Around ten o'clock, Maurice made his way toward the Quidditch pitch.
While he didn't exactly share the wizarding world's frantic obsession with flying broomsticks and violent balls, the Weasley twins had been quite insistent. He couldn't very well let his friends down, especially since they seemed to think a Quidditch match was the pinnacle of human achievement.
Maurice was among the first to arrive. The stands were mostly empty, a skeleton of wood and magic waiting to be filled with screaming fans. He found a spot near the aisle and settled in, pulling a small, translucent "Void Energy Crystal" from his pocket to fiddle with.
After a few days of Maurice absentmindedly rubbing it between his fingers, the crystal had taken on a polished, glassy sheen. It looked less like a dangerous magical component and more like a very expensive marble.
As the minutes ticked by, the quiet was replaced by the low roar of a growing crowd.
Students began pouring into the stands, their chatter merging into a chaotic hum. Maurice, however, remained in his own little bubble.
He pulled a heavy, leather-bound volume on Potions from his bag and began to read, oblivious to the changing demographics of his immediate surroundings.
It wasn't until he reached the end of a particularly complex chapter on the properties of powdered moonstone that he bothered to look up. He blinked, suddenly realizing that the empty rows in front of him had been replaced by a sea of silver and emerald green.
He was sitting in the back right corner of the Slytherin section.
"Well, that was a tactical error," he murmured to himself. He didn't really mind, though. A seat was a seat, and he was quite comfortable where he was.
A tall, thin Slytherin boy in the row ahead turned around, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the bronze eagle pinned to Maurice's chest.
"Ravenclaw?" the boy asked, his voice dripping with confusion. "What are you doing here? Your lot are all over in the next stand."
"Oh, it's fine. I'm just too lazy to move," Maurice replied mildly, his eyes already drifting back to his book.
But the boy wasn't the only one who had noticed the blue-clad interloper. A pale boy with slicked-back, platinum-blonde hair and a pointed face turned toward him.
"This is the Slytherin section," the blonde boy said. His tone was perfectly polite on the surface, but it carried a heavy, unearned layer of superiority. "I suggest you find somewhere else to be."
Maurice looked up. He recognized this one. Harry had mentioned him several times, usually followed by words like "vile" or "arrogant." This was the famous first-year menace of Slytherin.
What was his name again? Mal... Mal-something? Malignant? Malfunction?
"Right, Mal-whatever-it-is," Maurice thought. He didn't want to be a nuisance, so he closed his book, preparing to leave.
Perhaps he wasn't moving fast enough for the blonde boy's liking. With a sudden, arrogant flourish, the boy reached out and snatched the book right out of Maurice's hands.
"This is no place for reading," the boy drawled, holding the book up to inspect the cover with a sneer. He stopped, his expression faltering for a split second.
"Advanced Potion-Making?"
He read the title aloud, his voice projecting so the surrounding students could hear. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Do you honestly expect us to believe you're reading this? What are you trying to prove, Ravenclaw? Looking for attention?"
The two thick-set boys flanking him, who looked more like boulders in school robes than children, let out synchronized, guttural laughs. To them, the idea of a first-year student reading a N.E.W.T.-level textbook was the funniest joke of the century.
Maurice sighed. The name finally clicked in his head. Draco Malfoy.
The boy Harry called a "spoiled brat" and Ron called "a complete nightmare." The description, Maurice noted, was remarkably accurate.
"How... tiresome," Maurice muttered. He stood up and shook his head slowly. "You're being very childish."
Draco's smirk widened. He looked at his cronies, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Did you hear that? The little Ravenclaw thinks I'm childish. I think the books have finally rotted his brain."
Crabbe and Goyle laughed even harder. By now, the commotion had drawn the attention of the surrounding Slytherins, many of whom were watching with amused detachment.
Maurice didn't bother arguing. He had learned long ago that trying to use logic on a fool was like trying to teach a troll to play the cello. It was a waste of breath.
He stepped out into the aisle, pulled his wand, and gave it a sharp, practiced flick toward the book still clutched in Draco's hand.
"Accio!"
The Summoning Charm hit with unexpected force. Draco felt the book slip from his fingers like a wet fish. Because he had been gripping it tightly to taunt Maurice, the sudden momentum yanked his arm forward. He lost his balance, stumbling out of his seat and landing in a very un-aristocratic heap at Maurice's feet.
The book, meanwhile, flew gracefully through the air and landed firmly in Maurice's waiting hand.
Without spare glance at the boy on the floor, Maurice tucked the book under his arm and walked away with the calm indifference of someone who had just finished a very boring conversation.
The Slytherin stands went deathly quiet for a moment. Then, as if by some unspoken agreement, everyone turned back to their own business, pointedly ignoring Draco as he scrambled to his feet.
Draco's face was a shade of red that would have made a Gryffindor banner look pale. He returned to his seat, his chest heaving with silent rage. Crabbe and Goyle huddled together, looking like they wanted to disappear into their own robes. They knew that when Draco was this quiet, something unpleasant was usually about to happen.
After a few minutes of simmering, Draco finally spoke, his voice low and dangerous.
"After the match, follow him. That Ravenclaw needs to learn exactly who he's dealing with."
"Right, Draco," Crabbe and Goyle grunted in unison, nodding like bobbleheads.
On the other side of the pitch, Maurice finally found the Ravenclaw section. He managed to snag a seat right behind Cho Chang.
The second-year girl turned around and offered him a friendly smile, holding out a small bag of sweets. "Tough luck finding a seat? You look like you've been through a war zone."
Maurice took a lemon drop, his mood instantly improving. "Just a minor infestation of snakes. These are much better, thank you."
Cho, it turned out, was a walking encyclopedia of Quidditch. She spent the next few minutes breaking down the rosters for Gryffindor and Slytherin, pointing out the tactical advantages of each side.
"Gryffindor has a secret weapon this year," she whispered, nodding toward the pitch where the teams were beginning to emerge. "A new Seeker. Harry Potter."
"And what about us?" Maurice asked. "How's the Ravenclaw team looking?"
Cho's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "Well... we were doing great last year. But our Seeker is currently nursing a broom-related injury, and we've got two rookies in the Chaser positions. Let's just say we're aiming for 'participation with dignity' this season."
Maurice nodded solemnly. "Dignity is overrated, but I suppose it's a start."
At exactly eleven o'clock, a sharp whistle pierced the air.
With a roar from the crowd that shook the very foundations of the stands, the players kicked off. Fourteen brooms shot into the sky, a blur of red and green against the grey clouds.