"Honestly," Maurise muttered, pausing to wipe a smudge from the base of a silver trophy inscribed First Annual Wizarding Dad Joke Competition. He looked up at the red-haired duo beside him. "Why can't we just use magic? Scourgify would have this done in seconds."
"Professor Flitwick calls this 'Reflective Labor,'" Fred said, spreading his hands in mock helplessness. "Besides, these trophies are hexed. Cleaning charms just slide right off them. Or make them scream. We learned that the hard way."
"Ah. That explains it."
Maurise didn't actually mind the manual labor. It was nothing compared to the chores back at the orphanage. He had grown quite accustomed to the smell of old polish and dust.
However, the sheer volume of silverware in the Trophy Room was frankly ridiculous. It covered several walls, floor to ceiling. Some of the awards were completely nonsensical.
Take the one in Maurise's hand, for instance. The Wizarding Dad Joke Competition.
He peered closer at the engraving. The winner's name was etched in elegant script: Lily Evans.
After nearly half an hour of vigorous scrubbing, the three of them tossed their rags into a bucket and slumped against the wall to catch their breath.
Fred turned his head, eyeing the younger Ravenclaw with a knowing grin. "Alright, Maurise. Spit it out. You didn't just track us down to help with our detention."
"I suspect," George added, nodding sagely, "that you are up to no good."
"I can't believe you hold such a low opinion of me," Maurise said, feigning a look of deep hurt before his expression shifted to one of curiosity. "I actually wanted to ask you two a rather peculiar question."
"Let's hear it." Fred and George leaned in, their interest piqued.
"I was wondering…" Maurise adopted a serious, academic tone. "Is there a way for a wizard to enter a state of extremely realistic, simulated death?"
"I don't mean simple unconsciousness or a sleeping charm," he clarified quickly. "I mean a state where both magical and physical inspections would identify the subject as deceased, yet the person could be revived based on a pre-set condition or time limit."
The twins exchanged a look.
"The Draught of Living Death," they said in perfect unison.
"The Draught of Living Death," Maurise repeated slowly. "A potion, then?"
"Spot on," Fred replied. "Also known as the Alihotsy Draught's evil cousin… no, wait, that's hysteria. Anyway, it's a potion so powerful it sends the drinker into a death-like slumber. Take a large enough dose, and your pulse becomes undetectable. Your skin goes cold and stiff. To the untrained eye, you've kicked the bucket. But in reality? Just a very, very deep nap."
George chipped in, "We've never brewed it ourselves, mind you. But a highly skilled wizard… say, Dumbledore or Snape… they might be able to tell the difference."
"I see." Maurise nodded thoughtfully.
He wasn't sure if the effects would be exactly what he needed, but it was certainly worth investigating.
Fred scratched his head, looking slightly baffled. "So, Maurise, why the sudden interest in macabre potions?"
"Just curiosity," Maurise smiled, though the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I want to know what dying feels like."
He wasn't lying. That was indeed one of his objectives.
The twins looked at each other again. This time, their eyes communicated a shared sentiment: We don't understand it, but we respect the madness.
Maurise was a first-year Ravenclaw, sure, but Ravenclaws were known for being a bit loony. Plus, this was the kid they had heard rumors about.
"Can you buy this potion in Diagon Alley?" Maurise asked. His finances were tight, but if it saved him brewing time, it might be worth the galleons.
Fred shook his head vigorously. "Not a chance. That isn't a common pepper-up potion, Maurise. The Draught of Living Death is a Ministry Class A Non-Tradable Substance. Buying or selling it requires special permits and a mountain of paperwork."
"I figured as much," Maurise sighed. "Do you know the recipe? Or the difficulty level?"
"All I know is that it involves Powdered Root of Asphodel and an infusion of Wormwood," Fred recited, looking proud of his retention of academic trivia. "It's mentioned in Magical Drafts and Potions, same textbook you have. But the actual brewing instructions? They're bound to be wickedly complex and dangerous. Definitely not something a first-year should be messing wi—"
Fred paused. He remembered who he was talking to.
This was the boy who reportedly kept an Acromantula, a giant, man-eating spider, as a casual bedroom pet.
He swallowed the rest of his sentence.
"Maybe try the library," George suggested, jumping in to save his brother from the awkward silence. "Standard Section might have it. If not, the Restricted Section definitely does. Good luck hunting."
"I'll take that under advisement. Thanks," Maurise said.
He pushed himself off the wall, intending to head straight for the library. He would have to stick to the Standard Section, of course. Getting a signed note for the Restricted Section from a professor was a tall order for a first-year student who hadn't even finished his first term.
"Hold on a minute," Fred called out.
"What is it?"
Maurise turned back, confused, just in time to catch a wet, gray rag that landed with a plap in his hands.
"At least help us finish the Quidditch Cup," Fred grinned wickedly. "We're a team, aren't we?"
By noon, having finally escaped the Trophy Room and eaten a quick lunch, Maurise made his way toward the library.
As he stepped out of the Great Hall, a black shape dropped from the eaves above, landing silently beside him. It wove between his legs, meowing insistently.
It was Tin.
The cat had been missing all morning. Its black fur was currently matted with grass stains, dirt, and some suspicious, glittering slime. Its head was soaking wet.
"Where have you been?" Maurise asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Meow."
Maurise sighed, pulling his wand. He cast three successive Scourgify charms on the animal before he deemed it clean enough to touch. He scooped the cat up into his arms.
Tin let out a satisfied purr, rubbing its head against Maurise's chin.
His pets had been elusive lately. Cinder, his other companion, usually returned at night, but Tin had been vanishing for days at a time. Maurise had no idea what kind of trouble the cat was getting into, or whose cauldron it had knocked over.
Holding the cat, Maurise approached the heavy double doors of the library.
He had barely taken a step inside when a severe-looking witch blocked his path. It was the librarian, Madam Pince. She looked like an underfed vulture.
Her eyes narrowed as they locked onto the bundle of black fur in Maurise's arms.
"Pets," she said, her voice like cracking parchment, "are strictly forbidden in the library."
"Understood, Madam."
Maurise didn't argue. He gently placed Tin on the stone floor outside the threshold.
The black cat, displaying a surprising amount of intelligence, head-butted the door open just a crack, gave Maurise a look, and then darted away down the corridor like a shadow, disappearing around a corner.
"Acceptable," Madam Pince said, offering a smile that looked physically painful. "You may enter. Remember… do not damage the books, and silence is mandatory."
This was Maurise's first proper visit to the Hogwarts library. He looked around, impressed. The room was cavernous, far larger than the castle's architecture should allow, clearly the work of an Undetectable Extension Charm.
Rows upon rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the dim distance. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, ink, and dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. It felt heavy with knowledge.
'Not a bad place to die', he thought idly, then corrected himself. 'Not a bad place to study.'
Because it was the weekend, the library was packed. Nearly every table was occupied by students hunched over rolls of parchment. The aisles were busy with traffic, mostly anxious fifth- and seventh-years preparing for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.
What caught Maurise's attention, however, was the roped-off area at the very back.
The Restricted Section.
Through the iron bars that separated the dangerous books from the general student body, Maurise spotted a familiar figure.
Robert Hilliard.
The Ravenclaw Prefect was standing in the shadows, engrossed in a tattered, leather-bound notebook. He seemed to sense eyes on him. He looked up, his gaze locking directly with Maurise's.
Robert paused for a moment, surprised. Then, a polite smile touched his lips. He closed the book, slipped through the iron gate, and walked over to where Maurise was standing.
"Good afternoon, Maurise," he said, his voice low and pleasant.
"Hello, Prefect Hilliard," Maurise replied.