In Potions class that afternoon, Professor Snape's general condition and demeanor was the same as usual—cold, critical, prowling between cauldrons like a large predatory bat. Except, Morris noticed with some interest, he was limping when he walked, as if he'd broken a bone or sustained a injury to his leg.
The limp was obvious enough that several students whispered about it.
However, after pausing mid-lecture to drink a vial of some potion he produced from his robes, Snape immediately returned to his normal, fluid gait and continued teaching as if nothing had happened.
Morris breathed a quiet sigh of relief at this normalcy. It seemed Snape hadn't noticed anything amiss with the potion ingredients storeroom or detected their theft.
He turned his attention back to the Swelling Solution bubbling gently in front of him, carefully grinding the dried nettles to exactly the right consistency between his fingers before adding them.
This particular class session was Gryffindor and Ravenclaw together, as was the usual arrangement for first-years.
Ron sat diagonally behind Morris at the adjacent table, and the talkative redhead hadn't stopped chattering excitedly since class had begun nearly forty minutes ago.
"Listen," Ron leaned over eagerly once again, his voice was loud despite his attempt to whisper, saying with excitement, "Last night we really took down an actual mountain troll! I mean, Harry and I did, and Hermione helped too—though she was absolutely terrified at first and screaming..."
"Mm-hmm, mm-hmm," Morris responded with perfunctory acknowledgment, gently stirring his cauldron in precise clockwise motions.
He'd already heard this increasingly embellished story several times from multiple sources. Hermione had also told him the more modest version of events in considerable detail during breakfast, they'd used the Levitation Charm to control the troll's club and knocked the creature unconscious with its own weapon.
Honestly, those creatures called trolls sounded truly pathetically weak if three first-years could defeat one.
And Professor Quirrell had fainted dead away because of encountering this supposedly dangerous creature?
Morris found that extremely hard to believe.
This was the standard, the caliber, for Hogwarts's Defense Against the Dark Arts professor? A man who fainted at trolls?
Perhaps because Ron had been talking far too long and too loudly, disrupting the classroom's tense atmosphere, Snape suddenly directed his cold, piercing gaze toward their area.
He spoke in that silky, dangerous voice, "Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Potter. Talking during class is strictly forbidden. Two points from Gryffindor for the disruption."
Ron's lips moved as if to protest, but he wisely said nothing, pressing them together.
Harry, sitting beside Ron, wore a resigned expression that clearly said "I'm completely used to this unfair treatment"—though he quite obviously hadn't said a single word during Ron's entire monologue.
Snape lingered by their shared table for a moment, his eyes were sweeping over the nearly perfect, smoothly bubbling Swelling Solution in front of Morris with a critical but satisfied gaze.
Then his attention shifted to the bubbling, murky purple mixture in Harry and Ron's cauldron, something that looked more like toxic waste than medicine. The corner of his mouth twitched subtly with distaste.
They were all first-year students in the same class, receiving the same instruction, why was there such a vast difference in results?
"Five points to Ravenclaw for Mr. Black's excellent work," Snape announced expressionlessly, though his penetrating gaze lingered on Morris for two extra seconds before he swept away to terrorize other students.
Morris allowed himself a slight smile of satisfaction at the praise.
He'd noticed that ever since Snape had given him that comprehensive reading list several weeks ago, he'd been receiving increasingly special attention in class—attention that was second in intensity only to the negative focus constantly directed at Harry Potter, of course.
It was distinctly strange and unexpected attention from such a severe man.
But Morris genuinely didn't dislike being given this special treatment and recognition. Quite the opposite.
What was that saying again from his previous life?
Ah, yes—those who are favored have nothing to fear. Confidence came from knowing you were valued.
Though Snape rarely showed any positive expression or emotion openly, Morris could intuitively sense through subtle cues that he was probably the most valued and appreciated student in this particular class, excluding the complicated situation with Harry Potter, whose treatment stemmed from entirely different reasons.
However, Morris had observed that if Ravenclaw and Slytherin had class together instead, Snape would still favor the latter house's students somewhat more consistently.
After all, Snape was Slytherin's Head of House first and foremost. Human nature, perfectly understandable and not worth resenting.
The bell rang precisely on time.
Morris efficiently packed up his organized things and had just stood from his stool to leave when Snape's voice suddenly came from the front of the classroom. "Mr. Black, stay behind after class. I need a word."
Several nearby Gryffindors paused in their steps, casting looks mixed with sympathy and curiosity his way.
Being specifically asked to stay behind by Snape was usually not a good sign for any student. It typically meant trouble.
"What does he want with you?" Ron asked from behind with concern, pausing in his own packing. "You didn't do anything wrong in class."
"Not sure at all," Morris shook his head with feigned casualness, though his mind was racing through possibilities.
Judging by Snape's completely normal demeanor throughout the lesson, he shouldn't have discovered the break-in at the storeroom yet. He would have been considerably more angry if he had.
After all the students had went out, some glancing back curiously, Morris was led into Snape's private office through the connecting door.
This was his second time entering this grim place.
He'd barely sat down in the uncomfortable chair facing the desk when Snape's delivered sentence made every hair on his body stand on end.
"Draught of Living Death?"
These four syllables were uttered by Snape in an almost casual, conversational tone, as if discussing the weather.
Morris felt his heart stop.
Fortunately, he had already mentally prepared a response for exactly this type of situation, rehearsed it.
Which was—
"I'm sorry, Professor. I was wrong. I won't do it again."
The triple apology flowed smoothly and quickly from Morris's mouth without hesitation.
Sincere apologetic tone, appropriately humble posture, slightly lowered head.
The entire routine was executed flawlessly.
Snape was clearly taken completely aback by this immediate surrender, his eyes widened slightly. He seemed genuinely not to have expected this particular development or response.
He asked with obvious confusion, his tone was rather strange, "What exactly are you apologizing for?"
The office fell into awkward silence for several seconds.
What was he apologizing for? Because of brewing the Draught of Living Death, obviously. Had he misunderstood the situation?
Morris cautiously raised his gaze slightly from his submissive posture to look at Snape seated behind the desk.
Snape's pale face still showed little readable expression, except his brow had furrowed deeply with what might have been confusion.
He said in a slow tone, "Brewing the Draught of Living Death is merely something that, while dangerous when attempted by an inexperienced novice without supervision, is not inherently something that requires an apology."
"Uh..." Morris paused, thoroughly confused now, then asked carefully, "How did you discover that I was brewing the Draught of Living Death, Professor?"
"The smell," Snape answered flatly, his voice carrying a distinct hint of: "this should be completely obvious to anyone with basic observational skills."
'I see,' Morris thought.
He secretly breathed a sigh of relief at this explanation.
Indeed, after successfully brewing the Draught of Living Death in his dormitory, he hadn't bothered to deal with the smell clinging to his person at all. He'd been too excited and rushed.
And Snape, with his expertise, had been able to determine what specific type of potion he'd brewed based solely on the lingering scent profile. It was impressive.
Truly worthy of a Potions Master with decades of experience.
"Then Professor, why exactly did you ask me to stay behind?" Morris asked the question he was most urgently concerned about at the moment.
Snape didn't answer immediately, only stared at Morris with those dark, unreadable eyes.
At the same time, Morris maintained eye contact and stared back at Snape without flinching.
If it were another student in this position, they might find their Potions professor's intense gaze spine-chillingly cold and intimidating, perhaps even frightening.
But Morris didn't feel particularly threatened. He just found the situation increasingly strange and confusing.
"Stay here. Don't move," Snape suddenly commanded.
He abruptly stood up with a swirl of black robes and left the office through the main door, leaving Morris sitting completely alone in the uncomfortable chair, surrounded by jars and books.
This development left Morris even more puzzled and concerned. What was happening?
Three tense minutes later that felt like thirty.
The office door was suddenly flung open with considerable force, slamming against the wall, and Snape's figure reappeared in the doorway.
Unlike his earlier neutral expression, his face was now dark enough to drip water, absolutely thunderous with fury. He was carrying a large burlap sack emanating the distinctive, complex scent of various medicinal herbs.
Morris's stomach dropped.
He'd gone to the potions storeroom!
And he'd definitely, absolutely noticed something wrong with the inventory!
Morris inwardly groaned at this disaster.
Snape threw the heavy sack onto the desk with a solid thump and sat back down behind it, his movements were sharp with anger.
"I need an explanation, Mr. Black," his voice was dangerously low and hoarse, cutting straight to the point. "Several sets of Draught of Living Death ingredients have gone mysteriously missing from the storeroom. I believe you should know something about this disappearance."
Just moments ago, he'd intended to fetch some advanced materials from the storeroom to test this promising student's potion-making skills and potential. But instead, he'd discovered that the quantities of those expensive had changed subtly but unmistakably.
The reason for the discrepancy wasn't particularly hard to deduce, given the circumstances.
Morris felt genuinely helpless at being caught so thoroughly.
If he didn't have the distinctive smell of brewing the Draught of Living Death practically announcing his guilt, he could still struggle and deny, claim ignorance.
No reasonable person would suspect a first-year student of such sophisticated theft.
But now, denying involvement would only make the situation considerably worse and insult Snape's intelligence.
He'd been careless and overconfident.
So, Morris lowered his head in a posture of complete submission and once again said with sincerity, "I'm sorry, Professor. I was wrong. I won't do it again. I was just a bit curious about the Draught of Living Death."
Snape watched Morris's shameless performance with a complex expression and felt genuinely at a loss for words.
What could he do in this situation? Fly into a rage? Immediately expel the boy?
Looking at this student before him who lowered his head in apparent admission of fault, whose posture was perfectly submissive and apologetic, yet whose body somehow exuded a subtle but unmistakable aura of:
"I know I was wrong but I would dare to do it again given the opportunity" Snape felt an absurd, unprecedented sense of powerlessness.
Moreover, this happened to be a student he rather genuinely admired for his dedication and talent.
Snape was silent for a long while, clearly thinking through his options, then finally spoke in his usual expressionless tone, "Mr. Black, now please brew a Draught of Living Death in front of me."
He pointed to the burlap bag of medicinal materials now sitting on the desk. "I've already brought you the necessary ingredients. Your performance and the final result will influence how severely I punish you."
He paused for emphasis. "You have two attempts. Use them wisely."
Morris nodded obediently, accepting the terms.
What else could he possibly do but comply?
Just follow instructions.
Honestly, as long as the punishment wasn't expulsion from Hogwarts, he could accept and endure any other consequence.
But he felt reasonably confident that for such a relatively small matter, it wouldn't escalate to something as permanently severe as expulsion.
Probably.