Chapter 9: The Broken Kettle Bar

“Professor Morris... why does Uncle Vernon look so terrified of you?”

“Mr. Potter, when you use rules that others cannot understand, you must change them into language they can comprehend. That’s the first lesson I’m teaching you.”

“Change them into language they can understand?” Harry repeated, furrowing his brow as if struggling to fully grasp the meaning.

“Exactly,” Morris said casually. “Sometimes, logic and politeness are less effective than a rifle or a medal for certain people. What this world lacks has never been rules, but ways to make people willing to follow them.” After speaking, sensing the topic might be too profound for Harry, he stopped and reached into his pocket, pulling out a package and handing it to Harry.

“Mr. Potter, this is a birthday gift I prepared for you,” Morris’s tone softened, “but don’t open it yet—wait until no one is around.”

Harry accepted the package carefully, hesitating as he asked, “Professor Morris, you mentioned Aunt Petunia’s sister, my mother. What happened to her?”

“Your parents were wizards, just like you and me. They were students at Hogwarts; your father and mother were only three years older than I was. When I was at school, I often saw them.”

“What kind of people were they?”

Morris recalled memories from school, including many conflicts with James, and said seriously, “Your mother, Lily, was a very kind person, gentle to everyone. As for your father—no acquaintances, no photos, no stories. I don’t know him.”

A string of denials left Harry feeling puzzled.

But he didn’t dwell on it and pressed on with a question that was crucial to him.

“If they were wizards, how did they die in a car accident?”

“They didn’t die in a car accident. They were murdered by a man named Voldemort. Voldemort wanted to kill you, but he vanished. The scar on your forehead is the mark of that.”

Harry abruptly stopped walking. After three steps more, Morris noticed Harry was no longer beside him.

“Voldemort... why would he kill my parents? I mean... did Voldemort have a grudge against them?”

Seeing the stubbornness in Harry’s eyes, Morris was momentarily lost in thought.

That day, a little boy once stood under the same night sky, asking similar questions.

Oh, thirteen years had passed already.

“Why did Voldemort want to kill your parents?” Morris came back to himself, approached Harry, gently took his small hand, and spoke kindly, “Mr. Potter, there is no simple answer to that question. Because of greed, fear, foolishness, and the fate that awaited them... But to trace why he got entangled with your parents, we must mention a prophecy.”

“A prophecy?” Harry frowned.

“Yes, a prophecy,” Morris continued without hesitation. “Someone foretold the birth of a child who would have the power to defeat Voldemort utterly. The child’s birth coincides exactly with your birthday.”

Harry was stunned, unable to digest this information immediately.

He looked down at the ground, unconsciously tracing the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead with his fingers, whispering, “So... he killed my parents because of this prophecy?”

“Yes,” Morris nodded solemnly, “Voldemort feared the prophecy and wanted to eliminate the threat before it took shape. But he didn’t realize it wasn’t power that would change his fate—it was your mother Lily’s love. She sacrificed herself to protect you. Her sacrifice granted you an ancient and powerful magic—that magic ultimately led to Voldemort’s downfall.”

“My mother... protected me?” Harry kept repeating quietly.

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Morris’s voice grew gentle. “She traded her life for yours. The scar on your forehead is not just a mark; it is a testament to her love and sacrifice.”

---

Harry remained silent for a long time, his lips trembling as if wanting to say something but unsure how.

Finally, his faint voice rose again, “Professor, I want... revenge.”

Morris looked up at him, furrowing his brow slightly, but a flicker of emotion he did not want to show crossed his eyes. After a pause, he sighed and shook his head gently. “Revenge? Mr. Potter, that is not your generation’s burden.”

For the first time, anger flashed in Harry’s gaze. Summoning courage, his face flushed as he shouted, “But... he killed my parents! He... destroyed my family!”

Morris watched quietly.

“I understand your pain more than anyone, Mr. Potter, but you must remember, you are not yet at the age to carry such a burden. What you should do is go to school, learn about this world, and become strong.”

“Revenge—” Morris paused, emphasizing his words, “that is the responsibility of our generation, those who have weathered storms and struggled in darkness. We owe you a future, a future not shrouded in fear. And you, Mr. Potter, should be the hope of that future, not its bearer of vengeance.”

At that moment, Morris suddenly released Harry’s hand, pointing to a shabby, cramped tavern ahead.

“Mr. Potter, we’ve arrived.”

“We can’t let others see me holding your hand; that wouldn’t be good for you,” Morris joked rare warmly.

...

This was a dirty, cramped tavern.

If Professor Morris hadn’t pointed it out, Harry might not have noticed it at all.

By the time he realized, Morris had already pushed open the door and entered.

Dark and filthy—Harry’s second impression of the tavern. A few men sat in the corner, drinking whiskey from small glasses; one smoked a long pipe; a small man in a tall hat was chatting with the nearly bald, walnut-like tavern owner.

The moment they entered, the chattering abruptly ceased.

Everyone widened their eyes, staring in disbelief at Morris, who was only a few feet away.

After a long while, the tavern owner reacted first.

“Mo... Morris?! You escaped from Azkaban??!!”

Harry froze, startled by the tavern owner’s deafening shout.

Morris’s reaction surprised everyone present.

He was neither angered nor flustered by the sudden accusation but calmly removed his hat and gently placed it on the bar, then spoke in his characteristically composed tone: “If I really escaped from Azkaban, do you think I would come find you first, Tom?”

An awkward silence fell over the tavern.

The man called Tom opened his mouth, swallowed hard, and replied sheepishly, “Uh... of course not... I just... didn’t expect to see you here, Morris.”

“Didn’t expect?” Morris raised an eyebrow. “Of course you didn’t, but I’m back now—openly.”

He then put his hat back on and scanned the room filled with customers whose faces reflected shock, suspicion, and excitement.

Those who had been quietly drinking or smoking now sat rigidly, eyes fixed on Morris; some even quietly shifted their chairs back, as if fearing trouble. Yet others looked thrilled, ready to rush over to shake his hand and pay respects.

“This tavern is still the same—it’s truly nostalgic,” Morris shrugged.

His words carried a double meaning—those familiar with the history would understand whether he referred to the tavern itself or the atmosphere of those days.

“But... but Morris, weren’t you—” Tom seemed reluctant to let go, probing cautiously.

“Yes, I was indeed imprisoned in Azkaban,” Morris interrupted calmly, “but now I’ve been bailed out by Dumbledore and appointed as a Hogwarts professor, entrusted by him to help Harry Potter prepare for enrollment.”

This statement was like a bomb, instantly breaking the tavern’s silence.

The sheer weight of information overwhelmed their minds.

Bailed out? Hogwarts professor? Harry Potter?

Finally, some couldn’t contain themselves.

Harry saw several people stand quickly and approach Morris, removing their hats if they had them, nervously rubbing their hands.

“I’m Duke, Mr. Morris. I can’t believe it—by Merlin’s beard, I finally see you.”

“It’s an honor, Mr. Morris, truly an honor.”

“I’ve been waiting to shake your hand—my heart is pounding.”

“I’m so happy, Mr. Morris, I feel like I’ve drunk ten Butterbeers. I’m Nelson, Taran Nelson.”

Professor Morris warmly shook hands with this curious crowd.

Harry thought none of this concerned him, but then the remaining patrons also stood, chairs scraping loudly, and to his surprise, he found himself shaking hands too.

Could this be some strange tavern tradition?

“Mr. Potter, an honor to meet you. I’m Talia Stein.”

“Mr. Potter...”

“Mr. Potter...”

Introductions and praises came from all directions, sending Harry’s mind into confusion once more.

When he cast a pleading look at Morris, the professor winked at him, as if to say—this will happen many times in the future, get used to it.

And so, amid this strange atmosphere, Harry Potter’s day came to an end, until—