Seeing the blank, utterly puzzled look on Maurise's face, Draco's expression flickered between a momentary lapse of confusion and a mounting, crimson-faced fury.
To Draco's mind, there were only two possibilities. Either this Ravenclaw was putting on a masterful act of innocence, or he genuinely did not care enough about their confrontation at the Quidditch stands to even remember it. Both options were equally insulting.
"You made a fool of me, Ravenclaw," Draco said, his voice dropping to a low, icy hiss. "As a Slytherin, I find your previous lack of decorum unacceptable."
Maurise gave a casual shrug, looking entirely unbothered. "Then I suppose your definition of 'unacceptable' is as fragile as your ego."
"You don't get to talk down to me, you filthy little Mudblood!"
Draco snapped his head to the side, tossing a sharp look at the two hulking shadows behind him. "Crabbe, Goyle. Deal with him."
At this moment, Draco was practically radiating confidence. He had watched Maurise wander off into this deserted corner of the grounds, a mistake that seemed like a gift from the heavens. It was the perfect opportunity.
So what if the boy was decent at a few Summoning Charms? This was three against one. It was not a duel. It was a physical certainty. Between the numbers and the sheer mass of his bodyguards, there was no room for surprises.
In his mind, Draco had already choreographed the next few minutes. Crabbe and Goyle would pin Maurise's arms behind his back, leaving him helpless, while Draco would take his time delivering a very personal lecture on the importance of social hierarchy. He would not do anything truly permanent, of course. Not to a first-year.
And if the boy went crying to a professor? Without witnesses or any lasting marks, it would be his word against the word of a Malfoy. He wanted Maurise to understand a fundamental truth of Hogwarts. There were some people you simply did not provoke.
As Crabbe and Goyle began to crack their knuckles, lumbering forward like a pair of mountain trolls in school robes, Maurise let out a soft, weary sigh.
Is this it? he wondered. My first real experience with schoolyard bullying, and it is in a castle full of magic?
The sensation was odd. It was a strange mix of novelty and genuine disgust. Maurise tilted his head slightly, assessing the situation. If he were a typical eleven-year-old, the sight of two large boys closing in would be terrifying. First-years generally lacked the repertoire for actual combat magic.
But Maurise was anything but typical.
If he truly wished it, he could have sprouted bone marrow spikes from the earth and turned the trio into human pincushions in the blink of an eye. Naturally, he dismissed the thought immediately. He had no desire to spend the rest of his natural life in Azkaban.
'I wonder if the wizarding world has a juvenile justice system', he mused.
While Maurise was lost in thought, Crabbe and Goyle had closed the distance to a mere two paces. Crabbe's meaty hand was already reaching out to grab his collar.
Maurise snapped back to the present. He looked directly at Crabbe and spoke with urgent clarity. "I feel I should warn you, gentlemen. You have both stepped in Doxy droppings. It is all over your trousers."
Crabbe froze. "Huh?"
Goyle's eyes went wide. "What!"
Both boys instinctively stopped and craned their necks downward, frantically inspecting their clean, grey trousers. They looked for several seconds before the realization hit them. Wait. Where would Doxies even come from in the middle of the grounds?
In that brief moment of distraction, Maurise had already backed away several steps.
"He's lying, you idiots! Don't let him get away!" Draco bellowed from the rear, his face turning an impressive shade of violet. His help was, quite frankly, an embarrassment to the Slytherin name.
Snarling with wounded pride, Crabbe and Goyle lunged forward again.
However, Maurise did not run. Instead, he pointed a calm finger toward the sky. "Look up. I have got a surprise for you."
Despite having just been tricked, the duo's reflexes were apparently wired for gullibility. They looked up.
This time, Maurise was not lying.
Hovering in the air above them were several jagged, pale-white spikes made of dense bone. They were as thick as a man's leg and gleamed with a cold, sickly light under the afternoon sun.
"What's that?" Crabbe asked, his voice a dull drone of confusion.
The answer came swiftly. The spikes dropped.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The heavy impact shook the ground, sending clumps of dirt and grass flying. The bone pillars slammed into the earth in a perfect circle, boxing the two boys in.
But Maurise was not finished. Before they could even scream, a massive, flat slab of bone materialized in the air like the lid of a prehistoric coffin. It fell with a resounding clang, sealing the top of the pillars with seamless precision.
In the span of a heartbeat, a makeshift cage of ivory-white bone had been constructed. Crabbe and Goyle stood inside, paralyzed by shock, their screams dying in their throats as they stared at the grisly bars.
Maurise nodded, satisfied. It was a bit of a waste of the Bone Summoning's actual power, but for psychological warfare, it was incredibly effective.
He turned his gaze toward Draco. The blond boy looked as though he had been turned to stone by a Basilisk.
Draco was reeling. This was not a prank. This was not a hex. This was not anything he had seen in a textbook or heard his father complain about.
"You," Draco stammered, finally finding his voice. "What did you do? Let them out this instant!"
"It is just a little something to help them cool off," Maurise said cheerfully. "They seemed a bit overstimulated. Oh, and you too, Mr. Malfoy. You look like you need a deep breath."
With a flick of his fingers, a second, smaller cage dropped from the sky, neatly encasing Draco before he could even draw his wand.
Maurise turned on his heel and began to walk away, his pace leisurely. Tin, and Cinder trailed after him. The cat paused, looking back at Draco with a look of pure, feline disdain.
Meow. (Useless bipeds.)
Even a cat could tell that Draco was currently vibrating with terror.
"Wait!" Draco yelled, his voice cracking. "You can't leave! Undo this! I'll tell the professors! I'll tell everyone!"
Maurise stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. He offered a helpful, polite smile. "You could always try a Blasting Curse. Oh, wait. Do they teach that to first-years? I can never remember."
Ignoring the muffled curses echoing behind him, Maurise made his way back toward the castle.
It was a minor warning. The Bone Cage was temporary. The magic would dissipate in a few minutes, leaving the trio perfectly unharmed. More importantly, it would leave no physical evidence. It was his word against theirs, and who would believe that a first-year Ravenclaw could summon ancient skeletal structures out of thin air?
'Oh, I almost forgot', he realized. He had tucked a parting gift inside the cages. A high-grade Dungbomb, courtesy of the Weasley twins. By now, the fuse would have run out.
The image of Draco trapped in a small, enclosed space with that particular smell brought a genuine smile to Maurise's face.
As he walked toward the Ravenclaw Tower, his mind drifted back to the word Draco had used. Mudblood. He had done his research. It was not just a mean name. It was a slur rooted in centuries of prejudice and blood-purism. It was the kind of word used by people who had nothing of their own to be proud of, so they clung to the purity of their ancestors.
It was pathetic, really.
Maurise was halfway down a corridor when a hand reached out from a doorway and landed firmly on his shoulder.
He turned his head to find a familiar face. It was Robert Hilliard, the Ravenclaw Prefect.