"Mind your own business, Black," Malfoy spat, his voice laced with a cold, desperate sort of venom. "I'm not in the mood for your nonsense today. If you know what's good for you, you'll clear off."
Crabbe and Goyle took a synchronized, lumbering step forward. The air in the corridor thickened instantly.
At Maurise's feet, Tin the cat, leisurely licked a paw. He spared a bored glance at Draco.
'This human again?' Tin seemed to muse. 'Didn't he get the memo last time? Seeing my master usually warrants a brisk sprint in the opposite direction. Points for bravery, I suppose.'
Neville, meanwhile, had forgotten how to sob. He stared at the confrontation with wide, watery eyes, his face several shades paler than usual. He had the distinct feeling he was about to witness something highly illegal.
Maurise, however, didn't look bothered in the slightest. He merely tilted an eyebrow and let out a soft, amused chuckle.
"Don't be so tense, Draco," Maurise said easily. "Still have the scent of that Dungbomb in your robes? I happen to have brought the latest batch. I'm told the fragrance is significantly more... persistent."
Malfoy's face went a vivid, sickly shade of green. The memory hit him like a physical blow: the "Sublime Stench" incident from months prior. He had spent nearly ten minutes in a cloud of concentrated filth that no Scouring Charm could touch. It had become a recurring nightmare.
Draco shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the mental trauma, his expression darkening. "You really want to make an enemy of me, Black?"
"I think we passed that milestone ages ago," Maurise nodded, still smiling. "So, what's the plan? A Leg-Locker Curse? Just a heads-up: it probably won't stick."
Watching Maurise's infuriatingly calm demeanor, Malfoy felt a surge of genuine rage. But beneath the anger was a cold, hard fact: he couldn't win. Unless he could recruit a small army of upper-year Slytherins, he was outmatched. He still hadn't figured out what kind of twisted, skeletal magic Maurise had used to trap them in that bone cage last time.
Malfoy took a deep breath, realizing that staying would only lead to further humiliation.
"Fine. We're leaving!"
He snapped his head toward Crabbe and Goyle, turning on his heel and marching away with as much dignity as a terrified teenager could muster. His goons blinked, looking confused for a second before scrambling to catch up.
Maurise watched them go, satisfied. He had learned quite early that dealing with Slytherins required a certain level of uncompromising force.
He turned to Neville and gave a casual flick of his wand. "Finite Incantatem."
The Leg-Locker Curse dissolved. Neville's legs wobbled, and he grabbed the nearby wall to keep from collapsing. "Th-thank you, Black," he whispered.
"Don't mention it," Maurise said, patting him on the shoulder before continuing his trek toward the Room of Requirement.
"Wait!" Neville called out, his voice still trembling.
Maurise paused and looked back. "Something else, Longbottom?"
Neville swallowed hard, finding his courage. "Why... why is Malfoy afraid of you? I mean, he's Malfoy. Why didn't he even try to hex you?"
In Neville's world, Draco was a looming shadow of pure arrogance. Seeing him tuck tail and run from a fellow first-year Ravenclaw was nothing short of a miracle.
Maurise looked at Neville's nervous face and gave him a blunt smile. "Because my magic is better than his. He knows he'd lose. It's that simple."
Neville blinked, stunned by the sheer honesty of it.
"Practice your spells, Neville," Maurise added, his tone shifting to something more serious. "If you can land a decent Disarming Charm or even a solid Impediment Jinx, Malfoy will have to think twice before bothering you. Strength is the only thing that stops people from treating you like a punching bag."
Neville nodded slowly, the words sinking in.
"Right then," Maurise shrugged. "See you around."
Maurise didn't know Neville well, only that he was a timid, clumsy boy, the perfect target for schoolyard bullies. But Maurise wasn't a savior, and he didn't have the time to be a full-time bodyguard. A bit of advice and a quick rescue was the most his charity would allow today.
He reached the seventh floor and found the stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. He paced back and forth three times, focusing intensely on the thought: I need a wide, empty space to work.
The door manifested, and Maurise stepped inside.
The room was exactly as he had left it, vast and silent. Maurise beckoned Cinder to emerge from the shadows. The bird landed next to Tin the cat.
"Alright, who wants to go first?"
Tin's eyes flashed with excitement, and he started to step forward when, thwack.
Cinder slapped him aside with a single, authoritative wing.
"Meow!" Tin hissed, arching his back. He glared at the bird for a moment before sheepishly retreating to a corner to sulk. 'Fine. You're the boss. Message received.'
Cinder puffed out his chest, his obsidian feathers gleaming like polished coal. He looked like a general who had just won a decisive campaign.
Maurise watched the interaction with a smirk. It seemed that in his absence, his trio of undead servants had established a clear pecking order: Cinder at the top, followed by Tin, with the skeletal hound bringing up the rear.
"Glad we settled the politics," Maurise muttered. He dropped his bag, pulled out his tools, and began the meticulous process of sketching the Ritual of Ascension.
An hour later, the chalk lines and crystals formed a perfect, glowing geometric pattern on the floor.
"Get in there," Maurise signaled to Cinder. "This might sting a bit. Try not to embarrass us."
Cinder let out a sharp sherk and hopped into the center. Maurise used a quick Transfiguration spell to create a stone perch so the bird could stay steady. Then, he closed his eyes and focused.
The ritual began.
He chanted the low, guttural incantations, feeding his own mana into the array. He dropped several Gap Crystals into the focal points.
Boom.
As the magic took hold, a violent surge of air blasted outward, nearly extinguishing the torches on the walls. Having learned from his experience with the skeletal hound, Maurise had already stepped back. He watched calmly as a thick, grey-black mist swallowed the bird whole.
The mist began to churn, forming a miniature vortex that spiraled inward with increasing speed. To Maurise's surprise, it took only a few minutes for the bird to suck the entire cloud of energy into its body. It was significantly faster than the hound's evolution.
When the mist cleared, Maurise stepped forward to inspect his "new and improved" companion.
At a glance, Cinder looked the same: dark, sleek, and eerie. However, the pinpricks of blue fire in his eye sockets were now dense and steady, glowing with a more refined intelligence.
"How do you feel?" Maurise asked, scratching the bird's head. The texture felt more like cold silk than feathers.
Cinder rubbed his beak against Maurise's finger and let out a soft, trilling sound.
"You have a new trick? Let's see it."
At the command, Cinder turned his gaze toward Tin, who was still sitting in the corner.
Tin froze. A very bad feeling washed over him.
A split second later, the shadows beneath the cat began to writhe. They stretched and solidified into several ink-black tentacles that lashed out, snagging Tin's legs and hoisting the startled cat several feet into the air.
"Mre-ow!? MEOW!"