Professor McGonagall led Morris out of the narrow alley where they'd apparated. The morning sun hit him full in the face, momentarily blinding after the dimness of the alley.
After crossing a busy London street, dodging a red double-decker bus and several black cabs whose drivers seemed oblivious to their sudden appearance—the two arrived at what appeared to be an unremarkable stretch of pavement between a large bookstore advertising the latest bestsellers and a record shop blasting pop music through its open door.
The shopfronts on either side were perfectly ordinary, filled with mundane goods for mundane people going about their mundane lives.
Yet for some inexplicable reason, this particular place, this specific point on the street gave Morris an indescribable sense of oddness.
Professor McGonagall noticed Morris's puzzled expression and smiled with what seemed like satisfaction.
"Does it feel a bit strange?" She asked. "Take a closer look."
After a moment of visual disorientation, Morris suddenly discovered that the scene before him had changed.
Between the bookstore and the record shop, where his eyes had kept sliding past as if greased, a building began to emerge into visibility. It materialized gradually, as if coming into focus.
A simple, weather-beaten wooden sign hung at the entrance: The Leaky Cauldron.
This was magic—his subconscious told him so.
Professor McGonagall led him into the Leaky Cauldron.
Just as the shabby exterior had suggested, the interior of the pub was equally dim, dilapidated, and thoroughly uninviting. Morris's eyes needed a moment to adjust to the gloom after the brightness of the street.
The ceiling was low and stained with what might have been centuries of accumulated smoke. A long wooden bar counter was on one wall, behind which stood shelves of dusty bottles. A few rickety tables were scattered around the room with most of them empty at this hour and other walls covered in a mess of portraits.
Not much of a pub, was Morris's immediate assessment. In his previous life, he'd been to proper pubs in Brisbane which were clean, well-lit places with good beer and better food. This place looked like it had given up on standards sometime during the Victorian era and never recovered.
"Don't mind the strangers," Professor McGonagall cautioned Morris in a low voice, as if a mother warning her child not to talk to suspicious people. "Some of the regulars here can be... eccentric. Best not to make contact."
The two didn't linger in the common area, and moved swiftly past the bar and headed straight through a back door that led to a small courtyard.
The courtyard was a disappointing space after the mystery of the hidden entrance. Strangely, it was enclosed by high brick walls on all sides with no visible exit. Just a small square of cracked paving stones, some weeds pushing through the gaps, and a lone battered trash bin leaning drunkenly against the back wall.
Morris looked around in confusion. "Where—?"
"Pay attention now, Morris. This is important," Professor McGonagall interrupted, moving toward the trash bin. "Remember this trash bin's position. To enter Diagon Alley, you count three bricks up from the bin..."
She pointed as she counted, her finger moving up. "One, two, three. Then two bricks across horizontally." Her finger shifted. "One, two. Right here."
Professor McGonagall withdrew her wand from her robes and tapped the specific brick gently.
The tapped brick began to tremble and vibrate as if suddenly becoming active. Then it began to move, pulling back into the wall. The bricks adjacent to it followed suit, sliding smoothly aside with a grinding sound of stone on stone, creating an expanding gap that grew wider and wider.
Within seconds, an elegant archway had formed—tall enough for two people to walk through comfortably side by side, and continuing to grow even larger.
Beyond the archway, Morris caught his first glimpse of the hidden magical world.
A winding, twisting alley stretched before them, cobblestoned and narrow, its sides densely packed with all manner of buildings that crowded together in incredible configurations. S
hops with crooked doorways and windows that extended out at odd angles. Signs hanging above entryways advertised goods and services Morris had never heard of. Cauldrons. Wands. Owl Emporiums. Apothecaries selling ingredients he couldn't identify.
Some of the structures seemed to completely defy the laws of physics—buildings leaning at angles that should have caused them to topple, structures that appeared to be balanced on nothing, shops whose interiors seemed larger than their exteriors could contain.
The atmosphere was filled with magic—Morris could almost feel it in the air.
It was very much like the atmosphere of a genuine fairy-tale magical world. Real wizarding market and society, hidden away from ordinary human eyes.
This must be the Diagon Alley that Professor McGonagall had mentioned.
"Stay close and follow me," Professor McGonagall reminded Morris, who was standing frozen in awe, his eyes trying to take in everything at once. "It can be overwhelming the first time. We'll buy your wand first—that's the most important purchase. Everything else is secondary."
She led Morris through the crowded alley as the morning gave way to the busiest shopping hours. Witches in pointed hats swept past. Wizards with long beards argued over purchases. Children, other young wizards, Morris realized ran excitedly between shops while their parents called after them.
As they walked, Professor McGonagall explained in her brisk manner: "Hogwarts has established a special assistance fund for students in situations like yours—those from muggle orphanages or impoverished families who cannot afford the necessary supplies. All required expenses will be covered by this fund, so you needn't worry about costs."
Morris felt a rush of relief. He'd been wondering about exactly this problem.
"Of course," she added with sudden sternness, giving him a sharp look, "this only applies to actual school supplies as specified on your list. Not sweets, not joke items, not any other extra luxuries. Necessities only."
Morris nodded quickly to show he understood, though privately he was already calculating what might be considered "necessities" versus "luxury."
"In fact," Professor McGonagall continued, her tone becoming more casual and almost wistful, "it's been quite a while since anyone has actually needed to use this fund. The last time this fund was used was..."
She trailed off, her expression shifting into something complicated. She shook her head slightly, swallowing the rest of her words as if deciding the story wasn't appropriate to share.
"Well. Ollivander's wand shop is just ahead. We're almost there. You'll recognize it by the sign—it's one of the oldest shops in Diagon Alley."
Though Morris found this abrupt topic change somewhat odd, and his curiosity was definitely piqued by her unfinished story, he wasn't particularly interested enough to press for details.
Besides, they'd arrived at their destination.
Ollivander was an interesting old man, at least that's what Morris thought upon first meeting him.
The wandmaker appeared from the back of his shop like a ghost, emerging from between high shelves stacked to the ceiling with thousands of long, narrow boxes. He was old, possibly the oldest person Morris had ever seen with silvery-white hair and pale misty eyes.
"Ah," Ollivander breathed, his voice soft. "Another one. How fascinating. Let me see..."
The actual process of selecting a wand didn't take very long, though it was considerably more dramatic than Morris had anticipated.
After accidentally sending a chair flying across the shop with one unsuitable wand and somehow causing the shop's only source of illumination (which appeared to be a magical "light bulb" of sorts, a floating orb of pale light) to explode into harmless sparkles with another, Morris finally felt something click into place.
The wand he held hummed in his grip, warm and welcoming, as if greeting an old friend. A feeling of rightness flooded through him, and when he gave it an experimental wave, silvery-white sparks fountained from its tip in a shower of light that made Professor McGonagall smile approvingly.
"Yes!" Ollivander exclaimed with what seemed like inconsistent excitement. "Oh yes, most definitely yes!"
Morris examined his new wand more closely. Hornbeam wood, Ollivander had announced. Thestral tail hair core. Twelve and three-quarters inches in length.
Morris had expected wizards' wands to be more... impressive, perhaps. He'd imagined intricate carvings, gemstones inlaid in the handle, maybe glowing symbols along the length. Something obviously magical and special.
But unfortunately, what he'd received was essentially a thick black stick. Apart from some naturally occurring uneven patterns in the wood grain on its surface, there was nothing particularly remarkable about its appearance.
If he had another one of similar size, Morris thought with amusement, he could probably use them as drumsticks. Just plain wooden sticks.
After Morris finished his selection, Ollivander seemed even more excited than Morris himself, which was saying something.
"Hornbeam wood, thestral tail hair—an excellent combination, Mr. Black, truly excellent!" Ollivander waved his arms enthusiastically. "Hornbeam is a most interesting wood. It may be a bit rigid in temperament, somewhat unyielding, though that's not necessarily a negative trait. My own wand is also hornbeam, you know."
He leaned in, his misty eyes gleaming. "Wands made of this particular material will assist their determined, focused owners with full force and dedication. But they're selective—they don't perform well for the indecisive or those who constantly second-guess themselves. You must be sure of what you want, and then the wand will help you achieve it."
"Thank you for the information, Mr. Ollivander," Morris said politely.
"You're most welcome. That will be seven Galleons, please. Would you also be interested in a wand care and maintenance kit? Only two Galleons more, and it includes conditioning oil, a soft polishing cloth, and a protective case. Essential for keeping your wand in optimal condition."
Morris politely declined with a small shake of his head. The kit sounded useful, but he remembered Professor McGonagall's stern warning about unnecessary expenses.
"Really?" Ollivander's face fell into an expression of exaggerated regret that looked almost comical. "Such a shame. You really must take very good care of your wand, young man."
Morris continued to politely refuse Ollivander's sales pitch.
After all, he wasn't the one who would be paying for these extras, and Professor McGonagall's expression was growing steadily sterner.
Professor McGonagall finally stepped in, reaching into the deep pockets of her robes and pulling out a heavy velvet pouch that clinked with the sound of metal coins. She carefully loosened the drawstring and counted out seven gleaming golden coins, placing them precisely on Ollivander's counter.
"Welcome back anytime, Mr. Black," Ollivander said warmly, his long fingers skillfully sweeping the gold coins into an open drawer beneath the counter with ease.
He winked at Morris with surprising nimbleness for someone who appeared to be roughly a hundred years old. "Remember what I said—hornbeam wands hate being neglected. Use yours often, practice regularly, and you'll develop an extraordinary rapport."
When the two finally left the wand shop, stepping back out into the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley, Morris was surprised to discover it was already close to noon.
Though they'd successfully acquired the most important item, they still had what seemed like an enormous pile of remaining items to purchase.
"This might take longer than I initially thought," Professor McGonagall said, observing the supply list with a small frown. "We may not make it back by one o'clock after all."
She looked at Morris thoughtfully, clearly making some kind of calculation. "Apart from the wand, which must always be purchased new and fitted personally, I would strongly suggest you consider buying everything else secondhand where possible. That way you can save quite a bit of the fund's money for future personal spending throughout the term."
Morris considered this advice. "What if I insist on buying everything new?"
Professor McGonagall stopped walking and turned to look at him with complete seriousness. "The choice is ultimately yours to make, Mr. Black. I won't force you. But if you choose to purchase everything brand new then the fund will only cover those basic school supplies, and you'll have absolutely no spending money remaining for the entire term."
She paused to let that sink in, then added in a tone that said she'd seen students make this mistake before: "Though Hogwarts provides complete room and board, there will always be times when you need or want extra money."
Morris sighed.
Oh, the eternal troubles of poverty.
He was wondering if Hogwarts offered any additional scholarships or financial awards. Academic achievement prizes, perhaps? Surely there must be some way for a clever, hardworking student to earn extra money.
Something to investigate later.
Fortunately, Morris had no objection to secondhand items. It was barely even a compromise, more a fact of life he'd long since accepted.
It was only a minor issue, really.
Aside from his toothbrush because there were limits, even for someone used to deprivation, basically everything Morris currently used back at the orphanage was secondhand already. Hand-me-down clothes worn by three previous children. Sheets that had seen decades of use. Books with other students' names crossed out on the inside covers. Furniture older than he was.
When items weren't secondhand, they were supplies donated by charitable organizations and kind-hearted people doing their good deed for the year.
However, Morris had definitely heard from the caretakers, during one of their late-night conversations when they thought all the children were asleep—that the government actually provided quite sufficient funding for daily living expenses. More than enough to purchase new living supplies for everyone, to maintain decent standards.
The question of where that money ultimately ended up was one that Morris had long since learned not to ask aloud.
It's truly chilling when you think about it.
The shopping took some more time.
Wand, textbooks, glass vials, telescope, brass scales, cauldron...
All that remained now were various clothing.
"Don't worry about finding those in the regular shops," Professor McGonagall said, leading Morris down a side street he wouldn't have noticed on his own. "Diagon Alley has a specialized secondhand robe shop that caters specifically to students."
The secondhand robe shop was tucked away in a quiet alley on the north side of Diagon Alley proper, away from the main street.
Inside, the shop was surprisingly pleasant in a stark contrast to its hidden location and humble purpose.
It was quiet, almost peaceful, with thick carpet that muffled footsteps and created a sense of peaceful isolation from the bustling shopping district outside.
Several rows of sturdy wooden clothing racks were neatly arranged throughout the space, each one draped with all manner of robes in various colors, sizes, and states of repair.
The air carried a scent of camphor wood and lavender. From somewhere deeper in the shop, what sounded like old jazz music drifted through the air, a clarinet was playing a melancholy melody that Morris almost recognized.
The shopkeeper was an old woman wearing half-moon spectacles perched on the end of her nose, similar to Professor McGonagall's. She looked up from some kind of needlework as they entered, offered a polite nod of greeting, then returned to her work, apparently content to let them browse.
As soon as Morris stepped fully inside and his eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior lighting, his attention was immediately drawn to something placed in the far corner of the shop.
It was a skeleton. A complete human skeleton.
Morris froze mid-step.
The skeleton was beautiful.
He knew, that this was probably a strange reaction. That most people would find a human skeleton unsettling or morbid, especially displayed so casually in a clothing shop.
But Morris couldn't look away.
The proportions were absolutely perfect, like something carved by a master sculptor working in ivory. Every bone was precisely articulated, held together with what appeared to be silver wire so fine it was almost invisible.
The curves of the skull were elegantly regular, the cranial sutures fitted together with jigsaw precision. The eye sockets were dark and deep. The jaw hung slightly open, teeth intact and even.
The ribs of the thorax extended in beautiful symmetrical arcs, one by one, each bone was distinct yet part of the greater whole. They had a translucent quality that showed they'd been treated with some kind of preservative or polish, giving them an almost radiant appearance in the shop's soft light.
The limb bones, femurs, tibias, radius, ulna, all of them maintained perfect anatomical form. The delicate bones of the hands and feet were complete, every tiny phalanx was present and properly positioned.
The spine curved in that distinctive S-shape unique to humans, speaking of upright posture and bipedal locomotion.
Morris couldn't help but stare in fascination, his mind was labelling every detail.
He felt an inexplicable heat rising within him—not sexual, nothing so crude, but something deeper and more instinctual. A fierce wanting that bordered on hunger.
Like an avid collector encountering a long-coveted treasure after years of searching. Like an artist seeing a masterwork they'd only heard described in legend.
His fingers actually twitched with the desire to touch, to run his hands over those smooth bones, to feel their weight and texture, to confirm their reality.
"..."
Fortunately, Morris caught himself before doing anything truly inappropriate.
He forced himself to look away with effort, to focus on the robes they were supposedly here to purchase.
But even as he turned his attention elsewhere, questions raced through his mind:
Why would a human skeleton be placed so prominently in a secondhand robe shop?
It seemed somewhat inappropriate even as a clothing mannequin.
Unlike Morris's strong reaction, Professor McGonagall remained completely calm, barely sparing the skeleton a glance as she began examining robes for appropriate size and condition.
The magical world had different standards for what constituted acceptable decoration. Dancing skeletons were mentioned in several of the books he'd glimpsed at Flourish and Blotts, so a simple standing skeleton wasn't anything particularly special or shocking to wizarding sense.
Besides, this skeleton couldn't possibly be from a real person—the real ones were all in Knockturn Alley next door.
The process of selecting appropriate school robes went smoothly and quickly.
Morris went through the motions of trying things on, standing still while measurements were checked, nodding when asked if something felt comfortable.
But even as he did all this, even as they completed their shopping and Professor McGonagall paid, the image of that human skeleton continued to linger in Morris's mind.
Damn it.
Could he really be developing into some kind of pervert? Some kind of necrophiliac with an unhealthy fixation on death and bones?