The next morning, Mr. Vinson descended from his bedroom on the second floor, only to find Harry waiting outside the shop.
"Good morning, Harry," Mr. Vinson greeted, stifling a yawn as he pulled open the door. His brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "Why are you here so early today?" He glanced at his watch. "It should still be breakfast time."
Harry usually didn't come by Mr. Vinson's place until after noon. But today, he stood there anxiously, almost trembling, as if he had been caught in a trap.
Harry's gaze darted around nervously. When Mr. Vinson stepped aside, Harry rushed forward.
"Good morning, Mr. Vinson," Harry said hurriedly, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "This morning, when I was about to go out—"
Seeing him flustered, Mr. Vinson gently patted his back. "Take it easy, Harry. If it's not urgent, speak slowly."
Harry drew a deep breath, a faint smile forming, and followed Mr. Vinson into the shop. Yet his eyes kept wandering to the window, as though he expected some unwelcome presence to appear at any moment.
Mr. Vinson, noticing his unease, picked up a potato from the shelf and weighed it in his hand. "You haven't had breakfast yet, have you? Today's menu is Exploding Mashed Potatoes. Want some?"
"No, thank you," Harry said immediately, his eyes returning to the window.
Mr. Vinson placed the potato on a cutting board and carefully sliced it open. "Ah, no explosion. Our luck is with us today. Trust me, today will be a lucky day."
Harry stared out the window for nearly a minute. Once he realized no one was following him, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.
"This morning, I planned to participate in community activities as usual," he finally began, leaning against the window frame. "But Aunt noticed something was off. She suddenly asked me, 'What kind of community activity needs to last more than half a year?'"
Harry mimicked his aunt's sharp, exaggerated tone, making Mr. Vinson chuckle.
"And then?" Mr. Vinson asked, scooping a spoonful of the potato.
"She wants Dudley to come with me," Harry said, once again imitating his aunt. "'Go see what activity Harry is participating in. Make sure he's not lying.' That's what she said."
Mr. Vinson gently put down his fork. "Ah," he said nonchalantly, "don't worry. Perhaps the suggestion I gave your aunt some time ago is starting to fade."
Harry frowned. "Suggestion?"
"About half a year ago," Mr. Vinson explained patiently, "I used magic to convince your aunt that I was a community worker. Since then, she naturally assumed it was normal for you to accompany me to community activities. But time has passed, and now she's becoming suspicious."
Harry relaxed slightly, but worry still lingered. "What should I do then? Will she find out I'm a wizard?"
Mr. Vinson shook his head with a smile. "Even if she does, what then? Once you learn magic, none of this will be a problem. And besides, I'm here. Always."
Harry's eyes brightened. He realized that if Mr. Vinson could cast such magic once, he could certainly do it again. "You'll help me, right?" he asked hopefully.
"Otherwise?" Mr. Vinson chuckled, shaking his head. "I am your professor, Harry. Would I not help you?"
The words struck Harry deeply. I am your professor! The weight of them made all his anxieties dissipate. A calm, secure warmth settled over him, one he had never felt before.
"Alright, Harry," Mr. Vinson said after finishing his breakfast and stretching, "break time is over. Time to continue learning how to brew the Blood-Replenishing Potion."
Harry's face stiffened instantly.
That afternoon, Mr. Vinson visited Number 4 Privet Drive to handle the matter with Harry's aunt, then returned to the shop after sending Harry home for a short break.
When he arrived, he spotted someone standing at the entrance, carrying a box and glancing around impatiently.
"Little Ed! Over here!" the figure called out.
Mr. Vinson immediately recognized the voice. Only one person would call him that—Professor Kettleburn.
He walked swiftly to meet him. "Your speed is remarkable, Professor. I only mailed the letter yesterday morning."
Professor Kettleburn patted him on the back. "Actually, I received your owl last night. You said in the letter that my prosthetics were ready, so I came immediately."
Mr. Vinson led him inside. "They're ready, Professor. Have a seat."
While Professor Kettleburn waited expectantly, Mr. Vinson retrieved three long rectangular boxes from a heavy drawer behind the counter. Inside were the prosthetics: an arm, a leg, and half a leg.
Mr. Vinson opened the first box, revealing a beautifully crafted prosthetic arm.
Professor Kettleburn immediately examined it. Its design was simple yet functional, with no unnecessary decorations. The ebony surface was smooth and retained its natural grain. The joints were finely carved, precise without any flamboyant designs.
He nodded approvingly. "Just what I need. Performance over style."
Mr. Vinson smiled quietly. He understood exactly what his professor wanted: tools that worked perfectly, without unnecessary frills.
This version smooths out sentence structures, eliminates awkward phrasing, and keeps the narrative flow natural, while preserving all key details.
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