"So," Professor McGonagall began, cutting straight to the point, "has anything unusual happened around Mr. Black during his time here?"
"Unusual?" Harold repeated, not quite catching her meaning at first. His brow furrowed in confusion. "Unusual how?"
"Yes, unusual." Professor McGonagall nodded patiently, clearly accustomed to this particular conversation with bewildered muggles.
"For instance, objects suddenly moving on their own without being touched, milk spontaneously spilling for no apparent reason, lights flickering when he's upset, windows shattering during tantrums... anything out of the ordinary will do. Even small things that seemed strange at the time but were dismissed as coincidence."
Harold's frown deepened as he searched his memory, which admittedly wasn't very reliable when it came to the day-to-day details of the children's home. He rarely paid that much attention.
He glanced sideways at Morris standing quietly beside him. The boy stood there perfectly obediently, eyes downcast in a posture of respectful attention, hands clasped in front of him, looking utterly harmless and innocent.
The picture of a model child.
It was hard to imagine this well-behaved boy causing supernatural chaos.
"If I had to mention something unusual," Harold said slowly after a moment's thought, "Mr. Black is an exceptionally intelligent child. Remarkably so, actually. His studies have never been a concern for us—quite the opposite. In the entrance examinations that just concluded a few weeks ago, he ranked first in this entire region."
Though he didn't pay much attention to the children's home's affairs ordinarily, that was what he paid the caretakers for, after all—this particular piece of news had reached his ears through multiple channels.
After all, several prestigious schools had already contacted him, hoping to admit the boy to their programs.
He had simply left such routine matters to the caretakers to handle.
Truth be told, he didn't really care much about the children's home itself on a day-to-day basis—unless the government stopped providing him with funding.
No, wait—stopped providing his orphanage with funding. Not him personally. Important distinction.
"Ah, yes," Harold suddenly remembered something else, his expression changed slightly. "This child has been adopted twice before, actually. Both times ended rather... abruptly."
Professor McGonagall's posture changed subtly, leaning forward with increased interest. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "If it's not too much trouble, could you tell me the specific details of those adoptions?"
This was potentially significant information. If there had been two separate adoption attempts, why was this clearly intelligent and well-behaved child still residing in a children's home?
That was a very telling question with potentially concerning answers.
Had he been abused by the adoptive families? Were there behavioral issues that only emerged in a home environment? Or was there something else like something magical that had driven the families away?
Harold shifted uncomfortably, his hand was moving up to awkwardly rub his balding head.
"That's quite a difficult question to answer accurately," He said with an embarrassed cough, his eyes were sliding away from her sharp gaze. "I can't remember the specific details too clearly. You have to understand—it's been several years now since those incidents occurred...."
He trailed off lamely, essentially admitting he hadn't bothered to review the boy's file before this meeting.
Morris, hearing this pathetic excuse, couldn't help but purse his lips slightly in an expression of disdain that he quickly suppressed.
Professor McGonagall, whose decades of teaching had made her exceptionally observant of children's micro-expressions, keenly caught that small gesture. Her gaze immediately shifted to Morris, and when she spoke again, her voice had softened considerably, taking on a warmth that changed her stern demeanor.
"Do you remember the details, Mr. Black?" she asked gently, her eyes kind and encouraging. "Of course, if you'd rather not explain, that's perfectly fine. It's your personal history, and you have no obligation to share it. I can assure you it won't affect your admission to Hogwarts in any way."
Morris looked up and met Professor McGonagall's compassionate eyes directly.
Fine, it wasn't anything that needed to be kept secret anyway.
He explained concisely: "It's nothing too serious, really. When those two families adopted me, various dead stray animals would mysteriously appear in their yards and gardens."
He paused, gauging her reaction before continuing. "The first adoptive mother was so frightened by finding the corpses that she fell ill—had to be hospitalized for stress and anxiety. The second adoptive father believed I was a child who brought misfortune. He was quite superstitious. They both sent me back to the children's home rather quickly after the incidents began."
Morris's tone was quite casual. "Looking back now with what you've told me, that was probably the work of accidental magic too, wasn't it?"
Even now, years later, he still felt a pang of regret about those incidents.
After all, it had most likely been a problem he had inadvertently caused through his inability to control his magical power. Those two families, both of them were genuinely kind people who had wanted to give him a home and had suffered significant distress and financial loss through absolutely no fault of their own.
Oh, and there was one detail he'd deliberately left out because it seemed too extreme to mention casually: the second family that adopted him hadn't just found dead stray animals scattered around their property. There had also been two homeless vagrants' corpses that appeared in their back garden one winter morning.
He still remembered the screaming.
He'd heard later, through the children's home gossip link, that the house they'd been living in at the time had dropped significantly in value because of the incident. The reputation of "the death house" had stuck. They'd eventually sold at a large loss and moved away.
Very real, very harsh consequences for people who'd only wanted to help an orphan.
Morris silently apologized to them again in his heart.
Of course, he genuinely hadn't caused the actual deaths of those stray animals and vagrants. He wasn't a murderer. The autopsy reports for those two vagrants had confirmed they'd frozen to death elsewhere.
He had probably just used unconscious magic to somehow gather those already-dead corpses together and transport them to locations near his temporary home.
Why?
He still didn't fully understand. Perhaps some deep part of his psyche had been drawn to death even then, some aspect of his magical nature that resonated with the concept of mortality.
Professor McGonagall listened to Morris's straightforward description with a neutral expression, though her eyes showed hints of concern.
After a moment of contemplative silence, she spoke: "Though the specific manifestation is somewhat unusual, this was most likely caused by a magical outburst during your childhood. When young wizards experience intense emotional fluctuations or have particularly strong subconscious desires, their magic can leak out uncontrollably, causing all sorts of strange and sometimes alarming occurrences."
'Magical outburst,' Morris thought.
He nodded slowly, processing this explanation. "I see."
That explained everything.
He'd always thought he was just particularly unlucky, that those corpses had coincidentally appeared around him through some bizarre anomaly.
Now it seemed those corpses had gathered specifically because of his strong subconscious desires, drawn by his uncontrolled magical power.
But wait—that didn't seem quite right either, did it?
Why would he have wanted to gather those corpses for no reason? What possible subconscious desire would manifest as "collect dead things"?
He wasn't some kind of morbid pervert with a fascination for corpses. At least, he didn't think he was.
Seeing Morris's face go through a series of complicated expressions, Professor McGonagall tried to reassure him before he spiraled into excessive worry.
"Don't concern yourself too much, Mr. Black," she said warmly, reaching out to briefly pat his shoulder. "Magical outbursts basically stop occurring naturally by your age."
She smiled encouragingly. "Once you're studying at Hogwarts, you'll learn proper techniques for controlling your own magic consciously. These uncontrollable phenomena will naturally disappear then, replaced by intentional spellcasting. You'll never have to worry about accidentally affecting your surroundings again."
Morris nodded thoughtfully. "I understand, Professor. Thank you."
"Do you have any other questions for me?" Professor McGonagall inquired.
Morris hesitated for just a moment, genuine curiosity flickering in his eyes, then decided to voice the request that had been building since she'd arrived. "Professor, this might be presumptuous, but... could you show me a spell right now?"
Professor McGonagall's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise at the direct request, then her stern face melted into a knowing smile.
Indeed, she realized with amusement, she hadn't actually demonstrated any magic to Morris until this very moment. She'd shown Harold that transfiguration to convince him of magic's reality and secure his cooperation, but the boy himself had received no such proof.
On the contrary, Morris's ready acceptance of magic's existence without requiring evidence or demonstration seemed even more unusual now that she thought about it.
"Actually, perfect timing," Professor McGonagall said. "I'll be taking you to Diagon Alley next to purchase the various items you'll need for the school year. You'll see plenty of magic there—it's the heart of magical London. Did you bring your supply list? It should have been attached to the back of your acceptance letter."
"I did," Morris confirmed immediately.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved a somewhat crumpled piece of parchment that he'd been carrying around.
He smoothed it out carefully and glanced down at the list once more.
The inventory contained quite a few items, some mundane and some mysterious. Several things he genuinely didn't understand the purpose of.
Like a telescope, for instance.
No matter how he'd thought about it, that object had nothing to do with magic as far as he could determine.
"Excellent. Then we can leave immediately," Professor McGonagall said briskly, already turning toward Harold, who had been standing silently throughout this entire exchange like a wooden post, barely daring to breathe.
"Mr. Green, I'll be taking Mr. Black away for several hours. We should be back by around one o'clock this afternoon, perhaps slightly later depending on crowds. Thank you for your cooperation."
Harold nodded eagerly, perhaps too eagerly, his head was bobbing like a toy. "Of course, of course, no problem at all. Take whatever time you need. No rush."
Having received the necessary confirmation and permission, Professor McGonagall turned her attention back to Morris. She elegantly extended her right arm in a formal gesture that reminded Morris of old-fashioned ballroom dancing.
"Please take hold of my arm, Mr. Black. The journey ahead might make you feel quite uncomfortable, I'm afraid—the first Apparition always is rather unpleasant. If you're feeling nervous, you can take a few deep breaths first to steady yourself."
Morris did as instructed and took hold of the professor's left arm.
Professor McGonagall drew her wand with her free right hand.
"Apparate!" Professor McGonagall said clearly, and Morris felt a sudden surge of magical energy that made his skin prickle.
As the spell's power activated, the space around them began to twist and distort in a way that Morris's eyes couldn't properly process.
Morris felt as though an invisible pair of enormous hands had reached inside his body and squeezed all his internal organs tight, everything was compressed simultaneously in a grip.
His body was being forced through a space far too small for it to fit.
Then, just as suddenly, the pressure released.
A blur of light and shadow flashed before his eyes, and he had the sensation of being pulled rapidly through a narrow tube.
The whole experience lasted perhaps two seconds, though it felt much longer.
When Morris felt his feet touch solid ground again, he found himself standing in a completely different location. They were now in a narrow, dingy alley between two tall buildings.
"How do you feel?" Professor McGonagall asked with concern, kindly patting Morris's back with her free hand.
Morris was stunned speechless for a moment, his brain was struggling to process what had just happened to him.
After a pause, he finally found his voice, which came out as slightly hoarse: "A bit... nauseous..."
That was an understatement. His stomach was churning. He could taste bile at the back of his throat. His head was spinning, and he had to concentrate on keeping his breakfast down.
But despite the physical discomfort, Morris's mind was racing with exhilaration.
This was magic.
For ordinary people, moving so abruptly from one location to another in an instant was pure fantasy.
Yet magic could accomplish it with apparent ease. Even though his stomach was currently churning and his sense of spatial awareness was completely scrambled, even though he felt awful—this was incredible.
Morris couldn't help but look around, his eyes darting everywhere, taking in every detail of their new surroundings.
He was somewhat afraid this was all a hallucination.
This was a genuine miracle that human technology could never achieve, at least not in his lifetime or probably the next several generations.
How could someone who had witnessed a miracle like this allow themselves to return to that mediocre, mundane world of the ordinary?
If someone told him now that all of this was fake, that magic didn't exist and he was delusional, he would probably suffer a complete psychological shutdown on the spot.
Meanwhile, back in the orphanage's reception room, Harold stood frozen in place.
He stared at the exact spot where two people had been standing just moments ago—where they had suddenly vanished into thin air as if they'd never existed.
After several seconds of shocked immobility, Harold's legs gave out and he sank heavily into the worn sofa behind him.
He tilted his head back and gazed blankly at the ceiling.
His thoughts were completely chaotic, racing and tumbling over each other in a disorganized jumble.
Everything that had happened today had been far too stimulating for him.
A wizard suddenly visiting his orphanage. A child about to attend a secret magical school. Vanishing magic….
And that contract forbidding him from revealing the existence of magic to anyone, ever now lay heavily in his suit's inner pocket.
'Damn it,' Harold thought desperately, his hands coming up to cover his face. 'What kind of world am I actually living in?'