"Maurise?" Harry's voice was thick with hesitation, his eyes squinting through cracked lenses.
"In the flesh," Maurise replied with a crisp nod. He leaned his heavy suitcase against his leg, looking entirely too composed for a back alley that smelled predominantly of wet dog and despair.
Only minutes prior, Maurise had stepped out of Borgin and Burkes. A casual glance around the corner had revealed a distressing, if predictable, sight: Harry Potter being cornered by a hag who looked like she hadn't seen a dentist since the goblin rebellions.
Maurise had intervened the only way he knew how, with clinical efficiency. He'd tested a new hex he'd been perfecting: the Dolohov-variant Torment Curse. The effect was exactly as advertised. It didn't leave a mark, but it made the target feel as though their nervous system was being used as a guitar string by a particularly aggressive rock star.
The hag, evidently lacking any real magical fortitude, had collapsed into a heap after only a few seconds of twitching. Small-time crooks, Maurise mused. The truly dangerous ones don't loiter in alleyways trying to snatch schoolboys; they run the government or fancy shops.
"It really is you!" Harry's eyes widened behind his broken frames. "Maurise, what on earth are you doing here?"
"I believe that's my line, Harry." Maurise flicked his wand, a silent Reparo mending Harry's glasses instantly. "Rule number one of wizarding travel: if you're a famous student, try not to window-shop in the neighborhood where people sell shriveled hands and poisons. It's basic survival."
He genuinely couldn't fathom how Harry had ended up here. Was it bravery? Or simply a staggering lack of situational awareness?
"It wasn't intentional," Harry muttered, pushing his now-straight glasses up his nose. "I took a face full of ash in the Floo network, sneezed, and ended up... well, here."
"A cautionary tale for us all," Maurise noted, mentally adding 'Deep Breathing Exercises' to his Floo travel checklist. The last thing he needed was to sneeze and accidentally materialize in a dragon reserve or a High-Security vault.
Maurise led the way, navigating the twisting, grimy arteries of Knockturn Alley until the oppressive shadows gave way to the bright, bustling sunshine of Diagon Alley. Harry let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since breakfast.
"I'll leave you here, Harry. I have business to attend to," Maurise said, already pivoting back toward the gloom. He was itching to get back to his basement; the dragon blood he'd just procured wasn't going to analyze itself.
"Wait, Maurise!" Harry scrambled after him. "I... I have to ask you something."
Maurise paused, looking back over his shoulder. Harry was breathless, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "Hogwarts. The Forbidden Forest. That night with Quirell... and the thing that came out of the shadows. The 'Knight.' That was you, wasn't it?"
Maurise blinked, then smiled thinly. "I wondered how long it would take you to piece that together."
He saw no point in lying. In the grand scheme of things, a little secret between survivors wasn't the worst thing to have.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Harry asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.
"Because I enjoy my privacy, Harry," Maurise said with a wink. "I've seen the way people look at you. I have no desire to be the 'Boy Who Also Helped.' Let's keep it between us, shall we?"
"Of course," Harry promised instantly. Then, his brow furrowed. "But if you were there... if you helped stop him... why didn't Dumbledore give you points? Does he even know?"
Maurise felt a flicker of amusement. Leave it to a Gryffindor to worry about House Points after staring down a wraith-possessed professor.
"I've already received my compensation," Maurise replied cryptically, patting his suitcase. "Though I'm afraid the nature of that reward is strictly 'need-to-know.' And you, Harry, do not need to know."
Harry stared at the Ravenclaw, realizing that the more he learned about Maurise, the less he actually understood.
"Anyway... thanks," Harry said, his voice dropping to a sincere tone. "For everything."
"Don't mention it. Literally. Don't mention it," Maurise joked. "And for the record, you're the one who did the heavy lifting with Quirell. I was just the specialist. See you at school, Harry."
---
By noon, Maurise was back in his sanctuary, surrounded by bubbling vials and the metallic scent of dragon blood. The peaceful silence was interrupted by the frantic flapping of a school owl.
It brought the usual heavy parchment: the Hogwarts book list. Along with it was a small, surprisingly heavy silk pouch, the Ministry's orphan education fund.
Maurise emptied the pouch. It was significantly more gold than last year. He unfurled the book list and immediately understood why.
- Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart
- Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart
- Holidays with Haggs by Gilderoy Lockhart
- Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart...
The list went on. Seven books. All by the same man.
"Is the new Defense teacher a fan, or just incredibly vain?" Maurise muttered. He'd read Wandering with Werewolves over the summer. It was a cracking good yarn, but as a textbook, it had about as much educational value as a chocolate frog wrapper.
He sighed, capped his vials, and headed out. He needed to secure these books before the rush, though he suspected "second-hand" copies of Lockhart's works were currently as rare as dragon teeth.
Thirty minutes later, he reached Flourish and Blotts. The storefront was a madhouse. A massive banner draped across the windows announced:
GILDEROY LOCKHART
Signing copies of his autobiography, MAGICAL ME
Today: 12:30 PM – 4:30 PM
"Marvelous," Maurise deadpanned.
He tried to wedge himself through the door, navigating a sea of middle-aged witches who were swooning with a fervor usually reserved for Holyhead Harpies matches. After several "Pardon mes" and one strategic use of his elbows, he made it inside.
The shop was stifling. In the center of the chaos sat Lockhart himself, teeth flashing like a Lumos charm in a dark cave. But it wasn't the man that caught Maurise's eye, it was the display next to him.
Perched on a series of velvet-lined pedestals were twelve skeletal dogs.
They were the very same "Bone-Hounds" Maurise had enchanted and sold to a mysterious buyer weeks ago. Now, they were wearing silk cravats that matched Lockhart's robes. As Lockhart signed books, he would occasionally snap his fingers; the skeletons would tilt their heads in unison and let out a rhythmic clack-clack-clack of their jaws.
The crowd erupted in cheers every time they did it.
He's using them as props, Maurise realized, half-impressed and half-appalled. I built tireless guardians of the grave, and he's turned them into backup dancers.
Maurise didn't linger. He grabbed his seven volumes of "The Gilderoy Lockhart Ego Trip," paid the harried cashier, and slipped out the side door. He had real magic to do, and it didn't involve silk cravats or dental whitening charms.