The Sorting Ceremony progressed quickly after Morris took his seat, the remaining names were flying by in series as Professor McGonagall worked through her scroll.
And just like that, it was done. The last first-year had been sorted, and the stool and hat were removed from the front of the hall.
From the final results, Morris had entered Ravenclaw House—the house of wit, learning, and wisdom, if the Sorting Hat's song was to be believed.
Not bad at all. He could certainly work with students who valued intelligence and knowledge. It seemed like a good fit for someone who spent most of his time reading, studying magic, and conducting necromantic experiments.
Besides confirming his own placement, Morris had also finally seen the legendary Harry Potter during the ceremony.
The famous Boy Who Lived turned out to be a small, thin child with messy black hair and round glasses that seemed slightly too large for his face. Nothing was particularly remarkable about his appearance—he looked like any other eleven-year-old, perhaps even a bit malnourished than average.
Harry had been sorted into Gryffindor.
Morris found himself staring at Harry for quite a while, his mind was trying to understand what made this particular child so special.
Harry must have sensed Morris's gaze. He turned in his seat at the Gryffindor table and looked directly back at Morris, then gave a friendly, slightly shy smile before turning back to his housemates.
A very ordinary child, Morris concluded after that brief exchange. Whatever made Harry Potter special wasn't apparent from simple observation.
Morris committed Harry Potter's face to memory—it seemed wise to be able to recognize someone so central to wizarding world politics then returned his attention to more immediately interesting subjects.
The ghosts floating around the Great Hall were far more fascinating than famous children.
He watched them drift between and through the house tables, observing how they interacted with the physical world. They could pass through solid objects and even through people—he'd seen several students shiver when a ghost went through them but they also seemed capable of choosing not to, hovering above surfaces rather than sinking through them.
How did that work? What determined when they were solid enough to interact and when they were purely intangible? Was it conscious control on their part, or some property of the magic that sustained them?
He really wanted to catch a ghost and conduct a proper interview. Ask what it felt like to exist without a body, to float through the air without wings or physical support, to persist after death through sheer will or magic or whatever kept ghosts anchored to the living world.
At the front of the Great Hall, Dumbledore stood from his seat at the center of the High Table. The elderly headmaster raised his arms in a welcoming gesture, and conversation throughout the hall gradually died down as students realized he was about to speak.
"Welcome!" Dumbledore's voice carried easily through the space, was warm and grandfatherly. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
He sat back down amid scattered applause and some confused looks from first-years who weren't sure if that had been a joke or some kind of magical incantation.
"Thank you!" Dumbledore added cheerfully.
The moment he finished speaking, as if his words had been a trigger spell, the feast officially began. The empty golden plates that had been sitting on the tables suddenly filled with food.
Roasted meats of every variety: chicken, beef, pork, lamb. Boiled potatoes, roasted potatoes, mashed potatoes, chips. Fresh vegetables including peas, carrots, and sprouts. Yorkshire puddings, gravy boats, various sauces and condiments. Baskets of fresh bread rolls with butter. Jugs of pumpkin juice, water, and other beverages.
The sheer abundance far exceeded Morris's expectations. This was more food, more variety, and significantly more exquisite preparation than any meal he had ever eaten at the children's home or during school lunches.
The only disappointment Morris felt as he surveyed the spread was that there were no desserts visible among the savory dishes.
If possible, he thought with some regret, he would have preferred to eat cake before the main course—even though that would be completely backwards and probably make him less hungry for the actual nutritious food. But cake was special, precious, something he'd rarely had access to in his life. It deserved priority.
Still, he filled his plate with various items and began eating. The food was genuinely excellent—properly seasoned, cooked to perfection, still warm from whatever magical kitchen had produced it.
Around him, the Ravenclaw students were chatting energetically about their summers, their classes for the upcoming year, gossip about professors and other students. The noise level was considerable, dozens of conversations were happening simultaneously up and down the table.
But Morris turned a deaf ear to these social topics. He had no interest in the petty dramas of students he didn't know.
He had eyes only for his plate, working through each item with appreciation.
Fortunately, when everyone had eaten their fill of the savory courses, the golden plates suddenly changed again with the same instant magic that had filled them initially.
The remnants of the main courses vanished, replaced immediately by an impressive array of sweet treats: blocks of ice cream in various flavors, apple pies still steaming slightly, treacle tarts glistening with syrup, chocolate éclairs with perfect cream filling, jam tarts bursting with fruit, raspberry cakes with delicate frosting, strawberry tarts, and various other desserts Morris couldn't immediately identify.
"Now that's more like it," Morris said with genuine satisfaction, his eyes lighting up at the sight.
He immediately reached for a particularly tempting raspberry cake that had appeared directly in front of his plate, as if the magic knew exactly what he'd want. He pulled it close possessively, already anticipating the first bite.
While he worked on enjoying the dessert, savoring each mouthful, the Ravenclaw students around him continued their conversations about classes, Quidditch prospects for the year, and various other topics.
Morris continued to ignore them all, completely focused on the food.
When the sweet, tart flavor of raspberry mixed with smooth cream and delicate cake bloomed on his tongue, he actually closed his eyes for a moment in pure satisfaction. This was what he'd been missing.
Perhaps noticing the "oddball" at the table who seemed completely antisocial and only focused on eating rather than socializing, a female student sitting directly across from Morris couldn't help but speak up to get his attention.
"Uh... hello?" she said, her voice was tentative but friendly. "Could you pass me that chocolate cake in front of you?"
Morris reluctantly looked up from his raspberry cake, registering the request. He glanced at the chocolate cake she'd indicated and felt a moment of possessive desire to claim it for himself as well.
But that would be rude, and she'd asked politely.
He pushed the plate across the table toward her. "Here you go."
"Thank you," she said with a warm smile.
Only then, with his attention finally drawn to the student across from him rather than just his food, did Morris notice that she had distinctly Asian features—dark eyes, black hair. Unusual in what seemed to be a predominantly white British school, though not unprecedented.
His curiosity piqued, Morris asked, "Are you British? Or did you come from somewhere else for school?"
The female student nodded slightly, seeming unsurprised by the question—she'd probably been asked many times before. "Yes, I'm British," she answered politely, her accent confirming she'd grown up in England. "Born and raised in Scotland, actually. Oh, by the way, I'm Cho Chang, second year."
"Morris Black, first year," Morris introduced himself, then returned his attention to his raspberry cake.
"I'm Marietta Edgecombe," a red-haired girl sitting beside Cho Chang suddenly leaned forward into the conversation, her tone was friendly and curious.
She had a scattering of freckles across her nose and an eager expression. "It's nice to meet you, Black. By the way, what did the Sorting Hat say to you? You seemed to take quite a long time up there. Everyone was wondering if something was wrong."
"Just call me Morris," he said automatically, preferring the informality. "As for the Sorting Hat..." He paused, then delivered the information with a completely straight face. "It called me an idiot."
The two girls exchanged quick glances, their eyebrows rising in synchronized surprise. There was a beat of silence as they processed this claim.
"Oh, but idiots don't end up in Ravenclaw," Marietta finally said with a somewhat awkward smile.
"Maybe," Morris replied with a casual shrug, taking another bite of cake. He didn't particularly care what the hat thought of his intelligence. The important thing was that it hadn't discovered his secrets.
Just then, a semi-transparent ghost happened to float over Morris's head, passing through the space above the Ravenclaw table.
Morris noticed immediately, his attention was snapping from his dessert to the far more interesting phenomenon. His eyes tracked the ghost's movement as it began to float away.
He couldn't let this opportunity pass.
"Mr. Ghost!" Morris called out enthusiastically, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the feast. "Excuse me! Could you come here for a moment, please?"
The ghost, who had been drifting toward the Hufflepuff table, paused mid-float and turned around. He wore medieval-style clothing: a long-sleeved tunic that reached his knees, a pullover robe over that, and a floppy cap on his head that might once have been fashionable but now just looked dated.
"Young sir, are you calling me?" the ghost asked, sounding pleased to be addressed. He floated back toward Morris with graceful movements, his semi-transparent body was shimmering with a subtle pearlescent glow in the candlelight that made him look beautiful in an eerie way.
When he hovered before Morris at eye level, Morris realized this ghost had been quite a handsome man in life.
"Are you already dead?" Morris asked directly, with blunt curiosity.
Several nearby students turned to stare at Morris with expressions of shock at his bluntness. You didn't just ask ghosts about their deaths!
But the ghost didn't seem offended at all. In fact, he looked rather pleased by the question.
"Quite obviously dead, my dear friend," he replied, spreading his arms in an elegant, dramatic gesture. "In pursuit of true love, I drank a poisoned chalice meant for another. Such was my romantic end! I perished for love, the most noble of causes!"
Morris got the distinct impression this ghost was showing off about his manner of death, proud of the romantic tragedy of it all. He seemed to want admiration or at least acknowledgment of how poetically he'd died.
For a moment, Morris genuinely didn't know how to respond to that. What did one say to someone bragging about their death by poison?
"Uh... that sounds nice?" he offered hesitantly, his tone making it halfway between a statement and a question. "Very... dramatic?"
The ghost beamed at this lukewarm response, apparently considering it high praise.
"May you one day have a death as romantic as mine, young friend!" he said with another graceful bow. "What greater blessing could I wish upon you? Farewell for now!"
With that peculiar blessing delivered, he floated lightly up, passing through several of the suspended candles—Morris watched carefully to see if they flickered, but they didn't and disappeared into the enchanted night sky ceiling as if the stars had absorbed him.
Cho Chang, who had been watching this entire conversation with an expression somewhere between amusement and concern, leaned forward slightly and said in a gentle but warning tone,
"Morris, I'd advise you not to chat too much with the ghosts if you can help it. Most of them are... well... not quite right in the head anymore. Centuries of being dead does strange things to people's minds."
Marietta nodded in firm agreement, her expression becoming more serious. "I completely agree. They're all a bit odd, and some are definitely worse than others. Especially the Bloody Baron. He's covered in blood and chains, and he never speaks to students. Very creepy."
Morris thoughtfully cut another small piece of his raspberry cake. "I actually find them quite interesting. Fascinating, really, from a magical theory perspective."
He paused, then asked with curiosity, "But speaking of which, why does Hogwarts have so many ghosts? They can't all have died here in the castle, can they?"
That would be rather creepy and would raise serious questions about Hogwarts' safety record over the centuries. How many students and staff had died within these walls to produce such a large ghost population?
Cho Chang wiped a small dab of cream from the corner of her mouth with her napkin before answering.
"I'm not entirely sure about the specifics, honestly. Ghost studies isn't really part of our curriculum. But I've heard that Hogwarts has the most ghosts of anywhere in Britain—possibly anywhere in Europe. They're drawn here for some reason. The magic of the place, maybe?"
"But exactly how many ghosts are there?" Morris pressed, wanting numbers.
"Well, that's a tough question," Marietta said, tilting her head thoughtfully as she tried to calculate. "I've seen maybe fifteen or twenty different ghosts regularly, but I know there are more that don't come to the feasts or appear in common areas..."
"Sixty-eight in total, to be precise."
The answer came from directly behind Morris in a cultured, aristocratic voice that made him jump slightly.
He turned around quickly and found himself face-to-face with another male ghost or rather, face-to-nearly-severed-neck with one.
This ghost wore much more lavish clothing than the previous one: an intricate ruffled collar trimmed with delicate lace, a fancy coat with detailed embroidery, and knee breeches that suggested he'd died in the late medieval or early Renaissance period. He would have looked quite elegant and distinguished—
—if not for the shocking wound on his neck that immediately drew the eye.
His head was barely attached to his body, nearly separated completely. It was connected only by a few inches of skin and some ragged flesh, the wound was gaping and raw-looking despite being centuries old. The head tilted at an unnatural angle, making one worry it might suddenly fall off and roll away.
"Oh, it's you, Nearly Headless Nick," Cho Chang said. She gestured between the ghost and Morris. "He's actually Gryffindor's resident ghost."
"Please, I prefer my proper name—Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington," the ghost said with dignified correction, though his tone was gentle rather than truly offended.
He executed a bow toward Morris, a motion that made his head sway alarmingly on its fragile connection, wobbling back and forth. "I'm delighted to meet a young gentleman who shows such interest in ghosts."
Marietta looked genuinely surprised by the specific number he'd provided. "Does Hogwarts really have sixty-eight ghosts? That seems like so many! I've been here a full year and I've probably seen fewer than twenty different ones. Where are all the others hiding?"
Nearly Headless Nick smiled slightly, though the expression was somewhat disturbing given that his mouth was visible through the gap in his neck when he did so.
"Dear girl, it's quite normal that you've only seen a fraction of us," he explained patiently.
"Many ghosts—especially those ancient fellows who have existed here for a dozen centuries or more aren't very willing to appear regularly before the living anymore. Some only emerge once every few decades. Those of us who actively participate in school life like myself are actually the minority among Hogwarts' ghost population."
"Sir Nicholas," Morris suddenly interrupted, "could you come a bit closer to me, please?"
Nearly Headless Nick looked puzzled by this unusual request, but he seemed more amused than offended. "Of course, young friend. I'm happy to satisfy your curiosity. Do you have questions you'd like to ask?"
He floated forward, closing the distance between them until he was hovering directly in front of Morris's face.
"Just call me Morris,"
As Morris spoke, without warning or explanation, Morris reached out his right hand and attempted to touch the ghost's nearly-severed head.
Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, depending on perspective, his fingers passed straight through Nearly Headless Nick's semi-transparent head as if it were made of cold mist rather than solid matter. He felt only a pleasant coolness, a sensation like passing his hand through refrigerated air.
Nearly Headless Nick was momentarily stunned by this approach. Then, unexpectedly, he burst into hearty laughter.
"Ha! Ha ha!" The ghost seemed genuinely delighted. "Oh my dear boy, how wonderfully direct!"
In his eyes, this wasn't rude behavior at all.
Nearly Headless Nick composed himself and said with pride, gesturing to his translucent body, "The living cannot touch ghosts, young sir.