Binns came through the wall.
His head emerged first, then the rest of him followed, drifting through the stone as though it weren't there. The temperature in the room dropped a degree or two at his arrival. Near the front, Sheen noticed that several of the candle flames closest to the professor had turned faintly blue.
"Emeric was a short-lived but particularly vicious Dark wizard, killed by his rival Egbert in an exceptionally bloody duel..."
Professor Binns began his lesson the moment he materialised, without preamble or register — as a ghost, he had long since lost interest in such formalities.
"Uric the Oddball was an ancient and highly eccentric wizard, known for such peculiarities as wearing a jellyfish as a hat..."
He droned on. The voice had a strange quality to it — inexplicable pauses in odd places, syllables drawn out past their natural length, the cadence of someone reading from a page in a language they'd forgotten was meant to be spoken aloud.
"He once slept in a room containing no fewer than fifty Augureys. During a particularly damp winter, upon being woken by their cries, Uric became convinced that he had died and become a ghost. He subsequently attempted to walk through the wall of his own house, resulting in what his biographer Radolphus Pittiman described as 'ten days of significant concussion'..."
"I heard—" Michael began, mimicking the Professor's cadence precisely, "—that—"
Behind them, Anthony put down his quill. Terry stopped turning over the oddly shaped runestone he'd been examining since they sat down.
Even Sheen turned his head slightly.
Michael's social reach was considerable; all three of them knew that anything prefaced that way was usually worth hearing.
"Professor Binns was a Hogwarts teacher a very long time ago. One day — this ancient professor of Magical History — fell asleep in front of the fire in the staff room. Got up to teach his next class. Walked straight out."
Michael's eyes were wide with narrative investment.
"And left his body behind."
"Wow," Terry breathed.
Anthony raised both eyebrows.
"The Self-Stirring Cauldron is a magically enchanted cauldron capable of stirring its contents without assistance, invented in the late twentieth century by Gaspard Shingleton..."
Professor Binns' voice filled the room. Almost every student had mentally vacated the premises. Some whispered among themselves. Several had simply put their heads down on their desks.
Sheen, having already committed an entire History of Magic textbook to memory, took notes.
He had noticed something in the lecture's structure — or lack of it. Western magical history, as Binns presented it, seemed to resist forming a continuous narrative. The professor moved between figures and their deeds, with confirmed legends scattered among the facts. Significant inventions — like the Self-Stirring Cauldron — appeared only as footnotes to the people who created them. There was no clear logic to the sequencing; whether that was inherent to the subject or a symptom of having been a ghost for several centuries, Sheen couldn't say.
But even from this apparently random arrangement of facts, a coherent shape could be extracted. For history subjects, there was always one method that worked.
He wrote quickly. When Binns delivered what turned out to be his final sentence of the hour and drifted back through the wall, Sheen turned his parchment sideways.
Michael leaned over.
What he found was a timeline — clean, unbroken, threading every figure and event from the lecture into a single intelligible sequence.
"Merlin's beard, Sheen," he murmured. "You're some kind of genius." He stared at it for another moment and realised, to his own mild astonishment, that he could actually remember the material now.
Sheen gave a small nod. That should be enough for Outstanding, he thought.
The moment class ended, the room came back to life — students rousing themselves with the automatic efficiency of people who had never quite been fully asleep. They filed out in a wave of chatter once Binns had gone.
"Sheen — do you want to come play Gobstones?"
Michael extended the invitation with considerable enthusiasm.
"No, thank you."
Sheen was mildly curious about the game — he hadn't heard of it — but the greenhouse was waiting.
Michael watched him go with a long-suffering expression.
Heeding Bruce's warning, Sheen stopped in front of the first structure.
The great dome rose above him, bright in the afternoon sun, its glass panes throwing back reflections of sky and drifting clouds. The wooden frame was old and solid, dark green paint peeling in places to reveal the timber beneath. He pushed open the door.
The warm, damp, living-smelling air rolled over him immediately.
Inside, Professor Sprout was at work with her wand, moving with practised ease — the muddy path between the planting benches cleared itself in seconds under her direction.
"Mr. Green — perfect timing. Would you clear up the far bench for me?"
She had already turned back to her work, tucking a dark red plant carefully into a spot near the back of the greenhouse with a small trowel.
Sheen looked at the long planting bench. It was in a state of mild disorder — small divots in the soil, splashes of water, scattered fragments of plant matter. He recognised the dark green, sticky residue from the textbook illustration: Lovage.
"Scourgify!"
He pronounced the incantation cleanly and moved his wand with the motion he'd come to trust.
[ You have cast Scourgify to apprentice standard. Proficiency +1. ]
A section of the bench came clean. Sheen focused and cast again.
"Scourgify!"
[ Proficiency +1. ]
[ Proficiency +1. ]
[ You have cast Scourgify to beginner standard. Proficiency +3. ]
____________________
What a hardworking little seedling, Professor Sprout thought, watching the small wizard work with quiet but unmistakable determination. She smiled to herself.
By the time Sheen had finished — before exhaustion fully won — the bench was immaculate. Professor Sprout gave her wand a flick, and a cup of honey-lemon water drifted into his hand.
"Take a rest, Mr. Green. You've earned it."
Sheen looked at the clean bench and felt something that was almost satisfaction — though, if he was being precise about it, most of that satisfaction was coming from the sixty-six points of Scourgify proficiency he'd just accumulated.
He opened his panel.
[ Name: Sheen Green ]
[ Status: Wizard ]
[ Titles: Charms Novice, Transfiguration Apprentice ]
[ Proficiency ]
[ Wingardium Leviosa: Apprentice (4/300) ]
[ Lumos: Apprentice (1/300) ]
[ Scourgify: Apprentice (70/300) ]
[ Transfiguration: Apprentice (3/900) ]
[ Herbological Knowledge: Locked (27/90) ]
[ Advancement available: Three beginner-level Charms — unlock Charms Beginner title ]
[ Advancement available: Beginner-level Transfiguration — unlock Transfiguration Beginner title ]
[ Magical Aptitude ]
[ Charms: Green ]
[ Transfiguration: Pale Violet ]
Compared to even a few days ago — unrecognisable.
He took a sip of the honey-lemon water. The sweetness bloomed across
his tongue and made him close his eyes for a moment.
Wonderful. A hundred times better than the bitter red tea at the orphanage.
He put his wand away and settled onto the small stool Professor Sprout had conjured. A thought surfaced: doing odd jobs was useful, but it wasn't the priority. Understanding how to prepare ingredients properly — that was what he actually needed.
"Professor," he said, before she could move to the other end of the oak workbench, "could I help you with the plants directly? The preparation?"
Professor Sprout paused, just slightly. Then she blinked at him.
"Welcome to. I mean — why ever not?"
Sheen set down his honey-lemon water and followed the small, round professor at a trot.
(End of Chapter)