Morris was guided out of the alley by Professor McGonagall. As they crossed the street, they arrived at a narrow stretch between a large bookstore and a record shop. There was something about this place that gave Morris an indescribable sense of oddness.
Professor McGonagall noticed his puzzled expression and smiled gently. "Does it feel a little strange? Look closer."
Morris squinted, trying to make sense of his surroundings. After a moment, the scenery before him began to shift. Between the bookstore and the record shop, a dilapidated building materialized, as if emerging from thin air. A simple sign swung above its entrance: The Leaky Cauldron.
Magic. Morris didn't need to think twice; his subconscious had already recognized it.
Without a word, Professor McGonagall led him inside. The pub's interior matched its exterior: dim, old, and full of character. A wooden bar counter ran along one wall, a few tables were scattered haphazardly, and crooked portraits hung on the walls, some moving and others seemingly asleep. For Morris, the place hardly resembled a pub.
"Don't pay attention to strangers," Professor McGonagall instructed, her tone warm yet firm, like a mother warning a child.
They didn't linger in the public area. Instead, they passed straight through to the backyard. Unlike a typical courtyard, this one was surrounded by high walls on all sides, with only a lone trash can leaning against a corner.
"Remember this trash can, Morris. Count three bricks up, then two across," McGonagall instructed. She tapped a stone brick lightly.
The brick quivered and slid aside, forming an archway just wide enough for two people to pass through. Behind it lay a narrow alley, densely packed with buildings of all shapes and sizes. Some of these structures defied conventional physics, leaning or twisting in impossible angles. The air itself seemed charged with magic.
"So this is Diagon Alley," Morris thought, recalling the tales Professor McGonagall had mentioned.
"Follow me," she reminded him gently, noticing his awe. "The first thing we need is a wand; that's the most important item."
Through the bustling crowd, McGonagall explained, "Hogwarts provides a special fund for students like you. It covers all necessary school supplies." She added sternly, "But this does not include sweets or extra expenses."
Morris nodded in understanding.
"In fact," she continued conversationally, "it has been a long time since anyone from the Orphanage used this fund. You are the only student recently… The last time was—" She shook her head and swallowed the rest of her sentence.
Ahead, the famous Ollivanders wand shop came into view.
Morris had always thought that a wizard's wand would be ornate, maybe set with gemstones or carved with intricate designs. Instead, he ended up with a simple, thick black stick with uneven textures—twelve and three-quarter inches long, made of hornbeam with a Thestral tail hair core. He might have even used it as a makeshift chopstick if someone had asked.
When Morris finally held the correct wand, Ollivander seemed more excited than he was.
"Hornbeam and Thestral tail hair—an excellent choice, Mr. Black," the old man said, waving his arms. "It may be a bit stiff, but wands of this material fully support a master with a firm will."
"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander," Morris replied politely.
"Seven Galleons," Ollivander said, holding out his hand. "Would you like a wand maintenance kit as well?"
Morris declined politely.
"Really?" Ollivander looked genuinely disappointed. "You must take good care of your wand, child."
Professor McGonagall then produced a heavy velvet pouch from her robes and counted seven glimmering gold Galleons onto the counter. Ollivander scooped them into a drawer with a flourish and winked at Morris.
"Remember, a Hornbeam wand hates being neglected. Use it often, and you will build an extraordinary rapport," he said.
By the time they stepped out, it was nearly noon. They had the most important item, the wand, but still had much to purchase.
"This might take longer than I expected," Professor McGonagall said. "Besides the wand, I suggest buying other items second-hand. It will save you money for pocket expenses later."
"What if I buy everything new?" Morris asked.
Professor McGonagall stopped and looked at him seriously. "The choice is yours. However, if you do that, the fund will only cover school supplies, and you won't have any pocket money this semester." She added thoughtfully, "Hogwarts covers room and board, but there are always extra expenses."
Morris sighed, considering the familiar constraints of poverty. In the orphanage, nearly everything he had used had been second-hand or donated. Even though the government provided funds for daily living expenses, Morris often wondered who benefited from them in the end.
Shopping took a fair amount of time. They purchased textbooks, glass phials, a telescope, brass scales, and a cauldron. Finally, only clothing remained.
"Don't worry about that," Professor McGonagall said. "Diagon Alley has a shop specifically for second-hand robes."
The shop was in a quiet alley to the north. Inside, the rows of clothing racks were neatly arranged and filled with all sorts of robes. The air smelled faintly of camphor, and soft jazz-like music drifted from an unseen source.
Morris's attention, however, was drawn to a corner of the shop. A skeleton stood upright, arranged like a mannequin. Perfectly proportioned, its curves smooth and elegant. The sutures of the skull were tight, the ribs spread evenly, and the bones of its limbs retained a translucent, almost jade-like quality.
Morris couldn't help staring. A strange heat rose within him, an obsessive fascination as though he had stumbled upon a long-desired treasure.
He quickly shook himself, making sure not to behave unseemly. Still, the question lingered in his mind: why was a human skeleton in a robe shop? Using it as a mannequin seemed… inappropriate.
Professor McGonagall, however, appeared calm. Dancing skeletons, she had once explained, were not uncommon in the wizarding world. She did not flinch at the sight. Morris realized, then, that it likely wasn't even a real skeleton; real human bones were reserved for darker places like Knockturn Alley.
The process of selecting robes passed without incident. Yet, even as he left the shop, the image of the skeleton lingered in Morris's mind, making him blush slightly.
Damn, he thought. He's not really a pervert, is he?
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