Chương 59: Ch56- WHY?!

Cassian perched on the desk, kicked one leg over the side, and aimed his attention straight at the girl practically vibrating out of her seat.

"Ms Granger," he said.

"You are Muggle-born, correct?" She blinked like he asked if she breathed air.

"Yes, sir."

"Lovely. Can you tell me why you are using a quill?" Hermione hesitated, glancing at her parchment, the quill in her hand, then back at him.

"Because... um... it is traditional?"

"That is a polite way of saying 'we are doing it because someone dead said we should.'" He dove a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a pen. Actual pen. Biro, blue ink, plastic so cheap it squeaked if you flexed it. Held it up like a wand.

"Do you know why Magicks use quills to write?" Hermione blinked, straightened. Her brain made that little whirring sound it did before a fact came flying out like shrapnel.

"Hogwarts: A History, page seventy-six. Quills are magically conductive. They allow passive enchantments to interact with the script as it is being written." Cassian nodded.

"Very good memorisation." She smiled. He sighed.

"Then why do you think I use a Muggle pen?" She paused. A second passed. Then another. Her hand twitched like it wanted to reach for a book, which was useless. No book would explain it. He turned to the others.

"Can anyone guess?" Half the room blinked. Tracey Davis bit the end of her quill, squinting at the pen in his hand. Dean leaned forward, clearly itching to guess but not quite confident enough to risk it. Seamus, of course, had no such reservations.

"Because you are a Muggle-lover?" he said, grinning. Cassian snapped a finger at him.

"Wrong. I mean I do love them but not the reason." Millicent scoffed.

"Because you are lazy?"

"Ooh," Cassian winced.

"Closer." Hermione hesitated again. He didn't look at her. Let her stew. Let the answer itch at her temple. The rest sat quiet.

"None of you?" Cassian asked, looking mildly insulted.

"Come on. Thought this was supposed to be the clever year." He tossed the pen in the air and caught it behind his back. The twins from Gryffindor would've applauded, but none of these Slytherins were in the mood. Neither was Hermione, who looked like the internal debate between 'speak' and 'don't be that student' was actively causing her pain. Cassian looked at Harry.

"Mr Potter, any guess?" Harry raised his head, eyes flicking to the board, then back to Cassian, weighing whether answering would be a trap.

"Because writing with quills is a pain in the back," he said, "and we don't need magical conductivity in History of Magic." Cassian clapped slowly but loudly.

"Ten points to Gryffindor." A few heads snapped towards Harry. Ron looked like someone had just announced his rat could do algebra. Granger whipped round to stare at Harry as if he'd started speaking Parseltongue.

"Magic doesn't automatically flow into your homework, Miss Granger," Cassian added, pacing past her desk.

"Even when it is drowning in citations. Especially then, in fact." She looked ready argue. Probably would've, if her parchment hadn't been halfway to exploding under how hard she was writing. Cassian swung back to the front.

"The reason I use a pen is very simple, it works. No blotting, no charm needed to keep the ink from running, and if it explodes, it is probably the user's fault. Quills are a fashion statement. Pens are tools." Neville raised a hand.

"What happens if you write a spell with one?" Cassian scratched his jaw.

"Nothing, unless you enchant the ink. Which is a bad idea, by the way. Leads to screaming letters, exploding pens, and the occasional demon contract if you are not careful." Dean snickered, a few also hid their laugh behind their hands. He then sighed, long and theatrical.

"Right then. How many of you have ever actually experienced Muggle culture? Not just walked past a telly in a shop window... proper, hands-on experience. Microwaves, buses, awkward conversations with people who don't believe dragons are real?" A few hands went up. Hermione's, obviously. Dean Thomas too. Harry, surprisingly. Cassian raised an eyebrow at that one. He would think on that later.

"So," he went on, "you lot know they are not living in huts, scrawling on cave walls, yeah? Don't let your textbooks convince you otherwise. The Muggle world is a nightmare of traffic, capitalism, and fast food, but it is clever as hell. Give them a few decades and they will accidentally invent a thermonuclear kettle." Hermione made a noise. It wasn't a gasp, but it had the energy of someone watching a bookshelf being set on fire. Her hand shot up before he even finished.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" She stood up, stood up like this was court.

"Are you saying that books... books…" Her nose crinkled. She looked like she licked something sour and wanted to blame the ink.

"That books are wrong?" Cassian stared at her. Then gave a low whistle.

"Blasphemy, I know. Heresy in parchment form." He crossed his arms, all mock gravity.

"But answer me this. If I wrote a book, me, personally and filled it cover to cover with lies, half-truths, and a wildly flattering portrait of myself riding a griffin, claiming I tackled a werewolf, pinned it with one hand, pressed my wand to its neck, and then turned it back into a human. Would that be true… or flattering fiction?" Hermione's mouth opened. Nothing came out. He grinned.

"Exactly." She sat back down hard.

"Books," he continued, pacing again, "are written by people. And people are messy. They get things wrong. They lie. They twist stories to make themselves look heroic or clever or slightly less racist. History is full of it. You know how many kings died 'mysteriously' and right after their nephews 'disappeared'? We call that 'natural causes' in the official records." The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Neville blinked.

"But… isn't Hogwarts: A History written by someone who was here?" Cassian turned to him, nodded solemnly.

"Yep. And she left out the bit where a hippogriff got loose in the second-floor corridor and started stealing everyone's shoes. Whole year of barefoot students. Not a word about it." Cassian grabbed a piece of chalk, stabbing it at the board.

"Here is the thing, and pay attention because it will come up again, knowledge isn't truth. Not by default. It is memory, rewritten by bias, fear, power, and someone with a quill deciding which bits get remembered." He turned back to them.

"The Founders? Didn't like each other. That whole 'united front' story? Rubbish. Salazar tried to hex Helga's badger once. Rowena threatened to move the entire school to the sky because she got bored of the lake. And Godric... well, Godric challenged a ghost to a drinking contest. And lost." Blaise raised a hand.

"But ghosts can't drink." Cassian pointed at him.

"Exactly." The room went quiet for a second. Then Parvati giggled. That set off Lavender. They were all true, or maybe not. He read them in a book from the Forbidden Section. Who knew if the Author was pulling them from his back or was actually there.

"History," he said, letting the word sit for a moment, "isn't a list of dates and facts. It is a battleground. People fighting over what gets remembered. And in this castle? It is practically a war zone." He paced to the back of the room again, and leaned over Malfoy's desk, making the poor boy flinch.

"Right. An exercise from last year." He didn't wait for interest to rise.

"Thirty points to whoever manages to get their name into this cup." That got their attention. He pulled his wand and flicked, a pale-blue ring flared and hovered around the cup.

"This," Cassian said, "is an age line. Prevents you from stepping in unless you are of a certain age." He folded his arms, eyeing the class.

"What do you do?" Harry blinked at the glowing line. Goyle leaned in, fascinated. Hermione raised her hand so fast she nearly hit Parvati in the nose. Ron half-raised his hand, Cassian waved him off.

"Mr Weasley, you are not to open your mouth. I know your brothers spoke about it non-stop." The boy deflated, watching the others intently, as if trying to pass his knowledge to his fellow Gryffindors telepathically.

"Yes, Miss Granger. Let's have the obvious answer."

"Break the ward?" she said, already speaking before he even finished. Cassian nodded slowly.

"Alright. Bold. Brute force. Sure. Try that, and enjoy the magical backlash rearranging your face. Not recommended." Malfoy raised his hand, scowling like he was about to say something nasty. Too bad, nothing came out. He scowled harder. Pointed at his throat. Glared at Cassian. Cassian didn't even bother looking up.

"What?" Malfoy dropped his hand, jaw clenched. Goyle gave him a helpless shrug. Cassian tapped the glass jar nearest him.

"I will give you your voices. But behave. I am not above keeping one as a souvenir." He didn't wait for a response. Just waved his wand, and the jars popped open with a hiss. Three bubbles floated like fairies. Their voices returned. Malfoy made a sound halfway between a cough and a curse. Cassian waved his hand.

"You are welcome."

"You find the caster," Malfoy finally said, "and get them to lift the ward." Cassian tilted his head.

"Cheat by authority. Very Slytherin. Unfortunately, not always an option in the real world. Imagine needing to raid a tomb and asking the dead for permission." Draco opened his mouth again. Cassian moved on. Tracey Davis crossed her arms.

"Get someone older to do it for you."

"Delegation," Cassian said.

"Smart. Lazy. Might work. Might also get you caught and both expelled. Hogwarts loves shared punishment. Builds unity." Neville looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. He eyed the ring warily, like it might leap up and bite him. Dean Thomas raised a tentative hand.

"Go in under an Invisibility Cloak?" Cassian blinked.

"To trick a magical field that sees your age as a metaphysical constant?" Dean lowered his hand without a word.

"You are all approaching it like it is a wall," Cassian said.

"But it is not. It is a filter. Age, in this context, is just a trigger. Magic doesn't care about birthdays. It reads maturity, magical development, body signature." Nott squinted.

"So... get older?"

"Brilliant," Cassian said.

"Wait ten years. Easy points." Hermione raised her hand again.

"What about potions? Something to increase age temporarily?"

"Bit dangerous," he said.

"And you would have to brew it yourself, which is already a death sentence for half of you." He flicked his wand again, and a second circle appeared around the first, fainter, thinner. Then a third. Concentric rings, each one humming differently.

"Here is the twist," he said.

"Each ring reads something else. Age. Intention. Magical stability. You might cross one. Two, if you're clever. But all three?" He stepped back.

"So. How do you do it?" Harry raised his hand. Cassian spotted the crumpled scrap of parchment in his grip and raised an eyebrow. He smirked.

"Come forward, Mr Potter. Show us how it is done." Harry stood up, hesitant. The class was half waiting for him to get hexed. He stood outside the rings, paper still clutched in his hand, and stared down at the three concentric wards like they might start hissing. Cassian gestured.

"Any time now. No pressure. Just your academic dignity on the line." Taking a deep breath, Harry tossed the crumpled bit of parchment from outside the ring. It hit the rim of the cup, then dropped straight into the tea with a soft plunk. The whole class watched like he just thrown a coin into a cursed well. Cassian leaned his ear.

"Right, Mr Potter, what was that?" Harry gave a shrug, quiet.

"Said to get it in the cup. Didn't say you had to walk it in." Cassian grinned.

"Another thirty points to Gryffindor. Sit back." Harry rubbed the back of his head and shuffled back to his seat, ears tinged pink. Cassian stepped to the front, arms stretched out like a preacher about to baptise a room full of chaos.

"Never lose your imagination. Never lose your ability to question authority. Never lose your clever ideas." He glanced across the room, eyes dragging across the house colours.

"Books, school, teachers, endless essays… all lovely, sure, but they will try to shape you. Into themselves. Into systems. Into people who nod politely when asked to swallow absolute bollocks."

"Don't fall for it. Don't bend yourself to fit into someone else's bloody filing cabinet." His tone got louder, sharper. Done with pretending the world made sense.

"You are not here to become a copy of someone who came before. You are not here to impress ghosts." He took another step. Getting closer.

"We came into this world different. Different shapes. Different colours. Different voices. Some of you are loud. Some quiet. Some of you already think in spells. Some of you still can't charm a feather without it catching fire. Yes, Mr Finnegan, I heard." Seamus scratched his nose and looked pointedly at the floor. He waved his wand. The chalk sprang up again, scribbled a new phrase across the board,"THINK. QUESTION. NEVER BLINDLY OBEY."

"You lot," he said, pointing loosely at them, "make this world interesting. Not because you are clever, though some of you are. Not because you are powerful, though half of you will probably end up in detention for accidentally hexing yourselves. No. Because you still got that lovely, dangerous thing called curiosity." Hermione looked like she was either going to cry or tattoo the quote on her arm. Dean leaned back in his seat, grinning. Malfoy scowled harder.

"Alright. Before I start getting sappy and someone reports me for emotional damage, homework." A chorus of groans rose. He raised one brow.

"You thought you would get away without it? Adorable."

"Half a scroll," Cassian said, "on a magical invention or spell you think was either a brilliant accident or an utter disaster. Doesn't have to be in the curriculum. Impress me. Bonus points if I haven't heard of it before. Negative points if you copy out of Magical Mishaps and Mayhem." Seamus raised a tentative hand.

"Can we write about that ghost with the exploding teapot?"

"You can. But if it is not properly sourced, I will assume you made it up and dock house points. Or worse, invite the ghost." Seamus looked delighted and vaguely alarmed. Cassian glanced at the clock. Five minutes left. Enough time to cause a minor existential crisis. He leaned both hands on the desk.

"Now. One more thing before I kick you out." He pointed at the board again, a single word appeared, Why.

"That is it," he said.

"Why. That is the question. You ask it enough times, you find the roots of anything. Why was Hogwarts founded? Why were those four allowed to build it? Why are some spells legal and some not? Why do we teach children to make things explode before we teach them how to think?" He crossed his arms.

"Start asking why and you will scare people. Especially adults. Especially ones in power. They like it when you memorise. Not so much when you ask where the memory came from." He heard Weasley whisper to Potter, "We are bloody eleven." But he ignored it. Cassian pushed off the desk.

"Right then. That is enough life-altering perspective for one morning. Out." There was the usual chaos of bags and feet and someone knocking over an inkpot.

"Homework due next Tuesday," Cassian called over the noise.

"Don't insult me with excuses." Once they all spilled out, Cassian dropped back into his chair, leaning back. He rubbed his temple, wondering how long it would take for Potter to start mimicking the others. When the messy thinking would be scraped out of him by too many points, too many eyes, too many people trying to shape him into something useful.

"Three months," he muttered.

"Maybe two if he joins a club."