After a quick cleanup of the clearing, Maurise commanded the skeletal hound into a state of deathly stillness before hauling it into his satchel.
While he suspected a mobile pile of bones might not be the strangest thing seen in the Wizarding World, he knew better than to invite unnecessary scrutiny. Discretion was the better part of valor, especially when one's pets lacked skin.
Just as he turned to leave, a sudden, inexplicable gust of hot air swept through the clearing. It brought a brief, searing warmth that felt entirely out of place in the biting chill of a British December.
Then, with the silent grace of a flickering shadow, a tall, thin figure manifested from the air. He stood a few paces away, watching Maurise with eyes that twinkled even in the gloom.
Maurise froze. He knew that silhouette anywhere.
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, stood before him. He was draped in deep blue robes embroidered with silver stars, and several small, persistent flames were still dancing along his shoulders.
"Professor!" Maurise blurted out, his instincts overriding his caution. "Your clothes! You're on fire!"
Dumbledore blinked, looking slightly taken by surprise. It seemed he hadn't expected his first greeting to be a safety warning. He walked toward Maurise with a serene smile.
"Ah, how very kind of you to notice, Mr. Black. But you needn't worry," the Headmaster said, his voice like aged velvet. "The fire of a phoenix is quite selective. It wouldn't dream of singeing its chauffeur."
With a casual flick of his fingers, Dumbledore brushed his shoulder. The flames vanished instantly. He leaned down slightly, gesturing to the pristine fabric. "See? Good as new. Perhaps even a bit more well-pressed."
Phoenix fire, Maurise thought. He'd heard the rumors about the Headmaster's bird and its ability to transport people in a flash of heat, but seeing the residual embers was another matter entirely.
However, the wonder of magical travel was quickly replaced by a cold knot of anxiety. What was Dumbledore doing here? Had the necromantic energy from the skeletal hound's evolution triggered some sort of alarm?
Maurise didn't consider his magic "evil," per se, but he wasn't naive. Necromancy dealt with shadows, death, and the skeletal remains of the departed. It wasn't exactly the kind of hobby the "Leader of the Light" would encourage over tea and lemon drops.
Dumbledore straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the clearing. His eyes lingered for a moment on a nearby tree trunk, which was currently sporting several jagged holes from stray bone fragments.
"Would you mind telling me what you were up to, Mr. Black?" Dumbledore asked. The question was phrased gently, yet it carried the weight of a mountain.
"A magical experiment, sir," Maurise replied, choosing the path of technical honesty. "I found a reference in a book and wanted to see if the theory held up. The results were... educational."
"I see." Dumbledore hummed, though he didn't move to investigate further. "Relax, dear boy. I have very little interest in unearthing the private secrets of my students. While the magical flare you produced was admittedly a bit loud for this time of night, you haven't caused any lasting damage or hexed any classmates. No rules have been broken. Yet."
He paused, a playful glint in his eye. "Though I must advise against blindly following every ritual you find in a dusty tome. An old man's advice, if you'll forgive the lecturing."
Maurise felt a massive weight lift from his chest. Dumbledore hadn't seen the hound. He likely thought Maurise was just another over-ambitious first-year practicing extracurricular charms in the dark.
And why wouldn't he? To the rest of the world, Maurise was just an eleven-year-old boy. The idea of a first-year practicing high-level necromancy was, frankly, absurd.
"I understand, Professor. I'll be more careful," Maurise promised.
He glanced at the sky. The horizon had surrendered to a deep, bruised purple, and the Forbidden Forest was beginning to emit its nightly chorus of unsettling howls.
"It's getting late," Maurise said, giving a polite nod. "May I return to the castle?"
"Of course," Dumbledore replied.
Before heading off, Maurise performed a habitual pocket-check. His heart sank. The small, yellowed photograph he'd been carrying in his inner pocket was gone. It must have been swept away by the magical backlash during the ritual.
He scanned the ground. The dirt was dark and uneven, making a small scrap of paper nearly impossible to spot. Luckily, he'd been practicing his utility charms.
"Something wrong?" Dumbledore asked, his tone still light.
"Just dropped something, sir. No matter." Maurise drew his wand and gave it a sharp, confident flick. "Accio photo!"
A second later, a square of parchment shot out from a cluster of thickets behind the Headmaster. It zipped through the air with far more velocity than Maurise had intended.
Smack!
The photo didn't fly into Maurise's hand. Instead, it plastered itself squarely across Albus Dumbledore's face, perfectly covering his spectacles.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Maurise winced. "I am so sorry, Professor! My Summoning Charm is still a work in progress. It tends to be... over-enthusiastic."
"Quite," Dumbledore muffled from behind the paper. He reached up and peeled the photo away with a sigh. "The Summoning Charm is fifth-year material, Mr. Black. Aiming for the face is usually a specialized technique reserved for duels."
Dumbledore started to hand the photo back, but his hand froze mid-air.
The Headmaster's expression transformed instantly. The whimsical, grandfatherly mask shattered, replaced by a haunting, heavy solemnity. He stared at the image as if it were a ghost that had finally caught up to him.
The air in the clearing suddenly felt much colder, and it had nothing to do with the December wind.
"Professor?" Maurise asked tentatively.
Dumbledore seemed to snap back to reality. He blinked, his eyes retreating from whatever memory they had been lost in. He forced a small, tired smile back onto his face.
"A fascinating artifact, Mr. Black," he said, his voice now strangely thin. "May I ask where you came by this?"
Maurise hesitated. He wasn't about to explain the inter-dimensional Gap World he frequented. "I found it, sir. It was tucked inside a second-hand book I bought in Diagon Alley. I thought it might be someone famous. Do you recognize him?"
"I do," Dumbledore said softly.
"Who is he?"
Dumbledore looked at Maurise, his gaze searching. "A long time ago, people called him the Dark Lord."
Maurise's face scrunched up in immediate, visible confusion. He knew the history. He knew who the Dark Lord was supposed to be.
"That's Voldemort?" Maurise blurted out, his voice full of disbelief. "Seriously? What happened? Did he lose the nose in a tragic accident later on?"
Maurise's memory of the Dark Lord involved a snake-faced, pale monstrosity. The man in the photo was strikingly handsome, golden-haired, and possessed an undeniable, rebellious charisma.
Dumbledore actually chuckled, a genuine sound that broke the tension. "No, not him. This is the other one."
He handed the photo back to Maurise. His fingers brushed the edge of the paper with a lingering, almost painful tenderness.
"Gellert Grindelwald."