History of Magic was taught by Professor Binns, who was dead.
Rowan had read about ghosts in his textbooks, but reading about them and actually sitting through a lecture delivered by one were entirely different experiences. Professor Binns drifted through the blackboard at eleven o'clock precisely, began speaking in a droning monotone, and continued for a full hour without pause or variation in tone.
The subject was the Goblin Rebellions of the fourteenth century. It should have been fascinating. Wars, political intrigue, the complex relationship between wizards and goblins. Instead, Binns made it sound like reading a particularly dull ledger.
Rowan forced himself to take notes, using his Occlumency discipline to maintain focus while half the class nodded off. Iris lasted twenty minutes before her head began to droop.
A few rows back, Edmund was fighting a losing battle to stay awake, while his seatmate Poppy Sweeting had given up on taking notes entirely and was sketching what looked like magical creatures in the margins of her parchment.
When the bell finally rang, students stumbled from the classroom like survivors of a natural disaster.
"That," Iris said weakly, "was torture."
"You'll need to read the textbook on your own if you want to actually learn anything," Rowan advised. "Binns is apparently always like this."
After lunch, shepherd's pie and vegetables, they descended to the dungeons for Potions.
The Potions classroom was cool and dimly lit, reached by descending several flights of stairs into the castle's depths. The walls were lined with shelves containing jars of pickled ingredients. Some recognizable, others disturbing.
Professor Aesop Sharp was already present. A man in his forties with a weathered face and a pronounced limp. He stood behind his desk, organizing ingredient containers with methodical precision, barely acknowledging students as they filed in and took seats.
The Ravenclaws sat on one side of the room, the Slytherins on the other. Rowan noticed Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt taking seats near the middle. Sebastian caught Rowan's eye and smirked, giving a quick wave that Rowan couldn't quite read. Was it friendly or mocking?
When everyone was seated, Professor Sharp looked up.
"Potions." He set down a vial of powdered bicorn horn. "I won't waste your time with dramatic speeches about the subtle science or the exact art. Potions is practical magic. You follow the instructions precisely, you monitor your work constantly, and you produce something useful. Or you don't, and you fail."
He limped to the blackboard, his gait suggesting old pain that hadn't healed properly. "I was an Auror for fifteen years before an assignment went wrong. My partner and I walked into a potion trap. Unstable Draught of Living Death mixed with something else, something the Dark wizard had modified. My partner died. I survived, but..." He gestured to his leg. "Healing potions can only do so much when the damage is deep enough."
Sharp turned back to face them. "I tell you this because precision matters. A decimal point in the wrong place, a temperature five degrees too high, an ingredient added ten seconds too early. These things have consequences beyond a failed assignment. In the field, mistakes cost lives."
He gestured to the blackboard, where instructions appeared in neat chalk handwriting.
"Today you'll brew a Cure for Boils. Simple enough that even first years should manage it, provided you pay attention. Instructions are on the board. Ingredients in the cupboard. Take what you need, nothing more. You have one hour."
Students scrambled to gather ingredients. Rowan moved methodically, collecting dried nettles, snake fangs, stewed horned slugs, and porcupine quills. He noted the quantities carefully, remembering Jigger's emphasis on precision.
Back at his cauldron, he reviewed the instructions:
Add 6 snake fangs to mortar
Crush into fine powder
Add 4 measures of powder to cauldron
Heat for 10 seconds
Wave wand
Leave to brew for 10 seconds
Add 4 horned slugs
Take cauldron off fire
Add 2 porcupine quills
Stir 5 times clockwise
Wave wand to complete potion
Simple enough. But the timing and precision were crucial.
Rowan crushed his snake fangs carefully, ensuring they were ground to uniform powder. He measured exactly four measures into his cauldron and lit the fire beneath it.
Ten seconds of heating. He counted in his head, using mental discipline from Occlumency practice to maintain precise timing. At exactly ten seconds, he waved his wand over the cauldron.
The potion began to bubble gently. Another ten seconds of brewing, then he added the horned slugs. They dissolved with a soft hiss, turning the potion sickly green.
Remove from heat. Add porcupine quills. Carefully, as Jigger had warned they could cause explosions if added to an overheated cauldron.
Stir five times clockwise. One, two, three, four, five. The potion shifted from green to pink, exactly as the instructions indicated.
Final wand wave, and the potion settled into a perfect rose color, thin and watery.
"Acceptable," Professor Sharp said, appearing beside his desk to examine the cauldron. He studied it for a moment. "Color's right. Consistency's appropriate. The timing was good. I watched. Bottle a sample."
He moved on to inspect other students' work with the same clinical efficiency. Several potions had turned brown or remained stubbornly green. One Slytherin boy had somehow made his potion turn black and emit noxious purple fumes.
Sharp vanished it without comment, though his expression suggested he'd seen worse. "Porcupine quills added while still on heat. Lucky it only smoked. Redo it, and pay attention this time."
Sebastian, working a few stations down, had produced a proper pink potion, though slightly darker than ideal.
Sharp examined it. "Passable. The slugs dissolved unevenly. You added them too quickly. Seven out of ten."
Sebastian's eyebrows rose slightly, but he shrugged with a crooked smile. "Could've been worse," he muttered to Ominis, loud enough for Rowan to overhear. "At least mine was drinkable."
When the hour ended, Sharp stood at the front while students bottled their samples.
"Ashcroft, Thakkar, and Caldwell from Ravenclaw. Acceptable work. Seven points each. Sallow, Reyes, and Carrow from Slytherin. Marginally acceptable. Three points each." He surveyed the remaining failed potions without particular judgment. "The rest of you will redo this assignment on your own time and submit new samples by Friday. Dismissed."
As students filed out after class, Rowan heard a Slytherin mutter to his friend, "Of course the Mudblood's good at following instructions. That's all they're trained to do in the Muggle world. Follow orders." His friend snickered. "Bet he'd fall apart the moment he had to actually invent something."
Rowan kept walking, pretending he hadn't heard. But his hands clenched into fists.
That evening, Rowan settled into the Ravenclaw common room with his textbooks and began working on his Transfiguration essay. The common room was busy with students studying, playing chess, or simply socializing. Iris sat across from him, struggling with her own essay.
"Twelve inches," she muttered. "How can anyone write twelve inches about turning a match into a needle?"
"Write about the theory," Rowan suggested. "Gamp's Law and the importance of visualization. Switch's book has good material on fundamental principles. Start there and expand with your own observations from class."
She brightened and pulled out her textbook, flipping to the relevant chapter.
As Rowan wrote, his mind drifted to the bigger picture. He'd completed his first day successfully, but it was only the beginning of the school year. He needed to master every subject. Needed to find time for his own studies beyond the curriculum. Needed to continue expanding his magical core through deliberate practice.
And he needed to stay alert for opportunities. Knowledge that might prove useful, connections that might be valuable, insights into the future that only he possessed.
But for now, he focused on his essay, his quill scratching steadily across parchment as he explained the theoretical foundations of transfiguration in clear, concise prose.
By the time he finished his essay, fourteen inches, well over the minimum, it was nearly midnight. The common room had emptied, most students having retired to their dormitories. Rowan carefully rolled up his parchment, gathered his books, and headed upstairs.
Tomorrow would bring Charms, Herbology, and his first Astronomy class at midnight. Then Wednesday would start the cycle again. Defense Against the Dark Arts, more Transfiguration, more opportunities to learn and grow stronger.
Rowan changed into his nightclothes and climbed into bed, performing one final Occlumency meditation to clear his mind before sleep.
As he drifted off, he felt deep satisfaction.