"Turn around, lad."
The old man's voice was calm, betraying neither anger nor amusement.
In the fraction of a second following the command, Maurise ran a rapid mental simulation of his current escape vectors. The probability of success was dismally low. Appearing in the Restricted Section at this hour meant the old man standing behind him was almost certainly a Hogwarts professor.
He had zero confidence in his ability to outrun a faculty member. Furthermore, considering he had been staring directly at the shelf, his face had likely been seen in high definition.
Logic dictated surrender. Maurise obediently, and quite honestly, turned around.
It was rotten luck, really. The very first time he decided to infiltrate the Restricted Section, he stumbled into a staff member.
He surreptitiously sized up the old man.
The wizard was smiling at him, his expression not one of stern discipline, but of genuine intrigue.
"No need to be so tense, child," the old man said, beckoning to Maurise with a cheerful wave. "Come a little closer. I assure you, I have no intention of broadcasting your late-night excursion to the rest of the school."
His tone was gentle, the sort one might use to coax a frightened puffskein out from under a sofa.
"Thank you, sir," Maurise replied politely, stepping forward into the pool of lantern light.
It seemed he had encountered one of the more lenient professors. A wave of relief washed over him. Had this been Professor McGonagall, he would currently be minus fifty points and looking down the barrel of a month's detention scrubbing bedpans in the Hospital Wing.
He allowed his shoulders to relax slightly, though he kept his guard up. The old man looked kindly enough, but a professor lurking in the Restricted Section's basement well past midnight was inherently suspicious.
"Good, very polite," the old man nodded with satisfaction, snapping the heavy book in his hands shut. "Now, let's discuss the matter at hand. You look to be a first-year student. What brings a first-year to the bowels of the library in the dead of night?"
The question was direct. Maurise decided the answer should be equally direct.
"I was simply curious about the contents of the books here, sir."
The old man hummed, looking Maurise up and down appraisingly. "Ravenclaw? Or Gryffindor? I'm willing to wager it's the former. And tell me your name, lad."
"Maurise Black, sir. Ravenclaw, first year," Maurise replied dutifully. There was no point in concealing his identity now.
"Oho! I knew it! Ravenclaw!" The old man's eyes lit up, and he leaned forward conspiratorially. "You likely don't know me yet. I am Silvanus Kettleburn. You may call me Professor Kettleburn. Or, if you're feeling particularly informal, Silvanus will do just fine. Ha!"
"My apologies, Professor Kettleburn. What subject do you teach?" Maurise asked. He hadn't yet encountered this name in his current curriculum.
"Care of Magical Creatures!" Kettleburn's voice swelled with pride, before he gave a nonchalant shrug. "Though, it is a pity. First-year brats like yourself aren't allowed in my paddock yet. You'll have to wait until your third year for the pleasure."
Maurise's gaze drifted to the Professor's left side. It was hard to miss. The arm was unnatural, a wooden prosthetic.
Noticing Maurise staring at his left arm, Kettleburn didn't hide it. Instead, he laughed heartily, raising the wooden limb between them like a trophy.
"Seven years ago," he explained with the enthusiasm of a man recounting a great holiday, "a young Hebridean Black dragon decided this arm would make a fantastic chew toy."
He beamed. "But don't worry about her. She's doing marvelously at the reserve now. I heard she became a mother last year. Lovely creature."
Maurise looked at the beaming Professor Kettleburn and found himself at a loss for words.
Professor, I think the one we should be worried about is you, not the fire-breathing reptile that ate your limb, he thought.
He cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation back to reality. "Speaking of which, Professor, I'm surprised to see anyone else here. Is the Restricted Section open to faculty at all hours?"
Kettleburn blinked, looking suddenly confused. "What time is it?"
"Approximately twelve-thirty, sir."
At Maurise's reply, silence descended upon the basement. A look of sheer panic flitted across Kettleburn's face. Even for a professor, lingering here this late was dangerous territory. Madam Pince, the librarian, possessed a wrath that frightened even the staff.
Getting too absorbed in research was a dangerous habit.
There must be a specific reason he's here, Maurise thought, though he knew better than to pry.
His eyes fell back to the book in Kettleburn's hand. In the dim lantern light, the gilded title on the cover gleamed softly:
[The Most Reasonable Methods for Dissecting a Swallow-Tailed Hound (Illustrated)]
Maurise unconsciously read the title aloud.
It sounded surprisingly mundane. It seemed to be a veterinary medical text. It hardly fit the sinister reputation of the Restricted Section; he had expected something involving soul-flaying or cursing one's enemies with boils.
However, mundane or not, it piqued his interest. He just so happened to possess the skeleton of a Swallow-Tailed Hound.
Or rather, he possessed a box of bones that allegedly belonged to one. The skeleton was currently lying in pieces in his trunk, a chaotic puzzle he had yet to solve.
"Professor," Maurise ventured, "that book you're holding... might I take a look? I have a bit of an interest in Swallow-Tailed Hounds."
"Oh?" Kettleburn looked surprised, his eyebrows shooting up. "And what sparks that interest, pray tell?"
Maurise sensed the Professor's mood shift from friendly to genuinely excited. It was the look of a hobbyist who had just found someone who spoke their obscure language.
Maurise hesitated slightly before replying. "Over the summer holidays, I purchased an anatomical skeletal model of a Swallow-Tailed Hound. Unfortunately, the seller sent me a box of loose bone fragments and neglected to include the assembly instructions."
"A skeletal model?" Kettleburn paused.
That was certainly a niche hobby for an eleven-year-old.
While Kettleburn knew practically everything about the behavior and diet of the Swallow-Tailed Hound, he had to admit his knowledge of their internal architecture was purely functional rather than academic.
He handed the book to Maurise. "There is a diagram of the complete skeletal structure at the very back of the book. It should serve as a decent reference. However..."
He paused, his expression turning serious. "I strongly suggest you skip the earlier chapters."
The suggestion was ignored immediately.
Maurise took the book and flipped it open. A quick browse confirmed exactly why this volume was restricted.
Aside from a few paragraphs of text, the pages were filled with moving illustrations. It was a comprehensive, high-definition record of the dissection of a Swallow-Tailed Hound corpse. The methodology was brutal, the visuals visceral.
For a standard first-year student, it was nightmare fuel.
Fortunately, Maurise was an adult mentally, and a bit of animated gore wasn't going to ruin his night.
He flipped to the end, finally locating the skeletal diagram Kettleburn had mentioned.
After a few moments of study, Maurise determined that with this diagram, the pile of bones in his trunk could finally be resurrected.
His eyes darted rapidly between the page and the mental image of the fragments in his memory. The curvature of the skull, the number of cervical vertebrae, the connection points of the thoracic cage, the unique inclination of the pelvis...
"It's perfect," he muttered, unable to suppress his admiration.
While Maurise lost himself in the anatomical chart, Professor Kettleburn watched him quietly.
How to put it? The boy was strange.
Most first-years, even the bookish Ravenclaws, would turn pale at the sight of a forbidden book filled with dynamic dissection imagery.
But look at this child, Maurise Black.
He looked like a toddler who had just been handed a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. His eyes were practically glowing.