“What do you know about Druids?”

Neither rushed to answer. Daphne folded her arms. “The Greengrass records trace back to Wye Valley. Near Tintern of the old groves. We kept the rites going until somewhere around the eleventh century. Most of it’s ceremonial now, but the rootwork and plant inheritance never stopped. Same with leyline rotation. Still used in the garden. Some of it reacts to us. Astoria more than me.”

Neville nodded. “Gran says we’re descended from one of the tribes. Memory-keepers if I recall correctly. Northern line of the Northumberland or thereabouts. They worked with the seers. Tree-scrying, sap-thread spells. Our greenhouse wards use the same base. Still hold, even if we don’t call it Druidic anymore.”

Cassian hummed. “Alright. So you know a little.”

Neville frowned. “A little?”

“You’ve got what made it through the fires and the laws and the rebranding. What families whispered over the years. But the core of it, how they saw magic, how they passed it on, how they used it, that didn’t get written down.”

He stepped forward and tapped the staff against the floor. “Because they didn’t trust parchment. If something mattered, you didn’t write it. You lived it. Remembered it. Passed it on through blood or word.”

Daphne’s gaze sharpened. “The spoken line.”

He nodded. “Exactly. And most of it’s gone. Scraped away, renamed, locked up under newer magic. But…”

He took a breath.

“Not all of it.”

Neither of them spoke.

Then Daphne turned to Neville. “There’s a rumour in the Greengrass line. That we were tied to the same tribe once. Before the Founders. Before the split. Back when it was all one.”

Neville nodded. “We’ve got the same story. Some branch of our tree merged with yours. Then split again. Somewhere around the time Hogwarts went up.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Cassian muttered. “Most families that far back were tangled. Especially the ones who worked the land. Greengrass and Longbottom might’ve been the same root once. Before politics got involved.”

Daphne gave a small nod, as if she’d already guessed. “So what now?”

Cassian sighed. “Honestly, I’m still not sure I should be teaching this.”

His eyes flicked between them. “But when I inherited the spells over the summer, I didn’t just get the knowledge but also the intent. The… nudge. Spirits I met… They wanted it passed on.”

Neither Neville nor Daphne interrupted. They just listened.

“So far, I’ve found four people. Four I think can carry it without turning the forest into a vanity project or lighting a village by accident.”

His voice dropped a bit.

“Your sister’s one of them. Astoria. But she’s still young. I’ll wait.”

Daphne nodded in relief.

“In the meantime, I plan to teach you two. And Hagrid. If you’re in.”

Neville’s brow pulled tight. Daphne’s expression didn’t shift at all. He could tell they’d already said yes in their heads, even if their mouths hadn’t caught up yet.

He waited anyway. He didn’t want to force them. They had to want it.

Neville spoke first. “What do you need us to do?”

Cassian scratched the side of his jaw. “Well, first step’s easy. Don’t panic.”

Daphne looked unimpressed. “That’s your opener?”

Cassian walked up and held out a hand. “Don’t be shy. Point them.”

The two stared at him, a bit wary. Still, they each raised a finger. He touched his to theirs. The three fingertips met.

A thin green light sparked between them. Then gone.

Neville blinked.

Daphne looked down at her finger, brow tight.

It felt like something had wrapped around them, light, barely there, like a strand of warm air coiled just tight enough to be noticed if you focused.

Cassian stepped back. “Before anyone panics, no, it’s not a blood oath or anything daft. No binding clause. Nothing that’ll stab you in the spine if you change your mind.”

“It’s a marker,” Cassian said. “A reminder. That’s all. Can easily be removed. Think about it hard enough, it’ll break on its own.” He shrugged.

Daphne eyed her finger. “It’s soft.”

Cassian tilted his head. “Wouldn’t trust it if it wasn’t.”

They didn’t ask why he used it. They already understood.

“The spells I’m going to teach you, some of them aren’t friendly. They’ll bite. Probably you.”

Both were still staring at their fingers.

“I want your word you won’t use them lightly. That’s all I ask.”

Neville nodded. “Alright.”

Daphne gave a small shrug. “I swear.”

Cassian’s shoulders eased. “Good. I’ll let you know when we start. Won’t be regular lessons. Might be middle of the night. Might be out by the Forest.”

Neville sighed slowly. Daphne got up. “Thank you.”

Cassian stepped back, smiling. “You’ll do fine.”

***

Cassian pushed the door open without knocking. Umbridge was already there, perched in the guest chair with a porcelain cup in her hand and that usual tight little smile that looked like it had been ironed onto her face. Dumbledore stood near the hearth, hands tucked behind his back.

Cassian didn’t greet either of them. He made a beeline for the phoenix.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, leaning in close. “Still pretending to like him, are we?”

Fawkes gave a warble, something between annoyed and amused.

Cassian scratched lightly under the bird’s beak. “You know you’ve got options. He’s old. Bit crumbly. I’m spry. Ten fingers, one staff, and the kind of charm that gets tea refilled without asking.”

Fawkes let out a sharper chirp this time, feathers fluffing.

Cassian grinned. “Oh, language. Thought you were meant to be dignified.”

“Hem hem.”

Cassian didn’t turn.

Umbridge sniffed.

Dumbledore smiled faintly, not bothered at all.

Umbridge cleared her throat again. “Professor Rosier, I-“

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Cassian said, finally turning. “Though if you’ve come to offer biscuits, I’ll listen.”

Her smile strained. “I was under the impression we were meeting to discuss school policy.”

Cassian dropped into the farthest chair from her, let his staff rest against the desk, and leaned back like he had all day. “Are we?”

She smoothed her robes. “The Minister is concerned about certain… extracurricular activities taking place at Hogwarts.”

Cassian glanced at Dumbledore, then back. “You’ll have to narrow that down. We’ve got chess, gobstones, and a half-feral duelling club that occasionally sets fire to the curtains. Be specific.”

Umbridge didn’t blink. “Parents are questioning whether the Duelling Club is preparing students for combat. Some have compared it to a war camp.”

Cassian nodded. “It is.”

That cracked her face a little. “So you admit it?”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “I do. It’s a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I teach them how to survive both.”

She made a noise that might’ve passed for disapproval if she’d had a spine to back it. “We already have Defence classes.”

“Excellent,” Cassian said. “Then those who want something gentler can stay there. Duelling Club isn’t mandatory. If they’re afraid of bruises, they can leave.”

Her fingers twitched against her teacup.

Cassian tilted his head. “I assume the Minister would prefer we wait until the war’s at the gates before preparing for it?”

Dumbledore moved to the cabinet, poured himself a drink. Didn’t seem like he wanted to be part of the conversation at all.

Umbridge took a breath, still smiling. “Surely, Professor Rosier, there are boundaries. Encouraging aggression-“

“No one’s encouraging anything,” Cassian cut in. “We teach control. Restraint. How to aim a Stunner without blowing someone’s arm off. Which, frankly, is more than I can say for half the Auror recruits the Ministry spits out.”

She bristled. “We’re talking about children.”

He blinked. “Yes. Children. Who’ve been attacked by trolls, Death Eaters, Dementors, cursed artefacts, and once a centuries old snake. All within the last five years. But no, you’re right, let’s give them a pamphlet and a pat on the head.”

Her voice wobbled slightly. “This level of independence-“

“-is why they’re still alive.”

She took a second, squinting at him. “You admitted it is a war camp. Are you raising an army?”

Cassian didn’t bite. “Army’s a group. A hierarchy. Ranks, orders, uniforms, salutes.”

He waved his hand lazily. “This isn’t that.”

Umbridge didn’t back down. “Then what would you call it?”

“Education,” he said, tilting his head. “The sort that sticks.”

She sniffed. “You train them for violence.”

“No,” Cassian said. “I train them for reality.”

Her teacup hit the saucer a bit harder than intended.

He went on, unbothered. “What they do after, that’s their choice. But if you think I’m going to stand in front of a room full of teenagers, many of whom have already seen people die, and give them a lesson on the ethics of wand etiquette, you’re mad.”

Umbridge’s jaw tightened. “You’re encouraging paranoia.”

“I’m encouraging preparation,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “If you want paranoia, try being a seventeen-year-old with a target on your back, almost being kidnapped by a circle of maniacs to be used in a ritual.”

She sat back stiffly. “You undermine Ministry protocol. You bypass approval. You make decisions without clearance.”

Cassian chuckled coldly. “Duelling Club was re-opened with the Governors, staff, and Headmaster’s approval. Three years ago we established Hogwarts is still a private institution.” He stretched out a leg. “We follow the Department of Education’s guidelines, yes. We also still have a governing board. Active, nosy, and, last I checked, fully in favour of teaching students how not to die.”

Umbridge’s smile wobbled.

“And we have you now, don’t we, Madam Liaison?” He gestured vaguely at her.

Dumbledore sipped his tea.

She held her ground. “The Minister’s authority-“

“-Doesn’t extend to curriculum enforcement,” Cassian cut in. “Not unless he fancies rewriting the Charter. Would make for a brilliant headline, mind. ‘Minister Fudge Tries to Dictate Homework, Spelling Errors Ensue.'”

“Professor Rosier.” Umbridge’s jaw twitched. “You’re mocking the chain of command.”

Cassian raised both eyebrows. “Mocking implies effort. This is more of a hobby.”

She sat back a little, eyeing him like she’d found a stain she couldn’t quite scrub out.

He gave her a mocking smile. “You don’t like the way I teach. Fine. Write a complaint. Mail it to the governors. Have a moan to the Prophet. I’m sure there’s a columnist somewhere desperate for filler between Quidditch results.”

He tilted his head. “But unless you’ve got a policy, a vote, or a magical education degree tucked under that doily, you don’t get to dictate how I run my class.”

Her lips tightened.

Cassian went on. “You want to sit in? Observe? Make notes with your feathered pen and judge my chalkboard spelling? Knock yourself out. You want to tell me which spells I’m allowed to use in a club designed to keep teenagers alive when someone points a wand at them?” He smiled. “Not happening.”

She drew a breath through her nose, slow and sharp.

Cassian stood, stretched, picked up his staff like this was a social visit gone on too long.

“If we’re done here, I’ve got a class in ten minutes and a mountain of essays on magical cartography. Unless the Minister’s planning to regulate the width of my map margins too, I suggest we both get back to work.”

He turned to the door, then paused. Glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh and next time you try to imply I’m running a war camp, maybe don’t do it while an actual army of Death Eaters, some of the most dangerous recently escaped, do mind, is actively targeting Magical Britain.”

He gave Dumbledore a small nod. “Cheers.”

Then walked out.

(Check Here)

Layer 7 produced pottery shards, a rusted quill, and evidence of an ancient readership that consumed art but left no markings. Tribe likely died of embarrassment.

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