It was likely Fleur's first time in an establishment of this caliber. She looked around with naked curiosity.
"Two Butterbeers," Maurise said as he led her to the bar. He pulled two clean glasses from his robes and slid them across the worn wood.
Aberforth didn't even spare him a glance. He simply turned around, drew two pints of Butterbeer from a large wooden barrel, and set them down on the counter. He used his own heavy, chipped earthenware mugs.
Maurise met Aberforth's gaze for a single second before silently slipping his own glasses back into his pocket.
'Whatever. At least these mugs look reasonably clean today.'
Fleur was quicker on the draw with her coin purse.
"My treat," she declared, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Consider it a thank you for showing me around today."
Maurise didn't argue.
They took a seat at a greasy table tucked away in a corner. The grime on the tabletop had clearly been accumulating for years, layered thick like tree rings.
"This place is hardly suitable for a date," Fleur commented, wrinkling her nose. "The atmosphere is dreadful."
"It is," Maurise agreed, taking a sip of his Butterbeer. His gaze swept over the dim interior of the pub. "The clientele here mainly consists of unsavory sorts from the fringes of society. You'll occasionally see students, but very rarely. Take a look around; quite a few people are observing us."
Indeed, nearly half the patrons in the pub were covertly studying them—or more accurately, staring intently at Fleur.
"Let us finish our drinks and leave," Fleur said, deliberately unhurried. "I do not like it here."
"I don't hate it," Maurise shrugged.
As the two fell into casual conversation, the surrounding patrons gradually withdrew their stares. Soon enough, no one was paying them any mind.
Just then, the heavy front door swung open, and an exceptionally conspicuous figure stepped into the pub.
It was Hagrid. He ordered two massive tankards of some unrecognizable, murky liquor, sat down at the table right next to theirs, and began to drink heavily in sullen silence.
He seemed entirely oblivious to Maurise and Fleur's presence.
Fleur watched the half-giant's broad back and asked softly, "That is your Care of Magical Creatures professor, is he not? Hagrid?"
"That is correct," Maurise nodded. "Though Professor Grubbly-Plank has been covering our classes recently."
"Why is that?" Fleur asked, puzzled. "Is he ill?"
"I suspect it has everything to do with that article."
"What article?"
Maurise reached into his magically expanded pocket, retrieved a neatly folded copy of the Daily Prophet, and handed it to her.
"How on earth do you fit so much in your pockets?" Fleur asked curiously as she took the paper, before looking down to read.
As she read in silence, Maurise watched Hagrid down tankard after tankard of the foul-smelling liquor. Aberforth refilled his glass an uncountable number of times.
'Truly worthy of giant blood. Anyone else would be dead from alcohol poisoning by now,' Maurise mused.
"I see..." Fleur finally set the newspaper down, her brow furrowed in deep consternation. "This is incredibly unfair. It is true that some wizards harbor prejudice against those of mixed bloodlines, but to write such a vitriolic attack and publish it in a national newspaper... it is simply going too far."
As a descendant of Veela, she had never experienced the kind of blatant, aggressive hostility Hagrid faced, but she intimately understood the discomfort of being constantly subjected to strange looks, whispers, and pointing fingers.
She could empathize with his plight.
"It is indeed going too far," Maurise agreed.
The author of the article was Rita Skeeter. He fully intended to have a very thorough "chat" with her the next time they crossed paths. He didn't dislike simple, straightforward people like Hagrid; he was more than happy to lend a helping hand.
"In reality," Maurise swirled the dregs of his Butterbeer and set the empty mug down, "I believe possessing giant blood is a distinct advantage. Hagrid's sheer physical size grants him a natural resistance to magic that is several times greater than that of an ordinary wizard. It is an innate defense that standard wizards simply cannot replicate."
"Is that so?" Fleur narrowed her eyes slightly. "As for me, my Veela heritage certainly grants some benefits—I will not deny that. However, it also brings a considerable amount of trouble, as you have no doubt witnessed yourself."
Maurise seized the opportunity. "Could you tell me what specific abilities your Veela blood grants you?"
"My appearance, obviously." Fleur gave him a strange look. "Are you not already aware of that?"
"I don't mean that," Maurise shook his head. "Are there any others? Can you conjure and throw fireballs? Or transform your head into that of a bird? Are you absolutely certain you cannot perform that kind of magic?"
Fleur: "...No. I cannot."
'Why, after all this time, is he still so utterly fixated on whether I can turn my head into a bird?!' She recalled clearly having answered this question already.
Maurise shook his head in profound disappointment. "What a pity. In that case, you really aren't all that different from an ordinary witch."
Fleur stared at him, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. For a moment, she couldn't decide whether to be furious or amused.
She tossed her silvery hair over her shoulder and stated confidently, "Regardless of my heritage, I am the champion of Beauxbatons. That alone proves I am the most outstanding student in my school."
Maurise replied evenly, "There is no need to boast to me. I am a champion as well."
Fleur was momentarily rendered speechless before breaking into a faint smile. She was actually starting to get used to Maurise's incredibly blunt, straightforward personality.
She found she even liked it a little.
---
Ten minutes later, the two exited the Hog's Head and began walking down a narrow, winding side street.
Suddenly, without any warning, Maurise stopped dead in his tracks.
Fleur, who was looking down and brushing a few stray snowflakes from her robes, nearly walked right into his back.
"What is it?" she asked, looking up.
Maurise didn't answer immediately. He looked up at the sky.
Cinder materialized in their line of sight, landing silently on a nearby wooden fence. It raised a skeletal wing and pointed directly behind them.
"Someone has been tailing us ever since we left the Hog's Head," Maurise murmured quietly.
Fleur looked bewildered. "Who would be following us?" They were just two students enjoying a Hogsmeade weekend.
Maurise shook his head. "I don't know. But I intend to catch them. Do not look back; we don't want to alert them."
He guided Fleur down an even more secluded, winding alleyway. This path was far removed from Hogsmeade's bustling High Street. It was flanked by dilapidated, long-abandoned shops, their windows thick with years of dust and grime.
The pristine snow on the ground was undisturbed by footprints, indicating that almost no one ever walked this way.
The alleyway grew narrower, the crumbling brick walls closing in on both sides until a sharp corner appeared ahead.
"Once we round the corner, press your back flat against the wall," Maurise instructed Fleur.
Fleur nodded nervously. She had absolutely no idea what was going on, but she chose to trust Maurise implicitly.
The moment they rounded the corner, Maurise plastered himself against the rough brick wall, his wand raised and leveled at chest height. Fleur quickly mirrored his stance, drawing her own wand.
Faint, almost imperceptible footsteps echoed softly in the quiet alley. The pursuer was approaching.
Closer.
Closer.
"Stupefy!"
Judging the timing perfectly, Maurise stepped out from cover, his wand thrust forward, and fired a jet of crimson light. Since he didn't know the identity of their pursuer, he opted for the safest, non-lethal offensive spell.
'A direct hit!'
However, the figure—completely shrouded in a heavy black cloak—merely swayed slightly on their feet. They did not crumple to the ground unconscious as Maurise had anticipated.
"Who are you?" Maurise demanded, his tone turning deadly serious.
The cloaked figure offered no reply. They silently raised their wand and gave it a sharp flick.
With a loud crack, they Apparated, vanishing from the alleyway entirely.