The following morning brought with it the grim reality of consequences.
Under normal circumstances, mornings were a time of relative freedom for the children of the orphanage. However, due to the collective progress on cleaning the yard yesterday being practically non-existent, the staff had corralled everyone back outside. They were to continue the drudgery until the cobblestones sparkled or until morale improved, whichever came last.
Maurise, however, remained spectacularly unbothered.
He had a distinct talent for finding opportunities to slack off. Besides, the chaos of the yard gave him ample time to amuse himself with his peculiar pet.
It was a necromantic creation, a undead cat he had affectionately named Tin. To the untrained eye, Tin behaved almost exactly like a normal cat, though perhaps a bit ribbier. Its only significant advantage over the living was speed. This supernatural agility was the only reason it managed to survive the daily vendettas launched against it by the local stray cat population.
As for why the local strays wanted to tear Tin limb from spectral limb?
Well, the boy had to admit, his pet was a bit of a hooligan.
Maurise had come to understand the nature of his undead companion quite well. The creature possessed a compulsive need to antagonize every living animal it encountered. Its crimes included, but were not limited to, stealing food, yanking tails, and on one memorable occasion, shoving the sleeping leader of the alley cats headfirst into a muddy puddle.
Honestly, Tin deserved every bit of the harassment it got.
"Mr. Black."
The sudden voice cut through Maurise's reverie. He turned to find a middle-aged man standing at the edge of the yard, looking out of place among the grime and orphans.
Maurise was certain the man was addressing him. Unless there had been a sudden influx of new admissions overnight, he was the only Black on the register.
He squinted, taking a moment to identify the figure.
The man was a textbook example of middle-aged decline. He possessed a doughy physique and a glistening, retreating hairline. The few strands of greasy hair that remained had been combed over with mathematical precision in a tragic attempt to cover the barren wasteland of his scalp.
Hair loss. The eternal tragedy of men over forty. Fortunately, Maurise told himself, he had a full head of hair and intended to keep it that way.
"Mr. Black," the man called again, a note of impatience creeping in. "Please, come here."
"Coming, Mr. Green," Maurise responded promptly, adopting a mask of obedience as he jogged over.
He had finally recognized the man. It was the director of the children's home, Harold Green. Although Green was technically in charge, he was an absentee landlord of sorts. Maurise had not actually seen him since last Christmas. Thankfully, the man's name was generic enough to remember.
"Is something the matter, Mr. Green?" Maurise asked politely. His mind began racing, cataloging his recent activities. Had he been caught? Unlikely. He never made mistakes that could be traced back to him.
Harold Green looked Maurise up and down with piggy eyes buried deep in flesh. He seemed nervous.
"If memory serves, Mr. Black," Green began, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, "you are set to begin secondary school this year. Which institution was it again?"
"Northwood Comprehensive, sir," Maurise replied smoothly.
So, this was about school. Since the owl had already delivered the letter, it stood to reason that a representative from Hogwarts would eventually show up to explain things to the muggle guardians. Clearly, Mr. Green had received some form of notification.
Maurise decided to play it safe until the cards were on the table.
Harold nodded, his double chin wobbling slightly. A flicker of unease passed through his eyes.
"Right... well," Green stammered. "Do you have any other thoughts on the matter? Another school has approached me. They asked if you might be willing to attend their institution instead."
"Which school is that, sir?"
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Harold replied, his face twisting into a complicated expression that sat somewhere between fear and disbelief.
Maurise followed the anxious director into the main parlor.
The moment had finally arrived. Despite his usual composure, he felt a spark of genuine excitement.
As soon as he stepped through the door, he saw her. Standing by the wall, scrutinizing a cheap landscape print with the air of an art critic inspecting a forgery, was a severe-looking woman in strange clothes.
It was definitely the Hogwarts representative.
Harold Green cleared his throat, guiding Maurise toward the woman.
Now that he was closer, Maurise could see her clearly. She was an elderly woman, though she radiated a vitality that belied her age. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun that looked like it could deflect a hammer, and she wore emerald green robes that swished softly as she turned.
"This is Professor McGonagall," Harold introduced her, exhaling sharply as if relieved to hand over the responsibility.
Professor McGonagall inclined her head slightly. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent behind square spectacles, locked onto Maurise. It was a gaze designed to make students confess to crimes they had not even committed yet.
Surprisingly, Maurise did not flinch.
"I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she said, her voice crisp and distinct. "Good morning, Mr. Black."
"Good morning, Professor," Maurise replied with a practiced, polite nod. "I believe I saw your name on the letter."
The corner of McGonagall's mouth twitched upward. It was a microscopic movement, but it was there. "Then I assume you have read the letter and have some understanding of the situation."
"Yes, ma'am. Though, admittedly, I only know that there is a school called Hogwarts. The rest seemed rather fantastical," Maurise said, blending honesty with the expected skepticism of a muggle raised child.
"Excellent," McGonagall nodded, seemingly pleased with his composure.
She did not waste time. "In short, Hogwarts is a school where young people with specific talents are trained to control and use magic properly. According to our records, you have turned eleven and have exhibited the necessary magical aptitude. Therefore, you have been granted a place at our school."
She proceeded to give a concise overview of the curriculum and the necessity of magical education for young wizards.
"Are you willing to attend Hogwarts, Mr. Black?"
"Certainly, Professor."
Maurise had no reason to refuse. It was the only way forward.
Meanwhile, standing awkwardly to the side, Harold Green felt his brain trying to crawl out of his ears.
Even though this stern woman had already explained the existence of magic to him privately, hearing words like magical aptitude spoken so casually in his own parlor was jarring. It felt like a fever dream.
Did I take something last night? Harold wondered in panic. No, I did not touch anything stronger than tea.
"Mr. Green?"
Harold snapped back to reality to find both the boy and the witch staring at him.
"Ye... Yes?" he stammered, wiping a fresh layer of sweat from his brow.
McGonagall's expression returned to its default setting of strict professionalism. "Mr. Green, since Mr. Black has agreed to enrollment, I require some background information regarding his conduct and history here. This will assist us in making the appropriate arrangements for his arrival."
Seeing Harold look like he was about to faint, she added somewhat more gently, "These are merely routine questions about his daily habits and general behavior. There is no need for alarm."
Harold forced a smile that looked more like a grimace of pain. "Please, ask away, madam."
'No need for alarm', he thought hysterically. 'Easy for her to say.'
Anyone who had just watched an elderly woman turn a wooden chair into a squealing pig, and then nonchalantly turn it back into a chair five seconds later, would find it very difficult to remain calm.
If he had been any ruder to her when she first arrived, Harold suspected he might currently be a piece of furniture himself.
He could feel the scientific worldview he had built over forty years crumbling into dust.