After Dumbledore provided the name of the man in the photograph, he became a vault of silence. To every follow-up question Maurise lobbed his way, the Headmaster simply offered a serene, infuriatingly vague smile.
"Alas, the passage of time is a heavy mist," Dumbledore murmured. "I'm afraid the details have quite escaped me."
Maurise knew a brush-off when he heard one. It was the classic adult maneuver: treating a child's curiosity like a flickering candle that would eventually blow itself out if ignored long enough. However, Maurise wasn't one for pointless pestering. He had a name, and in the world of information, a name was a key.
Gellert Grindelwald.
The name felt familiar, like a half-remembered itch at the back of his brain. He recalled a tattered volume he'd picked up titled 'A Century of Magical Greatness: One Hundred Famous Witches and Wizards'. He was fairly certain there was a passage about Grindelwald tucked away in the chapter dedicated to Albus Dumbledore himself.
Fortunately, that book wasn't lost to time. It was currently shoved under his bed in the dormitory, narrowly escaping a fate in the rubbish bin during his last bout of cleaning.
Back in the dorm, Maurise dropped to his knees and fished out the dusty, dog-eared paperback. He remembered buying it in a bargain bin at a second-hand shop in Diagon Alley for a measly three Sickles. Even for a used book, it was suspiciously cheap, likely because the previous owner had used it as a coaster.
He flipped through the yellowed pages until he found the right entry. The mention of Grindelwald was brief, squeezed into the margins of Dumbledore's legendary career.
"In 1945, Albus Dumbledore triumphed over the Dark Wizard Gellert Grindelwald in a duel of legendary proportions. This victory marked the zenith of Dumbledore's career and served as the turning point that liberated Europe from Grindelwald's reign of terror. Following his defeat, Grindelwald was incarcerated in the fortress of Nurmengard, where he remains to this day."
Maurise stared at the text. So, Grindelwald was an old rival, a fallen Dark Lord, and most importantly, still breathing. He was locked away in a place called Nurmengard.
If logic held its course, Maurise realized he needed to speak with this man. Anyone capable of leaving a lingering trace in the Interstitial World, that strange, gray space Maurise frequented, clearly understood its mechanics far better than a first-year student. Why reinvent the wheel when you can interview the man who built the carriage?
Perhaps Nurmengard allows visitors? Maurise wondered briefly.
Then, reality set in. A high-security wizarding prison housing a world-class war criminal probably didn't have a "Visiting Hours" sign or a gift shop. He didn't even know what country Nurmengard was in.
He stretched his limbs, the joints in his back popping. This wasn't a project for a Tuesday afternoon. For now, he was a student, and his most pressing "dark" art was passing his upcoming exams and hoarding knowledge.
"Meow!"
"Hoot-hoot!"
Clack-clack-clack.
The commotion in the corner of the room broke his focus. His pets had returned. Tin and Cinder were currently engaged in a high-stakes game of "Annoy the Undead" with the Skeletal Hound.
Tin was perched precariously on the hound's bare ribcage, using the bleached bones as a stepping stone. Cinder was hovering nearby, making tactical swoops to peck at the flickering blue soul-fire dancing within the hound's empty eye sockets.
The Skeletal Hound, now a Rank 2 undead creature capable of terrifying a grown man, simply lay there. It looked like a very patient, very dead rug. It seemed the hierarchy of the room was firmly established: the living were the bosses, and the resurrected were the furniture.
Maurise watched them, wondering what strange forms Tin and Cinder would take once he gathered enough energy for their own advancement rituals.
The following Tuesday, the Great Hall was buzzing with a restless energy. With the Christmas holidays looming, the students were more interested in talking about home than perfecting their Transfiguration.
Maurise sat at the table, methodically working his way through a baked potato slathered in butter. He had been venturing into the Interstitial World lately to harvest energy crystals, but the yield was frustratingly low. He needed more, and more importantly, he needed supplies.
His stash of Draught of Living Death, essential for his necromantic experiments, was bone dry.
Earlier that morning, Professor McGonagall had asked if he intended to stay at the castle for the holidays. He had declined. He needed to get to Diagon Alley to see if he could turn his meager savings into something useful.
He had managed to scrape together about twelve Galleons, a mix of his remaining "orphan fund" from the school and bits of change he'd saved by buying second-hand supplies. To most eleven-year-olds, twelve Galleons was a small fortune. To a boy trying to fund high-level magical research, it was pocket change. It was, frankly, pathetic.
Maurise turned his gaze toward the Gryffindor table, specifically toward two red-headed troublemakers. He slid over to the Weasley twins.
"How does one acquire a large sum of Gold Galleons in a short amount of time?" Maurise asked, cutting straight to the point.
Fred Weasley blinked, a piece of kidney pie halfway to his mouth. "Maurise? What brings you to the experts of enterprise?"
"I figured you two were as chronically short of funds as I am," Maurise said with brutal honesty. "That usually breeds creativity."
He'd heard the Slytherins whispering about the "poor Weasleys" often enough. He didn't see "poor" as an insult; to Maurise, it was just a technical status, like being "hungry" or "tired." He also knew the twins were always tinkering with expensive-looking gadgets, which meant they had a secret revenue stream.
The twins shared a look, their usual mischievous grins softening into something like pity.
"Is the situation that dire, mate?" George asked, his voice uncharacteristically serious.
"I suppose so," Maurise nodded calmly. "Being an orphan doesn't exactly come with a trust fund."
The bluntness of the statement caught them off guard. Most kids would be embarrassed, but Maurise spoke about his lack of parents as if he were discussing the weather.
"How much do you have on you now?" George whispered, leaning in. "And how much do you actually need?"
Maurise sighed. "I have about twelve Galleons, plus some scattered Sickles and Knuts."
Fred and George stared at him, then at each other.
"Twelve Galleons?" Fred echoed, his eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline. "Maurise, most first-years don't see twelve Galleons in a whole term. That's a decent pile!"
"I need to buy specific potion ingredients in Diagon Alley," Maurise explained, ignoring their shock. "The quality I require... it will likely cost upwards of a hundred Galleons."
Fred nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. "A hundred? Blimey, Maurise! We can't help you with that!"
"Our 'business' involves selling Ton-Tongue Toffees and smuggling treats from Hogsmeade," George added, waving a hand. "If we had a hundred Galleons, we'd be retired by now. Or at least, we'd have a much better brewing kit."
"I see," Maurise said, his shoulders dropping slightly.
He had considered brewing potions to sell, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Who would buy a "Strength Solution" or a "Cure for Boils" from an eleven-year-old? Especially one who didn't even have the capital to buy the cauldrons to start a production line.
Poverty, he decided, was the most difficult curse to break.