After carefully tidying up the ritual site, Morris commanded the dog to become completely motionless and return to its immobile state.
The blue flames in its eye sockets obediently flickered once and then extinguished entirely, leaving only empty darkness in those hollow sockets.
Morris then proceeded to stuff the now-stiff dog into his backpack, folding its limbs at awkward angles to make it fit.
Although he genuinely didn't think a moving skeleton dog would be particularly unusual or shocking in the magical world after all, he'd seen far stranger things at Hogwarts in just a few months, being openly seen carrying such a creature would certainly attract unnecessary attention, and prompt uncomfortable questions.
Keeping a low profile was always the safer, smarter choices when conducting experimental magic of questionable legality.
Morris had just finished securing the backpack's straps and was preparing to make his departure from the clearing when something unexpected occurred.
An unusual warm breeze swept over him without warning, carrying with it a touch of heat that was clearly and strangely out of place for December weather in England.
In the very next moment, before Morris could process what was happening, a tall, thin figure appeared absolutely abruptly from thin air standing silently and calmly not far ahead of him.
Morris stopped dead in his tracks.
He recognized this figure immediately, even in the dim twilight. That long silver beard, those half-moon spectacles. He was Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Dumbledore was currently wearing a blue wizard's robe embroidered with silver star patterns that seemed to actually twinkle and shift positions as Morris watched.
More concerningly, small bright flames still flickered on both his shoulders, moving gently in the air.
Morris instinctively called out, "Headmaster, your robes are on fire!"
Dumbledore seemed unprepared for this to be Morris's first words upon their unexpected encounter. He paused for a brief moment, clearly taken aback, then a warm smile spread across his face. He began walking toward Morris slowly.
"Ah, you needn't worry yourself, Mr. Black," he said in that distinctive gentle voice, tinged with amusement. "Phoenix fire cannot harm me."
As he spoke those reassuring words, he reached out with one hand and brushed his shoulder lightly. The flames vanished instantly at his touch, winking out of existence as if they'd never been there at all.
"See?" Dumbledore bent down slightly to show Morris his completely intact robes. "Good as new. Phoenix fire is quite remarkable in that respect."
'Phoenix fire?' Morris's mind worked rapidly, processing this new information.
He nodded slowly. He had indeed heard mentioned in passing from other students that their headmaster owned a legendary phoenix and supposedly possessed the extraordinary ability to transport people instantaneously across vast distances through some kind of flame-based travel.
Apparently those rumors were completely accurate.
But that fascinating detail wasn't the most pressing point right now.
The real point was: what exactly was Dumbledore doing here in this remote location? Had he somehow been drawn or alerted by the magical commotion and fluctuations from the undead creature advancement ritual?
That seemed like the most logical explanation.
Although Morris honestly didn't consider the necromantic ritual he had just performed to be inherently evil or morally wrong, he was aware that necromantic magic was inevitably and strongly associated with death, darkness, forbidden practices, and other elements that triggered suspicion and prejudice in most wizards.
Being caught red-handed by the headmaster himself while performing such controversial practices in a secluded corner of the grounds was hardly an ideal situation. In fact, it was disastrous...
Sure enough, confirming Morris's worst fears, Dumbledore straightened up to his height. He maintained his pleasant, grandfatherly smile as he asked in a casual tone, "Could you tell me, Mr. Black, what exactly you were just doing out here? I'm quite curious."
Morris made a split-second decision. Honesty, but vague honesty.
"A magical experiment, sir," he answered with complete truthfulness, meeting Dumbledore's eyes directly. "I read about an interesting theoretical application in one of the books from the library, so I wanted to try it out practically. The results were quite satisfactory, actually—better than I'd hoped."
"I see." Dumbledore's expression remained unreadable. He raised his head and glanced around the clearing with casualness, his gaze swept across the disturbed ground, taking in details.
His eyes lingered for a moment on the tree trunk that had been violently struck by the explosive bone spike.
Morris held his breath.
However, the headmaster made no accusatory move. He simply turned back to Morris and said in that same gentle, reassuring tone,
"Relax, Mr. Black. Please, there's no need for tension. I have no particular interest in aggressively probing into young wizards' private secrets or experimental pursuits."
He gestured vaguely at the clearing. "Although the magical fluctuation you created was somewhat noticeable, you didn't cause any substantial lasting damage to school property or harm any person or creature, so your activities don't constitute a violation of school rules."
Morris felt a wave of relief.
"Of course," Dumbledore continued, his tone taking on a slightly more serious tone of gentle admonishment, "I must still remind you not to casually attempt unfamiliar or potentially dangerous spells from books without proper supervision or safety precautions..."
He paused, seeming to hear his own words, and his expression softened. "Ah, please forgive an old man's impromptu lecture. I'm afraid I sometimes can't help myself."
Morris felt genuinely relieved upon hearing this lenient response. His shoulders relaxed from their tense position.
Dumbledore apparently hadn't witnessed the specific detailed process of his necromantic ritual and probably just assumed based on the energy signature that Morris had been practicing some destructive but ultimately harmless combat spell or experimental charm.
As for dark magic, forbidden practices, necromancy—even the most vigilant and suspicious person in the world wouldn't immediately suspect a first-year student, barely eleven years old, of engaging in such sophisticated and traditionally restricted magical disciplines.
Children simply didn't have the knowledge, the power, or the skill for such things. Or so everyone assumed.
And in fact, that assessment was exactly accurate to Dumbledore's current thinking.
Around ten minutes earlier, he had been in Hagrid's hut near the forest's edge, discussing some matters with him like something about the Thestrals' feeding schedule and a concerning increase in Acromantula activity deeper in the forest.
He had been mid-sentence, accepting a cup of Hagrid's notoriously strong tea, when he suddenly sensed unusual magical activity emanating from this remote, normally quiet location on the grounds.
After politely finishing his business with Hagrid and declining a third rock cake, he had casually asked Fawkes to bring him here via flame-travel for a quick investigative look.
The result was just as he had logically expected: an energetic young wizard who had chosen to come to a secluded spot away from prying eyes to practice magic privately and experiment with new spells. Nothing was particularly remarkable or concerning about that behavior.
While it was somewhat unusual for a first-year student to demonstrate this level of initiative and power, it certainly wasn't unheard of in Hogwarts' long history. Curiosity and experimental spirit were among the most precious qualities of young wizards.
"I understand, Headmaster. I'll be more careful in the future," Morris replied obediently.
He glanced up at the darkening sky, noting how the light had faded significantly during their conversation. Night was falling rapidly now, and he heard several distant howls from unknown creatures echoing from the direction of the Forbidden Forest's deeper part.
He bowed slightly in respect and said politely, "It's getting quite late now, sir. May I return to the castle? I should get back before dinner ends."
"Of course, Mr. Black. Of course." Dumbledore nodded gently, making a small gesture of dismissal. "Do take care on your way back. The grounds can be treacherous after dark."
Before departing, Morris habitually patted down his pockets to check his belongings making sure he had his wand, his coin pouch, his various odds and ends.
To his surprise and slight alarm, he actually discovered something important was missing from its usual place. The photograph of that mysterious blond man which had been tucked in his robe's inner pocket had somehow disappeared.
It had probably been swept away by the violent air currents during the advancement ritual.
He instinctively turned and looked back toward the clearing where he had performed the ritual, squinting in the fading light.
All he could see was relatively flat dirt, scattered stones, disturbed grass, and the damaged tree. The photograph itself was quite small and would likely be extremely difficult to locate immediately in this light, especially if it had blown into the shrubs.
Fortunately, he had already learned and practiced the Summoning Charm Accio in Charms class.
"What's wrong?" Dumbledore's calm, gentle voice came from behind him.
"Nothing important, Headmaster," Morris replied casually. He drew his wand from his sleeve and waved it lightly through the air. "Just a photograph I seem to have dropped. Accio photograph!"
The spell left his wand with a soft whoosh of air.
The very next second, a yellowed, slightly crumpled square piece of paper came shooting toward him at speed from somewhere in the branches behind him, responding to his magical summons. The photograph traced a arc through the darkening air, spinning slightly as it flew.
Morris reached out to catch it—
Smack!
Instead, it landed precisely on Dumbledore's face with a slap, covering his eyes and nose completely like some kind of absurd blindfold.
The air fell into awkward silence for several moments.
Morris stared in horror. "..."
Dumbledore stood perfectly still with photograph plastered to his face. "..."
"I'm so sorry, Headmaster!" Morris snapped back to reality and quickly ran forward to Dumbledore, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
He reached up awkwardly to help. "I'm so, so sorry. My Summoning Charm isn't very proficient yet. I must have aimed wrong, or used too much force, or—"
"Mm, it's quite all right, Mr. Black." Dumbledore removed the photograph from his face with good humor, not appearing even slightly annoyed by being struck.
"The Summoning Charm is quite an advanced spell for a first-year student to attempt at all. This sort of directional imprecision is perfectly normal during the learning process. I once summoned a teacup that broke three windows before reaching me."
He held the photograph out toward Morris between two fingers, preparing to return it. "You're actually doing quite well for—"
Just as Morris was reaching out to accept the photograph and end this embarrassing encounter, Dumbledore's outstretched hand suddenly froze completely in mid-air.
Morris looked up, somewhat puzzled and concerned by the abrupt change. "Headmaster?"
He saw that Dumbledore's face no longer bore its previous composed, grandfatherly smile. Instead, his face showed an unprecedented solemnity, a somberness Morris had never seen before. He stared intently at the photograph in his hand as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
Morris felt an uncomfortable chill run down his spine.
The current Dumbledore seemed somewhat frightening nothing like the gentle, eccentric old wizard from before.
"Is something wrong, Headmaster?" Morris asked hesitantly.
Dumbledore seemed to be awakened from some deep, troubling reverie by those words. His intense gaze quickly moved away from the photograph and a smile returned to his face.
"Nothing at all, Mr. Black," Dumbledore said, his tone was calm and controlled. He handed the photograph to Morris and asked in a voice that was perhaps a touch too casual, "Could you tell me where you obtained this particular photograph?"
Morris thought quickly. From this dramatic reaction, Dumbledore clearly recognized the person in the image and knew something significant about them.
However, Morris definitely didn't want to reveal the secret of the Gate Between Two Realms.
So a simple, believable excuse would have to suffice.
"I found it by chance, sir," Morris said carefully, crafting his story. "It was tucked inside a secondhand book I bought in Diagon Alley. Someone must have used it as a bookmark and forgotten it there. Perhaps the person in it is someone famous from magical history... Do you recognize them, Headmaster?"
"I do," Dumbledore said softly.
"Who is it?" Morris asked, the words were practically bursting out of him before he could stop them.
Dumbledore looked at Morris for a measuring moment. Then he spoke, discussing the matter as if it were the most ordinary, unremarkable subject in the world: "Long ago, everyone in the wizarding world knew him and called him: the most dangerous Dark wizard of his time."
'the most dangerous Dark wizard of his time?' Morris's mind immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion.
He naturally jumped to the obvious conclusion for this title: Voldemort.
However, looking at the photograph in his hand...
"This thing is Voldemort?" Morris blurted out before his brain could fully process, his face was twisting in complete disbelief and confusion.
The words came out almost as accusatory, as if Dumbledore were trying to trick him.
The Voldemort in his knowledge was clearly described as an ugly, inhuman, noseless creature. A monster barely recognizable as human.
What was this handsome, unrestrained, spirited blond man with kind eyes doing in that photograph? This person looked nothing like a dark wizard much less the most dangerous of his time. He looked like someone's charming older brother, or a Quidditch star.
Dumbledore seemed genuinely amused by Morris's reaction.
He gently corrected the misunderstanding: "No, Mr. Black. Not him. This is someone else—someone who came before, someone who perhaps paved the way."
He paused, and his voice became even softer.
"Gellert Grindelwald."