After a few days of rigorous and frankly exhausting testing, Maurice finally figured out what was going on with his cat.
The final conclusion left him staring in disbelief. It felt utterly absurd.
The diagnosis was accidental magic.
Yes, Maurice had ultimately attributed the sporadic, chaotic bursts of magic escaping from Tin to accidental magical outbursts. Of course, it was a bit different from the magical outbursts of young wizards, considering they belonged to entirely different species. But the outward manifestations were practically identical.
In short, his cat possessed magic similar to that of a wizard.
A magical cat?
It was an unexpected twist, though largely useless for Tin. Young wizards received acceptance letters to Hogwarts to learn how to control their gifts. Cats, on the other hand, did not. As far as Maurice knew, the wizarding world had yet to establish a magical academy for felines.
Taking a leap of faith, Maurice visited a shady shop in Knockturn Alley and purchased a second-hand wand for his pet.
The result was predictably underwhelming. Tin simply clamped his jaws around the wood, occasionally shooting out a few harmless, useless sparks, and absolutely nothing else. Maurice genuinely wanted to teach the cat proper spells, but he simply had no idea how to translate the incantation for Lumos into meows.
Eventually, he had no choice but to abandon his dreams of tutoring a furry wizard.
***
By the time August rolled around, Maurice shifted his focus to acquiring dragon blood in Knockturn Alley.
He visited several apothecaries and dark artifact shops. He encountered nothing but blatant fakes or prices so astronomical they made him want to hex the shopkeepers.
"I suggest you check out Borgin and Burkes," his informant, Frick, offered reasonably. "The owner there is, well, shady, but his merchandise is generally authentic. Plus, the Ministry of Magic has been running strict raids lately. A lot of folks are dumping their illegal goods. Dragon blood isn't highly restricted, but the market has been affected. You might find a decent price right now."
Following Flick's advice, Maurice made his way to Borgin and Burkes on a gloomy Wednesday in mid-August.
The shop was impossible to miss. It was the largest and most notorious establishment in Knockturn Alley. According to Frick, it masqueraded as an antique shop, but the owner ran a massive underground business to line his pockets.
The moment Maurice stepped inside, he realized the displays held nothing resembling ordinary antiques. Instead, the shelves were packed with withered hands, staring glass eyeballs, spiked collars, and rusty whips.
It was exactly the kind of welcoming decor you would expect from Knockturn Alley.
A stooped, older man materialized from behind the counter like an exceptionally greasy ghost. This was Mr. Borgin, the proprietor.
"Hello, Mr. Borgin," Maurice said, staring at the man's unwashed hair for a moment. "I need to buy a few things."
Borgin eyed his new customer with blatant suspicion. He spoke in a raspy, guarded tone. "Sir, would you mind taking off that helmet?"
Borgin had immediately noticed that his rather short customer was wearing a bizarre, solid white helmet. The muffled voice coming from within also sounded surprisingly young.
"Oh, I definitely mind," Maurice replied flatly. "But I am here to make a purchase. Do you have any dragon blood?"
Maurice had grown tired of wearing his usual mask lately, and on a whim today, he had swapped it out for the helmet.
"Dragon blood?" Borgin gave Maurice another appraising look. He rarely felt this uncertain about a customer, and he was debating whether to simply throw the strange boy out.
"Frick sent me," Maurice added calmly, dropping the name right on cue.
"You should have started with that," Borgin said, his posture instantly straightening into a professional, albeit oily, stance. "Wait right here."
He turned and vanished through a back door. When he reappeared, he was hauling two heavy metal buckets.
"I haven't even had the chance to bottle these yet," Borgin said, patting the lid of the first bucket. "The left one is Antipodean Opaleye. The right one is Common Welsh Green. I guarantee they are pure. Absolutely no water mixed in."
Maurice stepped forward, popped the lids, and carefully inspected the thick, crimson contents. Satisfied, he gave a crisp nod. "I'll take some of both."
Borgin immediately flashed a brilliant, predatory smile. "Then let us discuss the price, shall we?"
***
By the end of the negotiation, Maurice had practically emptied his savings.
Dragon blood was outrageously expensive, but fortunately, Borgin's price was somewhat reasonable given the current market panic.
After the gold exchanged hands, Borgin personally helped partition the dragon blood into twenty small crystal vials. Paranoia being a necessary survival trait in Knockturn Alley, Maurice stood right there and meticulously inspected every single vial to ensure Borgin hadn't swapped them with beet juice.
While he was focused on his task, the shop bell chimed.
As Maurice examined the seventeenth vial, he cast a discreet glance toward the front of the shop.
Standing right at the counter was a very familiar face from Hogwarts: Draco Malfoy. Beside the pale boy stood a man with an identical arrogant sneer and long blonde hair, undoubtedly his father, Lucius Malfoy.
The elder Malfoy leaned in, speaking to Borgin in low, hushed tones, clearly haggling over something. Draco, meanwhile, wandered around the shop with a look of morbid curiosity, examining the grotesque items on the shelves.
Maurice quietly pulled his gaze back and continued checking his vials. Thanks to his bizarre white helmet, there was zero chance Draco would recognize him.
At that exact moment, hidden inside a large, black Vanishing Cabinet near the entrance, Harry Potter was holding his breath.
He peered through a narrow crack in the wooden doors, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had swallowed a mouthful of hot ash while traveling by Floo powder, mispronounced his destination, and ended up tumbling into this creepy shop.
In a sheer panic, he had scrambled into the nearest empty cabinet to hide.
Thankfully, no one had noticed him.
Harry had obviously spotted the two Malfoys, but his eyes were currently glued to the strange figure in the black robes and the weird white helmet. The mysterious customer was thoroughly focused on arranging a pile of glass bottles.
Harry recognized that helmet.
If his memory served him right, at the end of the previous school year, a heavily armed figure wearing a remarkably similar helmet and riding a skeletal horse had swooped in and saved him from Professor Quirrell. And during that terrifying night in the Forbidden Forest, it was likely this exact same person who had blasted Quirrell away.
Unfortunately, his memories of those events were a hazy blur. He couldn't even recall the rescuer's exact build.
The robed figure in front of him was quite short, maybe only a head taller than Harry himself. It was entirely possible the person wasn't even an adult.
Could it really be him?
While Harry was lost in his frantic thoughts, the Malfoys finished their shadowy business and left the shop. Seconds later, the helmeted figure neatly packed his vials into a case and walked out the door.
Harry adjusted his cracked glasses and made a split-second decision. He had to follow him.
He crept out of the cabinet and slipped out the front door. However, the moment he stepped outside, he found himself in a deeply unsettling, entirely unfamiliar alleyway.
The Malfoys were gone. The mysterious helmeted figure had vanished into the shadows.
A small, rotting wooden sign nailed to a nearby wall confirmed his worst fears. He was in Knockturn Alley.
Panic quickly set in as Harry took in his surroundings. The environment was far worse than he could have ever imagined. The cobblestones were covered in grime, the buildings leaned haphazardly as if ready to collapse, and the few straggling pedestrians leered at him with cold, predatory eyes.
This was absolutely no place for a Hogwarts student.
"Not lost, are you, my dear?"
A raspy, chilling voice echoed right beside his ear, making Harry jump nearly out of his skin.
He whipped his head around. An old hag with mossy teeth was smiling a grotesque smile at him. She was holding a wooden tray filled entirely with human fingernails.
What should he do?
Cold sweat drenched Harry's back. He was paralyzed with fear.
"Arghhhhh!"
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the old hag let out a blood-curdling shriek. Her face contorted into an expression of sheer agony as she collapsed onto the filthy cobblestones. She began convulsing violently, sending her collection of fingernails scattering wildly across the street.
Harry stood absolutely frozen, his jaw dropping in shock.
He hadn't done a single thing. He hadn't even reached for his wand!
The passing dark wizards and hags didn't even break their stride. They simply cast apathetic, cold glances at the writhing hag on the ground and kept walking.
"Harry. What exactly are you doing here?"
A familiar, muffled voice sounded directly behind him.
Harry spun around, his eyes widening. Standing there, peering down at him, was the very person he had been looking for: the figure in the white helmet.