Since four schools were visiting Hogwarts that year, and the crowd of students had practically doubled overnight, it was decided the guests would have their own classes. Less chance of culture shock. Less chance of duels breaking out in the corridors.

Cassian walked into his classroom, kicked the door shut behind him, and stopped dead.

The space had been turned into a bloody weather map.

The Beauxbatons students had staked out the sunlit side of the classroom, where the windows framed them like a painting. Their uniforms were all pale blues and silver pins. Fleur sat in the middle of her group, chin tilted slightly, one boot crossed over the other.

Durmstrang took the opposite end. Their robes ran dark, trimmed in red, the whole lot of them surrounding Krum, scowling at nothing.

Fenghuang students sat in absolute silence. Their robes were layered in shades of copper and gold, detailed embroidery catching light when they moved. Mingyu was in the middle of it all, scribbling in a small notebook.

And Uagadou filled their part of the room. Browns and golds, loose sleeves rolled up. Amara sat near the front, chatting up with her friends, smiling brightly.

Four seasons. Same room. Not bad for a Monday morning.

They all looked up as he stepped forward.

“Good morning,” he said, sitting at the edge of the desk. “I’m Professor Rosier. I teach History of Magic here.”

“Since not all schools follow the same curriculum,” Cassian said, “we’ll skip the usual ‘dead blokes and dates’ routine. I’m not here to bore you with British wizarding history unless someone specifically asks for it.”

A few students looked relieved. One Durmstrang boy muttered something under his breath.

“So,” Cassian went on, “instead we’ll do something a bit more useful.”

His eyes scanned the room.

“Let’s keep it simple,” He said. “You tell me. What do you lot want to learn?”

A few exchanged glances. Silence dragged.

One Durmstrang boy finally snorted. “This is history, isn’t it? What is there to learn but stories?”

Cassian smiled brightly. “Excellent. A volunteer.”

The boy blinked.

“You’ll help with the demonstration later,” Cassian added. “Don’t look so thrilled.” He turned back to the room. “Anyone else?”

Mingyu lifted his hand. “Headmaster Ji mentioned you teach spell history. I would… very much like to see that.”

A few Uagadou students nodded straight away. Clearly they’d heard the same thing.

Cassian gave a small nod. “All right. How about Protego? You’ve all learnt it in some form. Won’t kill you to know where it came from.”

That woke the room up. Backs straightened. Quills paused mid‑tap. Even the Durmstrang boy who’d mocked history sat up a little.

Cassian grinned and flicked his wand. The air above the centre aisle shimmered, then filled with moving shapes, figures in rough leathers, holding shields made of bone and wood. When the first clang rang out, the room jumped. Several gasped outright, they clearly hadn’t expected sound.

“This is…” someone breathed.

They stared like they’d never seen magic do anything except fire sparks.

Cassian pointed lazily at the illusion. “Contrary to popular belief, Protego is ancient. Proper ancient. Same era as bone shields.” He tapped the scene. A witch and a wizard braced behind crude slabs of enchanted bone as arrows bounced off them. “The first shield charms weren’t cast instead of shields. They were cast on shields.”

He flicked his wand, and the illusion shifted. Bone shields, crude, patchworked things, flared with runes, glowing faintly as stones clattered harmlessly off.

“Back then, battles weren’t duels. They were fights for survival. You got close. You blocked. You bled. Adding magical reinforcement was a practical step, a layer of charm on top of your bit of bone. Not elegant, but it meant the shield didn’t snap in half the first time someone lobbed fire at you.”

He paced slowly between the tables.

“The shift came later. As spellwork evolved, so did distance. People started realising it was better to dodge before the spell hit them. Not block them. That’s when we got early Protego, or the bits that would become it.”

He waved his wand again. The image changed. A figure raised their hands and a jagged barrier of magic flared out, a translucent dome, uneven and twitching at the edges.

“Look at that. Ugly, right? Patchy. Held together by sheer panic and spite. That version barely lasted three seconds.”

A few students chuckled.

“But it worked. Long enough to live. Which was the point.”

He turned back to the students. “Do any of you know what evolution is?”

A good chunk of hands went up.

Cassian nodded, pleased. “Excellent. Your schools haven’t entirely fluffed the basics then.”

“Evolution and adaptation don’t stop. They’re happening all the time, just… slowly enough most people miss it.”

He gestured at the illusion of the old bone-shield warriors still standing their grounds. “That shift, from real shield to conjured one is a textbook magical adaptation. Most Magicks weren’t built like warriors. Couldn’t swing steel and cast spells at the same time without snapping something important. Heavy shields slowed them down. Drained stamina. So, they ditched the weight and conjured what they needed instead. Lighter, faster, left more energy for hexes. Trade-off that stuck around.”

The illusion flickered, fast-forwarding through eras. Shields turned from bone, to wood, to metal. Each version thinner, cleaner, sharper. Whereas magical conjurations got more refined, cleaner, harder.

“You see it?” he asked. “Bit by bit. Same instinct, new tools. Like fish growing legs, except here, the legs are light to keep distance for more hexes.”

Cassian flicked the scene away and leaned back on the desk. “The reason for this shift, and why any spell takes such a route is about intention, not power. You want to block something? Fine. Magic listens. But the shape it takes, the strength it holds, that’s all tied to how badly you mean it.”

He twirled a finger in the air. Another scene bloomed, this time, a modern duel.

Two witches, faces grim, wands out. One cast Protego, clear, bright, held firm. The other hesitated. Her shield flickered and cracked on impact.

Cassian nodded at it. “One meant to survive. The other hoped to.”

“This is the part people forget. Spells don’t pop into existence because someone had a poetic moment by candlelight. They’re born because someone needed something. Desperately. That’s your constant, intent meets opportunity, and suddenly we have a shield charm.”

Amara leaned forward. “So spells change like languages?”

Cassian pointed at her. “Exactly. Same bones, different shapes over time.”

Several students scribbled notes.

Cassian clapped his hands. “Next question. Who can tell me why some spells outlive others?”

Silence. A few shuffled.

Then Krum raised a hand. “Because they remain useful?”

Cassian snapped his fingers. “Bingo. Utility wins. If a spell keeps you alive or helps you finish the fight or the job? It stays. If it’s something daft like ‘charm to warm your socks evenly while travelling through marshlands’? It dies in a ditch somewhere.”

A wave of snorts rippled across the classroom.

He flicked the wand once more. The illusion dissolved into a soft shimmer.

“Now that we’ve established the basics, let’s get to the fun part.”

He raised his wand and a translucent shield slid into place in front of him, thin as glass, humming faintly.

“Dead easy to cast a shield when no one’s charging at you with a sword,” Cassian said. He gave the thing a tap, it rippled like water, then settled again. “This is why your teachers nag you with essays, drills, duelling practice, the lot. The more you run it into your muscles, the less chance you’ve got of cocking it up when it matters.”

He let the shield dissolve and paced a slow line down the middle aisle.

“In a real fight, your legs shake, your stomach drops, and your brain can’t decide if it wants to hide or scream. That’s when the training shows. Not your talent or your wand. The practice. And the reason your Protego works in a quiet classroom but fizzles when a hex is actually aimed at your face is intent. That’s what we press on. Not because we like hearing ourselves talk. It’s because magic only listens properly when you mean it.”

He stopped near Uagadou row, resting his arm along the back of an empty chair.

“Right. Cultural exchange time. How do your schools teach spells? I’m talking essentials. Intent, Mental Picturing, and whatever else you lot prioritise. Who’s up?”

Amara raised her hand. “At Uagadou, we’re taught visualisation first. Intent is built into the process, but we focus on seeing the spell’s shape before it forms. Our instructors have us practise without wands for months before we’re allowed to channel through one.”

Cassian nodded, interested. “That tracks. You lot do wandless better than anyone.”

A Beauxbatons student chimed in. “We begin with the emotional connection. What the spell is meant to feel like. Our professors say that emotion powers the wand.”

Cassian gave a short hum. “That’s… poetic. Risky, if you’re angry. But I can see the point.”

From Durmstrang, a tall boy folded his arms. “We use repetition. Drill until you can do it in your sleep. Then pressure tests.”

Cassian turned his head. “Pressure tests?”

“You duel until it’s instinct. If you get hit, you weren’t fast enough.”

Cassian looked mildly impressed. “Charming. Nothing says effective pedagogy like concussions.”

There were a few snickers from the Beauxbatons side.

Mingyu looked up from his notes. “At Fenghuang, we do the opposite of Beauxbatons. We are taught to steady our emotions. Anger, fear, excitement, they all cloud spellwork. No disrespect to them,” he added with a small nod toward Fleur and others, “emotion does fuel a spell, but it can also stop you casting at all. If we’re like water, calm, not stirred up, we cast with clearer intent. Then we practise. Basics, until the basics turn into habits.”

Cassian gave a thoughtful hum. “Fair enough. You lot want clarity first, tidy mind, tidy spell. Makes sense. Beauxbatons go the other direction, feel the spell before they shape it. Uagadou start with visualising structure. Durmstrang drills the mechanics until their arms fall off. Different routes.”

A few Beauxbatons students bristled. One muttered something about “cold methods.”

Cassian raised a hand. “Relax. None of you are wrong. Magic’s ancient, messy, and dramatic. It responds to whatever you feed it. Some schools teach you to grip that emotion and throw it like a brick. Others teach you not to let it smack you in the face first.”

Mingyu dipped his head again, already jotting something in his notebook.

Cassian tapped the desk lightly. “Here’s the fun bit, you all meet in the same place. Same sea, different rivers. Some of you carve through the bedrock, some skim across the surface, some meander around every bloody tree root on the way. But you get there.”

He stepped away from the desk. “All right, let’s break down what we’ve got so far. Uagadou starts with vision. Beauxbatons starts with feeling. Durmstrang starts with bruises. Fenghuang starts with breathing. Hogwarts,” he gestured vaguely toward himself, “starts with me yelling at you until something sticks.”

A faint ripple of amusement passed across the room.

He carried on. “Point being, all of you are trained differently, but the core is the same. Picture it. Mean it. Cast it. Magic isn’t picky about the order, it’s picky about the commitment.”

He drummed his fingers lightly against the edge of a table, thinking.

“Right then,” he said. “Today’s your lucky day.”

He strode toward the middle of the room.

“Let’s say you’re all aiming for this result,” he said. “Same charm, different path. So, Beauxbatons. Show me the emotional spark. Doesn’t matter what emotion, joy, panic, righteous fury over a stolen croissant, whatever works.”

Fleur raised her wand, narrowed her eyes, muttered under her breath, and cast. A small shield popped like a soap bubble.

Cassian nodded. “Good. It held strong. Next, Uagadou. Visual first.”

Amara stepped up. She inhaled, exhaled, then her shield flared into place, smooth and bright.

Cassian gestured to it. “Stable. Like she planned the whole thing a week ago.”

Durmstrang went next. Krum stomped forward, squared his shoulders, and barked the spell like he was ordering it to behave. His shield slammed out rough and thick, strong, but uneven.

Cassian gave him a thumbs-up. “That one says ‘don’t you dare.’ Fits your aesthetic.”

Mingyu stepped forward for Fenghuang. He closed his eyes for a breath, settled quietly, then cast. His shield was neat and controlled.

Cassian let out a hum. “Calm, tidy, light.”

He turned back to the room. “Now you’ve seen each other’s methods. Try swapping. Beauxbatons, steady your breathing like Fenghuang but hold onto the emotion that strengthens it. Fenghuang do the same. Durmstrang, picture the shield before you shout at it. Picture all the training you had. Uagadou, grab hold of an emotion and see what happens, merge it with a perfect mental picture. Go on.”

A rustle of movement swept the classroom as students repositioned.

The room filled with small bursts of magic. Shields flared up, shaky, lopsided, some surprisingly strong. A few Beauxbatons students looked startled when their shields thickened. A Durmstrang boy actually laughed when his became smoother. Uagadou students tilted their heads, examining the way emotion shifted the colour of their magic. Fenghuang students gasped at the response they got from their spells.

Cassian folded his arms, grinning. “There we are. That’s why one spell can branch into five different shapes. Why one shield charm ends up a dome, another a slab, and someone else flings it sideways. Learn from each other. Don’t chuck out someone else’s method just because it’s not the one your school drills into you.”

A few of the students were still staring at their shields.

The bell rang.

Cassian pushed off the desk and headed back toward his table. “Right. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to give you homework,” he said, waving a hand. “But I’m doing it anyway. Consider this more of a favour to your future selves.

“One foot each,” he went on, “on the other four schools’ casting styles. Compare them to your own method. What they do better, where they fall apart, that sort of thing.”

A few groaned.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t even got to the optional bit.”

More groaning.

“If you’re feeling spicy, pick a spell, Protego or whatever else, and break it down across all five schools. How it’s cast, taught, reinforced. Practical differences. The works.”

He clapped his hands. “Dismissed.”

The chairs scraped. Robes swished. A dozen conversations lit up at once as students filtered out in small groups, still arguing over casting styles, some trying each other’s again as they left.

He shut his eyes, heat blooming across his chest.

“Teaching four schools at once improved my Protego more in two hours than a year of duelling drills,” he muttered.

Every casting style, the visual drills, the emotional triggers, the obsessive repetition, the maddening stillness, it all clicked into place, feeding something deeper.

He let out a breath, the grin already creeping up before he could stop it.

“This is going to be fun,” he said to nobody in particular.

He was close. He could feel it.

Second variant was close to awakening.

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