There was a desk. On it were fragments of parchment, scraps of paper, and sheaves of note-covered pages from books along with a few writing impliments and the general clutter of one too absorbed in his work to ever clean up. In the centre of the desk was a small clear area, no more than a foot or so wide. In that area something tiny moved - a skeletal frog, waving it's tiny limbs in an uncoordinated ballet, danced to the tune of a silent orchesta. Far above someone laughed slightly, the high giggle of a child with a new toy.

He stood before his desk in grey robes. In the candle-light his smooth features looked even younger than their twenty years. His face was a picture of triumph over long adversity, his experiments finally bearing fruit. It had taken him many months, over a year in fact, to progress this far - the knowledge he had sought was regarded as magic of the blackest sort, all but the most oblique references to it were purged from the college's records. It had been hard to find anything of use and even those rare pieces of lore were at best patchy, lacking in the detail necessary to put them into practice. 

It was idiotic really, the attitude of the college deans. This was magic just like any other was it not? No different from calling forth light. To say otherwise was merely mouthing the superstisions of the ignorant peasant. It also gave it a strange allure, the very act of forbiddance, the lengths they went to hide it, all made it that much more interesting, that much more attractive. Fools, all of them, there was nothing evil in this. And their efforts to suppress it were all for naught. 

Admittedly, in the begining, it had mostly been the attraction of doing what he was not supposed to do, going where he was not supposed to go that made him continue the difficult work, but, eventually the work itself took over, guided him, led him where he needed to go, drove him onwards to find dusty books overlooked in the darkest, least frequented corners of the library. He wondered briefly if the magic had wanted to be released but quickly dismissed the thought, it was his own interest that took him this far, his need to prove himself better than his teachers. Not that that mattered now. 

Someday, not soon, but someday, he would show them his work. Prove to them that it was nothing to be feared, a magic like any other, a magic to be controlled and used as the mage willed it. Someday, but not soon.

He wondered if he could make something else move, something bigger, like a rabbit, or a cat perhaps. Now where would he get a cat?

Now he stood in front of a different table. This one was much larger, semi-circular in shape and free of all clutter. All that was upon it was a single sheaf of paper with matching quill and ink pot.

Opposite him, behind the paper, was a stern, cragged old face. The archmage. To his left and right were the deans of the college, eight in all, representing each of the major disciplines of magecraft. Above their heads flickered a single witchlight, indicating the seriousness of the issue - witchlights being reserved for those in which unambiguity was a must. The colour of the witchlight would change to match the opinion of the mage under it, giving a simple visual representation of his stance on any given issue. Experience gained long ago ensured that the deans had no control over their light, preventing political concerns from colouring the verdict of the council. In theory the witchlights should be a neutral grey in tone, but these were a Swirling mass of black-fecked red. Not a good sign for him.

The archmage spoke:"You know why you stand before us, but the record and those present who do not let it be known. You, novice, stand accused of practicing forbidden arts, conducting unsanctioned research into magics outside your area of study and attempting spellcasting without supervision - specfically, the animation of several animal corpses into a mockery of life." At this the assembled teachers gasped and broke into scattered conversation throughout the council chamber.
"A necromancer!"
"Not in over a century....."
"It can't be true can it?"
"He's so young...."
"Far beyond his powers..."
"Someone must have aided him, shown him where to look."
"But necromancy?"
The dean sighed to himself and cast a minor cantrip before speaking, "SILENCE!" his magically amplified voice rang out over the din, "WE WILL HAVE ORDER IN THE COURT!" He waved his hand, dismissing the spell. "How do you answer the charges put to you, novice?"
"Not guilty."
The room filled with the sussurus of whispered speculation. "Quiet please. In that case we shall proceede. You have the right to speak in your defence, do you have anything to say?"
"I do." His voice was strong.
"Then by all means proceede." 
"You say I practiced forbidden arts, this much is true." The murmuring resumed, he continues regardless, raising his voice to be heard over them, "you say I conduct research outside my area of study. This is also true. And finally, you say I cast spells without supervision. Again true."
"I presume you have a point to this?" Dean Arelecard of Illusion asked sardonically.
"Of course I do," the novice snapped back," and if you would refrain from contributing your 'witicisms' might I progress?" The room sat in stunned silence as the novice stared the dean down. 
"Yes, do proceed <i>novice</i>," Arelecard tried to sound firm and midly amused at the novice's pretentions but failed, merely sounding like a frightened child, his witchlight flickering a sickly green, further bertraying his unease.
"Thank you <i>Dean</i>," the novice managed to sound genuinely contemptuous. "Now, as to the last charge: yes I cast spells without supervision. A minor offence at best. Which one of you can honestly say you never did such while you were at your studies?" He turned to look around the room.
"We are not on trial here, novice," the Archmage sounded amused at getting to use the old cliché.
"Ah, but you are Archmage, you are. For if I strayed from the path is it not because you failed to guide me upon it correctly?" He smiled and continued before they could interject,"As I was saying, a minor infraction, a slap on the wrist is in order. Now, on to the next 'crime' - conducting research outside my area of study. Again I admitt this. For the college has stagnated. What research is ever done here? How many minds are wasted in rote memorisation of spells which have remained unchanged for centuries? All of them. Forgive me for trying to advance the general understanding of magic, I was not aware that it was held in such a poor regard." He smiled again.
"Finally, we come to the issue of the forbidden arts. I ask you, why are these arts forbidden? Is it due to any evil inherent in them? No! It is merely pointless sentimentality. What is a body but a complex machine? What is the soul but a source of power for this machine? Dean Caballos, do you not, in your school of conjuration, teach the construction of golems? What were my pets other than golems made from bone? Where is the difference?" At this the assembled masters rose in their seats shouting denials, the conjurers amongst them the loudest declaimers. Dean Caballos' witchlight would have glowed black with rage, if such a thing were possible. Instead it settled for a swirling mass of black smoke. The archmage cast again.
"SILENCE! SILENCE DAMN YOU! WE <i>WILL</i> HAVE QUIET!" His witchlight was a firey red of anger.
The clamour settled down, "Continue, novice." The witchlight calmed.
"I have nothing further to say, I have made my case and you will decide  as you see fit with no consideration given to my words."
"Very well, novice, if you that is your belief. Master Veron? If you please....." The archmage stopped speaking as the Master took up position in front of the council, interposing himself between them and the novice. "I will show, gathered Masters and Deans, that this novice not only is guilty of the crimes he is accused of but that he entered into them willingly and without the coercion of others....."
The novice drifted off, his words would make no difference, as he knew they wouldn't. The Deans would take the safe road, the path of least change. They always did, that was why the college had stagnated. Not that it mattered anymore, he cared not for it's restrictions.
At length he noticed he was being addressed again and raised his gaze from the floor. The archmage spoke.
"The vote is unanimous. You stand guilty as charged of all crimes." The crowd cheered in triumph, their precious order restored. "As your unrepentant attitude demands, you are to be punished according to the severity of your crime," he paused, "Since no citizen of Permidia may harm a mage, and by your guilt you have proven yourself to be that at least, we have no choice but to banish you. Your personal effects will be stripped from you, your robes removed and replaced with the clothes of a commoner and your work will be destroyed by elemental fire. When this is done you will be conducted by teleportation from the city of Leucret to an undisclosed location known only to the Deans and myself. Henceforth you will be accounted as a foreigner and not accorded any of the privilidges or protections accorded to a Permidian citisen. You may not, under any circumstances, ever again enter the lands of Permidia, including the port city of Leucret, under pain of immediate death. Do you understand?"
"I do."
"And you still stand unrepentant?"
"I do."
"Then it is my duty to declare you banished. Master Veron? Take a dozen guards and sweep the convicts rooms. Pile all his effects in the practice range of the Elementalist school. Make sure to get it all. Then find him some clothes. Guards, take the prisoner into custody, bind his hands and escort him to the range. This court is dismissed."

The guards dragged him out of the court backwards, kicking his feet out from under him as he tried to stand. As he passed the seated masters he heard them talking, laughing at him quietly, trying to hide it. A tiny black spot formed, somewhere deep inside him. As he was pulled down the corridors leading to the range one of the guards called out to a passing maid, "Look 'ere Miliene, this here's a Necromancer" he laughed as he said the last word. "Really? Dun't look much do 'e?" She laughed and spat on him. THe spot festered, grew an imperceptable amount. 
"Nah, nuffin' special I reckon. WEll, best get 'im off then," they led him on.
 
Eventually he reached the field. The last of his belongings were being piled onto a heap. He was stripped of his robes, forced into rough wollen breeches and a linen shirt, given leather boots to wear as his slippers were added to the pile. Upon the Archmages signal the Dean of Elementalism hit the heap with a fireball. Flames leaped up. The Archmage began casting the spell of teleportation. The flames climbed higher. His vision began to blur, sway, as the spell took hold of him, started to carry him away. The laughter was deafening now, they all joined in, laughing at the novice who got ideas above his station, tried to change the very foundation of the college. Laughing, all laughing.

The last he saw of the college was the burning pile, all his work, all his life, in flames. And in those flames, just visible in the glare, danced the tiny figure of a frog, waving it's tiny limbs in an uncoordinated ballet, danced to the tune of the crackling fire.

A single tear tried to roll down his face but was blown away by the heat of the fire. He followed it, carried by the magic.

The spot lurched, grew,and then it covered his whole heart.