The partnership Maurise proposed was elegantly simple. Frick would provide the raw materials, Maurise would provide the "reanimation technique," and together they would flood the market with high-end Skeletal Hounds. The profits would be split right down the middle, fifty-fifty.
In truth, Frick wasn't entirely sold on the venture. Most patrons who slunk into his shop in Knockturn Alley were looking for powdered dragon bone for a potion or a femur for some questionable ritual. The idea of a skeleton as a household pet seemed... niche. It was the sort of thing only an eccentric like Madam Caroline would find charming.
"It's a gamble," Frick grunted, "but I suppose my shelves could use the clearing." He figured he could offload a few through his more "specialized" channels. He had nothing to lose, and the margins were surprisingly generous.
Frick rummaged through the back of his warehouse and dragged out five skeletons of Swallowtail Hounds. Some were fresh, others were yellowed with age, and their quality varied wildly, but they were mostly intact. With a flick of his wand and a muttered Reducio, he shrunk them down, packed them into a crate, and slid them across the counter to Maurise.
"It's a deal then," Maurise said, nodding with satisfaction. "I'll see you in two days, Frick. I'll bring the finished products."
The prospect of turning old bones into cold gold was the best news Maurise had heard in weeks. It was a much-needed reprieve for his rather pathetic finances. Of course, he only intended to sell these "Grade One" models.
They were little more than mindless, clattering toys. The "Grade Two" versions, the ones with actual tactical utility and burgeoning intelligence, those stayed with him. He wasn't about to hand over a potential undead army to a shopkeeper, no matter how good the profit margin was.
As Maurise shouldered his bag, Frick called out, "A word of advice, lad. When you're walking the streets out there, keep your face hidden."
"I'm well aware," Maurise replied, glancing back.
As the words left his lips, a mask of pale, polished bone began to knit itself over his features. It didn't look like a mask he was wearing; it looked like his own skull was migrating to the surface, complete with jagged, irregular spurs that gave him a truly monstrous silhouette.
'Bone-knitting magic', Frick thought, a cold shiver tracing its way down his spine. 'What a dangerously convenient trick.'
"Be careful," the shopkeeper added, his voice a bit thinner than before.
Once he crossed the threshold back into Diagon Alley, Maurise let the mask dissolve into mist. He looked back at the darkening mouth of Knockturn Alley and shook his head. They were barely a hundred yards apart, yet they felt like different planets. One smelled of expensive parchment and cinnamon, the other of damp earth and rot.
"Time to find a base of operations," Maurise muttered, making his way toward the Leaky Cauldron.
He approached the bar, where Old Tom was busy scrubbing a glass that looked like it hadn't been clean since the 1800s. "I need a room for four nights," Maurise said. "What's the damage?"
Tom paused, peering over his spectacles at the boy. "A single room?"
"Please."
"Ten Galleons," Tom grunted, leaning in close, his breath smelling faintly of stale ale. "And a bit of free advice: if you've run away from home for the holidays, you'd best head back. We don't do Christmas trees here, and the chimney's far too soot-covered for Father Christmas."
"I'm not a runaway, Tom," Maurise said dryly. He fished out ten gleaming gold coins and lined them up on the bar.
Tom swept the gold into a drawer and produced a heavy brass key. "Third floor, end of the hall. The window faces the courtyard, so it's quiet enough. Do you want the meal service?"
"Not right now, thanks."
Maurise took the key and climbed the narrow, creaking stairs. Behind him, Tom went back to his eternal struggle against the grime on his glassware.
The room was typical for the Leaky Cauldron: cramped, smelling of old wood and dust, but functional. Most importantly, there was enough floor space to chalk out a ritual circle. He locked the door and released the five skeletons. They expanded instantly, clattering onto the floor in a heap of ribs and tibias.
"Right," Maurise sighed, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's get to work."
Animating a single construct was child's play for him now. He could feel the "well" of magic within him, a reservoir of cold, steady energy. However, mass production was a different beast entirely. After finishing the second hound, he felt the familiar ache of magical exhaustion beginning to creep in. He stopped immediately. To drain oneself completely in a place like this was more than a mistake; it was a death wish.
He looked out the window. Night had fallen, and thick snowflakes were swirling through the air. A draft whistled through the window frame, carrying the biting chill of a London winter. Maurise pulled out his wand and gave it a sharp flick.
"Incendio Glacialis!"
A bright, bluebell-colored flame erupted from the tip of his wand, hovering in mid-air. It gave off a gentle, steady heat that pushed the winter chill back to the shadows.
'Honestly', Maurise thought, leaning back as the blue light danced, 'I don't know how Muggles survive the winter without this.'
The next two days passed in a blur of routine. By day, Maurise played the part of a curious student wandering Diagon Alley. By night, he was a necromancer in a dusty hotel room, weaving life into dead things.
On December 22nd, the day of the delivery, Frick's shop was unusually lively. Five "fresh" Skeletal Hounds were clattering around the floor, their tailbones wagging with eerie synchronization.
Madam Caroline was already there, examining the stock with the intensity of a woman buying a purebred owl. She pointed at the hound with the smoothest, most polished ribcage. "Oh, that one is darling! Listen to the way the joints click. So crisp! So full of... well, not life, but certainly spirit!"
"An excellent choice, Madam," Frick said, his voice oily with professional charm.
She didn't hesitate, pulling out a velvet pouch encrusted with emeralds. Despite its small size, she seemed to pour a never-ending stream of Galleons onto the counter. Clink. Clink. Clink.
Maurise knelt down and looked the chosen hound in its empty eye sockets. "From this moment on, Madam Caroline is your master. Follow her."
The pinpricks of spectral fire in the dog's eyes flickered. It gave a sharp, bone-on-bone clack and trotted over to the woman's silk hem, nuzzling her ankle with its cold snout.
"Oh, you sweet little monster!" she chirped, patting its skull. "Don't you worry. When we get home, I'll have the house-elves buff those bones until they shine, and we'll find you a lovely forest-green velvet bow."
Maurise watched them leave, feeling a strange sensation. Even though he had transferred "ownership," he could still feel a faint, tether-like connection to the creature. He was its creator, its "Root Master." That link was permanent, a fundamental law of the magic he practiced. He couldn't break it even if he wanted to.
Not that it mattered. Madam Caroline wanted a conversation piece, and Maurise wanted her gold. The deal was done.