Chapter 6: A Rifle

Night, Crivos.

A sudden torrential downpour descended like a heavy curtain, shrouding the entire city in damp cold and gloom. Dense raindrops, like countless silver arrows, poured from the low-hanging dark clouds, lashing violently against the cobblestone streets and buildings. The River Thames surged with ripples beneath the rain, its water reflecting faint lights like an indistinct silver ribbon flickering in the darkness.

Rainwater gathered into rivulets along the arrow towers and eaves, flowing swiftly into the street gutters with a soft, urgent splashing sound. The Victorian-style streetlamps emitted a dim, yellowish glow, but the light was fragmented into scattered stardust by the rain and mist, unable to pierce the heavy shadows of the rainy night.

Morris clutched the package he had just retrieved to his chest, trying to shield it from the downpour. He hurried around a street corner, his boots splashing into puddles and sending up cold sprays of water.

"Apparition," he whispered.

As the spell took effect, Morris’s figure flickered several times, and the scene of the rainy night raced past him like a revolving lantern. The city streets gradually faded away, replaced by a vast seaside. Raindrops struck the reefs with dull thuds, and waves pounded the lonely beach amidst the storm. With another flicker, he arrived before a dilapidated wooden shack on a remote island.

"This is the place... no mistake."

Morris swept his gaze across the scene. The shack stood solitary in the wind and rain, its walls mottled and its roof covered in moss. Accompanied by the howling gale, the entire structure groaned under the strain, as if it might collapse at any moment. He took two steps forward, his cloak snapping violently in the wind. Finally, Morris stopped before the precarious wooden door, his expression darkening slightly, and he raised his hand to knock three times.

"Knock, knock, knock."

...

Tomorrow was an exceptionally special day for Harry.

Eleven years ago tomorrow, he had officially arrived in this world. Because of this, he had been staring at the luminous dial of his cousin Dudley’s watch—through it, he could tell that it was ten seconds until the next day. The "tomorrow" mentioned above.

What should one do on their birthday?

To be honest, Harry hadn't quite decided. He had never had a choice regarding his own birthday. And the things he did have a choice about were always things that others—the Dursleys—would rather not see.

He looked at the chubby Dudley, lying on the sofa and snoring deafeningly—perhaps he could wake him up, just to have him go back to sleep, as his own birthday present.

Five seconds left.

...

The experiences of these past few days had been bizarre for Harry. He had received letters. Oh, receiving a letter wasn't strange in itself; after all, this was the twentieth century, and text messages and emails hadn't yet become the mainstream way of communication.

So, where was the mystery? The mystery lay in the fact that, over these past few days, countless letters had been sent to his home. This had made his aunt and uncle react as if they were facing a formidable enemy, which was the very reason he had followed the Dursleys to this run-down shack on a rocky, isolated island. Uncle Vernon believed that in such terrible weather, no one could reach them here to deliver mail. If there were letters, they could even be used as kindling for the fire.

Harry was very curious about those letters. From childhood to now, he had known very few people. Who would be so persistent in sending him mail?

Three seconds left.

How long is three seconds? Please join Harry in counting silently: three, two, one.

All right, time is up—

Knock, knock, knock.

An eerie knocking sound came from the door, and Harry sat up.

Knock, knock, knock.

Another round of knocking, and this time, even Dudley woke up. Harry watched as Uncle Vernon, furious, grabbed a shotgun, walked to the door, and threw it open.

Standing outside was a tall, pale man. Despite being drenched, the man’s suit was as neat as if it had just been picked up from a tailor. He wore a dark top hat, and the look in his eyes beneath the brim was profound, as if he could see straight into one’s soul.

Uncle Vernon froze. He had been boiling with rage, but upon meeting the man’s gaze, he couldn't help but shudder, his fingers trembling on the shotgun.

"Who—who are you? What on earth do you want in the middle of the night?"

...

Morris did not answer immediately. He lifted his head slightly, removed his hat, and smiled politely yet coldly (the first time Harry had ever seen those two words paired to describe a single person). He spoke in a low, resonant voice: "My apologies for the intrusion, but I believe I am here to collect the right person."

His gaze passed over Vernon and landed precisely on Harry, who was peeking out from beside the sofa.

"Harry Potter," Morris said softly. "My name is Byrne Morris, Professor of 'Wizarding Sociology' at Hogwarts. I am here to take you to school."

"Hogwarts?" Harry’s eyes widened, but before he could speak, Uncle Vernon’s roar interrupted his thoughts.

"Hogwarts?" Vernon snapped out of his stupor, the anger igniting in his eyes quickly dispelling his earlier fear. He braced his thick arms against the doorframe, raised the shotgun, and pressed the cold muzzle directly against Morris’s chest.

"I want you to leave at once, sir!" Vernon barked, his raspy voice filled with hostility. "I won't let you take this boy! This house does not welcome you freaks!"

Morris did not step back. He looked down at the muzzle inches away, then lifted his eyes to gaze calmly at Vernon, his smile deepening slightly.

"You know this gun is useless against me, don't you?"

Vernon’s face turned ghastly. He gritted his teeth, trying to speak, but no sound came out. Morris slowly raised his hand and flicked his fingertips. With a soft "click," the gun jammed, and a puff of blue smoke rose from the barrel.

Vernon stumbled back, nearly dropping the gun. He stared at Morris in stunned terror, unable to utter a word.

"That was just a small reminder," Morris said calmly, reaching out to gently push the barrel aside. "I am here to collect Harry for his enrollment, not to argue. You may choose to obstruct me, but the result will be no different."

Vernon opened his mouth, but eventually, only a low mutter escaped: "You—you... you freaks!"

Faced with Vernon’s accusation, Morris showed no sign of displeasure or intent to defend himself. He simply reached into his pocket and produced an exquisite medal. In the dim light, the medal shimmered with the cold luster unique to metal, engraved with complex patterns and letters.

"First, I am not a 'freak.' I believe I introduced myself clearly just moments ago."

"Second, you may address me as Byrne Morris—or, 'Sir Byrne'."

With that, Morris held the medal slightly forward and tilted his body, allowing it to catch the moonlight and refract a dazzling silver gleam. Vernon couldn't help but squint, as if blinded by the light.