Phew. I didn’t think I had it in me. I managed to answer all the comments. Usually, when they pile up, it becomes impossible for me to start, so I try to reply before it gets to that point. Lol. I had a stroke of enthusiasm and managed to answer them all. Sorry for the late replies, and thank you all for the comments. I love reading them. (I’ve been reading them even when I wasn’t replying.)

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“You’re overthinking,” Bathsheda said, setting the tea down in front of him.

Cassian didn’t answer straight away. He picked up the cup, turned it in his hands, then let it rest against his leg. She was trying to talk him into something he’d avoided for years. She didn’t push, but she didn’t drop it either.

Instead, she said, “You teach students already. Once it’s out, it’s out. You may as well write books about it.”

“I’ve written books,” he said.

“And?”

“Didn’t sell.”

Bathsheda gave him a look. “Because you titled them like cursed encyclopaedias.”

“They were encyclopaedias.”

“That’s the problem.”

He leaned back and laced his fingers over his stomach. “I compiled five years of lectures into one collection, and people still skipped the preface.”

“Because you called it A Survey of Magical Development Through Post-Classical Historiography.”

“It’s accurate.”

“It’s boring.”

Cassian shrugged. “Not my fault the world doesn’t appreciate structure.”

Bathsheda took a sip of her tea. “You know what people do buy? Spell books. Charm theory. Wandwork manuals. Anything with a flashy subtitle.”

“I’m not adding ‘Ten Spells to Change Your Life’ to a collection of history.”

She hummed. “What about ‘Spell Mastery Boosting’?”

He grimaced. “Sounds arrogant.”

“It is arrogant.”

“I’m a historian. Not a self-help pamphlet.”

“You’re a historian teaching spellcraft.”

Cassian tilted his head. “History through spellcraft.”

“Oh, apologies,” she said, tone dry. “People appreciate the difference.”

He looked back at the tea. Didn’t touch it.

She watched him for a moment, then said, quieter, “You’ve already taught the spells. Dozens of them. Half the school can cast six ancient variants at this point.”

Cassian dragged a hand down his face. “It’s not the same.”

“How?”

“When I teach in person,” he said, “I teach the risks. The context. The virtue.” He shook his head, “Some of these older spells can do real harm in the wrong hands.

She waited.

“And the ones I’ve made…” He huffed through his nose. “Baths, take Lumos Spectrum. It’s dead simple. Shift the light, see what the eye misses.”

He lifted the cup, then set it down again without drinking.

“I can’t sleep some nights thinking about it. All it takes is the wrong person. Someone patient. Someone obsessed. They wave a wand and suddenly every heat trace, every organic mark, every place a body’s been becomes a map.”

He glanced at her. “Imagine a stalker. Someone who shouldn’t be anywhere near another human being. They don’t need to guess anymore. They follow the trail. I handed them the torch.”

He finally took a sip. It had gone lukewarm.

Bathsheda set her tea aside and shifted closer. “You’re assuming the worst.”

“I’m assuming people,” he said. “History’s good at that.”

She studied him for a moment. “You know what people already misuse?”

“Plenty.”

“Tracking charms. Blood magic. Scrying bowls. Half the spells in Knockturn.” She leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair. “You didn’t invent cruelty.”

“No,” he said. “But I might’ve made it easier.”

Bathsheda opened her mouth to argue.

Then she closed it again.

She knew he wasn’t wrong. Annoyingly so. She taught runes for a living. Half her curriculum was warnings dressed up as theory. Think before you carve. Think before you bind. Think before you decide a symbol means only one thing. No, that doesn’t mean ‘May your fields be fertile and your goats obedient.’ She drilled it into them until they groaned.

And still, she’d always worked under the quiet assumption that this was the line. You taught. You warned. What they did after that wasn’t yours to carry. People were shaped by their homes, their families, their rot. You couldn’t rewrite that with a lecture and a chalkboard.

Cassian had ruined that belief.

She looked at him now, slouched back in the chair, tea forgotten again, watching the steam curl and fade. He didn’t look like a reformer. He didn’t preach. He didn’t soften things. He told the truth and let it sit there, awkward and sharp, until students had to deal with it.

And somehow, that worked.

Draco Malfoy, for one.

He used to walk the halls like he owned them, chin up, mouth open, sneering at anything that didn’t echo his name back at him. But now…

Now he came to class early.

Helped younger students with their bags.

Said thank you, sometimes.

Didn’t flinch at Hermione’s corrections. Didn’t mock students. Kept Tracey from doing anything truly unhinged at least once a week. Watched Theo like he was expecting something to go wrong, and for once, actually cared if it did.

She saw it clearer than anyone.

In the version of the year without Cassian, Draco would’ve been worse by now. Louder. Crueller. Still circling the same old habits as if they were inheritance.

Cassian had quietly broken it by accident.

She huffed. “You cheated. You’ve got years of teaching under your belt from before.”

Her mouth twitched, crossing her arms, like that might hold back the sulk. It didn’t.

Cassian burst into laughter seeing her face and caught her by the waist. She yelped, half-toppled into his chest, and very nearly knocked over his tea. He caught the cup mid-wobble, set it down, and wrapped both arms around her.

“Sabotage,” she muttered into his collar.

“You say sabotage, I say affectionate redirection.”

They stood there like that for a while. Her head tucked in beneath his, one hand still curled at his side. The weight of her against him was a kind of silence he didn’t get from anything else. It calmed the pacing bit of his brain. Let the rest catch up.

After a bit, he spoke.

“I know the memories matter,” he said. “I know these memories are important. I know, too, that the cheat only rewards if I cast these spells far and wide. But I can’t do it… not in good conscience.”

She didn’t interrupt.

“I just…” He breathed out slowly. “Baths. I can’t sit and turn war spells into pamphlets. I can’t spread the kind of magic that was made with blood and grief and call it education. It’s not.”

Her arm shifted, hand tightening slightly against his back. She leaned back enough to see him. Then nodded. She then smiled against his chest, her arms sliding around him properly, fingers hooking into the back of his shirt, and held him there.

That was the man she loved.

Gains were there. Laid out like an invitation. The cheat had swung open a dozen paths. All he had to do was shut up and lean in.

He didn’t.

Wouldn’t.

“Do you think the tree and your Patronus were connected?” Bathsheda’s voice was quiet, eyes flicking to his hand, then to his face. Cassian followed her gaze.

“They seem alike.” He hummed. “Bit on the nose, that. But yeah, maybe.”

Her fingers played with the hem of his shirt. “And that woman?”

Cassian smirked and traced the line of her waist with both hands. “Are you jealous?”

She slapped his arm. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Could be the radiant tree goddess part, luminous. Glowy. Gave nature a bit of a stir.”

She settled back against him again, but didn’t drop the subject. “Do you think she was a person?”

“Didn’t feel like one,” Cassian said. “Just… there. Like the tree remembered her.”

“You mean as in…”

“I mean… the tree needed her. And maybe she needed the tree.”

Bathsheda rubbed a thumb over his palm.

“And she didn’t look at me. Not once.” His mouth twitched. “Not even a nod. Devastating for my ego.”

Bathsheda leaned her head against his. “Maybe you weren’t meant to be seen.”

He snorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They stayed like that for a moment.

Then Cassian said, “Still not sure what any of it was.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “But I’d like to know. Before it tries to recruit me into the Moss Cult or something.”

Bathsheda didn’t laugh, but the sound she made was close.

He kissed her hair. “Don’t worry. If I go tree-mad, I’ll leave you a note.”

She pinched his side.

He grinned. “See? Jealous.”

***

Neville stepped into the classroom first, bag hanging off one shoulder. Daphne followed a breath later. They nodded to each other, settling.

“Prefect patrol later?” Daphne asked, glancing around for signs of traps.

Neville nodded. “Double pass on the west stairwell. Elora’s rota’s a nightmare.”

“She always adds extra corridors.”

He gave a tired laugh. “You think this is about patrols?”

“No,” Daphne said. “Professor R. called us. That usually means the curriculum’s about to catch fire or someone’s soul’s been accidentally transfigured into a bench.”

“Or he’s bored,” Neville added, shivering. Daphne’s face also blanched.

The desks were all pushed back. One stool in the middle. No chalk, no parchment. No cursed projector humming in the corner either.

Neville sat, dropped his bag beside him, and looked up. “How’s Astoria?”

Daphne’s mouth pulled into a tired smile. “Good. Bit of a menace lately, but working hard.”

He nodded. “Gran said she saw her name in a newsletter. Something about a charm tournament?”

Daphne shrugged one shoulder. “She got shortlisted. Didn’t tell us until the letter arrived. Mum nearly passed out. I think she’s hoping Astoria’ll go into research.”

“Does she want that?”

“No,” Daphne said, tugging her sleeve straight. “She wants to be a cursebreaker. Somewhere cold and remote, preferably with skeletons.”

He chuckled under his breath, then glanced at the cleared floor. “Reckon we’re getting a practical today?”

Daphne raised an eyebrow. “Only two of us?”

“Fair,” Neville murmured. He leaned forward slightly. “You seen the greenhouse lately?”

“Greenhouse Five?” Daphne asked. “Yeah. It’s glowing.”

“More than glowing. There’s a lizard living in the compost. Professor Sprout swears it’s learning English.”

“Your doing?”

“Not this time.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I left a few cuttings out over the summer. Might’ve picked up company.”

Daphne gave him a flat look.

Neville shrugged. “You know how it goes. You plant one harmless wardroot, suddenly your whole bed starts to hum.”

“Normal gardens don’t do that.”

“Normal gardens don’t listen.”

Before Daphne could reply, the door creaked. Cassian stepped in with his staff tapping lightly across the floor.

He looked at the two of them.

“Alright,” he said. “You’re early. Good.”

Daphne glanced at Neville. “We’re not in trouble, are we?”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Not yet.”

He walked to the door and slapped a paper against the wood. Rune lit up faint, soft blue under the surface. Daphne tilted her head, trying to place it.

Cassian didn’t explain.

He repeated the same on all four walls. Last one sparked against the stone, pulsed a bit then settled. He turned, rubbing his palm.

“My beloved made them for me,” he said. “Pre-paid magic. Since I’ve run out of mine, they come in handy.”

Neville stared. “What do they do?”

Cassian tilted his head like it was obvious. “Shields the room. Stops sound from going out. Or people snooping in.”

That changed the air. Daphne shifted her stance, shoulders pulling straighter. Neville looked between the runes and Cassian’s face, then nodded.

Cassian perched on the edge of the table. His eyes scanned both of them.

“I’ll be brief and frank,” he said. “And if you don’t want to go with it, all is good.”

They nodded.

He watched them for a beat, then sighed. “Of everyone I’ve met, only four truly stood out as deeply attuned to nature, and you’re one of the top two. Especially plants. Hagrid’s the best with animals. He’s already accepted my offer, but I may not merge classes even if you two agree. Your specialties are different.”

The pair glanced at each other. Then back at him. Not interrupting.

Cassian continued. “On my travels over the summer, I’ve learned a new branch of magic lost to time.”

He let that settle for a second.

“What do you know about Druids?”

(Check Here)

“They thought it was harmless,” he whispered. “Just reading. Just scrolling. Just silence.”

And that was how the Dark Author rose.

—

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