CASS45- Extra

Cassian stood, stretched, then collapsed back onto the mattress, limbs spread like a man who fought off three curses and a kebab-induced coma. "Remind me why we are not chasing forbidden temples instead of drinking overpriced tea and sweating through our robes?"

"Because the temples are cursed."

"So is this pillow."

She flicked her quill at him.

He crawled across the rug like someone trying to seduce a carpet merchant, flopped onto her lap with all the grace of a man half-melted by Turkish heat, and wrapped both arms around her waist.

"Ever made love in forty-five degrees on a Turkish carpet?"

She didn't flinch. Just glanced down, unimpressed. "Yes."

Cassian blinked up at her, eyes watering. "You did?"

She smacked his arm. "You know I didn't."

"Right," he grinned. "Just checking. Wanna change that?"

Bathsheda didn't dignify that with an answer. She shoved him sideways with her knee. He rolled off, flopped onto his back with a groan and stared at the ceiling fan that looked like it might detach and decapitate them both out of spite.

"Fine," he grumbled, "no carpet romance. I will just die here. A cautionary tale of heatstroke and unfulfilled potential."

She stepped over him to grab her bag. "Pack up. We leave before sunrise."

"Where to? Pit of despair? River of boiling curses? Hidden archive of long-dead lunatics?"

"Iran."

Cassian sat up. "Ah. Good. Been a while since I got side-eyed by border guards and cursed by ancestral wards."

She tossed him his shirt. "Dress like a researcher, not a wandering cultist."

He caught it. "Rude."

She was already at the door. He cast a spell to chill the fabric and yanked it over his head, still warm from the floor.

***

They Portkeyed just past dawn. Arrival spot, a rock shelf twenty feet above a dried-out riverbed.

Cassian staggered, hands on knees. "Alright, that one wins. Felt like getting kicked in the liver by a time-travelling goat."

Bathsheda was fine, of course. Scanning the horizon with her compass out and her boots sinking slightly in the cracked earth.

"Is the compass even pointing at anything or just spinning for fun?" he asked, still recovering.

Their local contact, a weathered man in a coat two sizes too large joined them twenty minutes later. He didn't say much, just handed over a parchment wrapped in goatskin and waved vaguely toward the hills.

Bathsheda unwrapped it. Old map.

Cassian leaned over her shoulder. "That is definitely not modern Farsi.”

They followed the path outlined. Up the ridge. Down the other side. Then around a slope. Three hours in, the heat hit new levels. His shirt stuck to his back like clingfilm. His mouth was so dry it could qualify as a separate ecosystem.

"Still think Turkiye was too humid?" Bathsheda asked.

He glared sideways. "Yes. Humid I can survive. This is my soul evaporating."

They stopped at a shaded rock, drank from a canteen charmed to stay cool. Cassian pulled out a small box, flipped it open, and offered her a toffee.

She took one. "Where did you get this?"

"Stole it from Dumbledore's desk."

She stared.

"Fine. It is from the Hogwarts staff stash. But imagining it is contraband adds flavour."

They found the next Portkey soon enough. A wooden tray, chipped along one edge and scorched in the middle like someone had used it to hex breakfast. They grabbed hold.

The pull was rough, worse than the spoon. Worse than the ticket, even. Cassian landed half-crouched, one hand scraping gravel, vision tunnelling for a second. The landing platform was set into the side of a Ministry outpost, carved from polished white stone and guarded by two men in dark robes with stern eyebrows and no discernible humour.

Bathsheda dusted off her coat, stepped forward before either of the guards could ask. She flicked open a slim folder, parchment stamped and sealed.

"Master Bathsheda Babbling. Registered entry under academic exemption. Visiting for field survey. This is Cassian Rosier, attached as historian and linguistic assistant."

Cassian flashed his best grin. "Mostly carry books and offend local ghosts."

The taller guard squinted at him, then back at the paper. "Purpose of visit?"

"Research," Bathsheda said. "Pre-Qin rune systems and potential cross-regional migration patterns of glyph-based protective magics."

Neither of the guards blinked. One nodded, turned to his clipboard, scribbled something, then waved them, "Wand Registry is on the third floor. First on the right."

Cassian gave him a mock salute. "Cheers, lads. Try not to scowl yourselves into early retirement."

They passed through the checkpoint. The marble inside was polished enough to reflect their boots. The building hummed with wards. You could feel it in your teeth.

Bathsheda was climbing the stairs without waiting. He had trot to keep up. Cassian huffed something about "wizard cardio" under his breath and adjusted the strap on his bag. Third floor, first on the right. The Wand Registry was a long room with high ceilings, stacks of parchment piled like unstable ruins on every available surface, and three witches hunched over ledgers.

The one at the front said. "Wands on the scale."

Cassian slid his across, then leaned on the counter. "Be gentle. She is temperamental."

The witch sniffed, scribbled something, then waved him off like a bad smell. Bathsheda followed, her wand registering with a softer ping. The moment it was done, she turned to leave.

"Right then," Cassian said, catching up again. "Paperwork is done. Registry got our sticks. When do we start poking around?"

"Today. I thought we could rest a day, but since we were kept in Turkiye, we have to start now."

Bathsheda started to drag him away before he could press a hand to the giant statue's kneecap.

Cassian cast the statue a mournful glance. "I just wanted to see if it twitched. Looked like the sort that twitches."

She didn't slow. "If it twitches, it is cursed. If it is cursed, we are behind schedule. Again."

"Very clinical. I miss when you used to flirt before dragging me into tombs."

"You mistook 'passive tolerance' for flirting."

He grinned and trotted after her. Ahead, mountains curled around each other and somewhere between the peaks lay the next breadcrumb.

It wasn't raining, but the sky looked like it might change its mind. "So, which ruin are we pillaging today?"

Bathsheda pulled a folded page from her coat. It was creased and smudged. "The locals think it is a monastery. Carvings suggest pre-dynastic worship structure, maybe converted and sealed. Possibly earlier."

"Always a good sign when someone seals a place and doesn't come back."

She handed him the map without looking. "Your kind of place."

They hiked past a field of low stones then the trail narrowed. The fog crept closer.

"Bit morbid, innit?" he murmured.

Bathsheda didn't answer. She was squinting up ahead.

An hour in, they reached the edge of the forest. The trees weren't tall, but they were old. Black trunks. Pale leaves.  Cassian slowed, then stopped, sniffing the air. "Smells like mould and moonshine."

"That is the resin," Bathsheda said. "Sap got alchemical uses. Hallucinogenic in large doses."

Cassian raised a brow. "Brilliant. Let's inhale deeply and go spelunking."

They pressed through the undergrowth. The map grew less helpful by the minute, squiggles pretending to be directions, old landmarks marked by "X" and "NOT HERE." Cassian turned it sideways, frowned, then tried upside down.

"It is not a painting, Cassian."

"It might as well be. The man who drew this had a vendetta against common sense."

Then the trees opened. And they saw it.

The monastery wasn't grand. Not anymore. The stonework had slouched, walls bowed inward, roof long since caved. Moss had claimed the gaps. Roots grew between bricks like they were keeping the whole thing upright. But the runes, those were untouched. Lines carved with too much care to be casual. Still glowing, faintly. Still warded.

Cassian exhaled. "Alright. I take it back. That is lovely."

There were people buzzing around already. A big red tent hogged the middle like a flag, smaller ones clustered around it in a mess of blue, green, and grey. The Chinese had clearly decided everyone needed reminding who was leading the show.

Cassian didn't mind. He liked knowing where the ego was parked.

He snickered, "So subtle."

A few Ministry types milled about, robes sharp, boots cleaner than the terrain deserved. One of them was sketching something onto a clipboard with a self-inking quill.

A local wizard in a green jacket waved them through without a word. Cassian gave him a nod, then eyed the tents ahead.

"Reckon they will have tea in there or just a thousand forms to fill?"

"Both," Bathsheda said. "But tea first. That is protocol here."

He perked up. "Now that is civilised."

The red tent looked bigger up close. Someone had charmed the canvas to shimmer faintly. 

Inside was cooler. Slapped with a cooling charm along the top seam.

A squat woman with half-moon glasses looked up from behind a table stacked with files.

"Names?"

Bathsheda slid a folder across the table. "Master Babbling. This is Professor Rosier."

Cassian gave a small wave. "Historian. Occasional translator. Sometimes bait."

The woman didn't smile. Didn't glance up either. Just cracked the folder open, gave it a once-over like she was checking receipts, then pulled a stamp out of the air and slammed it down. Blue light flickered across the parchment.

"Welcome, Master Babbling."

She didn't even blink at Cassian. Not a nod, not a word.

He scratched his jaw, mildly amused. Fair enough. Bathsheda got her invite through actual credentials. He came by persuasion and strategic loitering. Difference was noted.

Bathsheda gave a sharp nod. "When do we start?"

The woman pointed to a corner where a row of low stools circled a copper samovar. Her smile was polite. "Take a rest. Try the hongcha. Expedition begins once all preparations are confirmed."

She gave a nod. Cassian was already eyeing the samovar. 

He raised an eyebrow at Bathsheda. "You hear that? We've been politely told to go sit down and behave."

Bathsheda had already turned. "Tea, then briefing. Come on."

Someone handed them clay cups... steam curling out, faintly sweet smell cutting through the sour tang.

"Oh, bloody hell. That is decent."

Cassian had no problem drinking tea while the serious people sorted serious things. Honestly, the longer they took, the better. The brew was strong, with an inch of bitterness, and it made his spine tingle in that pleasant, "might be laced with minor stimulants" way. He was on his second cup when someone with a clipboard and unfortunate eyebrows called them over.

Bathsheda stood before the woman finished speaking. Cassian took a final sip, made a face, then followed her out. Outside, the fog had thinned, but only a little. Someone nearby was arguing in Mandarin over the logistics of artefact containment. 

They were led past a string of carts loaded with magical sensors and survey gear, then down a stone path half-sunk into the mountain slope. The ground grew uneven. The air turned colder, denser. They crossed into the tree line again, this time heading for the exposed ribs of the ruined monastery itself.

Their escort stopped beside a collapsed arch. "From here, we proceed without external magical tools. No detection charms. No shielding wards. No familiars."

They entered through what had once been the main hall... pillars carved with layered text, half of it eroded by rain, the other half flickering under a preservation spell that had either aged badly or developed a sense of irony. The ceiling had long since caved, but light barely reached the floor.

He ducked under a broken beam and stopped in the middle of the room, nose wrinkling. "Smells like stale incense and sandalwood. No... agarwood. Rare stuff." He frowned. “Really rare.”