Cassian and Bathsheda didn’t leave until they’d picked apart most of the site… again. Or at least the bits that wouldn’t try to kill them. Both had mastered Occlumency. Although the rubbings had been lost, they still had a complete mental record of the deeper chambers. This included the runes, wards, and all other written or inscribed elements. The slab mechanism was still untouched, thank God. He hadn’t so much as breathed near it, just in case. No one else could get past it anyway, and he did his best to keep people from hurling themselves into the dark room like moths toward a cursed bonfire.

A few still did.

Word spread fast. Brutal death did that.

But it was enough. Enough to make them listen.

He didn’t mention Karahan Tepe. Not once.

Göbekli was headache enough. The djinn had nearly made it a funeral. He wasn’t about to point at the older neighbour and tempt whatever ancient thing was buried next door. Temptation still itched at him, of course. He was a historian, not a corpse. But he and Bathsheda made the call together, best to keep his curiosity on a leash before some long-sleeping god decided to roll over.

Of course he had to meet some people again… for the first time. For example, his great-great-great uncle Coriolanus. The old man nearly dropped his jaw when Cassian “guessed” things about him, and then Cassian hit him with the whole ‘You didn’t see me’ routine right to his face. Bathsheda laughed so hard she nearly fell over. Score.

***

Mid-August, they landed at her flat just off Diagon. They didn’t do much. Read, talked, ignored half the owls banging at the windows. Watched Quidditch. Caught a few of the later games.

Ireland versus Peru in the Semi-Finals was brutal. Not in a thrilling, teeth-gritting sort of way, just slow, boring and ugly. Bathsheda was thrilled, of course. Her “home” team made it through.

Cassian liked a challenge. That wasn’t one.

Bulgaria versus India was better. At least someone was playing like they had something to prove. Bulgaria was a mess, aggressive, but sloppy. Still, with that Seeker, they pulled through. Barely.

Cassian eyed the scores. “Seems to be a theme.”

Bathsheda sipped her tea. “Hm?”

“Weaker team wins because their Seeker snatches the Snitch.”

She shrugged. “It’s strategy.”

“It’s rubbish,” he muttered. “You might as well drop everyone else and just have a pair of Seekers chase the thing in a broom ballet.”

She laughed. “That is what it is.”

“I’m aware. That’s the problem.”

She grinned into her cup. “Ireland might lose too, you know. They’re too defensive. If Krum gets the Snitch early, that’s it.”

Cassian waved a hand. “See? One bloke ends the entire match, regardless of the actual play.”

He didn’t bother hiding the yawn halfway through the replay she somehow streamed onto the wall from an Omnioculars. She ignored him, mouthing commentary like she was at pitch-side.

Somehow, it was nice. Even the boredom. Even the tea gone cold.

He didn’t say that aloud. Instead, he threw a cushion at her when she started humming the Irish team anthem.

Then came August 18th.

Cassian woke up with pins in his spine and a strong urge to vanish. Preferably into a nice quiet hole. Somewhere without formalwear or the Rosier name stitched into every sodding napkin.

The World Cup final meant politics. Which meant diplomacy. Which meant sitting in the Rosier lounge with half his extended family and a dozen foreign delegates breathing down their necks. Wonderful.

He yanked on his shirt, muttered something unprintable, and ignored how tight his chest felt.

Bathsheda was brushing her hair on the other side of the flat, calm as anything. She didn’t even blink when the owl dropped off the final seating chart with a cheerful tap tap at the window. She’d been prepped, briefed, warned. Still looked like she was going to a garden party.

He, on the other hand, was ready to crawl out the floo backwards.

A dozen countries had sent owls home this summer, half of them with a single line in bold that read, Do not offend Cassian Rosier or Bathsheda Babbling.

Some had added colour. Praised his work in ancient myth, called him the closest thing Britain had to a magical historian worth listening to after Master Bagshot. Others waxed on about her runework, how her cursed lattice breakdown had apparently shamed three masters and a prince.

They’d each published two new books that summer, unexpectedly well-received ones. Cassian’s was a practical analysis of pre-wand magical convergence sites, which sounded dry but apparently hit the Ministry’s research department like an overdue slap. Bathsheda’s work on fragmented lattice reconstruction was now being quoted by masters of their crafts. Her second book, The Bonds of Magicks and Magical Beasts… well, that set off a quiet storm in certain circles.

The World Cup final meant chaos. And since the Rosiers had bankrolled half of it and secured the central hosting lounge, that made them the de facto greeters of magical elite. Most of them hated each other, but they’d pretend otherwise as long as there was champagne and a Minister in sight.

Cassian was worried, because this was the first time Bathsheda would meet his family officially. He’d met his family. That was the problem.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, adjusting her cloak as preapred to leave. “You act like they’re going to eat me.”

He gave her a sideways look. “You say that like it’s off the table.”

She raised a brow. “They bite, I bite back.”

Cassian crossed his fingers. “Last hope keeping me sane.”

She chuckled and caught him by the wrist before he could invent another excuse to stall. They Disapparated in a sharp crack, landing a heartbeat later in a quiet forest clearing, somewhere out in the countryside. Trees circled the area like a natural wall, thick enough that no Muggle would stumble across the place unless they had a very dramatic sense of direction and a death wish.

Thank God for that.

Cassian gave the area a quick once-over and sighed.

Lucian’s original plan had been to host this circus in the back garden of some old Muggle couple who’d rented out their land for cheap. Cassian saw the description of the place and he’d nearly hexed himself unconscious out of secondhand embarrassment.

Lucian’s final preparations, of course, had to include guests wear Muggle clothes.

In theory, not the worst idea he’d ever had.

In practice? One of the preset outfit choices was a dress.

For wizards.

As in, strappy, floral, hem-floating-in-the-wind dress.

For wizards. To blend in.

Cassian facepalmed and curse for a solid minute the moment he remembered the bloody dress code.

Luckily, he’d managed to rope Regulus and Magnus into convincing Lucian to change it. Now? Still a mess, but at least it wasn’t that mess.

The tents sprawled across the clearing like a war camp designed by mad aristocrats with too much gold and too little shame.

Every other structure had a chimney puffing smoke like it wasn’t the middle of bloody August. Some had towers. Some had stained glass windows. One looked like a silver-fanged badger was permanently bursting out the top of it, roaring at anyone who came too close.

Family crests were everywhere, hovering above doorways, carved into stone, flashing on embroidered banners that flapped even without wind. Guardian creatures loitered like bouncers, lions, wolves, one particularly smug-looking sphinx that tracked Cassian with narrowed eyes as he passed.

Subtlety was dead. Had been murdered, set on fire, and turned into lawn decor.

Bathsheda didn’t wait. She’d already started walking toward the main tent, the centrepiece of this magical circus. Naturally, it was the Rosier tent. Of course it was. And of course, it was the most absurd.

It looked like someone had taken a classical pavilion and fed it twenty shots of inflation. Two storeys high, with arching silver frames that shimmered when you looked too long, part glamour, part enchantment, part Rosier need for attention. The crest floated overhead in smug gold, flickering to everyone passing. A stylised “R” wrapped in coiling vines, with a blackthorn branch jutting through it like a dagger. Very subtle.

The fabric was deep, velvet green, lined with some kind of charmed trim that kept sparkling. It gave off the distinct impression that if you weren’t invited, the entire structure might decide to disintegrate you on principle.

Inside was somehow worse.

Three sitting areas, one for “guests of honour,” which basically meant people the Rosiers wanted to impress. The other two were for “secondary connections” and “acceptable strays.” Every chair was upholstered in absurdly rich fabric, embroidered with runic patterns that pulsed gently with warming charms and mood-levelers. The centre table had fresh lilies in a floating vase.

All the usual suspects had staked their claims, perched in the tent like crows sorted by political relevance. The central table gleamed with charm-polished wood and self-filling goblets, and every seat around it was occupied by someone the Rosiers needed, feared, or were trying to rope in.

Selena Rosier sat just outside the main circle, technically not centrepiece material, but close enough to pretend otherwise, only because Miranda Goshawk was beside her. That placement wasn’t about family pride. It was about Miranda. Selena just happened to ride shotgun.

Viola, Armand, Theron, Alistair, and rest of the family, all clustered at one of the secondary tables, the sort politely titled for strategic guests. Translation, tolerated, no longer essential, wheeled out like family heirlooms when prestige demanded it. They played their roles. Smiled too wide. Laughed too loud. Glaring when Cassian and Bathsheda walked in.

Cassian ignored them.

He stood tall, shoulders back, hand loosely curled around Bathsheda’s. She let him lead, partly because it was expected, mostly because it annoyed exactly the right people.

He wore plain black. Charmless, crisp, fitted. Not a single clasp, pin, or embroidery. The only statement it made was I didn’t come here to impress you. And it said it loudly.

She, on the other hand, dressed to impress without shouting about it. High-collared dark blue robes, cut clean and sharp at the edges, the kind that looked formal but moved like something built for a duel. Bare metal clasps down one side, with a thin charmed line stitched into the cuff that pulsed faintly whenever the light caught it. Elegant, but practical.

They crossed the floor, passing rows of pureblood posturing and half-hearted smiles, until they reached the centre table. Reserved seats. Front-row for the political theatre, positioned precisely where every glance would land.

Of course, to no one’s surprise, they were placed right beside Master Ji.

Would’ve been more surprised if they weren’t sitting next to the man.

(Check Here)

The greatest magic ever cast was forgotten simply because everyone assumed someone else would remember it.

—

To Read up to 50 advance Chapters and support me…

patreon.com/thefanficgod1

Please drop a comment and like the chapter!

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep