"Now, regarding Mr. Black. Has there been any... unusual activity surrounding him?"
Minerva McGonagall did not believe in beating around the bush. She asked the question with the precision of a scalpel.
"Unusual activity?" Harold Green blinked, his brain processing the inquiry with the speed of a damp firework.
"Precisely," McGonagall nodded, the feather on her hat bobbing slightly. "Objects moving on their own, milk spilling without being touched... anything that defies logical explanation."
Harold furrowed his brow, looking quite put upon. He glanced down at Maurise, who was standing beside the desk with eyes cast downward, looking for all the world like a choirboy who had never so much as squashed a fly.
"If you want to talk about unusual," Harold said after a moment of strained thinking, "Mr. Black is unnervingly clever. He never needs help with his studies. In fact, he just top-scored in the regional exams."
Harold didn't usually pay attention to the inner workings of the Children's Home, but that particular tidbit had reached even his ears. Several prestigious grammar schools had already called, desperate to claim the boy. Harold, naturally, had left that paperwork to the care workers. He didn't care much for the orphanage itself, provided the government checks kept clearing.
"Ah, wait," Harold said, scratching the shiny dome of his bald head as a memory surfaced. "There is one thing. The boy has been returned twice."
McGonagall leaned forward, her eyes narrowing behind her square spectacles. "If you are at liberty to say, what were the circumstances?"
Two failed adoptions for such a well-behaved, intelligent child? That was indeed the heart of the matter. Was it abuse? Neglect? Or something else?
Harold looked uncomfortable. "It's a bit of a puzzle," he cleared his throat awkwardly. "I don't recall the specifics. It was years ago, you understand."
Maurise, hearing this, gave a tiny, involuntary twitch of his lip.
McGonagall, whose animagus form was a cat for good reason, caught the movement instantly. Her gaze softened as she turned to the boy.
"Do you recall what happened, Mr. Black?" she asked gently. "You are under no obligation to speak of it, of course. It will not affect your admission to Hogwarts."
Maurise looked up, meeting the Professor's stern but kind eyes.
He decided there was no point in lying. It wasn't as if he had murdered anyone.
"It's not a big deal," Maurise explained with a shrug, his tone casual. "Whenever a family took me in, dead things started... appearing. In their gardens."
"Dead things?" McGonagall asked, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.
"Stray cats, birds, rats. Just carcasses, really. The first adoptive mother had a nervous breakdown. The second father was convinced I was some sort of bad omen. They sent me back within the month." Maurise spoke as if discussing the weather. "Looking back, I suppose that was magic."
He still felt a twinge of guilt about it. It hadn't been his intention to turn suburban manicured lawns into makeshift morgues. Those families had been kind, and they had suffered quite the fright for no reason.
"Actually," Maurise added, remembering a specific detail, "the second family had it worse. It wasn't just animals. Two deceased vagrants turned up in their backyard as well."
Harold turned pale. McGonagall stayed perfectly still.
"They found them behind the rose bushes," Maurise continued. "The house, which was in a rather nice part of the city, lost significant market value. It was very realistic."
Maurise mentally apologized again.
Of course, he hadn't killed the homeless men. The coroner's report had confirmed they died of hypothermia. The strange part was simply that their bodies had... migrated. It was as if he had become a magnet for the non-living.
McGonagall sat in silence for a moment, processing this information.
"While the manifestation is... unique," she chose her words carefully, "it is almost certainly a case of Accidental Magic. When a young wizard experiences emotional turbulence or a strong desire, their magic can lash out and cause inexplicable phenomena."
Accidental Magic.
Maurise nodded slowly. That made sense.
He had always assumed he was just cursed with terrible luck, destined to stumble upon corpses wherever he went. But if the Professor was right, his own magic had been dragging these things to him because of a "strong desire."
Wait. That didn't make sense either.
Why on earth would his subconscious desire be to surround himself with dead bodies? He wasn't a psychopath.
Seeing the complex expression on Maurise's face, McGonagall offered reassurance. "Do not worry, Mr. Black. Accidental magic usually ceases as you mature and gain control. Once you begin your training at Hogwarts, these uncontrollable incidents will vanish."
"I understand, Professor," Maurise said, looking thoughtful.
"Now, do you have any other questions?"
Maurise hesitated, a flash of genuine curiosity entering his eyes. "Professor, could you show me? Right now? Real magic."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, then a small, knowing smile graced her lips. It occurred to her that, amidst the interrogation, she hadn't actually demonstrated any magic to the boy. His ready acceptance of the supernatural without proof was actually the strangest thing about him.
"A fair request. As it happens, I need to take you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies. Do you have your equipment list? It was attached to the letter."
"I do." Maurise fished a slightly crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket.
The list was extensive and included items that baffled him. A telescope, for instance. How looking at stars related to waving wands was beyond him.
"Then we shall depart immediately," McGonagall said, standing up. She turned to Harold, who was still frozen in his chair like a decorative statue. "I shall return Mr. Black by this afternoon. I trust this is acceptable, Mr. Green?"
"Yes! Yes, of course, no problem at all," Harold stammered, nodding rapidly.
McGonagall turned back to the boy and offered her right arm. "Take hold of my arm, Mr. Black. I must warn you, the method of travel may be... unpleasant. The first time one Apparates is rarely a joy. Take a deep breath."
Maurise did as he was told, gripping the velvet of her sleeve.
McGonagall drew her wand with her free hand.
The world twisted.
Maurise felt as though he were being squeezed through a very thick, very tight rubber tube. His internal organs felt flattened, then stretched, then compressed again. The air was sucked out of his lungs.
Then, with a loud CRACK, his feet hit solid ground.
The pressure vanished, replaced by the smell of brick dust and old smoke. They were standing in a small, dingy courtyard behind a pub.
"How do you feel?" McGonagall asked, patting him on the back.
Maurise swayed slightly, his face a shade paler.
"A bit... queasy," he managed to say.
So this was magic.
To a Muggle, teleporting across the country in the blink of an eye was a fantasy, a violation of physics. Yet, despite the fact that his stomach was currently doing gymnastics, the reality of it was intoxicating.
Maurise looked around the brick wall, terrified that if he blinked, he would wake up back in the orphanage.
This was a miracle that science couldn't touch. And having tasted a miracle, how could anyone ever be content with the mundane world again?
Back in the orphanage reception room.
Harold Green stared at the empty space where the woman and the boy had been standing just seconds ago. He collapsed back onto the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling.
His mind was a chaotic mess.
Wizards in his office. A child who summoned dead bodies. People vanishing into thin air.
And the heavy parchment contract in his jacket pocket, strictly forbidding him from breathing a word of this to a soul.
"Bloody hell," Harold whispered to the empty room. "What kind of world am I living in?"