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CASS31- Tax Write-Offs
🕑 Added 2025-07-20 14:41:55 +0000 UTCThe four were crossing a lake. Not just any lake. Wide, still, silver-dark in the illusion's low light… looked suspiciously like the Great Lake, minus the squid. Mist clung to the surface, curling around the boat, hiding everything past the edge of the spell's radius. The only sound in the real room was a faint gasp from wide-eyed children.
As the boat pushed forward, the mist started to pull back. Bit by bit, the jagged silhouette of land rose ahead. Not a gentle slope, not a welcoming shore... just rock, rising sharp from the land like it hadn't been expecting visitors. Perched high on the ridge, lit only by illusion moonlight.
All four in the boat sat up straighter.
Cassian stopped the spell. The figures froze, boat caught mid-glide. Light fell in from the frozen illusion, cutting across the classroom and casting a long, blue-tinged glow that caught him square in the chest as he stepped between the desks.
"Did you know," he said, "that first-years ride boats to the castle because the Founders wanted new students to feel exactly what they felt at that moment?"
He paused, let it sit.
"Of course, students these days see the castle fully built. Lit up like a prize hog. Bit more dramatic than a misty rock. Still, the idea stuck."
He paced a little, before pointing at the illusion. "No big feast. No sorting hat yet. Just four people in a boat, finding the one place they might agree on something."
He turned back to the illusion just as the castle started rising out of the stone. It wasn't grand all at once. Not even close. It built itself the same way any decent thing did... slow, a bit stubborn, and with far too many arguments about what shape the windows should be.
He turned back to the class. "Of course, all that is just my interpretation of how Hogwarts was built. Artistic liberty, smoke and mirrors, and a sprinkle of informed guesswork." He stepped back into the centre of the room, wand tucked under his arm, hands loose at his sides. "Truth is, we know very little about the actual process. No blueprints. No minutes from the planning committee. Founders didn't exactly leave behind a building manual."
Some of the students were still staring at the illusion, the four figures locked in soft, silver light, standing proudly before the castle they built.
"Hogwarts has secrets. Big ones. Layers under layers. Passages that don't lead anywhere until they do. Doors that vanish when you are in a hurry. Rooms that remember things you would rather forget."
He paced between rows, "And here is the strange bit," he said. "Even the Founders didn't know all of them. Each of them built parts of the castle... enchanted them, hid things, added wards, but the castle kept changing after they were gone. As if it is still building itself. Or remembering something."
He stopped in front of a pair of wide-eyed first-years. "There is a theory," he went on, "that each Founder left behind a secret chamber. Not a broom cupboard or a reading nook. Proper hidden spaces. Sealed with their magic. Designed to open only under very specific circumstances."
A couple of students were clearly hanging onto every word now. Even the yawner had stopped doodling and was watching him like he might start breathing fire.
Cassian grinned. "Some of you might've heard the rumours about the Chamber of Secrets. Terribly dramatic name. Bit of a branding problem, that one."
A few heads nodded, some cautiously, some like they were waiting for him to confirm every bedtime horror story they'd ever been told.
He kept going. "The story goes, Salazar Slytherin built it himself. Stashed a monster in it. Locked the place tight, so only his true heir could open it. Not sure what qualifies as a true heir... blood, ideology, family crest, who knows. Magic is not always literal, unfortunately."
"Did anyone ever find it?" Eliot again, leaning forward now.
He considered if he should say it or not, then shrugged and went with honesty.
"Fifty years ago, there were rumours about it," Cassian said, eyes flicking to the illusion still floating in the centre of the classroom. "But I don't buy it."
That got him a few surprised looks.
"What I want you to learn most in History classes," he continued, stepping between the desks again, "is not the history. It is how it is told. That the narrator... me, your book, whatever authority decides the syllabus, can bend the truth. Dress it up. Cut bits out. And suddenly that lie is your new truth."
Some of them looked unsure. A boy scratched something next to his notes, underlining it three times.
"Always," Cassian said, clapping his hands, "do your own research. Ask questions. Challenge the bloody footnotes. Second-guess what you read, especially if it is too neat."
The sound snapped a few of them out of their fog. Quills moved faster now.
"From second class on," he added, "I will start weaving magic into these lessons. Spells you already know, so no need to panic. This isn't Charms. I am not your magic teacher."
A few chuckles there. Someone whispered something about Binns never using a wand at all, which... fair point.
Cassian moved to the board, gave it a tap. The illusion faded, the classroom light coming back in full.
"Magic exists in your history. And history exists in your magic. You learn them separately, which is a bit like trying to learn flying with one wing."
He then waved them off. "I want an essay on Founders and Hogwarts. Do your research, add your insights. There won't be grading, but it will teach you how to form your own opinions, and that… is the most important thing I can teach you."
A few groans, a few resigned nods, and one particularly brave Hufflepuff who muttered something about 'already an essay first class.' Cassian raised an eyebrow at him.
"Ah yes," he said, pointing a finger like he just spotted a rare species, "welcome to education. Tell your grandchildren you survived it."
He watched the last of them shuffle out. Eliot gave him a quick, awkward "thank you, sir," before dashing off.
One class down.
Nine more to go.
He stood up, stretching as his spine popped in protest, and made his way out into the corridor. Mid-morning traffic had started... students darting between staircases, portraits whispering.
Cassian passed Professor Sinistra halfway to the staff room. She gave him a look over her tea and said, "You look like you've taught first-years."
"I have. Don't recommend it. Might sue."
"On what grounds?"
"Endangerment. Possibly slander."
She chuckled and kept walking.
Staff room was empty, mercifully. He threw himself into one of the threadbare armchairs and kicked his feet up onto a trunk that looked like it hadn't opened since castle was built.
Bathsheda didn't show. She had back-to-back classes and a timetable that looked like a cry for help. Rune Theory, Ancient Script Reconstruction, and whatever else she decided to cram into the same day.
He had Gryffindor and Ravenclaw first-years that afternoon. Separate classes, but the same bloody content. Why they weren't combined was anyone's guess. Probably some forgotten tradition involving inter-house seating drama or an old Headmaster's ghost refusing to condone cohabitation of timetables.
Other professors had to adjust their lessons to different levels of magical proficiency... one wand flick too far and someone lost an eyebrow, but History? His subject involved no spells beyond his own. He just had to talk. Spin a decent enough story. Keep them from stabbing themselves with quills.
Didn't matter. He got paid by the class, not by the headcount. He would teach the same material twice, maybe rearrange the metaphors, toss in a new sarcastic aside. Bit of variety never hurt.
***
He made it through both sessions without injury. Gryffindors were louder, but they asked more questions. Ravenclaws were quieter, but at least three of them corrected the parchment dates before he finished his sentence.
By the end of the day, he gone through the Founders' boat ride twice, tweaked a few jokes for the Ravenclaws, they were quicker on the uptake, and managed to only get one question about whether Slytherin's monster was actually a dragon in disguise. (It wasn't. Probably.)
The next morning, second-years. Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. One glance at the roll and his eyebrows went up.
Well. This would be chaos.
Fred and George Weasley. And Cedric Diggory. He missed those troublemakers.
Well... troublemakers might be generous. Cedric wasn't so much trouble as... tragically upright. The kind of kid who probably polished his wand in the mirror before bed. Not that Cassian had anything against neat handwriting and decency, but Cedric made it look like a competitive sport.
He walked into the classroom and was already sighing. Fred was upside-down in his chair like a bat with homework. George had two sugar quills stuffed into his ears like it was a soundproofing experiment. Or well... other way around. Lee was laughing, and Cedric was trying very hard to pretend he didn't know any of them.
"Morning, my future tax write-offs," Cassian said.
Cedric straightened immediately. "Good morning, Professor."
Fred and George saluted in tandem. Cassian narrowed his eyes. "I assume you both know your names are not on this register twice because you are exceptional."
"We are not?" Fred asked, mock-wounded.
"Could've sworn it was an honour roll," George added.
"It is. You're honoured to still be enrolled," Cassian said, flicking his wand toward the board. He flicked his wand at the blackboard. "Also, if you write 'Gred' and 'Forge' on one more assignment, I will have your names legally changed."
The twins gasped in delight.
"No, scratch that," Cassian continued flatly. "You would enjoy it too much. I willl tattoo your real names on your foreheads in fluorescent ink so you can't swap places to pull pranks anymore."
Fred and George looked briefly horrified.
Before anyone could cut in, Cassian clapped his hands.
"Quills out. Books optional. Brain cells mandatory."
Alicia and Angelina had already elbowed their way to a desk near the front. Kenneth Towler was chewing on the end of his quill.
He smiled at them, which made a few flinch. "Alright, let's start with the history of the summer of 1990. When my precious students studied hard, trained even harder… right?" He gave the room a quick sweep. "Am I correct? Would be quite embarrassing if I had it wrong. I am a historian, after all."
Fred raised a hand with mock solemnity. "We did a lot of research, sir. Very academic. George discovered gravity."
George nodded. "Only briefly. It hit me in the face and ran off."
"Excellent," Cassian said. "Truly the intellectual backbone of the era."
Alicia snorted. Angelina didn't look up from her quill, just muttered, "Please don't encourage them."
Cassian leaned back against the desk, arms folded. "Right," he said, eyes flicking across the room, "I asked you to write me an eight feet essay over the summer, and some of you actually delivered. Some more creatively than others."
Fred was already grinning. George looked suspiciously innocent.
"I had great pleasure reading yours, Gred and Forge," Cassian went on, "though I am still not sure why you submitted identical essays, just one written backwards. Did you assume that would count as originality? Because sadly, gentlemen, I am built in with Turnitin."
Fred, or possibly George, raised a hand. "What is Turnitin, sir?"
Cassian chuckled. "It is, my good students, a ward that alerts me when someone plagiarises their essays. Also comes with a handy feature that sends a Howler to your mother."
Angelina raised a hand without looking up from her notes. "Did their mum get the Howler?"
"No," Cassian said, "I thought I would save that joy for the Christmas term. A little festive drama never hurts."
Fred leaned over to George. "We need to rewrite the Yule Ball plan."
"Agreed. Less fire. More plausible deniability."
