December 19th arrived with a biting frost and the collective, frantic energy of hundreds of students reaching their breaking point.
Finally, the Christmas holidays were here.
After a breakfast that felt more like a victory feast, the student body swarmed toward Hogsmeade Station. They huddled together against the winter chill, their breath blooming in white clouds as they waited for the scarlet steam of the Hogwarts Express to round the bend. Despite the shivering, the excitement was palpable. Hogwarts was magnificent, yes, but months of confinement in a castle tended to make one pine for the comforts of home.
The break would last until early January, a generous stretch of time that most used to reunite with their families. However, a few familiar faces were staying behind. Harry and Ron were remaining at the castle, joined by the older Weasley twins. The word around the Great Hall was that the senior Weasleys were heading to Romania to visit Charlie, the second eldest brother.
Charlie's job as a dragon tamer was a source of great curiosity for Maurise. He harbored a professional interest in the legendary beasts. Of course, being a Necromancer, Maurise found the idea of a living, breathing dragon a bit cluttered. He was far more interested in what a dragon looked like once it was stripped down to its bare essentials: the skeleton.
He wondered if a Necromantic Circle would even be large enough to reanimate something so massive. Imagine the sheer aesthetic power of a skeletal dragon soaring through the clouds. Maurise shook his head, pushing the thought aside. For now, it was nothing more than a pipe dream. But then again, the future was a long time, and he was a very patient boy.
The train pulled into the station exactly on time.
Upon boarding, Maurise found an empty compartment at the very front. Perhaps because so many students had stayed behind, or perhaps because his reputation preceded him, no one bothered him this time. No boisterous Gryffindors, no prying eyes.
Just blissful, cold silence.
He did not waste the journey. He pulled several heavy volumes from his trunk and settled in. His luggage was remarkably light for a wizard: just a few books, his Skeletal Swallowtail Hound tucked away, and Tin who was currently busy being a loaf of judgment on the velvet seat.
His owl, Cinder, had opted to skip the train ride entirely. The bird had made it clear that flying back on his own was faster and far more dignified than being trapped in a cage. One had to admire the stamina of magical owls; they possessed a stubbornness that rivaled the wizards who owned them.
Between his reading and the occasional bout of meditation, the hours melted away. The train eventually began to groan and slow, finally coming to a smooth halt at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
Steam billowed across the platform as the doors hissed open, and the world became a cacophony of shouting parents and rattling trolleys. Maurise closed his book, tucked it away with care, and stretched his stiff limbs before stepping out into the fray.
The platform was a sea of people, but Maurise did not bother looking for a familiar face there. He knew his ride would not be standing on the magical side of the barrier.
He lugged his trunk through the station, Tin perched regally on top of the luggage, and headed for the main exit of King's Cross. The winter twilight had already settled over London. Streetlamps flickered to life, casting hazy yellow orbs through the damp evening mist.
Maurise paused at the exit, scanning the crowd. It did not take long to lock onto his target: a man whose head reflected the streetlights with a bit too much enthusiasm.
It was Harold Green.
Maurise had written to Harold weeks ago to ask if he could spare the time to pick him up, and the man had agreed with surprising alacrity.
"Harold?" Maurise called out as he approached.
"Ah, Maurise!" Harold turned, a wide grin breaking across his face. He reached out to take the heavy trunk. "Look at you. You look like you've grown an inch or two."
Maurise nodded, offering a polite observation of his own. "And your hair looks much thicker."
The silence that followed was heavy. Harold's smile twitched, his expression settling into something complicated. It was the look of a man who realized he should have stayed in the car.
"Let's just get to the car," Harold muttered.
As they drove through the darkening London streets, Maurise took the opportunity to change out of his robes and into Muggle clothing. Harold was not wrong; he was hitting a growth spurt. His old clothes were uncomfortably tight, and he had had to use a bit of creative Transfiguration back at Hogwarts to resize them.
He knew the rules. Underage magic was strictly forbidden outside of school. The Trace was a pesky thing, a magical tether that alerted the Ministry of Magic the moment a minor flicked a wand in a non-magical area. Of course, in places like Diagon Alley, the Trace was useless because the Ministry could not distinguish between a child's spell and the background noise of hundreds of adult wizards. But here, in the heart of London, he was effectively grounded.
Harold handled the car with practiced ease, glancing at Maurise in the rearview mirror. "So, how is it? Life at Hogwarts?"
"It's fine," Maurise replied. "Magic is efficient."
He could see the spark of curiosity in Harold's eyes. The man was fascinated by the world he could not enter. "What can you actually do? Give me the highlights."
"Almost anything, really," Maurise said, watching the city lights blur past the window. "I can turn water into ink, make objects vanish, or repair broken glass with a word. It's a shame the regulations are so strict. I'm not allowed to show you anything in the normal world."
Harold's face fell, his disappointment visible even in the dim light of the dashboard. He spent the rest of the trip peppering Maurise with questions about the castle, the ghosts, and the food.
Maurise answered honestly. He had checked with Professor McGonagall beforehand; while the Statute of Secrecy was absolute, legal guardians were allowed to know the truth. Of course, Harold was also bound by those same secrecy laws. If he started blabbing to the neighbors about magic, he would likely receive a very unpleasant visit from a Ministry Obliviator.
The car eventually slowed to a crawl, stopping in front of the familiar, soot-stained silhouette of the orphanage.
Maurise stepped out of the car and was immediately hit by a familiar scent: the faint, lingering aroma of damp concrete and fermented trash from the nearby bins.
Home sweet home.
The smell was exactly as he remembered it. In a strange way, it provided more closure than the train ride did. It was the scent of reality, reminding him that the Muggle world had not changed just because he had.
"I'll be off then," Harold said, helping Maurise set his trunk on the pavement. He paused, his hand on the car door. "Actually, Maurise… would you like to come over to my place for Christmas dinner?"
"I'd like that," Maurise said without hesitation.
He had no other plans, and a free meal was a free meal. Besides, Harold's company was tolerable compared to the alternative of sitting alone in a drafty dormitory.
Harold beamed. "I'll come by and pick you up then. See you soon."
"See you, Harold."
Inside, the atmosphere was as grey as ever. During dinner, one of the staff members informed Maurise that his old roommate, Scott, had been moved to a facility in a neighboring city.
Maurise felt a twinge of genuine regret. He and Scott had shared that cramped space for years. In this world, once a connection was severed, it was usually permanent. They were unlikely to ever cross paths again.
After finishing a mediocre meal, Maurise returned to his old room.
The silence was echoing. Scott's bed was stripped bare, and a thin layer of dust had settled over Maurise's own sheets. In that moment, he missed magic more than ever. A simple Scourgify would have solved everything in a second, but instead, he had to find a rag and do it the manual way.
Once the room was somewhat habitable, Maurise sat at his desk. He needed to prepare. Even a Necromancer had social obligations, and Christmas was the season of giving, or at the very least, the season of making sure people did not forget you existed.
He went through his mental list. The Weasley twins were a priority. They appreciated the finer things in life, specifically things that caused chaos. For them, he prepared a few vials of custom-made eye drops. He called it "The Glaring Green Special." One drop, and the user's eyes would glow with an intense, haunting green light for an hour. It was perfect for their brand of mischief.
For his other acquaintances, he decided a trip to Diagon Alley was in order. He would pick up some wizarding cards and a mountain of sweets. When in doubt, sugar was the universal language of friendship.
Then, there was Professor Snape.
The man had been surprisingly helpful, in his own terrifying, brooding way. He deserved something for his troubles. Maurise leaned back, tapping his chin as he brainstormed. A flash of inspiration struck him.
Yes. Shampoo.
Given the state of the Professor's hair, it was probably the most thoughtful and dangerous gift he could possibly give.