The familiar, lukewarm sensation washed over him like a heavy wool blanket.
Maurice blinked his eyes open. The first thing he did was check the brass clock mounted on the dormitory wall. The second hand was frozen, paralyzed mid-tick. Perfect.
This meant he had successfully slipped into the Interstice, that strange, silent fold between seconds where time simply forgot to happen.
Wasting not a single moment, he slipped out of the castle. His destination was the small wooden cabin he had spotted during his last excursion.
As he trekked across the silent grounds, Maurice decided to test-drive his newest acquisition: a spell he had recently puzzled out from a particularly dusty tome.
"Zhaj... Vok... Thur!" (Energy Convergence)
The moment the incantation left his lips, he felt the difference. This wasn't the usual spark of internal magic. Instead, the very air seemed to respond. The thin, milky-white mist that perpetually drifted through the Interstice began to swirl. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, wisps of white vapor spiraled toward his upturned palm, condensing and spinning with increasing density.
Maurice kept the flow steady. By the time he was within a hundred yards of the cabin, the mist had solidified into a small, pearlescent bead. It was translucent, shimmering with a soft, internal glow.
"So, this is what happens when you squeeze the atmosphere," Maurice muttered. He held the bead up to the light, then, in a fit of scientific rigor, gave it a tentative bite.
It was rock-hard and tasted of absolutely nothing.
What exactly was one supposed to do with a solidified marble of extra-dimensional fog?
He didn't have a clue.
For now, he decided to call them "Interstice Energy Crystals." He pocketed the bead, figuring he could find a way to weaponize them or power a toaster with them later.
Soon, he stood before the cabin.
It was a charming, two-story structure that looked suspiciously brand new. The exterior was a rich, dark mahogany, topped with neat grey shingles. The glass in the windows was so clean it practically sparkled, which was an achievement considering the lack of any visible cleaning supplies or, well, people.
"Lovely place," Maurice thought. "Compared to this, Hagrid's hut looks like a DIY project gone horribly wrong."
But the mystery remained: why was there a luxury cabin in the middle of a temporal void?
There was no mailbox, no "Bless This Home" sign, and no welcome mat. The only identifying mark was a small, cryptic symbol carved into the doorframe: a circle enclosed within a triangle, with a vertical line bisecting them both.
Maurice stared at it for a long minute. It looked like a very geometric eye or perhaps a very confusing schematic for a tent.
Regardless, it certainly wasn't a natural knot in the wood. Someone had put it there with intent.
He committed the shape to memory, then turned his attention back to the door.
Knock, knock!
"Hello? Anyone home? I'm here to talk to you about your broom's extended warranty!"
Silence. As expected, the Interstice was not known for its lively social scene. He tried the handle, but it was locked tight. He moved to the windows, but they were enchanted with a blurring charm that made the interior look like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.
Maurice stepped back and drew his wand.
"Alohomora!"
The unlocking charm hit the door and bounced off with a pathetic ping, dissipating into blue sparks. Maurice frowned. This wasn't just a sturdy lock; this was high-grade magical security.
He pondered his options for a moment. He really shouldn't be breaking and entering, but his curiosity was currently screaming louder than his conscience. He offered a silent apology to the hypothetical owner, promising to fix the mess later.
"Kruk... Tak... Gûl." (Bone Calling)
Instead of a gentle unlocking spell, Maurice opted for something a bit more... structural.
Dozens of sharp, ivory bone spikes materialized in the air, launching themselves at the door with the force of a runaway carriage.
The sound of splintering wood echoed through the silent clearing as the spikes tore through the reinforced mahogany like it was wet cardboard.
Maurice nodded, satisfied. "Who needs a key when you have necromancy?"
He stepped through the wreckage of the front door, wand at the ready. To his surprise, the interior was remarkably domestic. It had a kitchen, a cozy living area, and a bathroom. It was clean, functional, and utterly devoid of any personal touches. No half-eaten sandwiches, no stray socks, no personality.
It wasn't until he reached the upstairs bedroom that he found a lead.
Tucked away in a bedside drawer was a single photograph.
It was a small, candid shot of a young man with golden hair. He looked to be in his early twenties, possessing the kind of effortless, roguish charm that usually meant trouble for everyone involved. He was grinning at the camera, a look of pure, unadulterated confidence in his eyes.
Maurice didn't recognize him, but he felt a slight twinge of professional jealousy. The guy was annoyingly handsome.
"Almost as good-looking as me in my prime," Maurice grumbled, tucking the photo into his pocket next to his energy bead.
He searched the rest of the house, but the trail went cold. Eventually, the familiar tug of the Draught of Living Death began to fade, signaling that his time in the Interstice was up.
The next two weeks were a blur of routine.
Maurice spent his "stolen" time wandering the Interstice, but found nothing but an endless, silent wasteland beyond the castle and the cabin.
He did, however, manage to collect a literal sack full of those energy crystals, mostly out of boredom.
As for the mysterious symbol and the blond man in the photo? He had discreetly questioned the Weasley twins and a few older Ravenclaws, but they all reacted with the same blank stares. Apparently, the "Triangle-Circle-Line" club was a very exclusive one.
By Saturday, November 16th, the atmosphere at Hogwarts had shifted from academic dread to sports-induced mania. It was the start of the Quidditch season.
Quidditch, as far as Maurice could tell, was a sport designed by someone who hated gravity and loved hospital stays. It was essentially soccer, but played on broomsticks a hundred feet in the air with balls that actively tried to murder you.
While the rest of the Great Hall was buzzing with excitement over the upcoming Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, Maurice was preoccupied with his own struggle: staying awake.
He sat at the long table, staring intensely at his coffee as he added sugar. One spoonful. Two. Three. Four. He was currently juggling Interstice exploration, magical research, potion-making, and actual classes. His brain felt like it had been put through a pepper grinder.
He began squeezing a mountain of maple syrup onto his pancakes, creating a sticky, golden swamp.
"Steady on there, Maurice. That's enough sugar to power a dragon," a voice joked from behind him. "You've officially ruined that poor pancake. It's a tragedy, truly."
Maurice turned to see the Weasley twins.
Over the last month, he had developed a sixth sense for telling them apart. It wasn't their faces, which were identical, but their rhythm. Fred usually led the charge, while George provided the tactical backup.
"You two look like you've been run over by a Centaur," Maurice said, his voice muffled by a massive, syrup-soaked bite of pancake.
The twins did indeed look haggard. Their usual mischievous glints were replaced by heavy bags under their eyes.
"That's because we have," Fred sighed, dropping onto the bench. "The match is at eleven, and George and I haven't slept a wink. Too much tactical planning."
"And by tactical planning, he means staring at the ceiling and worrying about being knocked off our brooms by Bludgers," George added, stifling a massive yawn.
Maurice reached into his robes and pulled out a small, corked vial. "You're suffering from insomnia? I have just the thing. Freshly brewed."
Fred squinted at the vial. "Is that... Draught of Living Death?"
"The very same," Maurice nodded. "Though I left out the more... morbid ingredients. It'll knock you out in three seconds flat."
Fred's jaw dropped. "You actually made it? We thought you were joking when you said you were tackling sixth-year potions."
Maurice tilted his head, confused. "Why would I joke about medicine? Do you want it or not?"
"No, thank you!" Fred held up his hands in mock retreat. "We have a game in four hours. If we drink that, we won't wake up until next Christmas."
"A game?" Maurice paused, a syrup-covered fork halfway to his mouth. "Where are you going?"
Fred and George exchanged a look of utter disbelief.
"Maurice... you do realize we're on the Gryffindor team, right?"