Harry Potter and the Surprisingly Competent History of Magic Professor Chapter 134 134: Valentine's

"I'm learning more of Yrsa's runes."

He caught sothing in her tone and stepped closer, tugging her gently into his chest. Her body settled against his without resistance, but her shoulders stayed tight.

"How's it going?"

She shivered faintly, breath brushing his collar. "I'm still . I don't know where they're coming from, but now that I know they're there, I can track my mories from those appearing later. Runes... they don't force themselves in. They feel like sothing I spent a lifeti studying. Like I lived it. Sowhere else. Still my mories. Just... not from here."

Cassian humd. "Could be Dreamscape bleed. Reincarnation. Residual tiline echo. Planar imprinting. Magical inheritance from a bloodline no one bothered to trace. Or the gods got drunk and scrambled your soul like a breakfast egg."

She gave a soft noise. Could've been amusent. Could've been exhaustion.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Still you, though."

"Yes," she said. "But it's like there's a shadow behind the mirror. Sa movents, sa shape... not quite . Not quite soone else either."

He ran a hand down her back. "And the runes?"

"They co when I'm not thinking too hard. During lessons. Or just before sleep. Like muscle mory that doesn't belong to these muscles."

"Have you tried not rembering them?"

"I did. It hurt."

"Do they feel dangerous?"

"No," she said, though not with full certainty. "They feel... old. Like they were waiting. Waiting to be rembered."

He stroked her hair until her breath eased. Didn't say anything. Didn't move. She stayed curled on top of him, once again, deciding his chest was a mattress. One arm tucked under her, the other wrapped round his waist. It was comfortable, in the way that sleeping in a chair wasn't.

His back throbbed. He stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to her breathe. Eventually, he let his head tip back against the sofa and tried to doze without jarring anything.

Next morning, he woke up stiff as wood, and not in the good way.

His neck cricked when he tried to move. His spine had locked itself into so kind of dieval scroll position. His legs had gone numb halfway through the night and now prickled as if a thousand tiny needles were trying to riot.

Bathsheda was still there, face tucked against his collar like she'd lted into him. One leg thrown across his thigh, declaring it hers.

He sighed.

"Brilliant," he muttered. "Might have to amputate."

She stirred at the sound, mumbling sothing incoherent before settling again with a faint huff.

Cassian stared down at her hair, all over his robes. Sowhere in the back of his head, a tiny version of himself started going, don't move, don't move, she's sleeping.

The rest of him said, your hip is about to give with a nasty crack.

He gave it another minute.

Then tried easing her off him as gently as he could, aning he threw her like a sack of potatoes onto the bed.

"Wake up. Classes are beginning. AGGH—" His back gave a crack so loud it probably woke the portraits three corridors over. "Sweet mother of god," he hissed, bent double and swearing through his teeth. "How are you made of stone and fog at the sa ti?"

Bathsheda groaned into the pillow. "M'legs stopped working halfway through the night. You kept twitching."

"I was dying, thank you."

He straightened with all the grace of rusted armour. His spine protested every degree of movent.

"I need a potion or a new body. Preferably both."

She peeled herself off the sheets and blinked at the window. "Still dark."

He headed to the bathroom to find sothing that wouldn't make his hair look like he fought a thundercloud. No point looking tragic and hunched.

Five minutes later, he was back in his robes, flicking toast out of thin air and handing her one.

She caught it without looking. "Are we still doing the staff patrols?"

"Yes. You're with Sprout today. Try not to hex her."

"She's the only one I don't want to hex."

Cassian paused, halfway into his boots. "Oh. That's sweet."

She bit into her toast. "You're not."

"I'm incredibly sweet. Ask the students."

Bathsheda looked at him over her shoulder, unimpressed.

He held the look. "Alright, maybe not ask them."

***

On Valentine's Day, Bathsheda watched Cassian wake up with a startled, undignified yell and a kneejerk wand grab that nearly hexed the lamp.

The bed was covered in rose petals. The ugly, over-perfud kind that made your nose twitch.

Every single one had a tiny enchanted face on it. Every single face was his.

All of them smiling.

One winked at him.

"Wh—" He swatted the blanket like it had caught fire, sitting bolt upright. "What in the... no, nope. Absolutely not. Is that my face?"

Bathsheda sipped her tea from the chair beside the bed. "Happy Valentine's."

He narrowed his eyes, still half-asleep. "This is because of the eggs, isn't it?"

She didn't answer. Just took another sip.

The petals followed him as he swung his legs out of bed. Literally. A few floated after him in glittering regrets, humming softly. One started singing My Funny Valentine in a deeply off-key falsetto.

Cassian froze mid-sock.

He turned slowly. "That one's going in the fire."

"Not the soprano," Bathsheda said mildly. "He's the frontman."

Cassian gave her a flat look. "Did you re-enchant a hundred petals with my own face just to get revenge for one minor Easter bunny mishap?"

Bathsheda folded her legs under her. "Minor? You enchanted a dozen eggs and sent on a treasure hunt, one exploded in my face and I was covered in goo for the whole day."

"They were educational," he said. "Cross-disciplinary."

She raised an eyebrow. "Filch is still finding shells in the carpets."

"Still think that was unrelated."

Cassian stood, wand in hand, and muttered sothing sharp. The petals scattered like birds hit with a gust of wind, crumpling mid-air and vanishing into harmless smoke.

Except the soprano.

The soprano scread and exploded into pink confetti.

Cassian pointed at the empty air. "I liked that lamp."

Bathsheda looked entirely unrepentant. "The rune I used has a half-life. You may find echoes for the next few days."

He paused at the wardrobe. "Define 'echoes.'"

"Turned your auditory illusions into a rune," she said. "Subtle. Triggered by movent."

Cassian eyed her suspiciously. "You turned my room into a haunted valentine."

She smiled sweetly. "Consider it my heart speaking."

"You've got a violent heart."

"You brought this on yourself."

He pulled on a shirt, muttering the whole ti. "Romance is dead. Murdered. Died screaming under a pile of singing petals."

From the floorboards below ca a faint, ghostly whisper,

"You're my darling valentine..."

Cassian pointed at the ground. "Shut up, you."

Bathsheda finished her tea.

Walking hand in hand from the castle, making their way to Hogsade, she humd a lody stuck in her head. Sothing about "On another love." Cassian sang that from ti to ti. She had no idea where he'd heard it. Probably a Muggle song. Sounded sad, catchy, with too many vowels.

His hand was warm around hers, thumb moving absently, probably he wasn't even thinking about it.

Plans were being finalised in her hand. Or the lack of it.

They stepped past Honeydukes. Cassian sniffed the air. "Caral."

"No," she said. "Don't even think about it."

"But I—"

She tugged his arm. "Sugar makes you horny. I added caral to the evening."

Cassian's grin was fast and furious. His breath tickled her ear as he leaned in. "Oh, you planned for the night."

Bathsheda felt the flush bloom warm across her cheeks. "Co on."

She pulled him along by the hand, ignoring his smug expression that only grew the closer they got to the main road.

Bathsheda could already hear the chattering crowd before they turned the corner. Since it was a special date, it ant students were trickling down into Hogsade, noisy and scattered, scarves flapping in the breeze, bags of sweets and chard trinkets already tucked under arms. Soone shouted sothing about love potions near Zonko's, and soone else yelled back that that was illegal.

Cassian raised a brow. Squinting at the shop.

She veered left, away from the shops, past the carriages, and down the narrow path that curved behind the Three Broomsticks. It wasn't a trail students used much. Not unless they were up to sothing or trying to sneak back without being seen.

Behind her, his voice ca lazy and suspicious. "You sure we're not on the way to murder soone?"

"Not today."

Cassian made a thoughtful noise.

It didn't take long before the sound of the village dulled behind the slope. One turn more, and the trees began.

"Alright," Cassian said eventually. "I've let you drag into the woods. Should I start digging, or are you handling the burial?"

She stopped in the middle of a low clearing.

Cassian slowed beside her, hands in his coat pockets, looking around.

Bathsheda tilted her head back, scanned the treetops, then turned in a slow circle. Cassian waited.

Finally, she nodded to herself and knelt down, brushing away a patch of leaves. Beneath it, the ground was dry, flattened.

"This is the place," she said.

Cassian peered down, then back up at her. "For what?"

She didn't answer right away. Just reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small pouch. The drawstring flicked open with a tap of her nail. Inside were pieces of polished rune-stone, glinting faintly even in the shade.

She spread them on the ground in a loose spiral. Old ones. Not Yrsa's. These were handmade, the script uneven. Made when she was thirteen.

"I tried to summon sothing here once," she said, sifting through the runes. "Didn't work. Obviously. I was half-trained, impatient, and using bloodroot from a dodgy supplier."

Cassian crouched beside her. "And you've brought back to relive your teenage disappointnt? How romantic."

She pulled out a square of parchnt, old and creased, unfolded it over her knee. The ink was faded. A summoning circle, uneven lines. No na.

"I found this in my grandmother's attic. She said it was a trick played on her by a boy who wanted to impress her. He vanished two years later. No body. Just a pair of shoes by the riverbank."

Cassian didn't smile this ti. "What are we doing here, Bathsheda?"

She looked up, tucked the parchnt away again. Her eyes didn't flicker.

"Testing."

His brow pulled. "Testing what?"

She glanced at the rune-stones, then to the ring of flattened earth.

"I need to know, Cass. This rune will show if my love is true or not. If true, nothing will happen. If not, you will vanish. Leaving behind only a pair of boots."

Cassian opened his mouth, already half-ford around a joke, but before he could say, "If I knew, I would've worn the better pair," Bathsheda tossed the stones.

They hit the ground with a sharp clatter. A pause.

Then—

BOOM.

The air cracked. Smoke burst up in a geyser. Trees bent like they were dodging a spell. Lightning forked sideways with a sound like tearing tal, frying a patch of sky above the clearing. The rune-stones pulsed red, then gold, then a blistering white. Wind roared in, lifting Cassian's coat.

He threw an arm over his face, stumbled back a step.

"Bloody...! I haven't signed a will, woman!"

The smoke churned. Flared green, purple, then sank low, hugging the earth. Cassian stayed still, one boot already half out of the ring.

For a second, it looked like the ground was going to open. Maybe swallow him. Or eject him into another plane.

And then the smoke popped.

Yeah... Popped. With a sound like a champagne cork and a puff of glitter.

Cassian blinked.

There, where the rune-stones had landed, was now a blanket. Red chequered, slightly wrinkled. On top of it sat a thermos, two wine glasses, and a basket of sothing that slled suspiciously of cinnamon pastries.

Bathsheda sat cross-legged at the edge of it, already pouring.

"Happy Valentine's, proper version," she said, grinning like a snake with a lollipop.

Cassian lowered his arm slowly. "You absolute nace."

She took a sip. "Did you think I'd curse you?"

"I thought you were about to resurrect a death god and feed to it."

"Were you scared?"

"I was not scared."

"You covered your face and squeaked."

"It was a tactical defence—"

He stepped into the ring, eyeing the pastries. "You realise I might never trust your runes again."

"Oh, but you will." She handed him a cup, her smile smug and unrepentant. "Because I brought the cinnamon things you like."

He looked down at the blanket. Then at her. Then back at the scorched grass still smoking two feet away.

Cassian took a bite of a still-warm roll, mouth already full before he could argue. His eyes closed. He chewed. Swallowed.

"Alright," he muttered. "Temporarily forgiven. But you're on thin ice."

Bathsheda leaned back on one elbow, hair catching the late light through the trees.

"Better than vanishing into boots," she said.

Cassian took another bite. "You would have kept the boots, wouldn't you?"

"Absolutely. Stuffed them. Kept them on the mantle."

He grinned, mouth full. "Romance."

She raised her cup. "To fatal rune tests and cinnamon bribery."

Cassian clinked his glass against hers, then tossed back the rest in one go.

"Next year," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "I'm filling your pillowcase with live frogs."

"Then I'm casting a permanent harmony charm on your hair."

He froze. "You wouldn't dare."

She just smirked.

In the clearing behind the Three Broomsticks, Valentine's roared on, with the taste of spice, smoke, and very bed intentions.

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Soone once said still water runs deep. I think you're just marinating.

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