Chapter 37: The Origins of Maurice (Revised)

Maurice raised his head, shifting his gaze from the pages of his book to the small boy standing in the doorway wearing Slytherin robes.

"It is quite late. What brings you here?"

The boy’s face flushed slightly. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but hesitated. Maurice did not rush him, watching him instead with a scrutinizing gaze, as if waiting for a reasonable explanation.

"Professor..." the boy finally spoke, his voice thin but clear, "My... my father... asked me to give you a message."

Maurice set down his quill and leaned back against his chair, gesturing for the boy to enter. "Come in and close the door. It isn't comfortable to stand out there."

The boy nodded, closed the door softly, and walked to the desk. He hesitated, then mustered the courage to look Maurice in the eye.

"So, what message did your father send you to deliver?"

The boy swallowed, his voice barely audible: "He... invites you to visit our home at the end of this month."

Maurice’s expression remained unchanged. He folded his arms and leaned back further, studying the boy. "Your name, and your father's name?"

"My name is Theodore Nott," the boy replied, his tone stiff. He paused, then added as if reaching a decision, "My father’s name is... Vane Nott."

Maurice’s expression froze for a fleeting moment. His clasped fingers loosened, and his nails tapped rhythmically against the desk, a sound barely heard.

Vane Nott.

It was a name that stirred vivid memories—or, more precisely, the implications behind that name were...

Maurice’s gaze lingered on Theodore, his expression complex, as if searching for something within the boy’s youthful features.

"I understand," Maurice said finally, his voice regaining its composure. "Please tell your father that I will consider his invitation."

Theodore nodded and whispered, "Thank you, Professor."

Yet, for some reason, he made no move to leave. The two stared at each other, the atmosphere becoming excruciatingly awkward. Finally, Maurice sighed softly, breaking the silence. His eyes remained fixed on Theodore’s face, filled with a sense of study, as if trying to discern something more—bloodlines, the future, or perhaps... another possibility. Something concerning a father, and something concerning another version of himself.

"You seem to have something more to say?" Maurice finally asked.

Theodore’s face paled slightly, as if he were suppressing something. He bit his lip, clearly conflicted. Finally, he lowered his head, his voice lower than before: "Professor... my father... he said that you might remember... remember that matter."

"Hmm?" Maurice raised an eyebrow.

Theodore nodded, nervously tugging at his sleeve as if seeking comfort. "He didn't say it clearly, just... just asked me to tell you that he has never forgotten what happened back then. And he hopes... he hopes you can forgive him."

That sentence struck Maurice’s heart like a heavy blow. In an instant, Maurice lost all expression. His vision blurred, and the desk, the bookshelves, and the images on the wall all became indistinct. After a moment of silence, Maurice slowly lowered his head, his eyes falling upon his crossed fingers, where a tremor was almost imperceptible.

When he looked up again, his calm, rational demeanor had returned.

"Tell your father," Maurice said, his voice level, "that I do not require his forgiveness. Nor do I intend to forgive him."

Theodore stood stunned, unable to react. Maurice’s tone held no anger; instead, it carried a water-like coldness, sharp and ruthless, like a blade honed over many years.

"Tell him," Maurice continued, his tone devoid of fluctuation, "that he has invited me, and I will consider it, but he should not expect me to accept."

Theodore’s lips trembled. He wanted to say something, but in the end, he simply nodded, lowered his head, and turned to walk toward the door. As the door closed, Maurice watched the boy's retreating form, as if seeing flickering, indistinct images of the past flash before his eyes.

Once the door was shut, Maurice leaned back into his chair, his gaze darkening as he sank into deep contemplation.

1970.

A late summer afternoon. Sunlight spilled over vast stretches of lawn, the air filled with the faint scent of hay and earth. In the center of the grass, a boy of seven or eight lay on his back, chewing on a stalk of grass, lazily watching the sky above. His hair was a mess, as if he had just finished roughhousing, and his clothes were dusted with grass clippings, but he didn't seem to care. With his hands behind his head and his legs crossed, he let the sun wash over his face.

"Bern!" A crisp call came from afar, accompanied by the rustle of footsteps through the grass.

The boy didn't move, merely rolling his eyes and calling back lazily, "What?"

Soon, an older girl ran over, breathless, carrying an old, broken broomstick. She stopped beside him, leaning over with her hands on her knees. "Bern, someone came to your house! They're arguing loudly; you should go back and see!"

The boy’s lazy expression vanished instantly. He sat up abruptly, the stalk of grass falling from his mouth onto his knee. He looked up at the girl, urgently asking, "Who came? Why are they arguing?"

The girl shook her head, her voice hurried. "I don't know. It was a man; I heard them while passing by the yard. Their voices were so loud, it sounded like they were fighting over something important."

The boy leapt to his feet, brushed the grass from his clothes, and didn't even bother to fix his hair. He glanced at the girl, turned on his heel, and ran swiftly toward home.

"Thanks, Eliana!"

The girl stood still, watching the boy’s retreating back. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but said nothing, instead gripping the broken broom tighter and turning toward the village path.

The boy ran fast, the grass and paths blurring before his eyes. His heart raced, his mind filled with dark suspicions.

This year was the most turbulent in Britain, marking the rise of Voldemort and the beginning of the war. A few months prior, his followers had begun recruiting giants and werewolves, launching a brutal purge against Muggle-born wizards. The entire wizarding world was plunged into unprecedented panic. For ordinary families, the fires of war were closing in; even in seemingly peaceful villages, the threat of the storm could be felt.

His father, despite coming from an ancient pure-blood family, was a Squib—he possessed no magical ability. Consequently, his father had been cast out by the family and struck from the family tree forever. Later, he had married an ordinary Muggle woman, started this small family, and had him.

The status of Squibs in the wizarding world had always been lowly—that was a consensus in the magical community. Even the Ministry of Magic did not keep birth records for Squibs. Typically, reasonable families would send Squibs to Muggle schools while they were young to encourage them to assimilate into Muggle society, sparing them the discrimination of being treated as second-class citizens or worse. Some pure-blood families, like the Blacks, would strike Squibs from the tree, just as they had erased Marius Black. Even families who accepted Muggles and Muggle-borns often seemed uncomfortable with Squibs. For instance, the Weasleys rarely spoke of their Squib relative who worked as an accountant in the Muggle world. Many wizarding families were desperate for early signs of magic in their children; if a child appeared to be a Squib, they were devastated—Neville Longbottom was a prime example.

So, from the day Voldemort started the war, the boy had been terrified—terrified that his family would be torn apart. Even without considering bloodline or background, his father, possessing no magic, could not protect their home. And besides... his father had such a past.

He had once thought of urging his parents to leave Britain, but for a young boy to suggest that two people with no magical ability should uproot their lives and start over in a foreign land seemed absurd and impractical.

Voldemort’s shadow was destined to loom over Britain for eleven years, until the birth of "that boy." Under this turbulent shadow, the boy had imagined countless times: if Voldemort truly launched the war and the Death Eaters came knocking, what could they rely on?

He gritted his teeth and ran faster. The wind whistled in his ears, and every step on the dirt and gravel felt heavy, but he dared not stop. The fear and worry in his chest weighed on him like a boulder. He could faintly hear the clamor in the distance—the direction of his home.