Principal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Albus Dumbledore (Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Order of Merlin, First Class)
Dear Mr. Black:
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl with your reply no later than July 31st.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress.
The next morning.
Scott in the lower bunk was still fast asleep.
Alan lay in bed, flipping through the letter from Hogwarts he had received last night by the light filtering through the gap in the curtains. He didn't think this was anyone's prank.
"Hogwarts..." he murmured.
That was indeed a word that could trigger long-distant memories. So it seemed he had been reborn into the world of Harry Potter in this life.
Alan quickly accepted this reality. This might not be so bad. Magic should bring a bit of fun to his boring life.
But then again, he didn't actually know much about Harry Potter. He hadn't read the books or seen the movies at all. Or rather, his only impression of this world was the name Harry Potter. Oh, and that Avada Kedavra noodle-slurping meme. For some reason, only that thing was etched into his memory. The human brain was truly a mysterious thing.
Although he lacked useful information, Alan didn't feel any regret. He didn't have thoughts like "It would be better if I knew more about Harry Potter." More than that, he preferred this feeling of exploring the unknown. The desire to explore. For Alan, this was the most primal drive that pushed him forward, a trait that hadn't changed before or after his reincarnation. A completely unknown magical world was much more interesting than a step-by-step future that had already been spoiled.
After repacking the letter and tucking it under his pillow, Alan jumped out of bed and headed straight out the door. He had one more thing to verify.
The children's home where Alan lived was located in a rather dilapidated and desolate neighborhood, which was to be expected since land in prosperous areas was worth its weight in gold. The morning mist hadn't completely dissipated, and the air was filled with a faint smell of damp brickwork and garbage. A few early-rising pedestrians wrapped their coats tight and walked in a hurry; no one spared a second glance at the boy walking out from the old porch.
Alan walked with a clear goal toward the trash can at the street corner.
"It should be around here..."
Behind an overturned trash can, a black shadow lay curled up. This was Alan's target: the corpse of an adult black cat. It was likely a stray; Alan had discovered it when he returned from school last night. At that time, it was lying here, its body still having some residual warmth, but it was no longer breathing. Judging by the black cat's skeletal appearance, it probably starved to death.
After a moment of mental preparation, Alan picked up the poor cat's corpse. Unexpectedly, he didn't feel any discomfort, only a cold sensation in his arms. It was actually quite comfortable. The stiffness unique to a corpse and the weightlessness after losing life actually gave him a sense of tranquility. He couldn't help but wonder if he had some perverted tendencies.
Without lingering, Alan quietly carried the black cat's corpse to the warehouse in the backyard of the children's home. He fumbled for nearly half a minute before finding the light switch and turned it on.
It was a relatively spacious area. Since it was a warehouse, it was naturally piled high with all sorts of clutter in the corners: broken tables and chairs, smelly blankets, a few deflated leather balls, and a dead rat.
Now, for the preparation work. Alan temporarily placed the black cat's corpse on a table with a missing leg that was propped up by old books, then headed to the junk pile to start working.
About two hours later, Alan wiped the sweat from his brow.
"That should be about right."
He looked at the result he had produced on the empty floor in the center of the room. It was a pattern resembling a magic circle from certain films and television works. Or rather, it was a magic circle.
The appearance of the magic circle revealed a sense of foreboding: crimson lines outlined two perfect concentric circles on the floor. Between the rings, dense, twisted, and winding unknown symbols were filled in, looking like some kind of unknown script. It was extremely eerie.
Actually, Alan didn't want to draw it so provocatively, but he only found red paint in this warehouse. The other paints were either dried up or used up. Yes, paint. He had only used ordinary paint to draw this magic circle. Of course, he hadn't drawn it randomly. That was how it was written in the book. It was enough to draw the approximate shape with anything colored.
Next, Alan picked up the black cat's corpse from the table and placed it in the center of the magic circle. He took a step back and surveyed his work, a hint of fanaticism involuntarily appearing on his face. Even he himself didn't notice it.
An indescribable excitement seized him. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, and the sound of rushing blood drummed in his ears. Fear or excitement? The strong urge to explore the mysterious had overwhelmed everything else.
Now there was only one step left: activating the magic circle.
Alan performed an obscure chant. "The world of the living has not yet forgotten you; the sleep of death is not your final chapter."
He didn't know what language it was, but he was able to fluently recite every syllable. And strangely enough, he could actually understand the general content of what he was chanting.
When the last syllable fell, the air in the warehouse seemed to freeze. Immediately after, the crimson lines on the magic circle seemed to come alive, writhing and crawling on the floor, quickly shrinking, and finally, with the black cat as the center, turning into a vortex. In almost an instant, they all bored into the black cat's corpse.
And then, under Alan's gaze, that black cat—the originally cold and stiff corpse—stood up gently and steadily. It shook its slightly messy fur, looked at Alan, tilted its head, and opened its mouth.
"Meow?"
At the same time, Alan felt an unprecedented sense of weakness, accompanied by a sharp headache. It was as if something inside him had been hollowed out. Without even thinking, he knew it should be the so-called magical power. But it was just barely bearable.
"Good cat, come here," Alan called softly.
The black cat gave a light leap and accurately dove into Alan's arms. It affectionately rubbed the top of its head against Alan's cheek, letting out a satisfied purr from its throat, behaving no differently from an ordinary cat. However, Alan could clearly perceive that the fur and body he touched still carried a lingering coldness. After all, this was an undead cat; it was a dead thing in the end.
But Alan didn't care about that. He stroked the black cat's bony body and said with some sympathy, "Good cat, you should eat more."
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