It was early March, and almost the entire student body was buzzing with anticipation for the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff Quidditch match.
Maurise decided to join the fun. With half an hour still to go before the whistle, the stands were already packed to the brim. Glancing around, Maurise noted that it was not just the students who had turned up in droves; the professors were all present as well. Even Dumbledore was seated squarely in the center of the staff section, listening to whatever Professor McGonagall was whispering to him.
The atmosphere was far more electric than the last match Maurise had attended. Perhaps due to the overwhelming turnout, the strict house seating arrangements had dissolved, leaving students cheerfully crammed together in a chaotic, colorful mix.
"M... Maurise."
While scanning the crowd for a spot, Maurise heard a timid voice calling his name. He turned to find Neville Longbottom waving hesitantly from a few rows up. Maurise immediately climbed over and claimed the empty seat directly behind him.
"Want a sweet?" Maurise asked, offering Neville a Lemon Sherbet he had picked up in Hogsmeade.
Neville took it, looking thoroughly flattered.
"Thank you," he mumbled softly.
While they waited for the teams to take the pitch, Maurise made casual conversation.
"How is your charm practice coming along, Neville?"
Neville dropped his gaze to his shoes. "When I practice by myself, my Levitation Charm is actually really steady. But... the second someone watches me, I completely forget how to say the incantation."
Maurise gave him a perplexed look.
"You did perfectly fine when you showed me the other day, didn't you?"
Neville's head drooped even lower.
"That... that is different," he stammered.
Maurise let out a quiet sigh. Clearly, his positive reinforcement approach needed a little more time to take root. Rebuilding someone's entire self-confidence was not going to happen overnight with just a few pep talks.
"What should I do?" Neville asked, his voice thick with frustration. "I know I will never be able to cast a spell properly with Malfoy standing right there mocking me."
Maurise thought for a moment, his eyes drifting to the players warming up on the pitch.
"Then you practice," Maurise said slowly and deliberately. "You practice until it does not matter if your hands are shaking or your mind goes totally blank. You practice until your mouth and your wand move completely on their own. If you keep at it every single day, eventually you are going to beat Malfoy."
Neville looked up at him, his eyes wide as he processed the advice. Maurise always seemed to know what he was talking about. Right then and there, Neville made a silent vow. Starting tomorrow, he was going to practice the Levitation Charm and the Leg-Locker Curse one hundred times every single morning.
Finally, the referee's whistle pierced the crisp air. The game had begun.
And then, exactly five minutes later, the game ended.
Yes, five minutes.
It wasn't because of any spectacular accident. Harry Potter simply needed all of three hundred seconds to catch the Golden Snitch. According to Quidditch rules, that was it. Game over.
Maurise really didn't know what to say. This sport could be overwhelmingly boring when that happened.
"Malfoy! Take that!"
Suddenly, a massive commotion broke out to his right. Maurise twisted around to find the stands descending into sheer chaos. Ron Weasley's fist swung wildly, connecting with a sickening crunch right against Draco Malfoy's nose.
Ouch. That definitely left a mark. Blood instantly spurted from Malfoy's face.
Malfoy snarled, throwing a heavy punch of his own, but Ron quickly blocked it with his forearm. The two boys collided and crashed to the floor, rolling around violently, with Ron clearly taking the upper hand.
Meanwhile, Neville was shaking like a leaf, completely lost in the fray. "Guys, please, stop fighting... please stop fighting!"
Unsurprisingly, nobody listened. In fact, Neville somehow got dragged into the melee entirely against his will, squaring off alone against the twin mountains of Crabbe and Goyle.
Maurise immediately decided to be incredibly helpful. Without lifting a finger or raising his wand noticeably, he cast a subtle Weakening Curse onto both Crabbe and Goyle. Then, he shuffled a few seats over, folded his arms, and settled in to watch with deep interest.
Who needed a five-minute Quidditch match when you could watch wizards settle their differences with a good old-fashioned fistfight?
Honestly, he hadn't even been paying attention to the argument before the punches flew, but as the prefects finally stepped in to separate the tangled mess of limbs, he decided to ask.
"What in the world was that about?" Maurise asked Ron.
Ron was sporting an impressive black eye and a split lip, but he looked incredibly proud of himself. "Malfoy insulted our families, Maurise. He totally deserved it. Isn't that right, Neville?"
Neville was staring at his own fists in sheer disbelief. "Y-yeah."
Just moments ago, he had wildly swung at Crabbe and Goyle, and both of those massive thugs had wobbled on their feet and simply crumpled to the ground. It was incredible. Could it be true? Was he actually just extremely naturally gifted at hand-to-hand combat? Perhaps his grandmother was completely right when she always said he was a "sturdy boy."
Ron completely ignored how unlikely the physics of that situation were, slapping Neville heartily on the back and praising him for his left hook.
Hermione Granger soon pushed her way over, breathless from cheering Harry's record catch. She took one look at them and frowned deeply. "Are you mad? Brawling with Malfoy here? Professor Flitwick has been glancing over at this section!"
"Oh, let it go, Hermione," Ron scoffed, wincing violently as he accidentally stretched his injured lip. "We didn't use any magic at all. The professors don't care about a bit of a scrape."
Wordlessly, Maurise handed Ron a small bottle of Essence of Dittany.
"Cheers, Maurise," Ron said gratefully, uncorking the stopper. The moment he dabbed the greenish liquid onto his cuts, a soothing chill swept over his face, erasing the sting immediately. For a wizard, a split lip really was a temporary inconvenience.
The stadium was emptying quickly now. They followed the slow-moving tide of students down the wooden stairs. The crisp March wind bit at their cheeks, carrying away the last echoes of the match. As Maurise walked back towards the castle, he could hear the Gryffindors already starting the party up in their tower.
He sped up his pace toward his own dorm. His personal supply of the Draught of Living Death was running dangerously low, and he needed to brew a fresh batch tonight.
The Next Morning
Maurise was sat at the Ravenclaw table, quietly buttering a piece of toast, completely zoned out. Directly across from him, Cho Chang was animatedly dissecting yesterday's historic Quidditch match.
"Oliver Wood must have lost his mind with joy," Cho said enthusiastically. "That is a brand-new Hogwarts record. Potter caught the Snitch in four minutes and thirty-two seconds. Honestly, watching him makes me want to fly!"
Marietta Edgecombe nudged her playfully. "Why don't you try out for the team next year, Cho? You are an incredible flier. You would make a brilliant Chaser!"
Cho's face lit up at the thought, a dreamy look settling over her features.
Suddenly, the morning post arrived. A flurry of wings descended on the Great Hall. An owl with a distinct, heavily patterned face swooped low over the Ravenclaw table, haphazardly dropping a brown parcel directly onto Cho's plate, leaving a single, stray feather on her napkin.
Cho blinked in confusion, picking up the box.
"Who does this belong to?" she asked, looking around the table. She was completely sure she had not ordered anything.
"That would be mine," Maurise said dryly, reaching out to take it. "This foolish bird is always delivering my mail to the wrong person, especially if that person happens to be a pretty girl."
It was a package from Mr. Flume, filled with the assortment of obscure potion ingredients Maurise had ordered a few days ago. For reasons Maurise still could not fathom, this particular delivery owl had a bizarre habit of completely ignoring his location and dropping his expensive ingredients right into the laps of the prettiest girls in the vicinity.
It was utterly inexplicable.