[Principal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Albus Dumbledore (Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Order of Merlin, First Class)
Dear Mr. Black:
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your Owl with your reply no later than July 31st.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Principal.]
The next morning, Scott in the lower bunk was still fast asleep.
Morris lay in his bed, staring at the letter from Hogwarts he had read the previous night. Sunlight filtered softly through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the crisp parchment. The words on it seemed almost surreal.
He didn't think this was a prank.
"Hogwarts…" he murmured, tasting the word on his tongue. Somehow, it triggered a cascade of faint, distant memories. It appeared that, in this new life, he had been reborn into the world of Harry Potter.
Morris accepted this reality quickly. Perhaps this wasn't going to be so bad. Magic could bring some much-needed excitement to his otherwise dull existence.
The only problem? He didn't know much about Harry Potter. Not from books, not from films. His knowledge was limited to a vague impression of the name "Harry Potter" and, oddly enough, a meme involving Avada Kedavra and noodles. That was it. Nothing more.
The human brain was truly mysterious.
Even so, Morris didn't feel regret. He didn't think, "It would be better if I knew more about this world." On the contrary, he enjoyed the novelty, the thrill of stepping into a world that remained a mystery to him. For Morris, exploration was a primal drive—one that had never wavered, neither before nor after reincarnation. The unknown was infinitely more appealing than a path whose outcomes were already spoiled.
After carefully repacking the letter and sliding it under his pillow, Morris leapt out of bed. Today, he had one pressing task: to verify the "Childrens Home" where he lived.
The orphanage was situated in a dilapidated, desolate neighborhood—not surprising, as land in prosperous areas was worth a fortune. The morning mist still clung to the streets, mixing with the faint, pungent smell of damp bricks and garbage. A few early risers hurried past, wrapping their coats tightly, offering no glance to the boy who emerged from the old porch.
Morris walked with a clear purpose, heading straight for the street corner.
"It should be around here…"
Behind an overturned trash can, a black shadow lay curled.
His target: the corpse of an adult black cat.
It was likely a stray. Morris had noticed it the previous evening upon returning from school. Its body had been still warm but lifeless. Judging by its skeletal frame, it had probably starved to death.
For a moment, Morris braced himself. Then he picked up the cat. Unexpectedly, he felt no disgust—only a cold sensation that seemed oddly comforting. The stiffness of death, the weightlessness of a body freed from life, brought a strange tranquility.
He briefly wondered if this reaction was perverse—but he didn't dwell on it.
Without lingering, he carried the cat to the orphanage's backyard warehouse. He fumbled for nearly half a minute before finding the light switch.
The warehouse was spacious, though cluttered. Broken furniture leaned against the walls, blankets smelled of mildew, deflated leather balls rested in corners, and a dead rat lay near some crates.
Morris set the black cat on a rickety table propped up with old books and began rummaging through the junk pile.
Two hours later, he wiped sweat from his brow.
"That should be about right," he muttered, surveying his work.
On the floor, he had drawn a pattern resembling a Magic Circle he had seen in films. More precisely, it was a Magic Circle. Crimson lines traced two concentric circles, filled with dense, twisted symbols resembling an unknown script. The overall effect was eerie, even menacing.
Morris hadn't intended to make it so dramatic, but red was the only paint available in the warehouse. The other colors were dried or used up. Yet, the substance of the circle didn't matter—only the shape did. He had followed the instructions in "The Book" precisely enough to make it work.
Carefully, he placed the black cat at the center of the Magic Circle. A subtle fanaticism crept over him—a passion he hadn't even noticed in himself. His heart raced, blood pulsing in his ears. Fear? Excitement? It was hard to tell. The desire to explore the unknown overwhelmed everything else.
Now there was only one step left: activating the Magic Circle.
He began an obscure chant.
"The world of the living has not yet forgotten you; the sleep of death is not your final chapter."
The words sounded foreign, yet he recited them fluently, understanding the general meaning. As the last syllable fell, the air in the warehouse seemed to freeze.
The crimson lines writhed as if alive, shrinking rapidly toward the cat. The symbols twisted, turned, and finally formed a vortex that spiraled into the black cat's body.
And then…
The black cat—once cold and lifeless—stood upright. It shook its messy fur, tilted its head, and mewed softly.
At the same time, Morris felt a sudden weakness and a sharp headache, as though something inside him had been hollowed out. Magic Power, he realized, was now flowing through him. The sensation was intense but barely bearable.
"Good cat, come here," he whispered softly.
The cat leapt into his arms with precision and warmth. It nuzzled his cheek and purred, behaving like an ordinary pet. Yet, Morris knew it wasn't entirely alive. There was a lingering coldness to its body. After all, it was undead.
He didn't care.
Gently stroking the skeletal body, he whispered with tenderness, "Good cat, you should eat more."
Morris felt a deep sense of connection to the creature. This black cat was more than a familiar—it was proof of his newfound power, a companion for his journey in the magical world. As he held it close, the warehouse around him seemed less grim, the morning mist less suffocating.
For the first time in a long while, Morris felt the thrill of true possibility. Magic was no longer a story; it was real. And with it, his adventure was just beginning.
The black cat purred louder, rubbing its head against Morris again. Perhaps it understood. Perhaps it was ready.
Together, they would explore the mysteries that awaited beyond the orphanage, beyond the mundane world Morris had once known. Beyond Hogwarts, beyond life and death.
Because from this moment on, Morris's path was no longer ordinary. It was bound to magic, to necromancy, and to the unknown.
And he wouldn't have it any other way.
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