The last weekend before the Christmas holidays is Hogsmeade Visiting Day.
It snowed all day, and the snow on the ground was already above ankle level.
Morris walked along a secluded path through the soft snow to the front of the Hog's Head.
Unlike the Three Broomsticks, this shop was very dilapidated, and most of the people coming and going were from all walks of life.
The advantage is that Morris won't run into his Hogwarts classmates here.
He pushed open the crooked door. A strong smell of mutton hit him.
The smell was quite impressive.
When Morris first came here, he thought it was a hidden lamb restaurant.
Unfortunately, the owner told him that they only sold goat milk.
The bar wasn't crowded; only a few old wizards wrapped in thick cloaks were huddled in a corner playing cards.
On their table lay a pile of Silver Sickle and several Galleon, glittering and likely from gambling.
Behind the bar, the owner was dozing off.
"I'd like Butterbeer." Morris handed him a clean wooden cup.
The boss was startled awake and blinked.
"Oh, I remember you, a Hogwarts student." He slowly took the glass, turned around, filled a Butterbeer from the barrel behind him, and pushed it back in front of Morris. "Why don't you go to the other pub next door?"
Morris took out his money to pay the other person, casually saying, "I like it here."
"That's terrible," the boss muttered, then closed his eyes again.
Morris wasn't angry.
The owner here seems to have always had this kind of personality; he's very eccentric.
In contrast, Madam Rosmerta, with her Three Broomsticks, treated her guests much better.
Oh, right, Ron seems to be quite infatuated with that landlady.
Morris thought of this for no apparent reason.
All I can say is that he is young and promising.
He sat down at the table in the corner, placed the suitcase he had brought beside him, and slowly sipped his Butterbeer while reading a book.
The old wizards clearly had no interest in the young man who had just entered, and were focused intently on the cards in their hands.
Nearly half an hour passed.
"Ah, Mr. Black, is that you?"
Morris looked up and saw a short, stout figure standing by the table.
The man was very old, with half-white hair, wearing a dirty bathrobe, looking disheveled like a homeless person.
"Uh..." Morris asked uncertainly, " Mr. Fletcher?"
The man rubbed his hands together, sat down opposite him, and said with a smile, "It's me, it's me, Mr. Black. You're so young. I thought I had the wrong person. I'm Mundungus Fletcher Fletcher, Frick must have mentioned me to you."
"Yes." Morris nodded.
"That's great!" Mundungus Fletcher glanced around furtively and whispered, "What did Frick say about me? That guy must have said a lot of nice things, right? We've known each other for a long time."
Morris's expression was somewhat subtle.
He frankly admitted, "He said you're an incorrigible liar, thief, and slippery character who would sell his own mother for two Galleon. He also said that if he needs your help, he can only pay one percent as a deposit."
Mundungus Fletcher's expression froze for a moment, then he gave an awkward laugh. "He's joking."
"That would be better," Morris said, taking a sip of his Butterbeer, "But if you keep staring at my box, I'll gouge your eyes out."
He was telling the truth; that was exactly what Frick said.
Mundungus Fletcher immediately looked away and denied it, saying, "I didn't, I didn't, don't talk nonsense."
Morris smiled slightly and looked at him calmly.
They had originally planned to communicate by letter, but he really wanted to see what kind of person Mundungus Fletcher Fletcher was.
Well...
As expected.
"Ahem." Mundungus Fletcher coughed lightly, then said seriously, "Let's get down to business. I've got what you needed."
He pulled a crumpled parchment scroll from his pocket and handed it to him.
Morris unfolded it and found it was a hand-drawn map, extremely simple.
Mundungus Fletcher quickly pointed to the red circle on the map and explained, "An old guy I know went there when he was young, and he pointed out the location to me. Nurmengard is right where the red circle is."
Morris examined it carefully, his brow furrowing slightly. "This drawing is too hasty; no one can find their way through these messy lines."
"Is that so?" Mundungus Fletcher's eyes darted around.
Morris looked up and stared at him.
Feeling a little guilty under his gaze, Mundungus Fletcher quickly added, "That man is old and not very clear-headed. He only drew this picture for me last time because of the two barrels of mead. If I added a little more... uh, a little more sincerity, maybe he could remember more details?"
In the end, isn't this just asking for more money?
Morris was somewhat speechless.
He's not a stingy person.
Is it really necessary to go through all this trouble?
I even made up a story to fool him.
"How much money do you want?" he asked impatiently.
Mundungus Fletcher's eyes lit up, and he immediately held up five fingers. "Just add eighty more! Eighty Galleon!"
What a greedy guy.
Morris stared at the five short, thick fingers for two seconds, then suddenly laughed.
"Make a deal."
Mundungus Fletcher was taken aback, clearly not expecting him to agree so readily.
This is no small amount, especially for students.
Are you kidding him?
Just as he was thinking this, Morris tossed him a small bag with a clatter.
In fact, although he likes money, he is not stingy at all when it comes to spending it.
Of course, if Mundungus Fletcher was lying to him...
Ah, the Champion's knife is already itching to draw blood.
Mundungus Fletcher calmly tore open the bag and peeked inside.
It was so golden that it almost blinded him.
This young man is amazing!
" Mr. Black, you're so straightforward! Don't worry, I'll have the map in a couple of days."
"In a couple of days?" Morris interrupted him, his expression calm. "Why two days? One of the things I hate most is being treated like a fool. Take out the real map; I know you have it on you."
"If you can't do that, leave the Galleon behind and get out."
Mundungus Fletcher's expression changed.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he just smiled awkwardly, reached into his pocket, and pulled out another parchment.
When Morris took it, he found it was completely different from the previous one.
This is not a map.
The parchment depicts only a large compass and the inscription " Nurmengard " in the upper right corner.
The amazing thing is that, although the pointer was drawn on, it was slowly turning.
Morris laid the map flat on the table; the pointer wobbled slightly before finally pointing steadily in a certain direction.