When Morris stepped out of Gringotts' front doors, he held a heavy little pouch in his hand.
"Those goblins' service attitude was absolutely dreadful," Harold couldn't help but complain. "Rude doesn't even begin to cover it. The one who handled our exchange barely spoke except to criticize my banknotes. And why on earth use scales to judge the value of paper money? What kind of banking system operates that way?"
Just moments ago, that goblin had placed his ten fifty-pound notes and a bag of gold coins on opposite ends of a scale, and the scale had remained perfectly balanced without the slightest movement.
No doubt that was also due to magic.
Morris weighed the money pouch in his hand, the gold coins clinking together with a pleasant sound. "At least they did exchange the Galleons for us."
"Is this actually real gold?" Harold asked.
"I'd guess not," Morris shook his head. "Now we should go shopping. Do you want to buy anything as a souvenir?"
"May I?" Harold seemed slightly surprised.
"Mm." Morris said lightly, "After all, it's your money."
Since he had accepted someone's gift, he had to pay the corresponding price.
"So where do we go first?" Harold asked.
He knew nothing about this place and could only rely on the eleven-year-old child before him.
Looking at the crowds coming and going around them, he felt like a lamb that had wandered into a wolf pack.
Morris thought for a moment and said, "Follow me."
In fact, after revisiting Diagon Alley, he couldn't help but think of that thing.
It was that skeleton he had seen in the secondhand robe shop yesterday.
He didn't know why, but he was particularly fixated on that bone frame—it had been lingering in his mind.
If possible, he hoped to purchase that thing.
This was also why he had brought Harold along. After all, it wouldn't be quite appropriate for an ordinary eleven-year-old child to buy such an item.
Morris led Harold to the front of that dusty secondhand robe shop.
Looking at the shabby storefront, Harold stopped in confusion. "I remember you already bought robes yesterday."
"Don't talk," Morris lowered his voice and tugged at his sleeve. "Just come in with me... and remember, follow the plan."
"Wait!"
Harold looked completely bewildered.
Plan?
Had they made any plan?
How did he not know about it?
Before he could ask his questions, Morris had already pulled him into the shop.
Morris led Harold straight to the corner where the skeleton had been displayed before, but strangely, the skeleton had disappeared, replaced by a proper wooden mannequin.
Moreover, the wooden mannequin was already draped with robes.
"Need any help, customer?" The shopkeeper approached to ask—still the same bespectacled old woman from yesterday.
She studied Morris carefully, then suddenly had a realization. "Oh, you're that child from yesterday... is there something unsatisfactory about our clothes?"
"No, the robes fit perfectly," Morris shook his head. "May I ask, where did that skeleton that was here yesterday go?"
"The skeleton?"
The shopkeeper was startled, seemingly surprised that Morris would ask about this. "Ah, that's my son's thing. He likes tinkering with all sorts of odd items, and sometimes brings them to the shop to display. I had him take it back yesterday—why, are you interested in it?"
She pushed up her glasses, looking at Morris with a strange expression, and added, "That's not exactly a toy."
Morris immediately put on a sheepish smile and quietly kicked Harold's shin. "Actually, it's my uncle who's interested. He's always been fond of these special things."
Harold didn't react immediately, but with Morris's prompt, he quickly straightened his back and cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, I'm very interested."
The shopkeeper looked skeptically at Harold's crisp suit, then glanced at Morris. "How surprising that a Muggle would be interested in such a thing..."
"We're not Muggles," Morris replied without missing a beat. "We just appreciate their style of dress."
"That's truly terrible taste." The shopkeeper gave Harold another look and said, "Well, if you're here for that skeleton, go contact my son. I can give you his address."
Harold immediately bowed slightly. "That would be very kind of you, madam."
"It's nothing much. My son would be happy to know I referred a customer to him, but..."
The shopkeeper muttered as she retrieved a yellowed slip of paper from a drawer, quickly writing down an address with a quill pen.
Harold took the paper, glanced at it, and handed it to Morris.
"Ezra Flick, Knockturn Alley, Number 21, basement."
That was all the paper contained.
Morris had heard about Knockturn Alley from Professor McGonagall.
It was a branch alley adjacent to Diagon Alley.
If Diagon Alley was a bustling, prosperous commercial pedestrian street, then Knockturn Alley was a dark, filthy illegal zone.
It specialized in trading things unsuitable for appearing on the open market.
Simply put, it was a black market.
"That's not a good place, you know," the shopkeeper suddenly showed a worried expression. "I don't know why he chose to open a shop in that sort of place..."
Listening to her muttering, Morris said seriously, "We'll pay him a visit. Please don't worry."
"Tell him to remember to eat his meals on time."
------
Standing once more on the bustling street, Harold asked, "Are we going to this place called 'Knockturn Alley' next?"
"I don't want to die yet," Morris answered bluntly.
He certainly wouldn't rashly bring Harold into Knockturn Alley.
A Muggle and a little wizard who hadn't even attended school yet—this combination didn't seem very reliable no matter how you looked at it.
Although Morris didn't know exactly how dangerous Knockturn Alley was, it never hurt to be cautious.
Besides, now that they had obtained Ezra Flick's contact information, there was no rush.
Hearing Morris's words, Harold was dazed for a moment.
"Is it a very dangerous place?" he asked quietly.
"Battles between wizards could break out there at any moment," Morris deliberately tried to frighten him. "Strangers who barge in rashly can easily become targets."
'Battles between wizards?'
Harold found it somewhat hard to imagine. "Then where are we going next?"
Morris looked toward the pet shop not far away and said, "I need to buy an owl."
"An owl?" Harold seemed very surprised. "Why do you suddenly want to keep a bird?"
"Just for sending letters," Morris replied.
Although he already had Tin-Tin, thinking it over carefully, an owl was still necessary.
Since he now had sufficient budget, it would be better to buy one.
"Wizards use owls to send letters?" Harold didn't seem to quite believe it. "That's too strange."
As they spoke, the two had already reached the pet shop's entrance.
Through the display window, they could see all varieties of owls standing quietly on perches, occasionally turning their heads to direct their gaze at approaching customers.
Morris pushed open the door. The doorbell rang with a crisp sound, and a faint scent of feathers and dry hay wafted toward them.