September first arrived with the crisp, cool air of early autumn.
The morning light was still pale and watery when Morris stood by the orphanage's front door, his posture was straight and patient despite the early hour. He'd been awake since dawn, packing and repacking his belongings.
His luggage was modest by most standards—a single leather suitcase that contained his entire magical education starter kit, and the undead cat cradled in his arms.
"Silly cat, your body seems to have gotten even colder," Morris murmured softly, his fingers going through Tin-Tin's black fur.
Tin-Tin stretched lazily in the crook of his arm, nuzzling its head against Morris's chest.
In the morning light streaming through the orphanage's grimy windows, Morris's shadow flickered and rippled unnaturally against the floorboards.
It was Sparkles, of course.
The shadow-dwelling owl seemed displeased once again by the open display of affection between Morris and Tin-Tin. Through their bond, Morris could sense the owl's indignation, that peculiar tsundere jealousy.
Morris could only shake his head helplessly at the petty rivalry.
"Don't be jealous," he whispered to his shadow. "You know you're just as important."
The shadow rippled again, this time with what felt like reluctant acceptance.
At that moment, the purr of an engine broke the morning silence. A car pulled smoothly to a stop in front of the orphanage entrance.
"Good morning, Morris," Harold called out cheerfully as he emerged from the driver's seat, removing his sunglasses with style. His balding head caught the sunlight, and his face was warm. "How are you feeling? Nervous? Excited?"
"Thanks for this, Harold." Morris nodded politely.
Harold waved dismissively. He hopped out of the car, and moved around to lift Morris's suitcase.
"Get in quick," he said, grunting slightly as he lifted the case into the trunk. "It'll take some time to get from here to King's Cross Station. Sunday morning traffic in London can be unpredictable, and we don't want you to miss your train."
Morris climbed into the back seat, settling Tin-Tin on his lap, and immediately noticed a small paper bag placed beside him on the leather padding.
Curious, he opened it to find a variety of oddly-shaped cookies, some already broken into several pieces during trave;. They were clearly homemade.
"Oh, that's my daughter's craft class homework," Harold explained as he started the car. "You can try them—they're edible, at least. I tested one myself this morning."
"Thanks." Morris picked up a relatively intact cookie—this one shaped like what might have been intended as a star but had spread into something more amoebic. He bit into it.
The taste flooded his mouth—very sweet, almost aggressively so, with a faint butter aroma underneath the sugar. The texture was crispy and slightly chewy. But the basics were sound; at least the young bakeress hadn't confused salt for sugar or forgotten the leavening agent.
'At least she didn't mess up the recipe,' Morris thought with approval. 'Very Sweey'
As the car merged onto increasingly busy roads, the city scene gradually transformed from the residential streets of the orphanage's neighborhood to the more prosperous areas of inner London, Morris sat back into his seat. He closed his eyes, let his breathing slow and deepen, and entered the meditative state.
It had almost become part of his daily routine.
Meditation truly did calm the mind.
With each regulated breath, the outside noise gradually receded. All of it faded until Morris seemed to exist in a tranquil world where only magical energy flowed.
For Morris, this feeling was extremely addictive.
Seeing Morris's stillness through the rearview mirror, Harold mistook it for sleep. He reached forward and turned down the car radio, reducing the cheerful morning DJ's chatter to murmuring.
When Morris opened his eyes again, the view outside the car windows had transformed. They had entered central London, where the streets were narrower and the buildings pressed closer together.
"How much longer until we arrive?" Morris asked as he watched the increasingly dense traffic outside.
Harold glanced at the dashboard clock and did a quick mental calculation. "About half an hour, maybe a bit more if this traffic keeps up... Did you just wake up?"
"No, I wasn't sleeping."
"Then what were you doing?" Harold's tone was curious.
"Meditating."
At this response, Harold was momentarily puzzled. "Practicing magic?"
Morris nodded lightly and continued gazing at the passing streetscape.
He wondered what Hogwarts would really be like.
The excitement was building inside him. He was growing more and more excited with each passing mile.
"Can I visit your school?" Harold asked suddenly.
"I don't know, but I can ask a professor for you," Morris replied, catching Harold's hopeful expression in the rearview mirror before gently mitigating those expectations. "Though I think it's unlikely."
Harold nodded slowly, his expression shifting to one of understanding acceptance. "Makes sense—a magic school must be different from ordinary schools. Probably protected by all sorts of spells and enchantments, right?"
His tone carried slight disappointment. But there was no bitterness in it, just the quiet melancholy of acceptance.
With half an hour of relatively free time remaining before they'd reach King's Cross Station, Morris shifted his attention in once more. But this time, instead of entering a full meditative state, he turned his consciousness toward the Mage's Book that resided in his mind.
In recent days, it had unlocked new content.
"Wailing Curse"—a new curse-type spell.
According to the book's description, this magic could create various wailing noises directly in the target's mind to disrupt their mental state.
With his first experience of learning the Weakening Curse behind him, Morris hadn't needed to expend much effort mastering this new basic curse. The process of constructing the spell model had gone relatively smoothly. His growing familiarity with curse-work made the learning curve less steep than it might else have been.
Perhaps this was also a benefit of his disciplined meditation practice. The mental clarity and focus he'd developed rendered directly into improved spellcasting ability.
Now when he used the Weakening Curse, his success rate approached one hundred percent.
For this new Wailing Curse spell, his success rate was already above fifty percent.
But there was one thing he hadn't tested yet.
Morris glanced toward the driver's seat, where Harold was focused on navigating the increasingly heavy traffic, then back at his own hand. He needed to experience the curse's effects firsthand, to truly understand what he was inflicting on others. That knowledge was crucial—both strategically and ethically.
The car was moving slowly enough, caught in a traffic jam near a major intersection. If something went wrong, they weren't going anywhere fast anyway.
After making the decision, Morris extended his right hand slightly, palm up, and focused his will. The spell model formed in his mind with ease.
"Wailing Curse," he whispered, so quietly that Harold couldn't possibly hear over the engine and traffic noise.
A barely perceptible wisp of black energy, seeped from his right palm. It coiled briefly in the air before instantly penetrating his own body, sinking into his chest and traveling up toward his skull.
He'd only tested this curse on animals before—birds and cats that couldn't report their subjective experiences. This was his first time using it on a human subject.
His own human body.
The effect was instant and overwhelming.
Almost the moment the curse took hold, loud howls exploded inside his mind!
It was as if countless ghosts had suddenly appeared inside his skull, all simultaneously shrieking, weeping, and wailing in noisy anguish. The sounds weren't coming from his ears—they bypassed the auditory system, manifesting directly in his consciousness with clarity that made them impossible to ignore or diminish.
Morris instinctively covered his ears with both hands, pressing his palms hard against his head in an automatic defensive gesture, only to find the sound hadn't diminished at all. The noise produced by the curse acted directly on the mind; physical isolation was completely useless.
He gritted his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached, struggling to maintain consciousness.
This mental interference was far stronger than he'd anticipated based on the book's dry description. No wonder the Mage's Book had classified this curse as a "disruption spell"—anyone hit with this while trying to cast their own magic or maintain concentration would be utterly incapacitated.
After only about ten seconds, the noise gradually began to fade.
Morris let out a long, shuddering breath, suddenly aware that beads of sweat had formed on his forehead and were now trickling down his temples.
But underneath the discomfort, there was satisfaction.
Personally experiencing his own magic was very necessary. Though the process wasn't pleasant, that was putting it extremely mildly—it at least proved the spell was indeed remarkable.
Any wizard hit with this curse mid-duel would be at an enormous disadvantage. Their concentration would shatter. And for those crucial seconds of disorientation, they'd be vulnerable to follow-up attacks.
"What's wrong?" Harold's concerned voice cut through Morris's recovery, and he realized the car had stopped moving. "You look pale. Are you feeling sick?"
Morris quickly wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, forcing his expression back to calm. "Nothing serious," he said, keeping his voice steady despite the lingering echoes of wailing. "Just a bit carsick. The stop-and-go traffic."
It was a plausible excuse. Many children suffered from motion sickness, especially in heavy traffic.
Harold's expression shifted to sympathy. "Should I open a window? Get some fresh air?"
"No need, I'm fine now." Morris looked out the window properly for the first time since casting the curse and noticed they'd stopped not due to traffic, but because they'd arrived. "We're here?"
"Just up ahead," Harold confirmed, pointing through the windshield to a magnificent building not far away—King's Cross Station. "That's King's Cross. Do you need me to come in with you? Help with your luggage?"
"No need," Morris shook his head, already gathering Tin-Tin more securely in his arms and reaching for the door handle. "Well then, goodbye, Harold. And thank you again—for everything."
Then Morris picked up his suitcase handle, adjusted Tin-Tin in his other arm, and turned toward the station entrance.
Dragging his suitcase and carrying his cat, Morris entered King's Cross Station.
The interior was bustling with Sunday morning travelers.
Morris navigated through the crowds, his eyes were scanning the platform numbers above each entrance.
"Platform nine and three-quarters, platform nine and three-quarters..." he muttered to himself, weaving between a family struggling with an overloaded luggage cart and a couple arguing about their departure time.
Standard platforms were marked clearly—Platform Seven, Platform Eight, Platform Nine, Platform Ten. But nowhere did he see any indication of the fractional platform he needed.
"It should be here."
Logic dictated that Platform Nine and Three-Quarters would be located between the clearly marked Platform Nine and Platform Ten. Morris made his way to that section of the station, finding himself in a relatively quiet area between two very solid-looking brick walls.
There was a very conspicuous barrier wall here.
Just as he was studying the wall, a girl with thick, bushy brown hair suddenly rushed past him.
Morris only managed to catch a glimpse of her vanishing back before she was completely gone. The brick wall showed no sign of her passage.
Well. That answered the question of where exactly to pass through.
Besides himself, Morris noticed an adult couple standing nearby, staring at the spot where the girl had disappeared. They looked bewildered and slightly anxious, clearly Muggle parents trying to process what they'd just witnessed.
The couple looked somewhat familiar, though Morris couldn't immediately place them.
As he approached the barrier, pulling his suitcase behind him, the man seemed to recognize him. His face lit up with surprised recognition, and he smiled kindly. "Ah, you're that child from Diagon Alley!"
Morris stopped warily. "I don't know you."
However, as he examined them more carefully, taking in the man's anxious hovering and the woman's concerned expression, a vague impression surfaced from his memory—hadn't he encountered them briefly during that shopping trip with Harold?
"Oh, you're Gran... Grun... Grunge... Well, I don't remember."
He genuinely couldn't recall their name.
"Granger," the man supplied helplessly. "We met at the pet shop."
"Good morning, Mr. Granger." Morris nodded with automatic politeness—he might be wary of strangers, but basic courtesy cost him nothing.
Then his gaze shifted to the barrier behind them, and he realized they were standing directly in front of it, blocking his path. "Could you please move aside? I need to go through."
The Grangers finally realized they were standing directly in front of what was apparently a magical entrance and quickly stepped aside, both of them looking embarrassed. They moved to the side of the corridor, giving Morris a clear path to the barrier.
"Sorry about that," Mrs. Granger said quickly. "We're still getting used to all of this..."
Morris nodded acknowledgment but didn't engage further in conversation. Without another word, without hesitation or fear, he pulled his luggage straight toward the solid-looking barrier wall.
As he passed through the wall, he heard Mr. Granger's surprised murmur behind him. "Is that child a bit odd? The way he talks is so..."
"Shh, dear," Mrs. Granger cut him off.
Morris had no time to hear the rest of the conversation as he now found himself in a completely new location—Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
The view opened up before him. The platform was significantly larger than the mundane platforms he'd passed, stretching out in both directions with Victorian-era architectural details.
A deep red steam locomotive stood beside the platform. White steam wafted from its engine in clouds that rolled across the platform like fog, carrying the scent of coal smoke and hot metal.
A prominent sign hung from the front of the engine: Hogwarts Express.
The platform was bustling. Dozens of families were engaged in tearful or cheerful goodbyes. Students hauled trunks and owl cages, some were struggling with the weight, others managed with ease.
'Very classic,' he thought with satisfaction. It matched almost perfectly with his mental image of what a magical train platform should look like, that romantic Victorian aesthetic.
After looking around for a moment longer, adapting himself and noting the various train car entrances, Morris hesitated no longer. He adjusted his grip on Tin-Tin, who was observing the scene, and began walking toward the nearest carriage.