Maurise leaned back in his chair, nursing a casual conversation with the two men across the worn table. It hadn't taken him long to deduce that Mundungus's glowing description of Caractacus's lucrative "antiquities business" was just a polite euphemism for professional tomb raiding.
This Caractacus fellow was apparently quite the legend in the underground scene. He made his living exclusively cracking open ancient, heavily warded wizarding crypts across Europe.
According to Mundungus, who was practically drooling with unadulterated envy as he told the story, Caractacus had spent last summer infiltrating a lethal crypt in southern France. He'd made off with a pristine set of cursed, solid silver ritualistic tools that fetched an absolute fortune on the black market.
Maurise found the entire discussion fascinating. After all, professional tomb raiding—or, rather, magical archaeology—was high on his list of viable post-graduation career paths.
"Maurise?"
The sharp, authoritative snap of a familiar voice cut through the pub's ambient chatter. Maurise turned his head. Sitting at a large table just a few paces away was Professor McGonagall, glaring a hole directly through him. She was flanked by a few other faculty members, including Professor Flitwick, who was cheerfully waving a half-eaten roll at him. The table was laden with drinks and pub food; the faculty was clearly taking advantage of the Hogsmeade weekend.
"I'll be right back," Maurise told Mundungus casually. He stood up and strolled over to the staff table, his demeanor entirely unbothered. "Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall. Did you need me for something?"
McGonagall didn't even look at him. Her stern gaze remained locked on the shady booth he'd just vacated. "Who, exactly, were you just talking to?"
"A casual acquaintance," Maurise said smoothly.
"An acquaintance?" McGonagall's lips thinned into a severe line. "I know that man, Maurise. That is Mundungus Fletcher. He is a notorious con artist, a pickpocket, and a petty criminal."
Maurise raised an eyebrow. 'Wow. Even the Hogwarts staff recognizes him on sight? The man really needs to work on his stealth.'
McGonagall finally fixed him with a highly critical stare. "Are you quite sure he is the sort of individual you wish to associate with?"
"Oh, yes," Maurise shrugged. "Please, don't worry yourself, Professor. I'm well aware that Mr. Fletcher is a morally bankrupt individual."
He stated the fact with such chilling, deadpan sincerity that McGonagall was temporarily struck speechless.
Professor Flitwick coughed politely into his fist to break the silence. "It is generally a bad idea to mix with criminal elements, Maurise. But... well, I trust you have the judgment to avoid any trouble."
"You have absolutely nothing to worry about," Maurise smiled faintly.
McGonagall let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. This particular student was a walking administrative migraine. His grades were flawless, but his pragmatism bordered on the ruthless, making it practically impossible to guess what he was plotting on any given day.
Remembering a piece of paperwork, she shifted the topic. "Maurise, I noticed you didn't apply to stay at the castle for the Christmas holidays. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Maurise nodded. "I have a few pressing personal matters to attend to."
"Then I must remind you," she said, her tone slipping right back into its strict, academic cadence, "that underage magic outside school grounds is strictly forbidden."
"Understood, Professor."
The holidays arrived with rapid punctuality. But when the Hogwarts Express blew its cheerful whistle and trundled back to London, Maurise wasn't on it. Instead, he had navigated his massive Ship in a Bottle to a secluded, snow-choked clearing deep in the treacherous mountains surrounding Hogsmeade.
For the first few days, he barely left the ship. It was cozy, and the interior was kitted out with every modern Muggle amenity imaginable. He'd even installed a television in the main parlor.
Unfortunately, the ambient magical field generated by the ship's core severely scrambled the electronics. The TV only worked if he flew the vessel deep into Muggle territory, far from any magical interference. It was a logistical headache, but hardly the end of the world.
Christmas morning dawned bright and bitterly cold. Maurise rolled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and walked barefoot across the magically heated floorboards toward the parlor.
Outside the reinforced glass portholes, the view was spectacular. Endless, jagged peaks covered in pristine snow stretched to the horizon, glowing pale gold in the dawn light. He was currently hovering somewhere in an uncharted mountain range in Central Europe.
As for why he was here...
He looked down at the coffee table. Resting on the polished wood was the expensive enchanted parchment compass he'd bought from Mundungus. Two days ago, it had successfully guided him to this general airspace before suffering a catastrophic meltdown. Currently, the inked needle was spinning in violent, endless circles like a broken fan, and the elegant 'Nurmengard' calligraphy in the corner had completely vanished.
'The bloody thing is broken,' Maurise thought.
The longer he stared at it, the more annoyed he became. He decided he would give the search exactly one more morning. If he didn't find the castle by noon, he was going to abandon the trip, track down Mundungus Fletcher, hang him by his ankles, and beat a full refund out of him.
'Never trust a man who smells like stale tobacco and stolen silver.'
Sighing heavily, Maurise shoved the useless parchment into his pocket and headed up the wooden stairs to the main deck.
Outside the glass, it was freezing, but the ship's climate-control charms kept the deck perfectly comfortable. He leaned against the railing, taking in the alpine scenery.
'At least the view is nice.'
"Resume propulsion," Maurise ordered aloud.
Resting heavily on top of the glass bottle, the colossal Bone Dragon shook its skeletal wings, sending a localized avalanche of snow plummeting into the valley below. It lumbered forward, clamped its massive jaws around the enchanted tow rope attached to the bottle's neck, and launched itself into the freezing air.
With the mountains rolling steadily past, Maurise set up a brass cauldron on the deck to kill time. He liked to keep his inventory stocked. Today, it was a concentrated Stamina Draught. One sip, and physical fatigue vanished for twenty-four hours. Efficient.
The morning ticked by. Just as the sun reached its peak, the massive ship suddenly lurched to a halt.
Maurise looked up from his bubbling cauldron. Sitting in an isolated, jagged valley directly below them was a colossal, menacing tower made entirely of black stone. It was completely cut off from the rest of the world.
He pulled the broken parchment from his pocket. The needle had finally stopped spinning. It was locked in place, pointing straight down at the black tower.
"Well, I'll be," Maurise muttered.
Honestly, he hadn't expected to find it. Searching for a magically concealed fortress in the Alps was statistically identical to looking for a needle in an ocean.
'Must be my lucky day.'
He gave a sharp whistle. The Bone Dragon immediately angled downward, gently lowering the heavy glass vessel to the valley floor.
Minutes later, Maurise was standing in front of the intimidating entrance of Nurmengard Castle. The architecture was aggressively grim. The tower stretched impossibly high, and every lower window was permanently sealed with thick iron plates. The only way in was a pair of massive, iron-bound wooden doors.
Carved into the stone archway above was a cheerful little political slogan: For the Greater Good.
Oddly enough, the place was entirely devoid of life. There were no guards, no visible defensive wards, no footprints in the snow. It looked completely abandoned.
Maurise walked up and shoved the wooden doors. Nothing. He drew his wand and fired off a rapid sequence of highly advanced unlocking charms. Still nothing.
'No physical guards, but the locks are certainly up to code,' he mused.
Maurise smiled.
"Shath... Môr... Keth." (Umbral Walk)
His physical form instantly dissolved into a pool of inky, liquid shadow. He slid smoothly across the freezing stone, slipped effortlessly through the millimeter-wide gap beneath the doors, and reformed on the other side, bypassing the impenetrable barrier completely.
'Gets them every time.'