It was mid-August.
A fortnight had passed since the rather spectacular, if morbid, birth of Cinder, the undead owl.
On a morning blessed with mild, forgiving sunlight, Maurice sat cross-legged on his bed. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light streaming through the window, illuminating his steady breathing. He sat with a peculiar stillness, radiating an unnatural tranquility that seemed almost out of place in the cramped dormitory.
"Oi, Maurice," Scott's voice drifted up from the bunk below, laced with genuine confusion. "You've been stuck in that position for thirty minutes. Have you finally snapped? What are you doing?"
Maurice slowly opened his eyes. His irises, a striking silver-grey, looked exceptionally clear.
"I told you, Scott. I am meditating."
"But you're just sitting there. Like a statue. Don't your legs fall off?" Scott clearly couldn't grasp the appeal.
To be honest, they did feel as though they were about to fall off.
Maurice could feel a distinct cramp seizing his thigh muscle. Perhaps, he noted internally, he should adjust his posture for the next session.
Deciding he had reached his limit, he rolled off the bed. The moment his feet touched the floorboards, his knees buckled, and he nearly face-planted into the desk.
"So," Scott asked, watching Maurice wobble, "what is the actual point of that?"
Maurice grimaced, gently massaging his legs as the pins and needles announced the return of blood flow with a vengeance.
"It helps you focus," he explained, wincing. "It is actually quite useful. You should try it. It is simple, really. First, you empty your mind of all thoughts, and then..."
"Yeah, no thanks," Scott interrupted, pulling a face. "Sounds boring."
Expecting a hyperactive child to sit still for thirty minutes was, admittedly, a fool's errand. Maurice shrugged.
In reality, what he called "meditation" was not merely a relaxation technique; it was one of the foundational practices recorded in the Grimoire of the Magi.
Regular meditation significantly sharpened his mental focus, directly impacting the precision and success rate of his spellcasting. Currently, Maurice's success rate with the Curse of Frailty hovered near fifty percent.
For a novice, this was a massive confidence booster.
He finally possessed a degree of combat capability. At the very least, if he encountered a mugger on the streets of London, he wouldn't be completely defenseless. Judging by how effectively the curse had incapacitated Harold previously, the spell was potent enough to render a grown man completely immobile.
"Right, I'm off," Scott announced. He fished a small pocket knife out from under his pillow and, with terrifying casualness, tucked it into his waistband.
Maurice watched this with mild concern.
"You know, you're going to perform a very unpleasant surgery on yourself if you keep carrying it like that."
"I'll be fine," Scott dismissed the warning. "You coming?"
Maurice shook his head. He reached into his pocket and fished out two fifty-pence pieces, flicking them through the air.
"Bring me back two chocolate bars. You keep the change."
Scott's eyes lit up as he snatched the coins from the air with surprising agility.
"You are a prince among men, Maurice. Truly generous."
"Just remember to go to the shop on the next street over. I prefer their stock."
Scott flashed a thumbs-up and bounded out the door, vibrating with energy.
'Kids', Maurice thought. 'Endless batteries.'
Walking to the next street took nearly an hour on foot. That should buy Maurice plenty of peace and quiet.
With the dormitory finally silent, Maurice dragged his trunk out from under the bed and retrieved his wand.
Over the past few days, he had been experimenting with the spells listed in the Hogwarts textbooks.
"Lumos," Maurice murmured.
He gave the wand a sharp, practiced flick. A ball of soft, white light bloomed instantly at the tip of the wood.
Success.
Maurice stroked his chin thoughtfully.
While he had successfully cast the spell, something felt... off. Not wrong, exactly, but fundamentally different from what he was used to.
Why was this magic so distinct from the arts he studied in the Grimoire of Magi?
To cast this Lighting Charm, he only needed to perform the precise wand movement, focus his intent, and articulate the incantation clearly. While there were nuances, posture, diction, mental image, the most shocking realization was that he did not need to construct a Spell Model.
According to the Grimoire of Magi, constructing a geometric mental model was the absolute core of spellcasting. It was architectural; you built the spell in your mind, and mana filled the structure.
Here, however, the wand seemed to bypass that entire process.
'Perhaps the two magical systems operate on completely different laws?' Maurice guessed.
It wasn't a bad thing. Being able to utilize magic with less mental arithmetic was certainly welcome. If every simple charm required complex mental geometry, life at Hogwarts would be a permanent headache.
Maurice opened his copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1, which he had purchased in Diagon Alley.
The pages were filled with elementary charms: Wingardium Leviosa for levitation, Alohomora for unlocking doors.
What caught his attention was that the incantations were linguistically traceable. They appeared to be bastardized Latin or Greek.
This was another sharp contrast. The spells in the Grimoire of Magi used a language that belonged to no human civilization Maurice knew of. That language carried an inherent, vibrating power, as if the syllables themselves were the source code of the magic.
He flipped through the pages with interest, noting the diagrams showing check-mark flicks and swish-and-flick motions.
"Convenient," he muttered.
These were tools, pre-packaged for ease of use. He would likely master them quickly.
As he was preparing to test the Levitation Charm, a shadow flickered at the window. Tin, his undead cat, had returned.
"Where have you been, you little delinquent?"
Maurice opened the window and scooped the cat inside. He hadn't seen the creature in days.
"Meow," Tin trilled, rubbing its cold head against Maurice's palm before burrowing into his arms, purring with the rattling sound of a broken engine.
"Sounds like you had fun." Maurice scratched the cat behind the ears, causing it to squint in undead ecstasy.
However, while Tin was happy, another party was displeased.
The shadow beneath Maurice's feet rippled. Cinder, the undead owl, surged out of the darkness and landed lightly on the desk.
"Hoo-aww!"
It let out a strange, gargling screech, spreading its bony wings in a display of intimidation directed squarely at the cat.
Startled, Tin popped its head up, narrowed its eyes, and hissed back, refusing to back down.
Two undead creatures, staring each other down in a jealousy-fueled standoff. It was ridiculous.
"Alright, that is enough. Go play somewhere else," Maurice sighed, suppressing a laugh.
To appease the jealous owl, he set Tin down on the floor. The two little monsters immediately hopped onto Scott's bed and began wrestling.
Well, Maurice thought, looks like Scott is going to need to wash his sheets again. He offered a silent, insincere apology to his roommate.
He stood up to close the window but froze.
Outside, perched on the sill, was a pair of large, round, amber eyes staring directly at him.
It was a living owl. A stranger.
The owl tilted its head, gave a soft hoot, and dropped a letter into Maurice's hand before taking flight.
"This is..."
He looked at the sender's name on the envelope: Ezra Frick.
Maurice tore it open immediately.
Dear Valued Customer,
Regarding your inquiry: The item you described is part of a private collection and is strictly not for sale.
However, should you possess an interest in other curiosities, I have enclosed a catalog of available wares for your perusal.
All merchandise is of guaranteed quality. If you wish to make a purchase, please attach the payment to the return post. The owl will handle the delivery.
Yours,
Ezra Frick
Maurice scanned the letter, a frown tugging at his lips.
Disappointing. It seemed that acquiring that specific skeleton he had eyed in the shop was impossible for the time being.