Maurise's sole purpose in inventing this Transfiguration potion was to strengthen his own physical attributes. Until this point, he had never encountered any spell or potion with a similar function.
For a wizard, physical constitution was absolutely paramount. A wizard who could not hold their own in close-quarters combat was simply not a well-rounded wizard.
After exactly three minutes, the potion's effects wore off. Harry and Ron's lion heads twisted and shrank, seamlessly reverting back to their normal human faces.
"That was utterly brilliant, Maurise!" Harry exclaid, looking incredibly eager. "Can I buy two vials from you? I can pay."
Maurise initially wanted to point out that the ingredients were quite expensive, but rembering that Harry was essentially sitting on a small fortune, he swallowed his hesitation.
He pulled two small crystal vials from his pocket and set them on the table. "Twenty Galleons each. Are you entirely sure you want them? Honestly, it is a bit steep for what is essentially a prank toy."
Harry did not hesitate for a second. "Absolutely. I will get the money for you right after this."
Ron watched the exchange with deeply envious eyes. Suddenly, sothing occurred to him, and he turned back to Maurise. "Wait a second. Did you just say the raw ingredients for this potion cost you over a dozen Galleons?"
"Roughly," Maurise replied casually. "Honestly, I probably wasted far more than that during the testing phase."
If he were to actually calculate the total cost of his failed prototypes, he had probably burned through over a hundred Galleons. However, when it ca to magical research, he never skimped on funding.
"Where on earth do you get that kind of money?" Ron asked, his face a picture of sheer bewildernt. "I an, I thought you were an..."
He trailed off awkwardly, but his implication was clear. It simply did not make logical sense for Maurise, a known orphan, to possess the kind of disposable inco required to casually burn hundreds of Galleons on experintal potions.
"A person has to find ways to make a living," Maurise shrugged. "Like taking up a part-ti job during the holidays, for instance."
Ron looked utterly astounded. "A part-ti job? My mum would never, ever let do sothing like that."
"Mrs. Weasley is a very sensible woman," Maurise chuckled. "But if you are genuinely looking to make so pocket money, why don't you ask your older brothers? I guarantee you they have plenty of creative thods."
Ron scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Forget it."
At that mont, Hermione suddenly rembered sothing Maurise had ntioned to her months ago. He had sold a large batch of animated skeleton dogs to Professor Lockhart. Was that his idea of a part-ti job?
She was incredibly curious but decided against pressing the issue. Right now, she had absolutely no desire to talk about Gilderoy Lockhart. Just a few days prior, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had stopped by to visit her, bringing a ludicrously large get-well card. She had taken the opportunity to ask him a few advanced academic questions. He failed to answer a single one correctly. He had even fumbled over specific details written in his own supposedly autobiographical books.
The reality of the situation was painfully obvious now. Without a doubt, everything Maurise had said about the man from the very beginning was entirely correct. Lockhart was a complete fraud with zero actual magical capability.
***
Leaving the hospital wing behind, Maurise headed straight back to his dormitory.
Pushing the door open, he was hit by a complex, heavy wave of conflicting scents. His room was an absolute disaster zone. Several heavy iron cauldrons were balanced precariously on the floor, surrounded by scattered piles of rare potion ingredients. Open reference books and crumpled balls of parchnt were piled high in the corners.
It really had gotten a bit out of hand. Lately, he had been so utterly engrossed in his various research projects—especially the physical enhancent potion—that he had completely neglected to tidy up.
After spending nearly half an hour organizing the chaos, Maurise sat cross-legged on his bed and began his daily ditation routine.
When he finally opened his eyes, he noticed that both of his undead pets, Tin and Cinder, had returned to the room. Cinder had sohow managed to steal a complete set of Wizard's Chess and was currently playing an intense match against its own shadow duplicates. Tin, anwhile, was sprawled on the floor, aggressively tearing at sothing between its paws. It looked like a book.
Seeing its master finish his ditation, Tin instantly ceased its destructive behavior. It trotted over obediently, the object clamped firmly in its jaws.
"What do you have there?"
Taking the item, Maurise realized it was a thin, heavily worn notebook with a faded black cover. The edges were fraying and bore several highly distinct teeth marks courtesy of Tin. The cover was completely devoid of any ornantation or title. However, judging by the faded date stamped on the back, it appeared to be roughly fifty years old.
Tin let out two low, rattling barks.
Translated through their ntal link, the ssage was clear: I found this lying around.
Maurise focused his senses, imdiately detecting a faint, subtle current of magic flowing beneath the worn leather.
He flipped it open. The pages were rough and slightly yellowed with age. On the very first page, a single na was written in faded ink: Tom Riddle.
Aside from that single na, the entire notebook was completely blank. Not a single word was written on any of the other pages.
It was highly likely an enchanted diary of so sort. Such objects were not entirely uncommon at Hogwarts; there were quite a few similar items resting in the Restricted Section of the library.
Intrigued, Maurise grabbed a quill from his bedside table. He flipped to a blank page and casually scrawled a single word: "Hello."
Exactly as he had anticipated, the ink was instantly absorbed into the rough paper, vanishing without a trace.
He didn't stop, quickly writing another line: "Can we talk?"
Once again, the ssy handwriting was swallowed whole by the parchnt.
Just as Maurise was beginning to think the item was broken, a line of elegant, perfectly ford cursive writing slowly bled onto the surface of the paper.
"Hello. My na is Tom Riddle. How did you co by my diary?"
'Fascinating.' Maurise raised an eyebrow.
He had absolutely no intention of writing his real na in an unidentified magical artifact of unknown origin. Therefore, he casually scrawled his response: "Hello, Riddle. My na is Albus Dumbledore."
This ti, the diary reacted significantly faster.
First, a single, highly pronounced "?" appeared on the page. It quickly faded, replaced by a new line of text appearing at a rapid pace.
"You are lying, my friend. Your handwriting is nothing like Dumbledore's."
Maurise chuckled softly and continued to write. "Just a little joke. You can call Mark. So, who exactly are you? And what on earth is this notebook?"
This ti, the diary's response was smooth and asured.
"Mark. You are cautious. That is a very good trait. If I were in your position, I certainly would not offer my real na imdiately either."
"As for , as I stated before, I am Tom Riddle. I was once a student here at Hogwarts. This diary is a small invention from my school days. It is a vessel designed to store mories, allowing to converse with others and share my knowledge and insights."
"So, Mark, since you initiated this conversation, what is it you seek? Knowledge? Or perhaps... the hidden secrets of Hogwarts?"
'A mory stored within a notebook...' Maurise rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
That specific type of magic was incredibly complex and advanced. If this "Tom Riddle" had possessed such capability as a re student, he was certainly no ordinary wizard. He might even still be alive sowhere out in the world today.
Regardless, playing along and building a rapport seed like the best course of action for now.
Just as he ford that thought, a new line of text materialized on the blank page.
"Mark, may I ask... what are your parents' nas?"
Maurise paused, his quill hovering over the paper.
What was the underlying motive behind that question?
Exercising caution, he wrote back smoothly: "I am an orphan. I do not have parents."
The diary remained silent for a long mont.
Finally, the ink bled through again. "An orphan... I understand completely. In truth, I also grew up in an orphanage. But let us return to the matter at hand. What is it you wish to ask ? If it is within my knowledge, I would be more than happy to provide the answers."
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