The Three Broomsticks was thick with the scent of warm butterbeer and the low hum of wizarding gossip. Seated at a prominent table were Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout. Beside them sat a witch Maurise didn't quite recognize, though her face was familiar from the High Table at dinner. She was likely one of the elective professors.
Maurise had every intention of slipping past unnoticed, but Professor Flitwick possessed the eyes of a hawk. Or perhaps it was simply that, from his booster seat, he was at the perfect eye level to spot a wandering student.
"Mr. Black!" Flitwick squeaked, his voice cutting through the pub's atmosphere like a whistle.
The volume was enough to make patrons at the neighboring tables crane their necks. Maurise gave up on his stealth mission and stepped forward with a resigned smile. "Good evening, Professors."
He could feel Professor McGonagall's gaze boring into him, sharp and clinical as a surgeon's scalpel.
"Mr. Black," she said, her voice dropping into that dangerous, low register. "Pray tell, what are you doing here? Where is your guardian?"
She was well aware that Maurise lived in an orphanage during the holidays. Seeing him standing in the middle of Hogsmeade at this hour was, in her professional opinion, highly irregular.
Maurise didn't see the point in lying. He explained his itinerary: a ride on the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley, followed by a quick trip through the Floo Network to reach the village. It wasn't exactly a state secret. Harold, his official guardian, knew he spent most of his time in Diagon Alley anyway. As for the orphanage staff, they were far too busy ignoring the children to notice one had gone missing. In that place, a child not returning for the night was practically the status quo.
McGonagall let out a long, weary sigh. "You really are a restless spirit, aren't you, Mr. Black?"
"I'll take that as a compliment, Professor," Maurise replied.
"It was most certainly not a compliment," she countered, though her brow furrowed with genuine concern.
She watched him, clearly worried that he was on the fast track to becoming a "problem student." He reminded her far too much of the Weasley twins. Thank the stars those two had been relatively quiet this Christmas. Their most egregious offense so far had been charming snowballs to bounce off the back of Professor Quirrell's turban.
The unfamiliar witch at the table looked up then, a small smile playing on her lips. "So, you're the famous Maurise Black?"
"I am, Professor," Maurise nodded politely. "And you are?"
"Bathsheda Babbling," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "I expect you've seen me around. I teach Ancient Runes. It's an elective, so I won't see you in my classroom until your third year."
"I've seen you at lunch, Professor. You usually sit near the end of the table," Maurise replied. "I actually plan on taking your course. Ancient Runes has always fascinated me."
It wasn't a lie. Runes were the language of old magic, essential for advanced spellcraft and enchanting. He hadn't dived deep into them yet, mostly because his plate was already overflowing with potions and charms. He knew better than to bite off more than he could chew.
Professor Babbling's eyes crinkled as she smiled. "I think you'll find it quite rewarding. I look forward to seeing if you live up to the rumors." She paused, glancing at Flitwick. "Filius tells me your charms work is extraordinary."
Maurise glanced at Flitwick, who was currently turning a shade of pink that matched the sunset. The little professor cleared his throat loudly. "Maurise is... exceptionally gifted," he managed.
Every Head of House loved to brag about their star pupils. Flitwick might have embellished the story a bit, but in his mind, it was for a good cause. Besides, while other first-years were still struggling to make a feather twitch, Maurise had already mastered the art of levitating a heavy oak desk.
Granted, he had dropped it on Flitwick's toe during practice, but the raw power was certainly there. Flitwick's toe still throbbed at the memory.
Before the conversation could turn back to Maurise's legal status, McGonagall straightened her posture. "Regardless of your travels, Mr. Black, where do you intend to sleep? Hogsmeade doesn't exactly have a youth hostel."
"It's fine," Maurise waved a hand dismissively. "If worst comes to worst, I'll just Floo back to Diagon Alley. There's a—"
BANG!
The sound of an explosion rocked the pub. Every head in the room snapped toward the corner.
Thick, acrid green smoke was billowing out of the fireplace. A young couple sitting nearby were covered in soot, looking like they'd been dragged through a coal mine. Maurise felt a sudden surge of gratitude that he hadn't chosen that particular table.
A bald man crawled out of the hearth, coughing violently. His robes were shredded, leaving him in a state of undress that was frankly traumatizing for everyone involved. He looked less like a wizard and more like a very confused mole.
"No!" Madam Rosmerta shrieked, rushing over from the bar. "My fireplace! My beautiful hearth!"
The pub dissolved into chaos.
"There is always some idiot trying to brew their own Floo powder," Professor Babbling sighed, sounding more disappointed than surprised. "It costs two Sickles a bag at the shop, yet they insist on 'artisanal' disasters."
Maurise stayed silent. To be fair, he'd wondered about the chemical composition of Floo powder himself. It was a massive industry. If one could replicate the formula, they'd be sitting on a mountain of Galleons. However, his primary concern right now was whether or not the fireplace was still functional.
The chaos eventually settled. A few Ministry wizards burst in minutes later to haul the culprit away. The bald man went screaming, "I was so close! Just one more ingredient! At least let me put on some trousers!"
He was, by all accounts, a complete moron.
Due to the "explosive" interruption, Madam Rosmerta handed out a round of free butterbeers to the patrons and placed a "Closed for Maintenance" sign on the blackened fireplace.
Maurise turned back to McGonagall. "Professor, under the circumstances, would you mind if I just headed back to the castle early?"
McGonagall, likely realizing that letting him wander Hogsmeade was an invitation for further explosions, nodded in agreement.
Later that night, Maurise found himself back in the familiar comfort of his Hogwarts dormitory. He had the ingredients for the Draught of Living Death and a few extra Galleons in his pocket. It had been a productive trip.
As he lay in bed, listening to the winter wind howl against the stone walls, he began to map out his next moves.
First, the potion. He needed to refine it as soon as possible to proceed with the "evolution" rituals for Tin and Cinder. Second, he couldn't let his dueling practice slip. Third, there was the matter of Grindelwald.
He was still hitting a brick wall regarding Nurmengard. Information on the prison was suspiciously scarce. He considered asking Dumbledore directly, but that seemed like an excellent way to get a one-way ticket to a very long, very uncomfortable conversation.
"Meow."
A soft sound broke his concentration. Maurise looked down to find Tin, his cat, sitting on the rug and staring at him with judgmental eyes.
"Oh, it's you," Maurise muttered. Then he froze. "Wait. Why are you here? I thought I left you at the orphanage."
The cat just blinked at him.
Maurise shook his head. He wasn't going to overthink it. As long as the cat was safe, the 'how' didn't matter. He sat up and began setting up his cauldron, his mind already shifting to the precise measurements of Valerian roots and Sopophorous beans.
Tin let out a tiny, feline sigh and hopped onto Maurise's bed.
Back at the orphanage, its careless owner had accidentally packed the sleeping cat into a trunk full of junk and mailed the whole lot back to the school. If it hadn't been for Cinder the owl noticing the scratching from inside the box, the cat might have spent the rest of the holidays as a very grumpy parcel.
Some "geniuses," the cat decided, were remarkably stupid.