Maurise followed Professor McGonagall out of the alleyway and onto the main street.
After crossing the road, they came to a halt between a large bookshop and a record store.
For some reason, the space between them felt wrong. It gave Maurise a sensation he couldn't quite articulate, like an itch in the back of his mind.
McGonagall noticed his bewildered expression and offered a knowing smile. "Does it feel a bit odd to you? Look closer."
Maurise blinked, shaking off a sudden wave of dizziness.
Suddenly, the scenery shifted. A battered, narrow building materialized out of nowhere, squeezing itself into existence between the bookshop and the record store. A rickety wooden sign hung above the door, reading: The Leaky Cauldron.
'It's magic', Maurise's subconscious whispered.
McGonagall ushered him inside.
The interior lived up to the promise of the dilapidated exterior. It was dim and shabby. There was a bar, a few scattered tables, and walls cluttered with portraits that couldn't seem to decide if they wanted to be straight.
It didn't look like a pub so much as a closet that served ale. That was Maurise's first impression.
"Pay no attention to the strangers," McGonagall instructed, her tone clipping into that of a protective mother hen.
They didn't linger. They walked straight through the taproom and out into a small, walled courtyard. It was empty, save for a single dustbin standing lonely against the brickwork.
"Memorize this dustbin, Maurise. Count three bricks up and two across."
McGonagall tapped the specific stone with the tip of her wand.
Immediately, the brick began to quiver. It wriggled, then melted away, creating a widening hole that rapidly expanded into a large archway.
Beyond the arch lay a winding, cobbled street lined with buildings that defied architectural sanity.
Some leaned so far over the street they nearly touched. Others seemed held together by nothing but hope and magic. It was chaotic, vibrant, and undeniably enchanting.
"Follow me," McGonagall said, snapping Maurise out of his gawking. "We must purchase your wand first. That is the priority."
She led him through the bustling crowd, explaining the financial situation as they walked. "Hogwarts has established a specific hardship fund for students in your... circumstances. The cost of all necessary items will be covered by this fund."
She paused, turning to give him a stern look over her spectacles. "However, this is strictly for learning materials. It does not cover sweets, broomsticks, or frivolous extras."
Maurise nodded. "Understood."
"In truth, it has been quite some time since anyone utilized this fund," McGonagall said, her tone shifting to something more conversational. "In recent years, you are the only student to come to us from an orphanage. The last one was..."
She trailed off, shaking her head slightly as if physically swallowing the rest of the sentence. "Never mind. Ollivanders is just ahead."
Maurise found her hesitation curious, but he wasn't interested enough to press the issue.
Ollivander was an interesting old man, or at least, Maurise thought so.
The process of choosing a wand didn't take nearly as long as Maurise had feared.
After waving a few mismatched sticks and successfully blowing up a chair and the shop's only lightbulb, Maurise found the one.
Hornbeam wood, Thestral tail hair core, twelve and three-quarter inches.
Maurise had expected a wizard's wand to be flashy, perhaps encrusted with a gem or glowing with runic light. Unfortunately, reality was disappointing. He was handed a dark, thick stick.
Aside from a few natural, uneven grooves in the wood, it was featureless. If he had a second one, he could have used them as oversized chopsticks.
However, once the selection was made, Ollivander seemed far more excited than the customer.
"Hornbeam and Thestral hair. A fascinating combination, Mr. Black," Ollivander said, waving his arms theatrically. "It may be a bit stubborn. My own wand is Hornbeam, you see. This wood selects a master with a singular, pure passion. It will support a strong will with absolute loyalty."
"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander."
"You are quite welcome. That will be seven Galleons. Would you like to add a wand maintenance kit for an extra two?"
Maurise politely declined.
"Are you certain?" Ollivander looked genuinely pained. "You must cherish your wand, my boy."
Maurise declined again. After all, he wasn't the one signing the check.
McGonagall pulled a heavy velvet pouch from inside her robes and counted out seven gold Galleons onto the counter.
"Do visit again," Ollivander said, sweeping the coins into a drawer. He winked at Maurise. "Hornbeam hates to be ignored. Use it often, and you will find you share a remarkable understanding."
It was nearly noon when they left the dusty shop.
Although the most important item was secured, the shopping list was still dauntingly long.
"This may take more time than I anticipated," McGonagall noted. "Aside from the wand, I strongly suggest we purchase your remaining supplies second-hand. It will save a significant amount of the fund, which can then be converted into a small allowance for you."
"What if I want everything brand new?" Maurise asked.
McGonagall stopped and looked at him seriously. "The choice is yours, Mr. Black. But if you do that, the fund will be entirely exhausted by the supplies. You will have no pocket money for the entire school year."
She added a practical note. "Hogwarts provides room and board, but there are always unforeseen expenses."
Maurise sighed.
The eternal struggles of poverty.
He wondered if Hogwarts offered academic scholarships.
Fortunately, he had no moral objection to second-hand goods. It was a minor inconvenience at best. Aside from his toothbrush, almost everything he owned at the orphanage had been used by someone else first.
Orphanages ran on the charity of strangers and the generosity of the government. Maurise knew the state provided ample funding for the orphans' care, enough for new clothes and decent food. Yet, somehow, the money always seemed to evaporate before it reached the children.
He wondered whose pockets were lined with that cash. It was a terrifying thought if one dwelled on it too long.
The shopping spree consumed the next two hours.
Textbooks, glass phials, a telescope, brass scales, a pewter cauldron...
Finally, only the clothing remained.
"Do not worry," McGonagall said, seeing him check the list. "There is a specialized second-hand robe shop in the alley."
The shop was located down a quiet side street on the north side of Diagon Alley.
It was eerily quiet inside. Rows of clothes racks stood like silent soldiers, laden with robes of every color and cut. The air smelled of mothballs and old parchment, and a soft, jazz-like tune drifted from an unseen radio.
The proprietor was an elderly witch wearing half-moon spectacles.
The moment Maurise stepped inside, his attention was hijacked. He ignored the robes and the witch, his eyes locking onto an object in the far corner.
It was a skeleton. A human skeleton.
It was perfect. It looked less like biological remains and more like a masterpiece of jade carving.
The curve of the skull was symmetrical and smooth. The cranial sutures fit together with puzzle-box precision. The ribcage expanded in a graceful arc, the bones possessing a semi-transparent, alabaster quality. Every limb, every joint maintained a perfect, anatomical form.
Maurise stared, entranced.
A strange, dry heat rose in his chest.
It was the feeling a fanatic collector gets when they stumble upon the Holy Grail in a garage sale. He wanted it. He wanted to study it.
"..."
Fortunately, he snapped out of his trance before he did anything socially disastrous, like drooling or hugging the bones.
Still, why was a human skeleton standing in a second-hand clothing store? It seemed a bit morbid for a mannequin.
Unlike Maurise, Professor McGonagall was entirely unfazed. The magical world had skeletons that danced and sang; a stationary set of bones was hardly worth a second glance.
"It's likely a model," she whispered, noticing his stare. "The real ones are usually sold in Knockturn Alley."
The process of selecting robes went smoothly.
However, even after they left the shop with a bundle of plain black robes, Maurise couldn't get the image of those perfect bones out of his head.
Bloody hell, he thought to himself. Am I actually a deviant?