Lunch had barely settled before the transaction was finalized. Maurise handed the boxed Acromantula over to the Weasley twins, and in return, he received a large, crinkling box of Ton-Tongue Toffees.
As far as Maurise was concerned, this was a splendid deal.
He possessed a genuine curiosity about the magical confectionery the twins were concocting. Besides, the flavor was surprisingly palatable.
As for the Acromantula? He couldn't care less. Even if Fred and George accidentally poked it to death with a stick, it was of no consequence. If he needed another, he would simply take a leisure stroll into the Forbidden Forest when his schedule allowed. Judging by how easily he had scooped this one up from the roadside, the forest was likely infested with the wretched things.
Regarding the Headmaster's opening feast warning about the Forbidden Forest being "forbidden" implies... well, Maurise hadn't really taken it to heart.
As long as one doesn't get caught, one remains a law-abiding student. That was his philosophy.
The afternoon schedule called for Herbology.
The class was conducted by Professor Pomona Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff House. She was a dumpy little witch with flyaway hair that looked as though it had never seen a comb, and her robes were perpetually dusted with earth. Despite her disheveled appearance, she exuded a warm, maternal affinity that put students at ease.
The first lesson was an introduction to a magical plant known as Dittany.
The objective was straightforward. The students were to learn how to apply Dittany to treat minor wounds. Naturally, this was meant to be a simulation; Professor Sprout had no intention of actually harming her students for the sake of education.
Using Dittany was simple enough. One merely had to crush the leaves and apply the essence directly over the affected area.
Maurise, however, preferred practical data over theoretical simulation. While Sprout's back was turned, he discreetly took a thorny vine and dragged it across his own forearm. With a grimace of scientific curiosity, he applied the crushed Dittany to the bleeding scratch.
The results were impressive. Within minutes, the cut knit itself together, leaving fresh, unblemished skin behind. It was as if the injury had never existed.
The immediate efficacy was far superior to any muggle pharmaceutical he had ever encountered. It occurred to him that keeping a stock of Dittany was not just a good idea, but a necessity. Given the volatile nature of magical practice, self-inflicted injuries were practically a rite of passage.
After dinner, Maurise returned directly to his dormitory.
He popped open the box from the Weasley twins, unwrapped a Ton-Tongue Toffee, and tossed it into his mouth.
As his tongue began to swell with that peculiar, strangely addictive bloating sensation, he stretched his arms and leaned back.
"Quite the extraordinary day," he muttered, his speech slightly slurred by his expanding tongue.
Thinking back, it was absurd. It was merely his first week at Hogwarts, and he had already been ambushed by a Centaur. Perhaps the Wizarding World was far more perilous than the fairy tales suggested.
If that was the case, improving his personal capability was paramount. Specifically, he needed to prioritize spells that ensured survival and facilitated a quick exit.
"Grimoire," he thought.
With a mental command, the spectral image of the book materialized within his mind's eye. He was ready to tackle a new spell.
Umbral Walk.
As the name suggested, this was a piece of magic designed to conceal the user within shadows.
However, the complexity of this spell dwarfed the two curses he had previously mastered. Constructing the spell model was a headache. If learning the previous curses was like writing a paragraph, the Umbral Walk was akin to painting a Renaissance masterpiece.
They were fundamentally different disciplines, and the latter was infinitely more intricate.
"Let's give it a go," Maurise decided.
He waved his wand, extinguishing every candle and lamp in the room. The darker the environment, the higher the probability of a successful cast.
Thirty minutes later.
After a dozen failures that resulted in nothing but him standing awkwardly in the dark, Maurise finally managed to stabilize the spell model in his mind.
Interestingly, the grimoire included a footnote at the very end of the spell description: Verbal incantation is highly discouraged for this spell.
The logic was painfully obvious.
If a spell designed for stealth required you to shout a command before it worked, its utility was compromised from the start. "I am hiding!" is generally not something one wants to announce to an enemy. In a crisis, silence was survival.
Of course, Maurise was still in the toddler phase of learning. He needed the training wheels. Just as one must crawl before they can walk, one must shout before they can whisper.
It was worth noting that he had already mastered the Weakening Curse and the Wailing Curse non-verbally, though their potency was significantly reduced without the vocal component.
"Shath... Môr... Keth!"
As the incantation left his lips, Maurise felt a bizarre force wrap around him. It began to squeeze.
He knew immediately that the spell had worked.
The pressure intensified rapidly. It pushed and compressed from every angle. Suddenly, his vision plunged into absolute blackness. It felt as though he had been forcibly stuffed into an incredibly small, rigid trunk. Cold, hard sensations pressed against him from all sides.
He had successfully entered the Shadow Realm.
To an outside observer, it would have looked as though a sheet of black fabric had been thrown over him, twisting and distorting the space before vanishing entirely.
"So, this is the fabled Shadow Walk?" Maurise thought, thoroughly unimpressed.
Entering the shadows sounded like a high-tier, sleek assassin ability. In practice? It was torture.
Imagine being vacuum-sealed into a suitcase roughly the size of your own body. That was the sensation. It was a far cry from the "one with the darkness, moving like smoke" fantasy he had entertained.
He attempted to move. It was like wading through drying concrete. Every inch of movement required him to fight against the crushing resistance of the shadow dimension.
About one hundred and fifty seconds later.
Gasp.
Maurise exhaled sharply as he cancelled the spell.
He reappeared in the room, having traveled only from his bed to the door. His forehead was slick with a layer of cold sweat.
"Walking in shadows," he panted. "What a miserable experience."
He couldn't fathom why his owl, Cinder, seemed to find disappearing into the shadows so relaxing. Perhaps birds just had different standards for comfort.
Practice concluded, Maurise lay back on his bed and picked up a book he had brought along in his trunk.
Tonight's reading material was a history text titled One Hundred Most Influential Wizards in History. Having grown up mostly around Muggle culture, Maurise felt it necessary to bridge the gap in his general knowledge of the wizarding society.
Albus Dumbledore.
He spotted the familiar name in the table of contents.
"Well, that's the boss," Maurise mused, flipping to the corresponding page.
The entry was exhaustive.
"The Greatest Wizard of the Age," "Order of Merlin, First Class," "Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards." The titles went on and on.
The text chronicled his early academic brilliance and culminated in his legendary defeat of the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald in 1945. Beside the text was a moving photograph of a younger Dumbledore, auburn hair and beard flowing, gazing out with a gentle, piercing look.
The book was essentially a love letter to the Headmaster. Every paragraph dripped with reverence, practically canonizing him as a living saint without a single flaw.
'A great man, certainly', Maurise thought.
However, despite having no prior bias, the description felt... excessive. It was too polished. Too perfect. It aroused a subtle sense of unease in his gut.
Nobody is perfect. That was a universal truth. When a history book tries this hard to convince you someone is flawless, it usually means they are hiding the cracks.
Knock, knock.
Just as his skepticism was taking root, a sharp rapping sound came from the dormitory door.