A few of the scholars shuffled back. Karkaroff’s sharp eyes narrowed.

“Master Ji,” the Greek Minister began cautiously, “you honour us with your presence. We weren’t aware the matter had spread that far.”

Ji didn’t look at him. “Matters like these don’t respect borders.”

He stepped forward, the faint scent of sandalwood trailing behind him. His gaze drifted past the tents, toward the archway. “I felt it all the way in Wudang. That… thing. It calls like a cracked bell.”

Cassian’s fingers dug into his palm absently. “Glad I am not the only one hearing it.”

Wenqiang Ji then went to greet some of the old masters. Cassian couldn’t tell who had more years under their belt, but the way Ji dipped his head just slightly lower than usual made him pause. Master Ji was always courteous… proper bows to interns, kind words to underpaid translators, but this? This looked a hair more careful. A faint dip in posture, a softening of the voice.

Cassian narrowed his eyes. Either Ji was in a good mood or these ancient relics were his seniors. It was clear Junior Ji didn’t dare.

The Ministers certainly didn’t think so. They hovered stiffly on the sidelines, stealing glances at Ji. Not a single bow for the old guard. Not even a polite nod.

That told Cassian enough. These geezers weren’t in the political game anymore. The Ministers didn’t remember them… but Ji did. Which meant these were the sort of people who’d dropped off the map decades ago and only crawled out of their libraries when the world started tipping sideways.

The problem was, if he could read Ji’s manner so easily, how could they not? It was clear as day that Master Ji was deferring to the old masters. So why? By now those bootlicking politicians should have been groveling at their feet.

Cassian looked around, narrowing his eyes. There was something… something clinging to the old masters. An aura? He tilted his head, studying it more closely. Could it be that?

Ji murmured a greeting. One of the elders gave a faint hum in response, his robes so frayed at the hem they looked older than Hogwarts itself. Another woman nodded slightly, expression unreadable under a veil of fine silk.

Cassian kept his hands in his pockets as he watched them. He’d seen enough council chambers and ministry powwows to know this wasn’t about rank. This was about history. The kind of history that didn’t make it into books, because the people in front of Ji had written it first-hand and never bothered sharing their drafts.

Bathsheda moved closer, her shoulder brushing his.

“Recognise any of them?” she murmured.

Cassian’s lips twitched faintly. “Not a chance. If they are in my books, they are under pseudonyms.”

Ji spoke again. Whatever he said, the group responded in unison, an odd little ripple of acknowledgment that made the hairs on Cassian’s neck stand up.

“Thoughts?” Bathsheda asked.

“They are not here because they were summoned,” he muttered. “They are here because they felt the wards break.”

Her lips pressed thin.

Soon Dumbledore strolled into the clearing, a pair trailing just behind him. The old man looked as unbothered as ever, as if he hadn’t just wandered into what could generously be called a cursed dig site.

Cassian’s brow arched. In the sight of the duo, even the elder masters paused, their murmured discussion halting as they took in the newcomers.

“Who the hell are they?” Cassian muttered under his breath.

Bathsheda shook her head, her eyes fixed on the pair. “I don’t know.”

Dumbledore came to stand near them with a soft smile. “Professor Babbling. Professor Rosier. Good to see you again.” His voice was light, like they were meeting for tea instead of standing above an ancient monster. “Care to enlighten me?” His eyes flicked briefly to the two figures beside him. “Oh, and allow me to introduce Master and Madame Flamel.”

Cassian blinked. That name dropped like a stone into still water.

He turned his head slowly, eyes locking on the pair now standing quietly to the side. Two undying relics… flesh and blood, yet history radiated off them. Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel.

And as if that wasn’t enough, the duo were outspoken.

The man grinned as he said, “Oh, a Rosier. I knew your great-great-great-great-great grandfather. Miserable git, but he could drink like a centaur.”

Cassian blinked. “Well, I can’t say the family’s got any better since. Alcoholism must be hereditary.”

Perenelle let out a soft laugh. “You’ve got his nose. Though considerably less self-importance about it.”

“Lovely,” Cassian said dryly. “Always wanted to inherit the nose. You’ve made my day.”

Nicolas’s eyes glimmered as he studied Cassian with an ease that felt unsettling, like he could peel back centuries with a glance. It wasn’t the sort of attention Cassian enjoyed.

The elders drifted in, the rest followed, since seemingly Flamels were the pivot point.

“What do we have here?” Nicolas asked, once everyone was around.

Bathsheda didn’t waste time. She started from the beginning… straight to how they’d found the chamber, what had happened after they broke through, and how the creature almost broke free. Cassian let her take the lead. He didn’t trust his tongue not to get him hexed in front of this particular audience.

He kept his hands jammed in his coat pockets, watching Nicolas watch Bathsheda. The man’s attention didn’t wander once, not even when one of the French scholars cleared his throat to interrupt.

When she reached the part about the containment circles and how they’d stabilised the seal, Nicolas’s smile faltered. His head turned slightly toward the glyphs burned into the earth, his eyes narrowing as if they were trying to pull apart the spellwork one thread at a time.

“Those runes…” he murmured. “I have never seen them before.”

That made even the elder masters pause. The woman in the silk veil tilted her head, her hands tightening slightly on her staff.

Cassian’s jaw tightened. He’d been hoping no one would spot it so quickly. Not because he had answers, he didn’t, but because the questions coming next weren’t ones he wanted to field.

“Are they that special?” The Turkish Minister asked.

“Quite,” Nicolas said without looking at him. “I’ve seen more scripts than most living souls. But these are… extraordinary.”

Bathsheda tilted her head, frowning slightly as if she couldn’t understand why the others were staring at her glyphs as if they were the real danger. To her, these runes weren’t unusual… they’d always been there. Part of her work. Part of her.

Cassian stayed quiet but his eyes flicked to the shimmering rings carved into the dirt.

Nicolas Flamel’s gaze hadn’t left the runes. His fingers brushed his chin as he crouched closer, eyes narrowing. “You are certain you haven’t learned them from an ancient source?”

Bathsheda nodded, her lips pressing together. “Yes. They are… familiar. I’ve drawn them since as long as I can remember. I’ve never questioned it.”

Flamel hummed. “I have walked through seven centuries of magic. Studied wards etched into jade, ivory, ironstone… never once have I seen these.”

The woman in the silk veil shifted behind him, her cane tapping against the earth. “It feels old,” she said softly. “Older than language. These are not runes so much as… intentions woven into shape.”

Cassian raised his hand. “Right. A council, please. Only the old masters. Shoo to the young people and elected figureheads.”

His gaze swept the Ministers like he was asking them to get out of his sitting room. No hint of apology.

Bathsheda’s lips pressed thin, but she didn’t argue as Cassian started corralling the Flamel pair, the elder masters, and Master Ji into a tight circle. Dumbledore, of course, drifted in with that serene smile of his.

Cassian didn’t even bother hiding his grimace. “Fine. You are in, too,” he said. “But don’t start handing out House Points.” Read complete version only at novel⸺fire.net

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dumbledore murmured.

Cassian glanced around the loose ring of robes and lined faces. “Um… can someone form a barrier?”

The old masters turned to glare like he’d just asked if anyone fancied a round of Exploding Snap.

Cassian held his hands up. “I mean… I could try, but my version’s more like drawing a chalk circle and hoping for the best.”

Master Ji chuckled and waved his hand. A soft shimmer rippled around them. The air tightened faintly, magic settling.

Cassian’s eyes flicked to Bathsheda. She gave a nod. He reached for her sleeve and rolled it up to her elbow. A faint rune glimmered on the inside of her forearm, the lines delicate but sharp, prickling the eye if you stared too long. The shapes weren’t just carved… they breathed.

Seeing the rune, the group fell quiet. Brows furrowed. Whatever they expected, it wasn’t this.

“This is…” Perenelle’s voice broke the silence. For once, she sounded unsettled.

Cassian nodded faintly. “It is a living bond rune. Last year, um, near Hogwarts, there was an… incident. Norwegian Ridgeback hatchling got loose in the ca— nearby. For reasons we are still not entirely sure of, Professor Babbling here managed to calm it. Properly calm it… like the thing was a cat in her lap.”

His eyes flicked over the older witches and wizards, gauging their reactions. “When I noticed she was impervious to fire after that little stunt, I made what can only be described as a bold decision. I tested a rune I stumbled across… chanced upon in an old text. Dragon got pulled into the binding.”

No one spoke.

Cassian let the sleeve fall back over Bathsheda’s arm. “I suspect her mastery over them is tied to the same source.”

Nicolas glanced at Master Ji, who shook his head. “It isn’t eastern. The method feels different.” He stroked his long beard.

Perenelle’s gaze swept over the glowing lines. “Not Celtic either. The pattern is too rigid for their work.”

The veiled woman tilted her head slightly. “Nor is it druidic. The energy is sharper. Less natural, more… contained.”

One of the older wizards spoke up, voice gravelly from disuse. “These marks aren’t part of any known binding script. If they were, we’d have seen them in the archives by now.”

“Not even a trace in Mesopotamian sigils,” muttered another.

Cassian stared at them. “I hate to break up the guessing game, but arguing over who didn’t invent them won’t get us anywhere.”

They agreed and got to work

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Author Rant ↓ 

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Some people crave thunderous applause. I’ve learned to treasure faint existing.

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