In the late afternoon, Professor McGonagall left young Maurise at the orphanage gates with a quick, brisk goodbye. She had, she said, far too much important work awaiting her at the Ministry or wherever she went when not wrangling prospective students.
Maurise was fully equipped for his first year, save for a pet.
Hogwarts allowed students to bring an owl, a cat, or a toad. However, Maurise already possessed the surprisingly useful, if sometimes demanding, companion: a cat named Tin.
In a rare moment of sentimentality or perhaps simply financial prudence, Maurise decided Tin counted. The animal, after all, was already proving its worth by saving him the expense of an unwanted owl.
Upon entering the common room, dragging the trunk kindly or maybe shrewdly provided by the trunk merchant, Maurise found Harold pacing back and forth, looking like a man awaiting a tax audit.
"Mr. Green?" Maurise offered a polite, though weary, greeting.
Harold's head snapped up. His eyes darted past Maurise, a frantic look of relief washing over his face when he found the space behind the boy empty. "Is that Professor McGonagall really gone?" he asked, his voice tight with lingering fear.
"She has departed," Maurise confirmed.
Harold visibly sagged, his anxiety immediately draining away.
Maurise hauled the trunk over to a worn sofa. He was done dragging things. Although the magically enchanted luggage was deceptively light, he was only eleven and possessed the physical conditioning of a bookworm who considered walking to the fridge a significant workout. A rest was mandatory.
Harold peered at the trunk with the undisguised curiosity of a muggle trying to decipher a television remote. "What in the blazes is in there?"
"School supplies," Maurise answered, sinking into the sofa. "Books, robes, and various bits of wizarding paraphernalia. All bought in Diagon Alley."
"May I have a look?" Harold edged closer, and Maurise detected a distinct scent of stale cigarette smoke mingled with cheap cologne.
Maurise paused for a moment. Harold was, technically, his temporary guardian. "Yes, I suppose so," he conceded. "But please be careful."
He pressed the copper clasp on the side, and the lid sprang open with a soft thwack.
Harold bent over the contents. Inside, neatly stacked, were the standard issue black school robes, a heavy stack of enchanted textbooks, and a handful of genuinely peculiar items. Dominating the top layer was the wand, dark wood with subtle, cryptic carvings.
Harold remembered the severe professor using a similar small stick to perform feats of impossibility.
"Are these," Harold's voice was dry and hushed, "magic things?"
"Presumably," Maurise replied placidly. "Hogwarts requires them. I have not the slightest idea what half of them are for yet."
Harold reached out a trembling finger, then recoiled mid-air. Touching witch or wizard property might be very stupid.
Maurise watched the man's mixture of fascination and terror and could not help but find it mildly amusing.
"You can hold it, Mr. Green," Maurise offered, picking up the wand. "It is my wand, after all. Just handle it with a bit of care."
Harold carefully pinched the wand between two fingers. It was lighter than he expected, no heavier than a twig.
"Does it really do magic?" he asked, turning it over.
"It requires the right wizard or witch," Maurise educated him. "For a regular person, it is about as useful as any other bit of wood."
Harold, acknowledging his firm placement in the regular person category, quickly handed it back. He rubbed his hands nervously and leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "So, Mr. Black, could you do a trick? Just one little spell? You know, for my benefit?"
"I cannot guarantee success," Maurise admitted honestly. "I have not started school yet."
He placed the wand carefully into the trunk.
"But I can certainly try. Please remain completely still, Mr. Green."
Harold immediately stiffened, freezing solid and even holding his breath, his eyes glued to where the wand should have been in Maurise's hand.
However, Maurise simply shifted the wand to his left hand, leaving his right hand free, and then opened his right palm, aiming it directly at Harold.
In truth, Maurise had no idea how to properly use a wand yet. The only spell he knew, the only magic he had ever successfully performed, was the Fainting Curse.
And that particular unpleasant little piece of magic required no tool whatsoever.
He had attempted this spell hundreds of times on thin air, succeeding only once. But right now, his mind felt unusually clear, almost sharp. The construction of the spell model within his consciousness was flowing smoothly.
This time, it would work.
"Erm," Harold broke the silence, confusion replacing his terror. "Are you going to cast without the stick?"
"Xul... Noth... Vras!"
The words were barely out of Harold's mouth when the murky, complex incantation flowed from Maurise.
A layer of near invisible, sickly grey mist pulsed briefly from the center of Maurise's palm.
Harold did not even have time to flinch. A sudden, bone deep chill shot straight up his spine. His legs gave out instantly, and he collapsed back onto the sofa in a boneless heap.
"Wha," Harold tried to push himself up, only to find that even lifting an arm was now an extraordinary effort.
He stared at Maurise, his face aghast. "What did you do to me?"
"How do you feel?" Maurise asked, observing Harold's condition with clinical detachment. "The spell causes intense fatigue and weakness."
Harold was just beginning to realize he had definitely been hit by magic.
After a terrifying moment of self-assessment, he felt marginally relieved. Maurise was right. It was only severe immediate exhaustion. He felt like he had been awake for three days, had run a marathon, and then been run over by a small, slow moving vehicle.
So this was magic. Effective in a brutally simple way.
"You did not use the wand though," Harold mumbled, exhaling a shuddering breath. "Never mind that, just undo it. I cannot even stand up."
Silence.
"Well, do not just sit there. Reverse it," Harold urged, a truly awful premonition sinking into his gut.
Maurise rubbed the back of his neck, his face adopting a mortified expression for the first time. "About that. I have not actually learned how to undo this particular spell yet."
"You little wretch."
Thirty minutes later, Harold finally felt his strength slowly returning.
"I sincerely apologize," Maurise said, looking genuinely contrite.
"Are you certain this will not leave any lasting damage?" Harold cautiously wiggled his toes and flexed his newly responsive fingers.
"Completely certain."
He was not, but a reassuring lie felt safer than renewed panic.
Relief tempered his outrage, and Harold sighed. "Maurise, can this magic stuff do anything else?"
"Naturally."
"Such as?"
Maurise thought for a moment. "You saw Professor McGonagall's demonstration, did you not? Transforming one object into another, or appearing a hundred miles away, all of that is possible with magic."
A flicker of genuine longing crossed Harold's eyes. He hesitated, then asked, "Can I learn magic?"
"Er, probably not," Maurise stated plainly. "Professor McGonagall mentioned it is generally an innate ability. You are born with it."
The answer left Harold looking deeply disappointed.
"Alright, let us change the subject," he said, waving it off. "Where exactly did you and that terrifying Professor go today?"
"A place called Diagon Alley. It is where all the witches and wizards shop."
"Can I go there?" Harold's voice brimmed with barely concealed curiosity.
Maurise was about to say no, but then a plan formed neatly in his mind. With a wizard, even a beginner like himself, to guide him, Harold could conceivably enter. The man was clearly desperate for a peek into the secret world.
Perfect.
"I can take you for a look," Maurise said, a slow, cunning smile appearing. "But I have one condition."
"And what is that?" Harold asked.
"I need pocket money."
'A shrewd little devil', Harold thought, though a weary smile tugged at his lips. 'There was a sort of brutal honesty in it.'
"Deal," Harold agreed. "We will go tomorrow morning. I will drive."