When Cassian returned home, the family was already gathered. Everyone except Selena and Odette, they were still stuck on the train heading back from Hogwarts.

The sitting room had a faint smell of tobacco hung in the air… Magnus must’ve had his pipe out earlier. Which meant something rattled the old man. Cassian shut the door behind him as he stepped in.

Regulus glanced up. “Cassian.”

Cassian gave him a nod and strolled in as if he hadn’t spent the past year avoiding gatherings like this. “Afternoon. I take it the world hasn’t ended in my absence?”

Lucian’s eyes flicked to Cassian with all the warmth of a frost spell. “Depends how you define ‘ended.’ Some say the Dark Lord’s return would qualify.”

“Mm. Suppose it would spice up the summer.” Cassian shrugged out of his coat, tossing it over the back of the nearest chair. “What is the consensus then? He back, or are we still waiting on an official Ministry denial?”

Catherine didn’t bother to look up to him as she spoke, “Quirrell’s disappearance is mysterious enough on its own. Reports suggest there is more to it.”

Viola snorted softly. “Mysterious? The man was a walking disaster. If he’s gone, I’d call that an improvement. But if the rumors are true, it wasn’t a curse or an accident.”

Armand grumbled in agreement, his heavy frame putting weight into the couch cushions. “The boy, Potter, was found unconscious. Something happened in there. And Dumbledore is being unusually tight-lipped. Ministry’s also not commenting.”

Cassian crossed to the far corner, “God forbid the Ministry tell the truth about anything. Next, you’ll be shocked they still fudge cauldron thickness reports.”

“Show some seriousness for once, Cassian,” Regulus said sharply. “This isn’t a joke. If the Dark Lord really is returning, the world will change again. And we need to be prepared.”

“You make it sound like there’s a sign-up sheet going around.”

“Don’t be crass.” Ophelia’s voice cut in.

“Crass?” He tipped his tea glass that Towel had just delivered. “I thought I was being rather restrained. Haven’t even made a ‘resurrected Dark Lord’ joke yet.”

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “Enough. This is not the time for your little performances, Cassian.”

“Ah.” Cassian swirled the glass absently. “So we’ve established it is not a joke. And here I was hoping we could all go back to pretending Quirrell just retired to start a pumpkin farm in Devon.”

Lucian’s chair creaked as he shifted. “You are still acting like this doesn’t concern you.”

Cassian let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “No, brother. I’m acting like I don’t have delusions about where I sit on the Dark Lord’s priority list.”

Magnus cleared his throat, conversation stopped like someone had cast Silencio. “There’s nothing certain yet,” he said. “As always, family’s priority is family. We will align ourselves according to political shifts.”

Cassian got up, dusting his hands like he was done with the whole room. “Lovely. I’ll align myself away from conflict as always. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when things get heated.” He didn’t bother waiting for a reply and turned on his heel, heading for the stairs.

***

The rest of the week dragged by with Cassian doing an admirable job of not seeing a single Rosier unless absolutely cornered. He stuck to the edges of the manor like a ghost with better taste in coats, ducking into the library, slipping out before meals, and generally making himself as unavailable as humanly possible. It worked. Mostly.

When the week ended, he packed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and muttered, “Ta ta, and farewell,” before leaving.

Bathsheda was waiting at the edge of the wards, lightly dressed due to summer wave.

“Survived?” she asked, lips twitching.

“Define survive,” Cassian said, adjusting his bag strap. “No duels. Minimal scowling. I would call it a win.”

She looped her arm through his and gave a little tug. “Come on, we need to be at the Ministry in five.”

Cassian clamped onto her waist like they were about to be sucked into a black hole. He buried his face against her chest, arms locked tight around her. “If I don’t make it out alive, tell Flitwick he still owes me a bottle of Ogden’s.”

Bathsheda rolled her eyes. “You are not dying. Stand still.”

The world spun as she Apparated them.

They landed with a sharp crack in the Ministry atrium, Cassian still clinging to her.

“Are you done?” she asked flatly.

“I was bracing for impact.” He loosened his grip, smoothing his coat as though nothing had happened. “And I would argue I looked heroic doing it.”

It didn’t take long to get the permits signed off. Two offices, three signatures, and a brief argument with a sleepy clerk later, they were ready.

As they walked toward the Portkey station, Cassian took a deep breath, as if trying to sniff in the Mediterranean Sea.

All he got was Ministry air. Dust, old parchment, overbrewed tea.

“Ugh. Too much Britain still,” he muttered.

Bathsheda chuckled. “We’re almost there, Cass.”

But before they could reach the platform, someone waved from near the exit. A woman in Ministry grey, standing too stiff for this early in the morning.

Cassian leaned closer to Bathsheda. “Anyone you know?” Thɪs chapter is updated by novelꞁire.net

She shook her head.

The woman approached quickly. “Hi, are you Professors Rosier and Babbling?”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. He was named first. That was new.

“We are,” Bathsheda answered.

The woman produced a sealed envelope. “I’m here to deliver a letter from Master Ji. He asked for it to be handed over personally.”

Cassian snatched the letter before Bathsheda could reach for it. He broke the seal and read.

His lips tightened.

“Well?” Bathsheda asked.

Cassian handed it over without a word.

Bathsheda read quickly, one brow climbing, eyes shining.

Cassian groaned. “No. Absolutely not. I am on strike. Summer strike.”

She kept reading, lips quirking. “He’s asking for a favour.”

“That’s how it starts.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Next thing you know I’m crawling through a cursed crawlspace with a torch in my teeth.”

Bathsheda tapped the seal with her finger. “He says since we turned him down for China—”

“Correct decision.”

“—and since we’re already heading to Greece, would we ‘cast an eye’ over a newly exposed site. Probably Zeus’s Temple.” She looked up. “He feels it’s important.”

“‘Cast an eye’ is Ji-speak for ‘bring your kit, you’ll be there till the moon changes.'”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “It won’t take long.”

“You said that about the ‘Monastery’ in China and we ended up nearly diced by a warded lintel.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“It was entirely your fault.”

Bathsheda folded the letter, reading the details about the temple with what he could only call nerd-dream bliss. “He’s looped the Greek Ministry. Permits fast-tracked. Keys at the desk in Athens. Look, he even put his name on it.”

Cassian blew out a breath. “Of course he did.”

The courier hovered, trying to look invisible. Bathsheda turned to her. “Could you wait a minute? We’ll have a reply.”

Cassian looked at her, really looked. The restless tilt of her shoulders. The way her fingers had gone still on the parchment, as if the letters were thrumming through bone. He’d seen that look before.

“Fine,” he said. “Conditions.”

Bathsheda’s mouth twitched. “Go on.”

“One, if the ground hisses at me, we leave. Two, if anything asks for blood, we leave. Three, proper beds, not a damp tent. Four, tea that doesn’t taste like boot.”

She held out her hand. “Deal.”

He eyed it. “You agreed too fast.”

“Because you’re being dramatic.”

He took her hand anyway. “Five, if you get that look where you forget to breathe at a pretty glyph, I’m carrying you out.”

“Six,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “If I say we stay ten minutes, we stay eleven.”

He groaned again, louder. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He turned to the courier. “Tell Master Ji we’ll take a peek. A short peek. We’re on holiday after.”

The woman’s shoulders dropped a fraction, like she’d been holding her breath. “Very good, sir.” She dipped her head and hurried off.

Cassian watched her go. “He could’ve owled.”

“He wants it safe,” Bathsheda said, tucking the letter into her satchel. “Letters vanish. Couriers don’t.”

At the Portkey desk, a balding wizard peered over his spectacles. “Names?”

“Professor Babbling, Professor Rosier,” Bathsheda said. “Athens, then onward.”

He rifled a tray and produced a dented brass disc on string. “Sign here.”

They took the cord between them. The Portkey yanked them hard. Cassian staggered back into balance. Bathsheda didn’t even wobble. She adjusted the strap of her satchel, already scanning the low stone ruins rising ahead. A few dozen witches and wizards milled about near canvas tents, parchments flapping in the breeze as translation charms did their job.

Bathsheda adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “Ancient Greece, Cass! Zeus’s temple was uncovered. Aren’t you excited?”

He raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “No. Mostly because I thought Zeus preferred to keep his front garden buried. Are we sure it’s a temple and not some goat shed someone romanticised? Wait… actually, scratch that. Might just be Zeus. He turned into a bull, a swan, rain, at this point the man was a one-god petting zoo. I am also sure he turned himself into a goat at least twice because he took a fancy to some poor she-goat.”

“If you make one more goat joke, I am hexing you.” She tugged his arm, quickening their steps. Not even slowing her pace. “The initial study suggests the layout matches early Classical patterns. Either a real temple or some site of worship.”

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Author Rant ↓ 

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I talk. The echo replies. The echo is winning.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep