Before Maurise could even process the situation, Bobo the house-elf began to wail. Between Great, racking sobs, he pleaded, "Kind sir, please! Do not tell on Bobo! Bobo was resting when he should have been working! Bobo will do anything, just please do not tell!"
The creature's grip was surprisingly powerful. Maurise felt as though his legs had been caught in a pair of iron shackles.
"Let go, Bobo," Maurise said, his voice a blend of pity and irritation. "I am not going to tell anyone anything. My lips are sealed."
"Truly?" Bobo looked up, his massive, tennis-ball-sized eyes brimming with watery hope.
Seizing the moment, Maurise yanked his leg free and took a sharp step back. He was a second too late, however. His trouser leg was already decorated with a glistening, viscous smear of elf tears and snot.
After a few frantic Scouring Charms to vanish the evidence, Maurise turned back to the trembling elf. "Look, it is over. I gave you my word. No one hears about your nap."
Bobo nodded so vigorously his ears flapped like wings. "Sir is too kind! Sir is a paragon of wizardly mercy!"
Maurise, eager to avoid a second round of leg-clinging, turned to leave. Then, a thought struck him. He halted and looked back at the elf.
"Actually, Bobo, wait."
The elf flinched, his eyes darting around as if looking for a wall to bang his head against. "Does Sir have a task? A punishment? Bobo is ready!"
"Relax," Maurise said, waving a hand dismissively. "I just need some information. You know this castle better than almost anyone. I am looking for a specific kind of place. Somewhere hidden, spacious, and quiet. Ideally, a place where even the other elves don't go. A place where I can work without... interruptions."
He figured that an entity whose ancestors had likely been scrubbing the stones of Hogwarts for centuries would be the ultimate guidebook. It was worth a shot.
Bobo blinked, his long fingers twitching. "No interruptions... hidden... oh! Bobo knows! Bobo knows the place!" His face lit up with a toothy grin. "The house-elves call it the Come and Go Room, or the Room of Requirement."
Ten minutes later, Maurise stood on the seventh floor of the main castle, staring at a specific stretch of corridor.
On the left wall hung a tapestry that was, to put it mildly, an assault on the eyes. It depicted a wizard named Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach eight trolls the art of ballet. The trolls, dressed in moth-eaten tutus, looked more interested in clubbing their instructor than hitting a pirouette. Maurise could almost smell the imaginary troll musk wafting from the fabric.
He turned his attention to the opposite wall. It was nothing but blank, cold stone, scrubbed remarkably clean.
Recalling Bobo's instructions, Maurise stood before the wall. He closed his eyes, centered his thoughts, and began to pace. I need a vast, empty space. I need a vast, empty space. I need a vast, empty space.
On his third pass, he heard a faint, grinding sound.
He opened his eyes to find a polished wooden door standing where there had previously been only masonry. It was complete with a heavy brass handle that seemed to beckon him forward. Maurise didn't hesitate. He grabbed the handle and stepped inside.
The scale of the room was breathtaking. It was a massive subterranean vault, though he knew he was high above the ground. The ceiling was a jagged canopy of raw rock, and the floor was composed of tightly packed, ancient earth. It felt less like a room and more like a forgotten cathedral carved into the heart of a mountain.
Maurise paced the perimeter, doing some mental math. This was more than enough space for a full-scale Necromantic Advancement Ritual. Even better, Bobo had mentioned that the room only allowed entrance to those who knew what it was currently being used for.
"Perfect," Maurise whispered, his voice echoing off the stones. "Perfect."
It was the ultimate laboratory for practicing the Dark Arts. Or, as Maurise preferred to call it, eclectic soul-science. His upcoming ritual wasn't "dark" per se; it was just... misunderstood.
He was itching to begin, but the heavy pocket watch in his vest told a different story. He was already late for class.
"Well," he sighed, adjusting his robes. "Since I am already late, there is no sense in running. A dignified stroll it is."
His next class was Potions with Professor Snape. Maurise held a flicker of misguided optimism that Snape might overlook his tardiness. He'd just tell the Professor he'd been so engrossed in "pre-class potion theory" that he lost track of time. Surely, a man of Snape's academic rigor would appreciate such dedication.
By that evening, the blue sand in the Ravenclaw hourglass had dropped by a noticeable margin. Apparently, Snape did not appreciate "dedication" quite as much as Maurise had hoped.
The following day was Saturday. Maurise woke up early, packed his kit, tucked a few tins of preserved meat into his bag, and ensured that his shadow-familiar, Cinder, was tucked away safely in his literal shadow.
He marched toward the seventh floor, his mind buzzing with the complexities of the ritual. He was so focused that he almost missed the commotion near the library.
Almost.
But human nature is a fickle thing, and Maurise was nothing if not a student of behavior. He slowed his pace as he rounded the corner.
Two groups were squared off in the corridor. On one side stood Draco Malfoy, flanked by his two permanent shadows, Crabbe and Goyle. On the other side was a round-faced boy Maurise recognized as Neville Longbottom, one of Harry Potter's roommates.
The "battle" was clearly one-sided. Neville was currently vibrating in place, his legs snapped together as if glued. He'd been hit with a Leg-Locker Curse.
"Come on, Longbottom," Draco sneered, his voice dripping with aristocratic boredom. "Draw your wand. Or are you too scared to even point it at me? We're just practicing."
"Let... let me go, Malfoy," Neville stammered, his face turning a dusty shade of red. "This is the second time this week."
Crabbe and Goyle let out a synchronized, low-IQ chuckle. Neville's eyes darted around for an escape and landed squarely on Maurise. The boy's expression shifted from terror to a desperate, watery plea for help.
Maurise stopped. He'd planned to walk right past. He wasn't a vigilante or a prefect, and he had a very important date with a ritual circle. However, Neville's gaze was heavy with the kind of pathetic sincerity that was hard to ignore. Besides, he hadn't had a chance to annoy Malfoy in at least forty-eight hours.
"Malfoy," Maurise called out, his voice casual as he drew his wand. He stepped into the clearing with a sharp, practiced smile. "Long time no see. How have you been? I heard you had a bit of an... explosive accident yesterday."
Malfoy's smug expression vanished instantly, replaced by a look of sharp suspicion and simmering rage.
The rumors had moved through Hogwarts like wildfire. The story went that Malfoy had been walking down a hallway when he was suddenly blasted off his feet by an unknown source.
By breakfast this morning, the tale had evolved. The prevailing version was that Draco had tried to confess his undying love to a Slytherin girl, been rejected, and, in a fit of rage, attempted a hex—only to have the spell rebound and blast him ten feet away.
He had no idea which bastard had made it up.
It was utterly disgraceful.
What was even more frustrating was his complete lack of a culprit. But he was certain of one thing: the rumor had originated from the mouths of those Gryffindors.