Chapter 7: One Can't Go Through Life Without Schooling, After All

Vernon’s eyes widened, frozen in place, his lips trembling but unable to form a single coherent word.

His gaze was fixed firmly on the medal gleaming under the moonlight, its intricate patterns and letters unmistakably proclaiming the undeniable authority and status it represented to everyone present.

“Burn... Sir?” Vernon finally managed to utter, disbelief lacing his words.

His eyes darted back and forth between Maurice’s face and the medal, as though searching for some flaw that would prove this was all a ridiculous joke.

But—

He failed.

Seeing this, Maurice gracefully slipped the medal back into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Indeed, Sir Burn. That is the name you may remember, so you won’t have to call me ‘weirdo’ anymore.”

Truthfully, this lower-ranking knighthood was genuine.

Although this honor is granted by the monarch as a knighthood, it does not fall under the category of knightly orders.

This rank is typically awarded to individuals who have contributed to social causes, and additionally, all male judges in the High Courts of England and Wales receive this honor.

One cannot be addressed as “Sir” without having been knighted, but if he later attains this lower rank of knighthood, then he may add “Sir” before his name.

In fact, this is a rather common occurrence.

For example, the renowned Sir Ferguson holds this very title.

Vernon’s face turned painfully awkward, flushing red and pale in turns, looking utterly ridiculous.

This tall and slender man before him, with such confidence and composure, completely shattered his sense of superiority.

A wizard he once considered a “weirdo” actually possessed such status and prestige?

Yet Maurice had no intention of stopping there.

“This is not the end,” Maurice sighed lightly, his face still wearing that calm, unhurried smile. He once again pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and held it out before Vernon’s eyes.

Vernon instinctively took it. Looking down, his eyes suddenly widened in shock. The card boldly displayed:

Burn Maurice.
Oxford University Graduate.
Barrister.

Vernon’s fingers trembled slightly as he stared at the word “Barrister” on the card, a faint realization dawning in his mind that the situation before him was far more complicated than he had imagined.

However, Maurice gave him no chance to catch his breath.

Leaning forward slightly, he spoke slowly: “Mr. Dursley, I regret to inform you of a very serious fact.”

Vernon looked up, his eyes filled with suspicion and uncertainty, while Maurice continued to apply psychological pressure.

“Under normal circumstances, within the legal framework of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, there is no such thing as ‘castle law.’ That is the law of some barbaric nations; you need not invoke it here.” He paused briefly, gesturing to the threshold beneath his feet with a slight smile curling at his lips. “Besides, I have not even truly entered your residence.”

Vernon’s face suddenly turned even paler, as if sensing what was about to come.

---

“However, let us assume—please remember, it is only an assumption—that you hold a valid firearms license and all the necessary paperwork,” Maurice’s voice rose a few degrees, “you have just insulted a British knight as a ‘weirdo’ without cause, and without any threat, you brazenly pressed a rifle against the chest of this British knight.”

“Such behavior, Mr. Dursley, is not only a violation of the law but also an insult to those who have made outstanding contributions to the British Empire.”

Vernon’s lips quivered as if to retort, but Maurice did not give him the opportunity.

“I believe my fellow alumni at Oxford University would be very interested to hear about today’s events.”

“After all, they are equally devoted to upholding our laws and justice, and as a British knight, I trust I have the right to seek their assistance in defending the dignity and rights that are rightfully mine.”

Vernon opened his mouth then closed it, unable to utter a single word.

His hand dropped weakly; the rifle nearly slipped from his grasp. His round, flushed face was now etched with fear and helplessness.

That final remark was the knockout blow.

What kind of place is Oxford University?

It is a sanctuary coveted by countless elites worldwide.

In Britain, Oxford is not only a symbol of academia but also of power and status.

Graduates of Oxford appear in nearly every field.

From science to literature, economics to politics, they are everywhere.

Margaret Thatcher, President Clinton, media magnate Rupert Murdoch... these names alone speak volumes.

Prime Ministers of Britain, Presidents of the United States, Prime Ministers of India—even for a period, five consecutive British Prime Ministers were Oxford graduates.

Not to mention cabinet members and the major figures shaping policies and controlling the nation’s lifeblood, most of them also hail from Oxford. The university’s prestige in British politics is immeasurable.

In a country like Britain with freedom of speech, one can criticize the Queen; many media outlets do so.

But when it comes to one’s alma mater, it is undoubtedly a disaster.

Conversely, if one were an ordinary person, they might not care about such political and public opinion attacks.

However, do not forget Vernon Dursley’s other role—as an executive at Gronning Company.

If the board members learned that he had just pressed a rifle without cause against a British gentleman who is an Oxford graduate, a barrister, and knighted—

The consequences are... easily imagined.

Fortunately, Maurice was not black; otherwise, not even Jesus arriving in Britain today could save him—this “buff” was about to max out.

“May I enter now, Mr. Dursley?”

Hearing this, Vernon snapped out of his daze.

He stood stiffly at the door, his mind racing.

Although things had taken a turn for the worse, they had not completely spun out of control.

This Sir Burn seemed not to intend to settle his “transgression” just yet—at least not for now—leaving room for maneuver.

---

“Y-yes, of course!” Vernon’s expression shifted instantly from gnashing anger to a forced, ingratiating smile.

He quickly lowered his head, his short, thick neck turning as red as a ham stuffed into a shirt collar. “Please, please come in, Sir Burn. I beg your pardon for my earlier rashness. I hope you will forgive a humble man’s mistake.”

Saying this, Vernon cautiously opened the door wider, almost bowing as he shuffled his bulky frame aside, his face full of awkward smiles trying to mask his earlier blunder.

Those behind him were stunned.

Especially Harry.

He was still young and unaware of the stakes involved.

From his perspective, he only saw his usually stern and disdainful Uncle Vernon suddenly turn his attitude a full 180 degrees toward this man.

Absurd and laughable.

As for doubting whether what had just happened was real—Dudley had already done that for him.

Dudley slapped his chubby face with all his might, confirmed he was not dreaming, and, like Vernon, stood respectfully on the sidelines alongside Petunia.

Harry, who hardly watched TV, did not understand the outside world, but Dudley, who had grown up immersed in his parents’ environment, certainly knew what had just transpired at the door.

Maurice gave Vernon a brief, cool glance but said nothing further. Instead, he crossed the threshold with the elegance of someone entering a lavish salon in South Kensington.

In truth, everything that had just occurred was real.

Where else could he go after being expelled from Hogwarts in fifth grade?

There were only a few schools in Britain, and of course, Oxford was the place. After all, one cannot simply stop attending school.

There was another reason for going to Oxford.

It was for exchange and study.

There, he would immerse himself in the most advanced thoughts and works representing human civilization.

Yes, he wanted to cure illnesses.

Much like a certain great man named Marx, who, before writing Capital and the Communist Manifesto, spent decades immersed in theory at the British Library—so much so that his cement seat there wore footprints—Maurice also had a reserved seat at the Oxford University library.

Only, his seat had not worn footprints.

The reason was simple: Oxford had too many wealthy patrons, resulting in very durable library floors—though when he left, Maurice left his own mark on the floor with magic.

Maurice casually shook off the wet cloak, flicking the rainwater outside, then slowly removed his hat and nodded slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Dursley.”

This composed elegance briefly froze Vernon’s smile, but he quickly recovered and resumed his forced grin. “Y-you’re welcome, Sir Burn. Please, make yourself at home—uh, would you like some tea? Or perhaps something else?”

“No need.” Maurice declined succinctly, his gaze turning inside, soon finding the slender figure—Harry Potter.