"Impressive, isn't it?" Robert gestured to the towering shelves around them, a note of genuine house pride in his voice. "The Hogwarts library. Its collection is practically unrivaled in the entire wizarding world. You can find copies or original manuscripts here that simply don't exist anywhere else. Even the rarest texts."
"It is magnificent," Maurise replied honestly, his eyes scanning the spines of the nearest books. "I suspect I'll be spending a great deal of time here."
Robert smiled warmly. "Spoken like a true scholar. Every Ravenclaw loves this place... ah, but were you looking for something specific? If you need guidance, you only have to ask."
"Thank you, but I'm just browsing for now."
Maurise had no intention of voicing his true objective: the formula for the Draught of Living Death.
Asking a Prefect about a highly regulated, dangerous potion would be tantamount to painting a target on his back. It did not matter that Robert seemed decent or likely knew the recipe; discretion was the better part of valour.
His gaze drifted past the study tables to a formidable iron gate at the back of the room. "And that would be the Restricted Section?"
Just moments ago, as Robert had exited that very section, the gate had clicked shut and locked itself automatically.
"Correct," Robert confirmed.
Maurise paused for a beat before asking, casually, "Hypothetically, if one wanted to consult a book in the Restricted Section, what is the protocol?"
Robert gave him a surprised look. "You simply apply to a professor. As long as you have a justifiable reason, most staff members won't refuse. I'd recommend Professor Flitwick; he is our Head of House, after all."
"And if one lacks a... justifiable reason?" Maurise asked, his tone light.
Robert chuckled softly. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Then you come back at night. The gate isn't charmed against entry; it's a simple mechanical lock. A standard Unlocking Charm will do the trick. Also, try to aim for past midnight. Filch rarely bothers patrolling the library thoroughly after the clock strikes twelve."
Maurise looked at the older boy with mild astonishment.
It appeared their pristine Prefect was surprisingly well-versed in the art of breaking and entering. He was practically giving a tutorial.
"Don't look at me like that, Maurise," Robert said, shrugging his shoulders. "I have never snuck in, I assure you. I always have a signed note from a professor."
Maurise nodded, his expression neutral. Message received.
Just then, Madam Pince, the vulture-like librarian, emerged from the stacks. She fixed her sharp eyes on the older boy. "Mr. Hilliard, have you located the volume you require?"
"Yes, Madam."
"Then bring it to the desk for the register."
Before following the librarian, Robert turned back to Maurise and offered a playful wink. "Well then, Maurise. I do hope I don't hear about you losing house points for a midnight stroll in the library. Cheerio."
Maurise watched him walk away, fully understanding the subtext.
Robert was warning him. Yet, Maurise also realized something else.
Robert Hilliard was not a man who blindly followed rules.
'Just like me', Maurise thought.
"Interesting fellow."
With that thought filed away, Maurise turned on his heel and disappeared into the labyrinth of bookshelves.
For the next week, Maurise existed almost exclusively within the library walls, save for his mandatory attendance in class.
He was not in a desperate rush to find the Draught of Living Death. While he chipped away at that goal, he allowed himself the luxury of devouring other subjects. The library was vast, covering every conceivable topic, including recent essays and poetry collections published by contemporary wizards.
As he had told Robert, he genuinely loved reading. This place was dangerous, yes, but it was also a paradise. He sank into the rhythm of study easily.
Consequently, his progress on the specific potion recipe was slow.
Outside of his academic pursuits, he had paid a brief visit to Hagrid to inquire about the aftermath of the incident in the Forbidden Forest.
According to the gamekeeper, the centaur herd felt terribly guilty about what had happened and wished to offer a formal apology. Maurise, however, rejected the proposal immediately. He harboured zero goodwill toward the horse-men and suspected their "apology" might be a trap.
He did ask about the centaur named Bane. Apparently, it had taken the creature a full week to recover from the injuries Maurise had inflicted.
Regarding that news, Maurise had only one thought: He deserved it.
Mid-September. Saturday. Midnight.
Maurise sat in his dormitory, having just completed a three-hour meditation session.
"It's time."
He changed into dark, non-restrictive clothing and carefully secured his wand at his waist. Like a spectre, he slipped out of the dormitory door.
The castle was bathed in cold moonlight. Silver beams cut through the high windows, creating pale, geometric scars on the stone floor. The common room was deserted, the silence broken only by the wind whistling against the glass and the distant hoot of an owl.
Destination: The Restricted Section.
Tonight, he hoped to find information on the Draught of Living Death, or perhaps an alternative method of inducing a death-like state. He had been curious about what lay behind that iron gate for too long.
He felt ready. He could now cast his Umbral Walk spell without a vocal incantation. Even if things went south... say, a face-to-face encounter with Filch... he could easily escape. Unless the caretaker could also dissolve into the darkness, Maurise was safe.
Combined with a week's worth of reconnaissance on the castle's patrol patterns, his confidence was high.
Leaving the dungeons, Maurise avoided the Grand Staircase with its chattering portraits. Instead, he took a neglected corridor in the North Tower, successfully navigating his way to the library's double doors.
The vast room was empty and silent. He walked straight to the iron gate of the Restricted Section.
He stared at the lock, and a sudden, rather embarrassing realization hit him.
Robert had said a simple Unlocking Charm would suffice.
However... Maurise did not know the Unlocking Charm.
It was a first-year spell, yes, but he had focused all his energy on darker, more obscure arts. He had completely neglected the basics.
Fortunately, he had other ways to bypass a physical barrier.
Shadow Form.
He didn't speak the words. He simply willed it. A viscous, ink-like darkness surged up from the floor, wrapping around him. His physical form twisted, blurred, and vanished.
When he materialized again, he was standing on the other side of the gate.
"Phew."
Maurise exhaled sharply. Moving through the shadow realm was physically exhausting; the sensation was akin to dragging a heavy corpse while swimming underwater.
But he was in. No alarms. No screaming books.
Now, to business.
As he ventured deeper into the Restricted Section, holding his wand aloft for light, Maurise discovered something unexpected. Hidden behind a row of books on darker curses was a narrow, descending staircase.
A basement level?
Curiosity piqued, he descended. The stairs were short, barely a dozen steps.
The room below was modest in size. It mirrored the library above with its high shelves and heavy wooden tables, but everything here felt ancient. The scent of decaying parchment and dust was thick enough to taste.
But the décor was not the problem.
The problem was that the room was occupied.
Leaning against the far wall was an old man. He was tall and thin, with a jagged scar running across his neck. His grey hair was a bird's nest of tangles, and his robes were stained with fresh mud. In his hand, he held an open book.
The two stared at each other. The air in the room seemed to solidify.
"Right then," Maurise said, his voice steady despite his heart hammering against his ribs. He adopted a tone of polite confusion. "Good evening. Terrible mistake. Didn't know anyone was here. Goodbye."
He took a smooth step backward, fully intending to turn around, walk up the stairs, and pretend this timeline never happened.
Just walk away. Nothing to see here.
Unfortunately, the old man had other ideas.
"Wait!"
Maurise froze. He could feel the man's gaze boring into his back, sharp as a tack.