As the bell chimed to signal the start of the period, the chatter in the classroom died down. The students sat in anticipation, eyes fixed on the front of the room.
However, thirty seconds ticked by, and the podium remained conspicuously empty.
"Where is the professor?" Hermione whispered, unable to help herself.
Maurise, however, kept his gaze fixed on the blackboard at the very front. The air around it seemed to shimmer with a peculiar, heavy energy.
A second later, a transparent figure oozed out of the chalkboard like a spectral smudge.
Like all the castle's resident spirits, Professor Binns was pearly-white and semitransparent. He looked ancient, draped in archaic wizarding robes that had gone out of fashion centuries ago. He was small, withered, and wore an expression of terminal exhaustion. His eyes were dreadfully hollow.
At first glance, Maurise thought the man did not look alive.
Then again, Professor Binns literally was not alive.
In short, he was exactly what a ghost ought to be. Compared to the boisterous spirits Maurise had encountered at the Start-of-Term Feast, Professor Binns was far more aligned with the grim stereotypes of the undead.
The class jumped in their seats as he drifted through the wood.
"Is that... a ghost?"
"Looks like it."
Maurise heard Ron and Harry whispering furiously behind him.
Professor Binns, however, seemed entirely deaf to the presence of his students. He simply opened his mouth and began to speak, his voice dry as dust in a crypt.
"History of Magic deals with the facts of the wizarding world, not the myths," he wheezed, without so much as a good morning. "My subject is the recording of the rise and fall of magical society, the importance of which is often woefully underestimated by young wizards."
"I teach only facts. I do not traffic in foolish legends."
"Now, let us begin. Please turn your textbooks to the chapter concerning the Early International Confederation of Wizards..."
His voice was flat, monotone, and possessed the unique quality of sucking the oxygen out of the room. It was the sound of a man who had died of boredom and was now determined to take everyone else with him.
The students fell silent. Not out of respect, but out of sheer, stunning lethargy.
Binns began to recite the textbook. Word for word.
Maurise listened intently for the first few minutes. But once he realized that the professor was essentially a translucent audiobook with zero charisma, the novelty wore off.
Thirty minutes later, Maurise scanned the room. The devastation was total.
Harry was listlessly poking the edge of his parchment with a quill, his eyes glazed over. Ron had surrendered completely, his face mashed against the desk in a puddle of drool.
Hermione, naturally, was the exception. Her back was rigid, her quill flying across the parchment as she took notes with terrifying intensity.
Yet, even with her diligence, Binns showed no interest in engaging with the class. He did not ask questions. He did not look at them. He just droned on.
'Looks like this is going to be a long year', Maurise thought.
He gave up on the lecture and decided to study the ghost instead. The medium was far more interesting than the message. A ghost professor was the sort of authentic magic he had come to see.
"...in the early fifteenth century, the Muggle witch hunts began to spread, exacerbating cross-regional disputes within the wizarding community..."
Hermione's hand shot into the air. "Professor! I have a question!"
Binns paused. He looked genuinely startled, as if one of the desks had suddenly started singing opera.
"Speak," he said dryly. His tone remained flat.
Hermione stood up. "Regarding the witch hunts... did the Muggles actually manage to catch and execute real wizards?"
'She was actually listening', Maurise noted, impressed.
Binns glanced in Hermione's direction and began to answer her question with a long-winded explanation about Flame-Freezing Charms.
But then, Maurise noticed something.
As Binns spoke, his hollow eyes drifted. They locked onto Maurise and lingered there for several long, uncomfortable seconds.
When the answer was finished, Hermione sat down, looking satisfied.
Strangely, Binns did not return to his lecture immediately. He drifted slowly away from the center of the blackboard, hovering until he was positioned directly to Maurise's side.
Maurise instinctively looked up.
The surprise was palpable. Those previously vacant, dead eyes were now sharp, focused, and staring right at him.
Maurise glanced around. The rest of the class was too comatose to notice the staring contest.
"Is there a problem, Professor?" Maurise asked quietly.
Binns said nothing. He simply shook his head, drifted back to the podium, and resumed his monotone droning. His eyes went dead again.
Maurise frowned. That was bizarre.
Finally, mercy arrived in the form of the bell.
The students scrambled to pack their bags, fleeing the room as if escaping a burning building.
Ron yawned, stretching his arms until his joints popped. He tapped Maurise on the shoulder. "Oi, Maurise. Coming to the Great Hall? We wanted to talk to you about... you know, that thing from last night."
Harry, having shoved his books into his bag, nodded with a friendly, eager smile. "Yeah, we have got loads of questions."
Hermione, seeing the boys plotting, pursed her lips. She said nothing, clutched her books to her chest, and marched out of the room with her nose in the air.
Maurise glanced back at the podium. Binns was still hovering there, waiting.
"You two go ahead," Maurise said, shaking his head. "I have some business to attend to."
"Alright," Harry nodded. "See you at lunch."
The two boys disappeared into the corridor. Soon, the classroom was empty, save for Maurise, Professor Binns, and a magical broom that was sweeping dust in the corner.
Maurise walked up to the podium and looked the ghost in the eye.
The fog in Binns' eyes cleared instantly. He looked lucid. Sharp.
"Hello, Professor Binns," Maurise said politely. "I'm Maurise Black. It seemed like you wanted to say something to me earlier."
A faint smile touched the ghost's lips.
Maurise blinked. It was the first time he had seen the ghost show any emotion other than mild annoyance or apathy.
"So I may call you Maurise, then?" Binns asked gently.
The tone was jarring. The monotonous drone was gone, replaced by the voice of a kindly, if weary, grandfather.
"Of course, Professor," Maurise replied, taken aback.
"Very good, Maurise." Binns nodded, his translucent form bobbing in the air. He scrutinized the boy with those strangely clear eyes. "Before we speak, I must verify something."
The ghost leaned in close.
"Are you... a Reaper?"
"A Reaper?"
Maurise tilted his head. Of all the things he expected the ghost to ask, this was not on the list. It was absurd.
Binns watched his reaction carefully. "Ah. Perhaps I was mistaken in the title. But one thing is certain."
"You are favored by Death."
Maurise's heart skipped a beat.
The way Binns said it did not sound like a guess. It sounded like a statement of fact.
"I don't understand, Professor," Maurise said cautiously. "What does that mean? It doesn't sound like a compliment."
"It is not a blessing, no. But it is not necessarily a curse, either." Binns drifted closer. "Death feels comfortable around you. Tell me, those creatures... the Thestrals. They are quite fond of you, are they not?"
Maurise did not deny it.
"I thought so," Binns chuckled softly.
"So, Professor," Maurise pressed, getting to the heart of the matter. "Why tell me this? Did you keep me behind just to discuss my affinity with spooky creatures?"
The faint smile on Binns' face vanished.
He floated backward, putting some distance between them and the podium, as if gathering his resolve. When he spoke again, his voice was solemn.
"To be favored by Death is a very rare trait for a wizard, Maurise. And it means you are the only one who can help me."
The ghost stared deep into Maurise's eyes.
"This is a private request, Maurise. One day, when you are powerful enough... if you would be so kind..."
"Kill me."