Sheepishness isn't really the reaction Sherlock was expecting. His own eyes drop accordingly, and his shoulders hunch awkwardly. Not good. Bit not good.

“Exactly,” he says, not relenting on that point, at least. “Well, I'll...”

He doesn't fumble as he gathers up the last remaining books to carry them over to an empty desk against the wall, but it's a near thing. The desks themselves, those that remain in the way, he banishes to the opposite side of the room with a wave of his wand. No more of this silliness. No more mistakes. No more being obvious.

He drags his own bag up from where he'd set it near the door and pulls out a thick tome, not one most students here are likely to possess: it is a dictionary of Latin. Sherlock has made note of every spell he's ever learned in the margins, tied spells to their underlying meanings, attempted to uncover the building blocks of magic.

What he's learned is that the words matter relatively little. Words are simply a means of coding intention. The language doesn't matter much either... to anyone save the individual speaking it, and Latin is the tradition, therefore Latin it will be for their own little experiment.