After leaving the Black Lake, Maurise immediately headed straight back to the castle.
He reckoned that after today's little demonstration, Draco Malfoy would probably stay out of his hair for a very long time. However, Maurise understood exactly what kind of person Malfoy was. Given the slightest opportunity, the boy would undoubtedly seek petty revenge.
Malfoy was, after all, a spoiled, brainless little aristocrat with far too much pride and far too little sense.
Then there was Marcus Flint. Despite looking and acting like an unevolved mountain troll, the Quidditch Captain was not entirely stupid. Needless to say, he was also the type to bear a heavy grudge.
Maurise pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a slight headache coming on. Why did people constantly insist on interrupting his peaceful, quiet school life?
Fortunately, this was the magical world, where magic was the ultimate equalizer. Wealth, political background, and childish schemes could certainly cause annoyances, but at the end of the day, they were nothing more than that. Annoyances.
As Maurise strolled along the covered corridor bordering the courtyard, the rain suddenly intensified, hammering violently against the stone flagstones.
"Meow. Meow."
A pair of frantic meows echoed from the courtyard. Two soaking wet cats sprinted toward him, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints across the clean floor.
"Ah, it is just you two," Maurise chuckled.
He drew his wand and cast a quick, casual Drying Charm over both felines.
The cats were his own familiar, Tin, and Mrs. Norris.
Mrs. Norris was the caretaker Argus Filch's beloved pet. She was a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamp-like eyes, constantly looking perpetually underfed. To the vast majority of the student body, Mrs. Norris was a demon in feline form. She was unnervingly intelligent and frequently patrolled the corridors alone. The moment she spotted a student breaking a rule or sneaking out after curfew, she would immediately sprint off to fetch Filch.
Maurise, however, did not mind her at all. Tin had spent the entirety of last year establishing dominance over her. Now, the infamous Mrs. Norris essentially functioned as Tin's loyal underling.
Usually, wherever Mrs. Norris was, Filch was not far behind.
Sure enough, about thirty seconds later, the distinct, shuffling sound of dragging footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Argus Filch appeared around the corner, wrapped tightly in a heavy raincoat and carrying a battered, flickering oil lamp. He was moving as fast as his bad leg would allow.
"Blasted weather. Mrs. Norris? My sweet, where did you run off to? Did you catch someone?"
Spotting his cat, Filch immediately rushed forward, scooping the newly dried feline into his arms. His perpetually scowling face relaxed by a tiny fraction.
It was only when Mrs. Norris offered a soft meow that Filch finally noticed Maurise standing quietly nearby.
The caretaker's bulging eyes locked onto the wand still grasped in Maurise's hand. His voice came out as a raspy, malicious wheeze. "Casting spells in the corridors, are we, Mr. Black?"
Maurise nodded, entirely unbothered. "I simply cast a Drying Charm on your cat, Mr. Filch. You are quite welcome."
"Tch!" Filch spat out a heavy, ugly snort. "Who gave you permission to use magic on my sweet girl? Ah! Wait. You just admitted to using magic in the corridors. That is a direct violation!"
Maurise frowned slightly. It was glaringly obvious that the bitter old caretaker had zero interest in being reasonable. He simply wanted to abuse the tiny fraction of power he possessed to make a student miserable.
Just as Filch opened his mouth to gleefully assign detention, the frantic flapping of wings cut through the sound of the rain.
A thoroughly drenched owl, its feathers plastered pitifully to its body, flew straight toward Filch. It unceremoniously dropped a damp envelope directly onto the caretaker's chest before immediately wheeling around and vanishing back into the storm.
Filch grumbled, tearing the envelope open. He pulled out a single sheet of parchment. As his eyes scanned the words, his face instantly drained of all color, turning an alarming shade of pasty white. He looked as though he had just been struck by a physical blow.
"Consider yourself lucky, Black," Filch rasped. He hastily shoved the parchment back into the envelope. His voice had lost all of its malicious glee, sounding deeply distracted and unusually subdued. "I will let it slide this time. Put that wand away and do not let me catch you again!"
Without waiting for a response, Filch clutched Mrs. Norris tightly, grabbed his oil lamp, and hobbled away as fast as he could.
Maurise watched the retreating caretaker with mild confusion. What on earth was written in that letter? Given Filch's naturally neurotic disposition, his overreaction was not entirely surprising, but it was still odd.
In his panicked rush, Filch stumbled slightly around the corner. The folded piece of parchment slipped out of the hastily sealed envelope and fluttered silently to the floor. The caretaker did not even notice.
Tin immediately darted forward, scooping the parchment up in his mouth and trotting back to drop it neatly at Maurise's feet.
Maurise picked it up, his curiosity piqued, and began to read.
Dear Sir,
We regret to inform you that our Kwikspell beginner's correspondence course in magic is designed exclusively to assist adult wizards in improving their spellcasting capabilities. It is entirely unsuitable for your Squib friend.
We wish you the best of luck.
Sincerely,
The Kwikspell Company.
Reading those lines, Maurise instantly understood everything.
A Squib was a person born into a magical family, possessing magical blood, but entirely incapable of actually performing magic.
Thinking back, Maurise realized he had never once seen Filch cast a single spell. He had never even seen the man carry a wand. The conclusion was glaringly obvious. Argus Filch was a Squib.
The "Squib friend" mentioned in the letter was undoubtedly a thinly veiled reference to Filch himself.
Ah, the classic 'asking for a friend' excuse, Maurise thought dryly. No one ever believes that.
Clearly, Filch was deeply ashamed of his lack of magic and desperately wanted to keep it a secret from the student body. He had actually managed to hide it surprisingly well.
Well now, what a fascinating piece of leverage.
Maurise casually folded the damp parchment and slipped it into his pocket. If Filch ever decided to cause him genuine trouble in the future, this little piece of paper might prove to be incredibly useful.
---
Halloween finally arrived.
That evening, the Great Hall was completely transformed with bizarre, spectacular decorations. Alongside the classic floating, carved pumpkins and the massive swarms of live bats fluttering among the enchanted ceiling clouds, over a dozen skeletons were aimlessly wandering around the hall.
Half an hour before the feast officially began, the staff and students were already beginning to filter in.
Professor Flitwick stood near the entrance, happily chatting with Maurise.
"Absolutely brilliant, Maurise," Flitwick squeaked enthusiastically, watching one of the skeletons politely tip its skull to a passing Hufflepuff. "Your skeletal constructs are absolutely tailor-made for this holiday."
Maurise smiled politely. "Thank you, Professor."
Earlier that day, Flitwick had approached him, asking if he could conjure a few skeletons to add to the Halloween ambiance. Maurise had happily agreed. These specific constructs were purely decorative and possessed zero combat capabilities. Consequently, despite summoning a large number of them, the magical drain on Maurise had been incredibly minor.
"Filius!" Professor McGonagall called out from a side door, waving him over.
"Oh, Minerva is calling for me. I must be going." Flitwick gave Maurise a quick wave and scurried off toward the Deputy Headmistress, looking very much like an energetic, robed penguin.
Maurise watched him go, then scanned the bustling Great Hall, feeling a sudden wave of nostalgia.
A single year was enough to change so many things. Last Halloween, he vividly remembered desperately trying to secure the highly restricted ingredients for the Draught of Living Death. It had been an incredibly busy, stressful year.
"I heard Headmaster Dumbledore booked an actual skeleton dance troupe for tonight's entertainment."
"Really? I have never seen one of those perform before!"
Catching the snippet of conversation from two older Ravenclaws nearby, Maurise raised an intrigued eyebrow.
A skeleton dance troupe?
He distinctly remembered Frick mentioning that Madam Caroline was a member of a skeleton dance troupe.
Perhaps the performers Dumbledore had hired tonight were actually Madam Caroline's troupe?
A flicker of genuine anticipation ignited in Maurise's chest.