For Morris, teaching Neville a few relatively simple spells to deal with Malfoy's bullying was hardly any trouble at all.
The arrangement had multiple benefits with almost no downsides: he'd earn a favor, simultaneously cause trouble and embarrassment for Malfoy.
Why wouldn't he agree to such a proposal?
So without any further pondering or hesitation, Morris simply began instructing Neville right there in the courtyard, taking advantage of the relatively private location and the remaining time before their next class.
The autumn afternoon sun was warm on the stones, and the courtyard was empty except for the two of them as most students were either in classes, the library, or the Great Hall having an early dinner.
According to Neville's own rather self-deprecating account, his talent for charms was absolutely terrible, perhaps the worst in their entire year.
Even when attempting something as simple as the Levitation Charm on a single feather, he could somehow make the feather violently explode on the spot, reducing it to a shower of burnt fragments and earning exasperated sighs from Professor Flitwick.
His track record was, by his own admission, extremely poor.
However, defying all expectations and predictions, Neville learned the Lassitude Charm in just twenty minutes of practice.
Morris stood watching with arms crossed, observing Neville's wand movements as the spell finally manifested properly on their fifth attempt.
"This is what you call terrible charm talent?" Morris asked with obvious skepticism raising his eyebrows.
"I... I don't know," Neville replied, staring down stupidly at the wand in his trembling hand as if it had betrayed him by suddenly working properly. His face showed complete bewilderment.
Even he clearly hadn't expected things to go so smoothly, so easily. This was unprecedented in his Hogwarts life so far.
For some inexplicable reason, Morris gave him a particularly reliable, trustworthy feeling that he'd never experienced with others. Under Morris's calm, patient guidance, Neville had somehow managed to pronounce the incantation correctly and his hands hadn't trembled.
Naturally, the spell had been cast successfully.
"Neville," Morris said, looking at him with complete seriousness, "you might actually be a genius when it comes to charms. I'm not joking or trying to make you feel better. I genuinely mean it."
A... a genius!?
Those words struck Neville like a thunderbolt, leaving him completely and utterly stunned, his mouth was falling open in shock.
This was the first time in his entire life that anyone had ever called him that.
He opened his mouth wide, staring at Morris with an expression of such disbelief that it looked quite funny, as if Morris were speaking in some utterly foreign language that Neville couldn't possibly understand.
His brain seemed to have temporarily short-circuited, unable to process this information.
After several seconds of stunned silence, Neville finally recovered enough to respond. He hurriedly waved his hands in frantic denial, nearly dropping his wand in the process.
"I'm not a genius!" he disagreed, his voice was sounding slightly panicked, as if accepting such a label would be tempting fate. "I can't be! I still can't even cast the Levitation Charm properly most of the time!"
"Trust me, you are," Morris insisted with a slight smile, genuinely meaning it despite the exaggeration.
He could see the effect his words were having on Neville.
This silly kid.
Morris had only casually complimented him, yet Neville's responding grin was practically reaching the sky, almost splitting his face in half.
However, though Morris's words were somewhat exaggerated for motivational effect, the evaluation was actually quite accurate.
The Lassitude Charm was genuinely more difficult and complex than the Levitation Charm, requiring better focus and stronger intent. The fact that Neville had mastered it through just twenty minutes of focused practice while simultaneously struggling with supposedly simpler spells meant his magical talent was definitely not poor.
His previous consistent inability to cast spells successfully was almost certainly due to psychological factors like lack of confidence combined with excessive nervousness and performance anxiety.
After all, magic in this world depended tremendously heavily on a wizard's will, belief, and emotional state. Self-doubt could be as disabling as any curse.
A wizard who believed they couldn't perform magic often couldn't, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.
And also...
"That wand in your hand, it's not actually your own, is it?" Morris asked suddenly.
He had noticed some obvious fluctuations in the flow of magic when Neville cast the spell.
Neville's expression immediately shifted, his new confidence was dimming slightly.
"My wand belonged to my father," he said softly.
Morris frowned, genuinely confused by this information. "I remember you come from an old wizarding family, right? Is your family experiencing financial difficulties?"
It seemed incomprehensible. Even he, a student from a muggle orphanage with no family wealth was using a brand-new wand purchased specifically for him.
This was truly difficult to understand. Wands were the most important tool a wizard possessed. Being frugal on a wand was like a surgeon using dull, borrowed scalpels.
"No, no! It's not that!" Neville quickly shook his head. "It's not about money at all. My grandmother just... she insists I use my father's wand…. I really do like this wand."
"But this wand doesn't like you," Morris said bluntly. "Or more accurately, it's not compatible with you. Your previous repeated failures at casting even basic magic are largely due to this incompatible wand. If you're willing to take my advice, go to Diagon Alley and get a proper new wand from Ollivander's."
"But..." Neville instinctively tightened his grip on the inherited wand. His expression was conflicted.
"Of course, that's just my suggestion," Morris said shifting his approach, deciding to reinforce confidence rather than push the wand issue further. "You don't have to follow it if you don't want to. If you insist on using this particular wand, that's your choice."
He smiled encouragingly. "For now, let's not worry about the wand. Didn't you just successfully cast the Lassitude Charm despite the handicap? That shows your raw talent is more than sufficient to overcome at least some of the obstacles this borrowed wand presents."
Morris's voice took on that firm, confident tone again. "You are a genius, Neville."
He gestured toward the ground near Neville's feet. "If you don't believe me, try the Levitation Charm again right now."
Neville stood there looking completely bamboozled by Morris's words.
Finally, he took a deep breath. His gaze fell on a small twig lying by his feet, fallen from one of the courtyard's trees.
He raised his wand and called out clearly: "Wingardium Leviosa!"
His wand movement was textbook perfect this time, the swish-and-flick executed with standard form. The incantation was pronounced clearly and correctly.
The twig immediately left the ground with smooth, controlled ascent. It hovered steadily in the air about three feet up, maintaining perfect stability without the usual wobbling or spinning that used to be Neville's rare successful levitations.
Neville stared blankly at the floating twig, then shifted his gaze to his own wand still held high, before finally turning to Morris with such disbelief across his face that he looked like someone who'd just witnessed a miracle.
Morris simply shrugged. "See? You did it, didn't you?"
Encouraged by this success, Morris taught him the incantation and wand movement for the Leg-Locker Curse.
Though Neville was still not entirely proficient with it, clearly needing more practice to achieve the smooth casting he'd eventually developed for the Lassitude Charm, after a dozen attempts with Morris providing constant feedback and corrections, Neville could already use the Leg-Locker Curse reasonably well.
Well enough that it would probably work when he needed it to, at least.
"I'm heading off now, Neville," Morris said finally, noticing the time and calculating that their next class would begin soon. "Practice these spells more over the next few days. You'll continue improving, and you'll be capable of defeating Malfoy or anyone else who tries to bully you."
He met Neville's eyes seriously. "Believe in yourself. You're a genius."
"I'm a genius..." Neville repeated to himself in a dazed whisper, his expression distant as if trying to adopt this revolutionary new self-image. "A genius... hehe... hehehe..."
A slightly overexcited grin spread across his face, and he started giggling.
After thoroughly amusing this silly, chubby boy, Morris turned and left the courtyard, heading back into the castle.
He didn't dislike people like Neville—in fact, he rather liked him.
Compared to insufferable brats like Draco Malfoy, Neville was infinitely more endearing and worthy of assistance.
As Morris walked through the corridor, he suddenly encountered Professor Quirrell coming from the opposite direction.
Quirrell was wrapped as always in his signature purple turban clutching a thick book to his chest with both arms as if someone might try to steal it. He was walking quickly, almost hurriedly, his eyes were slightly downcast and his posture hunched.
Their gazes met briefly, just for a moment. Morris gave a polite, student-appropriate smile.
Quirrell's eyes swept over Morris without the slightest pause before he brushed past him and continued on his hurried way.
All that remained in his trail was that distinctive, lingering stench of garlic that seemed to follow Quirrell everywhere.
Honestly, Morris had always found this garlic smell quite peculiar. Not only did it lack the distinctive aroma of actual garlic, but it also carried a faint odor of decay.
This was actually why Morris had been able to immediately and confidently confirm Quirrell's identity back during that encounter in Knockturn Alley.
At that moment, just as Morris was about to continue toward his next destination, he suddenly sensed something unusual.
Acting on pure instinct, he reached into his robe pocket and withdrew his Death Compass.
The compass needle was pointing steadily in the exact direction Quirrell had gone.
What... what is going on here?
Morris narrowed his eyes.
Without any hesitation or second-guessing, he gripped the compass firmly in his hand, turned around in a smooth motion that looked natural and quickened his pace to follow the same path Quirrell had taken.
His longer stride and faster walking speed meant he soon overtook Quirrell, passing him in the corridor.
Morris didn't actually look back at Quirrell. Instead, he naturally stopped at a corner intersection, pretending to examine a large portrait on the wall.
At the same time, while maintaining the appearance of studying the painting, Morris held the compass low and aimed carefully behind him.
Sure enough, the needle pointed precisely at the approaching Professor Quirrell with zero deviation.
In other words, the aura of death surrounding Quirrell was extremely strong.
Morris felt his heart skip a beat.
Could it be that... Professor Quirrell was about to die imminently? Was he terminally ill, carrying some curse or disease that would kill him soon?
Or perhaps, more intriguingly, Quirrell carried something closely connected to the aura of "death".
Morris's mind raced through possibilities.
This was the world of Harry Potter—a story fundamentally about Harry Potter's struggle against Voldemort.
A new professor, appearances in Knockturn Alley purchasing questionable items. A series of abnormal behaviors throughout the term so far. And now the Death Compass pointing at him....
If Quirrell had absolutely no connection to the main storyline, then Morris absolutely wouldn't believe it.
Morris glanced back at Quirrell once more, becoming increasingly certain.
Quirinus Quirrell—this man most likely had some connection to Voldemort.
He was probably a follower of Voldemort, or one of his subordinates.
But then again, Morris thought with as he tucked the compass back into his pocket, so what?
He shrugged indifferently.
So what if Quirrell was connected to Voldemort?
Morris was just a small, relatively insignificant first-year student at this school with slightly more talent and knowledge than average, but still powerless in the grand scheme of things.
His main task should be focusing on his studies, mastering magic, building his skills and knowledge base, and enjoying what school life had to offer.
Things like dealing with Voldemort and preventing their return—those were problems for adult wizards, for the Ministry of Magic, for Dumbledore with his legendary power and wisdom.
And most specifically, those were problems for Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the protagonist whose destiny should literally be defeating Voldemort.
Without clear benefits or personal interests directly at stake, Morris would absoutely never voluntarily get himself involved with Voldemort.
He put away the compass and turned to head toward the Potions classroom.
The next class was Snape's Potions lesson, and he had no desire to be late.