The professors at the large table near the back were instantly recognizable:
Professor McGonagall with her stern posture and shawl, Professor Flitwick on his raised chair, Professor Sprout with her patched hat still somehow on her head despite being indoors, and a fourth witch Morris didn't immediately recognize but whose face seemed vaguely familiar from having seen her around the castle—probably a professor for one of the elective courses he hadn't yet taken.
Morris hadn't intended to interrupt the professors' casual gathering or draw attention to himself. His plan had been to simply find Madam Rosmerta, inquire discreetly about lodging, and slip upstairs unnoticed if a room was available.
However, Professor Flitwick had remarkably sharp eyes for someone so short, and he spotted Morris in the crowd immediately.
"Mr. Black!" Professor Flitwick called out in his high-pitched voice, waving one hand enthusiastically. "Over here! What a pleasant surprise!"
The volume was loud enough that customers at several nearby tables turned to look with curiosity.
Morris suppressed a sigh of resignation. There was no avoiding it now.
He had no choice but to alter his course, abandon his plans, and walk over to the professors' table to greet them properly.
"Good evening, Professors," Morris said politely. "I hope I'm not interrupting your evening."
He could feel Professor McGonagall's stern gaze examining him.
"Mr. Black," Professor McGonagall asked seriously, "what are you doing here in Hogsmeade? The village is off-limits to students during the holiday, and you're certainly not old enough for regular visits even during term time. Where is your guardian? Does they know you're here?"
She knew that Morris was living in a Muggle orphanage, and his presence in Hogsmeade at this particular time, unaccompanied by any adult was clearly abnormal and concerning.
Morris had anticipated this question and had prepared a straightforward, honest explanation.
"Of course, Professor," he replied calmly. "I've been staying in Diagon Alley for the past several days—I took the Knight Bus there after Christmas to do some shopping and study. My guardian knows I was going and approved the trip.
This morning I decided to visit Hogsmeade to see the village for the first time, so I used Floo powder to travel here from the Leaky Cauldron. I was just exploring when I happened to come into the Three Broomsticks."
It wasn't any kind of secret that couldn't be told or needed to be concealed.
Harold, as his guardian was also aware that Morris had been living temporarily in Diagon Alley's wizarding district. Morris had informed him before leaving the orphanage.
Incidentally, the caretakers at the orphanage itself didn't care at all that one child had gone missing for several days. At that place, children not returning at night or disappearing for long periods was basically the norm rather than the exception. The staff barely kept track of who was present, let alone where missing children might have gone.
Professor McGonagall listened to this explanation with a thoughtful expression, then sighed deeply.
"You really are remarkably restless for someone so young, Mr. Black,"
"Thank you for the compliment, Professor," Morris replied with a straight face.
"I wasn't complimenting you," Professor McGonagall said quickly. She frowned, worry was showing more in her sharp eyes now.
She felt based on Morris's current style of action, he was quite likely to develop into a problem student in his years at Hogwarts.
Just like that troublesome pair of red-headed Weasley twins.
Though, Professor McGonagall thought with some relief, thank goodness those particular twins hadn't caused too much serious trouble during this Christmas holiday. They'd been surprisingly restrained by their usual standards.
The most outrageous thing they'd done that McGonagall knew about, at least was magically controlling dozens of enchanted snowballs to chase Professor Quirrell all around the castle grounds for nearly an hour, pelting him mercilessly whenever he slowed down or tried to hide.
Poor Quirrell had ended up soaked, freezing, and stuttering even more than usual.
At that moment, the unfamiliar witch beside Professor Flitwick looked up from her drink with interest and spoke to him.
"Are you Morris Black?"
"Yes, Professor," Morris nodded politely. "I am. May I ask who you are, please?"
"Bathsheda Babbling," the witch replied with a warm smile. Her voice was gentle and cultured. "I don't expect you to know me yet—we haven't formally met. But I think you should have seen me around the castle. I teach Ancient Runes, which is an elective course that doesn't begin until third year."
Now that she'd identified herself, Morris did place her.
"Ah, yes! I've seen you several times during lunch periods in the Great Hall. You often sit with the other professors near the middle of the high table. I've actually been planning to take your course when I reach third year, Professor Babbling. I'm very interested in Ancient Runes and their applications."
This was true.
Ancient Runes were an ancient system of writing and symbols imbued with inherent magical power, often used in the construction of advanced spells, the creation of magical items and artifacts, and the analysis of ancient magical texts.
However, Morris had to admit he hadn't delved deeply into studying Ancient Runes yet on his own initiative. After all, he already had an overwhelming amount of material to learn and master at the moment.
He understood very well the principle of biting off more than one could chew.
Professor Babbling's smile widened until her eyes crinkled with pleasure at his expressed interest.
"You'll enjoy the course tremendously, I think," she said with obvious enthusiasm for her subject. "I very much look forward to seeing your performance in class when the time comes."
She paused, taking a sip of her drink, then continued with curiosity.
"Oh, by the way, Professor Flitwick told me that you're extraordinarily proficient with Charms for a first-year student—apparently you can even take on a troll by yourself. Is that true?"
Morris turned to look at Professor Flitwick, who was sitting comfortably on his raised chair.
His face immediately reddened and he coughed twice into his hand before speaking. "Morris is indeed quite excellent at Charms,"
Who wouldn't be pleased and perhaps slightly prone to bragging when seeing their own house's students shine?
Although, Flitwick had to privately admit, there might have been some mild exaggeration in his description. After all, this was his own student, his own house, so engaging in a bit of favorable embellishment was perfectly normal and acceptable. All the professors did it when discussing their star pupils.
Besides, the core facts weren't actually wrong. When other first-year students were still struggling to figure out how to make feathers float a few inches off their desks, Morris had already progressed to effortlessly levitating heavy wooden desks and controlling their movement through the air!
Of course, there had been that one unfortunate incident where Morris's concentration had slipped and he'd accidentally dropped a levitated desk directly on his own toe...
Flitwick winced internally at the memory. Oh, thinking back on that particular moment still caused a bit of pain.
The casual small talk reached a natural pause, and Professor McGonagall's expression shifted back to her seriousness.
"So, Mr. Black, where are you planning to go next? Where will you spend the night? Hogsmeade village doesn't have any dedicated lodging for visitors."
"Oh, that's perfectly all right, Professor," Morris replied, waving one hand dismissively to indicate this wasn't a problem. "At worst, I can simply use the Floo Network to return to Diagon Alley. There's a—"
"BANG!"
A tremendous explosion suddenly interrupted Morris mid-sentence.
Everyone's gaze turned in unison toward the source of the alarming noise.
They saw the large stone fireplace in the corner now wafting thick clouds of pungent black smoke that rapidly filled that section of the room.
A nearby couple who'd been sitting close to the fireplace, enjoying what had been a romantic evening drink together, were caught directly in the blast radius.
Both of them now wore completely blackened faces covered in soot and ash, looking utterly disheveled and shocked.
The woman was sputtering and coughing, trying to wipe the black residue from her eyes. The man just sat frozen in stunned silence, apparently unable to process what had just happened to them.
Morris felt rather fortunate and relieved that he hadn't been sitting in that particular spot when he'd first arrived. That could have been him covered in explosion debris.
Next, emerging from the smoking fireplace like a creature from a nightmare, a completely bald man came stumbling and coughing violently out of the green flames.
His clothes were absolutely tattered, burned and torn nearly to the point of exposing critical anatomical areas and he was covered head to toe in black soot and ash, looking exactly like a mole that had crawled up through a chimney after getting caught in a fire.
"No! No, no, no!" Madam Rosmerta screamed in distress as she came running forward from behind the bar. "My beautiful fireplace! What have you done to my fireplace?!"
The Three Broomsticks' proprietress was clearly far more concerned about the damage to her store than about the bald idiot who'd caused it.
The scene immediately fell into chaos.
Customers jumped up from their tables, backing away from the smoking fireplace. Some were shouting questions, others were laughing, a few were coughing from the smoke.
Madam Rosmerta was simultaneously trying to examine the damage to her fireplace and yelling at the bald man who'd caused the explosion.
The professors at Morris's table were on their feet immediately, ready to intervene if the situation became more dangerous.
"There are always fools trying to make their own homemade Floo powder," Professor Babbling sighed heavily, shaking her head with an expression of helplessness and disappointment in humanity.
"Every year, without fail, someone tries it and causes an explosion or worse. When a large bag of perfectly good, professionally manufactured Floo powder only costs a few Sickles, less than a single butterbeer!—I cannot fathom why anyone would risk experimenting with such volatile magical compounds."
Morris didn't respond to this observation.
In fact, when he had first encountered Floo powder and learned what it was, he had also been intensely curious about the composition and underlying magical principles of that silvery powder.
After all, although commercial Floo powder was relatively cheap on a per-use basis, the daily consumption across the entire wizarding world was absolutely enormous. Every wizarding household, every shop, every public building, every business used it constantly.
If someone could successfully replicate the manufacturing process and undercut the monopoly held by Floo-Pow, the sole licensed manufacturer, it would definitely represent a huge fortune.
But what Morris cared more about at this particular moment was: could the now-smoking fireplace still be safely used for Floo travel? Because if not, he was somewhat stranded in Hogsmeade without easy transportation back to Diagon Alley.
The chaos gradually began to subside over the next several minutes as people regained their composure and the smoke started to dissipate.
After a short time, several official-looking wizards in neat robes rushed into the Three Broomsticks from outside and immediately seized the bald culprit responsible for the explosion.
The man kept shouting protests and excuses as he was physically dragged toward the door by the stern-faced wizards.
"I was almost successful! Just a little bit more experimentation and I would have perfected the formula!" he yelled, struggling against their grip. "You don't understand, I was so close to a breakthrough! Ah, don't pull me so roughly—at least let me change my trousers first! These are burned through in embarrassing places!"
Well, an absolute idiot.
Because of this disruptive commotion and the inconvenience caused to all her customers by the smoke and noise, Madam Rosmerta demonstrating both good business sense and hospitality gave every single patron present a complimentary glass of butterbeer as compensation and apology.
She also placed a "Under Repair" sign next to the damaged fireplace, which was still smoking slightly.
Morris turned back to Professor McGonagall. "Professor, may I return to Hogwarts early?"
Professor McGonagall considered this request for only a moment before nodding her agreement.
That evening, after the professors had finished their drinks and settled their bill, Morris returned to Hogwarts castle.
He had successfully obtained all the ingredients he needed for brewing the Draught of Living Death, earned some extra Galleons from his skeleton dog business venture with Frick, explored both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade thoroughly, and even enjoyed a proper Christmas celebration with Harold's family.
The trip had been productive by any reasonable measure.
So naturally there was no need to linger outside the castle.
Lying on the warm, familiar bed in his Ravenclaw dormitory later that night, listening to the howling winter wind outside the tower windows and watching snow swirl past the glass, Morris mentally calculated and organized his next priorities and arrangements.
First and most urgent was brewing the Draught of Living Death.
This was necessary and couldn't be delayed further—the advancement rituals for both Tin-Tin and Sparkles should be conducted as soon as possible.
Second, his Charms practice couldn't be neglected under any circumstances, and his potion studies needed to continue progressing as well.
Third and this thought brought a frown to Morris's face, there was still the frustrating investigation into Grindelwald. Until now, he still didn't know any useful information about Nurmengard prison or how to access records about it.
Information about that mysterious prison was pitifully scarce in Hogwarts' library. The few references he'd found were vague and unhelpful, clearly censored or deliberately obscure.
And if he directly asked Dumbledore about Nurmengard and Grindelwald which would be the most straightforward approach, he almost certainly wouldn't tell him anything useful anyway.
"Meow—"
An annoyed cat's cry suddenly interrupted Morris's contemplative thoughts, breaking through his mental planning.
He turned his head with some surprise and found Tin-Tin crouched on the floor not far from his bed.
"Oh, it's you," Morris said, blinking with confusion.
He looked at his cat with sudden realization. He should have left Tin-Tin at the orphanage.
Why was the cat here at Hogwarts instead of in London?
Never mind. The how didn't matter. As long as Tin-Tin was perfectly fine and unharmed, which the cat obviously was, there was no point in investigating the specific of its arrival.
Morris didn't waste mental energy trying to puzzle out the mystery. He had more important things to focus on.
He got up from his bed, moved to the clear space in the dormitory, and began setting up his cauldron and arranging his newly acquired potion ingredients. Time to begin the work of brewing the Draught of Living Death.
Tin-Tin watched this for a moment, sighed softly, then leaped gracefully onto Morris's bed and settled into a comfortable curled position.
At the orphanage, its careless, absent-minded master had accidentally packed the sleeping cat together with a pile of miscellaneous items and books, sealed the whole thing up without checking the contents, and sent the entire package back to Hogwarts.
Fortunately, Sparkles had discovered the accidentally shipped cat in time by hearing muffled meowing from inside the package. Sparkles had opened the bag upon arrival at Hogwarts, allowing Tin-Tin to finally see daylight again and escape its prison.
The cat had been trapped for hours.
Morris, completely oblivious to his pet's traumatic journey and near-suffocation, was already absorbed in measuring out precise amounts of powdered asphodel root and adding them to his cauldron with concentration.
Tin-Tin sighed again and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow, the cat decided, Morris was definitely getting his shoes vomited in as punishment.