Time passed quickly. Another week slipped by.
Fred and George were still incapable of mastering the Telepathy technique.
As their instructor, Maurise was naturally somewhat disappointed by their lack of progress.
Fortunately, his prime disciple, Neville, continued to improve at a steady pace.
Now, whenever the two crossed paths in the crowded corridors, they communicated almost entirely through their telepathic link, eliminating the need for spoken words.
However, an amusing and entirely unintended side effect soon emerged. Whenever Neville activated the telepathic link, his face would tense, and he would unconsciously fix Maurise with an intense, unblinking stare.
This peculiar habit naturally led to a school-wide misunderstanding.
Most of the student body became convinced that the two boys were constantly locked in silent staring contests.
Within days, Hogwarts' ever-active rumor mill had produced a dramatic new story: Neville Longbottom of Gryffindor had somehow offended Maurise Black of Ravenclaw.
When the absurd rumor eventually reached Maurise, he dismissed it with complete indifference.
'Hogwarts students really have nothing better to do than invent ridiculous gossip.'
Eventually, the rumors escalated to truly ridiculous proportions. The most popular version claimed Maurise was carefully calculating the perfect method to permanently transfigure Neville into an evil skeletal minion.
As a result, whenever younger students spotted him walking through the corridors, they would gasp and flatten themselves against the stone walls to give him a wide berth.
Maurise could only shake his head with an amused smile.
'Inexplicable.'
Saturday finally arrived.
It was the long-awaited Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.
From Maurise's pragmatic perspective, the match possessed exactly one point of interest.
He intended to observe the classified flight mechanics of Harry Potter's newly acquired Firebolt.
Maurise had recently learned that Harry hadn't actually purchased the expensive broom himself. It had been anonymously gifted to him by an unknown benefactor.
'As expected of the designated protagonist.'
'Why does no one ever anonymously send me expensive magical artifacts?'
Speaking of the Firebolt, he had already dispatched an urgent letter to Frick, instructing the merchant to acquire one for reverse engineering. Unfortunately, he had yet to receive a single reply.
He had no idea what logistical issue was causing the delay.
Lost in thought, Maurise stepped out of the Ship in a Bottle and began strolling toward the Quidditch pitch.
It was still early in the morning, and the grounds were largely deserted.
Suddenly, three blurry black specks caught his attention high above the stadium.
Maurise stopped walking.
He narrowed his eyes, carefully tracking the three silhouettes hovering suspiciously along the edge of the Quidditch pitch.
'Oh? Wild, disoriented Dementors.'
'An excellent opportunity.'
Dementors were exceptionally valuable raw materials for advanced necromantic conversion.
Ever since capturing and converting the specimen aboard the Hogwarts Express, Maurise had kept a close watch on the school grounds for another chance to obtain more.
Unfortunately, Dumbledore had established a strict perimeter, confining the Dementors to the entrances and outer boundaries of Hogwarts.
Under normal circumstances, attempting to capture one was extremely inconvenient.
The sudden disappearance of a Dementor from an active patrol would almost certainly trigger a large-scale investigation.
There was another problem.
Dementors were surprisingly fast in open air. If one attempted to flee, Maurise had no reliable method of intercepting it.
The successful capture aboard the train had only been possible because of the narrow carriage, the Dementor's sluggish reaction, and the overwhelming advantage of his Patronus.
Attempting the same operation near the Quidditch pitch would be impossible to conceal. Even if he succeeded, summoning a Patronus would flood the area with brilliant silver light.
However...
Maurise smiled.
This time, victory was all but guaranteed.
The reason was simple.
He had an inside operative.
An undercover agent.
Maurise quickly moved beneath the cover of the nearby trees, carefully checking his surroundings.
Once he confirmed no one was nearby, he flicked his robes and summoned his converted Dementor.
The towering, decaying figure materialized before him, bringing with it an immediate wave of bone-deep cold.
A raspy voice echoed directly through their Mana Link.
"Huuunnngryyy..."
Maurise ignored the miserable complaint.
The Dementor constantly begged for emotional nourishment, but he had no intention of feeding it.
As long as its core magical matrix remained intact, it would not perish.
"Endure it," Maurise said coldly, pointing toward the three distant figures. "Do you see those targets? Proceed immediately. Establish contact and lure your former colleagues toward the hull of my vessel. Can you manage such a simple task?"
"Yessss..."
The Dementor slowly turned its hooded head before drifting toward the distant silhouettes.
Maurise couldn't help doubting the creature's competence.
Keeping a safe distance, he quietly followed behind.
As long as his operative successfully lured the three Dementors into the Ship in a Bottle's contained spatial matrix, he could dismantle and convert them at his leisure.
At the same time, on the outer edge of the Quidditch pitch...
The three "Dementors" had just landed on their broomsticks.
They were not soul-sucking monsters.
They were Marcus Flint, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Draco Malfoy, who was currently balancing rather precariously on Goyle's broad shoulders.
"Draco, these cloaks are terribly made," Marcus Flint grumbled, tugging irritably at the oversized, tattered fabric hanging over his head. "I understand the idea, but do you honestly think these rags are enough to frighten Harry Potter?"
"It'll be enough," Draco replied confidently as he carefully climbed down from Goyle's shoulders. "The moment Potter sees us, his trauma will kick in. He'll panic, fall off his broom, and Gryffindor will lose."
Flint's lips curled into a ruthless grin.
When it came to winning Quidditch matches, he had absolutely no objections to underhanded tactics.
As long as Ravenclaw didn't win, the method hardly mattered.
Crabbe awkwardly adjusted his hood, his voice muffled beneath the fabric.
"Are you sure the professors won't recognize us?"
Draco rolled his eyes.
"Are you seriously questioning my plan? Just follow my instructions. No one will ever connect this operation to us."
Crabbe nodded obediently.
He rarely questioned Draco's ideas.
More accurately, he simply lacked the imagination to do so.
"Enough talking," Draco ordered. "One last rehearsal. When the moment comes, we can't afford to make a single mistake."
Goyle rubbed his aching shoulders.
To create the illusion of a towering Dementor, he had been forced to serve as the base while Draco balanced on top of him.
Even if Draco wasn't particularly heavy, carrying another person was exhausting.
Suddenly, Goyle noticed movement from the corner of his eye.
A blurry black figure was gliding silently toward them.
His sluggish mind struggled to process what he was seeing.
He opened his mouth, but terror robbed him of his voice.
Instead, he slowly raised a trembling hand and patted Draco on the shoulder.
"What now?!" Draco snapped impatiently. "Save your pointless questions until I've fixed this stupid cloak."
Goyle patted him again.
More urgently this time.
With an exaggerated sigh, Draco finally turned around.
"What on earth are you trying to..."
The words died in his throat.
Because he saw it.
The towering black figure had drifted to within thirty feet.
The tattered ancient robes.
The unnatural aura of freezing despair.
The horrifying, scab-covered face hidden beneath the hood.
It wasn't an imitation.
It was a real Dementor.
Every trace of arrogance vanished from the four Slytherins' faces.
Their complexions turned deathly pale.
Draco's legs gave way beneath him.
Hidden behind a large oak tree a short distance away, Maurise stared at the four petrified students.
For several long seconds, he genuinely had no idea what to think.
He had expected to capture three valuable wild Dementors.
Instead, he had discovered four complete idiots putting on an amateur theatrical performance.
'Why are these morons dressing up as Dementors?'
'What a waste of time.'
Maurise sighed.
Unfortunately, his undead operative had absolutely no understanding of the absurd situation.
After failing to detect its former companions, it immediately defaulted to its secondary objective.
Feeding.
The four terrified students wrapped in black cloaks radiated the rich scent of overwhelming fear.
To a starving Dementor, it was an irresistible feast.
Without hesitation, it accelerated toward the nearest target.
Draco Malfoy.
"AHHH!"
Draco let out a high-pitched scream and collapsed backward onto the ground.
Just before the Dementor's rotted hand reached his face, Maurise calmly stepped out from behind the oak tree.
"Stop."
His calm voice echoed across the clearing.
The Dementor froze instantly.