The heavy bell above the door gave a mournful chime as a figure shrouded in midnight-black robes slipped into the shop. They moved with a hurried, almost twitchy grace, heading straight for the counter without glancing at the curiosities lining the shelves.
Maurise, leaning against a display of pickled mandrake roots, felt a sudden, familiar scent tickle his nose. He frowned, his nostrils twitching. It was faint, yet distinct, a smell he had encountered very recently. He searched his memory, trying to place the pungent, sharp aroma.
Before he could pin it down, the stranger spoke. Their voice was a raspy, forced hiss, clearly disguised.
"I require a standard measure of processed Nyxian Silver-banded Krait venom."
Frick, leaning over his ledger, blinked in surprise. "I'm afraid you're out of luck, sir. We don't carry the liquid. However, if you're in the market for the bones, I have a reasonably intact skeleton, though it's missing half a skull. It's premium quality, I assure you."
"Bones?" the hooded figure repeated. He paused, his head tilting slightly as if listening to a whisper no one else could hear, before shaking his head. "No. The bones are useless to me."
Without another word or a second glance at the wares, the man turned and bolted for the exit.
As the stranger brushed past him to reach the door, Maurise caught a full, suffocating whiff of the mystery scent. His eyes nearly watered. It wasn't just a smell; it was an olfactory assault.
Garlic.
It all clicked into place. During his time at Hogwarts, there was only one person who smelled like a Mediterranean kitchen during a vampire plague. His Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirinus Quirrell.
The man was famous for his stutter, his purple turban, and that persistent, eye-watering stench of garlic he claimed was a defense against a particular vampire he'd offended in Romania. This stranger had the same height, the same nervous twitch in his shoulders, and the exact same gait.
Maurise watched the door settle. What does a stuttering DADA professor want with Krait venom? he wondered. In the darker corners of magical theory, processed venom from a Silver-banded Krait was rarely used for anything legal.
"Krait venom doesn't come cheap," Frick remarked, sounding genuinely disappointed at the missed sale. "A shame, really. My last stock sold out two years ago. It's a popular ingredient for those looking to... extend their horizons."
"What's it usually for?" Maurise asked, feigning casual interest.
Frick pulled a grimy notebook from beneath the counter and began scribbling. "Nasty stuff, usually. Highly toxic. But if you know how to brew it, it becomes a key stabilizer for longevity potions. Some say it can add years to a wizard's life, provided they don't mind the side effects."
Maurise nodded slowly. Wizards already lived a long time, but apparently, some were more desperate for immortality than others.
The silence of the shop lasted barely three minutes before the bell chimed again.
This time, the visitor wore a shimmering silver mask. He was lean, dressed in robes of fine quality that seemed to swallow the dim light of the shop. He marched to the counter with an air of cold authority and reached up to remove the mask.
Maurise took one look at the sallow skin, the hooked nose, and the greasy, shoulder-length black hair, and felt his heart skip a beat.
Severus Snape.
Was there a faculty meeting in Knockturn Alley today that he hadn't been invited to?
Frick, however, looked delighted. "Well, if it isn't Severus! To what do I owe the pleasure?" He wiped his hands on his apron and stepped out from behind the counter. "What are you hunting for today? I just got some Nundu fangs in. Interested?"
Snape didn't answer. His dark, tunnel-like eyes swept the room, pausing with icy precision on Maurise.
Frick caught the look and immediately turned to Maurise. "Would you mind giving us the room for a moment, Mr. Black? Private business, you understand."
Maurise nodded, already moving toward the back breakroom. He had no desire to be caught in the crosshairs of Snape's legendary temper.
"Wait."
Snape's voice was like a silken blade, cutting through the air. The weight of his gaze pinned Maurise to the spot.
"Did he just call you... Black?"
Maurise exhaled slowly. The Black surname was not exactly subtle, and he hadn't bothered with a heavy magical disguise today. Being a student of the man, he knew he was already caught.
He turned around, letting his own mask dissolve away to reveal his face. He offered a small, polite smile. "Professor Snape. Fancy meeting you in a place like this."
Frick looked between the two, confused. "You two are acquainted?"
Maurise shrugged. "He's my professor, Frick. I am, after all, of school age. It's a small world."
Snape stepped closer, his expression unreadable. "And tell me, Mr. Black, why is it that a Hogwarts student is spending his Christmas holidays in the most disreputable street in London?"
"Industry, Professor," Maurise replied, putting on his best innocent orphan face. "Since I lack the benefit of a family vault to lean on, I thought it best to earn my own Galleons. Honest work for honest pay."
Snape let out a low, derisive snort. "Honest work? In Knockturn Alley? Your sense of humor is as questionable as your choice of employer."
Frick stayed silent, watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow. He knew Snape was a regular, but he hadn't realized his new assistant was one of the Potions Master's own pupils.
"I have no interest in your private life, Black," Snape said, his voice dropping to a low hiss. "But if you insist on working here, stay inside the shop. The cobblestones of this alley are not a playground for children who think they are more capable than they truly are."
He shot a sharp, questioning look at Frick, as if silently demanding to know why he was employing a minor. Frick simply whistled a tuneless melody and looked at the ceiling.
"I appreciate the concern, Professor. I'll stay behind the counter," Maurise said dutifully. "I'll leave you to your business."
He beat a hasty retreat into the breakroom.
A few minutes later, the front door bell rang again, signaling Snape's departure. Frick pushed open the door to the breakroom.
"Are you and the Professor close?" Maurise asked, leaning against the table as Frick handed him a steaming cup of tea.
"Severus? Oh, we go back a long way," Frick said, taking a loud slurp from his own mug. "In this alley, you won't find a single honest businessman who hasn't traded with him. Everyone buys his potions, and he's one of my best customers for rare ingredients. You're his student, so I assume you know he's the best in the business."
Maurise nodded. Snape was a genius, even if he was a terror in the classroom.
"Is it normal for a Hogwarts professor to be so... active... in Knockturn Alley?" Maurise prompted.
"Severus isn't some wide-eyed academic," Frick said, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. "He's a man with a lot of influence and a very dark reputation. People here respect him. Or they fear him. Usually both."
He looked at Maurise over the rim of his tea. "But I have to ask, what did you do to earn his favor? It's not like him to care about anyone."
Maurise blinked. "Favor?"
"Before he left," Frick said, a smirk playing on his lips, "he went out of his way to tell me to keep a close eye on you. Told me if anything happened to you while you were on my clock, he'd personally ensure my shop was turned into a pile of ash."
Maurise chuckled softly. "I suppose my Potions grades are just that good."
It was a strange thought. He had expected Snape to ignore him or threaten him with expulsion. Instead, the Bat of the Dungeons was looking out for him in his own terrifying, threatening way.