When Morris stepped out through the massive gates of Gringotts, a small but heavy cloth bag rested firmly in his hand. The weight of it was reassuring, and the faint metallic clinking from inside brought with it a strange sense of satisfaction.
"The service attitude of those goblins was simply terrible," Harold complained the moment they reached the street. He still looked mildly offended. "And why on earth do they use a scale to judge the value of paper money?"
Just moments earlier, a goblin had placed Harold's ten fifty-pound banknotes on one side of a balance scale, while a small pouch of gold coins sat on the other. The scale hadn't moved at all—perfectly level, as though both sides weighed exactly the same.
Morris assumed magic had something to do with it.
"At least they exchanged the Galleons for us," Morris said calmly. He lifted the bag slightly and weighed it in his palm. The soft, pleasant clatter of gold echoed from inside.
Harold leaned closer. "Are those real gold coins?"
"I doubt it," Morris replied, shaking his head slightly. "But they work in this world, and that's what matters."
Harold mulled that over, then looked down Diagon Alley, where the crowds surged endlessly between shops. "So… what now?"
"Shopping," Morris said. "Do you want to buy something as a souvenir?"
Harold froze for a second. "Can I?"
"Mhm." Morris glanced at him. "It's your money, after all."
Since Morris had accepted a gift from Harold, it was only right to give something back. Even gifts had their price.
Harold's expression softened, a trace of genuine excitement flickering through his reserved demeanor. "Then… where should we go first?"
He knew nothing about this place. To him, Diagon Alley was colorful, chaotic, and faintly threatening. Wizards hurried past in robes, strange creatures poked their heads out of cages, and shop signs seemed to move when he wasn't looking. He felt like a lamb that had wandered into a pack of wolves.
Morris paused, scanning the street. "Follow me."
In truth, Morris's reason for returning to Diagon Alley was singular and oddly persistent.
The skeleton.
More specifically, the skeletal frame he had seen the previous day in the dusty secondhand robes shop.
He didn't know why, but the image of that bone frame had lodged itself firmly in his mind. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he kept thinking about it—its proportions, its condition, the faint aura of unease it radiated.
If possible, he wanted to buy it.
That was also the reason he'd brought Harold along. An ordinary eleven-year-old wizard purchasing a skeleton would raise questions. An adult expressing interest in "oddities," on the other hand, seemed far more acceptable.
Morris led Harold down the street and stopped in front of a familiar, run-down storefront. Dust clouded the windows, and the sign creaked slightly in the breeze.
Harold stared at it, confused. "Didn't you already buy your robes here yesterday?"
"Don't talk," Morris murmured, lowering his voice as he tugged on Harold's sleeve. "Just come in with me—and remember to follow the plan."
"The plan?" Harold blinked. "What plan?"
Before he could ask anything else, Morris had already dragged him inside.
The interior smelled faintly of old fabric and age. Racks of robes hung crookedly, their colors faded from years of use. Morris walked straight toward the corner where the skeleton had been displayed the day before.
But it was gone.
In its place stood a perfectly ordinary wooden mannequin, polished and upright, already dressed in a set of robes.
Morris frowned slightly.
"Need help, customers?" came a familiar voice.
The bespectacled old woman who owned the shop approached them, peering over her glasses. After a moment, recognition dawned on her face. "Oh, it's you—the child from yesterday. Is there something wrong with the robes?"
"No," Morris replied politely. "They fit perfectly. I was just wondering… where did the skeleton that was placed here yesterday go?"
"The skeleton?" The shop owner looked startled. "Ah, that thing. That belongs to my son. He likes collecting strange junk and sometimes brings it here to show off. I had him take it back yesterday."
She paused, then looked at Morris with mild suspicion. "Why? Were you interested in it?"
She adjusted her glasses. "That certainly isn't a toy."
Morris immediately put on a shy smile and subtly kicked Harold's calf.
"Actually," Morris said, "my uncle is interested. He's always liked… special items."
Harold reacted half a beat too late, then straightened his back and cleared his throat. "Ah—yes. Very interested."
The shop owner looked him up and down, taking in his neat suit and stiff posture, then glanced back at Morris. "It's surprising for a Muggle to be interested in something like that."
"We're not Muggles," Morris replied calmly. "We just prefer their style of dress."
"Taste like that is still terrible," the shop owner muttered.
She sighed. "Fine. If you're looking for that skeleton, you'll have to speak to my son. I can give you his address."
Harold bowed slightly. "Thank you for your trouble, Madam."
"It's no trouble," she said, rummaging through a drawer. "He'll be happy to hear I've sent him customers."
She paused, frowning. "Though I don't understand why he chose to open a shop in that sort of place…"
With a quill, she scribbled an address onto a yellowed slip of paper and handed it over.
Harold glanced at it before passing it to Morris.
Ezra Frick
Knockturn Alley, Basement 21
Morris's expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
Professor McGonagall had mentioned Knockturn Alley before.
If Diagon Alley was bright, bustling, and respectable, then Knockturn Alley was its shadow—dark, filthy, and infamous. A place for items that couldn't be sold openly.
In simpler terms, a black market.
"That's not a good place," the shop owner said worriedly. "I don't know why he insists on staying there…"
"We'll visit him," Morris replied sincerely. "Please don't worry."
She nodded, then added softly, "Tell him to remember to eat on time."
Outside, the noise of Diagon Alley washed over them again.
Harold hesitated. "Are we… going to Knockturn Alley next?"
"I don't want to die yet," Morris answered bluntly.
Harold stared at him.
Of course, Morris had no intention of wandering into Knockturn Alley with Harold in tow. An untrained young wizard and a Muggle adult were practically inviting trouble.
Even without knowing exactly how dangerous it was, caution was never a mistake.
Besides, now that he had Ezra Frick's address, there was no need to rush.
Harold swallowed. "Is it really that dangerous?"
"Wizard duels break out there all the time," Morris said casually, intentionally scaring him. "Strangers who wander in alone tend to become targets."
Wizard duels?
Harold couldn't even imagine it.
"Then… where are we going next?"
Morris turned and pointed toward a nearby shop. "I'm buying an owl."
"An owl?" Harold looked stunned. "Why would you suddenly want a bird?"
"For sending letters," Morris replied.
He already had canned food, but on second thought, an owl was essential. With enough money now available, there was no reason not to get one.
"Wizards really use owls to send mail?" Harold said incredulously. "That's absurd."
As they spoke, they reached the pet shop. Through the window, rows of owls perched quietly, their sharp eyes tracking movement with eerie intelligence.
Morris pushed open the door.
The bell rang crisply, and the scent of feathers and hay drifted out.
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