Chương 33: Ch30- Founders

Cassian woke up with someone's hair in his mouth and a cramp in his lower back that made him regret all life choices, including the one that involved falling asleep in his colleague's arms on a couch not designed for overnight use. Bathsheda shifted sometime after midnight and wedged herself against his ribs like a very dignified heat pack. Her leg was across his. Her hair... somewhere near his collarbone. He peeled a strand off his tongue and sighed through his nose. The fire had gone out.

The room was dim, blue-grey light seeping in through the curtain edge, the kind that only meant one thing. Morning. Not the gentle, 'ah let's stretch and have a lazy breakfast' kind. No. This was the Hogwarts Special. The kind that brought early-rising students, curious ghosts, and at least one unhelpfully talkative portrait with opinions no one asked for. Cassian shifted, careful not to jostle her. His shoulder cracked like an old hinge. His leg was asleep. Dignity was nowhere to be found. Right. Option A...

embrace the walk of shame and hope the students respected discretion. Option B... sneak out before breakfast, avoid eye contact with everyone, and pretend nothing untoward happened. Option B it was. He slid his arm out from under her head. She stirred, fingers curling slightly, but didn't wake. Her breathing stayed even. He paused to take a look. Her face soft in sleep, hair rumpled, one cheek squished into the cushion. She looked... safe.

A person who could gut a rune trap and hex a bureaucrat in the same breath, and still fall asleep on him without a second thought. He bent down, pressed a kiss to her temple, and muttered, "You snore like a dignified eagle." Then he was up, cloak slung over his shoulder, boots in hand. He didn't bother with the wandlight. He knew the layout. Knew which floorboards creaked and which tapestry concealed a shortcut back to his side of the staff wing. He'd done dumber things at worse hours.

Old Cassian was not good at anything except stupid decisions. The corridor outside was empty, blessedly. No curious second-years out for an early vomit after the train feast. He padded barefoot along the stones, a thief fleeing an extremely consensual crime. By the time he reached his own door, the first hints of breakfast smells were beginning to creep up from the kitchens. Toast. Sausage. Maybe eggs if the elves were feeling generous. He shut the door behind him and dropped the boots with a soft thud.

"Right," he muttered.

"Operation: Not Seen Cuddling Colleague… mostly successful." He flung off the jumper and scrubbed a hand through his hair. The mirror on his desk gave an imaginative small huff.

"You look like someone hexed your dreams." The mirror spoke, in his imagination.

"I am fine," he said, brushing lint off his sleeve.

"Just... busy night." The mirror raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"With Professor Babbling?" He threw a sock over it and ignored the muffled cackle that followed. Showered, cleaned up, robed, and slightly less a man who slept on a sofa, Cassian headed to the Great Hall. The place wasn't full yet... just a scatter of early risers. A few Ravenclaws hunched over toast and books, some Hufflepuffs passing around a jar of honey(Got it?), and one Gryffindor already trying to trade bacon for flapjacks as if it was a black market deal. Cassian slid into his seat at the staff table.

"Morning," Cassian said, reaching for the boiled eggs.

"Sleep well?" Bathsheda's voice slid in beside him. He turned, mildly startled. She looked infuriatingly composed. Fresh robes. Hair pinned. Mug of tea in hand like she hadn't just snoring when he left. He blinked.

"Did you teleport here?" She sipped.

"I got up when you left. Ten minutes later I decided I wasn't going to let you get all the toast." He stared.

"You were awake."

"For most of it, yes."

"And you didn't say anything." This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"You were so smug of yourself, creeping out like a cat burglar. I didn't have the heart to ruin it." He made a face.

"You are the worst." She smiled into her cup.

Classes kicked in straightaway. No easing in, no gentle reminder that Hogwarts was, in fact, a school and not an extended magical retreat. First up for Cassian was first-year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. A group with the social dynamics of a duel between a puffskein and a basilisk, and about as much shared enthusiasm for History of Magic as a group of cats faced with a bath. He walked in just before the bell and found a couple of dozens tiny faces blinking up at him like he wandered into the wrong room.

One boy in green had already started yawning before the chalk hit the board.

"Right," Cassian said, clapping to draw attention, one girl dropped her quill.

"Let's get the important bit out of the way... I am not Professor Binns. You are not asleep. You are not dreaming. If you are, and I feature in it holding parchment like some dashing historian, you should probably stay in bed and thank your subconscious." Silence. Good. He flicked his wand. The classroom lights shifted. Warm, steady glow replaced the cold grey of early morning. He walked to the front desk and leaned against it.

"Now," he said, folding his arms.

"Some of you..." his eyes landed on the kid still yawning "... might have been told this class is the easiest way to nap through your O. W. Ls." Cassian 's grin sharpened.

"Well, bad news. That was before. I am new. Not a ghost. Not planning to die on the job. No promises, but I would like to see at least one of you remember who founded your house by the end of the term without looking it up." He flicked his wand again. The blackboard behind him changed. Lines curved and shifted into the Hogwarts crest. Below it, four names, Godric, Helga, Rowena, Salazar.

"Today," he said, tapping each name, "we start with something simple. The founders. You probably heard the basics. Gryffindor was brave, Hufflepuff was kind, Ravenclaw was clever, and Slytherin was... misunderstood." A few Hufflepuffs giggled. The Slytherins didn't. Cassian gave them a cheerful nod.

"Relax. I am not going to insult my house. That is your Prefect's job."

"What you haven't heard," Cassian continued, pacing in front of the desk now, "is what they disagreed on. Because Hogwarts wasn't founded by four best mates frolicking through the highlands. It was built by people with opinions. Strong ones. And, shocker... when people with strong opinions build something together, they argue." He turned to the board. Four lines extended from the names, each forming a little branch.

"Who can tell me what Salazar Slytherin wanted that the others didn't?" A hand went up. Not a Hufflepuff. Interesting.

"Mr...?"

"Eliot, sir. He wanted only pure-bloods allowed at Hogwarts."

"Correct. Well done, Eliot. Have ten points for paying attention to your own house history." Cassian chuckled.

"And what did the others say to that?" More hands now. A girl near the front, yellow and black scarf askew, raised hers with hesitant confidence.

"Emily," she said quickly, "they disagreed. Said all magical children should be taught."

"Exactly. Ten points for that. Bit awkward at parties after that, I would imagine." He waved the wand again. The names faded, and were replaced by four parchment fragments, each showing different bits of the original Hogwarts Charter... copied directly from the preserved originals. Or, well, conjured facsimiles. Hogwarts wouldn't even let him touch the real ones. He let the room sit in silence a moment longer. Watched their eyes flit between the ancient script and each other.

"This," he said, tapping one parchment with his wand, "is Rowena Ravenclaw's handwriting. See the sharp curves? Elegant... and vicious in her corrections. She rewrote three whole paragraphs of Salazar's proposal. And underlined the word 'elitism' six times." A few eyes widened. One boy raised a tentative hand.

"Is that real?" Cassian grinned.

"As real as Hogwarts' plumbing. Which is older than it should be and full of secrets. Rowena's? That part is iffy. You see, she was clever enough to hold sixteen ideas in her head at once, none of which ever got along. So her handwriting... bit of a war crime, really. Looked like a banshee with a quill in its teeth." A few students laughed. One snorted so hard his inkpot tipped. Cassian didn't pause.

"That's how smart people write, by the way. Too much going on up here-" he tapped his temple "-and too little patience to make it legible." He paced slowly, eyes sweeping over the classroom.

"So is this Rowena's letter? Maybe. It got her magical signature, sure. But the letters are suspiciously tidy, nothing like her usual murder-by-quill scrawl." A few students leaned in. Cassian tapped the page with his wand.

"Could be a Self-Writing Quill. They've been around longer than any of you. Ancient Egypt had one in their Ministry that copied official decrees... and drew rude stick figures on the margins when bored." He grinned, turning toward the blackboard again.

"History is messy. Full of handwriting that doesn't match, spells that misfire, and records written by people with agendas. Your job isn't to believe everything. It is to question the parchment until it either confesses or bursts into flames." No one was giggling now. A few heads were down, quills scratching. One of the Hufflepuffs was frowning like he just discovered he'd been lied to his whole childhood. Cassian had a strange urge to pat him on the head.

"Next bit," he said, pulling up the second fragment.

"Salazar's alleged note to Godric, regarding magical duelling policies. It ends with 'Yours in Brotherhood and Wand,' which sounds... slightly too bromantic for two men arguing over blood purity." He looked at frowning little faces. Ah, how he missed enlightening underdeveloped minds. Nothing like the suspicious squint of eleven-year-olds faced with their first intellectual betrayal. He waved his wand, and the room dipped into dimness, shadows stretching long across the stone floor.

One more flick, Lumos Spectaculum, and the light started to change. Shapes bloomed in the dark. First, faint lines, then colour, movement. Four figures shimmered into view in the centre of the classroom like ghosts caught mid-breath. Two men at the front of a slim boat. One broad, dark crimson-haired, like waterfall of flames, sword strapped to his back like he forgotten he wasn't in a battlefield. The other, thinner, sharper, robes crisp even in mist, wand clenched like it was part of his hand.

Behind them, two women. One perched cross-legged at the stern, hair coiled like vines, eyes darting across the water, scanning everything. The other leaned back against the hull with the casual grace of someone used to being underestimated. Her smile was small, but it stuck.