Snape flipped through the notebook in silence, his expression unreadable. The quiet in the dungeon office stretched on for so long that Maurise finally felt compelled to speak.
"Is something the matter, Professor?"
To Maurise, the notebook was nothing extraordinary. It was merely a chaotic collection of his stream-of-consciousness thoughts, doubts, and theories regarding Potions. He knew exactly where his skills lay, or rather, where they did not. He assumed that to a Potions Master of Snape's caliber, the scribblings therein were likely not even worth the paper they were written on.
Snape finally lifted his head from the pages, fixing Maurise with a look of profound complexity. He remained silent for another few seconds, seeming to weigh his next words as if they were volatile ingredients.
"Your questions are excessive, Mr. Black," Snape finally said, his voice stiff and devoid of warmth. "And the vast majority of them are entirely pointless."
Maurise shrugged, unfazed. "They were just stray thoughts I jotted down."
"Give me your quill," Snape commanded abruptly.
"Oh. Right." Maurise handed over his quill, watching with mild curiosity.
Snape took the quill without explanation. He flipped to the very back of the notebook, finding a blank page, and began to write with sharp, aggressive strokes.
A minute later, he shoved the notebook and quill back toward Maurise.
Maurise looked down. The once-blank page now bore a neat, slanted list of over a dozen book titles. Every single one of them was related to Potions theory and brewing. Snape's handwriting, Maurise noted, was spiky but elegant.
"This is..."
"Read them. All of them," Snape said, his voice dropping to a low, silky drone. "From top to bottom. The first five are foundational; the rest cover advanced theory. Just so you are aware, I had finished reading all of these by the time I completed my first year."
Snape sneered slightly. "If, after devouring that library, you still harbor questions, you may return to my office."
"Thank you," Maurise said sincerely. "You're a good man, Professor."
Snape froze. The compliment seemed to hang in the air like a bad smell. He looked as though he suspected Maurise was mocking him.
A good man?
Hardly.
This was merely the basic obligation of an educator. Nothing more.
Snape gave a stiff, almost imperceptible nod and narrowed his eyes. "If you truly wish to... emulate me, as you claim, then pay attention in my class. Furthermore, do not waste your breath discussing irrelevant matters with Mr. Potter. His affairs concern you not in the slightest."
Maurise blinked, realizing that Snape must have overheard his earlier conversation with Harry and Ron. There was a distinct edge of malice when Snape pronounced Harry's surname, a grinding of teeth that suggested a hatred far deeper than simple teacher-student animosity.
However, Maurise had no intention of prying. That was, after all, none of his business.
Later that afternoon in the library, Maurise broke the tragic news to Harry and Ron.
When Ron realized that the supply of "borrowable" homework had been cut off by decree of the Dungeon Bat, he looked as though the sky had physically collapsed upon his head.
"Merlin's saggy left sock!" Ron groaned, putting his head in his hands. "What am I supposed to do? Who else is going to let me copy their essay?"
"You could try writing it yourself," Maurise suggested lightly.
"I will not surrender to tyranny!"
"Well... whatever makes you happy."
Maurise really didn't understand Ron's resistance. It was just an essay. Was the mental anguish of avoiding the work really worth more than the effort of actually doing it? He looked over at Harry, who, to his credit, had already resigned himself to fate and was flipping through Magical Drafts and Potions. That was the look of a man who knew when he was beaten.
"You really ought to do your own work, Weasley."
A sharp voice cut through their pity party.
Ron glared up, his face souring instantly. "Nobody asked you, Granger."
Hermione stood before their table, clutching a book so thick it could be used as a bludgeoning weapon. Her chin was raised in defiance. "It does concern me, Weasley. If certain Gryffindors lose us a mountain of house points because they're too lazy to pick up a quill, I have to work twice as hard to earn them back."
"Nobody's lost any points yet, have they?" Ron shot back. "Stop meddling."
Hermione ignored him completely, turning her gaze toward Maurise's seat. "Copying is dishonest. It's disrespectful to the professors, and I simply cannot stand by and watch you all slide into academic ruin. Don't you agree, Maurise?"
She waited for the voice of reason to back her up.
Silence answered her.
The chair was empty.
Somewhere in the chaos of the argument, Maurise had performed a vanishing act worthy of a seventh-year.
Hermione blinked, stunned. "Where..."
"Er," Harry chimed in helpfully, "if you're looking for Maurise, he sort of... slipped away while you two were discussing things. He muttered something about finding books."
Harry pointed toward the towering rows of shelves behind them.
Deep in the stacks, Maurise was currently balancing on a ladder, stretching to reach a volume on the highest shelf, blissfully unaware, or perhaps blissfully ignoring, the drama he had left behind.
Back at the table, Ron puffed out his chest, seizing upon this as a victory. "See? You're wrong, Granger. Maurise is my mate. He didn't stop me because he's willing to let me copy! He said so himself!"
Harry felt that this wasn't exactly something to announce to the whole library, but he kept his mouth shut.
Hermione's face flushed pink, a mix of embarrassment and indignation. She stomped her foot. "Fine! I don't care! Do whatever you want!"
She spun on her heel and marched off toward the other side of the library, her bushy hair practically vibrating with rage.
Harry and Ron exchanged a look.
"Is she mad?" Ron asked, genuinely bewildered. "Over that?"
"It certainly looks that way," Harry nodded.
"Hang on," Ron frowned. "I'm the one who should be mad. She started it!"
Meanwhile, Maurise was methodically working his way through Snape's reading list. His plan was to check out as many as possible and retreat to the dormitory. The library was fine, but the solitude of his room was far superior for actual study.
He rounded a corner, arms full of books, and nearly collided with a very angry witch.
"Oh," Maurise said calmly. "I take it the debate is over."
He had, of course, noticed the squabble. He simply had zero interest in mediating a quarrel between children. It seemed incredibly tedious.
Hermione stared at Maurise's tranquil expression. His complete lack of concern reignited the anger she had been trying to suppress.
"Maurise," she said coldly. "As his friend, shouldn't you stop Weasley from cheating? You know he's in the wrong."
"Is he?" Maurise adjusted the stack of books in his arms. "Unfortunately, I cannot force Ron to change his nature. Ron knows copying is lazy, but that is his choice to make. I choose to respect his right to make bad decisions."
To Maurise, free will was paramount. If Ron asked for help to learn, Maurise would tutor him for hours. But if Ron wanted to find a shortcut? That was Ron's business. Maurise would offer advice, but he wouldn't force compliance.
"Ah, there it is."
Before Hermione could retort, Maurise's eyes lit up. He spotted a dark brown spine on the top shelf.
Advanced Potion Making.
It was the penultimate book on Snape's list.
He set his stack down, climbed the ladder, and retrieved the heavy tome. Once back on solid ground, he looked at Hermione, who was still standing there, her expression a complicated mix of frustration and confusion.
"I still have a few more to find," Maurise said. "Goodbye, Hermione."
He took a step away, then paused. He turned back, offering one final piece of observation.
"You know, if you actually want to make friends, you might want to stop lecturing people. Very few people besides me have the patience to tolerate it."
"I do not lecture!" Hermione denied instantly, her voice rising in pitch.
"Perhaps," Maurise said noncommittally. He didn't argue. He simply nodded and walked toward the next aisle.
'Talking too much', he decided, 'was a great way to make people dislike you.' He preferred to maintain his distance. He liked to think he was quite good at handling interpersonal relationships.
(He was wrong, of course, but he was happy in his ignorance.)