The trio made their way toward the Great Hall, their footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. As they walked, Maurise's nose wrinkled. That same foul, sulfurous stench he had caught a whiff of on the stairs was back, and this time, it was aggressive.
The odor reached a nauseating crescendo just as they approached the first-floor girls' lavatory.
Fred clamped a hand over his nose, his voice muffled and thick with disgust.
"Merlin's beard, what is happening in there? Did a septic tank finally decide to give up the ghost?"
"No," Maurise whispered, shaking his head. "Listen. There are people talking inside."
Fred and George instantly mirrored his stillness, leaning toward the lavatory door. Through the heavy wood, they could hear the faint, frantic murmurs of a conversation. Combined with a smell that could only be described as a mixture of wet socks and a public bin in mid-July, the situation felt decidedly wrong.
The twins' eyes lit up with that familiar, predatory glimmer of mischief. However, with the door firmly shut, the specifics of the drama remained frustratingly out of reach. Even pressing their ears against the cold stone wall yielded nothing but muffled thuds.
"I feel compelled to remind you," Maurise said, his voice a picture of calm, "that this is the girls' bathroom. The optics of what you two are currently doing are, shall we say, legally questionable."
Fred and George recoiled from the wall as if it had turned red-hot. They straightened their robes, looking momentarily sheepish. Even for the most dedicated pranksters, lingering outside a girls' loo was a bit beneath the dignity of a Gryffindor.
Suddenly, the brass handle rattled.
The three of them flattened themselves against the wall, holding their breath and praying to be as inconspicuous as shadows.
A girl bolted out of the door. It was Hermione, one of Maurise's acquaintances, her face a mask of distress as she vanished down the corridor at a dead run.
Before the trio could even exhale, two more figures scrambled out. Harry and Ron emerged in a similar state of panic, fleeing the scene so quickly they forgot to close the door behind them. They did not even glance toward the dark alcove where Maurise and the twins were hiding.
"Something's definitely up," Fred whispered, his curiosity winning out over his common sense. "I'm going to take a peek."
The boy was practically vibrating with the need to know. Maurise opened his mouth to suggest a Disillusionment Charm, but Fred was already gone. He poked his head around the frame of the open door, peering into the steam and wreckage of the bathroom.
"MR. WEASLEY! WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?!"
A sharp, authoritative roar erupted from within the lavatory.
Fred froze mid-motion, looking like a deer caught in the light of a Knight Bus. Maurise knew that tone all too well. It was Professor McGonagall, and she sounded utterly livid.
George, demonstrating the lightning-fast survival instincts that kept the twins out of expulsion's reach, did not hesitate for a second. He grabbed Maurise's arm with a grip of steel.
"Run!"
Fred was already a lost cause, but there was no reason for the whole ship to go down. The two of them bolted, their sneakers squeaking on the tiles as they vanished into the darkness of the neighboring hallway.
When they finally skidded to a halt outside the Great Hall, they found it eerily silent. The massive oak doors were shut, and the usual roar of dinner conversation was missing.
"The students must have been sent back to their common rooms," Maurise deduced, catching his breath. He cast a sideways glance at George. "Are we really just going to leave Fred to the lions? Is that wise?"
"He'll be fine," George replied, his voice devoid of even a shred of guilt. "It's his own fault for being clumsy. Survival of the fittest, Maurise."
Maurise could not help but admire the brutal pragmatism of twin brotherhood. With the corridors likely being patrolled by teachers, they decided to split up and head to their respective dormitories. There was no point in tempting fate twice in one night.
Back in the common room, the prefects were busy conducting a frantic head count. Maurise slipped into the back of the crowd, blending in so seamlessly that his late arrival went entirely unnoticed.
By eavesdropping on the older students, he managed to piece together the night's chaos. Midway through the Halloween feast, Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, had sprinted into the Hall screaming about a troll in the dungeons before fainting dead away.
Dumbledore had ordered an immediate evacuation to the common rooms. Maurise thought Quirrell's reaction seemed a bit dramatic. Based on his reading, trolls were massive and incredibly strong, but they possessed the intellectual capacity of a lukewarm potato. A competent adult wizard should have handled it with a single well-placed spell.
The smell in the bathroom made sense now. That was not just a dirty toilet; that was the scent of a mountain troll.
On the bright side, because the feast had been cut short, the house-elves had delivered platters of food to the common rooms. Maurise managed to snag a plate of steak that was still warm, finally silencing his complaining stomach.
The following morning, word traveled fast that Professor McGonagall had docked five points from Fred for his "inappropriate proximity to the scene of an accident." Fortunately, he escaped detention. It was a mere slap on the wrist.
During History of Magic, Maurise tuned out Professor Binns' droning lecture entirely. He sat with his copy of 'Advanced Potion-Making', obsessing over the nuances of the Draught of Living Death. He ran the steps through his mind like a rhythmic ritual.
The Draught of Living Death was a masterpiece of complexity. Maurise knew he only had enough rare ingredients for two attempts. Failure was not just a setback; it was a total loss of resources he could not easily replace. He was not about to risk another "borrowing" session from the school's private stores anytime soon.
He visualized every movement: the precise angle of the knife, the timing of the heat, and the exact direction of the stir. Luckily, Professor Binns was a ghost who had not noticed a student was alive in several decades, let alone noticed that Maurise was not taking notes on the Giant Wars.
As soon as the bell rang, Maurise hurried back to his dormitory.
He set up his cauldron with practiced efficiency. The preparation was complete. It was time to brew.
The instructions seemed simple on the surface, but the reality was a delicate dance of chemistry and intent. The way a bean was crushed, the steady hand required for the infusion of wormwood, and the counter-clockwise stirs were all vital.
Maurise fell into a state of hyper-focus. The world outside the dormitory faded away, replaced by the rhythmic bubbling of the cauldron and the shimmering steam rising from the liquid.
He lost track of time. He moved like a machine: adding the infusion, crushing the Sopophorous beans, stirring once, then twice, then reversing the flow.
Finally, with one last flick of his wand and a final stir, the potion turned a pale, clear lilac before settling into a shimmering shade of silver.
It was done.
Maurise stretched his stiff neck, his muscles aching from hours of tension. He carefully funneled the liquid into five small crystal vials. The yield was small, but the quality was undeniable.
A profound sense of satisfaction washed over him. Magic was impressive, but there was something uniquely enchanting about potions. It was the art of capturing lightning in a bottle.
"Blast, look at the time," Maurise muttered, glancing at the clock on the wall.
He had not just missed lunch; he was nearly late for his first afternoon class. And to make matters worse, it was Potions with Professor Snape.
He did not have time to clean up his workspace. He grabbed his bag and sprinted for the dungeons. His experiment with the "Door Between Worlds" would have to wait until tonight. For now, he had to survive the wrath of the Potions Master.