The next morning, Morris woke up early.
Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale stripes across the small bedroom. For a brief moment, he lay still, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of the house. Then he remembered—today, they were going to Diagon Alley again.
He quickly washed up, splashed cold water on his face, and straightened his clothes before stepping into the lounge.
Harold was already there.
Mr. Green stood near the wall clock, pacing back and forth with restless energy. It was clearly an old habit—one he fell into whenever he was excited or nervous. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to the clock, then back to the door, as though afraid Morris might vanish if he wasn't watching closely enough.
"I've been waiting ten minutes," Harold said, tugging at his tie and straightening it for the third time. "Do you need to bring anything?"
"No," Morris replied.
After a moment's thought, he went back to his room and retrieved his wand anyway. It was still useless in practice, but holding it gave him a strange sense of reassurance—and made him feel a little more like a proper wizard.
When he returned, he noticed Harold more closely. The man had put on a crisp, well-pressed suit, and his hair had been neatly combed, not a strand out of place. He looked unusually formal, almost like he was heading to an important business meeting.
Quite the respectable gentleman, Morris thought.
They headed for the door together, their steps brisk and purposeful. Outside, a car waited by the curb.
Harold patted the hood affectionately. "Take a look at this beauty. Classic 1980 model. Older than you, lad, but steadier than most of those flashy new things."
Morris knew nothing about cars, but even he could tell it looked expensive. The paint gleamed, and the interior smelled faintly of leather and polish.
Could running an orphanage really pay this well?
He slid into the passenger seat, fastening his seatbelt while musing quietly. Harold climbed in beside him, inserted the key, and turned the ignition.
The engine hummed to life.
"Then let's be off," Harold said cheerfully.
Thirty seconds passed.
The car didn't move.
Morris glanced around, then looked at Harold. "Are we waiting for something?" he asked. "Or is it broken?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Harold replied, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while whistling softly. "Fact is, I'm waiting for you."
"For me?"
"My car can go anywhere, provided it knows where," Harold said. "And I haven't the foggiest idea where in London this Diagon Alley of yours is."
Only then did Morris realize the problem.
He had never actually told Harold where Diagon Alley was.
"…Mr. Green," Morris said cautiously, "I hope you won't be cross."
Harold stopped whistling. "What is it?"
"I don't know where Diagon Alley is either."
"!?"
Harold turned toward him, completely speechless. He drew in a long breath, clearly fighting to keep his temper in check.
"Hold on," he said slowly, rubbing his temples. "You mean you don't know?"
"You catch on quick," Morris replied calmly.
"…."
Just before Harold could explode, Morris added, "But I do remember there's a big bookshop next to it. And a record store."
Harold stared at him.
He had the distinct feeling the boy was deliberately toying with him—but had no proof.
"That's hardly enough to pinpoint a location," Harold said coldly.
"That's all I know." Morris shrugged. "We could drive around. Seeing the place might jog my memory. A big bookshop next to a record store can't be that rare."
Harold studied him for several long seconds. Then, with a heavy sigh, he gripped the steering wheel again.
"Fine," he muttered, shifting into gear. "We'll start with Charing Cross Road. Bookshop capital of London. Let's hope we don't have to search the entire city."
Fortunately, they didn't.
The Leaky Cauldron stood halfway down Charing Cross Road, nestled between ordinary shops like an unremarkable gap in reality. To Harold, it looked like nothing more than a shabby old building he'd somehow never noticed before.
Though Harold couldn't see it properly, Morris guided him with quiet confidence. They stepped off the pavement—and suddenly, the noise of traffic faded away.
To Harold, it felt as though he'd taken only two steps on empty ground before finding himself somewhere entirely different.
"Don't speak to strangers," Morris reminded him, repeating Professor McGonagall's warning.
Harold nodded immediately, his body tense and alert.
They passed through the dim interior and reached the small back courtyard. It looked exactly as Morris remembered: brick walls on every side, a battered dustbin in the corner, and nothing else of note.
"Up two bricks… across two…" Morris murmured.
Harold held his breath as Morris drew his wand and tapped a particular brick three times.
The wall shuddered.
Bricks shifted, sliding smoothly aside to form an archway that opened onto a bustling street bathed in magical light.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Morris said softly.
Harold stared.
He had walked Charing Cross Road countless times in his life, never dreaming that a place like this lay hidden just beyond it.
This was the wizarding world.
A snowy owl swooped overhead, gliding past the sign of Flourish & Blotts. Outside a nearby cauldron shop, a copper kettle hummed a tuneless song. Wizards and witches of all ages moved through the street, their robes brushing against one another, voices rising in animated chatter.
The air smelled strange—like old books, metal, incense, and something sweet—but oddly delightful. It lifted Harold's spirits at once.
"Time to look around," Morris said. "By the way… how much money did you bring?"
Harold instinctively clutched his pocket. "What do you need money for?"
"Admission fee," Morris replied with a straight face. "A guided tour of the magical world isn't free."
Harold gaped at him. "You never mentioned that! And—wait—wizards use our money?"
"You promised pocket money yesterday," Morris said, already heading toward a tall white building. "We're going to Gringotts to exchange pounds for Galleons and sickles. Wizard money. I need a few extra myself. Come on."
Harold hurried after him. "Do they take credit cards?"
Threading through the crowd, they soon arrived at the imposing doors of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
Several goblins stood guard at the entrance.
Morris studied them closely for the first time. They were shorter than he'd expected, with dark, wrinkled skin, long pointed ears, and sharp, glittering eyes that missed nothing.
Frankly, they were rather ugly.
As Morris and Harold passed, the goblins bowed slightly.
"They seem polite," Harold whispered. "Are they human?"
"They're goblins," Morris replied.
Inside the main hall, long marble counters stretched into the distance. Goblins perched on high stools behind them, scribbling in ledgers and weighing coins with precise movements.
Morris led Harold to an empty teller window.
"Hello?" Morris said.
He had to tilt his head back to look up.
The goblin peered over a thick ledger. "What is your business?"
"I need to exchange pounds for Galleons, sir."
The goblin's sharp eyes flicked over Morris. "Hogwarts first-year from the Muggle world?"
"What of it?" Morris frowned.
"Simple," the goblin said, drumming slender fingers on the counter. "If you weren't a Hogwarts first-year, we wouldn't exchange anything. Muggle money is worthless to us. We only offer this service to Muggle-born students about to begin their education."
"Fine," Morris said. "I'm a Hogwarts first-year."
The goblin sniffed and produced a delicate set of scales. "By regulation, you may exchange no more than fifty Galleons."
Only fifty?
Morris felt a twinge of disappointment. Still, it made sense. For a wizard, earning pounds was far easier than earning Galleons.
And for now… fifty would have to do.
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