The next morning.
Under normal circumstances, mornings were designated as free time for the orphanage children.
But because yesterday's yard-cleaning progress had been practically nonexistent as the courtyard still looked nearly as overgrown as when they'd started, with maybe a few square feet cleared at most—they were once again required to gather in the courtyard at eight o'clock sharp to continue this tedious work.
The announcement had been made at breakfast by one of the caretakers, his tone showed he was just as annoyed about this as the children were. Another day of supervising reluctant laborers in the heat.
Morris remained largely indifferent to this disruption of his free time. He'd expected as much, honestly. The caretakers had to at least make a show of completing the task they'd been assigned, even if it took the entire summer holiday.
After all, he could always find opportunities to slack off, just as he had yesterday. The supervision was lax enough that actual work was optional as long as you maintained appearances.
And he could also take time now and then to play with his undead cat, which had become an unexpected source of entertainment and practical magical experience.
The undead cat, Tin-Tin, was almost indistinguishable from an ordinary living cat in most aspects. The only real advantage Morris had identified so far was that it seemed to be somewhat faster than a normal cat.
This enhanced speed allowed it to escape successfully every time it found itself besieged by the local stray cat pack which was happening with increasing frequency.
As for why it had become a primary target for the neighborhood stray cats—a pariah among the feline community, actively hunted whenever spotted—well, there was no helping it. The creature was rather mischievous, to put it mildly.
Deliberately, maliciously mischievous.
Morris had gained a deep and somewhat exasperated understanding of his foolish cat's true nature.
Whenever Tin-Tin spotted stray cats or other stray animals outside the orphanage grounds, it would immediately go over and actively provoke them.
This included but was not limited to: stealing food from their place, pulling tails hard enough to make them yelp, pushing sleeping animals into puddles or off walls, and on one memorable occasion, somehow managing to knock over a garbage can onto a pack of strays that had been resting beneath it.
The undead cat seemed to take some real delight in causing chaos and distress. Whether this was some aftereffect of the necromantic magic or if it had simply been a bastard of a cat even in life, Morris couldn't determine.
Either way, it thoroughly deserved the retribution it received from the other strays.
"Mr. Black."
A voice suddenly appeared from behind him, interrupting Morris's train of thought as he'd been watching Tin-Tin stalk a pigeon with exaggerated, theatrical movements.
He turned his head quickly and discovered an unfamiliar middle-aged man had appeared in the courtyard, standing near the entrance from the main building.
Morris was certain the man was calling him, because if he remembered correctly, he was the only person surnamed Black currently at this "children's home".
However, he didn't recognize the man before him.
Wait!
Morris squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight and studied the figure carefully for several seconds.
The man was a typical middle-aged professional gone to fat—a notably bloated figure. His head was severely thinning, reduced to a sparse collection of sad survivors, with only a few remaining greasy strands of hair carefully combed over in a desperate, ultimately futile attempt to cover that expanding barren landscape.
The combover was so elaborate it must take him ten minutes every morning to arrange just right.
Hair loss was forever the saddest, most psychologically devastating thing for middle-aged men, Morris reflected with a mixture of sympathy and amusement.
Fortunately, Morris didn't have this particular worry at present. The benefits of being eleven years old with a full, thick head of hair.
"Mr. Black." The man called again. "Please come here for a moment."
"Yes, Mr. Green," Morris immediately responded with appropriate respect, jogging over to stand before the man.
He had finally placed the face and connected it to a name and position.
This was Harold Green, the director of this children's home.
Although he held that lofty title and presumably had an office somewhere in the building, Morris remembered their last actual meeting had been during the Christmas gathering last year.
He had made a brief appearance, delivered a short speech about hope and perseverance that sounded like it had been written by a committee, distributed some donated gifts, and then vanished back to wherever he spent his time.
Eight months ago. That's how involved the director was in the actual daily operations of the place he supposedly ran.
Fortunately, Morris still had some impression of this slightly old-fashioned, stuffy name—Harold Green, like something from a Victorian novel, so he wouldn't embarrass himself by calling him by the wrong one or failing to recognize him.
"Is there something you need, Mr. Green?" Morris asked obediently, his face was arranged in an expression of attentive politeness.
Meanwhile, his mind was rapidly calculating and analyzing the reason why the director had suddenly sought him out personally, emerging from his administrative cocoon to speak with a specific child. This was highly unusual behavior.
He didn't seem to have committed any major errors recently that would alarm the management enough to get director-level intervention. Or rather, he had never committed any outstanding errors throughout his entire stay here.
So this had to be about something else.
Harold looked Morris up and down with those small eyes that were buried deep in facial fat. Then he asked: "If I remember correctly, Mr. Black, you're starting secondary school this year. Which school is it again?"
"Northwood Comprehensive School, sir," Morris replied smoothly.
As expected, he thought. It's about school matters.
As an orphan under government care, since he had received that Hogwarts admission letter, there would certainly need to be a Hogwarts professor coming to handle the enrollment procedures.
Clearly, the director here had already received the relevant information from that professor. But since nothing was confirmed yet in this conversation, since Morris was supposed to be an ordinary eleven-year-old boy with no advance knowledge of magic, he still chose the safest, most innocent way to answer. Play dumb.
Harold nodded slightly upon hearing the expected answer, then a flash of unease flashed across his eyes. His fingers fidgeted with his tie.
"So..." He paused, seeming to search for the right words, then continued. "Do you have any other thoughts? Someone from another school has asked me whether you'd be willing to study at their institution instead."
Morris allowed appropriate confusion to show on his face. "Another school, sir? Which school?"
"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Harold replied, his expression somewhat peculiar.
----------------------
Morris was led by the director through the corridors of the main building, heading toward the reception room.
This day had finally come, and despite his best efforts to maintain composure, Morris couldn't help feeling a surge of excitement building in his chest, making his heart beat faster.
As soon as he stepped into the reception room, he immediately spotted an oddly dressed old woman standing by the far wall.
She was apparently studying a cheap landscape print hanging there in a thin frame.
Someone from Hogwarts, Morris concluded almost immediately, his pulse quickening.
The clothing was the obvious tell.
Harold led him across the room to stand before the old woman, then stepped back slightly, clearly relieved to have completed his assigned task and eager to hand off responsibility.
Only then, with proper proximity and lighting, could Morris observe the person before him carefully and in detail.
She was a woman who appeared quite elderly yet somehow looked very spirited in a way that contradicted her apparent age. Her hair, which had gone mostly gray with streaks of darker color, was pulled back without a single strand out of place into a severely tight bun. She wore dark-colored robes that were spotlessly clean and pressed.
"This is Professor McGonagall," Harold introduced with nervousness.
Professor McGonagall turned fully toward them, and her sharp gaze fell upon Morris.
Unexpectedly, Morris felt no particular discomfort under such scrutiny.
"I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Professor McGonagall's voice was steady and crisp. "Hello, Mr. Black."
"Hello, Professor McGonagall." Morris greeted her with appropriate formality, inclining his head slightly in a gesture of respect. "I've already seen your name in the letter."
The corner of Professor McGonagall's stern mouth relaxed slightly. Then she revealed a small but perfect warm smile that transformed her entire face, making her look surprisingly kind.
"Then you must have read that letter carefully and already have some understanding of Hogwarts matters,"
"Yes, Professor," Morris nodded seriously. "But I only know it's a school called Hogwarts that teaches witchcraft and wizardry. The letter didn't provide much detail about what that actually means or how it works."
"Very good." Professor McGonagall nodded, seeming satisfied with both his answer and his demeanor.
She summarized concisely: "In any case, Mr. Black, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is a place that teaches young wizards and witches how to use magic properly and safely. According to our records, you've already turned eleven years old and have shown clear signs of magical talent, thus qualifying you for admission."
Next, Professor McGonagall briefly introduced the basic situation at Hogwarts and the necessity for young wizards to study magic.
"Are you willing to attend Hogwarts?"
"Of course, Professor."
Naturally, Morris had no reason to refuse.
Meanwhile, Harold, standing to one side, felt his brain growing somewhat muddled as he listened to this conversation.
Although he had learned of magic's existence in advance from this mysterious, terrifying woman, actually hearing phrases like "using magic" and "magical talent" spoken by an old woman who looked so serious and proper, who had the bearing of a distinguished educator, still made him feel like he'd slipped into some kind of absurd fever dream.
Damn it, he thought desperately, had I taken drugs last night and completely fried my brain?
No, wait—he definitely hadn't taken any drugs last night. He'd had two glasses of wine with dinner and then gone to bed early.
"Mr. Green?"
By the time Harold came back to his senses, startled out of his spiraling thoughts, he found both of them staring at him expectantly. He'd completely zoned out, lost in his existential crisis.
"Wh-what is it?" he asked, stammering slightly despite his best efforts to sound professional. He subconsciously wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, feeling sweat despite the room being reasonably cool.
Professor McGonagall's expression returned to its default seriousness. Her voice became clear and professional.
"Mr. Green, since Mr. Black has already agreed to enroll at Hogwarts, I need to learn from you some information about his basic situation here. This will help us better arrange matters after his enrollment and ensure his transition is as smooth as possible."
Harold's face must have shown his continued anxiety, because she added with slightly more gentleness: "Of course, I'm mainly interested in daily living habits and general behavior—you needn't be nervous. This is standard procedure for all our students."
Harold forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Please, ask away, ma'am. Whatever you need to know."
Don't be nervous—easy for her to say, he thought with rising hysteria that he struggled to keep off his face.
Anyone who had witnessed an old woman casually transform a chair into a squealing pig and then transform it back into a chair without even breaking a sweat or batting an eye would find it extremely difficult to remain calm in her presence.
Perhaps if his attitude had been a bit worse earlier, if he'd been rude or dismissive, his fate would have ended up the same as that chair. Transformed into furniture or livestock or who knew what else, at this woman's whim.
The scientific worldview he'd spent decades building through university education, years of professional work, all of it founded on rationalism and empiricism was on the verge of complete collapse.
Magic was real. Witches were real. And this eleven-year-old boy standing calmly in front of him was apparently one of them.
What else was real that he'd dismissed as nonsense? Ghosts? Dragons? He didn't dare ask.