After lunch and as the Great Hall began to empty, Morris handed over the box containing the unconscious Acromantula to the Weasley twins. In return, Fred produced from seemingly nowhere a surprisingly large box of Ton-Tongue Toffees.
This was a good trade for Morris.
He was genuinely very interested in this kind of magical candy the twins had invented. And unexpectedly, beyond the swelling effect, the taste was actually decent too. The butterscotch flavor was authentic and pleasant, not artificial or chemical-tasting like cheap Muggle candies.
As for the Acromantula—even if the twins accidentally killed it during their experiments, or it died from stress, or they simply disposed of it when they finished studying it, that was perfectly fine with him.
At worst, he'd go catch another one in the Forbidden Forest during his spare time.
Given how he'd randomly found one just casually sitting by the roadside without even searching, the creatures clearly weren't in short supply in those woods.
As for the headmaster's warning during the opening ceremony about not entering the Forbidden Forest under pain of "most painful death"... Morris hadn't taken it particularly to heart at all.
As long as he wasn't caught in the act, he was still technically a law-abiding good student. What the professors didn't know couldn't hurt him or get him expelled.
There was a Herbology class scheduled for that afternoon.
The Herbology professor was a witch named Pomona Sprout. She was short and comfortably plump, with a round, friendly face and fluffy brown hair that stuck out at odd angles beneath her patched pointed hat.
She was very approachable in manner, with a warm smile and patient demeanor, and also served as the Head of Hufflepuff House.
The greenhouse where they held class was warm and humid, filled with the rich scent of soil.
The first lesson's content focused on recognizing and properly handling a plant called Dittany specifically, a species called Wiggentree Dittany, Professor Sprout explained, which was the most potent healing variety.
The students were required to learn the plant's distinctive characteristics: its fuzzy green leaves, its small white flowers, its tendency to grow in rocky soil.
They also needed to master how to use Dittany for simple wound treatment—though of course, this was just simulation and demonstration. Students wouldn't actually be injured for practice purposes.
The method for properly using Dittany was quite simple: just crush the leaves and flowers together between your fingers until they released their healing essence, then apply the resulting paste directly to the wound. The plant did the rest.
"It's remarkably effective for fresh wounds," Professor Sprout explained enthusiastically, holding up a twig of the plant. "Burns, cuts, bites—Dittany can handle most common injuries. Though for serious wounds or curse damage, you'll need a Healer's attention."
Morris, being Morris and unable to resist practical experimentation, deliberately cut his arm with a thorny vine when Professor Sprout's attention was momentarily elsewhere. He selected a particularly sharp thorn and drew it across his forearm, creating a clean slice. Blood immediately welled up, bright red against his pale skin.
Before anyone noticed, he quickly crushed some Dittany leaves between his fingers as instructed and applied the green paste to the wound, covering it completely.
The effect was almost instantaneous and quite remarkable to observe.
In just a few minutes, his small wound had completely healed without leaving a single trace, not even a faint scar or discoloration. The skin looked as though it had never been damaged at all. Even the blood that had been there simply vanished, absorbed or evaporated by the magical properties.
This instant efficacy was more impressive and reliable than any medicine he'd ever encountered in any world, magical or mundane. Even modern Muggle medicine with all its advances couldn't achieve this kind of rapid, complete healing.
It seemed that keeping some Dittany on hand at all times was absolutely necessary, Morris determined.
After all, when practicing magic, injuries were bound to happen eventually. Better to be prepared than caught without treatment.
After dinner concluded and the Great Hall had mostly emptied, Morris returned directly to his dormitory.
He opened the candy box the Weasley twins had given him. He selected one Ton-Tongue Toffee, carefully unwrapped it, and tossed the golden-brown candy into his mouth.
The butterscotch flavor bloomed immediately, it was rich and sweet. Then came the swelling.
Feeling the strangely addictive sensation in his tongue as it began expanding, pressing against his teeth and the roof of his mouth, Morris stretched his arms over his head and worked the tension from his shoulders.
"An extraordinary day," he murmured around his swollen tongue.
That was his summary of today.
Come to think of it, on just his first full day at Hogwarts, he'd inexplicably been attacked by hostile centaurs in the Forbidden Forest, had captured a potentially dangerous Acromantula, had been caught twice by Professor McGonagall riding Thestrals, had impressed his Transfiguration professor, and had made a profitable trade with third-year students.
Perhaps the magical world was even more dangerous and unpredictable than he'd initially imagined when he'd first received his Hogwarts letter.
If that assessment was accurate, and this was just the beginning, then improving his own magical abilities became not just desirable but extremely necessary for survival. He needed to focus especially on the two critical areas of self-protection and escape, defensive magic and methods for getting out of dangerous situations quickly.
His tongue had returned to normal size by now, the toffee's effect were fading.
Morris made himself comfortable on his bed.
"Mage's Book," he called mentally.
As his mind stirred with intent, the book slowly appeared in his consciousness, its pages were glowing faintly.
He was going to practice a new spell now, one that had unlocked recently and caught his interest.
"Shadow Concealment."
As the name quite suggested, this was a spell that allowed the caster to hide themselves within shadows.
However, Morris quickly discovered as he studied the spell's structure, this magic was far more difficult and complex than the two curses he'd already mastered. The spell model was intricate, layered, requiring intense concentration to construct properly.
If the difficulty of the previous two curses, Weakening Curse and Wailing Curse could be compared to writing a paragraph with proper grammar and structure, then this Shadow Concealment spell was like creating a detailed painting with proper perspective, shading, and composition.
Though the two tasks weren't even in the same dimension of complexity, the latter was clearly, exponentially more difficult. The mental strain was considerably greater.
"Let's give it a try," Morris said aloud to his empty room, steeling himself.
He stood from the bed and drew his wand. With a casual flick, he turned off all the magical lights in the room.
The darker the environment, according to the Mage's Book's instructions, the higher the success rate when using this particular spell.
Half an hour passed in concentrated effort and repeated failure.
Morris sat on the floor in meditation pose, eyes closed, visualizing the complex spell model in his mind. He attempted to construct it over and over, each time getting slightly further before the structure collapsed.
After failing more than a dozen times, Morris finally succeeded in constructing the complete spell model in his mind.
The sense of accomplishment was significant. His forehead was damp with sweat from the mental exertion.
Interestingly, there was a specific note at the end of this spell's instructions: it's strongly recommended not to chant the incantation aloud when using this spell in actual situations.
The reason was obvious with just a little thought, Morris realized.
If a spell specifically meant to conceal one's form and location required loudly chanting an incantation before use, announcing your presence and intentions, then its stealth capability was disastrously compromised from the very start. The entire purpose was defeated.
Especially in critical moments, when hiding might mean the difference between life and death, any unnecessary sound would bring enormous risk and potentially fatal consequences.
Of course, he was still in the initial practice and learning stage now, so the incantation's assistance was absolutely necessary for constructing the spell model properly.
It was like needing to learn to crawl before learning to walk, vital stages couldn't be skipped without consequence.
Incidentally, Morris could already use both the Weakening Curse and Wailing Curse without chanting their incantations aloud, though the power and duration were much reduced. But the advantage of silence often outweighed the slight power reduction.
Now, for the actual test.
Morris stood in the darkest corner of his room, where shadows pooled thickest. He took a deep breath.
"Shadow Concealment!" he whispered, activating the spell model he'd constructed.
As the incantation fell from his lips, Morris immediately felt a mysterious force surrounding him, pressing inward from all directions.
He knew instinctively that he must have cast successfully.
Immediately after that initial sensation, the compressing force grew greater and greater. The pressure increased exponentially.
Suddenly, his vision went completely dark, darker than just closed eyes. And he felt as though he'd been forcibly stuffed into an extremely cramped and narrow box, compressed into a space far too small for his body. Hard, cold sensations came from all directions.
He had successfully entered the shadow realm!
From an external perspective, if anyone had been watching, it would have appeared as if Morris had been covered by a layer of thick black cloth. His body distorted, compressed, flattened. And then he simply vanished from his original spot, absorbed into the darkness itself.
'So, this is the Shadow Concealment ability?' Morris thought with considerable disappointment, almost speechless at the uncomfortable reality.
Entering shadows—at first hearing it sounded like an extremely powerful and impressive ability, something from legends. The tales of master assassins and legendary rogues.
But after experiencing it firsthand, he discovered it was simply torture, or at least intensely unpleasant. Nothing like the fantasy at all.
Think about it: if you were stuffed into a suitcase roughly your own size, forced to curl into an unbearable position with no room to move, what would that feel like?
Awful, obviously.
This was far from his imagined "becoming one with the environment, moving freely like flowing water" style of stealthy infiltration. He'd pictured gliding through shadows, slipping from darkness to darkness with ease and grace.
He tried to move forward, toward where he remembered the door being.
It was like wading through extremely viscous water, or perhaps cold honey—every action required tremendous effort, and fighting against resistance from all directions.
About one hundred and fifty seconds later, two and a half minutes that felt like twenty, Morris had had enough.
"Phew—" he exhaled sharply and released the spell with relief, cutting off the magic flow.
When his body reappeared in the room, appearing from shadow back into body, his position had shifted. He'd started beside the bed but now stood near the door, having managed to move perhaps fifteen feet while concealed.
Not bad for a first attempt, objectively speaking. But the experience had been miserable.
By this time, a layer of sweat had formed on his forehead, plastering his hair to his skin.
Entering shadows—this experience was truly miserable, genuinely unpleasant.
He really didn't understand why Sparkles would find shadow-dwelling a relaxing and pleasant thing. Perhaps being undead made the difference with no discomfort from cold, no need for space or air, no claustrophobia.
Still, despite the unpleasantness, the spell worked. That was what mattered. In an emergency, he could use this to hide or escape, even if the experience was awful.
After finishing his Shadow Concealment practice and recovering from the physical discomfort, Morris lay down properly on his bed and reached for one of the miscellaneous books he'd brought with his luggage from Diagon Alley. Reading before sleep was a comfortable habit.
Today he'd selected a wizard history book called The Hundred Most Famous Wizards of All Time.
He'd always been exposed primarily to Muggle culture, history, and society, growing up in that orphanage and attending muggle schools. So, learning about wizarding society, its history and notable figures, through books like this was quite necessary for understanding his new world properly.
Morris opened to the table of contents, scanning the names listed there.
"Albus Dumbledore."
He spotted a familiar name in the book's table of contents, listed among modern wizards.
Wasn't that their headmaster?
Morris became interested and flipped to the corresponding page, curious what the book would say about someone he'd actually met.
The book's description was extremely detailed, spanning several full pages with a surprising amount of information.
"The greatest wizard of the modern age," the text proclaimed in bold print.
Additional titles followed: "recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class," "Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards," "Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot," "Grand Sorcerer," and so on—these were all Dumbledore's official titles and positions, apparently. An impressive collection.
It also mentioned his early research achievements in various fields. And most prominently, his famous deed of defeating the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald in 1945, ending a reign of terror across Europe.
A photograph accompanied the text, magically animated in the way wizard photos were. It showed a middle-aged man with kind, twinkling eyes and long reddish-brown hair and beard, considerably more vibrant than his current silver. He smiled gently in the picture, occasionally adjusting his half-moon spectacles.
That must be what Dumbledore looked like when he was young, perhaps in his fifties or sixties.
The entire book overflowed with lavish praise and reverence for Dumbledore. The language practically shaped him into a flawless modern-day saint, a paragon of virtue and wisdom with no flaws or failures.
A great person, Morris thought, closing the book.
However, although he had no recollection of this character from his previous life, he still felt instinctively that the book's description was excessive, too one-sided.
This gave rise to a sense of strangeness in his heart.
No one is perfect—he understood this principle well enough from two lifetimes of experience. Everyone had flaws, made mistakes, had regrets.
"Knock knock—"
Just then, someone knocked on the dormitory door.