Early the next morning, Maurise pulled on his wizarding robes and hoisted a suspiciously heavy backpack over his shoulders. Stepping out of the orphanage, he prepared for his journey to Diagon Alley. He had briefly considered asking Harold for another lift, but a man can only test someone's neighborly patience so many times before it wears thin.
Instead, he opted for a more "traditional" mode of transport: the Knight Bus.
A Ravenclaw upperclassman had once given him a crash course on how to summon it, along with a very stern warning. "Unless you're facing certain death or a very long walk, don't do it," she had said, her face pale at the memory. "And for the love of Merlin, don't eat anything for three hours before boarding."
Maurise, being a sensible boy, had followed her advice to the letter.
He adjusted the straps of his bag, found a relatively clear patch of pavement, and thrust his wand hand into the air. He felt a bit like a Muggle hailing a taxi, only much more conspicuous. After about thirty seconds of holding the pose, just as his arm began to ache and he considered switching hands, it happened.
BANG!
A violently purple, triple-decker bus materialized out of thin air. It came to a screeching halt with a magnificent, physics-defying drift that sent a gust of wind howling through Maurise's hair.
The doors hissed open. A young man in a wrinkled purple uniform, looking like he hadn't slept since the mid-seventies and wasn't quite sure what year it was, leaned out.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I'll be your conductor for this morning. Hop on then, young sir."
Maurise nodded with a composure he didn't entirely feel and stepped inside.
The interior was devoid of anything resembling a normal seat. Instead, brass-framed beds were scattered about. An elderly wizard in the back row was currently snoring loud enough to rival a dragon's growl.
"Where to?" Stan asked, looking far too energetic for someone working the graveyard shift of reality.
Maurise claimed a bed near the front and gripped the brass rail like his life depended on it. "The Leaky Cauldron, please."
"Eleven Sickles!" Stan chirped, extending a hand. "For fifteen, you get a mug of hot chocolate, a hot water bottle, and a toothbrush in a color of your choice!"
Maurise handed over exactly eleven Sickles. He valued his stomach contents more than a free toothbrush.
The bus took off with a jolt that nearly sent Maurise flying into the back row. They tore through the city, a purple blur of chaos. It was fascinating and horrifying in equal measure. Every time they seemed destined to plow through a pedestrian or a brick wall, the obstacles simply leaped out of the way, as if the world itself was terrified of the bus. Maurise watched with wide eyes, thinking that if Isaac Newton were alive to see this, he'd probably throw his books in the bin and take up professional knitting.
By the time the bus screeched to a halt, Maurise felt as though his internal organs had played a very aggressive game of musical chairs.
"The Leaky Cauldron!" Stan announced. "Have a smashing trip!"
Maurise grabbed his bag and stumbled out onto the pavement, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Muggles bustled past, completely oblivious to the giant purple bus that had just deposited a very dizzy boy on their doorstep.
Inside the pub, Maurise took a moment to breathe. The familiar smells of old wood and spilled ale were grounding. He tapped his backpack with his wand, casting a discreet Hover Charm to take the weight off his shoulders, and ordered a Butterbeer and a sandwich from Tom the barman.
After a quick lunch to settle his stomach, he headed to the small, walled courtyard behind the pub. He counted the bricks: three up, two across. He tapped the wall.
Nothing happened.
Maurise frowned. He checked again. Three up, two across. Tap, tap, tap. Still nothing but solid brick.
"Which absolute genius moved the rubbish bin?" Maurise muttered, realizing the "starting point" had been shifted a few inches to the left.
He recalibrated, found the correct brick, and tapped thrice. This time, the wall quivered and peeled away, forming an archway into the bustling world of Diagon Alley.
With Christmas approaching, the street was a riot of color. Enchanted snow fell lightly over shopfronts draped in holly and shimmering ribbons. Maurise didn't linger to admire the scenery. He made a beeline for a second-hand shop and emerged a few minutes later with a crumpled piece of parchment.
It was a specialized map of the area, noting every shop and, more importantly, their discount hours. Apparently, Florean Fortescue's did a buy one, get one free on Wednesday afternoons. A steal for a single Sickle.
But Maurise wasn't looking for ice cream. He was looking for the corner of the map where a large, jagged X had been drawn in charcoal-black ink, accompanied by a scrawled warning: DO NOT ENTER.
Naturally, that was his destination.
Following the map's directions, he turned away from the bright lights of the main thoroughfare and slipped into a narrow, shadowed side street. The air turned instantly colder. This was Knockturn Alley.
The transition was jarring. Gone were the festive decorations and the laughter of families. Here, the buildings leaned precariously over the cobbles like rotting teeth, and the ground was slick with a grime that Maurise preferred not to identify.
He didn't want to be an easy target. He pulled his hood low and adjusted a black mask that covered the lower half of his face. He made his robes look a bit more ragged and oversized to obscure his height. Finally, he reached into his bag and pulled out his secret weapon: his Skeletal Swallowtail Hound.
He cradled the creature in his arms. The hound was a terrifying sight to the uninitiated; its ribcage was exposed, and its eyes flickered with an eerie, ghostly blue flame.
It worked like a charm.
As Maurise navigated the alley, he felt dozens of eyes following him, predatory, calculating, and malicious. But every time a dark figure stepped out of the shadows, they caught a glimpse of the skeletal dog staring back with its hollow, flaming sockets. They invariably decided that whatever this "midget dark wizard" was carrying wasn't worth the trouble.
"Who's that?" a raspy voice whispered from a doorway.
"Shh... probably a goblin in disguise," another replied.
"I bet it's someone on Polyjuice Potion. Look at that beast he's holding..."
Maurise hid a smirk behind his mask. At one point, he purposely stopped in front of a group of whispering hags and just stared. They scattered like startled crows, muttering curses under their breath.
'This is actually quite fun', he thought.
He wasn't truly worried. Unless he was ambushed by a dozen wizards at once, he had more than enough tricks up his sleeve. Between his Fainting Curse, the Wailing Curse, and his ability to slip into the shadows, he was far from helpless.
He pulled a tattered note from his pocket and squinted at the handwriting.
Ezra Frick, 21 Knockturn Alley, Basement Level.
This was the man the second-hand robe shop owner had pointed him toward, the man who had sold him the skeletal hound in the first place.