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CASS74- Secrets
🕑 Added 2025-08-16 19:39:39 +0000 UTCUntil April, classes carried on as they were. Cassian saw the same faces dragging in and out of his classroom, some bright-eyed, some already hollowed out by O.W.L. prep. Then Hermione showed up again.
She hadn't let go of her argument about books being infallible... oh no. If anything, she doubled, tripled down. Only this time, her reason wasn't quite the same.
She lingered behind after class with Harry, both of them standing awkwardly by the desk as the last stragglers filed out. They looked at him like a pair of overgrown puppies, big-eyed, fidgety, trying to seem casual and failing miserably.
Cassian dropped his quill onto the parchment he'd been marking and raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. You are not here because you love the smell of ink and chalk."
Hermione straightened, her hands clasped tightly around her bag strap. "Professor, we were wondering if you knew anything about Nicolas Flamel."
Harry stayed quiet, looking like he already regretted tagging along.
Cassian leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests. "Flamel, eh?" He tilted his head. "Bit of an odd question for two first-years. Why the sudden interest in an old alchemist?"
Hermione hesitated, then pushed on. "It is important. We think it might help us with..." She stopped herself, lips pressing into a thin line. "Well… something dangerous."
Cassian's eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice stayed light. "You realise that doesn't narrow it down. Hogwarts practically runs on dangerous somethings."
Harry's shoulders twitched like he wanted to step in but thought better of it.
Hermione’s grip on her strap tightened, then she sighed. "We just need to know if you've read about him. Anything at all."
Cassian tapped a finger against the desk, studying the pair. "Nicolas Flamel. Born 1326, allegedly still alive. Famous for his work on alchemy, particularly the Philosopher's Stone."
Hermione's shoulders jumped slightly at that last bit. Cassian didn't miss it.
"Ah," he said, lips curling faintly. "So that's the angle."
Harry shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Cassian squinted at them, hands clasped under his chin. "You wouldn't come to me without scouring the library first, which means you failed to find anything... and that is impossible. Nicolas Flamel isn't exactly an obscure name. He's mentioned at least once in half the books worth opening."
He paused, the answer slotting into place. "Which means…" His grin spread slow and sharp.
"What is it?" Harry asked, then he pressed his lips together, like the words had slipped out before he could catch them.
Cassian gave a soft laugh,. "Nothing. This is just getting interesting."
Hermione's brow pinched. "What is?"
Cassian pressed a finger to his lips. “No Alohomora works here. Sealed tighter than a Gringotts vault with a dragon on night shift.” He smirked like a child keeping the world's best secret. "Well, well. All I will say is, he is a friend, and a teacher, to the Headmaster."
Hermione's breath hitched.
Cassian wagged a finger at her. "Don't think too hard, Miss Granger, you'll sprain something. Oh, and, there is a Muggle version and a magical version of him."
"There's a Muggle version?" Hermione blurted with disbelief.
Both Harry and Hermione looked taken aback.
Cassian smirked, steepling his fingers. "Of course there is. History isn't as neat as your library indexes would have you believe. For every wizard who made waves, there's a Muggle historian trying to stitch together scraps and call it truth. Flamel is practically a celebrity in some circles, though if you asked half the historians I knew back home, they would call him a fraud or a myth. He pops up in Muggle manuscripts, alchemy treatises, even trashy novels."
Hermione frowned. "But… Flamel was real, wasn't he? The magical one?"
"Oh, very real," Cassian said lightly. "Though I suppose the Muggle world only ever saw hints. Half of them still argue whether he existed at all. Poor Isaac Newton spent years sniffing around alchemical texts, thinking he could bottle the secret of eternal life. Little did he know, Flamel was already several centuries ahead and probably laughing himself sick."
Harry blinked. "Newton? The apple bloke?"
Cassian smirked. "The very one. Wrote more about turning lead into gold than he ever did about apples, though you won't find that in your Muggle science books. Makes you wonder what else they've polished up for polite company."
Hermione's brows furrowed so tightly they might've fused. "That's absurd. If Newton really worked on alchemy, real alchemy, why isn't it common knowledge?"
"Because your lot like tidy narratives," Cassian replied with a shrug. "You want heroes and geniuses, not men who spent sleepless nights praying over melted tin. And magic? Muggles can't stomach it. Easier to call it superstition and carry on."
Hermione looked like she wanted to argue but couldn't quite find her footing.
Cassian's gaze sharpened, though his tone stayed breezy. "I take it you're not asking because you're curious about Enlightenment philosophers. So tell me, why does Flamel matter to you two?"
Harry glanced nervously at Hermione, who bit her lip and said nothing.
"Thought so," Cassian murmured. He pushed his chair back and stood, smoothing the front of his robes. "Look, whatever you're tangled up in, I'm not about to play the omniscient mentor. You won't get some grand speech out of me."
Harry shifted his weight again. "We… just wanted to understand. That is all."
Cassian chuckled coldly. "Mm. Understanding's dangerous. Gets you asking questions, and next thing you know, you're in over your head."
Hermione's fingers dug into her bag strap. "So you do know something."
"I know plenty," Cassian said easily, stepping around the desk. "But I also know when to keep my mouth shut. The Headmaster's business isn't mine to spill."
Hermione's face fell slightly, though Harry looked almost relieved.
Cassian paused by the door, hand resting on the frame. "A bit of advice, if you are sniffing after the Philosopher's Stone, be careful. Stones like that don't tend to lie about gathering dust. They draw the wrong sort of people."
Hermione's mouth opened, but before she could get a word out, he added, "And no, I am not telling you more. Go revise your Charms. God knows Flitwick's got less patience than me."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. Cassian caught it and snorted.
"Go on, then," he waved them out. "Before I decide you need three feet on eighteenth-century Muggle alchemy. With diagrams. And colour, if you’re feeling bold."
That sent them scurrying. The door clicked shut behind them.
Cassian rubbed his temples and muttered, "Flamel, Philosopher's Stones, and first-years poking their noses where they shouldn't… Dumbledore, you mad old goat, what have you dropped in my lap this time?"
He went to the back room and started digging through the pile of Daily Prophets stacked in a precarious tower by the window. Luckily, they were still in order, he hadn't let them slip into complete chaos yet.
When he reached September first, he stopped. There it was. Break-in at Gringotts.
His eyes flicked down the page. A thief had managed to breach the goblins' security. But the vault was emptied earlier that day.
Not everyone could stroll into Gringotts and walk out alive. If breaking in were easy, families wouldn't pour generations of wealth into those vaults. Whatever had been there, it wasn't pocket change. So whatever had been in that vault wasn't just valuable... it was bloody important.
Then there was Dumbledore's little request… cryptic as ever. Cassian and a handful of others had been asked to prepare traps for the third-floor corridor. Not strong enough to maim, just enough for a first-year to struggle through and maybe sweat a little.
Of course, the old man hadn't said it outright, but the meaning was clear enough. At the time, Cassian thought it was odd. Hogwarts was full of weird little projects, sure, but designing soft obstacles for children wasn't standard practice.
And now Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was sniffing around the Philosopher's Stone.
Cassian tossed the paper onto the desk, watching it skid to a stop. "Curious," he muttered. "How very bloody curious."
His fingers drummed against the wood, eyes narrowing as he stared at the headline. Between the break-in, Dumbledore's odd instructions, and Potter asking questions he had no business knowing to ask, the pieces were starting to line up.
He didn't know how to feel about it. If it really was the Philosopher's Stone… did he want it? Oh, absolutely. Who was he trying to kid? That thing wasn't just a lump of magic... it was living history.
Cassian dragged a hand down his face and let out a low groan. "Bloody hell, this is going to get messy."
The stone wasn't just about turning lead into gold or brewing up immortality. It was a relic from a man who'd outsmarted death for centuries. Flamel wasn't some fairytale wizard tucked into the margins of old books, he was real, and Cassian would bet every galleon he had that the man hadn't survived this long by being careless.
The question clawed at his thoughts, if it was here, at Hogwarts, why? Why leave something like that lying around in a school full of hormonal teenagers and stairs that couldn't make up their minds about where they wanted to be?
He leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, staring at the parchment. Gringotts had been hit, and whatever was in that vault, this, had been moved here. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together.
There was temptation there. The kind that dug in under your skin and whispered, go on, have a look. He could almost picture himself flipping through Flamel's notes, hands ink-stained and mind whirring, unravelling centuries of alchemical secrets.
"Dangerous thing, curiosity," he said under his breath, shaking the thought off.
Cassian shoved the parchment aside and pulled another from the pile. Maybe the best thing he could do right now was stay out of it. Whatever Dumbledore was up to, Cassian wasn't keen on becoming collateral damage. The Headmaster had a way of tossing people into chaos with that twinkle in his eye, like it was all part of some grand plan.
Still, the itch in his chest wouldn't leave. The historian in him screamed to study it, to document every inch of that stone. God, if he could even lay eyes on it...
Then something sparked in his mind.
Comments
Flippu
what?
Hunter
Oh, he remembers.
