Professor Quirrell must have noticed by now that his precious notebook had gone missing—that much was becoming increasingly obvious with each passing day.
In their next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, Quirrell displayed behavior that was distinctly unusual even by his already strange standards.
He was visibly restless throughout the entire class period with constant fidgeting and distraction. His gaze kept sweeping ceaselessly across the classroom, scrutinizing each student's face.
This searching, almost paranoid attention to his students was quite out of character for him.
Ordinarily, Quirrell kept his eyes fixed down on the textbook lying open before him, stuttering mechanically through its printed contents without ever looking up, paying almost no attention to the actual students sitting below him in their rows of desks. He taught to the book rather than to people, which made his classes tedious but at least predictable.
Morris, as was his habit, spent the lesson quietly reading an advanced Potions volume.
He wasn't worried in the least about being discovered or connected to the theft.
The corridor yesterday where the incident had occurred had been quite busy with students transitioning between classes, dozens of witnesses moving in both directions creating natural chaos and confusion.
As long as Morris didn't foolishly hand himself over through some obvious state or nervous behavior, Quirrell had no reason to suspect him specifically over any of the other students who'd been present.
A strange, oppressive atmosphere hung heavily over the entire class like storm clouds promising rain.
The usual tedious rhythm of Quirrell's lectures had been completely disrupted. He made no genuine effort to teach properly or cover the assigned material, stopping mid-sentence every few minutes as if his thoughts had physically fled from him, leaving his mouth working mutely before he'd shake himself and try to resume with a different incomplete sentence.
The students turned uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging confused glances, unsure how to react to their professor's weird expressions.
Then, about midway through what was supposed to be a lesson on identifying Red Caps, Morris noticed a shadow falling across his desk, blocking the light from the classroom's high windows. He looked up slowly, and found himself meeting Professor Quirrell's bloodshot eyes.
Then, just as abruptly as he'd appeared, Quirrell said nothing and did nothing. He simply turned and walked back to the front of the classroom, resuming his halting, distracted lecture.
Kyle who occupied the neighboring seat, leaned over immediately once Quirrell's back was turned. He whispered urgently, "What on earth is wrong with Professor Quirrell today? He's completely off. Did you notice he stopped at literally everyone's desk just now? He's been doing that for the past ten minutes, just standing there staring at people."
Morris lowered his eyes back to his Potions book with indifference, turning a page as if fully absorbed in the text about Sleeping Draughts.
"Don't mind it too much," he said casually. "Adults always have a few rough days each month."
He had privately noticed that Quirrell's overall complexion and physical condition were terrible today, worse than usual. He looked pale and drawn, gaunt almost, like a man who had been suffering from a serious illness for a very long time without recovering or receiving adequate treatment.
Quietly, Morris slipped his hand into his robe pocket and felt for the Death Compass he'd been carrying.
Without Morris quite knowing when exactly it had started happening, the compass needle had begun pointing at Professor Quirrell again.
At midday, during the chaos of students flooding the corridors between morning classes and lunch, Morris happened to encounter Professor Quirrell in one of the main first-floor passages.
He'd been heading toward the Great Hall with a group of other Ravenclaws when Quirrell emerged from a side corridor directly in front of them.
His eyes immediately focused on Morris with recognition, and he called out with an unexpectedly trembling voice, "Mr. Black—if I might have a word? Just briefly?"
Morris stopped while his housemates continued past, shooting him curious glances. "Yes, Professor?"
Quirrell moved closer, close enough that Morris could smell the overpowering garlic stench radiating from him. His hands were wringing together nervously. "These past few days... have you, by any chance, perhaps seen or come across a notebook?"
"No, Professor Quirrell," Morris answered smoothly, his expression giving away absolutely nothing beyond mild confusion at the question. "I haven't seen any notebook."
"Ah. Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Black."
And that was the end of it. Quirrell turned and walked away with hunched shoulders without another word or any further questioning.
It had only been a routine inquiry after all, nothing more.
Then a cold voice came from behind him. "Black—what exactly did Quirrell say to you just now?"
Morris turned quickly and discovered that Professor Snape was standing not far away near the entrance to a side corridor, having apparently witnessed the entire exchange between Morris and Quirrell.
Snape's black eyes were fixed on Morris with that penetrating intensity that looked like he was analyzing every micro-expression and drawing conclusions from the tiniest behavioral cues.
Morris immediately put on a pleasant, eager smile and walked over. "Good afternoon, Professor Snape—what a remarkable coincidence running into you here. I was actually hoping to find you sometime today. I've had several questions about Potions theory I wanted to discuss, particularly regarding ingredient interactions in—"
Snape cut him off, his voice was flat and tolerating no deflection. "Answer my question first, Black. What did Quirrell want?"
"Oh," Morris said.
He repeated Quirrell's words back to Snape verbatim, even going so far as to mimic his distinctive trembling tone and nervous mannerisms with uncanny accuracy.
Snape listened to this performance without showing any reaction to the impression itself. When Morris finished, Snape simply gave a brief, curt nod.
Morris immediately produced a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open to a page covered in cramped handwriting.
"Since I have your attention, Professor—about the Draught of Living Death that we've been discussing periodically, I've had several new ideas recently that I wanted to run past you for feedback—"
'The Draught of Living Death. Again.'
Snape's already severe expression darkened further.
What in Merlin's name was it about that particular potion that had this student so utterly, obsessively fascinated?
For weeks now, no, months at this point—Morris had been persistently discussing and debating its formula with him, bringing new variations and theoretical modifications to nearly every conversation, week after week without fail.
What on earth was the source of this fixation? What could be so interesting?
"Professor? Professor—are you listening to what I'm explaining?"
Snape drew a slow breath through his nose and felt a dull, persistent throb beginning to build behind his temples.
He looked down with resignation at the notebook in Morris's hand, its pages absolutely crammed with complex formulas, ingredient ratios, hastily scribbled annotations in the margins, and what appeared to be original experimental data from unauthorized brewing attempts.
It was clearly the product of genuine, serious, extensive study rather than casual curiosity or a desire to curry favor.
It appeared he would be dragged into this for some time yet.
More than a fortnight passed in the blink of an eye.
The weather grew gradually warmer.
During that stretch of routine school life, Morris had made a decision to completely abandon any further active study or experimentation with the Dark Arts that he'd begun exploring.
The notebook remained tucked away in the deepest corner of his trunk, buried under layers of clothing and innocent textbooks.
Apart from that deliberate restraint regarding dark magic, Morris had achieved something genuinely exciting through relentless experimentation and theoretical work: he had finally made a real breakthrough with the Draught of Living Death formula that he'd been obsessing over for months.
By treating the expensive Sopophorous Beans in advance using a specific preparatory technique, he could successfully halve the quantity of beans needed for a full batch while leaving the potion's ultimate potency entirely unchanged.
For reasons Morris couldn't quite fathom or understand, however, when he'd excitedly shared this discovery with Professor Snape several days ago, Snape had responded by literally throwing him out of his office in fury.
Morris still wasn't entirely sure what he'd done wrong. Ah well. Professor Snape must have been dealing with some kind of personal stress or bad mood lately.
Surely Morris's breakthrough discovery about potion ingredient preparation had nothing to do with triggering that fury. It was just unfortunate timing, catching Snape when he was already irritated about something else.
On a considerably brighter and more profitable note, Morris had also received an owl-delivered order from Ezra Frick a few days earlier. He had written to inform Morris that several new customers had put in specific requests for Undead Skeleton Dogs.
His private savings had received another healthy top-up from this work, and his confidence about his financial security had swelled accordingly.
He could now comfortably afford to order some of the more expensive and exotic potion ingredients from the specialty shops in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley without worrying about depleting his funds, which opened up an entirely new range of advanced Potions recipes to explore and master.
On a pleasant Saturday morning, Morris encountered the now-familiar trio of Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger occupying a large table near the Charms section.
The three of them were surrounded by an impressive fortress of textbooks, parchment scrolls, and handwritten notes.
"We're revising for end-of-year exams," Hermione announced as soon as she spotted Morris approaching, speaking as if this were the most natural and obvious thing any reasonable student would be doing in early May.
"The examinations are coming up faster than you think. I'd strongly advise you to start your own revision soon, Morris. You'll run completely out of time if you don't begin preparing now."
To emphasize her point, she gestured at the towering stack of textbooks arranged in front of her on the table.
Ron muttered under his breath from where he was slouched in his chair, "There are still two whole months left until exams actually happen..."
"Only two months," Hermione corrected him with sharp emphasis.
"Thanks very much for the warning," Morris said politely. "But I don't need to revise."
Hermione pressed her lips together. "You're really that confident you'll do well on your exams without any dedicated preparation time?"
"I never said that, actually," Morris replied with complete honesty.
He had, after all, very little genuine confidence where History of Magic was concerned. That subject was pure memorization of dates, goblin rebellions, and giant wars.
"It's always better to prepare early rather than cramming at the last minute," Hermione said, her attention shifting to Ron. "I just saw your brothers Fred and George in the library earlier too. You should really take a leaf out of their book and follow their example for once."
"Fred and George?" Ron rolled his eyes dramatically, his skepticism was evident. "You saw them in the library with books? I'd bet anything they're not here to actually revise for their O.W.L.s. They're probably planning some prank or working on one of their ridiculous inventions."
Morris's curiosity was immediately piqued by this information. The Weasley twins were among the more interesting students at Hogwarts.
He excused himself from Hermione's revision intervention and went searching through the library's various sections until he located the twins in a secluded corner of the library, far from Madam Pince's watchful desk.
Several thick books were spread out on the table before them, and both redheads were bent over their pages, apparently deeply engrossed in serious study.
"You both look remarkably busy for people supposedly avoiding exam preparation," Morris said as he approached their table.
"Oh, it's you, Morris," George said without looking up from whatever he was reading. "We're in the middle of designing a new sweet."
"One that makes you convincingly appear ill," Fred added, also without looking up, writing something down in a notebook filled with sketches and formulas.
"So, you can successfully skive off class without getting caught faking. George, write down that bit about the symptom duration being adjustable—that's useful for customer specifications." He slid his reference book across the table.
George immediately took the offered book and began copying relevant passages, their coordination and division of labor was absolutely seamless.
Morris leaned in somewhat closer to examine what they were working on, genuinely interested now.
"Making yourself look convincingly ill? Why go to all that trouble with sweets and charms? It seems unnecessarily complex. Just brew a potion directly—it's far more straightforward. I actually know a recipe that brings out a dramatic full-body rash with very low toxicity levels, and the symptoms clear up completely within half an hour of taking the antidote."
Both twins' heads snapped up simultaneously with perfect synchronization, their identical faces lighting up with excitement as though Morris had just revealed the location of hidden treasure or announced he'd discovered a new continent.
"You know a potion that does that?" Fred asked eagerly.
"With an antidote that works in thirty minutes?" George added with equal enthusiasm.
Morris shared the complete recipe with them from memory, including the proper brewing procedure and the specific timing for adding ingredients.
Fred rubbed his hands together with obvious delight, his mind was already racing through possibilities.
"Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. We can try working the potion's effects into a sweet form using some additional charms to trigger activation. George, what do you think of a double-layered filling approach?"
"Brilliant indeed!" George agreed enthusiastically, already sketching potential sweet designs in their notebook. "If we can get the timing right with delayed-release charms..."
Morris tilted his head, genuinely puzzled by their approach and unable to understand the logic.
"But why go to all that trouble and complexity with converting it into a sweet form? The potion works perfectly well as-is. Just drink the potion directly—one properly brewed batch lasts for several doses, and the dosage is far easier to control and adjust."
The twins both turned to look at Morris with identical expressions of amused pity, as if he'd just said something charmingly naive that revealed his basic misunderstanding of the world.
"That's not fun, Morris," the twins said in unison.