Knock, knock, knock.
Morin opened the door.
A tall, thin woman stood outside. Petunia Dursley.
"Pardon me, how can I help you?" Morin asked.
"Oh, hello," Petunia said with a smile. "I'm Petunia Dursley from Number 4. I saw you moving in... are you planning to settle here?"
"Mrs. Dursley, yes," Morin replied smoothly. "I'll be living here whenever I'm not working. It seems we're neighbors. I apologize if the moving noise disturbed you. I'm Morin. Please, call me Morin. Would you like to come in?"
"Oh no, not at all!" Petunia waved her hands, her movements a little too practiced. "You didn't disturb me. You must be busy organizing. But since we're neighbors, my family is hosting a party the day after tomorrow. Around two in the afternoon. Would you like to join us?"
"The day after tomorrow?" Morin paused, as if checking his schedule. "How fortunate. I'm free then. I'd be delighted."
"Wonderful! It's a date!" Petunia said brightly. "We'll be looking forward to it, Mr. Morin!"
"The honor is mine, Mrs. Dursley. I'll be there on time."
She left.
Morin's expression settled back into calm.
Everyone wore masks. He simply chose the most appropriate one.
Harry was panicking.
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had called for him. He'd expected punishment for something Dudley had done, or to be told he'd miss dinner.
Instead, they were smiling.
Smiling.
That made it worse.
There was only one reason they ever smiled at him. They wanted something they couldn't get by shouting.
"We're hosting an important guest tomorrow," Vernon said, forcing a grin onto his red, neckless face. "You're to stay in your cupboard. Not a sound. Understood?"
"If," Petunia added, her eyes full of open disgust, "you agree, I'll give you a piece of cake. But only if the guest never knows you're here."
"But... what if I need the toilet?" Harry asked.
"I'm not asking, boy," Vernon hissed, his face turning beet-red. "If I could kick you out, I'd have done it years ago. Ruin this, and you'll regret it. Understand?"
"Yes..." Harry shrank back.
"Go get some biscuits and get into your cupboard," Vernon snapped. "Petunia, give him a jar with a lid."
Vernon added one last threat. "Make a sound, ruin my business, and you'll be sorry."
I'm already sorry, Harry thought.
He went to the biscuit tin and took the whole thing. If he was going to be yelled at anyway, he might as well eat.
Late at night.
Privet Drive.
Streetlights went dark one by one as a tall, thin figure walked down the road.
He stopped briefly in front of Number 4, observing.
Then he moved to Number 5.
Before he could knock, the door opened. The lights inside flickered on.
The figure stepped in.
Silver hair. A long beard. A hooked nose. Half-moon spectacles.
Albus Dumbledore.
"Welcome to my new home, Headmaster," Morin said, setting his coffee down. "Would you like a cup?"
"Thank you, but no," Dumbledore replied as the door closed. "At my age, coffee only makes sleep harder to find."
"Then chocolate and sweets?" Morin waved a hand. A plate appeared on the table.
"Muggle food?" Dumbledore sat, picking up a gold-wrapped chocolate coin.
"Yes. And better than the wizarding kind," Morin said lightly. "I have plenty."
"Hm. I do have a fondness for sweets..." Dumbledore unwrapped it and ate it, blue eyes twinkling. "So, Mr. Morin. You know why I'm here."
"Of course," Morin said. "It isn't difficult to guess. I want to sell my wands. I intend to start with Mr. Potter. His influence speaks for itself."
"...Oh." Dumbledore blinked. "I didn't expect such directness."
"I have a clear conscience," Morin replied. "And my plans won't harm the boy. I only need his influence. An advertisement, of sorts."
"Advertisement?" Dumbledore echoed. "A Muggle word."
"Yes. If someone respected publicly praises a wand, others follow. I'm a wandmaker. I want my work used widely."
"The Ministry forbids interference with Muggles," Dumbledore said slowly. "And Harry cannot leave that house."
"That's simple," Morin smiled. "I'll use Muggle methods. I have a legal Muggle identity. Harry can't leave, but his life can improve. In the Muggle world, a lawyer is like an Auror. I'll 'discover' how Harry is treated. As a righteous lawyer, I'll confront the Dursleys. They don't fear unseen wizards. They do fear a lawyer standing in front of them."
Dumbledore nodded. "In theory, it's flawless. Though I wish you'd told me earlier." He paused. "I'm curious about your wands."
Morin handed one over. "I made this yesterday."
"Impeccable craftsmanship," Dumbledore said. "Hard to believe it's the work of someone so young. May I try?"
"Go ahead. Keep the output low."
Dumbledore flicked the wand.
Fire burst toward the ceiling.
His eyebrow rose. He flicked it again, and a beam of white light erased the flames instantly.
"Excellent control," Morin said, clapping once.
"A simple trick," Dumbledore replied. "But this wand..."
"I've always wondered what magic truly is," Morin said. "And what a wand actually does. My conclusion is straightforward. Magic is a natural energy. Some can absorb it. Some cannot. A wand focuses and guides it, improving efficiency and precision. Different materials suit different constitutions."
"So," Dumbledore said, "you changed something."
"Yes. Traditional wands only guide magic. Mine draw magic from the environment automatically." Morin looked at him. "You felt it. The spell output was higher."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said quietly. "This wand isn't even suited to me, yet it produced nearly half the power of my own."
"That's why I admire your control, Headmaster," Morin replied. "Your reaction speed is exceptional."
The room filled with a subtle atmosphere of mutual restraint.
"I am old," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. "The future belongs to the young."
Morin felt a brief chill.
"That's only one feature," he said, smoothly changing topics. "I also believe a wand should be viable in physical combat."
"Physical combat?"
"Headmaster," Morin asked, smiling, "have you ever heard of a wand..."
He paused.
"...eight feet long?"
Dumbledore froze.
"I beg your pardon?" he said. "Eight feet? You mean in length?"
"No, no. Roughly this long." Morin produced a staff nearly two hundred and forty centimeters tall.
Dumbledore stared.
"Of course, that's for later," Morin continued. "For beginners, the wand should only reach eyebrow height."
You definitely said staff, Dumbledore thought.
He tried to follow the logic. "Why make it that long?"
"Because," Morin said, suddenly animated, "the staff is the king of weapons. When young wizards lack magic, they use their fists. A long, thick, hard wand gives them an advantage. And my design allows it to shrink and grow through magic."
In the quiet living room, as Morin explained, Dumbledore's expression shifted.
Confusion.
Understanding.
Then something sharper.
A butterfly had flapped its wings.
And a storm was beginning to form.
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