A few days later, during a tedious Divination lecture, Maurise was squinting down at the bottom of a porcelain teacup, attempting to decipher the soggy, chaotic pattern of tea leaves left behind.
In all honesty, interpreting these random clumps was more mentally exhausting than calculating the precise stirring intervals for the Wolfsbane Potion.
During his very first lesson, he had witnessed a vivid, high-definition image manifest within the crystal ball. He had believed he might possess a shred of innate talent for the subject.
Unfortunately, his abysmal performance in every subsequent lecture definitively proved that his initial success was merely a bizarre, isolated anomaly.
When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the period, Professor Trelawney suddenly called out, "Mr. Black. Please remain behind for a moment."
The rest of the third-years eagerly filed out of the incense-filled classroom. Maurise remained seated on his pouf, watching calmly as Professor Trelawney glided over to his table.
"Is there a specific issue you wish to address, Professor Trelawney?"
"Your teacup," Trelawney pointed a heavily ringed finger at the porcelain cup. "What exactly did the cosmos reveal to you within the dregs?"
"An entirely ordinary clump of soggy tea leaves," Maurise answered candidly.
Trelawney offered a faint, peculiar smile. In the dim, flickering light of the fireplace, the expression appeared somewhat unsettling.
"Very well. It appears you require more spiritual refinement to truly open your Inner Eye," she murmured. "I gazed into your cup earlier... and I saw a brutal, violent murder."
Maurise raised an eyebrow. "A murder?"
"Indeed," Trelawney nodded gravely, completely failing to elaborate or offer any specific details regarding the alleged prophecy. "However, I did not ask you to remain to discuss tea leaves. Please, wait here."
She turned and glided over to her desk, carefully retrieving the massive, ancestral crystal ball. She carried the heavy artifact over and placed it gently onto the small table directly in front of Maurise.
The colossal crystal sphere gleamed faintly in the dim lighting.
"Gaze into the depths, Mr. Black," Trelawney instructed softly. "Tell me, do the mists part for you today?"
Maurise lowered his gaze, staring intently into the core of the massive crystal.
Aside from his own distorted, slightly blurry reflection, the interior was completely inert.
He shifted his posture, attempting to view it from a different angle.
Still absolutely nothing.
"I see absolutely nothing," he answered truthfully.
Trelawney stared at him for a very long moment before slowly nodding her head. "Then the cosmic alignment is clear to me, Mr. Black."
"What exactly is clear to you, Professor?" Maurise asked, mildly confused.
Trelawney adopted her signature, mysterious, breathy tone. "Yesterday, or perhaps it was the day before, I received a sudden burst of divine inspiration regarding the true nature of this artifact. My ancestor, Cassandra Trelawney, embedded a specific, passive defensive enchantment within the crystal."
'A passive defensive enchantment?'
Maurise's academic interest was instantly piqued.
"What specific function does it serve?"
Trelawney adjusted her massive spectacles, peering down at him. "If a powerful Seer has previously utilized the mystic arts to actively observe or scry upon you, gazing into this specific crystal will temporarily invert the magical connection, allowing you to catch a fleeting glimpse of the one watching you."
"In other words," Trelawney's voice dropped to an intense whisper. "The old man you witnessed in your vision was not a prophecy of the future. He is a powerful, living Seer who has actively fixed his gaze upon you."
She pointed a dramatic finger at her own chest.
"Much like myself."
Maurise was surprised by the revelation.
'So, I truly possess absolutely zero innate talent for Divination.'
'How disappointing.'
However, setting his lack of talent aside, the revelation raised a massive, glaring question.
'Assuming Professor Trelawney isn't completely fabricating this explanation, who exactly is that emaciated old man?'
'And why would a powerful Seer waste time using advanced scrying magic to observe a third-year Hogwarts student?'
The mystery had become significantly deeper.
Seeing Maurise fall into deep thought, Trelawney offered a mystical smile.
"That is all the guidance I can offer you today. My subconscious strictly forbids me from revealing any further cosmic secrets. Good day, Mr. Black."
"Thank you for your time, Professor."
Maurise stood up and exited the classroom, his mind racing with possibilities.
---
Returning to his dormitory, Maurise sat at his desk and pulled out the detailed, photorealistic portrait he had drawn during the first week of term.
Staring intently at the old man's incredibly sharp, piercing eyes, a sudden, obscure connection clicked in his mind.
'Wait a moment!'
'Could it possibly be...?'
Maurise abruptly stood up, practically tore the latches off his leather briefcase, and immediately climbed down into his expanded storage room.
He began frantically tearing through a massive pile of heavily disorganized, classified documents and miscellaneous magical artifacts he had hoarded over the past three years.
The chaotic racket was so loud it even startled the depressed Dementor cowering in the corner.
Five minutes later.
"Found it."
Maurise pulled a crumpled, slightly faded photograph from the bottom of a stack of old newspapers.
The moving photograph depicted the youthful, charismatic visage of Gellert Grindelwald, the legendary, terrifying First Dark Lord.
He held the photograph up, carefully comparing the young man's facial structure with the emaciated, skull-like visage in his portrait.
'Hmm. They don't look entirely identical.'
'Yet there are undeniably striking similarities in the underlying bone structure and the sheer intensity of the eyes.'
From a purely superficial standpoint, the two individuals looked nothing alike. The man in the portrait looked as though he had spent the last fifty years locked in a lightless dungeon, slowly starving to death.
'Even so... I have an incredibly strong feeling that the old man I saw was Gellert Grindelwald.'
To definitively confirm his controversial hypothesis, he needed to consult a vastly more authoritative source.
---
The following day marked the first official Quidditch match of the season.
The weather conditions above the pitch were absolutely apocalyptic. The sky was entirely choked by dense, swirling black clouds. Freezing gale-force winds howled mercilessly through the stadium, and blinding flashes of lightning violently split the sky.
"What an absolutely magnificent day for a sporting event," Maurise muttered sarcastically, huddled beneath an umbrella in the stands.
'The faculty genuinely approved a high-speed aerial sport in the middle of what is practically a hurricane.'
'Their standards for student safety are... questionable.'
However, the sheer fanatical devotion to Quidditch transcended all logic. Despite the torrential downpour, the massive stadium was completely packed.
Even Dumbledore had emerged from his office to attend.
Spotting the Headmaster's distinctive silver beard in the top box, Maurise immediately stood up. He skillfully navigated through the cheering, shivering crowd, heading directly toward the staff section.
Dumbledore was leaning against the railing, entirely focused on the chaotic match unfolding above, seemingly completely unbothered by the freezing rain soaking his robes.
'He's almost certainly watching Harry.'
Maurise casually slipped into the empty seat directly beside the Headmaster. Sitting on Dumbledore's opposite side was Professor McGonagall.
McGonagall threw a questioning glance at Maurise but refrained from commenting, her attention quickly snapping back to the pitch. As the Head of Gryffindor House, the outcome of the match was of paramount importance to her.
Maurise lightly tapped Dumbledore's arm.
"Professor, do you have a moment? I need to ask you an important question."
Dumbledore turned his head, a warm, amused twinkle in his blue eyes.
"Right now?" Dumbledore asked lightly. "In the very middle of an incredibly tense, competitive Quidditch match?"
As if on cue, Madam Hooch's shrill whistle pierced the storm. A necessary timeout had been called.
"Ah, impeccable timing. Please, go ahead, Maurise," Dumbledore smiled warmly. "I sincerely hope we can resolve this important matter before play resumes."
Maurise nodded, cutting directly to the chase.
"Professor, are you currently aware of what Gellert Grindelwald looks like today?"
Hearing that specific, heavily guarded name, Dumbledore froze. The warm amusement vanished from his eyes.
"Why on earth are you asking about him?"
Maurise didn't bother offering a verbal explanation. He reached into his robes and pulled out the folded portrait, presenting it directly to Dumbledore.
"Please, examine this," Maurise requested quietly. "Is there any possibility that this individual is Grindelwald?"
Dumbledore took the parchment.
The ink had already begun to bleed heavily under the relentless rain, but Dumbledore recognized the haunting, emaciated face almost instantaneously.
"It is highly probable," Dumbledore murmured.
He slowly turned his head, locking his piercing blue eyes onto Maurise. His expression was now incredibly serious.
"Where exactly did you acquire this accurate depiction?"
'As expected.'
Maurise nodded silently.
'My intuition was correct.'
"I drew it myself. During our first Divination lecture of the term, I distinctly witnessed this individual actively observing me through Professor Trelawney's ancestral crystal ball..."
Maurise proceeded to deliver a concise, entirely factual recount of the event, completely omitting any mention of his own prior suspicions, but detailing the specific scrying mechanics Trelawney had explained.
Dumbledore's expression shifted from serious to profoundly grave. He was so completely absorbed in the revelation that he didn't even notice Madam Hooch blowing her whistle to resume the match.
"This is an incredibly severe, complicated complication, Maurise."
Dumbledore's voice was low and heavy, nearly drowned out by the roaring thunder, but Maurise heard it perfectly clearly.
"What exactly is the complication?" Maurise pressed.
However, before Dumbledore could offer an explanation, the ambient lighting in the stadium suddenly plummeted. It felt as though a massive, invisible entity was actively draining the very light and warmth from the atmosphere.
Simultaneously, a violent, suffocating, bone-deep wave of unnatural cold swept across the stands.
Maurise was intimately familiar with that specific, vile sensation.
The Dementors are here!
As expected, he tilted his head toward the sky.
Drifting silently above the pitch, descending rapidly through the pouring rain, were dozens upon dozens of towering, tattered black silhouettes.
The Dementors had abandoned their posts and swarmed the stadium in massive, terrifying numbers.