slipping in, pretending to deliver a message or collect a younger sibling, just to watch the illusions. Some admitted it openly, they regretted it. They had dropped History after Binns drained them dry, only to see it reborn under Rosier into something alive. Every week was a reminder of what they had lost.

At last, Penelope folded her arms on the table and set her chin down. “I still hate that he was right. Books do lie. And I’ll never read one the same way again.”

An older Ravenclaw sighed into her palm, muttering what more and more of them had started to admit after three years in his classes. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ NoveI-Fire.ɴet

“Bloody Rosier made History my favourite subject.”

***

Hannah Abbott slumped into the chair nearest the hearth, cheeks still pink from the applause. The common room was warm, golden light spilling across honey-coloured stone, but she felt like she’d carried the whole Hall’s stare with her all the way down the stairs.

She buried her face in her hands. “I just tend brooms.”

“Not just,” Susan said, taking a blanket from the shelf.

“I didn’t do anything special,” Hannah mumbled. “Father always said brooms get neglected until they buck you off, and…” she broke off, shaking her head. “I just missed home. It was something to do.”

Susan curled up on the rug with a blanket wrapped round her knees. “That’s exactly it. You did what no one else thought of. Professor Rosier saw that.”

A few others nodded.

Justin Finch-Fletchley spoke up from the sofa. “He didn’t sound like he was pitying you, Hannah. He sounded like he meant it. Like fixing brooms mattered as much as duels or essays.”

“It does,” Ernie said firmly. “What’s the point of fancy charms if your broom splinters under you?”

A small laugh rippled through them. Hannah peeked out between her fingers.

“But…” he added after a beat, “better to be noticed for fixing something than ignored like we usually are. Everyone thinks Hufflepuffs just… keep our heads down. Maybe now they’ll see we actually do things.”

“That’s what he’s like in class too,” Justin said. “He doesn’t care if you’re loud or clever. He cares if you try. Even when I get it wrong, he’ll say, ‘Good use, wrong century,’ and still give me a point.”

Zacharias huffed. “I still think he enjoys making us squirm. But… he isn’t cruel about it. Just pushes.”

Hannah leaned back, staring into the fire. The flush in her cheeks was fading, leaving something else behind, a pride she hadn’t expected.

“Do you think,” she said quietly, “that maybe he just wants us to feel… useful?”

“No,” Ernie said, shaking his head. “He wants us to know we already are.”

***

Minerva followed the Headmaster into his office. “Albus, why did you allow him to…”

Dumbledore sank into his chair with a sigh. The lines around his mouth deepened. “He was right. When he confronted me about putting Harry and the others into danger. I thought I was careful… but I still let three children take the risk.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep words from snapping. Of course the bloody Rosier was right. Infuriatingly so. She had warned Albus too. Told him not to do it, but he did it anyway.

And of course the blasted man was wrong. He placed the Stone away from himself to bait Voldemort, lured the Dark Lord into the open, and risked her dear students in the process. How infuriating that was. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had the gall to award just enough points to tip Gryffindor into victory. Was he placating Harry? Or her? Minerva wasn’t sure.

As a lifelong Quidditch fan and former Chaser, she loved competition. Not easy wins. Otherwise, she could have handed out free points every week. But in front of the school she had stood with him, because it was what the castle demanded. Unity, right? Even if she wanted to hex the old man harder than she’d ever wanted to hex anyone.

“Will you send him back?” Her voice cracked despite her best effort to control it. “H-Harry. Will you send him back to his relatives?”

Dumbledore’s shoulders fell. “I have to, Minerva. You know the wards.”

Minerva sharply turned to the window, crossing her arms. “They are bad people. I told you when we left him there.”

Dumbledore sighed. “You are not alone in that judgment.”

Her brow furrowed. “Rosier.”

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked up, half-moon spectacles glinting in the firelight. “Yes. He pressed me harder on that than even you did. Even checked the registry. Told me plainly that the boy carried years in his eyes that no eleven-year-old should.”

Minerva inhaled sharply through her nose, irritation and vindication tangled together.

“He sees too much,” Dumbledore murmured. “For a man who calls himself a historian, he’s terribly present.”

Minerva spun back, lips thin. “You say that as though it is a flaw. He sees what you refuse to. What the rest of us have grown too used to ignoring.”

The Headmaster’s expression softened, regret flickering.

Minerva exhaled hard. “He infuriates me. Constant interruptions, his tongue as sharp as a dirk. But, Albus…”

She didn’t finish.

The Headmaster leaned back, eyes unreadable. “Rosier bears no reverence for the structures that hold us. He tears at them.”

“He tears at what is rotten,” Minerva corrected. “You think I enjoy being undermined in front of a school full of children? I do not. But when he asked why we praise only the loud and overlook the quiet, I could not argue. I have overlooked them, Albus. We all have.”

Dumbledore studied her, his thoughts hidden.

She huffed. “He’s dangerous, yes. But not because of what he teaches. Because he will not play the game. He will not flatter. Not me, not you, not even his own House.”

The fire popped. Dumbledore finally closed his eyes. “Perhaps that’s why I need him.”

“You need him,” Minerva said, voice soft but bitter, “because he says aloud the things you cannot afford to. You use him, Albus. The truth comes out, and you smile like you planned it. But you did not plan him. He’s not yours.”

Dumbledore opened his eyes again. “No. He’s not mine. And perhaps that is for the best.”

***

Bathsheda sat with Aurora and Septima, drinking tea in her room while folding robes into a trunk. It had become their ritual at the end of each term, finish one room together, talking as they went, then move to another.

Aurora perched cross-legged on the bed, balancing her cup on her knee. “You realise, Bath, the rest of us are still trying to decide how you managed it.”

Bathsheda didn’t look up from her trunk. “Managed what?”

“Rosier,” Aurora said simply, eyes glinting over the rim of her teacup.

Bathsheda glanced up, one brow arched. “That’s not even a question.”

“It’s barely a word,” Septima murmured. “And yet it’s carrying an entire conversation.”

Aurora gave her a knowing look. “Cassian Rosier. Your… historian. The one who bribed classmates with Chocolate Frogs to finish his essays.”

Bathsheda made a soft, embarrassed sound, but it wasn’t denial.

Aurora chuckled, setting her cup aside. “Do you remember? Sixth year. We were working Arithmancy proofs in the library and he came in with ink on his collar, swearing he’d invented a charm that would let quills write on their own.” She shook her head, grinning. “Turned out he’d just paid off one of the older boys to enchant it for him. Nearly set the bloody desk on fire when he tried to show off.”

Septima hummed, faintly amused. “And then spent the next week telling everyone it was a ‘prototype.'”

“Prototype,” Aurora repeated, laughing under her breath. “That boy couldn’t string together two words without falling over his own ego.”

Bathsheda pressed her lips together, though her eyes softened. “He was an idiot back then.”

“Was?” Septima’s tone was dry.

Bathsheda shot her a look. “Hey, he’s my idiot now.”

Aurora laughed. “He really was hopeless, though. A Rosier who couldn’t duel, couldn’t keep his nose in a book, and somehow still managed to strut about like the Great Hall had been built for him. Remember when he sneaked into the henhouse? Honestly, we used to wonder why his family hadn’t disowned him already.”

“They nearly did,” Bathsheda said, quieter now.

Septima shook her head, “He changed, that is for certain.”

Aurora nodded, then asked, “Are you heading off on another adventure this year?”

Bathsheda gave a small snort. “No. He said he’s had enough of unfinished excavations. Every year something goes wrong, and we don’t even see the end of it. His exact words were,” she made a face, “‘Cryptblocked by tombs, history, caves, or something.'”

Aurora burst out laughing. Septima’s lips curved.

“Well, that’s good too,” Aurora said. “We should have a holiday instead. Just sun and sandals. A proper girls’ holiday.”

Bathsheda hummed, tucking another robe into the trunk. “We’ll go Mediterranean Sea. You should come too.”

Aurora’s eyes lit, and she leaned back on the pillows like she was already stretched out under foreign sun. “Merlin, yes. Sand, wine, not a single essay in sight.”

Bathsheda laughed, shaking her head. “Deal.”

Septima lifted her cup. “To the Mediterranean.”

“And to Rosier not ruining it,” Aurora added, raising her own.

Bathsheda clinked hers against theirs, eyes shining. “No promises.”

Spoiler

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Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

I once performed in front of goblins. They threw coins. Just saying…

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep