Harry, in turn, eagerly questioned Maurise regarding his sudden appearance on the magical bus. He distinctly recalled that Maurise was supposed to be spending his summer holidays residing at the orphanage. Had the younger boy also committed some catastrophic magical infraction and been forced to flee his home?
"I was merely visiting a shipyard not far from here," Maurise answered smoothly. "I was seeking a bit of artistic inspiration."
"What kind of inspiration?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.
"I am currently constructing a ship," Maurise stated, leaning back casually against the brass bedpost. "Perhaps once the structural work is fully finalized in a few weeks, I can extend you a formal invitation for a private tour."
Harry couldn't entirely comprehend why a thirteen-year-old wizard would arbitrarily decide to construct a massive seafaring vessel. But considering it was Maurise Black... well, it actually made perfect sense. The boy's thought processes had always been wildly unconventional.
As the double-decker bus hurtled aggressively through the dark English countryside, Stan Shunpike sauntered down the aisle to resume their conversation. He leaned lazily against a nearby window frame, tossing a casual nod toward Harry. "So, Neville, what is your official assessment of our fine establishment?"
'Neville?' Maurise blinked in genuine surprise, instinctively scanning the surrounding beds. Where on earth was that chubby, forgetful Gryffindor hiding?
"It is highly impressive," Harry answered rapidly. Simultaneously, he reached out and firmly nudged Maurise's shoulder, leaning in to deliver a highly rushed, microscopic whisper. "I desperately wanted to avoid exposing my true identity to the Ministry, so I borrowed Neville's name."
Maurise offered a slow nod, though he privately felt that using their mutual friend as a legal shield against a potential underage magic arrest was slightly questionable.
"I knew this had to be your very first time sampling the delights of the Knight Bus," Stan boomed, his enthusiasm flaring. "It matters not what obscure corner of this country you find yourself stranded in. As long as you boldly raise your wand hand, we guarantee a prompt arrival within ten minutes flat."
He puffed out his chest proudly. "We implemented a brand new set of plush mattresses last winter, added heavy-duty coal heaters, and we maintain a perfectly consistent, round-the-clock supply of piping hot chocolate..."
"But it is currently the height of August," Maurise interjected dryly. "I strongly suspect substituting the hot chocolate for a batch of ice-cold Coca-Cola would be vastly more appropriate for the seasonal climate."
"Coke? What on earth is that?" Stan asked, cocking his head in complete bewilderment.
"A highly popular Muggle beverage," Maurise explained calmly. "It is exceptionally refreshing."
Reaching into the side compartment of his leather briefcase, Maurise performed another effortless expansion trick, retrieving two chilled aluminum cans and handing them over.
Harry accepted his can, his expression a masterpiece of pure judgment. "What exactly do you keep stored inside that suitcase of yours?"
Maurise offered a highly vague, enigmatic smile. "As a general rule, if I can conceptually visualize it, it resides within the case."
Trimming the tabs and happily guzzling the sugary, carbonated Muggle potion, Stan immediately resumed his relentless, rapid-fire commentary.
"We cruised right past Aberdeen late last week," the conductor prattled on, gesturing wildly. "The entire coastline was absolutely littered with a fleet of spectral ghost ships. I haven't the slightest inkling regarding their official business, but mark my words, it bodes entirely ill for the public..."
One had to admit, Stan was profoundly, almost unnaturally chatty. Maurise supposed a hyper-active mouth was a fundamental prerequisite for a magical bus conductor.
"Ah, blimey, I almost clean forgot," Stan said, crushing his empty can and tossing it carelessly into a nearby brass wastebasket. He turned his full attention toward the younger boy. "You have patronized the Knight Bus numerous times this summer, sir, but I realized I have completely failed to secure your official name."
"Maurise Black."
"Black!" Stan violently shrieked. His eyes practically bulged out of his skull, his face draining of color as if he had just locked eyes with a lethal spectral entity.
"Er," Maurise blinked at the wildly disproportionate theatrical reaction. "Is there a logistical issue with my nomenclature?"
Stan frantically began rummaging through the interior pockets of his purple uniform, pulling out a heavily crumpled, ink-stained copy of the Daily Prophet. He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a harsh, terrified whisper. "Are you boys completely oblivious to the current crisis? Sirius Black! He brutally pulverized an entire Muggle street, executed over a dozen innocent bystanders in broad daylight... He is a highly dangerous, mass-murdering fugitive!"
Maurise had been entirely consumed by his nautical research over the past month, completely neglecting his newspaper subscriptions. He accepted the crumpled parchment from Stan, casually scanning the front-page headlines.
MINISTRY FAILS TO APPREHEND NOTORIOUS AZKABAN FUGITIVE. SIRIUS BLACK REMAINS AT LARGE...
Maurise let out a soft, exasperated sigh. Black. It truly was an incredibly inconvenient and troublesome surname to carry in the British wizarding community.
"I possess absolutely zero biological or genealogical connection to that specific individual, Stan," Maurise explained with patient, absolute deadpan precision. "I was raised entirely within the Muggle orphanage system."
"Yeah, I figured as much," Stan said, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips as he visibly relaxed. "The ancient Black dynasty is completely defunct anyway, save for that raving lunatic currently fleeing the Aurors."
Harry leaned closer to Maurise, his eyes fixed on the moving photograph gracing the front page. The picture depicted a hollow-cheeked, maniacal-looking man. His eyes were deeply sunken and completely devoid of human reason, and his skin bore a sickly, translucent white hue.
"He looks genuinely terrifying," Harry whispered softly, a chill settling in his stomach.
"You don't know the half of it, mate," Stan agreed eagerly, leaning in so close his thick glasses nearly brushed their noses. "Sirius Black was the single most fanatical, high-ranking lieutenant in the dark legions of the You-Know-Who. Though I reckon that piece of classified trivia hasn't been officially cleared for the public yet."
"Voldemort?" Harry blurted out automatically.
Stan let out a horrified squeak, violently thrashing his hands in the air as he glanced frantically around the empty bus. "Do not speak that name aloud, blimey!"
"Oh. My apologies." Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He had temporarily forgotten that the vast majority of the magical community suffered an immediate, involuntary panic response whenever that specific collection of syllables was uttered.
He cast a sideways glance at Maurise, who was currently observing the conductor with absolute, unbothered serenity. Maurise was always the exception to the rule.
Stan clutched his chest dramatically. "Merlin's chin, mate, you nearly gave me a total cardiac arrest."
Observing the man's intense, highly exaggerated psychological aversion, Maurise's academic curiosity was piqued. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Is the phonetic structure of that name genuinely capable of inducing such profound psychological terror?"
Stan's face paled a second time. "I am literally begging you, sir, drop the nomenclature!"
Maurise suddenly decided to conduct a brief empirical test regarding the boundaries of linguistic conditioning.
"Voldemort," he repeated in a perfectly clear, conversational tone.
"Stop it, I say!" Stan whimpered, backing away a step.
"Voldemort."
"Please, do not—"
"Voldemort."
"What on earth is wrong with you?!"
"Voldemort."
Stan looked entirely traumatized, his limbs trembling violently as he clutched his ticket puncher like a weapon. "We... we are rapidly approaching our destination! The schedule requires my immediate administrative presence in the cockpit... Farewell, gentlemen!"
Before the final syllable had even finished echoing through the aisle, the conductor turned on his heel and bolted toward the driver's cabin as if pursued by a pack of hungry Werewolves.
Maurise watched his frantic retreat, shaking his head in mild disappointment. It was genuinely fascinating. A mere collection of vowels and consonants possessed such immense, paralyzing authority over the adult populace. It seemed Tom Riddle's grand teenage ambition—to ensure the entire world trembled at the mere mention of his chosen title—had been executed with absolute, terrifying perfection.
Harry stared at the closed partition door, entirely speechless. "You thoroughly terrified the poor man."
"Hmm." Maurise simply closed his eyes, electing to utilize the remainder of the journey to peacefully rest his mind.
---
A short while later, the Knight Bus came to a violent, screeching halt directly outside the unassuming brick facade of the Leaky Cauldron.
"I will need to secure a private room here for the remainder of the holidays," Harry stated as they stepped off the bus platform onto the dark, damp London pavement. "I just hope the Ministry officials don't immediately drag me off to prison for performing unauthorized magic on a Muggle relative."
Maurise cast a sideways glance at him. "Are you genuinely losing sleep over that minor legal technicality?"
Harry nodded, his expression tight with anxiety.
"Please put your mind at ease," Maurise noted dryly. "The Ministry of Magic will absolutely not implement any punitive measures against you."
"And how exactly can you be so certain?" Harry pressed, his voice rising slightly. "I explicitly violated the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. It is a severe criminal offense."
"Because you are Harry Potter," Maurise shrugged easily, adjusting the strap of his briefcase. "The Boy Who Lived. The living symbol of the wizarding world. The politicians simply cannot afford the public relations nightmare of officially prosecuting their golden savior over an inflated aunt."
"I never asked for that ridiculous title," Harry sighed heavily.
"True. But it remains your reality regardless."
Conversing quietly, the two boys pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the dim, smoky interior of the pub.
"Ah, excellent. You have finally arrived."
A smooth, authoritative voice called out from the shadows near the bar.
Harry whipped his head around, his body instantly locking up as a short, portly wizard stepped forward with a welcoming smile. The man wore a sharp pinstriped suit beneath a lime-green travel cloak, and he calmly placed a heavy, paternal hand directly onto Harry's shoulder.
"I am Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. It is an absolute pleasure to see you safe and sound, Harry."
Fudge's tone was exceptionally warm and friendly. But Harry felt his entire skeletal structure turn to ice. The literal head of the government was personally waiting for him in a pub. There was absolutely no doubt now; his criminal actions had been fully exposed.
Fudge smoothly turned his gaze toward the adjacent boy, his polite smile widening. "And a very good evening to you as well, Mr. Black. I trust your summer research has been exceptionally fruitful thus far?"
Maurise offered a flawless, dignified nod, calmly reaching out to accept the politician's handshake. "It has been exceedingly productive, Minister. Thank you."