The Accidental Apprentice - Episode 3: Syllabus Week

  Professor Blackwood was turning into a raven again.

  It started with his fingers—elongating, darkening, feathers sprouting along his knuckles as he emphasized a particularly important point about intermediate transmutation theory. By the time he reached the classroom demonstration table, his arms had become wings, his nose merging with his upper lip to form a shiny black beak. The transformation completed just as he landed on the lecture podium, now a full-sized raven with unnervingly intelligent eyes.

  No one in the class reacted. Not even a raised eyebrow.

  I, on the other hand, dropped my pen and notebook with a clatter that echoed throughout the lecture hall. Fifty pairs of eyes turned toward me, including the beady black ones belonging to Professor Blackwood-the-raven.

  "Sorry," I whispered, retrieving my supplies from the floor. "Hand cramp."

  The raven made a sound suspiciously like a sigh before hopping to the chalkboard, where it somehow managed to grasp a piece of chalk in one taloned foot. With surprising dexterity, it began writing equations that occasionally glowed blue and rearranged themselves into three-dimensional models.

  One month into my accidental enrollment at Millhaven College of Arcane Sciences, and professors spontaneously transforming into birds during lectures was apparently business as usual. The unicorn burial incident with Oliver, the coffee machine uprising in the cafeteria—these were just the tip of the magical iceberg I'd crashed into by filling out the wrong college application.

  "As these equations demonstrate," Professor Blackwood's voice echoed in our minds while his raven form continued writing, "the fundamental principle of conservation applies even in complex transmutative systems. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, merely... rearranged."

  On the chalkboard, the glowing equations formed a shimmering model of a teacup transforming into a turtle, then back again. The class dutifully copied the demonstration, their enchanted quills moving in perfect unison across their notebooks. My ballpoint pen, meanwhile, had begun leaking blue ink all over my page, deliberately forming a crude drawing of what appeared to be a middle finger.

  I stared at it in disbelief. Even the stationery was mocking me now.

  "For Thursday's discussion section," the telepathic raven-voice continued, "please complete the practice transformations on page 94 of your textbook. Remember, focus on maintaining molecular cohesion during the reversal phase."

  The raven flapped its wings and landed back on the desk, where it began the reverse transformation. Feathers receded, limbs extended, and within moments Professor Blackwood stood before us again, straightening his tweed jacket as if nothing unusual had happened.

  "Mr. Harlow," he said, fixing me with a piercing gaze that still held something distinctly avian. "A moment after class, if you please."

  My stomach dropped. Being singled out as the only non-magical student was exactly what I'd been trying to avoid. Around me, other students gathered their materials and filed out, a few giving me curious glances as they passed.

  "Your performance in this class continues to be..." Professor Blackwood paused, searching for a diplomatic word, "...perplexing."

  "I've been having trouble with the textbook," I offered lamely. "It, uh, doesn't seem to like me very much."

  This was a considerable understatement. My Intermediate Transmutation textbook had developed a habit of snapping at my fingers whenever I tried to open it, and once I'd caught it trying to inch its way toward my open window in what I could only assume was a suicide attempt to avoid being read by me.

  "Yes, well, magical texts can be sensitive to their readers' capabilities." Blackwood's expression softened slightly. "However, your written theory work shows unusual insight, despite your apparent inability to perform even basic practical exercises."

  I shifted uncomfortably. My "insight" largely consisted of describing the logical physical impossibilities of various transmutations, which somehow impressed magical professors who took such impossibilities for granted.

  "Perhaps," Blackwood continued, "you might benefit from some additional assistance. Professor Thornfield has a few openings in her office hours. She specializes in Magical History, but her perspective on the theoretical foundations might prove valuable to someone with your... unique learning challenges."

  I recognized the suggestion for what it was—a gentle nudge toward a less practical, more theoretical area of study where my non-magical status might be less of a disability.

  "I'll look into that," I promised, eager to escape the conversation.

  "Excellent." Blackwood waved a hand dismissively, his fingers already beginning to darken with feathers again. "Oh, and Mr. Harlow? Perhaps try wearing gloves when handling your textbook. It might reduce the biting incidents."

  ---

  The Magical History department occupied the oldest building on campus, a gothic structure with archways that occasionally rearranged themselves and stained glass windows depicting historical events that played out like short films when sunlight hit them at the right angle. Inside, the hallways were lined with display cases containing artifacts that hummed, glowed, or sometimes whispered to passing students.

  I found Professor Thornfield's office at the end of a corridor that seemed to stretch farther than the building's exterior dimensions should have allowed. The door was open, revealing a room that appeared to have been created by a scholarly tornado. Books and scrolls covered every surface, organized in a system that would have made sense only to their owner. Maps with moving boundaries hung on the walls, and a model of what looked like the solar system rotated slowly near the ceiling, occasionally adding or removing planets as if timeline possibilities were being calculated in real-time.

  Professor Thornfield herself sat behind a massive oak desk, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun that emphasized her sharp features. She didn't look up as I hesitantly knocked on the door frame.

  "Either enter or depart, Mr. Harlow, but please don't hover in doorways. It disrupts the ambient magical current."

  I stepped fully into the office, slightly unnerved that she knew my name without looking up. "Professor Blackwood suggested I might speak with you about some... academic challenges I've been having."

  "Yes, I imagine he did." She finally raised her head, fixing me with penetrating gray eyes that seemed to see more than I was comfortable revealing. "The non-magical student struggling with practical applications but showing theoretical promise. You've become something of a faculty discussion point."

  My face heated. "Great."

  "It's not entirely unprecedented, you know," she said, gesturing to a chair across from her desk. "Non-magical individuals occasionally find their way to magical institutions through various unusual circumstances. Though most are identified and redirected before classes begin."

  "I slipped through the cracks," I muttered, taking the offered seat.

  "Evidently." She studied me with clinical interest. "And now you're failing three classes, excelling in theory portions of two others, and have become the subject of Mr. Reed's extracurricular research project. An interesting position."

  I straightened in alarm. "You know about Oliver's research?"

  "The Reed family has been conducting perception-based studies for generations," Thornfield replied with a dismissive wave. "Though young Mr. Reed's specific interest in non-magical observers in magical environments represents a somewhat more... ethical approach than his predecessors."

  That wasn't exactly comforting. "Professor Blackwood thought you might have suggestions about my academic situation."

  "Indeed." Thornfield shuffled through the papers on her desk, extracting a course catalog that rearranged its text as she opened it. "Your current schedule is heavily weighted toward practical magical disciplines—Transmutation, Elementary Spellcraft, Potions Theory and Practice—all of which require actual magical ability to pass."

  "I didn't exactly plan it that way," I pointed out. "The registration system assigned most of my courses automatically."

  "Yes, the Arcane Course Allocation system operates under the assumption that all students possess at least rudimentary magical capabilities." She made a note in a margin that expanded to accommodate her writing. "However, there are alternatives more suited to your unique situation."

  She turned the catalog toward me, where several course listings had highlighted themselves in shimmering purple ink.

  "Introduction to Magical Historiography," I read aloud. "Theoretical Foundations of Arcane Systems. Comparative Non-Magical Perspectives." I looked up. "These all sound... theoretical."

  "Because they are," Thornfield confirmed. "The Magical History and Theory departments focus on understanding and documenting magical phenomena rather than performing it. Many courses require no practical magical ability whatsoever."

  "So I could actually pass these?" I couldn't keep the hope from my voice.

  "More than pass, I suspect." Thornfield's expression remained serious, but something like interest flickered in her eyes. "Your non-magical perspective provides a unique vantage point for theoretical analysis. You see magic without the inherent biases that magical practitioners develop through their own capabilities."

  "You're saying being magically useless might actually be helpful?"

  "I'm saying different perspectives have scholarly value." She closed the catalog, which made a satisfied humming sound. "I've taken the liberty of preparing a modified course request for next semester. The current term is unfortunately too far advanced for a complete schedule revision, but we might arrange some independent study credits to replace your failing practical courses."

  She handed me a form covered in elegant script that shifted subtly as I read it, as if suggesting minor improvements to its own wording.

  "Why would you do this for me?" I asked, suspicious of having an ally after weeks of feeling like an academic intruder.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Thornfield steepled her fingers, regarding me with that penetrating gaze again. "Let's call it academic curiosity. Non-magical perspectives on magical theory are rare in scholarly literature. You represent a potentially valuable research opportunity." A thin smile crossed her face. "Not unlike Mr. Reed's interest, though my approach involves considerably fewer experimental protocols and more essay writing."

  At least she was honest about her motivations. "So I'd be your research subject too?"

  "More like a specialized research assistant." Thornfield picked up a heavy book bound in what looked suspiciously like scales and placed it on the desk between us. "This is a first edition of Perkins' 'Objective Observations on Subjective Enchantments.' It was written by the last documented non-magical scholar to complete a full course of study at a magical institution, nearly eighty years ago."

  I stared at the book, afraid to touch it in case it too had developed opinions about me. "What happened to him?"

  "Her," Thornfield corrected. "Elizabeth Perkins graduated with highest honors in Magical Theory before going on to establish the field of Comparative Magical Anthropology. Her work forms the foundation of how the magical world maintains its separation from non-magical society."

  The book opened of its own accord, pages turning to reveal detailed notes and diagrams documenting magical phenomena from a distinctly analytical perspective.

  "You could continue this tradition," Thornfield said, watching my reaction carefully. "Your struggles in practical courses notwithstanding, your written analyses show remarkable clarity precisely because you aren't influenced by magical intuition."

  It was the first time anyone at Millhaven had suggested my non-magical nature might be valuable rather than merely tolerated. The idea was both appealing and suspicious.

  "I'll consider it," I said, taking the course modification form and folding it carefully. "Thank you for the help."

  Thornfield nodded, already returning her attention to the papers on her desk. "The form requires submission by Friday if you wish to arrange independent study for this term. And Mr. Harlow?" She looked up once more, her expression unreadable. "Do be careful with Mr. Reed's experimental approaches. The Reed family has a complex history with non-magical subjects."

  The warning hung in the air as I left her office, the implications only adding to my growing collection of Millhaven mysteries.

  ---

  When I returned to my dorm room that evening, I found it transformed into what appeared to be a makeshift dental surgery. Oliver stood in the center, wearing what looked like modified welding goggles and latex gloves that glowed faintly blue. On his desk lay the unicorn tooth we'd kept from his meeting with the mysterious Thorne, surrounded by delicate silver instruments and small vials of multicolored liquids.

  "Perfect timing," he said without looking up from whatever procedure he was performing on the tooth. "I require a non-magical observation of the extraction process."

  "Hello to you too," I replied, dropping my backpack on my bed. "What extraction process?"

  "Essence separation." Oliver made a precise adjustment to one of his instruments, which emitted a soft chime in response. "The alicorn tooth contains multiple magical properties in a unified matrix. I'm attempting to isolate the perceptual enhancement compound from the transformative elements."

  I peered over his shoulder, curious despite my lingering wariness about his research. The tooth had been partially dissected, revealing an interior that glowed with swirling patterns of light, like opal caught in sunlight. As Oliver worked, he used a thin silver probe to draw out threads of luminescent energy, carefully directing them into different vials.

  "What's it for?" I asked.

  "Several potential applications." Oliver's voice took on the clinical precision he always adopted when discussing his research. "The perceptual compound could theoretically enhance sensory processing without altering physical form—useful for diagnostic procedures in medical contexts. The transformative elements have applications in transient enchantment scenarios."

  "In English, please."

  He sighed, adjusting his goggles with his middle finger in that characteristic gesture. "Medicine that helps you see what's wrong without changing anything. And temporary magic for people who need it briefly."

  "People like me, you mean."

  Oliver paused his work, looking at me directly for the first time. "Among others. The applications extend beyond individual enhancement to broader interface scenarios between magical and non-magical environments."

  Before I could ask him to translate that too, the tooth pulsed with sudden intensity, causing the instruments on the desk to vibrate. One of the vials cracked, leaking silvery liquid that moved with apparent purpose toward the edge of the desk.

  "Containment breach," Oliver announced calmly, though his movements became more urgent. He grabbed a small crystal from his pocket and crushed it over the escaping liquid, which immediately solidified into what looked like mercury. "Fascinating. The essence demonstrates stronger autonomous properties than previously documented."

  "Is that... bad?" I asked, backing away slightly.

  "Merely unexpected." He collected the solidified essence in a reinforced container, sealing it with careful precision. "The alicorn's biological structure appears to maintain certain characteristics even when separated from its original form. Almost as if it remembers being alive."

  That was deeply unsettling. "Maybe we should leave unicorn teeth alone."

  "Impossible," Oliver replied without hesitation. "The research potential is too significant to ignore. Particularly with your non-magical perspective available for comparative analysis."

  And there it was again—my value as a research subject. First Thornfield, now Oliver restating his interest. Everyone at Millhaven seemed to want something from the non-magical student.

  "I met with Professor Thornfield today," I said, changing the subject. "She's helping me rearrange my schedule to focus more on theory classes I might actually pass."

  Oliver nodded, returning to his work on the tooth. "A logical adaptation to your circumstances. Professor Thornfield is eminently practical in her academic approaches, despite her focus on historical contexts."

  "She also warned me about your family's 'complex history' with non-magical subjects," I added, watching for his reaction.

  His hands stilled momentarily, though his expression remained carefully neutral. "The Reed family's research methodologies have evolved considerably over generations. My great-grandfather's approaches would be considered ethically problematic by modern standards."

  "And your approaches?"

  "Are fully compliant with current ethical guidelines for observational research," he stated firmly. But something in his tone suggested discomfort with the question.

  "Right," I said, unconvinced. "Because having me help bury unicorns and trap tooth fairies is standard academic protocol."

  "Those were extracurricular incidents unrelated to formal research parameters," Oliver countered, removing his goggles. "Though the observational data they provided has proven valuable."

  I laughed despite myself. "At least you're consistent. Everything is a research opportunity with you."

  "Not everything," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. Then, returning to his normal precise tone: "Merely the scientifically significant elements. Your non-magical perception represents an underutilized research field with substantial application potential."

  "Thornfield said something similar, though she seemed more interested in theory than applications."

  "Professor Thornfield's interests align with traditional academic objectives," Oliver said dismissively. "My research focuses on practical interface mechanisms between magical and non-magical frameworks."

  "More 'medicine and temporary magic'?"

  "Among other possibilities." He carefully stored the separated essences in a locked box that seemed larger on the inside than physics should allow. "The theoretical underpinnings may appear academic, but the practical applications could significantly impact both magical and non-magical communities."

  He spoke with unusual intensity, suggesting personal investment beyond mere scientific curiosity. I wondered, not for the first time, what Oliver Reed really wanted from his strange experiments.

  A knock at our door interrupted before I could ask. When I opened it, I found Eden standing in the hallway, her musically enchanted hair currently emitting what sounded like a jaunty Mozart riff. She carried a stack of books that occasionally flapped their covers like wings, threatening to escape her grip.

  "Ben! Just the non-magical person I was looking for." She pushed past me into the room, raising an eyebrow at Oliver's dental surgery setup but otherwise ignoring it. "I need your help with my Comparative Magical Perspectives essay. Professor Whitman says my analysis is 'too intuitive and lacks objective framework,' whatever that means."

  "It means you're relying on magical intuition rather than systematic analysis," Oliver explained without being asked. "A common limitation in cross-framework theoretical models."

  Eden stuck her tongue out at him. "Thanks, Professor Reed. Very helpful." She turned to me. "Seriously though, I'm desperate. This paper is due Friday and Whitman already gave me one extension because of the whole musical hair situation." She patted her purple locks, which obligingly switched to a minor key.

  "I'm not sure how I can help," I said. "I'm failing most of my classes."

  "Exactly!" Eden exclaimed, as if this proved her point. "You're failing the practical stuff but acing written theory. Rumor has it Blackwood showed your last essay to the entire faculty lounge because your analysis of transmutation paradoxes was, quote, 'refreshingly uncontaminated by practical capability.'"

  I glanced at Oliver, who nodded slightly. "Your theoretical perspective does present unique analytical value," he admitted.

  "See? Even the human research paper agrees." Eden dropped her books on my bed, where they settled with relieved sighs. "Help me understand how to look at magical theory without, you know, actually understanding magic."

  Put that way, it did sound like something I was uniquely qualified for. "What's the paper about?"

  "Perceptual variations in elemental manifestation across cultural magical frameworks," she replied, then seeing my expression, simplified: "Why fire spells look different depending on who casts them."

  "Fascinating subject," Oliver interjected, his interest apparently piqued despite his ongoing experiment. "The perceptual interface between caster intention and elemental response represents a classic example of consciousness-mediated manifestation."

  Eden gave him a flat look. "I will pay you actual money to speak English."

  "He means magic looks different because people expect it to look different," I translated, surprising myself with my growing ability to interpret Oliver-speak. "Fire spells cast by someone from a culture that associates fire with passion might look different from someone who sees fire as purification."

  "Yes!" Eden pointed at me triumphantly. "That's exactly the kind of straightforward explanation I need. Oliver would have me reading seventeen theoretical texts and constructing a multidimensional model."

  "A comprehensive approach yields more accurate results," Oliver defended mildly.

  "A comprehensive approach gets me another failed paper," Eden countered. "I need the non-magical perspective that just asks the obvious questions magical people overlook."

  "Like why spells have to be in Latin?" I suggested.

  "They don't," Oliver and Eden replied in unison.

  "Latin merely provides a convenient phonetic framework with established historical resonance patterns," Oliver elaborated. "Any sufficiently structured linguistic system would serve equally well, given proper intentional alignment."

  Eden nodded. "What he said, but also tradition. Magical people are super into tradition. Why change the words when the old ones work, even if nobody knows what they mean anymore?"

  This exchange highlighted exactly what both Thornfield and Oliver had suggested—my non-magical perspective asked questions that magical people took for granted, forcing them to articulate assumptions they'd never examined.

  Perhaps there was something to this "valuable research assistant" concept after all.

  "Okay," I said, pulling out my notebook. "Let's start with the basics. What exactly changes in these different fire spells? Color? Shape? Temperature? Duration?"

  For the next two hours, the three of us worked through Eden's paper, with me asking increasingly specific questions that forced her to articulate magical concepts in concrete terms. Oliver occasionally contributed precise theoretical clarifications, though he continued his work on the unicorn tooth in parallel. By the time we finished, Eden had six pages of notes and a clear outline for her essay.

  "This is brilliant," she declared, her hair playing a triumphant fanfare. "Whitman is going to flip when he reads this. I never thought about half these distinctions before."

  "That's because magical perception automatically integrates them," Oliver observed, sealing the last of his essence vials. "Non-magical analysis requires explicit articulation of processes that magical consciousness processes intuitively."

  "What he said," Eden agreed, gathering her now-docile books. "Ben, you're a lifesaver. We should do this again sometime—maybe form a study group? I bet other students would pay for this kind of help."

  The suggestion caught me off guard. "You think people would want my help? The guy who can't even open his textbook without getting bitten?"

  "Are you kidding? Half the theory professors are already talking about your papers. And plenty of students are struggling with the conceptual stuff even if they can do the magic." She grinned. "You could turn your whole non-magical thing into an academic advantage."

  After she left, I sat on my bed, considering this unexpected possibility. Between Thornfield's suggested course changes, Oliver's research interest, and now Eden's study group idea, my supposed disadvantage was starting to look like a unique academic niche.

  "She's not wrong," Oliver said, interrupting my thoughts as he meticulously cleaned his instruments. "Your non-magical perspective provides analytic clarity that many magical students struggle to achieve. The study group concept presents interesting possibilities for expanded observational data collection."

  "Of course you'd see it as another research opportunity," I said, though without real annoyance.

  "Research benefits can coexist with mutual advantage," he replied mildly. "Your academic standing would improve, other students would receive valuable assistance, and yes, observational data would be collected."

  "Everyone wins?"

  "Within defined parameters." He closed his instrument case with a precise click. "Though I would recommend caution regarding which students you assist. Some magical families maintain... traditional attitudes regarding non-magical individuals."

  "Like your family?" I asked, remembering Thornfield's warning.

  Oliver paused, his expression carefully neutral. "My research approaches represent a significant departure from historical Reed methodologies," he said finally. "But yes, certain elements of magical society view non-magical perception as merely a resource to be utilized rather than a perspective to be valued."

  It wasn't exactly a reassuring answer, but it was perhaps the most straightforward acknowledgment of his family's attitudes he'd offered yet.

  "I'll think about the study group," I said, changing the subject. "And Thornfield's course suggestions. Maybe being non-magical here doesn't have to mean constant failure."

  "A rational adaptation strategy," Oliver approved, returning to his usual clinical detachment. "Optimal resource allocation based on inherent capabilities rather than externally imposed expectations."

  I threw a pillow at him, which he dodged with irritating precision. "In English: play to your strengths."

  "That's what I said," he insisted, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been an almost-smile.

  As I prepared for bed that night, I found myself feeling cautiously optimistic for the first time since discovering Millhaven's magical nature. Between modified courses, possible study groups, and my apparent value as a research subject, I might actually find a place here—not despite being non-magical, but because of it.

  My Transmutation textbook chose that moment to growl threateningly from my desk, reminding me that not everything at Millhaven appreciated my non-magical perspective.

  "Yeah, yeah," I muttered to the book. "I'll wear gloves next time."

  The textbook responded by shuffling its pages in what sounded suspiciously like a snort of disbelief. Even the school supplies at Millhaven had attitude problems.

  But for once, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow's classes, rather than dreading another day of magical failure. Maybe the Accidental Apprentice had stumbled onto something useful after all.