Maurise had to admit, the statement left him genuinely floored.
He took a moment to steady his nerves before pressing for clarification. "Kill you… what exactly do you mean by that, Professor?"
Unless his eyes were deceiving him, Cuthbert Binns was already a bona fide, translucent, pearl white ghost. By all the laws of magic and nature, a ghost was merely the imprint of a departed soul. How does one go about killing something that has already died?
He needed a much clearer explanation.
Professor Binns seemed to have anticipated this reaction. The ghost floated slightly higher, stroking his spectral beard with a hand that shimmered like mist. His voice was uncharacteristically steady, lacking its usual droning quality.
"I assume you are aware, my boy, that not all the dead become ghosts," Binns began, his tone lucid. "Remaining behind is usually a choice made by the soul. However, my situation is… unique. To explain fully, we would have to go back to the very founding of Hogwarts. But to put it simply, I did not choose this existence. I was cursed into this state."
The ghost's eyes, usually vacant, held a profound sadness. "And the worst part of this curse is that spirits of my variety cannot simply choose to move on. I cannot end it myself."
Maurise nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place.
Forced into existence by a curse. That was indeed a tragic fate. To be denied even the release of the afterlife, trapped endlessly grading papers on Goblin Rebellions.
Maurise reached out, attempting to touch the Professor's arm, but as expected, his fingers passed straight through the freezing mist of Binns's robe. It was common knowledge that the living could not physically grasp a ghost, let alone kill one.
However, Maurise was not just an ordinary student. He was a Necromancer. If anyone could eventually figure out how to unravel the threads binding a soul to the mortal coil, it was him.
"If there is no terrible cost to be paid on my end," Maurise said, his helpful nature shining through, "then I would be more than happy to assist you, Professor."
Hearing the affirmative reply, Binns smiled, his eyes crinkling in a way Maurise had never seen during a lecture.
"Thank you," the ghost sighed with relief. "Of course, this is a matter for the future. It may take years, perhaps decades. You may never achieve it in my time or yours. But the hope is enough."
"I will do my best," Maurise promised earnestly.
Professor Binns made a motion to pat Maurise on the shoulder. Though his hand passed right through, sending a shiver down the boy's spine, the sentiment was felt.
"If you truly succeed, Maurise," Binns whispered conspiratorially, leaning in closer. "When you manage to break this curse and allow me to finally rest… I shall leave you a surprise. Consider it your compensation."
"A surprise?" Maurise blinked. "What sort of surprise?"
"If I told you, it would hardly be a surprise, now would it?" A glint of cunning flashed in the ghost's eyes, making him look startlingly alive for a moment. "You will just have to wait and see."
Maurise opened his mouth to ask more, but Binns suddenly waved a hand, grimacing.
"That will have to do. Speaking this clearly… it gives me a splitting headache. I cannot maintain this state for long."
"Goodbye, Maurise."
As the final syllable left his lips, the intelligence and emotion drained from the ghost's face instantly. It was like watching a candle being snuffed out. The vivid personality vanished, replaced by the vacant, glassy eyed stare of the history drone everyone knew.
"Professor Binns?" Maurise waved a hand in front of the spectre's face.
The ghost merely gave a stiff, mechanical nod, turned, and drifted straight through the blackboard, vanishing into the stone wall behind it.
Maurise stood alone in the empty classroom, feeling a bit helpless.
He realized then that the History of Magic professor possessed two distinct faces. One was the teaching machine, devoid of emotion, running a perpetual script about goblin wars. The other was the entity he had just spoken with, an emotional, gentle soul that reminded him of a kind grandfather trapped in a glass jar.
What a truly peculiar ghost.
The secret pact with a thousand year old spirit did not disrupt Maurise's daily routine.
In the blink of an eye, a week had passed, and Maurise had experienced every first year course Hogwarts had to offer.
The curriculum consisted of eight subjects: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, History of Magic, and Flying.
Charms was taught by the diminutive Professor Flitwick, whom Maurise had met previously. The man was undeniably powerful. Maurise's pet cat, Tin, had once attempted to use Flitwick's mustache as a scratching post. Maurise swore he had not ordered the attack. Before the cat's claws could even make contact, Flitwick had hit the feline with a Stunning Spell so fast that Maurise had not even seen the wand move.
Astronomy and Defence Against the Dark Arts were less impressive. The former involved simply staring at cold stars in a drafty tower, while the latter was a disaster. Professor Quirrell did nothing but stutter through textbook passages. It was pointless torture, somehow even more boring than History of Magic.
The only saving grace was that no one could fall asleep in Quirrell's class. The overwhelming stench of garlic ensured everyone remained wide awake and watering at the eyes.
Potions, however, caught Maurise's full attention.
Ideally, potion making was a precise art. Maurise had only brewed once, but he was already hooked. The process of preparing ingredients, crushing, slicing, juicing, and mixing them in strict sequences to achieve a definitive result was deeply satisfying. The logic and control required fascinated him.
Then there was Professor Severus Snape. He was a harsh man who offered criticism and sarcasm with the generosity of a monsoon, sparing no one. Yet, Maurise did not hate him. Snape radiated an aura of terrifying competence, particularly with those dark, piercing eyes that seemed to catalogue your sins.
Though, for reasons Maurise could not fathom, Snape seemed to have a personal vendetta against Harry Potter. He looked at the Boy Who Lived less like a student and more like a generational enemy.
September 7th, Saturday.
This marked Maurise's first weekend at Hogwarts.
First years were not permitted to leave the castle grounds, unlike the third years who could visit Hogsmeade village. Fortunately, a castle full of magic offered plenty of distractions.
Maurise took the opportunity to wander the corridors, though he was not merely sightseeing.
As he walked, his mind chewed over a new discovery from his Grimoire of Magi. A spell, or rather a ritual array, known as the Door Between Worlds.
His intuition screamed that this magic circle was significant, something he needed to master. The problem lay in the activation requirements.
It required the user to be in a state of death.
Maurise had no immediate plans to die. Therefore, utilizing this magic would require a workaround.
Specifically, a state of suspended animation or feigned death.
Magic, by definition, was the art of making the impossible possible. If ghosts could walk through walls and pictures could talk, simulating a precise state of biological death without actually crossing the veil did not seem entirely far fetched.
Having settled on a plan, Maurise decided he needed accomplices, or at least consultants who knew their way around rule breaking and experimental magic.
His list of friends was short, which made the choice easy.
He headed for the Trophy Room. He had heard through the grapevine that two red headed troublemakers were serving detention there under Filch's watchful eye.
The moment he stepped into the room, he spotted them. Fred and George Weasley, he still could not tell which was which, were crouched on the floor, polishing silver cups with zero dignity.
One of the twins was currently trying to smear a glob of silver polish onto the other's nose, while his target dodged with practiced agility.
"Oi, look who it is!" One of them looked up, his eyes lighting up with mischief. "You actually came to visit? That's true loyalty, Maurise."
"Grab a rag, mate," the other grinned. "Don't just stand there."
Before Maurise could even ask his question about feigning death, a polishing cloth was thrust into his hand.
And just like that, Maurise found himself scrubbing a plaque from 1971.