For Maurise, teaching Neville a few spells to deal with Malfoy was no trouble at all. Earning a favor while simultaneously causing a headache for Draco Malfoy? Why wouldn't he? So, Maurise simply began coaching Neville right there in the courtyard.
According to Neville himself, his talent for spellcasting was abysmal. He claimed that even attempting a basic Levitation Charm on a feather usually resulted in a spontaneous, fiery explosion. Yet, under Maurise's watchful eye, it only took Neville twenty minutes to successfully master the Jelly-Legs Jinx.
"And this is what you call terrible at magic?" Maurise asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"I... I really don't know," Neville muttered, staring blankly at the wand in his hand.
He hadn't expected it to go so smoothly either. For some inexplicable reason, Maurise gave off a uniquely reliable aura. Under the older boy's patient guidance, Neville actually pronounced the incantation perfectly, and his hands entirely stopped shaking. Naturally, the spell was a success.
"Neville," Maurise said, looking him dead in the eye. "You might just be a spellcasting genius."
A genius!?
The word struck like a thunderbolt, leaving Neville completely stunned. This was the very first time anyone had ever called him that. His jaw dropped. He stared at Maurise as if the boy were speaking fluent Gobbledegook.
Snapping back to reality, Neville waved his hands frantically. "I'm no genius! I still can't even get the Levitation Charm right!"
"Trust me, you are," Maurise chuckled.
What a silly kid. It was just a casual compliment, yet Neville's smile was so wide it almost split his face.
Exaggerations aside, the Jelly-Legs Jinx was objectively trickier than the Levitation Charm. The fact that Neville mastered it in a mere twenty minutes of practice proved his innate talent was far from poor. His previous inability to cast spells reliably was likely just a miserable cocktail of zero confidence and extreme anxiety. After all, magic in this world relied heavily on a wizard's willpower and belief.
"That wand in your hand... it isn't yours, is it?" Maurise suddenly asked. He had noticed distinct, erratic fluctuations in the magical flow when Neville cast the spell.
Neville nodded, his eyes dimming slightly. "It's my dad's wand. He left it to me."
Maurise looked puzzled. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're from a pure-blood wizarding family. Are you guys short on Galleons?"
Even a kid like Maurise, who grew up in a Muggle orphanage, had a brand-new wand. This was genuinely baffling.
"No, no!" Neville shook his head rapidly. "It's not about the money. My Gran insisted I use my dad's wand... and I really like it, too."
"Well, the wand doesn't like you," Maurise sighed. "Your past failures have a lot to do with using a wand that hasn't chosen you. If you want my advice, go to Diagon Alley and get a new one."
"But..." Neville instinctively tightened his grip on the polished wood, looking terribly torn.
"Of course, that's just a suggestion. It's fine if you insist on keeping it." Maurise quickly pivoted, wanting to build up Neville's confidence rather than tear it down. "Forget the wand for now. Didn't you just nail the Jelly-Legs Jinx? That proves your raw talent is strong enough to brute-force its way past a mismatched wand."
Maurise placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are a genius, Neville! If you don't believe me, try the Levitation Charm right now."
Neville was thoroughly hyped up by Maurise's pep talk. Taking a deep breath, he locked his eyes on a stray twig near his feet and shouted, "Wingardium Leviosa!"
A precise swish and flick. A clear incantation. The twig lifted off the ground and hovered steadily in mid-air.
Neville stared unblinkingly at the floating twig, then down at his wand, and finally turned to Maurise with a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief.
Maurise merely shrugged. "See? What did I tell you?"
Right after that, he taught Neville the incantation for the Leg-Locker Curse. It was still a bit rusty, but after a few practice rounds, Neville was casting it quite decently.
"I'm heading out, Neville. Keep practicing those two jinxes. You are more than capable of taking down Malfoy. Believe in yourself. You're a genius."
"I'm a genius... hehe... hehehe..."
Leaving the giggling, chubby boy behind, Maurise turned and walked out of the courtyard. He really didn't dislike people like Neville. In fact, he was quite fond of him. Compared to an entitled brat like Draco Malfoy, Neville was infinitely more likable.
While walking down the corridor, Maurise bumped into Professor Quirrell coming from the opposite direction.
Wrapped in his signature purple turban and clutching a heavy book to his chest, Quirrell was hurrying along. Their eyes met for a brief second. Maurise offered a polite, standard-issue student smile. Quirrell's gaze swept over him without a lingering thought, and he brushed right past.
The only thing the professor left behind was an eye-watering stench of garlic.
Honestly, Maurise always felt that Quirrell's garlic odor was rather unique. It lacked the pungent, spicy aroma of fresh garlic and instead carried a faint, sickly scent of decay. That was exactly how he had instantly verified Quirrell's identity back when he spotted him sneaking around Knockturn Alley.
Just then, Maurise sensed something vibrating in his pocket. He pulled out his 'Death Compass'. The enchanted needle was pointing dead steady in the direction Quirrell had vanished.
What in the world was going on?
Maurise narrowed his eyes. Without a moment's hesitation, he gripped the compass tightly, spun around, and sped up to follow Quirrell's path. He quickly overtook the professor. Without turning his head, Maurise naturally paused at a corner, pretending to admire a rather boring portrait of a wizard with a walrus mustache. At the same time, he subtly aimed the compass behind him.
Sure enough, the needle pointed flawlessly at the approaching Quirrell.
In other words, the aura of death reeking from Quirrell was incredibly thick.
Maurise felt a jolt of alarm. Did this mean Professor Quirrell was at death's door? Or perhaps Quirrell was carrying something intimately tied to "Death" itself?
Then, it finally clicked. This was the world of Harry Potter. This was the story of Harry Potter fighting Lord Voldemort. A new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, shady trips to Knockturn Alley, a string of bizarre behaviors, and a compass pointing straight to death...
If anyone tried to tell him Quirrell wasn't part of the main plot, he would gladly eat his cauldron.
Maurise turned his head to steal another glance at Quirrell, his suspicions solidifying. Quirinus Quirrell was undoubtedly connected to the Dark Lord. He was likely a Death Eater or, worse, a possessed pawn.
But so what?
Maurise gave a nonchalant shrug. He was just a lowly, slightly talented Hogwarts student. His main priority was surviving his classes and enjoying the magic. He would gladly leave dark lords and deadly plots to the designated Savior of the Wizarding World.
Unless there was a massive pile of Galleons or some irresistible benefit involved, Maurise had zero intention of poking his nose into Voldemort's business.
Pocketing the compass, he turned on his heel and headed toward the dungeons. His next class was Potions with Snape, and being late for that was a death wish of its own.