Harold hesitated.
His fingers hovered in midair, pausing just short of the owl's feathers. After a moment of inner struggle, he finally reached out and gently placed his hand atop the creature's head.
The moment his skin made contact, a violent chill surged through his entire body.
It was not the cold of winter wind or frozen metal. It was far worse—deeper, more absolute. The sensation crawled up his arm like icy needles, piercing straight into his bones.
This was not a temperature any living creature should possess.
It was even colder than solid ice.
It felt as though he had reached out and touched death itself.
Harold recoiled instinctively, jerking his hand back. His fingertips throbbed faintly, the numbness lingering no matter how he flexed them. Even after withdrawing, the cold refused to disperse, clinging to his skin like an invisible stain.
The owl—Fireworks—shifted stiffly, its body twisting in a slightly awkward motion. It clearly disliked being touched. In truth, it seemed uncomfortable with any physical contact at all, let alone from a stranger.
Harold swallowed and forced a shaky smile.
"It's… an evil creature, isn't it?" he asked quietly, unease creeping into his voice.
Morris glanced at him and replied calmly, "That depends on how you define 'evil,' sir. I merely performed a spell. The body changed from a corpse into what you see now. From my perspective, I haven't done anything that could be called evil."
His tone was composed, almost indifferent, as though he were discussing an everyday matter.
The key to the Undead Creature Transformation Ritual lay in one crucial requirement: the subject had to possess a powerful desire to survive.
For ordinary animals, this was hardly an obstacle. Survival was the most basic instinct of all living beings. Fear of death was woven into their nature.
In other words, the undead creatures Morris created did not resist their continued existence in this altered form. They accepted it.
Harold stared at the owl perched quietly nearby. Its hollow gaze seemed fixed on nothing at all, yet it felt disturbingly aware. Gradually, Harold's eyes lost focus as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
"There is something I need to warn you about, Mr. Green," Morris said suddenly, interrupting Harold's silence.
Harold looked up.
"This magic can only be used on animals," Morris continued evenly. "It is impossible to resurrect a person. You should not entertain thoughts in that direction."
Harold froze.
For a brief moment, his expression went completely blank. Then, slowly, a bitter smile crept across his face—one tinged with both disappointment and relief.
It seemed Morris had seen through him completely.
As expected, this child was anything but ordinary.
Harold let out a soft sigh and nodded. "I see… Thank you for telling me."
From the moment they had first met, Morris had sensed it. Harold feared magic, yet at the same time, something within him yearned for it. That contradiction drove him to keep approaching the arcane, despite his apprehension.
The desire to resurrect someone.
It was a clear, logical reason—painfully specific.
Things that technology could not accomplish… perhaps magic could offer a faint glimmer of hope.
That was likely why Harold was so eager, so desperate, to step into this world.
"This magic can only be used on animals."
Morris had said those words deliberately.
In truth, he suspected the Undead Transformation Ritual would work on humans as well. Theoretically, there was no fundamental difference.
But he was not ready.
Transforming a human was nothing like transforming an animal. It required immense courage—and an even stronger resolve. There was also the terrifying uncertainty of whether the transformed undead would retain their original consciousness, memories, or personality.
That question alone demanded further experimentation.
Morris was unwilling to grant others hope so lightly. Once hope took root, the despair that followed its destruction would only be deeper and more unbearable.
Harold's gaze followed Fireworks as it glided up to the eaves and settled quietly there. His voice trembled slightly when he spoke again.
"I understand… truly. Thank you for being honest with me, Morris."
"Mmm," Morris responded.
After a brief hesitation, Harold asked softly, "Would you like to hear my story?"
"No," Morris replied without pause. His answer was crisp, clean, and utterly decisive. "I have no interest in other people's tragic pasts."
"…."
Harold blinked.
Why wasn't he following the unspoken rules of conversation?
After a moment, Harold turned his head and let out a short laugh. "I suppose that's fair. It's not exactly a tragic tale anyway, but… since you're not interested, we'll leave it at that."
Without anyone noticing, the sky had darkened. Heavy clouds rolled in from the distance, pressing low and thick, filling the air with a damp, metallic scent.
"It looks like rain," Harold said, glancing upward. "I should be going. My daughter is still at home waiting for me."
He smiled at Morris—a warm, genuine smile, tinged with a sense of release.
"Goodbye, my friend."
"Goodbye," Morris replied, lifting his hand in a casual wave. "If there's anything I can do, feel free to come find me."
By the time Morris returned indoors, night had fully claimed the sky.
Under the dim hallway lights, Fireworks silently merged into his shadow, its form dissolving as though it had never existed.
Moments later, rain began to pour.
A torrential downpour battered the building as wild winds drove sheets of rain through the smallest gaps in the windows. The corridor filled with echoes—children shouting in excitement, caregivers rushing back and forth as they hurriedly shut windows and doors.
Morris liked rainy weather.
What he disliked was noise.
Without hesitation, he turned and made his way back to the dormitory.
Inside—
"Where did you go?" Scott asked without looking up, his attention fixed on the small knife in his hands. He methodically wiped the blade, though no one knew where he had even obtained it.
"Just went for a walk," Morris replied, shrugging off his damp coat. "By the way, do you have any envelopes and stationery?"
Scott had written letters before. Morris remembered that much.
"In the left drawer," Scott said lazily, using the tip of the knife to clean dirt from beneath his fingernails. "Who are you writing to?"
"An acquaintance."
Morris opened the drawer and found a stack of yellowed stationery along with several envelopes whose edges had curled with age. He had no idea where Scott had gotten them.
Probably stolen.
Despite appearances, Scott was far from honest.
"You'll need to handle postage yourself," Scott added, finally glancing up.
"That won't be a problem."
In the wizarding world, owl mail was free. All it required was food.
And since Fireworks was undead, even that expense was unnecessary.
The pen scratched softly against the paper as Morris began to write. His handwriting was neat, precise, and emotionless.
He intended to contact Ezra Flick to inquire about the skeleton's whereabouts. Ideally, he would purchase it outright. If necessary, he could visit in person at a later time.
Not now, though.
Knockturn Alley was not a place one entered without preparation.
"…No. 21 Knockturn Alley, Basement. To: Ezra Flick."
After folding the letter and sealing it inside the envelope, Morris wrote the address carefully on the front and placed it back in the drawer.
The rain was too heavy tonight. Sending the letter could wait.
"By the way," Morris said casually, glancing down at his shadow, "you'll be fine delivering it, right?"
Fireworks' upper body emerged soundlessly from the darkness at his feet and nodded.
"Sorry to trouble you."
The owl puffed out its chest in clear pride before sinking back into the shadow.
Owls in the wizarding world possessed an innate magic. They required no training to navigate vast distances or locate specific individuals.
Even after becoming undead, that magic remained intact.
"What are you talking to?" Scott asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
"Nothing," Morris replied calmly. "Just talking to myself."
He walked over to the window and gazed out at the rain, which was falling harder by the second.
Suddenly, the window burst open from the outside.
A black blur darted inside—the undead cat, Canned Food.
It landed neatly on the windowsill and shook its body vigorously. Ice-cold water droplets sprayed everywhere, splattering directly across Scott's face.
"Hey! Control your cat!" Scott shouted, wiping his face furiously.
Canned Food ignored him completely, calmly licking its paw with an air of utter disdain.
"Don't be angry," Morris said with a faint smile. "I'll buy you cake tomorrow."
Scott eyed him suspiciously. "And where exactly are you getting the money?"
"Don't worry about it."
After all, he had borrowed a little pocket money from Harold earlier.
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