When they returned to the orphanage, night had fully fallen. The last faint traces of twilight had vanished beyond the horizon, leaving the sky a deep, unbroken black.
The silhouette of the orphanage looked especially bleak under the cover of darkness, its aging structure looming like a quiet witness to forgotten lives. A chill crept through the air, and even the familiar paths felt strange beneath Harold Green's feet.
Harold sighed softly without realizing it. The past two days had been more fantastical than his entire life combined. No matter how calm he appeared on the surface, his heart had yet to fully accept what he had seen.
"How do you feel?" Morris asked calmly as they walked.
"Not bad," Harold replied offhandedly.
He hadn't bought any souvenirs in Diagon Alley—only a couple of Chocolate Frogs, which had been devoured long ago. Trinkets felt meaningless compared to the truth he had uncovered.
Magic, it turned out, was real.
Unfortunately, he couldn't share that revelation with anyone except wizards. To ordinary people, the magical world simply didn't exist. It was a realm forever beyond their reach.
A world the old him could never have entered.
Morris stretched and stifled a yawn. "Good night, Mr. Green. I'm turning in."
A complicated emotion welled up in Harold's chest. From everything he had observed over the past two days, Morris was far from ordinary—even without taking magic into account. If not for the boy's youthful face, Harold might have thought he was speaking to someone his own age.
"Morris," he called, stopping the boy just as he turned to leave with the birdcage.
Harold reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card. "If you ever need anything, try calling me."
He paused, then added, "You could find the number in the directory, but this will be faster."
"Thank you," Morris said, accepting the card.
He understood that Harold was extending goodwill—and goodwill could be useful.
"Oh, one more thing," Harold added before leaving. "If you really do manage to save that owl, could you let me see?"
Morris considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Sure."
It cost him nothing.
Besides, he rather liked Harold—even if the man was bald.
When Morris returned to the dormitory, his roommate Scott was sitting on his bed, idly toying with a rusty dagger he had scavenged from somewhere.
"It's a bit corroded," Scott said without looking up. "I'm trying to restore it. What's that?"
He noticed the cage in Morris's hand.
"An owl," Morris replied matter-of-factly, setting it down in the corner of the room.
"And?" Scott raised an eyebrow, eyeing the listless black bird inside. "Aren't you going to explain?"
"A gift from Mr. Green," Morris said.
That answer only deepened the mystery.
"Mr. Green?" Scott lowered the dagger, his brow furrowing. "Which Mr. Green? I don't remember any Greens around here."
"Harold Green," Morris replied. "The head of this children's home."
Understanding finally dawned on Scott.
Not that he could be blamed—Morris himself had barely recognized Harold at first.
"So why would he give you an owl?" Scott pressed.
"My start-of-term present," Morris said lightly, rocking the cage. The tawny owl inside fluttered one weak wing.
Scott still looked lost.
"Who gives an owl as a start-of-term gift?"
"Oh," Scott whispered suddenly, leaning in closer. "I get it. Harold Green is your dad, right?"
"Your imagination is running wild," Morris said, carefully lifting the owl from the cage.
The large black bird lay docile in his arms, its body frail and unnaturally light.
"It makes perfect sense!" Scott exclaimed. "The head who never shows up suddenly gives you something this special—an owl! That's not normal. It must mean something."
Morris ignored the rambling and examined the owl's condition instead.
According to the pet shop clerk, a Dark Wizard's curse had reduced it to this state. The creature must have endured prolonged torment before it was sold off as damaged goods.
"I'll need to prepare the transformation spell soon," Morris murmured.
"Hey, are you even listening?" Scott continued to chatter.
"Time to sleep," Morris said, returning the owl to its cage before climbing into bed.
The next morning, the first thing Morris did was check on the owl.
The tawny bird lay on its side, unmoving. Its eyes—already dull the night before—were now completely lifeless. It had retained the same posture as before, but its chest no longer rose or fell.
It was dead.
Morris stared at the corpse in silence, his expression unreadable.
"It couldn't hold out after all," he murmured.
No miracle had occurred.
The owl's life had ended even sooner than the clerk's grim prediction of two days.
Carefully, Morris carried the cage out of the dormitory and into the storehouse behind the building. He didn't know whether the Necromantic Creature Transformation Magic Circle had a strict time limit, but sooner was better than later.
The storehouse was quiet and undisturbed.
Thanks to prior experience, Morris completed the setup of the Necromantic Creature Transformation Magic Circle in just half an hour. Crimson lines spread across the floor in precise geometric patterns, pulsing faintly with latent power.
This time, however, he intended to add something extra.
Standing beside the array, he extended his right arm, palm facing downward.
"Bloodletting Spell."
It was a simple spell—nothing like the Weakening Curse—and he had mastered it within an hour. Its sole effect was to draw the caster's blood without leaving a wound.
As Morris chanted, blood began to drip from the center of his palm.
Plop. Plop.
Each droplet struck the floor as though alive, writhing briefly before merging with the magic circle. The array, already stained red, grew increasingly ominous, glowing with a deep crimson light.
When a wave of dizziness washed over him, Morris stopped the spell. He had no precise idea how much blood he had contributed, but it was clearly a significant amount.
Next, he lifted the owl's cold, stiff body from the cage and gently placed it at the center of the array.
The results should be interesting this time.
"The living world has not forgotten you," Morris intoned softly. "Death's slumber is not your end."
The moment the incantation left his lips, the magic circle reacted.
Scarlet lines surged inward, flowing into the owl's corpse like veins filling with blood. Yet within the red glow, faint threads of dark gold shimmered, twisting and intertwining as they followed the necromantic pathways.
When the final glimmer vanished into the bird's body, the storehouse fell deathly silent.
Suddenly, the owl's eyes snapped open.
Within the hollow sockets burned two ghost-blue flames, flickering where eyes should have been.
Morris crouched in front of it, unflinching.
"Whoo—"
The owl rose slowly, its movements unnatural yet deliberate. It gazed at Morris with those burning blue flames, then lowered its head.
Gently, it touched the tip of his finger with its beak.
A bond had been formed.
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