Snow had been falling since the previous evening.
By the time the final Hogsmeade weekend before Christmas arrived, the streets lay buried beneath a thick blanket of white.
Maurise left the busy High Street behind and turned into a narrow side alley where the snow lay almost untouched. At the end of it stood the Hog's Head.
Compared with the Three Broomsticks, the inn looked as though it had lost an argument with time. The sign hung crookedly above the door, the windows were stained with grime, and the walls leaned ever so slightly.
Perfect.
None of his classmates would think to come here.
He pushed open the door.
The familiar smell of wet goat hit him immediately.
Maurise paused.
His first visit had convinced him the place must secretly be a mutton restaurant.
It wasn't.
The owner had informed him, with considerable irritation, that the only goat product on the premises was goat's milk.
The pub was nearly empty. A few elderly wizards sat in one corner playing cards over a pile of Galleons and Sickles while the barman dozed behind the counter.
Maurise walked over and placed his own spotless wooden tankard on the bar.
"Butterbeer, please."
The proprietor jolted awake, blinking bleary eyes.
"Oh, right. I remember you. The peculiar Hogwarts student," he grumbled. He accepted the clean tankard, filled it from a massive, questionable wooden barrel, and slid it back. "Why don't you patronize the superior establishment down the street like the rest of your schoolmates?"
Maurise tossed a few coins onto the counter. "I find the ambiance here superior."
"That is concerning," the proprietor muttered under his breath, closing his eyes and returning to his nap.
Maurise wasn't offended.
The proprietor of the Hog's Head displayed this abrasive, apathetic personality during every interaction. It was simply his baseline character.
In contrast, Madam Rosmerta over at The Three Broomsticks was far more welcoming to her patrons.
'Ah, speaking of which. It appears Ron Weasley has developed an obvious infatuation with the buxom landlady.'
The amusing observation popped into Maurise's mind.
'What can one say? A young man with ambitious tastes.'
Maurise carried his drink to a shadowy table in the far corner. He placed his magically expanded leather briefcase on the floor beside his boots, pulled out a thick grimoire, and began reading while taking slow sips of his butterbeer.
The elderly wizards playing cards paid no attention to the young student.
Half an hour ticked by in relative silence.
"Ah, Mr. Black, is it? You Mr. Black?"
Maurise raised his head. Standing beside his table was a suspicious, squat, and stout figure.
The man appeared old, with unkempt, greasy, peppered hair. He wore a stained dressing gown and exuded a powerful odor of stale alcohol and unwashed clothing. He looked like a common street vagrant.
"Er..." Maurise asked. "Mr. Fletcher, I presume?"
The man rubbed his grimy hands together and plopped into the chair across from Maurise. He offered a sleazy smile. "That's me! Dung Fletcher, at yer service! My word, Mr. Black, you're younger than I reckoned! Feared I'd walked up to the wrong bloke. S'pose old Frick mentioned me to ya?"
"He has indeed," Maurise nodded.
"Brilliant!" Mundungus's beady eyes darted around the dim pub before he leaned in close, dropping his voice to a whisper. "How'd Frick describe me, then? Sang my praises, I bet? We've been close mates in the business for decades!"
Maurise's expression became complex.
He opted for brutal honesty. "He stated that you are an irredeemable con artist, a petty thief, and a slippery scoundrel who would sell his own mother to a hag for two Galleons. Furthermore, he advised that if I ever required your services, I should never pay you more than a one percent deposit upfront."
Mundungus's sleazy smile froze for a fraction of a second, before he forced out a hollow chuckle. "Ah! Frick... old bat always did have a strange sense of humor!"
"I hope for your sake that he was joking," Maurise lifted his tankard, taking a calm sip of butterbeer. "However, if your eyes continue to dart toward my briefcase, I will be forced to blind you."
He wasn't exaggerating. Flick had offered that specific piece of advice.
Mundungus snapped his gaze away from the leather luggage, waving his grimy hands in denial. "I weren't lookin' at yer bag! Swear on Merlin's grave! You got it all wrong!"
Maurise offered a faint, chilling smile, staring into the man's eyes without blinking.
He had intended to conduct this transaction via anonymous owl post. However, his academic curiosity had compelled him to arrange a face-to-face meeting just to verify what kind of individual Mundungus Fletcher truly was.
'How should I summarize these findings?'
'The man is exactly the sleazeball Frick described.'
"Ahem," Mundungus cleared his throat, attempting to salvage his dignity. "Let's get down to business, then. I got my hands on that classified info you wanted."
He reached deep into the folds of his dressing gown and withdrew a crumpled, questionable roll of parchment, sliding it across the table.
Maurise unrolled the parchment. It was a crude, simplistic, hand-drawn map.
Mundungus leaned forward, jabbing a filthy finger at a sloppy red circle drawn near the center of the parchment. "An old mate of mine traveled to that region back in his youth. Gave me the exact spot. Nurmengard's right smack in that red circle."
Maurise scrutinized the crude drawing, his brow furrowing. "This schematic is sloppy and imprecise. No one could navigate to a classified fortress utilizing these chaotic squiggles."
"Is that right?" Mundungus's eyes began darting around the room again.
Maurise raised his head, locking his cold gaze onto the man.
Under the intense stare, Mundungus began sweating. He attempted to justify the poor quality. "Well, you see... the bloke I mentioned is ancient. His memory's all fragmented. Barely managed to coax this out of him by bribin' him with two casks of good mead. If I were to, say... offer him a bigger incentive, he might miraculously remember the details a bit better?"
'He is fabricating a story to extort more money from me.'
Maurise felt a surge of exasperation.
'I am not stingy when it comes to acquiring valuable assets.'
'Is this transparent theatrical performance genuinely necessary?'
"How much additional capital are you demanding?" Maurise asked, cutting through the nonsense.
Mundungus's beady eyes lit up with greed. He shot a grimy hand into the air, spreading all five fingers wide. "Another eighty Galleons'll secure the full picture! Eighty solid gold Galleons!"
'What a greedy, pathetic little man.'
Maurise stared at the five grubby fingers for two seconds before an amused, cold smile spread across his face.
"Transaction accepted."
Mundungus froze. He clearly hadn't anticipated the boy agreeing to the price hike so readily.
Eighty Galleons was a massive sum, especially for a Hogwarts student.
'Is he messin' with me?'
Before Mundungus could voice his suspicion, Maurise tossed a heavy velvet pouch across the table. It landed with a satisfying clink of solid gold.
While Maurise appreciated accumulating wealth, he was never stingy when a transaction warranted a massive expenditure.
Of course, if Mundungus was foolish enough to attempt to defraud him...
'Champion's colossal greatsword has been eager to taste fresh blood.'
Mundungus discreetly pulled the drawstring of the pouch open and peered inside.
The gleam of minted gold Galleons nearly brought tears to his eyes.
'This young man is dangerously wealthy!'
"Mr. Black, you're a right pleasure to do business with!" Mundungus praised, shoving the heavy pouch deep into his dressing gown. "Rest assured, I'll procure that precise map for you within two days—"
"Two days?" Maurise cut him off, his expression freezing into a mask of terrifying calm. "Why would I wait two days? One of the things I despise most is an individual attempting to treat me like a gullible fool. Produce the genuine navigational tool immediately. I am certain you are currently carrying it on your person."
"If you are incapable of producing the item right this second, return the gold and remove yourself from my presence."
Mundungus's greasy face went pale.
He opened his mouth, attempting to formulate another excuse, but the cold, murderous intent radiating from the young student silenced him. He offered a nervous chuckle, reached back into the depths of his robes, and withdrew a different piece of parchment.
Maurise accepted the new document and analyzed it. It was different from the crude drawing.
It wasn't a standard geographical map at all.
Drawn in the center of the parchment was an intricate compass rose. The only other marking was the word "Nurmengard" written in the top right corner.
The most fascinating aspect, however, was that the compass needle, despite being drawn in black ink, was rotating slowly across the parchment.
Maurise laid the document flat on the wooden table. The inked needle wobbled before locking onto a specific direction.