"This compass points to Nurmengard?" Maurise asked, watching the inked needle settle.
Mundungus nodded so vigorously that his greasy hair flopped over his forehead.
"You are certain?" Maurise's eyes never left the man's face.
Mundungus looked away. "Course I am."
Maurise resisted the urge to sigh. 'This entire arrangement feels dubious. Still, I'll trust the artifact for now. If it's fake, finding him again won't be difficult.'
"Very well." He folded his hands on the table. "Tell me everything you know about Nurmengard. That shouldn't be too difficult, considering I just paid you two hundred Galleons..."
Before he could continue, Mundungus lunged across the table and grabbed his forearm. "Keep yer voice down!" he hissed. "We're bein' watched."
Maurise glanced around the room. The elderly wizards in the corner had stopped paying attention to their cards; all three were looking their way. The moment Maurise met their eyes, the oldest wizard snapped his attention back to the table.
"Aha! You lose!"
The others immediately leaned closer, muttering over their cards as they pushed a few silver coins into the middle. The performance was painfully unconvincing.
"You see?" Mundungus whispered. "They're sniffin' around. Lucky they probably didn't hear the first part."
Maurise understood immediately. Mentioning two hundred Galleons in a place like the Hog's Head was practically an invitation for trouble.
"It makes no difference," he said. If anyone felt inclined to rob him, they were welcome to try. The afternoon had been rather dull.
Mundungus stared at him for a moment before shrugging. The gold was already in his pocket; what happened afterward wasn't his problem.
Maurise stood and fetched himself another butterbeer. When he returned, he settled back into his chair. "Now," he said, "Nurmengard."
Mundungus scratched his head. "Truth be told... I don't know much. Just that Grindelwald's locked up there. As for the compass..." He rubbed his nose. "Bought it years ago from a shady dealer."
"You didn't steal it?"
Mundungus looked genuinely offended. "Me? A thief?"
Maurise simply looked at him. The silence answered the question. Fortunately, the compass either worked or it didn't; its previous owner was of little importance.
As their conversation continued, Maurise became aware of someone staring at them. He looked toward the bar. The landlord had woken, but he wasn't watching Maurise—his glare was fixed entirely on Mundungus.
'Interesting.'
Mundungus noticed it too. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, trying to hide behind Maurise. That alone was enough to confirm there was history between them.
Before Maurise could ask, the barman strode across the room, stopped beside the table, and slammed his fist onto it.
"Mundungus Fletcher!"
Mundungus winced. "Ah... you've mistaken me for somebody else."
"Don't insult my intelligence, you miserable little thief!" the barman barked. "I'd recognize that face anywhere. Twenty years ago I told you that if you ever walked back into my pub, I'd hex you through the wall."
Mundungus looked exhausted.
'Twenty years... and he's still angry?' Maurise watched with quiet interest. "What happened between you two?"
"What else?" the barman snapped. "He's a pickpocket." His wand was already in his hand. "Get out."
The tip began to glow. Without another word, Mundungus shot out of his chair.
"I'm goin'! No need for that!" He backed toward the door. "Mr. Black! If the compass gives you trouble, ask Frick! He knows where to find me!"
The sentence was barely finished before he disappeared into the falling snow. Maurise didn't bother stopping him; he already had what he came for.
The barman watched the door swing shut. "Bloody little rat." He slipped his wand away before turning to Maurise. "Next time, don't bring him into my pub."
"I wasn't aware he was banned."
"He knows perfectly well." The barman turned to leave, then stopped. "And you still owe me for your second butterbeer."
"Quite right."
Maurise walked to the counter and paid. As the coins disappeared into the till, the barman spoke again.
"I heard the name Grindelwald."
Maurise looked up. "We were discussing history."
"That's all?"
"That's all."
The barman folded his arms. "I don't think so."
Maurise smiled politely. "Eavesdropping is generally considered poor manners."
For the first time, the old man actually looked embarrassed, but only briefly. "Maybe," he admitted. "But Grindelwald isn't exactly an ordinary topic." He studied Maurise carefully. "So what were you discussing?"
Maurise offered a pleasant, entirely unhelpful smile. "I'm afraid that's a private matter."
With that, he picked up his briefcase, pushed open the crooked door, and stepped back into the snow. There was no reason whatsoever to explain his research to an irritable publican.
---
The streets of Hogsmeade were blanketed in fresh snow. Maurise wandered through the village without any particular hurry before eventually reaching the Three Broomsticks.
Unlike the Hog's Head, the pub was bursting with life. Students filled nearly every table, and laughter echoed through the room while Madam Rosmerta hurried between customers carrying overflowing trays of butterbeer.
Maurise scanned the crowd for an empty seat, but instead spotted a familiar figure: Mundungus Fletcher. The man had somehow beaten him there.
'Remarkably quick.'
Not only had he secured a table by the fireplace, he'd also changed into a cleaner set of robes. 'Trying to impress Madam Rosmerta, perhaps.'
Maurise walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder. Mundungus nearly jumped out of his seat.
"Oh! Mr. Black!"
"You recovered quickly."
"I thought you'd stay at the Hog's Head."
"I preferred a change of scenery." Maurise slid into the seat opposite him. "You seemed unusually frightened of the landlord."
"Frightened?" Mundungus scoffed. "Nah. Old Aberforth's just got a long memory." He waved a dismissive hand. "Can't help it if he refuses to let things go." Then he remembered something. "Oh! Introductions." He gestured toward the silent wizard beside him. "This is Caractacus. Knows more about rare magical artifacts than anyone I know."
The man slowly lifted his head. His face was thin, and his smile was thinner. Dark eyes studied Maurise without blinking.
'Birds of a feather.'
Maurise didn't need an introduction to know exactly what sort of company Mundungus kept. The resemblance wasn't physical; it was something in the eyes. The same hunger. The same desperation. The same unmistakable smell of a man who made his living in the shadows.